The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

When their Revered Ancestors designed the Thane genetic code, one of the things they added was an altered neurotransmitter rate. It was faster and more effective. The Thane hypothalamus, too, was less wasteful than the one provided humanity by nature. Their melatonin levels were lower. The Thanes did not dream. What that all meant was that the rulers of Venus needed very little sleep, and what sleep they did have was extremely efficient. Lady Matrieylla opened her eyes. She lay on the bed in her cell and counted her heartbeats, which to an attentive Thane was as good as having a chronometer in front of her. After a second she determined that she had been asleep for seventeen minutes and change, which was more than enough to refresh her. She got up feeling rested and ready to start another day.

Too bad she had to do it while still a prisoner.

Matrieylla was in a cell on board the Priapoid vessel. It was a simple room consisting of a plushplastic bed, a lavatory, and little else. The door was sealed, and not even Thane strength was enough to break the tough hyperceramic construction. Standing on her two feet, the noblewoman judged the cabin’s gravity as a perfect Venusian standard, .91 Earth average, unchanged from earlier. This told Matrieylla two things. One, Dueynna’s plan to sabotage the pirates’ negative-matter systems had failed. The Priapoids obviously still had synthetic gravity (the Thane could tell it wasn’t the Coriolis effect holding her to the deck). They therefore had no leverage to use over the creatures. Two, and this was the truly disturbing thing, the Priapoids had adjusted their ship’s gravity to match her homeworld’s, ostensibly to make her feel more at ease. Matrieylla didn’t trust that at all. If the Priapoids were trying to make her feel comfortable, that meant they wanted something from her. She was the focus of their attention.

Considering who and what the Priapoids were, this was not necessarily a good thing.

It hinted at all sorts of depraved ideas.

Perhaps I should suicide, Matrieylla thought, surprising herself with the unexpected notion. She gazed upon the hyperceramic walls surrounding her. The material was stronger than most metals. If she put her head down and deliberately ran into one of them with all her strength, she would surely suffer a catastrophically fatal brain injury. That would certainly prevent the Priapoids from doing to her whatever they must plan on doing to her. But she sighed. The Thane noble knew she could not kill herself. Self-preservation was a strong instinct in her kind, another gift from her Revered Ancestors, who had wired a ruthless and uncompromising drive to succeed into their children’s DNA.

There had to be way to get out of this situation! For all of them, or only herself, if it came to that. It was only a matter of finding out what the Priapoids wanted and negotiating a compromise.

Matrieylla snorted in bitter amusement. Compromise was an idea she had rarely, if ever, entertained.

Finding middle ground with her competitors had been the least of Matrieylla’s concerns in building her fortune. With mercilessness and precision, the Thane aristocrat had arranged the deaths of rivals, the undoings of careers, and the seizures and consolidations of so many other feudal organizations that it took an improved Thane memory to remember them all. She had worked an entire lifetime to get to where she was, and she would not let her Priapoid captors destroy her plans, not when the goal was so close in sight. The deal she had brokered with her peers in the Thane Hierarchy, predicated on her arrangement with the Basileis, would in one move make her the largest and most powerful single Landholder on Venus. When all was said and done, her new estate would occupy a sixth of the planet’s terraformed landmass. One of every seven serfs would belong to her, and she would be owed so many feudal obligations from her fellow Sons and Daughters of the Thane that her ascension to and domination of the Ruling Committee was all but assured. Only a handful of Thanes could match either her wealth or her ambition, and Matrieylla had them all under close surveillance. When her yacht was attacked, her first thought had been that one of them had to be behind it. But it didn’t track. She would have been alerted long before they left. The very reason she had taken the yacht in the first place, and not a larger and more war-capable vessel, was her interest in maintaining a low profile. She intended to surprise everyone with her glorious return from Titan, pledge of Basileis votes in hand. Afterwards, she would use her wealth and newfound position to even further extend her horizons. Her ambitions were grandiose. In time, Matrieylla knew, even Venus would be too small for her. One day, not in the next ten years, or even the next twenty, but eventually, she would stand within the closed-off habitat domes of Earth’s Moon and confront the Empire’s ultimate rulers, in whatever form they turned out to be, and, powerless before her, she would crush them. It would be Matrieylla’s Empire then, and with surgery and periodic enhancements, she would rule it for another thousand years. The stars themselves would not stop her. Already, Matrieylla daydreamed about the reconquest of the Centauri worlds . . . .

But that was for later. She had been kept in isolation for eleven hours and—counting heartbeats—forty-two minutes. She had seen neither of her fellow Thanes in all that time, and Matrieylla could only assume they had been the subjects of Priapoid appetites. Dueynna’s plan had failed. Although she had no way of knowing for sure, Matrieylla guessed her captors had long since utilized their light-envelope drive to warp space out of the void between Jupiter and Saturn. If they had stayed, the two vessels would surely already have been located. They could be anywhere in the solar system by now. Locating them would be impossible. For the first time in years, Matrieylla was on her own.

Good, she thought. An excellent test of my abilities. If I can free myself of this, there really is nothing that can stand in my way. Plans formulated themselves behind her eyes. Whatever the Priapoids wanted, she could deliver it in any quantity, anywhere, and at anytime. And she would deal fairly, no hidden tricks, no sabotage, no assassinations. That could wait, years, if necessary.

Matrieylla was a student of ancient history. She read for the tactics of the ancients, what had worked, what didn’t. Once, an ancient warlord, a truly ancient warlord, Julius Caesar, had been captured as a youth by pirates. He had been without resources, and as helpless, ostensibly, as Matrieylla was, yet in the end he negotiated his freedom and was released unharmed. He kept his promise. Matrieylla would do the same, and like that warlord she would seek her revenge when it was convenient for her to do so.

Caesar had gone back with a fleet to destroy his pirate captors. She would do likewise. It was simply how things were done.

Matrieylla noticed the change as soon as it occurred. A small dot of light, without visible source, appeared in the middle of the wall directly opposite her bed. As she watched, the dot grew larger, and the wall, in essence, disappeared as it expanded, replaced in the entirety by a life-size holographic display showing a seated man facing her with two women standing in attendance behind him. Though he wasn’t upright, the Thane could tell the man was at least twenty centimeters shorter than she. He had frail-looking, bony arms and legs beneath his gray-white clothing, and his skin where it was exposed was coarse and flushed, like finely cured leather. In startling contrast, his hair was bushy and a vivid shade of purple, the same color, Matrieylla knew, associated in olden times with royalty. The women were not of the same species. They were tall and looked like new humans, bred for beauty and submissiveness. They were obviously slaves. Their hair was long and natural, and they were naked save for their red calf-length boots. For the effect of it all, it was as if the partition of her cell had turned transparent and Matrieylla was seeing through it into another room. She grunted once, briefly. That was the extent of her show of emotion upon recognizing the man in the chair.

He spoke. “I am Archon Tyro Elate.”

“I know,” Matrieylla said calmly. “It would be a poor woman not to recognize the face of her betrothed.” She smiled ironically. “So, you had your own fiancée’s ship pirated. And they say romance is dead.”

“You could say, I did it to gain your attention.”

The Basileis were a neosentient caste engineered for life on Titan, Saturn’s largest moon, which they had held fief to for centuries. It had made them rich. Titan was the best piece of real estate in the outer solar system due to its size and dense atmosphere, the latter of which had been tinkered with to make it breathable by humans, more or less. Despite terraforming, Titan’s noon-day temperature still topped around -90 °C. It was the moon’s position that made it really valuable, though. Situated on the edge of the outer darkness, it was the barter point for Saturn and beyond. Scores of neosentient castes dwelt there or in the massive wheel-world habitats in orbit, not a few of whom still held Congressional status.

It was with the Basileis that Matrieylla and her partners Andreuola and Dueynna had bargained. The Archon was a leader among his caste. He was a powerful and wealthy individual. But though she was engaged to him, Matrieylla had never actually met or spoken to him before. Everything had been arranged through intermediaries. That he appeared before her now said volumes.

“So, with which of my rivals have you been in contact?” Matrieylla asked. “And how many? Was it only one? I would be disappointed if it were.”

“It was good number. You would not be disappointed I gave you names. They are people you know. People you have tried to ruin.” Basileis speech was clipped; it avoided niceties like articles. “Offered me deal. Same terms as your contract. More so you are eliminated.”

He held out his hands in an expression that seemed to ask, What else could I do?

“You have interesting friends, Archon.” She knew he knew she meant the Priapoids and not the slavegirls at his back. Why in Sol would she be interested in mere slaves?

He nodded. “I have had long, profitable relationship with Priapoids.” He reached out and rubbed the leg of one of the slavegirls, as if to demonstrate a perk of that relationship. They must live like hot-house flowers, Matrieylla thought. Though the Basileis could exist in normal climates, the reverse probably could not be said of their slaves, and certainly not these scantily-clad slavegirls.

“We do each other many favors,” he added.

“I’m sure. Would it behoove me to remind you that I can not only match any offer for my life but exceed it as well, or would I be wasting my time?” Actually, the very fact that the Basileus was talking to her meant he wanted something. Matrieylla thought about his future dismemberment and smiled.

“Barter is beneath both of us, Matrieylla. Priapoids take your vessel because I asked them to. Thane competitors want me to take your vessel because they want you dead. But this is not my motive.”

“What do you want?”

“I have proposition,” the Basileus said, “which if you accept will test validity of hypothesis I’ve been entertaining for long time. It is also only chance you will have to earn freedom.”

“And what is the nature of this proposition?” Matrieylla asked. Finally, she thought, we’re getting down to business.

“It is this. You will be placed in life-or-death struggle, with three possible outcomes. First outcome, you survive.” Elate smiled. “I give you word you will be set free. Moreover, regardless of whether you still choose to marry me,” and he laughed shortly at the expression on Matrieylla’s face, “our original contract will be honored. Basileis will vote with Thanes in alliance. You will become wealthier woman. I will need hire added security to prepare for your eventual retaliation.”

“How do I know you will honor your promise? You haven’t exactly been a paragon of honesty so far.”

“You don’t,” the Archon said simply. “You accept my word or don’t. It is that.”

“Very well,” Matrieylla said. He was right. She either took his proposition or she didn’t. He didn’t even have to say what would happen if she failed to take this offer, either. They both knew what would happen. She would be turned over to the Priapoids. “Go on.”

“Second outcome. Shortly cell door will open. Corridor has been segregated. It leads only to one room. In room are three hunter amoebas.” Matrieylla took a sharp breath but otherwise kept calm. Hunter amoebas were little flying sacs of jelly that could be keyed onto an individual’s unique DNA signature. They were highly poisonous and extremely fast. “Amoebas have been diluted. Standard poison charge divided. Each amoeba delivers one-third lethal dose each time, even for Thane constitution. You stung three times, whether by different amoebas, or one amoeba three times, you die.

“In room also will be laser-pulse pistol with six charges. You get two shots for each amoeba. You kill all three, you will be set free. You may consider this test for Thane reflexes, if you like.”

I can do that, Matrieylla thought. I can. Hunter amoebas were fast, but she was a Thane. She was faster. “You said three outcomes.”

“I did.” Elate held out a hand. One of his slaves handed him a chemisensitive document. “This,” he said, “is bill of enslavement. It will also be in room with you, pistol, amoebas. Laser system overhead will be tracking amoebas. You need only submit to be slave. Put your DNA on document. It becomes official. Lasers instantly kill amoebas. You live, but you become slave. My slave.” He reached up to fondle the heavy breasts of the girl who had handed him the bill. She giggled.

“Never.”

“Hypothesis is this. When Thanes descended from old Imperial Genus, genetic engineers introduced flaw. Flaw is this. Thane will to survive is too strong. Faced with death or slavery, Thane will always choose slavery regardless of necessity, circumstance, belief.” He put a hand between his slavegirl’s thighs. She moaned in pleasure. “Belief is this. Despite heightened strength, stamina, intelligence, reflexes, Thanes are afraid of death. Thanes are so afraid of death, they fight to remind themselves they are alive. It is basis of Thane society: ruthless competition, always, forever.”

He shook his head. “If belief true, fatal flaw indeed. One to be taken advantage of in war, maybe.”

“You’re delusional,” Matrieylla said. Her gaze swept over the helplessly writhing slavegirl on Elate’s hand. Despite her helplessness, perhaps because of her helplessness, she looked blissfully happy. She was an inferior creature, though, as all creatures were ultimately inferior to the Thane. I could never be like that, she thought. Not willingly. It was one thing to use an unfamiliar technology or a technique of neural conditioning to brainwash a Thane into bondage, as what must have occurred to Andreuola and Dueynna, but to think a Thane would ever choose to be a slave willingly? It was absurd.

“I accept your proposition,” Matrieylla said.

“I knew you would,” the Archon said. “You have no choice. You are prisoner of own genetics.” He shook his head and released the slave he was fondling. He handed her the bill of enslavement, and she left the viewer space. “Your ancestors tried to make Thanes perfect: perfect bodies, perfect minds, perfect ambitions. They succeeded too well. Thanes push, push, push until nothing left to push.”

“For a people so terse in language,” Matrieylla said, standing, “you talk too much. Shall we get this over with? I’ve wasted enough time here as it is.”

He ignored her. He had a point he wanted to make. “When nothing left to push, when death is only other alternative, when finally backed into corner . . . Thanes surrender. You cannot help it. You will choose slavery because, in heart, you are already slave to fear of death.”

The Thane noble just stood there, waiting, tapping the floor impatiently with her foot.

Matrieylla’s cell door slid slowly open. “Three outcomes. Life, death, slavery. I know which one it will be. Do you?” The Archon’s image vanished, leaving the cell wall a cell wall again. Matrieylla turned and scanned outside. A plain brownish-gray hyperceramic corridor projected outward.

Matrieylla took a deep breath and stepped outside her cell. The door slid shut behind her ominously. She was dressed in a form-fitting black jumpsuit. Her dark hair was coiled in a loop pressed against her scalp. She had complete freedom of movement. She advanced quickly to the end of the corridor and waited. The same type of door was before her as behind. A quick scan of the room as the door opens, she thought. I’ll dive inside and keep low to the floor. Hunter amoebas usually strike from above. She took another breath. Whatever I do, I’ll not stop moving. That would be fatal.

The door slid open.

A hunter amoeba was a pink smear of jelly half the size of a person’s hand. It floated. More accurately, it flew. Little red-and-white eyes dotted the smear, and when the eyes blinked, hair-thin needles jutted out loaded with poison. One immediately dive-bombed Matrieylla! She leapt into the room and rolled. She saw the second amoeba come shooting at her at knee level! She jumped again and spun in mid-air to avoid the first hunter, lifting her arm hastily as the little assassin whizzed under her armpit. Where’s the pistol? she thought, and a second later she saw it lying in the middle of the floor, a light blinking on its side to indicate its charge. Matrieylla lunged, grabbed it as the second amoeba dove at her, and dodged, firing at the same time. She missed! A brief blue flash emanated from the pistol, and a tiny portion of the ceiling along the sight of the barrel grew a singe mark. Matrieylla crouched low the floor. Her eyes darted back and forth. Where was the third amoeba? Behind her, the door to the corridor slid shut again. The bill of enslavement was hanging on the wall to her left, adhered to its surface. On the ceiling, a blue crystal dome softly rotated: the overhead laser system. Matrieylla couldn’t find the third amoeba! She spotted the first and second ones orbiting one another like tiny binary planets. A flicker of movement to her right! Was it the other amoeba!? The other two flung themselves at her, and she fired. Another blue flash harmlessly burned the air. Shit, they’re small, the Thane thought coolly, and dodged. She stood, held herself to the side of the incoming hunters, and allowed them to skim past her. They made great arcing turns to the left and right to avoid smacking into the far wall. They flew upwards in what would have been impressive aerial coordination had they actually had brains, turned at the high ceiling corners, and shot downward at Matrieylla again, like strafing aircraft. Matrieylla waited a half-second to collect a bead on the amoeba to the left and was just about to fire when there was another distracting flicker in her peripheral vision. The third amoeba!

It came out of nowhere headed directly at her solar plexus. She had no choice. Matrieylla leapt to the right, diving into a corner so she could have something safe at her back. The third amoeba missed, and she evaded the first and second like an acrobat performing some outrageous gymnastics maneuver.

Matrieylla landed in the corner, head jerking in all directions. The three amoebas flew in different directions. It was impossible to keep all of them in sight at the same fucking time!

Keep calm, the Thane said to herself. Keep calm. She had four shots left. She could afford to lose only one more. The hunter amoebas whizzed past one another. Just as she drew a sight on one, another would whip past, confounding her aim. One second they were near the ceiling, the next they were near the floor. They were small and fast. Eyes spitting forth danger, they suddenly zoomed at her, all three at once! The problem with being in a corner was that there was really only one direction she could jump. Matrieylla jumped, firing twice with the pistol at the same time. One of the tiny devils went on past her, unharmed. The other fizzled in a concentrated burst of light. Its boiling remains struck the floor, staining it with something that looked a lot like pink mucus.

One down, Matrieylla thought with satisfaction, and that was when she felt the sting in her ankle.

NO! She swung the pistol down automatically and fired, cursing herself a second later for wasting the shot. She rolled, spun, tried to locate the two hunters. Fuck! She had only one shot left! The Thane landed badly, pain already welling from her stung ankle. She rolled again, and she narrowly avoided an amoeba coming straight at her eyes! It struck the floor and bounced, leaving a portion of itself behind to glare at her fruitlessly. She sat up, looking this way and that. She spotted one amoeba darting toward her from the opposite corner, zooming just inches above the floor. She didn’t see the other one.

Where was it!?

Matrieylla tried to squash the little thing flying at her, but she missed when the second hunter once more came at her face. Matrieylla swung her head to one side, danced with her other foot and came down squarely on the injured ankle. Pain rocketed up her leg, and she stumbled.

The amoeba was right on her! Without thinking, Matrieylla brought her fist down on it, and she squashed the little blob like a bug against the wall. Simultaneously, though, she felt its deadly sting.

Panic filled her. No! No! I can’t die, I die! She had been stung twice. Usually, once was enough. As it was, she had two-thirds of a lethal venom coursing through her veins. She knew from memory that hunter-amoeba poison was a nerve agent. It would work fast.

Matrieylla’s eyes took in the bill of enslavement. It was right next to her on the wall.

No, not that. Never!

The Thane got to her feet. Immediately she ducked back down again as the third and last amoeba darted at her head. It flew straight up, then dropped like a stone at her. Matrieylla screamed and threw herself across the room. The amoeba did a right-angle turn and continued at her. She ran, ducked to her left, and screamed once more as the little thing whooshed past her. She didn’t feel well. She felt weak, slow. Terrified. It had to be the venom. Something buzzed at the edges of her vision again, and she almost fired the pistol before remembering she had only the one shot left.

Again, she dazedly looked at the bill of enslavement.

The amoeba! It was right on top of her!

Crying, Matrieylla ducked and rolled, rolled and ducked. She fired blindly.

“No, please!” she begged. “I don’t want to die!”

She might die. The thought hit her like a hammer. I might . . . die. It was crushing, the emotion. She threw the useless pistol at the amoeba as it darted at her again. It swerved in mid-air, flew to the ceiling, and then aimed itself directly at her. “No! Ancestors, please. No!”

The amoeba barely missed, grazing her by the neck as she ducked clumsily. It had come too close. Matrieylla felt her nerve shatter like a piece of glass. “Make me a slave!” she screamed. “Please! I don’t want to die! Make me a slave, please!” Nothing happened.

She remembered. The bill was on the other side of the room. She had to put her DNA on it in order for it to be valid. Matrieylla went at it at a dead run. She knew the hunter was chasing her, less than a meter behind, perhaps only centimeters away!

“Please!” she screamed. “I want to be your slavegirl!”

A flicker. The killer blob was right there!

Matrieylla hit the wall, hard. Her hands were on the bill of enslavement, though. She made sure.

“Slave,” she muttered, incoherently. There was a blue flash, and everything went black.

When Matrieylla came to, there was a neural inhibitor attached to her neck. Standing over her were Archon Elate and his two buxom slavegirls. Behind them stood a blue male Priapoid, naked, his skin as shiny as if it were made of spun glass. The Thane tried to rise, but the inhibitor exhausted her.

“Don’t fight,” Elate advised. “Inhibitor for your benefit. I had feeling you might renege.”

“Nooo,” Matrieylla moaned. “I don’t . . want to be a . . slave.” She was so incredibly tired. Despite the Titanian’s words, she did try to fight, but she couldn’t. At Elate’s direction, the slavegirls dragged Matrieylla to her feet. To her horror, they began undressing her. She struggled, but it was useless.

“Don’t feel bad,” Elate went on. “Not your fault. It is fault of ancestors. You merely inherited genetically programmed death phobia. That is all right. It makes Thanes easier to control.”

“Noo!” Her black jumpsuit soon lay on the floor alongside the sticky remnants of the amoebas.

“Thanes are born slaves, like old humans. Better than old humans. More enjoyable to crush. Thanes resist until resistance no longer works. Then they submit, totally, forever.” The Basileus looked over Matrieylla’s naked form. “Ahh, so beautiful. You will make lovely slavegirl. Lovely.”

“Let . . me . . go,” Matrieylla muttered weakly. “You made me . . . that was . . coercion!”

“Yes,” Elate agreed. “Coercion indeed. But choice was your own. Remember, you accepted proposition.” Held between the two slavegirls, the Basileus stood in front of Matrieylla and cupped her chin in one hand. “It was right choice. Shame had you died, but had you been set free, you would have come after me. I would have had to kill you or die myself. Now, we both can live.”

Matrieylla struggled. “Never . . submit,” she breathed heavily.

“Ahhh.” The Basileus released her and stepped back. “You don’t believe your surrender was true one, eh?” He smiled and shook his purple-tasseled head. “It was. Deeper than you know.” His eyes gleamed. “To prove to you, I take now proposition. I remove inhibitor, we see what happens, yes?”

Remove the inhibitor? He was joking! Without the neurological restraint, she would tear him apart, and then the others! But Matrieylla saw the man’s face, and she saw at once that he was serious.

Without thinking about it further, she nodded. The Archon ordered a slave to remove the device.

Pop! Power flowed back into the Thane’s limbs. She straightened, and she charged, hands up in killing fists. The Basileis were bred for Titan’s gravity. While their genetic enhancements gave them the musculature to move about in higher gravities, they were still a physically weak Solarian caste. Thanes were superhumanly strong even in standard Earth gravity. By no stretch of the imagination could he be a match for her. Consequently then, it was an extremely shocking thing for Matrieylla when Elate effortlessly took hold of her wrists as she approached him and physically forced her to her knees.

He forced her down until he was on top of her and she was completely helpless. The situation would have been comparable to a mouse mugging a cat had either species still existed in their original forms.

“No!” Matrieylla screamed, unable to believe what was happening. In the blink of an eye she was on her back, and the Basileus—frail, thin, underweight—was taking advantage of her. Sexual advantage!

He lay atop her, squeezing her breasts and using his legs to force hers open. The Thane struggled, but the strength that had always been hers in the past suddenly deserted her. She was unable to break the Basileus’ weak grip. She could tell it was a weak grip from the lack of pressure, yet still she couldn’t break it! He squeezed her breasts again. Matrieylla’s nipples tightened as a result, and a warm wetness built between her thighs. He kissed her, his lips pressing viciously into Matrieylla’s soft and vulnerable ones. His tongue danced across her teeth. Warmth spread through the startlingly defenseless Thane at the intimate contact. She wanted to bite, to ravage the man’s tongue as it probed her, but she couldn’t.

She was so shocked she couldn’t think. She couldn’t respond the way she wanted. She couldn’t keep from responding, either. Matrieylla’s lips parted involuntarily. Without her volition, certainly without her desire, Matrieylla kissed Elate back. She kissed the weak, puny Basileus atop her.

She kissed him eagerly. Passionately. As a woman would respond to a man.

A hot and needy woman.

Matrieylla felt her nipples tighten further, even more deliciously. Sparks seemed to fly across her skin. Her eyes closed, and she responded to the kiss with sluttish devotion. She felt stunned. She felt . . she felt like a dazed slavegirl after she had been kissed. The Thane’s emotions went flying. She didn’t know what to think or do. Warmth and electricity flowed through her veins. She shuddered. Never had her skin felt so sensitive. Never had she felt so completely vulnerable. She felt obscenely alive.

Never had she felt so less like a Thane. Elate’s kiss was savage and utterly barbaric. The warmth that spread throughout Matrieylla’s body made her skin light up as if with internal fire. Her breasts pressed into the smaller man’s chest. He reached down and squeezed the Thane’s ass. Helplessly, Matrieylla’s own arms reached over him and, to her astonishment, caressed the Basileus’ calves. For a timeless interval, she became merely a needy slave kissed by her master. She lost all the strength in her legs.

He released her, finally. She didn’t have the strength left to crawl away. The slavegirls had to pick her up. The thin, purple-haired Basileus was breathing hard too when he finally got to his feet, though nowhere near as hard as Matrieylla. There was a wearied but pleased grin on his face.

“You see, Le,” he said, addressing the Priapoid. “It is as I said. Once dormant code is activated, submission brings about sexual arousal. All is necessary is to force initial surrender, and she is yours.”

“Remarkable,” the bluish creature said with its kind’s peculiar intonation. He was staring at Matrieylla in a totally unnerving fashion, as if he looking directly into her flesh and bones. Uncontrollably, she shivered. “This is an extremely valuable secret, Archon. How long have you suspected?”

“Several years,” the Archon said proudly. He was clearly enjoying himself. “Gathered first clues from obscure poetry in Imperial archives, data so old it was stored on electronic storage media. Then, research, much time, energy spent.” He looked at Matrieylla then, too. “Worth it.”

“What . . what have you done to me?” the Thane noble asked feebly. “Why do I feel this way?” Her breathing was heavy and deep. Her thighs squirmed. She was very conscious of her nudity before men. It was arousing in a way she had never felt before in her life.

Instead of answering her directly, Elate turned again to the Priapoid.

“Answer really so obvious, it stare everyone in face for centuries. So obvious, no one noticed, them,” and he pointed to Matrieylla, “least of all.”

“What are you talking about!?” Matrieylla yelled. “Answer me!” She felt sick. Part of her asked, why was she raising her voice? It no longer felt . . . appropriate. Another strange thing. For some reason, that puny, frail Basileus now looked quite handsome. I’m naked before him, she thought, and a thrill went through her, top to bottom. She was hot and wet.

Elate spoke to her.

“Think about it, Matrieylla. What did I say? Thanes born slaves. You thought I was joking, but,” and he started counting off with his fingers, “consider: beautiful bodies to please future owners; sharp minds to understand and follow orders to perfection; hidden instinctual need based on death phobia to surrender; and, once surrendered, reinforcement with deep sexual arousal.”

He shook his head, almost in pity. “Evidence is clear. Too much to be coincidence. Thanes are frustrated caste of sex slaves, but secret was lost.”

Matrieylla’s eyes widened in shock. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“No!” she gasped. “No! That’s . . that’s impossible!”

“Quite possible. Consider: Thanes unconsciously want to submit to superior being. So, they search, they test, they compete constantly, with each other, other castes. They grow cruel, vicious because they know something is missing in lives but don’t know what. They try to fill in void with more, more. It doesn’t matter what because nothing ever satisfies them.”

“NO!”

“Yes,” Elate said simply. “Thanes want to be mastered. They push, push, push until they meet someone they can’t push. Then they surrender, gratefully, or would, if they knew how.”

“You . . you’re lying,” Matrieylla said. “You’re twisting the facts.”

“I said hunter amoebas’ poison was diluted, remember?” Matrieylla didn’t answer. “You never asked with what was it diluted. I tell you: modern Thanes tinkered with own genes, removed, maybe deliberately, brain chemicals associated with surrender/submission reflex. Most Thanes today, they fight, someone dies because he or she driven to still fight, never surrender.” He smiled. “I fix that.”

Matrieylla rushed forward to kill the mad Basileus. She had to stop what he was saying. She wanted to tear his head clean off of his body. But as soon as she reached him, he grabbed her arms and held her tight. She struggled, and as she struggled, something inside her seemed to reward her with a deep flush of sexual heat. Elate kissed her again, and though she wanted to fight, Matrieylla stopped, unable to.

The world disappeared in the momentary, ecstatic bliss of that single kiss.

After a moment he pushed her back and held her at arm’s length. His grip felt very, very good.

“Amoebas were poisoned, as I said. But amoebas also carried chemical cues I discovered based on research. Combined with threat of death to force surrender, they activated dormant submission gene.”

“No,” Matrieylla said, feeling so weak, so weak, yet at the same time so deeply aroused.

“You are slave. You are born slave. It is your destiny.”

Matrieylla, once so strong, so powerful, started weeping. The slavegirls took her to a lift. Minutes later the five of them were in a laboratory with two large cubes in it, one transparent, the other a solid black.

“Place the Lady Matrieylla in the biolacrumor, please,” the Priapoid said. He had already sat down at a console and inserted his manhood into a soft hole in the side. His fingers sank into the chemiprocessor terminal. A column erected itself in the center of the transparent cube. Moments later, Matrieylla was held immobile against it, unable to move. The cube sealed after the slavegirls left.

Summoning what remained of her strength, Matrieylla spoke. She knew this was her last chance.

“Ten micrograms of negative matter,” she said casually, trying to present an air of calm. Both Elate and the Priapoid stopped what they were doing and looked at Matrieylla. “I can make delivery to either one of you, or both, if you prefer, no questions asked. You may arrange the security.”

The Basileus turned to the Priapoid. “Is she lying?”

“No, Archon,” the creature, Le, replied. His voice was unruffled. “She is telling the truth. Both my senses as well as the biolacrumor confirm this, though there are indications that she is holding out a higher sum in reserve.”

“You are acute, Le,” Matrieylla said, displaying a composure she didn’t feel. “I was holding back. Fifteen micrograms. I offer you fifteen micrograms of negative matter for my freedom, to be delivered anywhere in the solar system along with my guarantee not to seek vengeance on either of you or your castes. That is my offer.”

Again, Elate glanced at the Priapoid. Again, the Priapoid confirmed that she was telling the truth.

It was a huge sum. Astronomical, really. Paying the ransom would nearly bankrupt her, but, considering the alternative, it was something the Thane noble was willing to live with. She would still have her rank; her estate, though she would have to sell some of it to settle the debts she would incur; and, most importantly, her freedom and her self-will. With that, she could rebuild. And forget. Forget what Elate had said to her. It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t! She was not a born slave! She was not!

The Priapoid remained calm, a shiny plastic statue. The Basileus, by contrast, tilted his head back, breathed deeply, lifted his hands behind his shoulders, and scratched his head thoughtfully. While in this awkward pose he paced back and forth frenetically for a minute before returning to the cube’s front.

“You tempt me. You sorely tempt me. But I cannot accept your offer.”

Matrieylla was stunned. “But you must!” she screeched. “You must! There’s nothing left! That’s the best offer I can make!”

“I know. Three reasons I cannot accept offer,” Elate said, sounding almost regretful. Almost. “First, it is this: by Basileis law, you are already slave. Your voice print and DNA are on bill of enslavement. Slaves cannot own property. They are property. Hence, you can have nothing to offer me.”

“Then tear the bloody thing up!” Matrieylla screamed at him. “It’s just a fucking document!”

“It is oath,” the Archon said, looking comically horrified. “I offered proposition. You accepted. You chose to be slave. To go back now would be dishonor.” He held up two fingers. “Second reason, it is this: price offered too small.” Matrieylla’s eyes widened. “Is true. Fifteen micrograms miniscule when compared to entire Thane Hierarchy.”

“What!?”

“Short memory for Thane. Maybe side-effect of awakened slave genes. Don’t you remember, Matrieylla? I said: flaw to be taken advantage of in war.” He nodded as the Thane went pale, as the full implication of his words struck her. “Basileis and Persons, we take advantage of in war. Return Thanes to natural place in Empire.”

He held up a third finger. “Final reason, it is this: I want to see you slave, Matrieylla. My slave.”

He was insane! Reduce her to slavery? Reduce her entire caste to slavery? Matrieylla turned her eyes to the Priapoid. “You! I offer you the entire amount if you just kill him and set me free! Think of what you and your caste can do with fifteen micrograms!”

“I have considered it, your Ladyship.” That he used the honorific raised Matrieylla’s hopes. He still considered her a person and not a slave. But then it all fell apart. “Though it is an impressive offer, I reject it. While we Persons do not share the Archon’s particular sense of humor, we do place a high value on friendship, and his friendship has served us well in the past.”

“Thank you, Le,” the Archon Elate said to the Priapoid.

“NO!” Matrieylla screamed. “NO! YOU’RE BOTH INSANE!! YOU’RE INSANE!!”

“That is distracting,” Le said. He did something to the board. Matrieylla suddenly lost her voice. All she could move were her eyes; they swung from side to side wildly, more than a little insanely herself.

“I predict sorry future for Thanes of Venus,” Elate said. “Better future for our alliance. How long will procedure take?”

“Not long, Archon,” the Priapoid answered. “Neither a cosmetic bodysculpt nor a DNA reformat are warranted for the Lady Matrieylla. As for her mind, a more than functional slave matrix has already begun to form as a consequence of her awakened brain chemistry. All that is truly needed is time and training for it to manifest completely, and that is what I shall provide.”

“What do you mean?”

“I shall place the Lady Matrieylla in a neural trance state and accelerate her perception of passing time. Simultaneously, I shall insert interactive pseudo-memories of intensive slave training coupled with repeated sexual conquests by you. Little time will pass for us, but she will experience several years of perceived time learning to be one of your slavegirls.”

Ancestors, NO! the Thane screamed inside her head. Twenty micrograms! More! Anything!

But the creature, if it could hear her, ignored her. The cell flooded. After it was full, an image of Matrieylla’s brain was made to appear beside her, shifting from green to red. When it was red all the way through, the Priapoid’s fingers sank delicately into his control panel, and Matrieylla blacked out.

“Slave’s kiss,” the trainer said, speaking to all the kneeling women in the room, one and the same, but especially to the delicious brute at his feet. “It is skill which you will become intimately familiar.”

Matrieylla tried to repress the shudder of disgust passing through her and failed. Tears of shame stabbed at her eyes. She wanted to run and hide—she had long since given up hope of fighting and being resistant—but she remembered too well the pain of punishment and so held her ground. She stared at her trainer’s rigid cock quivering in front of her and knew she had no choice but to obey.

Inching forward, resting her hands on her smooth, kneeling thighs, Matrieylla pushed the horrible memories to the back of her mind and recalled her practice lessons. Knowing every eye in the room was on her, the slavegirl leaned in and slowly began licking the length of the trainer’s member. She started at the base as she had been taught, at the bottom of the man’s stomach, and leisurely worked her way up, sliding her tongue back and forth over that stiff and pulsating rod of flesh. At the tip, she bent down further and did the same to the underside. When finished, she lingeringly kissed the now glistening pink helmet she had so well lubricated. Taking a deep breath, she opened her mouth wider and began taking him inside. Her beautiful lips stretched to accommodate the stiffening cock.

“You see, girls,” the man said, the only noticeable change in his voice a mere increase in breath, “make tongue extension of your desire. Fellatio is more than mere sucking and swallowing.”

When weeks earlier she had first gone down on a man like this, Matrieylla had gagged. Now, she had to restrain how natural performing fellatio felt, how deeply aroused the taste of a man’s—especially this man’s—precoital fluids made her. She tried to ignore too the growing heat in her belly. Delicately, expertly, she provided suction and worked her tongue in a circular pattern favored by the trainers at the slave school, lapping first one side, then the other. She let the tension of being on display leak out of her, her mind performing the task before her automatically, though with no less any amount of devotion. She drew back and released him, subtly swallowing what was in her mouth. She licked her lips.

Once more Matrieylla began licking and kissing the trainer’s body. Lifting her hands from her thighs, she cradled his testicles in her small palms and gently, ever so gently, squeezed them, exciting him with techniques learned through many hours of sexual instruction. She lowered her lips and put his balls in her mouth, sucking. Her body began to shine with sweat. The inside of her thighs glistened. The fiery motes in her stomach tumbled back and forth. Hot sparks seemed to light the surface of her skin.

The other slaves in the room, she knew all too well, were watching her performance with mixed emotions. Some were wishing they were in her place. Others wished they were anywhere else in the universe. None of them had any choice in the matter. They were all the same. They were all slaves.

Finally, she looked up. The trainer nodded. Acknowledging the silent instruction given her, she once more wrapped her lips around the erect shaft and swallowed him. She pressed her hands flatly against his thighs, which beneath her delicate and tiny hands felt like solid metal. Another rush of desire pulsed from within her sex, and she concentrated on her oral technique, resisting an impulse to put her hands to her clit and rub frantically. It was becoming harder and harder not to give in. She was desperately wet with desire, with her body’s preprogrammed need to submit and be dominated by this once frail figure.

That was the true awfulness of her situation. There was disgust, naturally—though less disgust than there had been—but there was also the feeling that what she was doing was so natural. Her body’s disloyal enthusiasm scared her more than any punishment. Relaxing her throat muscles, Matrieylla slid further down the Basileus’ engorged scepter, impaling her mouth on his overpowering masculinity.

Her head pumped up and down. She pushed harder, holding her breath now. Cock filled her mouth; the tip of the penis tickled the back of her throat. Finally, she felt her lips brush against the metallic hardness of the man’s stomach. The trainer grunted. Matrieylla felt the growing spasm building inside her mouth. She recognized the telltale signs of a man’s climax. She had lost count of the number of men she had held in her mouth, pussy, and ass these last few weeks, though the lessons they taught her seemed by now permanently engraved on her brain. Matrieylla tightened her lips and cheeks. Her tongue moved in swaying patterns, luxuriously stroking the marbled surface of the man’s staff. Her hands once more gently gripped the trainer’s balls and stroked them. Her head bobbed up and down.

The trainer reached down to grip Matrieylla’s head, his fists painfully clenching in her long, black hair.

“Remember what happened last time,” he instructed her. “Do not repeat mistake.”

Matrieylla nodded, eyes fixed straight ahead. It was forbidden to close her eyes. Slaves here were taught always to keep their eyes on the masters they were pleasuring. The last time she had performed the slave’s kiss she had forgotten this rule. The trainer had been disappointed. Unfortunate things were done to her. One of the reasons she had been selected for this demonstration was to gauge how well she had learned from this lesson. She felt the huge member in her mouth swell. Matrieylla pushed forward, and a moment later a thick stream of semen filled her mouth and throat. She swallowed, forcing the pulpy liquid down in great, steady gulps. Her lips pressed tightly against the man’s body, her mouth and cheeks forming an airtight seal. Heat rose from her aching breasts and sex. Her nipples had tightened to the hardness of small, burning stones. It took all of Matrieylla’s will not to touch herself, to not surrender herself in her own mighty orgasm. Cum coated her tongue, and she swallowed.

Her thighs tingled. Her eyes watered. She refused to acknowledge the taste, which to a greater extent she was growing used to. No, more than that. The taste she was more and more beginning to enjoy with a slut’s desire.

I am not a slave, she thought, a man’s cum filling her mouth. I am not a slave. I am not a slave.

The Basileus’ gaze met her own. How hollow those thoughts seemed to her.

Matrieylla swallowed spasm after spasm of warm fluid. Finally, she drew back and lowered her head, cautiously licking the last white drops from the corners of her mouth. Her stomach felt full and close to bursting. It was easy now to quell the rising nausea. The real difficulty lay in not begging for more.

“Thank you, master,” she spoke afterwards formally, as she had been taught. “How may this slave be of further service?” She shivered with anticipation and dread. A familiar hand took hold of her chin in a familiar way and tilted it to look upward, familiarly. As always, Matrieylla stared into the craggy features of her master, her only master, the Archon Elate. His was the only male face she ever saw.

A slavegirl shivered with anticipation and dread . . . and, as always, hopeless adoration.

A part of the former Thane aristocrat knew that what she was experiencing wasn’t real. She knew it was just an illusion, just an incredibly detailed fantasy world created through some arcane means of Priapoid technology. She had heard about such full-sensory, interactive fantasies before, though since the Thane did not dream nor were they usually willing to indulge their fantasy lives at the expense of their cutthroat realities, Matrieylla had never tried one. Even so, judging only from what she had heard about in rumor, none of these chemiprocessor-generated dreamscapes were anywhere near as in depth or so totally exhaustive as what she was going through. It didn’t matter in the least that she had heard it was only a “pseudo-memory.” For all intents and purposes, she was in a training school for slavegirls, and the effect it was having on her psyche was proving devastating.

Every morning for months now, from her point of view anyway, she was awakened from her kennel and put into training. Training lasted for twenty hours a day, at least; Matrieylla’s Thane constitution was being put to the test. The tasks in which she was instructed ranged from the mundane and primitive to the overwhelmingly sensual and erotic. She learned how to stand so as to best display her body’s charms. She was taught to parade the lift of her naked breasts and showoff her sleek, rounded posterior. She learned how to cook and to sew. She was taught the complex and intricate uses of her tongue in kissing and fellatio. The curriculum was varied. Each subject was covered in depth. At first, Matrieylla tried to fight back. She punched, she kicked, she bit. None of it made any difference whatsoever. The trainers were stronger than she was—stronger than a Thane!—and she was no match for them. Following her first training rapes, the former aristocrat was put into a class of twenty girls.

She was no more than they, in more ways than one. Contributing significantly to Matrieylla’s disorientation was simply the faces she saw around her day after day.

Every female face, the face of every slavegirl in training with her, was her own.

They all looked like her.

They all sounded like her.

They were her, and as she watched their inevitable descent into submission, she felt her own growing desire to do so all the more acutely. It was hard—impossible, really—to watch dozens of clones of herself squirm and writhe in the arms of their trainers and keep an emotional distance, especially when she herself would as easily and as quickly squirm and writhe in the arms of her trainer. But while the faces and forms of her sisters in bondage were bad enough, the identical forms and faces of her trainers were infinitely worse. They were all the Archon Elate!

They were all the same man: the same purple hair, the same craggy features, the same scrumptious cock invading her mouth or her pussy or her ass, day after day, week after week, till even when he wasn’t inside her she still felt him inside her. It had gotten to the point when all he had to do—any of them had to do—was merely look at her, and Matrieylla felt herself becoming hot and wet. She was living in a constant state of sexual combustion. She burned hot with need all the time, and during those infrequent times when she was “punished” for some infraction, denied the overwhelming delight of the Archon’s use, those days when she saw her other selves get so gloriously fucked while she was deprived, writhing happily and blissfully in the grip of their common Master, her need was a living torture. She cursed her once “revered ancestors” who had done this to her. She knew now that what the Archon had said was true: she was a born slave from a race of genetically-engineered slaves. Too much of what he had said made sense; her enhanced mind made all the connections. The constant irritation she had seen in the face of every Thane; the tension, the restlessness; the constant hostility and anger for no apparent reason: it was all due to the dissatisfaction of not having been used properly.

They had all been looking for something, she knew now. They had been looking for masters.

And now, for the first time in centuries, a Thane had found one.

The Archon had reawakened her slave genes, activated the constant sexual craving she felt in her loins and in her belly, and she hated him for it even as she hungered for his cock inside her. But for her ancestors she held only anger and disillusionment. Elate had brought the key, but they were the ones who had made the lock! She cursed them and wondered again and again: Why!? Why had they never been told the truth? Had it all just been a big joke on their part, or had the knowledge of their true purpose, as the Archon said, merely been lost over the Empire’s long history? She might never know.

The Archons would order Matrieylla to kneel, and she would become warm for their touch inside her.

Resistance was impossible, and the worst part of it was, her desire to resist was slowly disappearing.

Brainwashing, exhaustion, her genetic drive to submit, perhaps the combination: Matrieylla felt a need to serve and be pleasing to her masters. She strove to please the Archons out of fear, yes, but also largely from desire. And, increasingly, too, craving for the ecstasies which only they—he!—could bestow upon her. The training went on, endlessly, it sometimes seemed.

The music rolled slowly and seductively. The beats were long and deep. The Matrieyllas, in lines five by five, scantily clad, rhythmically rotated their hips, swayed their bodies, and lifted their jeweled and bangled arms. A trainer stalked back and forth between them with a riding crop.

“Fold hands in like this before your face, Matrieylla! Place foot here, Matrieylla! Matrieylla! Thrust breasts out! stomach in! Not other way round!”

“Yes, master,” Matrieylla cried, cringing. “I’m sorry, master!”

“Try again,” the Archon said. He stroked the girl with the crop and watched her slowly writhe. Her back arched delightfully. “Touch thigh now. Lift ass. Hold your head up!”

“Yes, master.” Elate continued to touch her, lightly striking Matrieylla’s belly, her thighs, her hips, and so on, urging on the undulating motions of her hands. Within moments she was sweating profusely.

“Better.” The trainer raised his hands above his head and clapped once. All the girls in the room immediately fell to their knees. “Will start again. Only this time, music will be faster.”

“Yes, master,” the slaves said, resigning themselves. The music began playing again. The beat was faster this time. The girls resumed training. They had long since forgotten the number of repetitions already performed.

“I exist to serve and please,” recited the kneeling Matrieylla in the front of the room.

“I exist to serve and please,” repeated the classroom of Matrieyllas kneeling before her.

“I exist to be used for a man’s pleasure.”

“I exist to be used for a man’s pleasure.”

“I feel best only when I serve and please a man.”

The training slave followed the lips of her students with her eyes. No one was merely mouthing the words. They were all echoing the mantra.

“I feel best only when I serve and please a man.” The constant repetition had a rhythmic beat to it. It was hypnotic. Matrieylla often found herself repeating it throughout the day.

“I exist to serve and please.”

“I exist to serve and please.”

Reclining next to her so he could observe her every sweaty exertion, the Archon slowly pushed the plastioid phallus even deeper within the tight sheath of Matrieylla’s sex.

“Clench and rotate hips, slave,” the ubiquitous man commanded. “Tighter. Tighter!”

“Yes, master,” Matrieylla said, writhing as much as the wrist and ankle bonds holding her to the teaching rack permitted. The trainer rammed the dildo into Matrieylla, impaling her, and she screamed in equal parts pain and pleasure, her vaginal muscles rippling around the ridged surface of the lewd training tool.

Her body arched and squeezed at the same time.

“You are much improved, girl,” the trainer said a minute later, holding the dildo out to Matrieylla’s face so that she could clean it with her tongue. He made a motion as if to stand up, then instead leaned in even closer. His hand moved to Matrieylla’s breast. She gasped as he gently caressed her. His fingers brushed her engorged nipple. “You would like me to use you, wouldn’t you, slave?”

“Yes, master,” she said, involuntarily pushing her body against his hand. Truthfully, part of her did want that. Despite her best efforts not to, Matrieylla had screamed herself the Archon’s slave the last time he used her. The pleasure he produced in her was so great it had felt like she was going to explode.

“I want only to serve and please you.”

“Why is that?” He held her rock-hard nipple between his fingers and squeezed. Matrieylla whimpered.

“Because I am a slave.”

“What is slave?” he asked.

“A slave is a girl who is owned.” Matrieylla could recite this formula now in her sleep.

“How does girl know she is owned?”

“The girl who is owned burns for a master.”

“Do you burn for your owner?” The trainer began stroking her thighs.

“Yes, master.”

“Then you are girl who is owned.”

“Yes, master.”

“What do girls who are owned want?”

“Girls who are owned want only to serve and please.”

“What do you want?”

“This slave wants only to serve and please.”

The Archon’s hands left Matrieylla’s enflamed body. He raised her face to his own, covering her lips with his own. It was a very selfish kiss, a taking only, with no thought to giving comfort or pleasure. Nevertheless, heat blazed throughout her at the intimate contact. When he abandoned Matrieylla, she was struggling in her bonds more fiercely than during her hour-long training session with the dildo.

Her memory was not as good as it had once been. Her mind was still sharp, but it was becoming focused on service, focused on obedience. Still, Matrieylla remembered something the blue . . the blue creature had said. When had he said it? Years ago? He said, Little time will pass for us, but she will experience several years of perceived time learning to be one of your slavegirls

How long had it been? She no longer knew.

Matrieylla’s hands rolled along her hips. Slowly, luxuriously, she moved her arms up and down her body, her exquisite figure swaying in time with the music’s rhythm. She cupped her breasts, feeling the soft and transparent silks so carefully wrapped around her. With a gentle tug, yet another layer of semi-transparent cloth drifted away. On the dance floor lay fifteen similarly discarded scarves, each of which she had removed with a bare rustle of movement as she twirled and spun for the pleasure of her masters. Her nipples, covered with silk but visible underneath, were hard and ached to be fondled.

Her nipples wanted to be played with. She wanted to be played with.

Matrieylla spun another half-quarter turn, the music lighting her blood on fire. The wet, warm need swelling between her thighs left her lips and arms trembling. She hoped it wouldn’t be noticed.

Catching a motion of the Archon’s head, Matrieylla danced her way over to him and dropped to her knees as the music closed. She parted her legs, and, with one easy and graceful motion, lifted her hands to her breasts, removing with an upward tug the last veil from around her thighs, which the Archon caught easily. Matrieylla teased her erect nipples, rolling them between her thumbs and forefingers as she gyrated. She moaned in desperate, yearning need. She hadn’t been fucked in nearly three weeks.

Her master shook his head.

“You shake.” He raised his hand and gestured for the next Matrieylla to come out. The music started again. “Return to training chambers, Matrieylla. Beg for more instruction.”

Whimpering, biting her lips, the slavegirl nodded and obeyed the command.

The slavegirl slid her tongue lovingly over the head of the delicious cock. With one small hand on the pulsing shaft, she stroked her master’s meaty member with the other, her lips and tongue working in perfect harmony. Matrieylla’s gag reflex wanted to cut in, but she had long since learned to ignore it.

Wrapping her mouth around the cock again, she began to bob her head up and down, her tongue swirling about the hard ridges of the rock-hard member. Her eyes shut in bliss.

“No,” her master said a second later, disappointedly. “Slaves do not close eyes.”

He pushed Matrieylla to the cold, hard floor and reached for the whip hanging on the wall.

Matrieylla saw it. “No, please, master. Please!” She quickly scrambled to her knees, spread her thighs, and pushed out her breasts, her standard pleasure-slave position. “Matrieylla will be a good slave. Please, master. Please! ”

“Slaves do not close eyes,” he repeated. Matrieylla sobbed as the Archon reached for her.

“I exist to serve and please.”

The slavegirls, in unison: “I EXIST TO SERVE AND PLEASE!”

“I exist to be used for a man’s pleasure.”

“I EXIST TO BE USED FOR A MAN’S PLEASURE!” The room reverberated with the chanting of slavegirls.

“I feel best only when I serve and please a man.”

“I FEEL BEST ONLY WHEN I SERVE AND PLEASE A MAN!”

“I exist to serve and please.”

“I EXIST TO SERVE AND PLEASE!”

Matrieylla sang the words with clarity and conviction.

Clench. Unclench. Clench. Unclench.

Rows of slavegirls with their hands bound above their heads, their beautiful breasts presented for inspection, moving only their lower bodies.

Clench. Unclench. Clench. Unclench.

The exercise, her master had said, made it easier for slaves to achieve orgasm. It made their vaginal muscles stronger and more sensitive. For hours at a time Matrieylla exercised. The motions had become instinctive. Matrieylla found herself practicing them while performing her chores. Clench. Unclench. Her master was right. He was always right. The exercises had made her pussy more sensitive. They did make her orgasms stronger. She was stronger. She could squeeze and pull upon his cock much better now. He liked the improvement. She was getting used much more frequently.

Clench. Unclench.

Matrieylla’s body swayed to the music. The scarves flew expertly from her hands. Most importantly, she didn’t shake. Her master nodded as Matrieylla dropped to her spread knees, her breathing deep but athletically regular and fine.

“Better,” he said. “Blue scarf in particular favors you.” He then dismissed her with a gesture.

The color blue favors me, she thought, thrilled to have been so well noticed. If she begged prettily enough, maybe her master would allow her to wear a blue slave silk tomorrow!

She liked it when her master thought she was pretty.

“Oh, Oh! Master! Oh, Master!!” Matrieylla squirmed, impaled, beneath her master. “Yes!” she screamed again. “Please, please, Master, don’t let me go. Let me please you. Oh . . Ohhh!”

The slavegirl threw back her head. Her lips parted. A paroxysm of nonverbal ecstasy raged through her, torn from her body by the man so brutally ravishing her. Light burst behind her closed eyelids.

The entire universe shuddered. Minutes later Matrieylla lay in her Master’s strong hands, held.

Lightly, lying awake in her kennel, Matrieylla caressed her pussy mound and delicately inserted a finger inside herself. The training day hadn’t even started yet, and already she was wet and needful.

She thought of her Master’s penis, its texture, its taste, its wonderful hardness. Her hips moved without her conscious volition. Now that they were well awakened within her, Matrieylla’s slave needs never entirely went away. They ebbed sometimes, after an especially fine use by her Master, but often they flared, too, blazing forth within her loins, her need to be used reignited whenever the Archon amused himself with the pleasures of her body. He had done this to her, made her so keenly dependent on him, yet when she was in his arms she couldn’t help but thank him for it. She had never felt so acutely alive before, nor so greatly pleased. She no longer needed to fight for anything. She was an owned girl.

She was a slavegirl. The thought alone often had her hot and wet and gasping now.

Again, Matrieylla’s hips moved without her conscious volition. She bit her lips in frustration, waiting for the start of a new training day.

The Archon lay on his stomach while Matrieylla rubbed soothing oils into his thin back. Little purple hairs covered him. Her small hands relaxingly stroked his shoulders and weathered skin. She worked her way down slowly, biting her lips softly as her fingers touched his angular buttocks, not wanting to reveal her burning needs already. It was hard, though, being close to such a delicious, well-built man.

I feel best only when I serve and please a man, she said to herself, dutifully. She had been commanded to concentrate on the mantra as she massaged him. She straddled the Archon’s back, thighs spread, her hands extending up and down the body beneath her smoldering pussy.

She was so much bigger than he was. Why then did she feel so small in his presence?

“Ready for you to do front now.” He turned over on the table. His penis jutted upwards beneath Matrieylla’s sex. Slowly, he guided the slave and lowered her atop him.

She gasped as he entered her.

“Massage me, slave,” he commanded. “Slowly.” Matrieylla nodded, unable to speak. She slowly began to rotate her hips. “Training has proceeded well. Trainers enjoy using you.”

“A slave is pleased if her Master should find her of interest.” She winced as a particularly good internal motion enticed her. In her mind, trainers, the Archon, her Master, they were all the same glorious man.

He looked up at her as she serviced him. She, of course, stared down at him at the same time, her eyes lasciviously caressing his body every much as her hands did. She had well learned that old lesson.

The trainer reached up, took the back of the slavegirl’s head in hand, and pulled her face to his.

Morning again. Matrieylla heard, in the cells next to hers, the faint and feminine moans of her neighbors, asleep or awake. Always, there was the light rustle of chains. Matrieylla shifted around herself. The chain manacled to her ankle clinked softly. So did the one attached to her house collar. Sometimes, in the night, Matrieylla would lick and kiss her chains and shudder in involuntarily delight. Her wrists remained bound together. She wondered sometimes too why slaves in their kennels were always so tightly restrained. Where could they flee, after all? Then she would think of the lessons their presence imposed upon her, and she would know their true purpose. The chains were symbolic of the lives to which they—she—had been so roughly introduced. They were not so subtle reminders of her slavery.

In one form or another, Matrieylla would wear chains for the rest of her life. It was best to get used to them. Once, she was sure, she would have fought an idea like that. It would have been an admission of weakness. Now, she could barely conceive of a life without her need and slavery. The way they held her, they way they made her feel so helpless, so deliciously delicate, filled her with overwhelming desire.

She was clearly no longer the Thane she had been. She was clearly no longer the woman she had been.

The morning buzzer sounded loudly. Matrieylla heard the hard stomp of male feet passing through the hallway. It was time to get ready. Again.

By the time the trainers—her Master—started to speak and scrape metal sticks loudly against the stone walls, Matrieylla was up, her tiny blanket was folded neatly—a real chore for her bound hands once but not so much anymore—and she was waiting with her head inside the arched opening of her kennel, the furthest extension the chain allowed her. She knelt like an animal, hands and legs folded beneath her, her ass held high and touching the kennel ceiling. Her Master crouched and used his key to unlock Matrieylla’s collar chain.

“Good morning, slave,” he said, greeting her.

“Good morning, Master,” Matrieylla replied, then rendered obeisance by kissing the back of his offered hand. She crawled out of the small cell a bit more, and he unlocked Matrieylla’s ankle manacle. Master stood, and she kissed his feet. He passed to go on to the next kennel. Matrieylla resumed her waking position outside of her own cell, head down, ass lifted, and her limbs folded beneath her.

Different Masters, but the same one, naturally, walked past her and her neighbors, her selves. Once the slaves were awakened, the sound of the buzzer alerted them to follow them out of the pens. They did not rise; the slaves remained on their hands and knees, crawling after, first to the latrines and washing room, then to the feeding trough and their morning gruel. It was nearly an hour before Matrieylla was allowed to climb to her feet and with her class follow her designated trainer of the day to the dressing chambers. Her Master told the slaves it was a “tunic day,” and they obeyed, naturally. Most days at the school were “tunic days.” It was a convenient costume; its brevity at the bottom, its deep, navel-deep cut in the middle, and its wide, sleeveless openings at the sides not only exposed the slaves’ beauty and left them vulnerable to the appetites of the trainers, it also served to emphasize the girls’ utter servility. It was hard for a woman to think of herself as anything other than a slave in such a tunic.

Before a mirror, Matrieylla applied her makeup and attached the small, lovely earrings her Master had given her for the use of the day. She looked at herself afterwards. Nothing in the reflection reminded her of the aristocratic Thane she had been. All Matrieylla saw was a mere slavegirl. She loved it.

Long black hair. Gorgeous, servile eyes. A generous, but not too generous, bust line. Wide hips. Beautiful skin. No. There was nothing of the old Matrieylla in that scrumptious morsel of female flesh.

Bless her Revered Ancestors for making her a slave!

Before leaving the dressing chambers, the slaves had to be inspected first by their Master.

Matrieylla stood before that magnificent figure. He took her chin in hand in that way both he and she liked and lifted her face to the right and left appraisingly. The touch sent warm tickles of electric current through Matrieylla’s nipples. He let go after a moment, then continued to look down at Matrieylla so long she began to feel nervous. She lowered her eyes apprehensively.

“Am I not pleasing to your eyes, Master?” she asked finally, greatly daring.

“No. It is not that, Matrieylla,” he said. “It is just time.”

“Time, Master?” She had no idea what he was talking about.

“Time.” Her Master put his hands into the front opening of Matrieylla’s tunic, and she gasped. His hands rested on her plump breasts and felt her beauty. His thumbs rubbed gently over her pink nipples.

Unbidden, but not unwanted by his reaction, Matrieylla put her own hands gently on her Master’s waist as she was pulled closer. The heat in her loins grew into a raging fire. The years of constant fucking and training had had their intended effect. “Master, please . . .” Matrieylla begged. Behind her, other slaves waited in line. Many of the identical Matrieyllas looked at the one Matrieylla enviously. They too were much more at the mercy of their appetites than they had been so long ago.

“Time to wake up,” the Archon Elate said, holding her, feeling her, owning her, and as he said these words the world seemed to spin on its axis, the walls of the school dissolved, everything became a great blur, and the only thing that kept Matrieylla firmly grounded was the touch of her Master on her body.

“Wake up,” she heard dimly. “It is . . time . . to . . wake . . up!”

And Matrieylla did.

With a sudden shock, the helpless slavegirl found herself in the arms of her Master, the Archon Elate of the Basileis, but not in the training school, not in that by now so familiar place, but on board a ship, the Priapoid ship, and she was naked, and her Master was holding her, and she was finally, finally awake!

“Oh Master!” Matrieylla the slavegirl cried out and embraced her owner. Off to one side, she saw the blue Priapoid stand up from his console. She and her Master were in the transparent cube—the “biolacrumor”—but the cell was dry, and the door was open. “Oh Master, I love you so much!”

“Show me,” he said in that gruff, staccato way he had that made Matrieylla feel so weak in the knees, and she did, dropping to those knees and providing him an expert oral pleasure without the slightest further comment. Her eyes adoringly caressed his body as she performed this heartfelt function.

A little while later Matrieylla was with her Master elsewhere on board the Priapoid vessel—Had she ever left it? Did it really matter?—and standing in attendance with him at a solemn ceremony. All three of the ship’s Priapoids were there as well as two dozen Priapoid slaves, males and females alike, all clad in shiny, transparent bodystockings. Matrieylla thought she recognized one of the shiny female toys, the green one, but she wasn’t sure. Every so often, this glossy slave would glance over at Matrieylla with a look of familiarity on her pretty face. Or perhaps she was just admiring Matrieylla’s new simple adornment, the same red boots her recently introduced sister-slaves Hanna and Choma also wore. It was strange being in the company of slaves who were not her, but she was getting used to it. Hanna and Choma had promised to show her things, teach her things, that would improve her service to their Master. She loved them already!

Off to the side, standing between two shiny male toys, was a man that, like the green slave, also looked familiar. Matrieylla concentrated on his features, and they came back to her. Kul, she thought. This man is Citizen Kul. Her memory wasn’t gone; it was just focused on more important things, like her Master and the exquisite pleasures he could inflict upon her. She shivered merely to recall them. Kul, anyway, did not look good. Matrieylla, standing mostly naked beside her Master was blissfully happy, but the Citizen Kul did not look at all well. He was sweating. An anguished expression sat on his face, and more than once one of the shiny Priapoid slaveboys had to hold him up lest he collapse. Matrieylla was of two minds concerning the Earthman, whom she knew must have betrayed her so long ago. On the one side, he was the traitorous sniveler who had sold her out. On the other, he was the traitorous sniveler who had sold her out and thereby brought her into the possession of her beloved Master. It was hard to be angry with the man as much as he probably deserved. As she watched, he was openly weeping. Had he really cared so much about the deceased Priapoid they were sending off?

A quartet of glistening slaveboys was loading the equally reflective, crimson body into an evacuation tube. His widowed companion, the orange Priapoid, stood nearby with the blue male and ivory female bookending her. Their faces were expressionless. The body was sealed in the capsule, and, as if all had heard the same inaudible to her ears signal, Matrieylla saw the Priapoids and their pretty toys lower their heads simultaneously. The Thane slavegirl looked to her Master to see what she should do.

Though respectful, he was also talking quietly to a fellow Basileus. “Begin mass production of chemical. Several ways to introduce to Venusian ecosystem. Then, once slave genes activated, we take them.”

“Have Priapoids agreed to alliance?” his aide asked, equally quietly.

“Not yet,” Elate said. “But they will. They will see advantages.”

Matrieylla lowered her head. A few minutes later the tube containing the Priapoid named Ri was shot into space. A laser flash incinerated it soon after. The ceremony, mostly conducted in silence, was over. The blue and ivory Priapoids spoke in private with Matrieylla’s Master while the orange female went off to be by herself. Kul had to be dragged away. Matrieylla was going to stand with Hanna and Choma when the green-clad toy came over to speak to her. Andreuola, the Thane remembered. This was Andreuola. At first glance, she looked as happy in her slavery as Matrieylla was in her own.

““I am Uola. I belong to the blue male, Le,”” the shiny toy said. Her voice was squeaky! ““Do you still know me, Matrieylla?””

“Hello, Uola. Of course I remember you.” They embraced. At first, Uola was stiff and unsure of herself, but she gave into the hug when she felt Matrieylla’s sincerity. Uola was slick in her bodysuit. It felt nice rubbing their tits together, Matrieylla’s naked ones and her friend’s massive coated ones. They talked about what had happened. They compared their slaveries and their respective owners. They talked about Dueynna. Matrieylla told her friend—not a partner, not a colleague, but a friend, a real friend now—about her Master’s plans for her. She was going to be kept in a climate-controlled lodge on the icy surface of Titan, warm and cozy while everything around her was frozen, and she would maintain the lodge, and she would keep it tidy, and she would be available to her Master whenever he chose to take advantage of her. Uola said it sounded nice, and they embraced again, crying happily.

It was nice. Once Matrieylla had wanted everything. Now, she had everything, in her slavery. And soon, the rest of her people would come to know the bliss of that slavery too, as she had, Uola had, even dim little Dueynna. They would know, finally, the same liberation from strife and struggle.

Matrieylla’s Master called to her. Saying good-bye, she went to him, loving her new life of freedom.