The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Y

17

Sixteen standard years earlier:

The world was coming to an end; still and all, the Thane warrior was determined to survive it.

Making her way through the Count’s security systems and onto the grounds of his estate proved to be child’s play for a woman of her enhanced skills. She ran into no personnel. There was a general celebration being conducted in every major population center on Abayyah, and as a result Masrur’s manor and lands were practically deserted. The warrior wasn’t concerned she would run into Masrur himself either; she had murdered the old count and his bodyguards two hours ago over a thousand kilometers away on another of the planet’s numerous island states. If and when he was found, she was certain the accursed Royalists would never connect her to the deaths. Count Masrur had been a known collaborator, and everyone knew the fate of collaborators after a defeat of the occupying force.

Authorities would take one sniff down the misdirections the warrior had arranged, and then they would blame some overeager civilian seeking vengeance against the Solarian Empire and put the matter to rest.

Getting into the manor itself presented no difficulty. The warrior had scanned the building with a coherent neutrino beam from her flyer overhead, and so she went to the Count’s secret love nest at once. A portion of wall split open at her touch, and she descended into the underground levels, making no particular effort to be stealthy.

A servant—not a slave but a free human that served for economic remuneration—stepped out of the doorway to the Thane’s left. He wore the Count’s livery and was holding a tray. He looked about fifty. Surprised, too. “Who are you? You’re not supposed to . . .”

The warrior raised her lobotomizer pistol.

She fired. A green radiance briefly filled the distance between her and the human. The servant’s eyes rolled back in their sockets, and he collapsed, tray and everything, like a puppet with its strings cut. The Thane walked past him without stopping. Her weapon generated an EM field that permanently disrupted the human brain’s electrical activity. If the servant ever recovered, he would be fortunate if still able to tie his own shoelaces, let alone remember her.

It offended the warrior’s sensibilities she had to do this lurking about herself.

For decades, the Thanes of Venus, the Citizens of Earth, and representatives of other Solarian castes had ruled the seditious Centauri, holding onto their rebellious colonies through a combination of political coercion and planetary blackmail. Defiance in any form had simply not been tolerated. The Thanes in particular, the warrior’s own caste, were pathologically driven to succeed in every aspect of their lives.

Bred for heightened strength, stamina, and mental prowess, they were a race of living gods, paragons of the maximized genetic potential. Their beauty, like their wrath, was magnificent, terrible, and universal.

Proudly ruthless and cruel were the Thanes. For years taking them on had been considered tantamount to a desire for suicide. And yet, now, they had lost, and all in the Three Systems were opposed to them. It was in part the sheer rapidity of their defeat, along with its totality, that had left the warrior so outrageously ill-prepared. Thinking to ambush the Free Centauri Army at the shipyards of Proxima Five, the battle ended up with the Solarians the ones ambushed, lured into a devastating trap that had utterly demolished their fleet. The warrior, on her estate on Beta II, had calculated the odds and gone into hiding on the first day the news came back from Proxima. By the fourth, she had been completely cut off from the rest of the planet. None of her contacts responded anymore. She was alone, with not even a humble Drey serf to torture and keep her company. She had refused to admit her anxiety.

If captured by the restored Royalist government, the warrior would be put on trial, convicted, and no doubt sentenced to a life of hard labor on some backwoods Betan moon. She aimed to avoid that.

The Count had had an involved sex life, which is likely why he had got along so well with the Earthlings. Specialty rooms branched off from the central corridor, each catering to a particular fetish. Only one was still occupied, though, the warrior had already ascertained.

She found what she was looking for in the Count’s secret bedroom, naturally. Entering the room, a female human stood from the bed. She was entirely bald, her entire skin denuded and rendered smooth and unblemished through microcellular pins. “Mistress,” she said, lowering her eyes deferentially.

The warrior examined her.

Blinking interface studs were affixed to the woman’s temples. A number, 926-F, was prominently tattooed on her abdomen. Her face was blank and smiling. She had been, the warrior knew, sitting in the chair beside the bed doing nothing, merely waiting with the endless patience of the mind-erased.

“How may this slave serve your pleasure, mistress?” she asked robotically. Her eyes were empty.

She had been the Lady Alyce zee Afadjan. Somehow, she must have caught the eye of the Count Masrur, or offended him, or lost a bet, or something. Two years ago, Masrur negotiated a deal with the Earth Citizens and had the bitch reduced to a slavewhore, her memories and personality wiped out and her body reconditioned for his amusement. The warrior normally could have cared less, but before she had had her brain plugged and her body permanently rendered hairless, the Lady Alyce had been blond.

Even now, scrutinizing her smooth head and soft mindless features, the Thane could recognize a close physical resemblance between the two of them. “Stand there and don’t move,” she told the trollop.

“Yes, mistress.”

The warrior took cell samples from the former Alyce Afadjan and stored them in a sterile pack. Then, being careful to handle it only with protection, she passed a translucent pink shroud to the woman.

“Put this on,” she ordered her.

“Yes, mistress.” The fallen aristocrat unfolded the thin pink sheet. Held up, it had the loose shape of a human female. It took only a few minutes, and by the time she was wearing it, the slavesuit had already started melting into her skin. Unlike most women about to be turned into an anonymous pleasure drone, the Lady Alyce appeared unconcerned. She was just following orders like the sex toy she already was; she stood stoically as the chemisensitive suit merged with and erased the last vestiges of her former self.

Her transformation into a plastioid fuckdoll took about an hour. The warrior used that time to remove any evidence either one of them had ever been on Masrur’s estate.

Stepping over the drooling servant in the hallway, the warrior left with the sample and the newly made pleasure drone. She would arrange for the latter to be included with others of her kind confiscated by the Royalists. Drones were by design impossible to tell apart; the odds that the former noble would ever be found and unspooled from her suit were less than 0.01 percent. As for the genetic sample, she would clone it as soon as possible. With some minor self-surgery, and Afadjan’s blood cells, skin cells, and so on at her disposable, the warrior predicted she would be able to impersonate the Lady Alyce with a high margin of success. The odds would be even better if she went ahead with her plan to marry Afadjan’s former fiancé, the Lord of Elshwa Island, Reuben. She would have to take the lowly human partially into her confidence; she would never take him into her bed, though, the warrior promised herself. Perhaps with Elshwa’s political connections to the Beta Assembly, the warrior would be able to recoup her power on Abayyah, possibly even arrange for the assassination of the restored Sovereign.

Such a hobby would give her something to do, anyway.

Climbing into her personal flyer, Pasqualina smiled for the first time since the fleet disaster five days ago.

* * *

The Planet Y: Modern Day

The Brahma facility, still a working space fountain for the buxom androids’ mysterious projects in the Indi system, was separated into sections for East and West.

At no time did representatives of either the male or female-dominated Yn factions ever have to physically meet. Condemned prisoners from the city-states were brought through one hangar, shackled, and wheeled into rooms and left. An hour or so later, women from the Matricharate would enter from the other side, take charge of the conveniently trussed up slaves-to-be, and proceed in turning them into mindless, walking sperm banks. Likewise, ladies who had fallen out of the Imperatrix’s favor would be brought and left for Western men. The only difference in their case was that the Eastern prisoners were not nearly so well-secured into racks as their male counterparts. That would have been seen as an insult by the overly sensitive Westerners. Overall, the exchanges were convenient and utterly reliable.

Despite the lack of contact, news had a way of passing from side to side, and especially so reports of an event so spectacular as the destruction of eight hoverships from Sooshr within sight of the Brahma base itself. Almost at the same time as the inky terraforming drones were inviting her to leave was the Thane warrior extended a summons by the Imperatrix to visit the East. She thought it about time.

The wind whistling through her perfect blond hair, Pasqualina stood on the foredeck of the grand Matricharate hovership sent to fetch her and watched the world go by.

Everything was going her way, so she indulged herself. She let herself recall—the memory was as perfect and crisp as if it were happening again—the reactions of the human female when she was fucked for the first time as a Yn slave. “Oh God! Oh NO . . NOO!!” Garrant’s squirming had been delightful.

A delicious cruelty, her transformation and subsequent rape. Pasqualina’s eyes glinted.

They had passed over the last of the ice more than an hour ago and were now headed south. Much of Y’s terrain was composed of vast tracks of tundra; boreal forests of genemodified fir, spruce, and pine; and the boggiest swamps imaginable. Such scenery had changed. They were now flying over more and more cultivated farmland, land cultivated, charmingly enough, through means of animal agriculture.

What made it charming was that instead of animals, the Matricharate used slaves.

Beneath the ebony-encrusted, wood-polished hovercraft, Pasqualina observed legions of tightly leather-bound workers tilling fields, pulling wagons, bringing water, and otherwise laboriously performing any number of other primitive endeavors that could have been much more easily, and cheaply, completed through automation, assuming one wanted to farm in the first place and not merely bioproduce food in genevats. All the visible land was squared off into huge plots, each many kilometers on a side. The Matricharate was a true slave state: its entire economy was based almost wholly on slave labor.

Pasqualina leaned over the railing side.

Overseers, more scantily clad than the laborers they watched, marched beside the slaves, supervising every little thing, employing their whips with generosity. The overseers, naturally enough, were all women. The slaves were a mix, still with many more females than males, though. Usually it was the other way around. A quirk in the Yn genome made male births twice as common as female, leading to in Pasqualina’s opinion a criminal overabundance of testosterone on Y. While death by violence balanced the equations a little on the masculine side, Y’s ratio of women to men was seriously askew.

This was not generally looked upon as a disadvantage, however. Pasqualina believed, like everything else on Y, that it was an artistic choice. The planet had been deliberately made a barbarian’s paradise of super-strong men and hypersexual women. Fewer women in the Yn population meant that those in existence usually had to serve multiple masters multiple times, much to their personal sexual satisfaction.

Similarly, the surplus of men, and sexually frustrated men at that, with so relatively few women about, fought each other more frequently, again much to their entertainment.

The Matricharate was the exception to Y’s rules. With a female aristocracy in control over the state, with a single sovereign, the Imperatrix, in charge of them, still over ninety percent of women in the East remained slaves, and all of the men. The enslaved females in the fields below were not the typical Yn fuckslaves: these women had been made beasts of burden and worked so. Encased in tight costuming—leather girdles; wide straps pulled round their hips and breasts, simultaneously lifting and exposing; heavy nipple and labial rings (a Thane’s vision was very good); arms laced helplessly in back; hooved boots—they were treated physically like the animals their male counterparts had been made mentally.

In the West, the women were accustomed to being treated like the valuable property they were. The incidence of violence directed toward them was almost nonexistent. The pink whip marks on the asses and flanks of the beast-women below demonstrated the Matricharate’s variant approach to matters.

The only men below, similarly clad but lacking as many lash marks, were used only for the most strenuous of labors. Pasqualina knew the Matricharate reserved the majority of its male population for other uses, namely war and sperm production.

Speaking of which, she thought. It’s time. One of the female handlers sent to escort the Thane approached her. Pasqualina turned. “I desire to see below decks,” she said, rudely preempting whatever the man keeper had been about to say to her.

The keeper opened her mouth, closed it, and nodded. “Yes, my lady. If you will follow me.” She, like the supervisors Pasqualina had observed below, actually wore less clothing than their slaves: metal bracers about the arms, loincloths between the thighs, thigh-high boots wrapped round the legs. An open-titted harness about their ample Yn bosoms completed the ship’s uniform.

The Eastern skyship was larger than its Western counterparts. At over three times the size, the shining vessel was more like an ancient galleon of the seas, with multiple decks, an extended forecastle, and a crew numbering in the hundreds. Pasqualina was led down into the main cargo hold. The dank and humid place was divided into penned sections, as if for the keeping of livestock, which, in a sense, was an accurate description. Once below, Pasqualina brushed past her startled guide.

“My lady!” She didn’t stop. She knew exactly where to go.

Since coming onboard, the warrior had discerned a familiar odor in the air. A Thane’s sense of smell was as acute as every other sense, and it led her now to someone she hadn’t seen in six months.

When Pasqualina saw what had become of her husband, her immediate response was laughter.

For the first time in her marriage, too, she felt something approaching genuine arousal for her spouse, though it still wasn’t enough for her to want to mount him. The raucous sound of her amusement disturbed the other penned males. They bucked and made muted animal noises in their stalls. Their keepers strolling past had to use their pain implants to quiet the animalized studs down.

Gone was the Reuben zee Elshwa the Thane warrior had known. Gone were the soft, cherubic features; the doughy figure that sagged in the middle; the look of reason, however human limited it was.

What Pasqualina saw instead was a Yn male of stereotypical proportions: the hard, muscular physique; the enormous cock that would shame a horse; the crimson red skin; and, of course, the superhuman height, nearing two-and-a-half meters. But there were differences as well. Reuben’s head had been shaven, first of all (Pasqualina approved: most Solarian slaves were permanently rendered hairless). A long bit had also been secured in the stud’s mouth and attached to a bridle arranged around his head, the tight black straps reaching over and around his skull and under his chin, fully framing his face.

Blinkers—leather shades projecting at the sides of his eyes—narrowly restricted her husband’s vision ahead. Other black straps girded Reuben’s chest, two descending from his shoulders to link with others rising from his hips to form an x-shape. A single strap lined down the middle of his back and connected with a padlocked belt below his abdomen. Her husband’s hands had been encased in leather mittens such that his fingers were rendered useless. Their design deliberated resembled the paws of an animal.

It was below the waist that the most significant accoutrements had been added.

Reuben’s glans had been pierced across the middle. Rein-like chains were fixed to either side and led back to a secondary bridle arrangement, this one wrapped round the former Betan’s groin. Two harness rings were in the middle of this rude athletic support, which did not so much support or protect Reuben’s genitals as cause them to be displayed more prominently. His Yn-length member had been threaded through the rings. Between them and the tiny reins attached to the tip of his cock, Reuben’s manhood was compelled to point forward continually. His erection was visibly throbbing. His sac hung outrageously behind, framed by its own set of bridle rings. The transformed aristocrat was seated in his stall, his arms outstretched and locked in manacles in front. His ankles were similarly spread and secured near the bottom of his wooden bench. From between his blinders he stared at Pasqualina.

There was no hint of recognition in his eyes. There was no sign of intelligence either, not the utter mental emptiness so customary among Solarian bodyslaves, merely the unthinking but still conscious reactions of a beast of burden. Again, Pasqualina approved.

“I dare say, my Lord Elshwa,” Pasqualina said to the beast, “you’ve never looked better. I’m tempted to take you right there.” The animal grunted, the sound made even more unintelligible by the bit.

“How long will it take to train him?” the warrior asked the Matricharate female when she caught up. She indicated Reuben with a wave.

“About a quarter of a year for basic obedience,” the woman replied. Pasqualina calculated: about eleven months, given the Yn calendar. “More if he’s to be trained for pleasure service or war.”

She paused. “Do you know this creature, lady?”

“Not at all,” Pasqualina replied. She walked past the stalls on her husband’s side. Now that her curiosity about Reuben had been slaked, the warrior gave her former spouse no further thought. Each pen in the cargo hold, she saw, held its own similarly accoutered male animal. There were hundreds.

“All of these came from the West?” she asked, not really needing that bit of information confirmed.

“Not all from the same city-state, lady, but yes.”

They were drawn into the next room by the carnal sound of love play. In the adjoining space, a group of Matricharate free women stood silently around a busily occupied sexrack. A Yn man, head shaven, strapped to his back by his wrists and ankles, was secured in the complicated mechanism while a much smaller crimson-skinned woman rode his enormous cock. “The body is a slave to the seed,” she recited while fucking him vigorously. “The seed is a slave to the will. The will is a slave to the mind.”

“The mind is my own,” the women in the circle chanted along with the one in middle. “The mind is my own!” The keeper at the center of attention climaxed—the brute she was riding began spurting cum like a fountain—and she closed her eyes as if not so much enjoying the pleasure she had derived as enduring it. She shuddered all over. Her mouth opened and closed spasmodically. The women surrounding her watched their peer carefully, apparently for any sign of weakness or submission.

Pasqualina could almost see the keeper’s mental struggle with the addicting Yn semen pumping into her.

After about a minute, the woman in the center climbed off her living masturbation toy. “The mind is my own,” she said, a little shakily. Only then did her sister-keepers approach and begin speaking to her.

They helped her get back into a uniform. The man on the floor, still in his rack, grunted pleasurably.

“What would happen to her if she hadn’t maintained control?” Pasqualina asked, indicating the woman who had just left. The Thane warrior observed her guide as she responded, noting carefully her body movements, her tone of voice, even the dewy amount of sweat on her brow, and fed the sum total of the information into the constant reckonings going on in her Thane mind. She will claim to despise men, Pasqualina predicted, to cover of how sexually excited she is.

The warrior gave her latest statistical analysis an 86.92% chance of future accuracy.

“Surrender to the seed, surrender to the slave,” the keeper replied. “That is the First Law we all keep, from the lowest soldier to the Imperatrix herself. If Miera had given in to the seed, she would have been immediately stripped of her rank and made a slave. We cannot be weak around the loathsome males.”

The keeper pretended to recoil in disgust. Pasqualina filed her breakdown for future indexing. Soon, she would have a mathematical base for predicting anything a Matricharate female might say or do, just as she had developed similar bases for the Yn males of the West and their sex slaves. The Thanes hadn’t yet invented telepathy, but so far they hadn’t needed to. All behavior was predictable.

Only after most of them were gone did one of the keepers unlock the spent male from his rack. Naked, pierced through his glans, the animalized Yn reached for the woman instinctively. To Pasqualina’s mild surprise, the woman shoved the much larger man back, then picked him up and actually lifted him into the air for a moment. He was twice her size, yet she moved him with apparent ease, and without any use of the fellow’s pain implant, Pasqualina judged.

She posed the question to her guide as the two left.

“The seed allows a woman to touch her own mind intimately. ‘The body is a slave to the seed,’” the keeper recited. “‘The seed is a slave to the will. The will is a slave to the mind.’ I’ve seen women so in control of their own bodies they could put their hands into open flame and not be burned. They could go without food or water or sleep for days, resist frostbite, even fight and defeat a wild man unarmed.”

Parlor tricks, Pasqualina dismissed. Myth and legend. At best, neurofeedback achieved through a regimen of self-hypnosis. She wouldn’t be impressed until she saw a true test of the technique.

She might soon get her opportunity.

In a few hours she would arrive on the eastern coast of Y’s sole continent and meet the Imperatrix in her own citadel. Pasqualina felt herself ready. Legally free or not, it seemed to her, the women of Y were all slaves, and no matter what petty secrets they might possess, they would be no match for her.

She was a Thane, and, by definition, a Thane would always come out ahead.

And of that, she needed no analysis.

. . . to be continued