The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

When one was teleported, it was the universe that moved, not you. At least, that’s what it felt like. The projection effect would wrap you in a blanket of light, the surface beneath your feet would vanish, and you would begin to fall, yet throughout there would be no actual sensation of motion, no actual sense of descent. It was a contradictory feeling, this, falling yet not falling, moving yet not moving. Tiffany always closed her eyes, and, eyes closed, it would feel like she was the only motionless thing amid a great flurry of activity. It was like being an actor on some fantastically detailed stage. With her eyes shut, she the actor would be standing in the middle of that stage, not moving, remaining perfectly still, while all around her stagehands tore up one set and replaced everything in it with another, equally as detailed, all without nudging, budging, or bothering her in the slightest. And when her eyes opened, she would be the same while the set was entirely different, all without having moved a single muscle.

Tiffany opened her eyes. The glow of projection effect was dying around her.

Steel walls surrounded her, the Chief Slaver, and the uniformed man who had accompanied them. Everything gleamed. When her vision cleared enough to make out details, Tiffany saw a trio of men approach, also wearing uniforms. Her plug gave a twing! inside her head. She lowered her face to the shiny floor, rendering obeisance. It was easy. She had already been on her knees when they left Chicago.

“A pleasure-filled acknowledgement, Procurer Ira Stein of the Agency of Earth.” The man in the silver and black tunic spoke in Language. “Your attendance is an occasion of significance between our two worlds. I am Processor Aton Cran.”

“Hello,” the Chief Slaver replied. He stuck out his hand to shake, and eventually the man responded, albeit somewhat confusedly. “I’m just sorry the circumstances are so unfortunate.”

He made tisk-tisk sounds with his tongue. “Espionage… and a member of our own Firm responsible. Scandalous.” Tiffany couldn’t tell from his tone whether he was being serious or ironic.

“Agreed,” Cran said. He turned to the Chief Slaver’s companion and they spoke in a language Tiffany didn’t understand. From the floor, she tilted her eyes up to see what was going on. They ignored her.

“Procurer Stein,” her Master’s friend introduced formally, “appellatively, this is Procurer Glimin Notthi and Administrator Jan Loprin. They epitomize the Kedian Council.” The newcomers made funny gestures with their hands, and the Chief Slaver, carefully watching, repeated the gesticulation.

A door slid open in one wall. Cran motioned that they should all accompany him. “Get to your feet, Tiffany,” her Owner said, and she did, gratefully. It would have been just like him to force her to crawl and keep up. As they walked, the foreign men spoke in their native tongue while the Chief Slaver listened. Tiffany walked a few steps behind him, clad in her own special uniform from the House.

She wondered what they were talking that was so serious. Espionage?

For that matter, she wondered where she was. As she walked, she felt a little strange (as if anything in her life were normal). She felt… heavier? But how could that be? It wasn’t as if her weight had changed. It wasn’t as if the force of gravity were different. It wasn’t as if she were on another… planet? Tiffany gasped with realization, and it was all she could do to maintain the respectful few steps behind her cursed Master.

Dizziness. Confusion. Lexie Rowson’s eyes snapped open like the hinges on a cuckoo clock.

Beside her, Jami Forero likewise awoke with a start. One moment she was in darkness. The next she found herself, like her partner, on her knees on the carpet of a large, brightly lit, and unfamiliar bedroom.

A man stood next to the more-than-king-size bed. He held a flat, silvery octagon in one hand. He was dressed in gray business trousers and a white t-shirt. Red suspenders stretched over his shoulders. He was big, and his eyes gazed upon the two singers with a frankly carnal look neither girl found settling.

It occurred to both women at the same time that they were completely naked.

“Who the fuck are you?” Lexie growled. She made a move to get up, and the man, smiling, pointed the octagon at her and pressed something on it. The device emitted a soft ping!

The singer instantly resumed her position. The animation in her face fled as quickly as it had formed.

Jami tried to get up. She had been facing the man with her knees spread obscenely wide. She had no idea how long she might have been like that, exposing herself to this creep. She flexed her muscles.

Ping! The movement aborted itself. Jami’s arms and legs moved of their own accord. She resumed her kneeling position and spread her knees even wider. She made a sudden whimper in fright.

What was going on here? Who was this man? How was he doing this?

As if in response to her unspoken question, the man introduced himself. “My name is Gustavo Hulfgren. Welcome to the House.”

He pointed the octagon at the singers again.

Ping!

The chime was heard in the air and in their heads. The singers looked at one another, and the sudden desire they felt was overwhelming. Thought fled.

Lexie came over and covered Jami’s face with passionate kisses, working her lips over her partner’s lips, nose, and cheeks. Jami kissed her back open-mouthed. Their tongues met and danced together.

The feeling was delicious. More than delicious. It was unearthly.

On stage or in their videos, the singers’ “affection” for one another was faked. It was part of their image, their marketing strategy. The singers had kissed before, fondled one another, even touched in intimate places, but there had been no chemistry, and certainly no romance. They both liked boys too much.

No more, apparently. Lexie slid her hands over her partner’s body, still kissing her on the mouth. Jami moaned ecstatically. The smaller blonde unlimbered from her knees to give Lexie greater access. The singer took Jami’s head in her hands and pressed her gently to the floor. The two girls spread and intertwined their legs, petting one another fervently, stroking.

A glorious heat rose within them.

Their nipples tightened painfully. Their clits felt electrified. Jami squirmed sinuously, her back laid to the carpet, writhing in almost unendurable pleasure as her partner put her mouth to her throat, then worked her tongue lasciviously down Jami’s smooth and arching body to her breasts. The man who had filled them with this rapid hunger came to stand over them, looking down upon them. His presence was ignored. Jami’s hands stroked at Lexie’s back and cupped her buttock.

Her partner was so smooth. Her skin felt so good against her palms. It felt so right.

Lexie gently gripped Jami’s left nipple with her teeth, running her tongue over that tight, hard nugget of flesh. She pulled back, stretching her before release. Jami shrieked in total ecstasy.

“Please, oh please, Lexie! Oh God, YES… YES!!”

The African-American singer feverishly continued her downward progress. Her tongue explored Jami’s cute little navel, swirling around that tiny divot of flesh the same way one swirls soft-serve ice cream, or the way a cat laps up cream. I am lapping up Creeme, Lexie thought, and then her appetite drove her further down.

Jami stiffened and hissed as her partner tasted her wetness. Her hips rose to meet her face.

She felt Lexie’s teeth and tongue at her clit, and the signer orgasmed wildly, her flesh lurching with the raw intensity of it. Her cry of pleasure was high-pitched enough to shatter glass.

“OHHH! Oh my god, oh, oh yes, Yess, Yesss, YESSSS!!”

She bucked like a barely tethered horse.

“Let’s try something a little different,” the girls heard the man say.

A black, plastic object was dropped. Jami turned her head and saw it was a strap-on dildo.

Ping! Unfamiliar thoughts filled her mind.

In a sudden movement, the tiny blonde pushed the larger singer from atop her and reached for the dark sex toy. She had never held anything like it before, didn’t know the first thing about how to put on one, but her hands worked automatically, sliding the straps of the dildo between her legs and fastening them.

A blank, confused look meanwhile filled Lexie’s face. As Jami was helped to her feet by the man, who watched both girls in amusement, Lexie turned around and raised her beautiful hindquarters to her fellow singer, exposing the wet and soaking lips of her sex for both man and woman to see.

Jami viewed that smoldering hole, and in a flash she knew what had to be done.

Grabbing Lexie’s hips with her hands, she slammed the artificial dick into Lexie’s pussy.

Lexie Rowson screamed out loud, groaning in an ecstasy so great it was almost, nay, was painful.

She felt Jami penetrate her, and she twisted in a raw carnal enjoyment, feeling delightfully helpless as she was ridden like an animal. Jami’s hips touched her buttock. She was so very deep inside her.

Lexie had never felt so completely and utterly filled. So completed and utterly used.

It felt incredibly good, incredibly right. She was being used, and being used was her purpose in life.

She could imagine what she looked like, what their fans would think of this picture. The tough, media-darling but dominating Carmel ridden by the soft and submissive Creeme. The humiliating image somehow intensified the pleasure she felt, and she climaxed again and again, the ecstasy pulled from the very depths of her soul. Powerless, she looked over her shoulder at Jami. Her soft and usually tender face was pulled into a brutal snarl, at odds with both her on-stage persona and real-life demeanor.

The blonde’s eyes blazed with an animalistic hunger that made Lexie shudder to see it.

Jami pulled herself from her partner with a loud and slurpy pop. A moment later Lexie found herself flipped onto her back and pressed down. Jami fell atop Lexie, arms at her shoulders, and penetrated her again, straddling her partner and orgasming herself as the dildo’s internal stud bounced hard against her clitoris. Lexie likewise was caught in a series of trip-fire climaxes, one after the other, continuously.

“Jami!” she cried. “Jami! Jami!! JAMI!!” The world sparkled like the fireworks at their last show.

Afterwards, they lay exhausted, their bodies used up and sweaty.

They had almost forgotten the man in the room with them until he spoke again.

“I’m not usually a fan of popular music,” he said, once more standing over them. He seemed to tower over them. His presence was magnetically charged. “But I see now why my colleague was so insistent we add you to the stable. He was right. A pair of slutty whores like you will bring in a fortune.”

“What did you do to us?” Jami breathed, bare breasts heaving. Perspiration covered them like dew.

The man didn’t answer. He stepped over them to a large wooden cabinet. He opened it and revealed a TV monitor and video unit.

“You can’t kidnap us,” Lexie said, pulling herself upright. She was still shivering from the effects of her last orgasm. “They’ll look for us. You can’t keep us here forever.”

“You weren’t kidnapped. No one will come looking for you.” The man turned the set on. He turned.

“In fact, only a handful of people outside this House even know you exist.”

“That’s a lie,” Lexie said, a mixture of fear and indignation in her voice. “We’re popular. Everyone know us. Everyone.”

“We have millions of fans,” Jami added. She too had returned to her knees. For some reason, she was unable to get to her feet. Her muscles locked up whenever she tried to stand.

“No,” the man, Hulfgren, said. “Lexie Rowson and Jami Forero may have fans. But you’re not them.”

He turned on the video player. On the screen, a report from Entertainment Tonight played, the host’s voiceover expertly projecting a mixture of sexiness and sympathy at the same time.

“Could Carmel and Creeme be going to jail!?

“Our top story tonight. The district attorney’s office in Chicago is reportedly looking into filing charges of arson and malicious mischief against the pop duo Carmel and Creeme.

“This development follows the controversial cancellation of their long-awaited Chicago show last night following an incident at the Carstairs Regency where witnesses claim the singers set their hotel room on fire.” A video segment showed damage to a room at the hotel. It was followed by clips of outraged fans at Soldier Field and the huge traffic snarls caused by everyone’s departure at the same time.

The female announcer came back.

“Two police officers who were at the scene are being questioned as to exactly what happened at the hotel. Early reports of gunfire in the hotel are being dismissed as exaggeration.

“When ET tried to get in touch with either of the popular singers, their representative Philip Wyatt said they had no comment.”

Another segment showed Lexie and Jami being escorted out of the Carstairs Regency by their bodyguards. Rabid fans were to either side of them. The singers looked dazed and confused. The screen’s image returned to the male anchor at his desk. He gave an aw, shucks expression.

Hulfgren flipped the TV off.

Jami and Lexie looked at one another. They didn’t remember any of that. The last thing Jami remembered was being pulled from the elevator by Lexie. The last thing Lexie remembered was being handed a plastic tiara by one of her bodyguards. The next thing they knew, they were here.

“What… what’s going on?” Lexie demanded. She tried to get to her feet again. The man pointed the remote control at her. Ping! Both singers resumed their original positions, knees spread wide.

They tried to speak, but no sound emerged. Their eyes tracked their captor as if held by guide wires.

He approached and stood between them. He ran his hands over their heads. At his touch, a deep, sexual desire awakened within them, and they squirmed in an ever-growing heat, the liquid warmth in their bellies forcing them to cuddle against the man’s stroking hands, as though they were his pets.

“An excellent job, Ira,” the man said, to himself. “As always.” Then, laughing, he turned from the two singers and returned to the bed. He sat down on the edge of it and faced them.

“As I said, you’re not Lexie Rowson or Jami Forero.

“You’re the clones of Lexie Rowson and Jami Forero. Your bodies were grown from their cells. Your minds were copied from their memories.

“You are, in other words, property. Even more precisely, you are the new fucktoys in a very exclusive brothel. Nothing more. Nothing less. And now I think I’ll enjoy you.”

The man, Hulfgren, used his remote control. Unable not to, Jami spread her knees still further apart. She moaned in terror. Her back arched, and she thrust her shapely breasts towards him.

Her eyes, once riveted on the man’s face, his loathsome and superior smile, descended to the bulge in the center of his pants. She was unable to look away.

Ping! “You will obey my verbal instructions.” The singers felt something move inside their minds.

The sensation was horrible.

“We will obey your commands, Master,” they chorused, speaking as if with one voice.

The man chuckled softly, clearly exulting the feeling of power he had.

“Crawl over to me,” he said, looking at Jami. “Undo my trousers with your teeth.”

It was as if her body were possessed by a supernatural agency. Jami tried to resist the order, but her limbs clearly belonged to another. Bending forward, and giving her ass a saucy shake, the blond singer crawled on her hands and knees across the carpet. Hulfgren widened his legs, and Jami positioned herself between them. She bent forward and complied with the direction. She was unable not to.

Her mouth explored the man’s crotch. The smell of his masculinity filled her nose. Her tongue touched the cold metal of the zipper. Her humiliation a living thing within her, Jami locked her teeth around the zipper and pulled down slowly. He wore no underwear. His fat, rock hard penis hit her smack in the face.

A wave of shame and, horribly, arousal, swept through her.

“You,” Hulfgren said, now addressing Lexie. “Come over here and give me a blowjob.”

The formerly tough, domineering singer whimpered. In moves identical to her partner’s, she shimmied over to their captor. Jami’s face near her own, feeling the same embarrassing passion, the same externally generated arousal, Lexie’s tongue began to lick at the huge cock. Her sensitive mouth, the same mouth she remembered using to sing to thousands of people, tasted pre-coital fluid and wrapped itself around a thickening member. Her tongue slid over the organ’s throbbing veins and swirled over and over. The man, Hulfgren, grunted in piggish satisfaction and lay back on the bed, compelling Lexie to adjust her position to accommodate him. She leaned over him and pressed her face down upon him.

“Lick my balls, Creeme,” the man said, and, tears in her eyes, Jami complied, placing herself beneath her partner. She opened her mouth and received Hulfgren’s sack into it, licking and sucking gently.

Hulfgren lay back, putting his hands beneath his head, luxuriating in the touch of two of the most beautiful and well-known women in the world. He closed his eyes and relaxed.

Taking a deep breath and positioning herself better to do so, Lexie pressed and swallowed more intensely. Her captor’s cock struck the back of her throat. She tightened her mouth and continued to apply suction. Her tongue continued to explore the rich deliciousness of his flavor. She sucked deeply and tried to ignore the feelings of pleasure she felt in doing so. She should not feel pleasure doing this.

But she was, though, and it scared her.

When Hulfgren came, he did so so suddenly the singer almost choked on the rich, pulpy fluid.

“Swallow, bitch,” she heard him say. She did. She had no choice. Tears flowed freely down her face.

“Arrr… stop that… uh, ah, Creeme. No, you keep going, slut. Creeme. You, crawl over on the bed beside me.” Jami disengaged and did as she was ordered. At Hulfgren’s direction, she spread herself open for him.

She gasped as he slid his fingers inside her pussy. He massaged her clit with his thumb, and she moaned, unable to grasp at first how good it felt. Other men had played with her like this, as she had played with their bodies, but never had a touch felt so electrical, so powerful and… and… masculine!

Never before had Jami felt so helpless and desirous.

She inched closer to her captor, allowing for an even deeper penetration of his digits. The singer began rocking her hips back and forth, the finger-fucking increasing in intensity with every passing moment.

He stopped before Jami could climax. “Bend over,” he said. He wiped his wet fingers dry on her tits.

Hulfgren ordered Lexie to join him on the bed, then got to his feet and positioned her as she had been on the floor with Jami. Miraculously, he was already stiffening again. His dick slapped against her ass.

Please, oh please no, Lexie begged inside her head. She was still unable to speak.

Her penetration was hard and brutal. It was painful. Ecstasy nonetheless ripped through her loins at his touch, and had she the ability, Lexie would have screamed her submission to the man so thoroughly using her. As if was, she rocked back and forth voicelessly, her body reduced to a mere vessel for his seed. Jami, responding to the order to “Put your cunny to her face!” did so, and Lexie explored her partner with her tongue and brought her to a much needed orgasm. She herself was climaxing steadily.

The bursts of pleasure were like nothing before in their experience.

They were volcanic in intensity.

Cataclysmic. Each was the ending of the world, yet the world continued on… and on… and on.

The fucking the two singers received at the hands and dick of Gustavo Hulfgren was absolute. He took his time, his libido seemingly endless, and explored every cavity of Lexie and Jami’s bodies, often more than once. He never needed to repeat an instruction. The girls complied with each and every command, instantly, without reservation. The knowledge of how best to please him just appeared in their minds. “Lay on your back,” he would say, and Lexie or Jami would assume whatever position he wanted, exactly the way he wanted, legs spread and arms wide to embrace him.

Their slick, wet pussies were probed over and over by tongue, dick, and dildo, sometimes more than once at the same time. Throughout it all, beneath their silent expressions, the girls would scream in serene explosions of passion. Only their faces revealed the intensity of the emotions they were feeling.

The Firm’s Managing Partner took pride in that silent canvas.

So far, they had fulfilled his every expectation.

He would question them later, or, better yet, have someone else do it, and check their responses to the information in their records. As far as he could see, though, the mnemonic transfer had worked perfectly. It always worked, like all Client technology. These two cloned whores actually believed they were the original Carmel and Creeme. They had the same personalities, the same emotional responses, the same recollections, up to yesterday night, that is, and subject to controller modification. The brain plugs inserted in their heads were synchronized with the ones hidden in their archetypes, the real Carmel and Creeme, both of whom would continue on with their lives and musical careers, unaware that their doppelgangers were being banged here every night. And every day, like clockwork, their memories would update, maintaining the perfection of the Firm’s reproduction. Ever since the development of TV and the movies, the Firm had received requests to enslave or otherwise use high-profile figures. Some of the requests were made by their fellow Earthmen, but the majority were asked for by human denizens of the Colony Worlds, where in recent decades Earth’s entertainment media had grown increasingly popular. The Firm sold recordings offworld for huge credit and influence. Seeing all those TV shows, music videos, and movies had an unanticipated effect, though once the Firm became aware of it they capitalized on it as soon as possible. The Colonists wanted to fuck the celebrities they saw recordings of. And, so, the Firm accommodated their requests as best they could without risking exposure.

They established the House, a brothel staffed by clones of Earth’s most popular icons, each identical in mind and body to their base models. Almost identical: the Firm reserved the right to maintain the youth and desirability of their possessions. The public figures lived their lives unharmed and undisturbed, save for the undetectable plugs in their heads; the Colonists and others in the know got to fuck their favorites stars; and the Firm made even more friends and credits. It was a win-win situation for everyone.

Except for the clones, and they didn’t matter.

It was the similarity between the House and that Molosian captain’s scheme—making a copy of his beloved’s memories and downloading them into a clone—that drew the Managing Partner’s attention and sparked his imagination. He grew hard again just thinking about his new maid-to-be, Rose Pitzler.

He ordered the singers to play with one another again, only this time he used the controller to keep them from achieving a climax. They stroked and fondled their own and their partner’s nipples, clit, and thighs, but all they did was increase their already helpless arousal to truly mind-scorching levels.

With a touch of the controller, he gave the duo back their voices. They begged him for release, and, in the end, Hulfgren gave them one, but only after they had seen to his wants first. Again and again.

Afterwards, an hour later, even further humbled, the singers cleaned Hulfgren’s body with their tongues and dried him with towels from the bathroom. He had them resume the kneeling position they had awakened in. Changing his mind only slightly, deciding to leave the more extensive interrogation for someone else, he lightly questioned the clones about the lives they thought were still their own.

He took an utter delight in crushing their feelings, reminding them over and over they were mere clones.

“It’s not true,” Lexie said. “What you’re saying, it’s impossible.”

“I’m Jami,” Jami whispered, tears flooding her eyes. “My name is Jami.”

“No, her name is Jami,” Hulfgren said, smirking. “But you have a point, my little vatbred toy. The people who’ll want to use you won’t care about those non-stage names.”

He pointed. “Carmel!” he ordered imperiously. “Bring me your controller.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, the words pulled from her lips. She ran over to the bed where he had left it. Try as she might, she could not bring herself to do anything other than hand this key to her life over to him. A moment later Hulfgren was typing instructions into the tiny device as Lexie and Jami watched in dismay. Ping! The two singers felt dizzy. Something shifted once more inside their heads.

They blinked, and they realized simultaneously that they were no longer what they had been.

Lexie blinked, and realized she was no longer Lexie. Her name was Carmel. It always had been and always would be. Beside her, Jami blinked. She was no longer Jami. She was Creeme.

Always had been. Always would be.

They were Carmel and Creeme. They were only Carmel and Creeme, and they always would be.

They sobbed.

“Stop that blubbering,” Hulfgren said, and so the singers did at once, no longer having a choice.

“Stand up and go into the next room. You’ll find a CD and a player and some costumes, all based on those worn by your archetypes.” He smiled. “You’re going to give us a performance.”

“A… a performance, Master?” Creeme asked, trying not to choke.

“You want us to… to sing for you, Master?” Carmel said.

Hulfgren nodded.

“Yes, indeed. It’s the custom around here for the new whores to show off those talents which garnered our attention in the first place.” He went to a closet and picked out a white robe to put on. “Marilyn gave us that ‘Happy Birthday’ routine she gave Kennedy, heh heh. She was good.”

He paused, thinking.

“And that newscaster bitch, what’s her name? anyway, she gave us a lecture on the rising threat of terrorism in the Middle East. It was very informative. And, of course, your pop predecessors, all of them, they’ve sung us all their hits.” He slipped the remote control into his pocket.

“You have an hour,” he said, approaching the two new slaves. He stepped between them and slipped a hand around each of their necks. He pulled them closer to him. “And you better make it a good one. Your best, in fact, if you know what’s good for you.”

He pushed them away. “Now go!”

The slave-singers heard the command of their Master and, tremblingly, obeyed. The next room was little more than a very large closet. It was filled with costumes from their shows and their videos.

They had to do their best. Their Master had ordered them to do their best. They talked about which songs they were going to do, and in what order, as they dressed and prepared their makeup.

An hour later they were on stage. The House—the capital letter was imprinted in their minds—was large and decorated in a fanciful style. The carpets were rich; the walls were creamy. The furniture was plush and designed to be rapidly pushed out of the way or to accommodate more than one person. In one large room, a long oaken platform dominated the far end, with curtains and rows of seats before it.

Carmel and Creeme sang.

It was like performing at the Grammys. Nearly every seat was filled, and in nearly every one of those seats the singers saw a face they recognized. Hollywood actors. Rock stars. Political figures.

Two-thirds of the audience were women, but there were a few recognizable men in the audience as well, men that once upon a time Carmel and Creeme had both gushed over to one another or their friends. A lot of the people were old but young. That is to say, many of the celebrity faces were in their prime, in their youthful twenties or thirties, whereas in real life (but, oh God, they thought, this was real life, this was their real life from now on) they were now starring in movies as the aging grandmother or the elderly statesman.

Some were dead, but like ghosts raised from the grave their clones sat and watched as Carmel and Creeme went through their routine, starting with their signature song, “Dance For My Love,” and moving through all their singles. The beautiful dead watched them sing, and their applause in the singers’ ears was like that given at a horror movie. It was festive and horrendous at the same time.

Only the clapping and hooting of the men in the first row, in the suits and the casual clothes, where Hulfgren sat with the people who ran the House, sounded genuine, and in a way that was even worse.

Taylor. Hayworth. Bogart. Joplin. The living and the dead. The old and the young.

They watched Carmel and Creeme sing.

It was the performance of the singers’ lives.

And when it was done, Hulfgren handed over their remote control to the man sitting next to him, and within minutes the two of them were being fucked doggie style on the very same stage, again to thunderous applause from the audience, the clapping and cheering pulled from their hands and mouths by their own respective remote controls. The entire first row, Hulfgren going in for seconds, took them, one after the other.

There’s no business like show business.

The day had ended like any other day in Miyal’s life.

She had finished from a soothing bath of cleansing timm-water, the purifying, perfumed liquid soaking into her pores and rejuvenating the dermis. The customary glass of sparkling absonon was almost as relaxing, and as her servants buffed her dry with their heated towels, she selected, as always, which one of her many colorful thralls she would take to bed to her. There had been so many choices available.

I chose Kana, Miyal remembered. My old friend. She had given the pretty, meaningless blue-hued femthrall a look—that was all it took, she had trained them well—and within moments they were on the bed, and Kana’s resquenced flesh was busy caressing her own.

Miyal remembered thinking, I possess you. I possess you wholly, you lowly thrall.

“What was it like, Kana?” she had asked. She always asked this question when utilizing her former competitor. She had labeled the ex-constituent with her old name, a delightful humiliation.

“What was it like?”

“It was bliss, my mistress,” Kana whispered, face hovering over Miyal’s modest bosom, dipping low to lick or kiss, lingeringly, the way Miyal liked it. Her trained fingers worked at her owner’s stomach and thighs. “I could not resist it, the lure of the whip, the enticement of the extract. I was weak, ma’am.”

Miyal chuckled, again as always.

“You were born to be a thrall, Kana. You were born to be my thrall.”

“Yes, mistress. Yes.” Kana had kissed so well. Her skin was so soft.

“Apologize, slattern.” Since coming into possession of her, Miyal had made Kana apologize to her at least once a day, everyday. She never grew tired of hearing her ex-childhood friend express regret for her past abuses. It was one of the reasons Miyal had bought her. Not the only reason, but a good one.

“Yes, ma’am,” the femthrall whispered, her pretty, desire-filled face hanging over Miyal’s cleft. Her blank eyes lifted to meet her owner’s. “I am so truly ashamed, my mistress. I am so truly filled with disgrace for having failed to acknowledge your rightful superiority, your legitimacy of ownership to my thrallish body. Let this humble, miserable creature make reparations to you, mistress. Let this measly femthrall bring you the utmost pleasure you deserve. I am nothing but your tool, your toy, your thrall.”

Miyal had lifted her arms beside her head then and leaned back, thrusting her hips toward Kana’s face.

Ah, the pleasures of that night. That last night… .

The sound of the closet door sliding open broke Miyal’s reverie. She lowered her head as Rose strode over to the mirror to check her makeup. The Earth Agent had changed her outfit again. She now wore a black leather business suit. The hip-hugging skirt ended at mid-thigh, showing off the Earthling’s long, coltish legs and black high-heels. The jacket was tight, especially in the waist, and displayed much cleavage. Miyal could discern the barest hint of a lacy bra.

Her teeth chattered with the strength of her reaction. The suit was distinctively Earth-like, yet Miyal knew it would fit equally well in Molosian high society. Once, she too would have worn such clothes.

Her hunger for the woman blazed forth anew.

Please, please, why won’t you use me? Miyal begged silently. I’m on fire!

Intellectually, of course, she knew the reason why. Her need, like the needs of all resequenced thralls, was a leash, a leash that bound her to the Earth Agent every bit as much as the ring about her throat did.

Earlier, Miyal had tried to run away. It had been a futile gesture, she being a green, sexually charged femthrall on a decadent Colony World. She would have been claimed as someone’s missing property within hours, if not minutes. Nonetheless, she had tried and bolted soon after their arrival. Miyal hadn’t taken five steps, though, before the collar tightened and brought her to an abrupt, gasping halt.

The pressure hadn’t let up until Rose was standing over her and wagging a finger in her face.

Naughty, naughty.

Miyal’s need was a leash, and like an expert trainer Rose had used it to control her. Every day, every hour her thrallbody was denied use, was another bondage cord wrapped round her heart. She felt so weak now, so helplessly caught in the grip of her arousal. It was unbearable. Before she had had her anti-aphrodisiacs. She had had her Earth thralls, miserable imitations of her previous sex toys.

Now she had nothing, and she burned. It was worse now even than that first horrible morning!

Oh, how she had burned then!

Everything had been different that terrible, dreadful morning. It had been early. She was unaccustomed to waking up while it was still dark. It was Miyal’s habit, in fact, to linger in slumber until the glowing primary was high in the firmament. But for some reason she woke up early that morning.

She had awakened to a feeling in her loins, an intimate itch familiar yet strangely different at the same time. Her breasts had felt so full. She had lain there for several minutes caressing herself, enjoying the feeling of her fingers as they stroked and massaged her bosom.

Electricity flowed through her with every casual brush of her nipples.

How long she had lain there before she realized how very much larger her newly sensitive breasts were Miyal had no way of knowing. When she did realize, it came as a shock.

She remembered sitting up in bed and feeling the change in balance immediately. The movement sparked a stimulating thrill that cascaded through her, making every inch of Miyal’s skin tingle with excitement and desire. That was when she had felt it for the first time.

The need.

The craving of her flesh.

The horrible, burning emptiness of her sex.

Miyal remembered whimpering, feeling weak and in need, desperately in need, unimaginably in need.

She had called for the lights, and they flashed on, revealing her bedroom just as it had been, yet from the way she felt nothing was the same, everything about her had changed. Miyal’s thralls came at once.

And something unusual happened. Her thralls all stopped in their tracks and stared at her. Not in their usual way, either, with a look of powerless love and devotion. No, this was an entirely different look.

Miyal had felt anger, a little anger, but the burning desire eclipsed it.

“What is amiss?” she had cried. “What is the difficulty with you?”

For the first time, none of her thralls responded. She had asked a question and received no response.

Miyal’s eyes darted around the room and found Kana, Kana who had serviced so well her last night.

“Kana, what is amiss? What is it?”

The femthrall had blinked her empty blue eyes. “Mistress is a femthrall.”

There was a full-size mirror (reflector, then) in the bedroom. Miyal’s eyes found it.

For a moment, she did not recognize the green and luscious creature sitting in her bed, and her anger returned. With the anger came desire—it was a very beautiful, green, and luscious creature lounging there, after all—and then it hit her.

She had screamed then. She remembered that her enlarged and emerald breasts vibrated with the strength of her scream. And this, of course, only increased her desire.

“It’s time,” Rose said. She went to the tabletop and picked up the projector.

Time, Miyal thought. It’s time. Time to go home.

Her thrallflesh crawled with fear and desire.

Was there nothing she could do? No tactic still left to her?

Her attempts to seduce the Earth Agent had failed miserably. But had she even tried to seduce this woman, or had she merely begged for a fuck for the sake of a fuck, to relieve the pressure mounting within her? She did not know.

“Mistress…” Miyal whispered, then stopped. What could she offer?

All that she was, was here.

She was without property. She owned nothing. It was she, rather, who was owned.

She was a thrall. Ideal help her, she was a thrall!

“Yes?” Rose asked. She looked down at Miyal crouched at the foot of the refreshment center bed where they had stayed this long, tantalizing week. The bed Miyal hadn’t received so much as the merest of fuckings upon. “Do you have something to say?”

Did she? Was there anything she could say to convince this woman?

Within the tight confines of her singlesleeve glove, Miyal’s hands suddenly loosened.

No. No, of course not.

“No, Mistress,” Miyal whispered, shuddering. She felt something break inside her, finally.

The Earth Agent made a dismissive sound in her throat, then lifted the projector.

The room, and the Colony World outside it, disappeared in a flash of decelerating tachyons.

The next thing Miyal knew she was inside the shiny metal foreign-reception center of Kedia.

Home. She was home.

Through her tears, Miyal saw familiar faces. Administrator Loprin. Processor Cran. Procurer Notthi.

Lights from the fading projection field still glimmered around them.

Standing near the stainless steel wall were two shocktroopers. At a nod from the Administrator, the black-garbed soldiers strode forward and to Miyal’s surprise grabbed the Earth Agent by the arms.

“What… !?” the woman exclaimed. She twisted her body and tried to break free.

One of the shocktroopers held Rose’s arms up while the other slipped onto her a pair of stunlocks. The Agent stopped struggling at once. Her eyes went glassy. Miyal could see the strength leaving her limbs.

Loprin approached and stood before her.

“Administrator Rose, you are in seizure for espionage and larceny of commodity.”

“That… that is a lie,” Rose said, striving to get the words out. Where moments before she had been full of energy and vigor, now she looked semi-conscious, only barely aware of her surroundings. “That… that is a mistruth. I… I have returned… your… lost commodity.”

She attempted to point in Miyal’s direction. Due to the stunlocks, the effort was too much for her.

“Only because it completed your direction to do so, spy.” Loprin looked at her with disdain. “You should not have attempted to undermine our politics, Administrator.” He sneered the title.

“I… don’t comprehend.” Rose’s head slumped exhaustedly. The shocktroopers to either of side of her were there now more to hold her up than to keep her from running. They took from her her projector, her immobilizer, and an assortment of other small Client devices.

Miyal’s head spun in confusion, just as her loins blazed with heated desire.

She was back on Molos, and she was a thrall!

No one had spoken to her, no one had so much as even looked at her yet, yet that was only proper, for she was but a humble thrall, nothing but a pliant, green sexual toy, soon to be returned to the custody of her Owners. She mattered not at all in this affair of her rightful superiors.

No, Miyal struggled to think a second later, to resist once more the submissiveness hardwired into her genes. No! There has to be a way out. There has to be.

But then she became aware of an odor, an almost subliminal odor, a something familiar which her gene-enhanced and hyper-acute thrall senses detected and in response triggered yet another red hot surge of sexual hunger from her thrallbody. Miyal turned her head and eyes from her former keeper—she was no longer her legal owner, she knew, prisoners on Molos had no right to own property—and beheld the Molosian man standing to her rear. It was her captain of the guard. It was her former main Procurer.

It was Rix Nagh, gazing upon her green, thrallish body as if he already owned it.

Worm! Miyal thought. Eviscerated tongue slime! You did this to me!

Her anger, though, was nothing compared to the desire she felt, nor the meekness which swelled up in time with it. Miyal lowered her head to the floor and cried. It was over. It was finally over.

She was home.