The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

A pair of black-uniformed shocktroopers escorted the prisoner along a narrow, elevated walkway. The distant floor of the machinate chamber was barely discernible from their great height. Around them, like strands of spider web, innumerable hanging platforms crisscrossed the large central working space. Workers and technicians passed busily to and fro monitoring the thousands of processing pods lining every inch of the chamber’s immense enclosing walls.

The resemblance to the inside of a gigantic hive was lost on the terrified constituent.

Lady Miyal tried to resist the Kedian soldiers as much as the stunlocks wrapped around her wrists allowed her. “No,” she murmured softly, unable to summon enough strength to stop her forward momentum. “I am Miyal Cate… I am Processor Miyal Cate.”

The electronic bonds sapped her willpower and forced an inappropriate serenity to her voice. She might have been calmly asking for a glass of absonon.

“I… am… a Constituent of the… corporate. You… dare not do this. This… this is unjust.”

The Lady Miyal had been arrested immediately upon her return to Molos. Security violations, they said.

She was processed through a decontamination pool before the trial even ended. Her hairless, oil-slickened skin gleamed under the processing chamber’s artificial lights, her naked body rendered as anonymous now as any tenant’s. The Council wanted to keep the whole affair between Molos and Earth as close to the vest as possible. Administrator Verndo had spoken on her behalf, but he was outnumbered. The others hadn’t approved of Captain Nagh’s actions, but neither had they of Miyal’s, yet while the business deal the Procurer concluded with the Earth foreigners helped considerably in mollifying their opinions of him, Miyal had many enemies on the board from her days of competing with Kana Deb. The verdict came back almost immediately.

In the end, though Miyal was a very high-ranking Corporate Constituent, no one on the Kedian Council wanted to risk ruining what was sure to be a future of lucrative transactions with the Earth people.

Lady Miyal pulled on the arms of the shocktroopers in a vain attempt to slow them down. The walkway shifted beneath them, a complex set of gears and machinery moving it lengthwise alongside one towering wall. Each of the pods made closer to them by this movement, Miyal saw, held a female figure suspended in semi-transparent green fluid. Each lithe form was as blank and featureless as a rubber doll, coated from head to foot in a smooth and glossy second skin of velvety biomaterial. All of the figures’ womanly contours showed exaggerated sexual curvature: larger breasts and ass, narrowed waist, supple but muscular arms and legs. Miyal’s impeded scream was barely a whimper.

The walkway stopped moving. It locked in place, the end facing an open and empty processing pod.

“Currency,” Lady Miyal whispered, “certificates of… ownership… enfranchisement… I offer… anything…”

One of the shocktroopers picked the former Processor up and positioned her inside the waiting oval-shaped pod while his partner made notations into the nearby control panel. The glassy, even surface of the pod’s interior felt cold against Lady Miyal’s naked posterior. The sanitization coating made her feel horribly slick and inviting. Her arms were lifted, and the stunlocks unceremoniously removed. Before she could fully recover from their numbing radiation, the soldier stepped back and out of the pod.

A moment later the transparent material irised closed.

“NO! NOO!!” Miyal pounded on the unbreakable plastic with suddenly restored strength.

The blank-faced guards barely noticed the outburst. As soon as they were finished logging Miyal in, they turned and stepped away, the walkway detaching from her perched position and lowering out of sight. “NO!! I am Miyal Cate!! No! Noo!!”

Her panicked eyes bounced around the tiny pod’s interior.

There had to be a way out. There had to be!

A recessed nozzle built into the wall behind Lady Miyal began spraying her with warm fluid. Where the spray touched her lubricated skin, it reacted with the chemicals and created a thick, whitish foam. In a few moments, the former constituent was covered in bubbling suds. She screamed in fear and outrage. She had witnessed this process a hundred times from the other side of these plastic walls.

A thousand times. But now it was her turn, and she screamed!

The curving walls of the pod barely shook despite her desperate pounding. The foam coated her from top to bottom. However much she tried to brush the lather off, all she managed to do was spread it further. The soapy material covered her breasts, causing her lathered nipples to begin tingling madly.

The fluid seeped into the crevice of her ass and the slickened channel of her vagina. Bubbles ran down her throat. She couldn’t see! The foam slipped into her eyes and blinded her.

Liquid started to flow into the pod from below, pooling around the Lady Miyal’s toes and enveloping them. Where the liquid met the foam, a tight and latex-like second skin formed, coating first her feet and then her lower legs like some steadily encroaching mud bath. Lady Miyal was able to brush the suds from her eyes long enough to discern the liquid’s color. It was as green as the verdant liquors which she so used to enjoy. She was to be green. She was to be a green bioslut, like her clone.

She screamed.

The rubbery covering caressed her skin. It passed between her thighs and up into her body, warmly filling her. It washed over her breasts; her nipples swelled with desire. She foolishly tried to wash her hands of it and ended up only coating them too, the biomass covering her arms like skintight elbow gloves. The chemical coated her in its tight embrace, and soon she was totally unable to move.

Miyal knew what she must look like, her body suspended in green fluid, a dark-green veneer coating her and making her indistinguishable from all the other soon-to-be sluts and biomodified whores. Miyal would have wept had she the space before her eyes to do so.

The liquid flowed into her lungs. After a brief feeling of drowning, Miyal felt herself beginning to process the liquid instead of air. Her respiration slowed to accommodate the thicker medium.

It’s unjust, she thought. I am Miyal Cate. I am a Processor, by the Ideal. A Processor, not some common tenant!

Hair-thin needles punctured the thin covering over her skin, protruding from the walls of the pod. DNA-resequencing solutions pumped into Lady Miyal’s body. She felt their effects almost at once. It wasn’t at all painful; in fact, much to her surprise, the procedure felt rather good. A strange kind of lethargy settled into Lady Miyal’s body, a relaxing heat that radiated from her most intimate areas. Her breasts felt heavier; her nipples grew even harder; her cunt became wet and desperately needy.

Only the tiniest of bubbles rising to the top of the fluid-filled pod betrayed the struggle of the enshrouded form within. Miyal tried to squeeze her thighs together over and over, desperately trying to stimulate her aching pussy. She found herself burning with a need greater than any she had ever before experienced, nor realized was possible. She yearned to be touched by a man.

In the unexpected ecstasy of her transformation, the Lady Miyal forgot about her protests. She forgot about her rights as a constituent. She even forget about her basic rights as a human being.

All she wanted was relief!

The anonymous figure floating inside the machinate pod gave one final internal scream.

Then everything was lost in mind-numbing bliss.

For a second time, Tiffany watched the beautiful young attorney through a view screen.

As before, on Earth and in the Managing Partner’s office, the blond slave tried to remain as unobtrusive as possible. She knelt on all fours in a corner of the room with her head close to the floor. Every once and a while, though, as her Owner and his guest’s attention fixed on the screen, Tiffany would lift her eyes briefly and watch the trial proceedings. She was feeling well fucked. Upon his return to the room, the Chief Slaver had used Tiffany for an hour or so to while away the time before the show started.

That was why she had been brought, she suspected.

To entertain her Master when he had the spare moment or two.

At least she could concentrate again. Though naturally she was in need once more of a thorough fucking—due to the plug in her head, Tiffany was always in need of a thorough fucking—the previous use had at any rate satisfied the worst of her carnal cravings, brought on by her neglect in the long hours left alone in the suite. In the time preceding her Owner’s return, Tiffany’s arduous effort to remember her past had at length given way to a merciless series of reminiscences of her past ravishings. Even before the door sealed behind him, Tiffany was on her knees begging the Chief Slaver for her next rape.

At least he did it without a program this time, she thought, disgusted at herself for her weakness.

“This is being recorded, isn’t it?” she overhead the Chief Slaver say to his guest. She paid attention.

“Indubitably,” the Molosian said, a man the Chief Slaver had called ‘Loprin.’ “All proceedings of the Kedian Council are electronically documented. Would you care for a reproduction?”

Her Owner nodded. “My friend will definitely want to see this.”

On the screen, they had just taken the other woman, the one who had looked so much like that green-skinned woman they might have been twins, away.

Rose was brought in.

Instead of the power business suit Tiffany recalled her wearing previously, the attorney was now garbed in a flat piece of white cloth. Hands bound before her, her head poked through a crude hole in the middle, turning the shift into an obscene poncho. It draped over the young woman’s front to slightly above her knees. It fell over her back to the same length. She wore nothing else. The loveliness of the attorney’s breasts, thighs, and legs were exposed to either side, and, as there was no belt to hold any of it in place, the plain, rough cloth flapped provocatively as she moved.

Her escort of blank-faced soldiers brought her to the central dais.

“Is that the standard uniform for female prisoners here?”

“Negative,” Loprin replied. “Despite the accusations lain upon her, this female still legitimately represents your Client, and your world, currently. For the time being, she is still due some modicum of admiration.”

There was no podium, stand, or any other furniture near Rose. She stood on the dais alone looking up at the assembled Kedian Council. They sat in a semi-circle on an enclosed platform near the ceiling.

The room was vast and white. The lone, barely clad woman in it looked small to Tiffany’s eyes.

Court was in session.

“Administrator Rose, of the Agency of Earth, Frank, Bennet, Weschler, and Marx…

(The unfamiliar Earth names sounded strange on the announcer’s lips.)

“… you have been found blameworthy of clandestine and illicit attacks on the Kedia Thrall Enterprise of the Eastern Corporate. Do you have anything to say before your condemnation is carried out?”

From where they were sitting, Tiffany thought the judges looked bored.

“I demand to face my accusers,” Rose said loudly. “I have been accused unjustly.”

The gallery chuckled.

“There are no stipulations to allow offenders to scrutinize their complainants. It is an absurd appeal.”

Another judge spoke. “How could the well-being of petitioners be defended if criminals were allowed to observe them? Or question them?”

“I have done nothing to you.” Rose met each of the members of the gallery squarely with her gaze.

“You were prevented from accomplishing your exercise,” one of them said. “The intent is sufficient.”

Rose scowled furiously. “I’ve been framed. Conduct a more thorough investigation, and you’ll see I’ve done nothing to compromise the security of your corporate. Indeed, I’ve helped it by returning a lost property.” She paused for effect. “You risk the valuable relationship between our two Firms… between our two worlds… with your rush to judgment.” She lifted her head aristocratically.

“Think about what you’re doing.”

“We have.” Barely were the words out of the judge’s mouth before a loud bell clamored throughout the room. “Administrator Rose, having been found blameworthy of the charges made against you, this council condemns you to thralldom.”

Another loud bell sounded. Despite the strength Tiffany saw in her, Rose shook with emotion.

“You are, henceforth, and in perpetuity, a thrall. Kneel.”

“Never, you sons of… !”

Another bell sounded. The view screen was very detailed: despite the small size, Tiffany could see the red light on Rose’s handcuffs blink on. The attorney collapsed upon the dais, suddenly speechless.

Whatever had affected her wasn’t an immobilizer. She was still moving. It was as if she suddenly no longer had the strength to stand. The black-garbed soldiers approached from either side of Rose.

One of them took the white cloth in his gloved hands and ripped it. He pulled the shreds from Rose’s naked body as the other guard used his hands and feet to spread the attorney’s knees apart in a position of submission Tiffany found very familiar. They then stood beside her. One of them put his hand in Rose’s hair and lifted her face to view the gallery. Her eyes were glazed with exhaustion.

“This thrall, formerly the Administrator Rose of the planet Earth, is hereby registered 73a-4758 in the Kedian catalog. A claim has been submitted for this unprocessed femthrall. It is hereby approved.”

The judgment bell sounded. The soldiers dragged Rose to her feet and marched her off screen.

The Chief Slaver touched the screen to turn it off.

“She’ll be brought here?” he asked.

“Affirmative,” Administrator Loprin said. “Alternatively, if you prefer, we can resequence the thrall to your specifications. Many members of my corporate are interested in cloning her heredity pattern.”

The Chief Slaver shook his head. “That won’t be necessary. We have an arrangement with a Colony World to do all our bio-modifications. We’ll want to do the mental encoding ourselves, too.”

He stood up. “Will I see you again before I leave?”

“Affirmative. There are still specifications of the negotiation Nagh has produced that I want to converse with you about. I will announce myself.” The administrator got up and moved toward the door. Tiffany lowered her head automatically. For all her presence made to the Molosian, though, she might well have been invisible. He turned and smiled. “Enjoy your new thrall. She looks… promising.”

“Oh, I will. Never fear.” The Chief Slaver shook the Molosian’s hand—the extraterrestrial was startled by the gesture but recovered—and showed him out. Minutes later, the door chimed softly, and when the Chief Slaver keyed it open, Rose was waiting outside, her naked body strapped to an upright table.

The guards wheeled the attorney in, handed the Chief Slaver something that looked like a pen, and left.

Tiffany kept her head down. She was shivering.

Rose’s head was slumped. Otherwise, she looked perfectly healthy. She was absolutely beautiful.

The Chief Slaver took a moment to appreciate the nude form in front of him.

He touched his stiffening groin and grunted pigishly. Tiffany closed her eyes briefly.

Finally, after ogling Rose for over a minute, her Owner spoke.

“My first TV didn’t have a remote control,” he said, bizarrely. “It didn’t even have color.”

The Chief Slaver hefted the pen-like tool and gazed at it admiringly. He snorted. “I’ve gotten spoiled.”

He pointed the pen at Rose and activated it.

From her vantage point, Tiffany saw the small red light on the handcuffs wink out.

Animation filled Rose’s eyes. She lifted her head.

“Men… and their endless fascination with remote controls.” The young attorney didn’t waste time with curses or pleading. “Fulfilling yet another phallic need, are we, Ira?” He smiled and said nothing.

She sniffed derisively. “You will regret this humiliation.”

The Chief Slaver clicked the pen at her. Rose’s head slumped once more against her chest.

“All women should have an on-off switch,” he said. He turned to Tiffany. “Tiffany?”

The Chief Slaver stared at her expectantly.

“Yes, Master,” she said, responding at once. “All women should have an on-off switch.”

“No,” he said, slowly. He looked exasperated. “The encoder. Bring me the encoder, you stupid slut.”

Tiffany searched the room with her eyes. She spotted the mind-programming device on the counter.

“Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master.”

She rushed to the counter and brought her Owner the sleek, Client module. He took it without a word. A moment later he clicked Rose “on” again.

“A slaving module, Ira?” The attorney’s voice was deliberately matter-of-fact, though Tiffany thought she discerned a hint of unease in it. “Aren’t you the one always advocating the merits of brain plugs over neural overwriting?”

The Chief Slaver studied the encoder. He squeezed it; it hummed softly. The front portion lit up briefly.

“If it was up to me, Rose, I would certainly grace your cerebellum with a control plug. You have no idea the fun I would have training you for sale.”

He clicked her “off” again, slid the pen behind one ear, then fondled the attorney’s naked body, running his hands over the girl’s smooth thighs and cupping her lovely pussy. After a long moment, he sighed.

“I know just the right market for you, too.”

He stepped back and used the pen. Rose shuddered in disgust and grit her teeth.

“You’re a clown, Ira,” she said. “You’re nothing but a sick, sad clown.”

“And you’re nothing but a slave, Rose. Or soon to be.” He made a motion to click the pen again, but Rose spoke up quickly.

“Whose decision is it?” she asked. “Who is pulling your strings?”

The Chief Slaver smirked and twirled the pen between his fingers.

“You will be delighted to know, my scrumptious little tease, that you now belong to our Firm’s beloved Managing Partner, Gustavo Hulfgren.” He noted the way Rose’s eyes narrowed. “He has a whole household of pretty, brainless playthings of the sort you’ll soon become.”

“Hulfgren,” Rose whispered. “Hmnn… .” She tried to be nonchalant, but Tiffany could see through her now. The attorney’s fingers clenched uselessly. There were beads of perspiration near her hairline.

The Chief Slaver approached Rose again, and she lunged forward to bite him, to tear his throat out with her teeth. Tiffany recalled a scene of Hannibal Lecter from the movies. A moment later she was surprised with the clarity of her recollection. It was becoming easier and easier now.

The Chief Slaver clicked his pen to forestall the woman’s attack. He lifted Rose’s limp chin and gazed into her suddenly exhausted eyes. “Gustavo wants you fully programmed on arrival. I may not have the opportunity to train you as a plugged girl, but at least I’ll get to enjoy your descent into servility personally. See the program take over.” He looked at her speculatively. “You already know what that’s like, though, don’t you? You’re already a programmed personality.”

The Chief Slaver took a strong grip of Rose’s throat with one hand. He clicked her “on” again.

Rose’s teeth gnashed. She snarled at him, and he tilted her head back sharply until she was gasping.

“Like mother, like daughter,” he said. “I wonder what’ll happen to the former Dr. Pitzler now that Gordon is on his way out. Oh, you didn’t know that, did you?” he added, seeing the look in Rose’s eyes. “Your friend Martin was playing his own little scheme to add you to his stable, but Gustavo and I outdid him.” He laughed wickedly. “You should thank us, girl, for saving you from such a terrible fate.”

“… bastard…” Rose managed to force out.

The Chief Slaver lifted the encoder.

“Let’s get this started, shall we? I’m looking forward to fucking you.”

The discipline felt good.

Ah, who was she kidding? The discipline felt wonderful! The discipline felt fantastic! Miyal’s stomach fluttered with conflicted happiness. She was being treated like a common femthrall (She was a common femthrall, she thought, and shuddered in fear and joy combined). She was, officially, thrall 42c-3891 of the Kedian catalog. She was a number. She was merely one item of purchase of many in a large directory. She was a toy… a pleasure model… a bioslut.

She was a thrall.

Ideal help her, she was a thrall!

The handler marched Miyal along a narrow corridor of the complex. It was a hallway Miyal had never seen before as a constituent and corporate-officer. Few constituents and corporate-officers ever had. It ran the distance from the machinate processing chambers to the vast warehousing center, a long hallway over three Earth miles in length. Miyal had been forced to prance along it the entire way, the thrall-handler correcting her gait at every step with a controlstick, training her in the proper sashay.

“Elevation!” the tenant employee instructed harshly. “Keep your head back. Eyes front! Lift your legs with alacrity and elevation!” Snap! Another low voltage bolt of electricity surged through Miyal’s thrallflesh. It was ecstatically unpleasant. “Elevation!” Miyal tried and lifted her feet even higher.

She could not cry out. A gag had been inserted past her tender, thrallish lips.

She had long since lost track of the time, engrossed as she was in either constant activity or a narcotic, blissful thralldaze. Since she had arrived at the Kedia Thrall complex already a resequenced femthrall, and one processed in secret, she was largely unrecognized within the system. Newly decanted thralls were registered as a matter of course. In her case, the handlers had to start almost from scratch. The first thing they did, after being handed over to them from the foreign-reception chamber, was dunk her in a purifying bath of astringents and other decontaminants. She reeked of sex, they said. Of need.

Why wouldn’t she? She was a thrall.

Afterwards, they branded her, the electrical engraver setting the Kedia trademark on all the requisite body parts—lower left ass cheek, upper right arm, and bottom of her left foot instep. Biological samples were taken from her green thrallskin, bone marrow, interior stomach lining, and other organs. Her retina patterns were recorded. She had seen the compscan readout: MIYAL CATE, 73012-211a, Constituent Status. Then, with a flick of a button, it changed: Thrall 42c-3891, processing.

I already am processed, she remembered thinking. Why should it still read “processing”? In any case, minor clerical error or no, any hope of escape was impossible now. She was in the system. Now, no matter who took possession of her, she would never, ever leave it. She was a thrall.

Her property was gone. It had been automatically confiscated by the corporate.

“Miyal Cate, Processor” no longer existed. Her citizenship, stocks, certificates, all had been rendered invalid. She wasn’t even entitled to tenant status, low as that was. Tenants, at least, were still considered human under the law. Mostly. She, on the other hand, was nothing now but a piece of property. It started to hit home for Miyal only after the formalities of registration had been attended to. She had been feeling increasingly like a thrall since Earth. She could admit that now, possibly even before Earth. Inside her mind, though, she was still Miyal Cate. She was still a Processor, a Constituent of the Corporate, unfairly treated and soon to be restored to her former status.

That illusion didn’t last long. Having her long green hair arranged in thralltails was as traumatic as being branded, possibly more so. The long braided cords hung from her head like living symbols of her bondage, the “handgrips” to either side of her face, useful in holding a thrall down for oral pleasure, the third in back, the “leash,” used to draw a thrall’s head back when she was taken from behind. Their presence was a constant reminder, their tight wrapping an unceasing corroboration of her new reality. Before her hair was done, the handlers fitted her with a gag, a bright red rubber ball they pressed down into her mouth. Her jaws accepted the tool easily; they had been redesigned, after all, to accommodate much larger objects. She was tied and twisted, bondage ropes slung through her arms and around her back, between her thighs and over her legs, and her thrallbody stretched and pulled and forced into a hundred and more positions, each with its own singular use in taking or otherwise using a female thrall. Miyal accomplished each pose easily, if not comfortably, her enhanced musculature more than capable of the required feats. With each successfully tested, the tenant handlers made a note on their lists.

After that, she was put to use. For the first time, she was used as the femthrall she was.

The Ideal help her but she loved it!

And it didn’t even matter that they were tenants.

Miyal had been fondled, pinched, stroked, and otherwise kept enflamed by the thrall-handlers. It was easy considering how indecently sensitive her thrallflesh was. They made her hunger for them a torment. Each rude name they called her (“Slut!” “Whore!” “Thrall!”) sent a wave of desire crashing through her. Every casual slap across the ass filled her blood with longing. She had pleaded throughout the registration process. Even after the gag was inserted, she continued to beg them with her expressionless eyes. But they had a job to do—no tenant wanting to retain his employment and right to his original DNA shirked his duty in Kedia—and so they finished processing her, and only then did they take their natural liberties as men.

The automatic hair weaver had just finished braiding Miyal’s green mane, painfully tugging each lock and wrapping it in a special syncloth band, when the first handler pulled her out of the chair, turned her away from him, pushed her down, and thrust himself inside her.

The first emotion to pass through Miyal’s mind was relief. She had, after all, been denied penetration for days. Then, the initial pulsations of thrallish pleasure sank in, and her teeth all but sank into her gag. Without it, she would screamed herself hoarse with the rapture and fulfillment she found. The handler’s forward movements forced Miyal to stumble ahead; she was pressed against a wall, gasping desperately around her gag. Her thrallrape was savage, heartless, and absolutely breathtaking. It was everything she had dreamed about, a rush of boiling hot ecstasy filling every vein in her body. Her thrall-orgasms were blindingly intense. Even the first, relatively minor climax she achieved made the spendings she had had on Earth seem inconsequential in the comparison. How foolish she had been! To think she could derive real pleasure from being in charge! The delights she had had then were nothing contrasted against what she experienced now. The bliss of being controlled, of being played with, of having no say whatsoever in the usages taken from her thrallbody, caused a nova-sized flame to erupt within her loins.

Ecstatic fire blazed through her nerves, and she was dissolved in the heat of it.

And that was only her first taking.

Eventually, all the thrall-handlers had her. Miyal was taken from department to department. She was photographed. She was measured. She was exercised. The limits of her resequenced DNA were tested. And, at every opportunity, any time the thrall-handlers had to stand in line and wait their turn while some other thrall was put through his or her paces, Miyal was used as the delectable thrallflesh she was. They sucked on her nipples till they seemed ready to burst. They filled her thrallcunt and ass until her insides were slick with their fluids. No one in authority cared. Tenants had little enough rights as it was. Those with gainful positions took advantage whenever they could. The constituency indulged them; it was good for morale, and it wasn’t as if there weren’t enough thralls for everybody. The things Miyal experienced in those first few hours back home shattered the illusions she had been maintaining. Pleasures of the kind she had felt at the hands of these formerly disgusting employees—and now she got wet even thinking about what their hands and lips and penises could do to her!—had forever changed her. Were history to repeat itself, were she suddenly to be returned to her bed chamber and to awaken a femthrall, she knew she would not run. She would wait in anticipation of a master to claim her. And were she somehow to be taken back in time and restored to her former status, a Constituent of the Corporate again, she knew she would crawl to the first Procurer she met and beg for enthrallment.

With realizations like these, the thralldazes Miyal experienced became increasingly deep and smothering. Her body was being used in the fashion for which it had been designed. Her mind was finally adapting the way it should be, the way Processors formerly like her had intended when they wrote it into her DNA. It grew increasingly hard to concentrate on anything other than sex. Her thoughts were filled with recollections of the pleasures the handlers had inflicted upon her, or, if not that, then anticipations of the things they would do to her in the future. For the first time, Miyal seriously began to consider what it would be like to be owned, to have a master, a Master. Compared to that, everything else in her mind lost focus. She knew who she was, but, slowly, gradually, it was becoming less and less important.

I… I want to be owned, Miyal thought. She tried to deny it. But the thought was so attractive. It could not be so easily dismissed. I want to be owned, she thought. I want to be a thrall.

How terrible she was. How awful. And yet, the more she thought about it—the more she thought about her flight to Earth—the less she was able to understand how she could ever have thought she could be free. It was an alien concept, like the Brafford memories had been when she first absorbed them. Only now it was happening in reverse. What was once so familiar, so natural, was losing its clarity. To be free? To have freedom? How could that possibly be?

She tried to resist, but her resistance was like the feeble fumbling of an infant in its crib. Her resistance was an object of scorn and amusement to the thrall-handlers. As tenants, naturally they knew nothing of Earth or other worlds. Still, they could tell she was a resistant thrall. They could tell she was fighting the gene-coded instincts within her, and, as they punished her, so did they laugh at her, for being so entertaining. But Miyal held on. No matter how good it felt to be used, she would hold on as long she could. She owed that much to the person she had been, to the constituent life stolen from her.

Waving his controlstick in front of her, the handler finally ordered Miyal to stop prancing. They waited only a few moments. The unmarked door next to Miyal slid open, and a man she knew stepped out into the hallway. A wave of pleasant humiliation surged through her thrallflesh, and even before the handler ordered her to do so, Miyal went to her knees and meekly lowered her head to the floor.

Arid Verndo was an Administrator. He was also, once, a friend. No more now, of course.

“Depart,” he ordered the thrall-handler. He took the controlstick from the man’s hand. “You will be recalled, ultimately.” The tenant employee bowed his head respectfully and left. Verndo ordered Miyal into the room. When she tried to climb to her feet, the Administrator poked her in the ass with the controlstick. SNAP! Miyal stayed on her hands and knees, crawling into the room like an animal.

The room was an inspection chamber, as anonymous as any room could be with nearly a thousand others just like it in the same building. Without needing to be told, Miyal took her place in the examination circle in the middle. It glowed green as she touched it. Sensors played over her body, and her number, 42c-3891, appeared on a screen. “Stance,” Verndo said, and Miyal knelt properly.

The Administrator then looked upon the green thrall for several long minutes without saying a word.

Little rivulets of fear, need, and pleasure soon had Miyal’s green skin tingling. Her fear was the fear of any femthrall in so helpless a position. Her need was the need of any femthrall, period. Her pleasure was the pleasure of being looked upon by someone she recognized, not some nameless tenant who knew her only as one more thrall among many. Her disgrace was a delightful anguish, the humiliation increasing the level of endorphins and thrallextract bubbling in her veins.

Eventually, he spoke. “This is a peculiarity.”

Miyal waited. Even if she could have spoken, she would not. She had not been granted permission.

“This is a peculiarity,” he repeated. “Regulations require that all constituents be recited the bill of their enthrallment. Yet you are not a constituent, nor have ever been. You, are, even so, the closest correspondent, yet you are already a thrall.” He paused, shaking his head. “You look like her.”

Miyal’s blank eyes frowned in confusion. What? My bill of enthrallment. But I’m already a thrall. And what had he said, also? ‘You look like her?’ I look like who?

“The trial was too rapid,” Verndo seemed to be trying to explain to her. “The forms were not carried out. I gazed upon it as my duty and so volunteered. Yet now I am distressed at the sight of you.”

Miyal suddenly wished she could get rid of the gag in her mouth. What trial? He said I was not a constituent, nor ever have been. What does that entail? The thrills electrifying her skin increased.

Verndo seemed to shrug off the thoughts that were plaguing him, his face changing as if to say, Enough! This is a thrall. You are wasting time. He picked up a synsheet form from a table and read from it.

“Processor Miyal Cate, of Kedia and the Kedia Thrall Enterprise, you have been found blameworthy of crimes against the Eastern Corporate.” He snorted. “Do you have anything to say before your condemnation is carried out?” Gagged, Miyal naturally had few words to share. What was going on?

“Then, Processor Cate, having been found blameworthy of the charges made against you, the council condemns you to thralldom. You are, henceforth, and in perpetuity, a thrall.”

Suddenly disgusted with himself, Verndo crumbled the synsheet into a ball and threw it at the wall. Miyal winced in fear of his masculine anger. Her thrallcunt sent her a delicious reminder of her need at the same time. The Administrator stalked across the room and abruptly picked Miyal up by her arms.

The way his powerful hands sank into her soft thrallflesh made the heat bloom within her even stronger.

“No one has seen fit to enlighten you, so I shall. You are not Miyal Cate. You never have been. You are the vatbred thrall of the original Cate, cloned from her cells and her recorded recollections encoded into your empty brain. You were meant as the toy of Rix Nagh, who would have had you and still been able to serve your archetype.” He threw Miyal back to the floor. “You are an abomination, the castoff DNA of a true constituent, who has now run afoul of her own pride. For shame has this cycle been!”

He turned from her and hit the recall stud on the wall, calling for a thrall-handler to take her from his sight. Then, without waiting, Verndo keyed the door open and stormed out of the room, leaving a shocked Miyal by herself.

Her thoughts were racing. Disbelief warred with her inability to accept a constituent lying to a mere thrall. What, after all, would be the point? Why bother saying it unless it were actually true?

No, she thought. No. It was inconceivable. I am Miyal Cate. I was Miyal Cate.

She remembered Wahinan Met on Earth, though. She had never questioned him beyond the simple facts of his mission. What had he said? The thrall absolutely fathoms not. How farcical this is.

He had known. He had tried to tell her even. But they had been interrupted.

No. No. That’s the only thing I have, Miyal thought. That was the only thing I had that was my own. That I was Miyal Cate. That I was a Processor. I was. I was!

Wasn’t I?

A thrall-handler, a different one from before, came in and took charge of her. As that first handler had done, he decided to take his rightful advantage of her first before moving on to the next station, whatever that might be. He bent Miyal over a table and seized her. The thrall ecstasy took her.

If she wasn’t Miyal Cate, if she had never been Miyal Cate, then what was she?

Crushing pleasure flooded her enhanced nervous system, as if in response to that ludicrous inquiry. As if to say, she was a thrall. Nothing more. A thrall. And she had never been anything but.

Nothing but a pretty, nameless thrall.

The pleasures of her natural state consumed this now nameless thrall, this thrall designated 42c-389 of the Kedian catalog, and she surrendered to them utterly, for the first time holding nothing back, holding not even a shred of human dignity in reserve. It was amazing how easy it was, and how natural.

The climax she received made her mannequin eyes practically glow.

“Oh, ohh, please, no more… no more, sir, no, no more… I can take no more… !”

Rose squirmed in the Chief Slaver’s embrace, gasping and writhing uncontrollably. Her breath came in a series of short, heated pants, like the exertions of a dog in heat. As she had many times these last few hours—many, many times—the former attorney’s head tilted back, she thrust her breasts against her assaulter’s chest, and she cried out in ecstatic submission and pleasure. “Ahhh! Yes! Yes! Yes… !”

Though she truly wanted to, Tiffany could not pull her eyes away.

Following the titanic orgasm, she saw Rose try to recoup herself. “I mean, no, sir, please… no.”

Her Owner would have none of it. He pulled Rose’s trembling face close to his own. She flinched and lowered her eyes tamely. She could not meet his gaze at all. Sweat-soaked hair fell across her face. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked her, cruelly, chuckling. “Do you really?”

He slapped her ass, and Rose squealed like a little girl.

“No! don’t stop . ,” she said, alarmed. She hesitated but a moment. Lips trembling, the humiliation scrolled clearly across her features, the once proud Rose begged. “Please, please, sir, don’t stop…”

Laughing, the Chief Slaver threw her beneath him again.

From across the room, Tiffany watched as her Owner once more laid claim to the slave. In the hours since the Chief Slaver had placed the encoder against Rose’s forehead and downloaded the first set of mind-altering programs into her nervous system, the young attorney’s demeanor had undergone a total transformation. Tiffany had watched feebly as the new slave’s eyes widened during her encoding. Unlike most victims of a slaving module, Rose must have known exactly what was in store for her as the programming worked its way through her mind, changing her perceptions, altering the way she thought, filling her with the first raw inklings of a slave’s desire. Now she licked and kissed at the man atop her, her body through its color and dampness blatantly revealing the passions so recently instilled within. The Chief Slaver was teasing her. He moved the head of his cock up and down the poor woman’s sex. He was taking his time before entering her again, making her beg for her violation.

Rose piteously kissed her rapist’s chest, mouthing pleas of need and submission.

Finally, with a barbaric grunt, the burly man acted. The new slave closed her eyes and hissed. Her back arched like a cat’s. Tiffany, meanwhile, wished there were somewhere she could go, somewhere, anywhere, where she wouldn’t have to watch this assault or hear it. Truly, she felt bad for the former attorney, the pity of one slave watching another become introduced to her condition. The real reason she wanted to be gone, though, was personal. She wanted to quell her own passions, stimulated as they were by the sights and sounds of this vicious sexplay. Tiffany stroked her needy sex restlessly.

The Chief Slaver’s sadism had been total. Following the download, he had sat back and questioned the attorney about her feelings, asking her cruel questions about how she liked becoming a slave and whether or not she could feel the heat growing in her pussy and tits. Whenever he got tired of asking these degrading questions, he turned Rose off with the handcuffs and watched her sweat. Subsequently, every time he brought her back, the girl sounded less and less sure of herself. The pride and confidence with which she had carried herself disappeared. It was replaced, Tiffany knew—she could tell from the poor girl’s voice—by a growing sense of dependence and yearning.

It was only an hour after the encoding that she began to beg.

“… please…” she had whispered.

The Chief Slaver had cocked his ear like an old vaudeville comedian. “Did I hear something? Did you say something, Rose?” He stared at Rose, and she shivered. Tiffany could tell she was struggling.

“Please,” Rose said, biting her lips. “Please… I… I need.”

“What do you need, my little slut?” the Chief Slaver asked. “What? A telephone? A ham sandwich?”

“I… I need you inside me,” the girl whispered and immediately looked down, ashamed.

Three hours after the encoding, the Chief Slaver released Rose from the table and the handcuffs. He obviously no longer needed the pen for his safety. Let loose, Rose scampered to a corner of the suite and cowered there, softly crying and drawn up into a ball. The Chief Slaver had laughed uproariously.

In the end, she came to him, not the other way round. Driven by the compulsions in her mind, Rose had unwrapped her arms and legs from her corner and, bit by bit, lifted her eyes to the Chief Slaver. Her expression then, as now, had been filled with hunger and desire. She had made plaintive noises. Her hands opened and closed. Smiling, knowing himself lusted after, the Chief Slaver had slowly removed his clothes in front of Rose and enjoyed the thrilled yet horrified expressions this display prompted. Tiffany had never hated her smug bastard of an Owner more than she had at that moment. It was a terrible thing to be so helplessly drawn to something you hated. It was so terrible to be a slave.

Looking over, she witnessed her Owner once again hammering into Rose, splitting her wide with the force of his exertions. Her hands pressed against his back, tightly clutching at him.

“Yes… yes, please… please… don’t stop, don’t stop… please, don’t stop!”

This latest assault—it was the third since the initial encoding—continued for another agonizing twenty minutes. Tiffany felt like she was going to go crazy. Her mind automatically kept count of Rose’s orgasms, every position the Chief Slaver forced her into, every kiss and caress, and compared them with her own detailed lessons and practices in sexplay. Her dire frustration seemed to increase exponentially. Finally, though, her Owner climaxed, and as soon as he was done, he tossed Rose off of him like the toy she was becoming. She sobbed. Which of Rose’s sobs were worse, Tiffany could not say, those inspired by her ongoing degradation or those drawn from her as her need inevitably returned.

The Chief Slaver spent a long time in the restroom. When he came out again, he was holding another slaving module. Rose stared at it in horror. He waved it in front of her face and moved to the bed.

“It’s time, my little Rose,” the Chief Slaver said. He sat on the bed and patted his lap, for all the world beckoning the former attorney like a naked and obscene Santa Claus. “It’s been six hours. Your little brain must have finished assimilating that first download by now.”

“No… no,” Rose whimpered. Tears filled her eyes. “I don’t want to be a slave. I don’t want to be a slave.” She cowered in the room’s corner, trembling like a frightened animal.

“It’s time for your second encoding,” the Chief Slaver said, ignoring her tears and pleas. His tone was jovial. “As you know, that’s the one that will finish the personality set, the skeleton of which is already percolating in your pretty noggin.” He sat there holding the encoder in one hand and continuing to tap his legs with the other. “Soon you’ll be like an infinite number of other pretty little slavegirls, eager to fuck and suck, thinking with your twat instead of your brain.” He chuckled evilly, and Rose wept.

Tiffany could not bear it. She got up and tried to move unobtrusively to the restroom.

“And where do you think you’re going?” Tiffany turned and flinched seeing the flint in her Owner’s eyes. “I was just going to the bathroom, Master…” she began lightly.

“Shut up. Sit still.” His happy-go-lucky demeanor had turned to cold steel in an instant. Tiffany complied. She lowered her head and promised herself that she wouldn’t cry. She knew she would fail.

The Chief Slaver turned his eyes back to Rose and spoke as if nothing had interrupted him. “Once I finish using you, we’ll take a trip to Regulon Colony. Gustavo has an account with the Colonists of Regulon, and they’ll be waiting to take you in hand and process you, just like any other imbonded slut.”

Rose moaned despairingly. Before her encoding, she would have fought Tiffany’s Owner. She had been strong, smart, and willful. Now she was weak, confused, and compliant. And after her second encoding? She would be a sex toy, nothing more. Even the remnants of her old personality would be smothered, replaced in their entirety by the eager, slutty, and perpetually-in-need persona of a mass-produced slavegirl. Tiffany could think of no worse fate, and her sympathy for Rose increased.

But there was nothing she could do. She was a slave herself, and helpless. It were best to get it over and done with as soon as possible. But the Chief Slaver was enjoying himself, and he dragged it out.

“Come here, slutty, slutty,” he said, smiling wickedly. “Come here.” Rose stayed in the corner, but she stiffened at his commands. First-stage encoding instilled basic obedience protocols.

“No,” she whispered.

“Come here,” the Chief Slaver said. “Come here right now.” He spoke a little more sharply, and, like a lemming drawn to its cliff, the former attorney shuddered and began to walk slowly towards him.

“No,” he said, and she stopped. “On your hands and knees. Crawl to me on your hands and knees.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I won’t… I won’t…”

“You Will!!” the Chief Slaver suddenly roared, and both Rose and Tiffany shook. “Crawl to me right now, you little slut. Right now!” Rose went first to her knees, then, driven by the compulsions within her, leaned forward and began to crawl. Upon her face was scrawled the agony of each terrible step.

“Kiss my feet,” the Chief Slaver said when she got close enough, and she did, lingeringly, the pleasure in performing the act as evident as the humiliation and pain it also inspired. Tiffany’s Owner put his hand in Rose’s hair and pulled her face up between his legs. He bent her backwards until she yelped in pain.

He pressed the encoder to her forehead.

“… please…” she begged.

“Smile,” the Chief Slaver said. “You’re about to receive the greatest gift man can give woman.”

He squeezed the encoder. It hummed. Light outlined the lip of the device.

“Total enslavement.”

Rose’s body convulsed as the programming swept through her nervous system. Her eyes widened. Her mouth fell open in surprise. It didn’t matter how well-prepared a person was, being encoded always left one with a feeling of shock and amazement. A moment later the Chief Slaver pulled the module from the girl’s forehead, and she blinked several times in succession, stunned, as if she were trying to adjust to a bright light after having been in a dark room for several hours. Tiffany could only imagine the scores of images passing into her consciousness. She only had a plug in her brain; she received a relative handful of instructions from it, comparatively. Rose was getting taught her slavery all at once, and in such a way as to permanently wear away whatever kind of person she had been.

Though the lost memories of it tormented her, Tiffany at least knew she had had a life before slavery. In a few days, “Rose” wouldn’t even have that. All that she would be, would be what had been in that encoder, her thoughts and memories the same as those of a million, million other slaves just like her.

The Chief Slaver let go of Rose, and she fell to the floor. He stood up. “Position!” he roared.

It was a test, Tiffany knew. Rose pulled herself up and knelt back on her heels. She spread her legs and put her hands to her thighs. She thrust out her breasts toward the only man in the room.

“Very good,” he said. “How do you feel, Rose?” He chuckled. The obscene sound was getting on Tiffany’s nerves.

“This slave feels strange, master,” she said, and her eyes widened. “No! This slave is not a slave. This slave can’t be a slave!” She wept. Her shoulders heaved. Despite her emotions, though, Tiffany noted she didn’t break her position. She protested her slavery while kneeling at the feet of her master.

The Chief Slaver took Rose’s head in hand and pressed it to his groin. “You know what to do, slave.”

Rose shuddered, but she complied. “Yes, master.” She began to lick. She looked up, only once.

“This slave will never be a slave, master,” she said, hopelessly. Then she swallowed.

Tiffany cried as her Owner’s laugh once again rang throughout the room.

She did it softly, though, so she didn’t disturb his pleasure.