Slut
By Genomodder
She mentally screamed as the final images burned into her mind forever, permanently altering her life, her identity, her very existence.
The technicians watched as the young woman, no different from the row upon row of similarly altered females trapped within the conditioning bays, writhed and squirmed, half in passion, half in mental agony as their futures irrevocably altered. They betrayed little emotion as they silently noted each girl’s progress, each luscious beauty’s descent into servitude; they had simply seen it all before too many times to be captivated or intrigued any longer. The girls were simply product now. Turning intelligent young women into near-mindless sex toys was simply de rigeur, nothing more.
The young woman finally calmed down, her breathing returning to more normal levels as the stimuli dissipated, the huge phallus occupying her moist, dripping vagina gently deflating and retracting. The computers noted approvingly that the woman’s vaginal muscles attempted to squeeze the phallus as it left, tried to keep it buried deep within her love passage, just like a good slut should.
Slut.
She no longer possessed a name, nor even really a true identity. She was simply Slut 403. Her new owner would give her a usename, probably something frilly like Tanya or Carla or Mona, something reasonably short that her now vacuous mind could comprehend and remember.
The latex-clad nursedolls released 403 from her bonds within the chamber, unstrapping the restraints and breast cups, removing the visor and earbuds, and helping her up. The slut stood unsteadily next to the transparent circular chamber she formerly occupied. She swayed slightly, the weight of her pendulous breasts pulling her forward. A nursedoll, a computerized simulacrum of a woman wearing the tightest red fetish latex bearing a white cross, so tight that it could have been a second skin, produced a pair of seven inch transparent heels, placed them on the floor and helped the addled slut into them. Their clasps clicked shut. The slut’s stature improved as she arched her back to compensate for the heels’ height, her D-cups forced upwards and outwards by the change.
403 stood there, totally nude and quite unfettered by her lack of modesty. Sluts were intended to be seen as sex objects and used in ways that befitted their status in society, and clothes were normally not in the cards. They might wear garters and thongs, or whatever amused their users’ tastes, but nothing more. In fact, most were conditioned to avoid clothes; given the choice, the slut would willingly bare its all without complaint.
The dolls brought the line of hyper sexed sluts into line, strutting uncertainly into file in its preprogrammed and highly practiced sashay. Each slut yearned to be filled with thick man meat, and gave the male doctors and technicians monitoring the process long, desperate stares, their blood pressure rising, their vaginas lubricating involuntarily, at least until the dolls ordered them to face front and march.
“Turn, slut.”
The voce was lilting and yet strong, digital and yet strangely lyrical. 403 obeyed, of course, as did the others.
“Walk forward and follow the line, slut.”
Each newly minted slut received the same command from its attendant doll, and each obeyed. The procession of flesh, boobs and synthskin bobbled and swayed forward, leaving the conditioning center behind. The facility was buried deep underground, far from prying eyes. They could do nearly anything there, to anyone, and often did. Hidden as they were, legalities were of less concern than the more public dollhouses and slut factories the corporation publicly displayed to the world. Deep below the earth’s surface, so deep that even satellites failed to adequately chart the deep caverns the corporation was free to convert whomever they wished into obedient sluts, into really whatever they pleased, for whomever was willing to pay the steepest price, and everyone and everything had a price.
403 watched the bronze-skinned slut in front, her bubble butt swaying in the cool yet clammy air underneath the mountain that concealed their fates. Her practiced eyes (practiced at sluttiness) evaluated the other slut’s gait and bounce. She could do better, she thought, arching her back slightly further and placing a harder step into her foot plant. With each plant, her leg muscles rippled, her breasts bounced ever higher and further side to side, yet always within control, within the bounds of what the average male would find attractive. Her globe like breasts hung incredibly without need of support, the genetic treatments long ago tightening up her chest, shoulder and back muscles to support their weight. Slut 403 was absolutely certain that her walk, her strut, was more attractive than Slut 402’s. Behind, Slut 404 observed 403 and likewise attempted to better her, as did every slut down the line. The need to be sexy, indeed the sexiest creature on the planet, was now a permanent part of their reduced psyches.
The procession arrived at a large locker room-like area. 403 had no idea how long their march took, cared even less. Time now meant virtually nothing to her, except for the time she would spend satisfying her future users. Most sluts couldn’t even tell time. They simply had no need. Their owners would order them around, command them, and they would comply.
New dolls, also wearing latex but a thicker waterproof white this time, and quite shiny approached the line. Each slut waited until a dark haired cosmetician doll led them to a shower area. 403 eventually bounced into a shower stall, steam from the hot water billowing out. The tiles were warm, and they felt good against her feet, suddenly freed from the heels. The cosmetician doll soaped up her charge, cleaning the slut quite thoroughly. 403 loved the attention, adored having the doll rub her sensitive breasts, soap dribbling from her engorged nipples. She nearly fell to the ground when the doll cleaned her orifices, orgasmic explosions shuddering through her from the simple touch of washcloth to labia. The doll cleaned the dried slutcum from 403’s inner thighs, ensuring proper hygiene; she may be a useless walking cunt, but she was still susceptible to certain infections if proper precautions weren’t taken. Shampoo scented of cherries tingled against her scalp. The doll thoroughly cleaned her ears and her underarms. The whole process occupied nearly thirty minutes.
403 could see other sluts being washed and cleaned, all clearly relishing their dolls’ ministrations. Each was reduced to a moaning, nearly slobbering mess by the time they finished.
The water stopped, the steam diminished. 403 felt her self being toweled off. Soft lotions were applied all over, the doll kneading them into 403’s incredibly receptive and sensitive flesh. The doll stepped back as jets of warm, dry air whooshed from the ceiling, further drying the new fucktoy. The air assisted the lotions as they penetrated 403’s skin, leaving a glossy, warm glow.
The doll ordered 403 back in to the heels and then, “Accompany this unit, slut.”
The cosmetician doll led 403 out of the shower area, past more fresh sluts awaiting their turns at the cleaning stations. Sluts were sorted by type, Nordic looking blondes to this line, blacks there, Asian down that corridor, and so on. 403’s platinum blonde hair placed her in a subline of five Nordics, all curvy, between five feet six and five feet ten without heels and obviously quite taller with them, yet exceptionally well-endowed. The smallest bust size was a D-cup, and three featured Es or larger, each creamy mammary effortlessly defying gravity. There could be no doubt what their intended functions were.
A new cosmetician doll wearing a lighter tight latex outfit approached the line and selected a slut. 403 watched as the first three sluts were led away, not caring where, until a fresh doll selected her.
“Accompany this unit, slut.”
403 did so, happily, strutting along obediently behind the synthetic.
She soon found herself facing a padded barber’s chair, surrounded by mirrors and various makeup products. Off came the pretty heels. 403 missed them immediately, trained to regard not wearing fuck me heels or pumps as sacrilege, a betrayal of her new god, sex.. The doll produced a piece of glossy floss and ordered 403 to raise her legs one at a time. The narrow, almost irrelevant silver thong glided up her perfectly cut legs. 403 enjoyed its feel tight against her clit and between her cheeks. She did not enjoy the silver bra that the doll encased her breasts with. Corsets and various sexy lingerie breast cups and nipple covers were one thing; she was conditioned to wear those to excite and tease her customers, but they would be soon removed to allow her globes to fall free, as her slut love bags should. This bra was the sort worn by free women, business woman and the like, the type that her kind would never wear except on direct orders. She bit her lips and shuddered in discomfort as the straps went over her shoulders.
A silvery-white blouse went on next, also against her normal rules of attire. The doll pulled it down tight and slipped a pair of tan hose around her legs, slowly rolling them up to thigh height. 403 viewed herself in the mirror, seeing the strange slut wearing free woman’s clothes. .. Odd, that. A fleeting surface memory of someone having worn clothes quite similar to those streaked through her mind.
A grey knee-length skirt soon tied around her waist, its long knee-length hem line not conducive to showing off 403’s legs, legs that DNA washes and long, brutal hours in the gym under the strict tutelage of a trainer doll had cut into lithe perfection. A black leather belt held the skirt up.
The doll circled her charge, observing, calculating. Satisfied, she placed 403 into the chair, feet into the stirrups and arms and hands into the little grooves on the armrests, 403’s fingers slipped into little depressions atop a circular ball at their ends. The chair soon rotated backwards until 403 lay nearly horizontal. She watched using the floor to ceiling mirrors as the doll applied fingernail polish and makeup. 403 felt wonderful being the center of attention, just as her conditioning had taught. The doll was making her even prettier, and she so wanted to be the prettiest slut ever!
Another glancing memory of someone putting on lipstick slitted past, but it meant little so the slut gave it little mind, not that she possessed much a mind left to act on it, anyway.
Red lips, blush, purple, dusky eyeshadow, and blood red nail polish went on.. The effect was of a classy woman, sexy and ready, yet posh and stylish. Next a silver necklace and pendant, then diamond stud earrings into the slut’s UEAs. Her “universal earring adaptors” were really simple round platinum embossed holes inset into in her earlobes into which any number of standard style earring posts could be set, allowing the slut to wear a vast array of earrings and various other sundry pieces of jewelry; sluts were adaptable, of nothing else. 403 currently featured the two, one in each lobe, but her genetically modified body was more than capable of supporting multiple UEAs of various sizes up and around the curve of her ears, whatever her owners desired. A UEA was also inset into her navel for similar purposes, but as the blouse covered it up the doll placed no jewelry there. A dainty watch and several rings completed the ensemble. Despite feeling so alien wearing free woman’s clothes, the slut mentally recognized that she looked increasingly hot, as a fucktoy should. She hoped the little makeover would attract a man to use her, to fuck her willing cunt like the piece of worthless meat she believed herself to be.
Of course, 403 and the other sluts were far from being monetarily worthless.. Their conversions had cost the corporation dearly in time, effort and cost, and each could be expected to bring at least fifty thousand New Dollars on the auction block, more if a buyer elected custom options. A slut, however, was trained to believe she herself a thing without value, deserving of slavery, to be used however free humans thought fit, Value, like so many things, remained in the eyes of the beholder.
The doll began brushing out her hair, straight since the shower. DNA treatments had altered 403’s hair color and texture, however, as under the touch of the brushes and combs it curled into a cascade of glossy locks trailing down past her shoulder blades. The effect was dramatic, as 403 became a vision of chic, streamlined and poshly exquisite.
The doll placed dark grey pumps on 403’s dainty feet. These, too, felt alien. She wanted transparent spiked heels, stilettos, not these two inch pumps, but obedience overrode desire. The chair rotated forward as the doll released its charge.
403 stood atop the pumps. Her training kicked in. Sluts were trained to wear all sorts of footwear; 403 had even undergone physical training in similar shaped pumps during her slut conversion, so achieving the trademark slut strut proved no difficulty. She simply bounced a tad less, her back straighter.
A techdoll approached as the cosmetician doll cleaned its workstation in preparation for the next slut. A pretty Asian slut already waited at the entrance, massive G-cupped boobs appearing totally out of place on her small four foot two body, but the corporation bowed to consumer demand, and the market for Far Eastern sluts had recently grown, so...
The techdoll—few had seen them, fewer still truly understood them. More computer than other dolls, they were completely clad in tight, thick rubber from foot to neck. The glossy rubber, called a “coolsuit,” actually, served to contain and disperse heat away from the doll’s body and its sensitive computerized circuits. Even biological computers and biogelpacks suffered under heating conditions, and a techdoll’s processors produced a great amount of heat. They offered no emotion, pure computer, their remnant meat brains even less human than the average nursedoll or pleasuredoll. They were efficiency personified, glossy perfection.
“You will accompany this unit, slut,” it stated with absolutely zero inflection or emotion. 403 bounced after it.
The techdoll led 403 past the lines of sluts waiting for their makeovers, the current batch a featuring a larger than normal complement of redheads—a special order? No matter, 403 concentrated on strutting and planting in the strange free woman pumps. She actually enjoyed the walk, her narrow thing riding ever higher and rubbing against her tender privates. A turn here, a corridor there, metal floors and granite walls, all of it bathed in harsh light from the lights recessed high up in the fifty foot tall rock ceilings. 403 lost track of their path, but the techdoll led on unerringly. Other techdolls passed, some trailing sluts in varying states of dress and undress, others intent upon tasks known only to them.
A door hissed open. Inside a media studio awaited, high tech cameras and filming booths within. The techdoll led 403 to the far wall where a row of doors led to individual studios, and inside the third door.
“Stand atop the marker, slut.”
403 did as ordered, standing directly over a star painted on the floor. The techdoll approached a desk next to the door and produced a variety of devices, interfacing with the studio’s computers through a data link and her own mesh transceivers.
The lights dimmed. The walls behind 403 took on the look of a high class hotel or mansion, with expensive Victorian furniture and a city view creeping through the faux windows. Pretty, thought 403 with her redacted mind. I hope I get fucked here.
The techdoll produced a small black device about six inches long and three inches wide. 403 recognized it—a remote.
The techdoll pressed several buttons, adjusting the controls, and pointed it at 403. The slut instantly felt a wave of nausea wash through her, far worse than the mild discomfort she felt at wearing free woman’s clothes. Had she eaten recently, the slut would have vomited right there in response to the worst migraine pain her former free self had ever experienced. She heard small voices in her head as the remote’s signals activated the computer chips strategically implanted within her skull. Every slut featured them, failsafes to keep the sexpot in line in case she ever developed free will. It happened only very rarely, but the corporation had long ago decided not to take any chances, especially with their less than ethically acquired product. That they also allowed for other functions was known to but a few.
403 took a deep breathe, the internal discomfort passing. She smiled, looking slightly upwards at the camera bots hovering several feet away. Her formerly straight body curved into a more naturalistic S-curve, turned slightly in a more human pose. She didn’t consciously realize it, but she had practiced this affectation for many hours before this moment.
“Prepare for Function Twelve, slut,” the techdoll stated.
“Slut 403 obeys, techdoll,” the smiling woman replied, sounding relaxed and confident, and far from the airhead-speak a slut usually giggled. Deep within, the fragmentary ethereal memories the slut recalled earlier coalesced. Someone... Mmm... Mare-something? Images. Past events. People.
Something felt wrong, quite wrong, in fact. Despite her smiling angelic face, 403 somehow knew that something was very wrong, yet lacked the willpower to do anything about it.
Marilyn. That was it. Her? Who was Marilyn? Strange. Maybe Marilyn would fuck her, 403 hoped. No, that felt wrong, too. She wasn’t a lesbian, and not as a slut, either. Sluts were heavily trained to go both ways, and 403 had enjoyed many a fuckfest with her fellow whores in training, so eating out a cunt and lapping the sweet genetically enhanced sugary nectar felt perfectly normal but Marilyn would never do such a thing.
The computer chips activated again, producing a warm glow in the slut, not unlike the glow felt after a particularly satisfying session of lovemaking. All inhibitions slipped away.
The techdoll adjusted more controls, more voices in 403’s mind. Paradigms shifted. The lights dimmed.
“Hi there, Maple Heights High School! I’ll bet you can’t guess who this is, can you?”
403 turned to follow the camera bot in her prearranged ballet.
“Give up? Its me, Marilyn Rodriguez, captain of the debating club, former class treasurer and yes, I admit it, all around nerd.”
403 stopped to face the camera, a fake breeze billowing the false curtains behind.
“Yes, that’s right, I entered the pleasure industry. I tried a year at college, but it just didn’t feel fulfilling. My grades were great, like always, but something was missing. I just wasn’t finding fulfillment. Then, I saw an ad like this one from a gal my roommate knew. She was considering becoming a slut after a bad breakup. I went along with her to the pleasure industry job fair to offer moral support, but in the end I was the one who signed up! I quickly decided to take the plunge. A short year later and voila! Here I am!”
“Jobs are tight. Let’s face it, times are tough. The pleasure industry offers young people like us the chance to earn a good living, save for the future, and have a great time in the process,” she purred. “Plus,” she said, cupping her breasts through the blouse, “you could wind up looking like me. Do you recall what I looked like before? ‘Mousy,’would be the polite term. But now, after a total slut treatment, I’m hotter than the hottest cheerleader, and that’s the truth. Don’t even get me started on how great the sex is,” she said approaching a four poster bed that miraculously appeared in the “room.”
“Call a registered and bonded pleasure industry counselor today. There are a variety of jobs to choose from, and both short and long term contracts. If you’re unsure, try a short term contract of three or four years. You can even specify what you will and won’t do. Many jobs will let you choose your new look. You’ll be geno-processed and transformed into the woman of your fantasies. Etiquette training will remove your inhibitions so you will enjoy every minute of your new career,” she waxed enthusiastically.
“Look, I won’t lie to you,” she said, placing her hands on her slender waist, a serious look crossing her countenance. “Not everyone is cut out for this work. But for those of you who are, it’s a super life! I upped my contract to seven years. When I’m done, I’ll have more than enough money for college without expensive loans. A high quality resort slut can earn over two thousand New Dollars per year. Even if you only earn half that, you’re still far ahead of the average minimum wage job. All income is placed in an interest bearing account under the supervision of the United States Government. Plus, there are the fringe benefits once you’re finished,” she grinned while slowly feeling up her left breast and undoing her blouse’s top two buttons to reveal the deep cleavage cleft.
“So if you’re like me and something is missing in your life, then call your local registered pleasure industry counselor. Our school’s guidance department has a list of contacts just for you. Graduation is around the corner, and I know you want to be a success. Just remember who I was,” she paused as the camera bot pulled back to show her entire supple body while a second focused in on her bewitching face, “and what I look like now!”
The camera bot floated away as the lights came up. 403 stood there, still smiling her false smile.
“Stand atop the marker, slut,” the techdoll again ordered, and as before 403 obediently bounced along. The techdoll again activated the remote. Noises, voices, and static hissed into her mind, the pretty smile slowly vanishing, the glow leaving her cheeks.
“Exit Function Twelve, slut.”
403 didn’t reply.
“Identify, slut.”
403 tried to answer, but it was just too hard. Hard... she tried to mumble, “Marilyn Rodriguez,” but there were just too many syllables that the words came out thick. Thick....
“Identify, slut.”
“Mari... Mar... Mmm...” she slurred, dribble forming at her lips. She felt herself becoming dumb again, her intelligence lowering as she stood there. The techdoll adjusted more controls. Her former self slowly drifted into the deep background. Deep...
The thought of a thick, hard cock ramming deeply into her hot cunt shot through her mind.
No! A fragment of Marilyn fought it, tried to—something.
“Identify, slut.”
She began hyperventilating, memories of her abduction returning, of screaming, of a transport of young women and girls sobbing.
More controls. Nausea.
“Identify, slut.”
She was signing something. Papers? What did they say? Did it even matter? Sluts can’t read. Not a slut. Fuck me. Don’t want to sign. Hot cunt. No! Marilyn! I’m Marilyn!
“Identify, slut.” If a techdoll could show emotion, this one would sound impatient. Few sluts took this long to reassert their sextoy identities.
Penis. Orgasm. Hot. Born to fuck. No! Scared girls screaming. Huge boobs—where did they come from? Pleasure bags. Fun balls. Boobies. I’m an A-cup. These aren’t mine! Suck. Swallow. A good slut always swallows. A good slut is a big titted slut! I want my lovebox filled by a man!
403 felt herself losing the battle, or was it Marilyn? It became harder to tell the two apart as they slowly passed, Marilyn submerging someplace far away, and 403 bubbling up.
Can’t—give—in. Can’t. Can’t. Cunt. Can’t. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt.. I’m a stupid cunt.
“Identify, slut.”
The big boobed female’s face appeared confused. She squinted, her brow furrowed, and then: “Slut 403?”
Later...
The heavily guarded transport pulled away from the factory, its contents far too valuable to risk on mundane public transport. Within, a cadre of jiggling femininity eagerly awaited their futures. A few special order sluts were dressed as their new owners specified, the rest in tan thongs underneath fencenet bodystockings and ridiculous open-toed eight inch stiletto heels. All sat secured in deep bucket seats, tough yet soft silken straps holding them in place. Two armed guards rode within, walking up and down the aisle, each attracting wanton stares from the needy whores, moaning and panting as they passed.
403 was no longer 403. Her owner had requested she be conditioned as Slut Darla, and so she was, final conditioning running smoothly for three days after her promo shoot. Her behavior levels were adjusted to suit her expected tasks, her owner desiring a more docile bed slut. She would soon arrive at a transfer station where she and ten other toys would change to a private transport, there to depart for places unknown to them. A brothel? A high class resort? A rich man’s private mansion? Perhaps sale on the secondary market? It didn’t matter. The only thing in Slut Darla’s small mind was the reality that soon, very soon, she would be servicing men, hopefully many men.
Marilyn’s friends and family would hear about the advertisement, perhaps even view it, and inquire about their missing daughter. The corporation and the government would reply that under the terms of the Thirty fifth Amendment her slut transformation was legal and binding, entered into voluntarily, with a contractual duration of ten years. They would produce the paperwork and a vid of her signing to prove it. After ten years, Marilyn would be reactivated and could return home if she wished, or continue as a slut. Naturally, the corporation’s quite thorough methods ensured that no one procured illegally ever went back. The stakes were just too high to allow that. They would disappear into the sex trades forever. A minority would be converted into pleasuredolls after their effective uselife had ended; even sluts could only be genetically enhanced and kept looking young and desirable for just so many decades. The rest? They would be returned to a slut factory, traded in for newer models, and—that was a secret the corporation preferred not to disclose.
The transport lurched forward away from the cargo dock, slowly accelerating.. Each slut stupidly smiled at each little bump and shake, the thick, hard phallus pushed far up their deep vaginas tickling, stimulating their juices, keeping their minimal minds occupied on the edge of orgasm.
Slut Darla grinned at the neon blue stone set into her navel, secured in place atop a modified UEA, so pretty, as it glimmered in the light. A look at her left leg showed a round sigil containing a swan holographed into her leg above the ankle, an identity and ownership marking. She thought it splendid, her owner’s mark and therefore natural and proper; if he desired it, then it was the most gorgeous thing in the world. A larger version was likewise holographed into her right butt cheek, forever marking her as property. Another bump shook her from the reverie, another glorious twinge as her vagina felt the phallus quiver. The flight settled down after the climb to altitude, leaving the sluts to their own devices for stimulation. Slut Darla quickly imitated the other girls in squirming in the seat in an effort to move the phallus around and experience a quick thrill.
Something bothered her, however, briefly. Strange wisps of memory, of another girl, another place, another name, wafted through her mind. Slut Darla tried to grasp them, some part of her attempting to hold onto them, but another bump of turbulence jiggled the pleasure rod, reminding the whore of far more important things. Those “somethings,” were quickly rendered totally unimportant, and soon vanished.