The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Y

21

It was unnatural for a Yn slave not to be in lust and love with her master. Bea certainly felt the former, but she felt there was definitely something wrong with the transformed Lieutenant Larr Wirry. She suspected his transformation into a Yn had driven the young officer mad.

He was a murderer.

Granted, on a world as violent as Y, a casual acquaintance with death was accepted. But even by Yn standards Wirry had gone too far. If he ever returned to Tolaam, he would be immediately put to death. Bea would never see her true Master, Baor, again. She would never see her Onora again.

Wirry had claimed her as his own, and because of that she was now exiled from the only home she had known on this planet.

Bea—she was Bea again, solely; before his murder, some other Yn man had seen her distress, taken pity on her, fucked and swayed her—was witness to everything. Their skyship arrived at the monstrous Brahma base a day after they left Tolaam. Bea had never imagined seeing something so large and yet so clearly artificial. From a distance, the massive space fountain had appeared to be a perfectly regular mountain, in defiance to all rules of natural formation and erosion. Closer up, it filled the horizon even from kilometers away. Bea could feel the energy in the air, sense the wave distortion in the atmosphere above the fountain as truly planet-shaking electromagnetic fields were directed skyward. She had looked down at her arms and seen her skin goose-pimpled. They entered the structure through an opening in the smooth black wall over a kilometer above the ice plain and found themselves in an open space larger even than the vast underground city-cavities on Bungula Imprimus.

In a way, the Brahma structure was a building inside a building. The outer structure enclosed an inner one, and the gap between was spacious enough that skyships could fly and maneuver in. The inner wall, like the outer, was virtually flat and unmarked; however, dotting its vertical surface here and there were tiny-looking ledges . . . tiny only in perspective, for each was large enough to dock a skybarge and still provide a sports stadium’s amount of room to walk around on. I can’t see the bottom, she had thought, looking down from a dizzying height over the shaft.

They were met by a committee of Yn soldiers after they landed. Bea was a slave and the only slave brought with them from Tolaam. As such, she was ignored by practically everyone. Wirry’s claims aside, she had no function there other than to look pretty and just be there, and so she was at liberty to look around and be amazed at her surroundings. Yn slaves often enjoyed such liberty. After fulfilling her daily chores back at Citadel Korez, Bea, then Haru, had often had many hours for herself, which she filled by learning more about her new world; talking with her fellow slaves, especially Onora; and seeking out a luscious male or two to fuck her senseless. Bea had stood on the sidelines, far from the abyss edge of the shaft, and watched as Wirry and her true Master’s men conferred with the Yn staff.

Though there was an echo, she was too far away to clearly hear.

I don’t want to be here, she had thought, looking longingly at the skyship that had brought her. She wanted to climb aboard it and fly back home. She laughed at herself, a sound half cynical, half plaintive.

Home. Tolaam was home now. She belonged at Citadel Korez, as much or even more than she felt she belonged to Baor Korez. I want to go home, and tears had stained her eyes.

A sound close to her stirred Bea from her reverie. She looked up and saw a human approaching her.

At first, she thought she had been seeing things. A human, here? That she thought of the person as a human, as something different from herself, didn’t occur to Bea until much later.

Behind the transparent filter mask she recognized the face and grew even more shocked. “Marine Commander Aosha,” she said out loud, startled. What in the world was he doing here?

The Royal Marine had stopped. He looked at the half-dressed Yn slavegirl. His eyes were dazed and dreaming. “How do you know me?” he asked her. “How do you know my name?”

“I . . . used to be Senior Lieutenant Bea Stoc, Commander,” Bea said. Then, rather lamely, she had added, “How are you?” It was a silly question and she felt silly asking it.

She actually hadn’t expected getting a response.

“I don’t feel so good, Lieutenant. I can’t contact my mistress. Something’s happened to her.”

“Oh kay,” Bea said slowly. She wasn’t aware of it until later, too, that she and the marine had been talking in Centauran. It was the first time she had spoken Centauran in months. Even Wirry spoke to her in the Yn language. “Who is your . . . mistress, sir?”

He’s bald, she had thought at the same time. And what are those things on his forehead, blinking?

The Marine Commander blinked. “She calls herself the Lady Alyce zee Elshwa, but she’s really the Lady Pasqualina of Venus. She’s a Solarian.” He stopped. He looked at Bea. “Why are you out of uniform, Senior Lieutenant?” he asked sharply.

From the corner of her eye, Bea had noted the men just then noticing she was talking to somebody.

“I’m a Yn slavegirl now, sir,” she said to Aosha. Then, even more plainly, “I’m not allowed clothes.”

The men had started to run towards them.

“Oh.” Aosha looked down at himself. He was in a full battlesuit brimming with weapons. “I’m a slave, too, I guess.” His forehead puckered. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Bea answered honestly. “I love being a slave.”

“Good,” Aosha said. “I’m glad you’re happy, Lieutenant. I’m not. I hate being a slave. I’m going to kill myself now. You should duck.” And at that he had reached around and unholstered his rifle.

Bea fell to the floor at once. Aosha raised the cutterbeam projector and fired, sweeping the air in front of him. She heard the sizzle and the sudden abbreviated screams of the men behind her. “Launch micromissiles,” she heard the Marine Commander order. “Target all non-Centaurans, except myself.”

“Invalid Command,” the chemiprocessor-directed weapon’s mount replied. It was not a true AI, but its tone sounded offended. “Override,” Aosha countermanded. “Scan and target all non-Centauri personnel, with the exception of myself. Do it.”

A second later she heard the launch. She felt the rush of the bullet-sized projectiles whizzing over her head. More cut-off yells sounded in the direction of the men and the skyship. Bea had simply lain on the cool stone floor, not panicking, too much in a state of shock to be panicked.

She both heard and felt the multiple impact thuds into the man standing above her. When he fell, she scurried out of the way and lay silent again, laying her hands over her head as if they could possibly shelter her if one of the tiny missiles did decide contrary to orders to target her. What if it doesn’t recognize me? It was a real concern. She wasn’t really a Centauran anymore. She wasn’t even the same species.

After a few breathless moments, Bea had felt a hand on her ankle. She opened her eyes and looked down, somehow expecting it to be Aosha, miraculously survived. Instead, it was Wirry.

“What in the hells did you say to him!?” he snarled at her. He pulled her toward him and slapped her. He didn’t use his full strength. If he had, he might have killed her on the spot.

As it was, Bea saw stars again. “I’m sorry, Master,” she pleaded. “I’m sorry!”

“It recognized something about us,” Wirry said a few minutes later, after she had explained. “There’s still something about us that is identifiable as Centauri.” He mused. All around them was wreckage and dead bodies. Vivid and grotesque pink stains dripped on stone and wood alike. Bea made a special point of not looking in the direction of the cutterbeam sweep; she could imagine quite well the slicing effects of the laser on living tissue. Wirry bent down to pick up the laser rifle. “It still works.” He checked all of Aosha’s equipment. “It all works.”

“Get aboard,” he ordered Bea minutes later, pushing her toward the skyship. “We’re leaving.” He apparently knew how to operate the large hovercraft. They lifted off and angled for the arched opening they had entered through. “She’s already been sold,” she heard her master say.

Again, he wasn’t speaking to her. “She was taken away a day ago!”

Good, Bea thought. A good slave should respect her master’s wishes and want what he wanted. Bea was a good slave, but Wirry was not a good master.

The deck of the skyship was remarkably free of blood and carnage. Micromissiles were nothing if not efficient; they didn’t leave a mess, unlike a laser sweep. There were a few bodies but nothing grotesque. As Bea was watching, a man, Yn, came up from below decks. He had somehow avoided being struck. For a battle-hardened warrior of Tolaam, he looked stunned.

It was then that Bea’s master of the moment became a murderer.

“What are you doing?!” the man roared, seeing Wirry at the controls. Wirry was wearing, as best he could, various pieces of the Marine Commander’s arsenal.

The former lieutenant angled a targeting dish at the man. Before he could say anything else, he was incinerated, reduced to ash in the blink of an eye. The wood beneath him didn’t even have time to catch on fire. Bea had just looked at her master. He was grinning.

When a second ship tried to come alongside their own just on the inside of the egress, Bea’s master used the laser rifle and cut the floating vessel in half. He laughed watching the large Yn soldiers fall to their deaths. Bea was violently sick.

She had no idea where they were going, no idea where her master was taking her. He had ordered her to dump the bodies of the crew overboard, a task easier commanded than performed. She hastened to do it. She felt she was in actual danger from Wirry, that if she didn’t do exactly what he said, he might harm her, or worse. She had never felt that way around her true Master.

She wept. She was certain she was never going to see home again.

* * *

“I can’t tell them apart.”

“That’s deliberate. The Imperials prefer their toys to be anonymous.”

“How decadent,” the newly appointed Lesser Voice of the Imperatrix muttered, though she positively blossomed at the idea.

The new pleasure drone looked across forlornly at her pink doppelganger, her loins aching to be stroked and filled. [I can still think!] she processed, the routine passing through her chemiprocessor circuits mechanically, hollowly, very unlike her own efficient pre-drone thoughts. [I’m still aware!] [Nooo!] [Error. Error. Error]. [Nooo!] She would have run away screaming had she been able.

She stood silent and statue-like, though, unable to move because she had as yet received no order to move. She was silent because no pleasure drone ever spoke.

Every pleasure drone was also a precise 1.6 meters in height. The two shorter Yn females, the Greater and Lesser Voices, strolled about examining, stroking, enflaming the new drone. The immobile figure tried to stifle an internal sob and failed, her need to serve someone—Anyone!—a desperate thing. She stood face-to-face with her fellow drone, one set of golden, featureless eyes staring blankly into the other. The drones had been arranged so that in profile the tall, shiny pink figures would appear almost like mirror images to one another. For the new drone, it was like looking into a mirror. She knew that what she saw in the other had been identically reproduced in her. Their smooth skins gleamed. Their full and pouting lips impassively waited to suck a cock or kiss a cunt. Their tits, less massive than a Brahma’s but substantially bustier than the already voluptuous Yn, were raised upward enticingly—a drone’s back arched naturally for the effect—their nipples huge and pointy and perpetually erect.

[Awaiting Orders] some automatic routine forced her to process. Unearthly, humiliating need filled her sensors.

She wished the Imperatrix [Mistress] would claim her soon. She could contemplate the [Mistress] little bitch [Error. Error] in no other way, no matter how hard she tried. She was her [Mistress].

The drone smoldered in her heat.

Her skin, she saw, was the color of passion, a passion burning eternally inside her, and tight, oh so very tight and sensuous and sensitive to the slightest breeze. Her unnatural coloration marked her as a piece of property, nothing more. She was a pleasure drone. That was all she was and would ever be from now on. A sextoy for those who wanted to use her. But she really didn’t need to look at either herself or her identical playmate to know that. She didn’t have to cup her huge tits in her hands to measure their one and only worth. The way she reacted whenever anybody, male or female, approached her—the way her nipples would harden and her cunt grow hot and wet—was enough to remind her, lest she ever forgot. She had been turned into a pleasure drone! Her sexual needs had been magnified a hundredfold . . . a thousand fold. She needed to be used constantly; not made love to but fucked hard like the plaything she was. And her submissiveness, wired into her resequenced genome: all she wanted to do was please, make others excited, make them want her the way she wanted them, always.

The drone’s future spread out within her mind’s eye with perfection. With Thane perfection.

Her sole function from now on would be to fuck and give pleasure. She would be pleasing. Her need was a need for Service. Her need was an agony of wanting to submit, of wanting to be used.

[This isn’t right] the Lady Pasqualina silently processed. [This isn’t how it’s supposed to be!]

She remembered everything! Pleasure drones weren’t supposed to be able. She had been transformed into a pleasure drone, but due to some error in the conversion, some flaw the Brahma had overlooked from the other drone, her mind had not been overwritten. The former Thane would have to endure the endless life of servitude of a pleasure drone knowing what she had been and was, forever!

Perhaps it was deliberate, an added touch of cruelty ordered by the Imperatrix. Pasqualina didn’t know, nobody bothered to tell her anything anymore. She was a bio-slave! A bioslut! A sextoy!!

A genetically-resequenced sextoy, to be precise, an item of pleasure intended for the Imperatrix.

The Brahma had reengineered her body, but they had left her memory intact. Pasqualina possessed all the unnatural and perpetual lusts of the typical pleasure drone, and all of the deeply implanted behavioral modifications, but her mind beyond that was still her own. Now, whenever she felt her new body’s need to be used—and used hard like the slut she had become—she would have to recall everything! she had once been. Pasqualina hated her new Mistress, hated her new Yn owners, and yet, helplessly, she burned for them, she burned for Her! her plastioid body keeping her in a perpetually aroused state. Across from her, strange yet hauntingly beautiful eyes she knew were the same as her own stared back at her. Pasqualina’s soul shivered in the mixed misery and ecstasy over what had been done to her.

[Standby Mode]. [Awaiting Orders].

Finally, after eternity, the drone heard the approach of footsteps. She felt the usual rush of heat to her sensors. [Thank the Divine] she processed. It was amazing how natural her drone heat felt, and how dirty it made her feel. Some routine recognized the gait. [Activate Pre-Seduction Mode]. The drone immediately turned and assumed a kneeling, subservient position on the floor, as did her opposite number. Pasqualina cursed again the day long ago she made the decision to join the Indi expedition.

The [Mistress] Imperatrix arrived with a retinue of followers. She was so beautiful. Pasqualina’s nipples were painfully hard. Her sex was uncontrollably damp. The Imperatrix let both her new drones burn for another fifteen minutes as she spoke and gave instructions to her Voices and followers.

Then, turning to the drone closest to her—Pasqualina, thankfully—the [Mistress] nodded.

The meaningless pleasure drone crawled to her [Mistress], opening her mouth. [Activate Seduction Mode]. [Activate Mode 250: Cunnilingus]. Pasqualina screamed for a long, long time in her head.

She would never be freed. She would fuck, and she would suck, and she would caress, and she would Serve. She would always, always Serve. It was a 100% probability, with no possible margin of error.

And of that, she needed no further analysis.

* * *

One day earlier:

The slave used her fingers to frame and feel her new belly ring. She had been pierced and a golden stud put in her navel. It was her slave stud. It was her public identification that she was a slavegirl.

She looked down at it, at herself. It was beautiful.

She was a slave.

The big Brahma hangar stretched almost into infinity. A central light shown down from above, casting everything in sharp shadows. After waiting with her head down as the elder Yn talked briefly to someone, the slave was led through the landing bay to a parked skybarge. The elder kept his hands on the nameless slave, thrilling her to the quick, guiding her as she walked ahead of him. She was naked.

A line of women stood or knelt as their male overseers wished in front of the wooden aircraft. The elder bypassed many others waiting, the men nodding their heads in respect. He took the nameless slave to the man in charge. He was holding a book and actually writing in it, an impressive feat for a man.

He looked up as the elder approached. “Ah,” he said. “I was concerned she might not be readied in time.”

“There are hidden pockets of resistance still inside her,” the elder said. He held the slave by one arm, thrusting her forward gently, in presentation. “Subconsciously, she does not wholly want to be a slave.”

“Wholly?” the other man asked. He was handsome.

“She is a nascent loveslave. Her heart burns for another. One of her fellow offworlders, I think.”

The other man nodded, understanding. He reached down and lifted the slave’s breasts slightly, tweaking her nipples and causing them to harden. The slave shivered in delight. She gasped. “Despite that, you’ve unleashed a little of her potential heat, I think. Will her desire to submit to this other man interfere with her training?”

“Not at all,” the elder replied. “Thorough use and frequent swaying will soon redirect her passions. In my experience, the most precious slaves are those who show a little of her insolence at the beginning.”

The slave blinked. Were they talking about her? She wasn’t an offworlder. And resistant? She wasn’t resistant. She was a slave. She wanted to please men. Pleasing men was her greatest desire!

The other man laughed. “Frequent and thorough use will tame any slut,” he said. “Thanks, Influencer.”

She was handed over. “Strap collar her,” the slave manager said to his assistant. “This is Slave 27.” A leather ribbon was affixed around her throat. Metal bracelets were put about her wrists, the bracelets linked by chain. The slave was taken aboard the hovership and into the hold where she was secured next to a slave bearing the number 26 on her collar. A similar slip of paper was soon attached to hers.

I am Slave 27, the otherwise nameless slave thought.

Her nipples were still rock hard from the brief fondling she had received. Her belly was hot with need. That she had no other identity than the number on her collar did not upset her. She would receive a name when she was sold to a master. That she had no memory of a life prior to a few hours ago did not upset her either. She was a slave. She was aware of how malleable a slave was, especially under the sway of a professional Influencer, an expert in the manipulation of a woman’s mind. She wasn’t upset at anything, really, nor could she be, save perhaps for a little impatience to get to the auction block.

She wanted to be sold. She had been kindled with a great need for a man. She wanted to be fucked.

“I am Slave 26,” the girl next to her said shyly. “I was a Matron of the Matricharate, I think.” She looked down. “I can give great pleasure to a man.”

“Do you enjoy being a slave?” Slave 27 asked. 26 nodded her head vigorously.

“I’ve wasted so much time being free!” she exclaimed. She clutched at the wooden railing. Her chains jingled. “I had no idea what I was missing! And you? Did you enjoy your rapes?”

The slave nodded, though not quite as forcefully as her bunkmate. “I think so. It’s still a little hazy.” Then she brightened. “I can give great pleasure to a man, too.”

“We’re going to be sold,” Slave 26 said. She took hold of 27’s wrists. “I can hardly believe it. We’re going to be sold!” She leaned in as close as she could. “I’m so wet I can hardly stand it!”

“Me too,” Slave 27 agreed, and they giggled girlishly. The two slaves compared their times, so far as they could remember them, spent in the Brahma base. A third slave soon identified as 28 was put next to them, and she too added to their glee and excitement over the pending sale of their bodies to men.

Eventually, the hold was filled with women and cargo. The hovership’s rotors vibrated beneath them, and the slaves pressed their bottoms to the wooden planking so as to fully appreciate the pulsation.

The ship took off. Although they were in no position to see it, the big wooden craft emerged from a hole in the side of the kilometers-wide structure, hovered for a moment in the air above the constant ice and wind, then set a course west. The slaves hugged each other, laughing and crying, overcome with emotion. The slave known as 27 was no less thrilled. I am a slave, she thought. Pleasing men is my greatest desire. Pleasing men makes me hot. I am a hot and needy slave. I need to be fucked.

The image of a man in uniform suddenly appeared in her mind’s eye. It was an unusual vision. He wasn’t a Yn. He was small and . . . and human. She didn’t understand how she knew he was a human—she was a slave born on Y and had no knowledge of other worlds—but she knew he was.

Eben, a name came to her. I love you, Eben. The slave frowned. Before she could think any further along those lines, the mantra resounded once more in her head, blissfully drowning out anything else.

I am a slave. I was born to be a slave. I was born to please men. I want to please men. I am a slave.

“I am a slave,” the nameless slave said out loud, and Slaves 26 and 28 agreed with her. “I am a slave,” they both said at the same time, their voices charming in the unison. All three of them started to giggle.

Meanwhile, the ship flew on west.

. . . to be continued (21 of 28)