The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

AFTERMARKET

CHAPTER 3 – TRANSACTIONS

The third thing you learned was that his artistic sensibilities were both striking and unusual.

For example, take the matter of the decoration.

You were surprised and at first a little worried when he outlined his plans. When he showed you his design, your breath caught in your mouth.

There in the warm dimness of his city apartment stood a series of life-size drawings, executed in extraordinary detail. The drawings were of you—front, back and side views. You stared, fascinated. You were completely naked, of course, and he had perfectly captured each flow and curve of your body, the sweep of your hair. Only the face was blank.

In the drawings, every square centimetre of your body was covered in a minutely recursive pattern of swirling shapes – interlocking fractals of blue, red, gold, and green, from neck to toe, in recursive detail. The effect was beautiful. An extraordinary abstraction, a work of art. In the ebb and flow and curl of the hypnotic multi-coloured patterns you discerned a whole future.

You wondered if it would hurt.

“Of course,” he had replied. “But the result will be worth it, no?”

The process takes long hours and days – he is not one for quick fixes or short cuts, and he inspects each detail carefully after every session with the needle, and sometimes there are corrections or amendments. Additional colours are layered and layered again, wide sweeping tendrils and spirals into infinite regress. When you finally stand to see the full and finished effect for yourself, you almost cry to see your flesh transformed into something so surpassingly lovely.

Turning, you admire the fluid script of his signature across your buttocks.

* * *

Mister Talv was extremely well versed in the philosophies of the Renaissance. Acquiring the raw material in the first place was difficult and costly enough—God alone knew what he would end up paying Tokyo for this new project—and he was keen not to waste it.

Like Michelangelo, he had learned exactly what to carve away in order to set free that which hides within. But one had to be very careful. Take away too much and you were left with a species of comatose passivity that was not at all aesthetically pleasing, an empty vessel with no motivation or animation or desire, just a puppet made of flesh. That sort of mess had no place in Mister Talv’s universe. Some of his early stumbling efforts had frankly disgusted him, and the disposal process was quite … unpleasant … as well. However, he had persevered, and he had now established an effective methodology for this key element of the process.

The artist’s raw material needed extreme care, skill, and patience to deal with.

Mister Talv removes the Object’s gag and stands just in front of it. The Object is moving its head blindly, straining its neck in all directions, seeking him. Its mouth opens, and its pink tongue licks its lips to moisten and prepare them.

He knows the Object can smell him, and that driven by instinct and desire, it will always respond in the specified ways. He offers a finger for the Object to suck on. It does.

At last, the entryphone trills.

He does not replace the Object’s gag. This is an important transaction, and it is absolutely vital that Sergei and his team get to experience its best features.

The swirling fractal markings and the elegantly detailed collar at its neck only enhance the effect.

* * *

The fourth thing you learned—and you are not surprised at all, by now—is that he is single minded and meticulous to a fault.

For example, his attention to detail is unwavering, and his methods so subtle as to defy description or categorisation. Mostly you suspect you aren’t aware of them at all.

To improve and cement what he terms your Leitmotif, he often has you in exactly the same position: quiet, still, bound, fixed, penetrated, blind, deaf and dumb, part of the furniture. In an endless night and silence, punctuated only by his calm deep voice repeating instructions over the earbuds, there is transcendence. As if outside your own body, you see yourself as he must see you, fabulously decorated and adorned, and you are pleased. He must be pleased too, you think. That is the important thing.

You do not protest. You protest at nothing. You have entered into this freely and willingly. At least, that is what you think, when you think about it. After a while, it becomes hard to tell.

The tightening of your muscles around the device has become an automatic rhythm, and you occasionally reward your own prowess with a complex movement of the inner muscles to deliver a favourite sequence of stimulation. As a rule, he removes the pulsing shaft only to allow the insertion of other items. You do not know quite how you would feel without something there.

Occasionally, splinters of thought and memory intrude.

As time passes, these intrusions become less and less frequent.

After a while, there is only the now and the confines of new boundaries. There are many boundaries you cannot cross.

Boundaries of language, thought, behaviour, desire. Boundaries which every day became a little smaller, and a little more restricted. Perhaps you have never been on the other side of those boundaries – you can’t quite remember.

The pain of your embellishment is a distant memory. His brand is indelible on your skin. You know that you are beautiful.

Sometimes you drift off into some kind of … and when you snap back after who knows how long, there is simply a … gap … where that time had been. An absence of self, an absence of will, which slightly puzzles and frightens you, when you think about it, but you think about it seldom, and seldom soon becomes never.

After a while, the absences become longer, more frequent, until they began to blur into one, until there is an absence of absence itself.

You can’t remember a lot of things. Your thoughts are like water at sunset. You are blue and gold and red and green, spiralling into infinite patternless depths.

It likes the simple clarity of the now.

You like the simple clarity of the boundaries.

It likes the boundaries to be as small and clear and simple as possible.

You keep forgetting more things. There is ever more absence, and ever less presence.

It doesn’t care about that.

* * *

The fifth thing you learn is that a work is never truly complete.

* * *

The Object can sense movement around it. It can tell there are several Men in this room, possibly five. It does not wonder who they are or why they are here.

It hopes they are looking at it, admiring it, and with this in mind, the Object stretches to show its most shapely aspects to best effect. It parts its full lips, and ensures they are moist and welcoming. It feels the throb of the device and it squeezes down there to ensure it is fully aroused. Heat flushes through its body, and it is gratified to imagine the impression this will be making on its audience. If it could speak, it would say so.

Hands stroke its skin. From the way they touch it, it assumes the Men are suitably impressed. It imagines their murmurs of appreciation at the craftsmanship and painstakingly fine detail on display; the gold and red and blue and green filigree of its decorations, and it feels proud to be unique in the world. It feels fingers tracing the delicate patterns on its breasts, lingering at its nipples. It imagines the covetous looks, and it thrills at the thought of new admirers.

Hands gently part its thighs. It squeezes on the device and feels the tension in its belly. It imagines the exclamations of admiration for its form, its honed tightness, its muscle control, and it shivers with anticipation.

It feels itself being turned around slightly and imagines the Men must be inspecting the signature. Provenance is important. It imagines the mutters and nods of approval, and it feels secure in its authenticity.

A pause. It imagines the Men are huddled discussing its merits and attributes, their eyes rapt, taking in every cherished detail. It squeaks, seeking attention.

A hand cups its chin, and it raises its face. It imagines how it must look from the vantage of a Man, and it parts its lips wider, but not too wide of course—just enough to offer what it has learned is the perfect invitation. It imagines that very few Men would resist this, but to be sure, it arches its back just a little further, and feels the delicious tension in its muscles, imagining how this must highlight the fine lines of its neck and face, and the beautiful collar at its throat.

There is a new and unfamiliar something in its mouth. The Object perceives no particular difference between one something and another, within the pure clean ambit of its aesthetic. It nibbles experimentally, and licks the tip of the new something. It is gratified to feel the something expand and stiffen, and this arouses it further, a reassuringly familiar feedback loop. It works its way gradually up the length of the something until it holds the full length of it in its mouth.

It feels a hand on its head, urging it deeper, faster, harder. The Object imagines how excited and pleased the Men must be to see and feel it in action. It closes its mouth tight, and begins to work, seeking its reward.

* * *

In the now, there is only the silence, the absolute darkness, the pulse and throb in your belly, the slow sweet rhythm of your lips and tongue, and you are lost in your own world of simple abstract dreams.