The Spray
After the treatment, they handed her something flimsy and told her to put it on. Sabrina did so, realizing she no longer had a choice in the matter, in that or in anything else anymore.
There was a mirror in the room they put her in. She stood before it for a moment marveling over the changes that had been done to her. Her new eyes were blank, opaque, as solid as marbles, yet she could see perfectly well. Her new skin, green now, beautifully green and sensual, was so sensitive. It transformed every touch, every draft of air into an erotic experience.
They told her she would live forever. She had eternal youth, for a price.
The Auctioneer came into the room, and Sabrina felt a rush of desire for him, stronger than anything she had ever felt before. It happened now whenever any man was in her presence. The spray had changed her body, but it had also done something to her mind. She was filled with an overwhelming need to please, to give comfort, to . . to just obey!
The spray was bliss, sheer bliss. “Thank you for making me a slave,” Sabrina said as she fell to her knees. She hadn’t been used yet; she was so looking forward to it.
“You’re very welcome,” the Auctioneer said, smiling. He noted the time—barely twenty minutes since this last conversion, and already she was eager for the auction block. The new formula was working.
Louise had been an attorney. She had been prominent in her field. Intelligent. Nevertheless, she was having some difficulty in coming to grips with her new role in life.
“I . . I’m . . a slave?” she asked confusedly. The spray, in addition to dying her body a lovely shade of violet, had of course rendered her quite docile.
“Yes,” her trainer said. He touched her bare skin. The erotic sensation completely overwhelmed Louise’s now subtly diminished mind, suddenly erasing all objections. She would train well, the trainer believed, and once taught to appreciate the many pleasures her transformation had brought her, she was bound to make any future owner very happy.
She was caught outside her apartment. The Auctioneer’s men had determined that Stephanie was absolutely perfect for the auction block. They chloroformed her and stored her in the back of their van.
They waited until she woke up before spraying her. She cried at first. She screamed curses at them. Then, as the pink-tinged mist took effect, dying her skin the corresponding new shade, Stephanie began to moan . . . not in pain but in sheer ecstasy. All her cares and concerns were soon washed away.
The new slave was eventually handed a slip. The soft white cloth contrasted sharply with the fluorescence of her new pink skin. “Put this on,” someone ordered.
Stephanie did so, eager to please. Aside from the obvious changes in her appearance—and they were more than skin-deep—she had undergone a remarkable change in attitude. Before the spray, Stephanie had been very resistant to the idea of becoming a sex slave. Now, with her carnal appetites enhanced and her intellect, well, redirected, she was ready to do anything, literally anything, to satisfy a Master’s desires. The Auctioneer examined her later himself. Stephanie knelt before him. It felt so natural.
“This is the start of a new life for you, Stephanie. Are you excited?”
“Oh, yes, Master!” The slave nodded eagerly. She hoped she would be sold to a handsome man.
The blue dollyslave knelt before her Master. She still wore the white running shoes she had had on before the Workshop’s agents grabbed her jogging in the park. They were only the articles of clothing she wore, not that she was in the least bit embarrassed by that anymore.
“And what is your purpose, dear child?” the Auctioneer asked solicitously.
The slave didn’t hesitate a bit. “I live only to serve your pleasure, Master. I need to serve your pleasure. It’s my sole purpose in life.” She clutched at herself, at her burning hot cunt. The deep, flaming need inside her had erased all moral or ethical considerations she might once have entertained.
The Auctioneer stretched out a foot, testing. Immediately the girl bent over and began licking it, slowly, lingeringly, making love to it. He nodded, satisfied. The blue formula was working just as it should.
As she knelt, eagerly waiting for her owner’s return, Rebecca tried to think back upon her old, pre-slave life. It was difficult.
It wasn’t that she had amnesia. Rebecca recalled perfectly the selfish person she had been. Her clearest memories stemmed from her release from the spraying box, of course, where she had been transformed—she had, in fact, perfect recall from that point, a consequence of her metamorphosis—but she remembered it all. It was just that she didn’t care that much about her life before becoming a slave.
She remembered fighting. She remembered resisting the changes forced upon her. She just didn’t understand now. It was so good to be a slave. She was genuinely happy to be a dollyslave, a “joy toy,” which was her Master’s pet name for her. She loved serving him. Why had she fought so?
She didn’t know. Or care, really.
The doorknob turned. She looked up from her crouch, from the same position she had been in all day, untiring, waiting. Oh, good, she thought. Master’s home!
“There’s a growing market for Asian collectibles,” the Auctioneer told Toshie confidentially. She nodded, not understanding at the time what her boss meant exactly. The expert in Japanese culture had only recently come to work for him, in fact, and she was still unclear about the nature of his business.
It was only after they began her treatment that Toshie came to understand that she was meant to be among the stock. The Auctioneer examined her later at his leisure, casually stroking the soft, cool curves of her porcelain-white flesh, the consequences of that particular formula of his spray. The blank-eyed doll Toshie had become giggled softly, arching her back in an automatic ecstatic response.
“I think you’ll bring in a good price, Toshie,” he said, enjoying her. “After all, who wouldn’t want to own a treasure like you?” The dollyslave nodded. Those were her thoughts exactly.
Dr. Petersen had always considered herself an excellent chemist. One of the best in her field. She held a prestigious post at the university. Her papers were cited in all the best scientific periodicals. As such, she had believed she would have no difficulty whatsoever in identifying the odd green solution her assistant left for her in the lab.
The chemical resisted a simple analysis, though. It was a compound the good doctor had never seen before, and, slowly, she began to grow excited about the possible discovery. Her excitement at the time, however, was nothing in comparison to the stimulation she felt when her “loyal” assistant “accidentally” spilled a drop of that compound on her finger.
Just one drop.
Oh, oh my, Petersen thought briefly, looking down at the spreading stain. The solution had dyed her skin such a pretty-pretty green . . . and it felt ever so nice!
The orgasm rocked through her. The feeling was so intense, it didn’t take long for the doctor’s assistant to convince Petersen to put more of the stuff on her flesh, to mist herself with it, dying her whole body the same emerald color. It was easy to get her to change then from her labwear to the lacy silk lingerie he had brought especially for the occasion. He would have to send a thank-you note to the Workshop.
“How may I see to your pleasure, Master?” his new slave asked, looking up at him.
Yes. A very nice thank-you note would be appropriate.
The Auctioneer was a shrewd businessman. He had the new girl, Jennifer, presented to her prospective owner wrapped in a tight and revealing two-piece outfit. Nudity was all fine and dandy, but sometimes a little concealment did more to tantalize. In any case, the bikini showed off the more obvious physical alterations in this doll’s appearance quite nicely.
“How may I please you, Sir?” the blue-green girl asked. The dollyslave’s voice carried with it a need to serve others, to be used and used often.
“What . . I mean, who . . who was she before . . ?” The buyer was nervous.
The Auctioneer gestured. “Answer him, Jennifer,” he commanded.
“Yes, Master,” she replied. “Before my recruitment, Sir, I was a teacher. Now, I am but a plaything, a toy for you alone.” She licked her lips. “Please, Sir. Buy me. Fuck me.”
The Auctioneer’s strategy was a success. It was a quick sale.
Life was so much simpler now that she had been enslaved.
The little red dolly lounged at the side of the pool. Around her, an assortment of vividly hued girls splashed or swam, lounged or played. Once upon a time, the red dolly knew, she had been a free girl, but that was something she had great difficulty in understanding. Being free was so boring!
The Workshop had done her a great favor in recruiting her.
Slavery was a beautiful existence. All the dolly had to do was keep her Master happy, and that, of course, was her only desire anyway! She felt neither hunger nor thirst nor exhaustion. She could feel pain, which was sometimes a delicious thing for her owner, but mostly all she experienced was pleasure.
Her pleasure was never-ending: a perpetual orgasm blooming inside her.
The slaves splashed. They swam. Merriment filled the air. Slavery was heaven.
The Auctioneer’s customer lagged behind as the two of them strolled through the stable. The fellow was more than just a trifle distracted by all the fine merchandise available.
“You may, of course, select your own color,” the Auctioneer said. “Green, for instance, has always been our favorite color.” The dollyslave they approached spread her legs and licked her lips wantonly, her lust almost overcoming the intensive heel training she had been put through following her capture and spraying. She hardly ever thought about her mind-numbing past career as a district attorney anymore.
“We always try to keep a large selection of greens in stock. They sell so very fast.”
The customer nodded, thoroughly entranced.
Nancy had been a loyal employee for years. She had lost count of the number of women she had recruited for the Auctioneer. It came as something of a surprise, then, when her own men grabbed her one night and put her in with the rest of the shipment.
“Why?” she asked just before they began spraying her. “What did I do wrong? I’ve done nothing but please you!”
“And you will continue to do so, Nancy,” the Auctioneer explained patiently as the mist’s effects began to cloud her mind. “Don’t feel bad, dear. It would have been unfair for you not to enjoy the benefits of the eternal youth and beauty you’ve provided to so many others.”
The slave conditioning took over. “Yes, Master,” she replied. She was assuming a lovely shade of blue. While not the popular green, she would still have appeal to a wide range of buyers. And, best of all, she need no longer worry about retirement!
There was absolutely no chance of escape. Stacy was caught while crossing campus and quickly subdued in the back of the Workshop’s disguised collection vehicle. No one saw a thing.
Her abductors said nothing until they were back at the secret facility. Then one of them calmly told Stacy what they intended to do with her—use a mind- and body-altering spray to turn her into a living fuckdoll, a sex slave who would then be sold to the highest bidder. Naturally, she didn’t believe him.
Stacy cried for a little while. Then she began cursing the men. After the spraying began, however, using a greenish-blue formula, Stacy began to moan, not in pain or despair but in the absolute ecstasy of how good the stuff felt on her skin! Stacy giggled as her intellect drained away. Her eyes—pupils disappearing in greenish-blue perfection—eventually fell upon the Auctioneer, who had come to supervise, and such a wave of desire and need passed through her that new dollyslave fell to her knees in worship. In fact, as the last droplets of fine mist were thoroughly absorbed into her skin, Stacy begged to be taken, to be used like the slut she had so blessedly become.
“Please,” she pleaded, groaning in what was to become a perpetual state of stimulation. “Let me serve . . . let me please. I beg to please. I need you so much!” The Auctioneer, of course, as well as his men, were happy to oblige.
She had come to believe at last. All the girls did, eventually.
The Workshop took custom orders from time to time. Leah, transformed into an orange-flavored slut with an epic fascination for rubber, was only one such example. She had attracted the eye of a very wealthy person—all of the Auctioneer’s clients were wealthy—while working for him as a salesperson.
It was his impression at the time that Leah might well better serve in another position, one better suited for her appearance and basic demeanor.
So, the entrepreneur made a call to the Auctioneer, and, upon deciding that her disappearance could be properly handled, the Auctioneer called in his recruiters. Exit Leah the salesperson. Enter Leah the oh-so-willing slave. Now, she does better serve in other positions: on her knees or on her back.
The yellow dolly knew her owner enjoyed watching her play in the water. The artificial nature of her new skin made her look like a floatation toy. Moreover, the moisture brought out the highlights in her bright, plastic-smooth flesh. She climbed out of the pool after only her hundredth lap, knowing that he would want to fuck her senseless. She wasn’t at all tired; the Workshop’s custom toys never got tired.
She took a small towel and sensuously dried herself off with it, knowing she was the only thing on her owner’s mind.
Sure enough, when she was done, her Master made a short gesture of beckoning. Squealing in delight, the living doll rushed forward to perform her first real exercise of the day.
The gentleman from Boston gasped when he saw her for the first time. Behind him, the Auctioneer smiled. He knew he could double this dollyslave’s price if he wanted to, though that would highly unethical. “It’s her,” the buyer exclaimed. “It’s really her.”
He turned to the Auctioneer. “I can hardly believe it. You really did it.”
“But of course.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the figure kneeling before them. “You wanted your old boss, Ms. Lott, the one who caused you so many problems, and now here she is, neatly converted into a living doll. You own her, sir, or, at least, you will after you sign all the contracts. Satisfied?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you. And she’s . . . she’s completely tame?” He was rubbing his hands in anticipation. “I wanted . . . I want her to be a total slut.”
“That’s guaranteed, sir. Right, dear?”
The merchandise spoke. “Yes, Master. I am very tame. And eager to please.” She put her head forward and softly nuzzled the buyer’s groin. “I need to be used, Sir. Soon.” She whimpered.
The Auctioneer left the two alone to get acquainted. The contracts could wait.
Dawn moaned in her sleep. She had never had a dream like this before. She was in the ocean, swimming . . . a multicolored ocean, waves of pleasure coursing over her, through her.
Her body throbbed in beat with the delicious ecstasy. She climaxed, screaming aloud the deep-seated desires awakening inside her.
Desires . . . to serve . . . to be mastered . . . a desire to be controlled, to surrender her will in joyful, eternal pleasure. Dawn’s skin darkened in her bed. It turned an iridescent blue. Her hips rose up and down. Her need welled up as well, a need to be stroked, pleasured . . . filled. Dominated.
The Auctioneer sat back and watched the process unfold. Dawn was an experiment. Usually, a spray was used to prepare his merchandise, a mixture that coated and altered their minds and bodies from the outside in. Dawn had been slipped an oral solution at a party. She had never noticed the little addition to her drink. Only now, hours later, was the alchemic taking effect. He was already impressed with it.
“Please,” she groaned, still asleep, squirming atop her covers. “Let me serve. Let me please. I beg . . I need!” The Auctioneer wondered who her dream master was, what submissive imagery filled her mind.
Not that it really mattered: Dawn would soon want to serve anybody, eagerly.
He put his hand to her breasts and felt. Her body thrust itself towards his automatically. Already her proper slave texture was forming . . . smooth, poreless, eternally resilient.
Eventually, blank doll eyes opened to meet his. “How may I please you, Master?”
Better living through chemistry, that was his motto.
The customer was nervous, but Lola had been trained to deal with nervousness. “Welcome, Master,” she squealed as he opened the door of the sampling room. “How may I serve your pleasure?”
In fact, she was so good at her task she needed only use a small portion of the many lovemaking skills at her disposal to convince him. The man bought the former accountant from Maine the very next morning. He’s my Master now, for real, the lavender-shaded dollyslut thought giddily, while in the moving crate. I’m going to serve him for the rest of my life . . . or until he grows bored with me, and that’ll be a very long time, I hope.
She had worked so hard for this day, ever since the Auctioneer first acquired her. She blessed him every day for the honor he’d shown her. What a dull life she would have had without him!
The Workshop’s merchandise practically sold itself. Better yet, the production costs were nearly non-existent. Take Mariko, for example, a pale-hued dollyslave recruited years ago in a teahouse in Japan. It had cost only a few million yen to arrange for her disappearance. The visiting American businessman who bought her paid a sum well over a million dollars. It was exceptionally economical.
And the advantages didn’t end there. The spray’s transformative effects were more than skin-deep; the Auctioneer’s playthings required neither food nor water nor sleep. Moreover, they no longer aged. In fact, the only need they had was to serve their Masters . . . and that they did very, very well.
The dollyslave opened her blank eyes and gazed adoringly upon her Master, standing above her. Her lips parted ever so slightly, and, as always, she felt an overwhelming desire—a need—to please him.
“Hello, Donna,” he said, staring down at her. “How’s my former bank president doing today?”
“I’m very well, Master,” she replied, loving him totally. “I need you.” She came to her knees and unbuttoned his pants, licking her lips.
Her Master laughed. “Of course you do, you stupid little slut.” Her expertly trained tongue began its accustomed task. “I own you.” The dollyslave couldn’t reply. She was too busy. Too enrapt.
The former bank vice-president closed his eyes and enjoyed the best investment he had ever made.
The purple dollyslave squirmed delightedly when her recruiters came back to the room. She tried to position herself attractively for them on the leather couch, hoping that one of them might deem to touch her, perhaps even fuck her. She rather desperately needed to be fucked by a Master.
“What was her name?” one asked. Someone replied that it had been Mercedes. A note was made on a ledger. “Auction house or brothel?”
“Brothel. She’s already bought and paid for. They want her delivered tonight.”
The men are talking about me as if I were merely a piece of furniture, Mercedes thought. Her nipples tightened. Once, that would have made her very angry, being treated like property. Now she found she really didn’t mind it at all. In fact, she kind of liked it!
“We’ll want her sister, too,” another man said.
The dollyslave slid smooth yellow hands over skin softer than silk (and stronger than steel) and made a small adjustment to her stockings. They were white. When her buyer came into the showroom, she straightened and preened before him, hoping he enjoyed what he saw. He owned it now. With luck, she would go home with him that night and begin her lifetime of service.
Angie remembered her old life, her kidnapping, her spray treatment: everything. She didn’t care.
All she knew now was love, and that was all that mattered.
The Auctioneer admired the sleek, red, and delicious creature inside the emptying vapor tank. In turn, she gazed up at him in total loving submission, a passionate hunger hinted at in her every movement.
She would make someone a very devoted plaything, after she was trained. “I notice she’s still wearing underwear,” he said as his assistant walked up. “Why wasn’t she sprayed nude like all the other girls?”
“She was a fighter, this one,” the man replied. “We barely got her out of her street clothes, to be honest.” The Auctioneer looked at the new dollyslut with some admiration. His agents must have stripped hundreds of girls by now. If this one had managed to give them even a little bit of trouble, she must have been a real handful. Of course, now, she would make trouble for no one, ever again.
Or at least, not that kind of trouble.
Revenge is sweet.
Elena crawled forward and begged, desperately eager to satisfy the perpetually burning lusts consuming her, as if that were ever possible. “Please, Master! Use me! Fuck me! I need you so badly!”
The pink dollyslave’s owner cupped one of her enormous tits—he had them expanded surgically after her spraying—and squeezed. Elena immediately flipped over on her back and spread her legs, preparing to kiss and suck. As he mounted the squirming, needy slave, he asked her a question.
The question. It was the same one every night.
“Do you remember, bitch?” He laughed as she nodded. “Tell me.”
“My father ruined you in business, Master. I’m your revenge.”
“That’s right. After I recovered, I called the Auctioneer. The thought of turning that son of a bitch’s daughter into my personal whore was too much to resist.” He slowly entered her. “Aren’t you glad?”
“Oh, yes, Master! Thank you, Master.” The slave began fulfilling her function in life.
Joanie gyrated seductively in front of her owner, trailing hands over her clit and breasts, her rubber-encased legs, her bare, full ass. She continued to play with herself until she felt a tug on her leash.
“Please me, girl,” her owner ordered, and she rushed forward to do so.
He leaned back, and she mounted him. Nothing made her happier. Such was not always the case, however. Once, Joanie knew she would have fought this. She had been an ardent feminist. Her radical and unflagging pursuit of things had in itself, amusingly enough, enslaved her to the Workshop.
When one of her fellow activists went missing, Joanie had searched for her. Long after the police and her family had given up, Joanie continued looking, never surrendering, until one day her persistence paid off. She found Lisa serving customers in a very exclusive brothel in Amsterdam, her mind and body altered by some arcane process, literally transformed into a living doll. Lisa had recognized her at once; it didn’t stop the girl from alerting her owners that someone from her old life had found her, though.
It was a dollyslave’s duty to keep her Masters happy, after all.
Joanie hadn’t understood that, then. She did, now. The brothel owners didn’t know what to do with her, so they gave Joanie to the Workshop. By the time they were through with her, after her own transformation into a dollyslut, Joanie had quite forgiven her friend Lisa. She was sold to a man who liked his girls in metal and rubber. It was just too bad nobody had ever come looking for her.
She would have liked to add to his stable.
It was a dream, she had decided: an endless, beautiful dream. It had started out a little rough, though.
Waking up in bed, a hand pressing a gag into her mouth. Being manhandled. Being taken away by force. But then had come that cool, soothing yellowish mist, the spray they called it, and suddenly everything had become so wonderful, so clear. They had taken her then and used her, long and hard.
The slave pressed her legs together and squeaked in the sheer pleasure of the memory. She loved being a slave. She loved being a man’s doll, giving a man pleasure, forever.
They told her she would be sold soon. Her dream was just getting better and better.
Atlanta had walked into the place not even knowing it was a high-class brothel, so expert was its disguise. All she did know was that her sister, Mercedes, missing for weeks, had last been spotted there. She wasn’t aware that the tip she had received had come from the brothel’s owner.
“My God!” she had exclaimed. “What kind of place is this?” She had seen for the first time the multicolored slaves, half-dressed and eager to please.
“Your new home,” someone said behind her, and Atlanta lost consciousness. She woke up in a small transparent booth, with her sister outside guiding a reddish spray over her body. In the brief moment before the intense pleasure began, Atlanta was shocked by Mercedes’ appearance—she was purple!
Then Atlanta felt the spray, and she leaned to enjoy the life of a living doll. Red and purple, Atlanta and Mercedes eventually became a favored pair of flavors for the club’s exclusive membership.
The powerful executive threw aside her skirt and opened her blouse, her smoothly nyloned legs twisting back and forth in a vain attempt to relieve the mounting desires she felt consuming her. A deep moan escaped her parted lips. She closed her eyes, unwilling to see the plasticizing change affecting her body.
Oh God, Charlotte thought, clutching herself. They’re turning me into a slave! A slave!
The drug they had given her was working, actually transforming her like they had said it would into a mindless plaything, a toy for their amusement. She had been working late at night, and these men had just walked in and subdued her. Just like that! She tried to resist the urge she felt now to crawl to them, begging to be used, to stroke and be stroked by them. She knew she would do anything now . . . anything to relieve the eternal, needy void building up inside her. She fought for as long as she could.
And then, suddenly, she stopped, realizing. She was being silly.
It was an honor to serve and be pleasurable to others. She laughed at herself and began her new life.
Margaret giggled and clutched at herself experimentally. Her skin, softly purple now, so sensuous and beautiful, had become extraordinarily sensitive following her spraying. Even the slightest touch drove her mad with desire. She hissed in delight, her senses completely overwhelmed by her metamorphosis.
The Auctioneer waited as long as he could, checked his watch, then finally made a low sound in his throat. The new dollyslave suddenly remembered where she was. She fell at once to her knees.
“Thank you, Master,” she said formally. “I am honored to be your slave.” The words caused a rush of lust to pass through her, stronger than anything she had ever felt in her old life. Margaret hadn’t been used yet, and her body ached with the need to be stroked and filled. She got down on all fours and crawled to the man who had kidnapped and dominated her. She licked her lips and loosened her jaws, anticipating her new owner’s delicious taste and apologize for wasting so much of his precious time.
The sound of the young woman’s scream was an odd mixture of anguish and pleasure, pain and ecstasy.
“Nooo, please! Don’t do this to me!”
But it was already too late. The drug was in her system; she had begun her transformation. Her flesh had already taken on a light reddish tint as this particular version of the Auctioneer’s infamous formula manifested itself. Waves of desire passed through the dollyslave-to-be.
Visions of servicing men, deliciously hot, passed through her mind as, simultaneously, all of her former inhibitions were burned away, one by one.
“I don’t want to be a slave,” she said.
But she did. She couldn’t help it.
A deep and aching void had opened up inside her, and she knew the only way she could satisfy that void now would be either on her back or on her knees, giving and receiving intense pleasure forever.
Tessa had always loved music. Since her spraying and subsequent transformation into a dollyslave, though, she loved her Master a good deal more. True, she had been a well-respected member of a symphony orchestra. Now, as her hands glided along the delicate strings of her instrument, making music for her owner’s amusement, she fantasized, as she always did, about gliding them along his cherished body, loving him the way she had once loved her compositions, her playing.
She had put heart and soul into her music, once. Now, her heart and soul belonged to her Master alone. It was her skill with her hands that had led to her enslavement in the first place. She played for him a song of her slavery, of perfect obedience and perpetual pleasure. Tessa knew that if she did a good enough job, her Master would consent to fuck her again, and she desperately ached for his favor.
Between music and slavery, the latter would always win out.
Another day. Another view from the observation window. The Auctioneer watched the tinting spray at work on another piece of future merchandise. He always enjoyed watching a girl take her first few steps as a dollyslut. She squirmed as the spray worked on her, cupping the misty liquid to her skin.
On the other side of the glass, each drop of chemical agent sent another burst of pleasure through Alicia’s transforming body, dying both her skin and her mind permanently blue. She didn’t care in the least. It just felt so good!
What had she been before? Would she have fought this degradation? Would she have wanted to succumb to it so easily? These were no longer questions for her to ask. They no longer mattered. The most important thing in the world was pleasure, and though the price was high, what was purchased with her freedom was precious.
As the red dolly she would meet later beside the pool would say, slavery was indeed heaven.
One would think that the Auctioneer’s female employees would grow wise. In truth, he never had any problem finding a lady willing to see members of her own gender get sprayed. And always . . . .
Evangeline and the Auctioneer were relaxing with a small drink. The last shipment of girls to be processed into dollyslaves had been sent, and the Auctioneer’s chief recruiter was feeling proud about herself. Her profits would be enormous! The wine was delicious. Then she noticed the tingling in her skin, followed by a sudden warmth, and she knew something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
She looked across at her employer and felt an irresistible urge to strip for him, to tear off her clothes and do whatever he commanded her to do, anything to relieve the overwhelming desire she now felt for him . . . her Master. “You gave me the dollyslave drug!” she screamed, accusing him.
He nodded, watching as she turned green and hot.
“I could not find it within myself to deny you the pleasure you’ve provided so many other girls, my pet.”
Helplessly, Evangeline began playing with herself. Increasingly, she found herself wanting to be played with. Eventually, she gave in, surrendering to the pleasure, knowing all too well that there was nothing to be done, that she would soon be just another sextoy, another plaything for men.
She tried to be philosophical. As far as fates went, absolute obedience combined with absolute satisfaction wasn’t so bad, she reflected, in her last moments of lucidity.
All things considered.