The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The BioTrust Choice

Overview: In the 21st Century, advances in genetic reengineering (the rewriting of a subject’s original DNA), coupled with a shift in public mores, allowed the reinstitution of an old, cherished American custom—chattel slavery.

With technologies pioneered by BioTrust, Inc., almost any convicted criminal could be reengineered to a form more suited to fit society’s demanding needs.

By far the most popular bio-slave model, naturally, were the XTC pleasure units, colloquially known as the “biosluts.” The standard model included a lowered intelligence coupled with heightened natural submissiveness; a greatly exaggerated sex drive, with the reproductive systems disengaged; and altered skin pigmentation—green, blue, etc., even slave spots or stripes on occasion—for marking and property identification. Bioplastic outer coatings were optional.

Deborah felt a jerk on her leash. “Get to your feet, Ms. Channing. The Court is ready to see you.”

The former Assistant Financier for the START Corporation got up as quickly as she could. She was stiff from being on her hands and knees for so long. But when a guard in the Prison told a prisoner to do something, it was best to do it fast. She had learned that lesson early, as had all the other prisoners awaiting trial. They watched in apprehension as the guard standing over them roughly bound Deborah’s wrists together and blindfolded her.

They all knew their own turns were coming up.

The guard pushed his captive forward. Unable to see, Deborah almost hit the door to the Trial Chamber but was pulled back just in time. She tensed when he casually stroked her ass but said nothing, knowing that any complaint made would be worse than useless. The uniform the Prison had put her in—rubber hobble skirt, garters, bare ass—had been specially designed for such indulgences.

She heard the door open.

A few paces in she was stopped and her wrists, clad in elbow-length gloves, unbound just long enough to be reattached to an overhanging pole. Her rubber outerwear was peeled off, and the blindfold removed.

Court was in session.

“Deborah Channing, Citizen 367129, you have been found guilty of embezzlement. Do you have anything to say before sentence is carried out?”

“I didn’t do it!” Deborah screamed. “I was framed! Please, please don’t do this to me!”

The Judge made a notation on the screen in front of him. “Deborah Channing, having been found guilty of embezzlement, this court sentences you to have your DNA resequenced to transform you into a bio-slave pleasure unit.” The gavel rang out; the sound was pre-recorded.

The female prisoner, no longer a citizen, screamed in dismay. She had been framed. Her subordinates had ganged up on her, made up evidence to get her out of the way of their own promotions. But no one cared. The guard approached and stroked Deborah with an Ecstasy Whip, immediately paralyzing her with bliss.

Overcome by the electronically-induced orgasms, each much more powerful than any she had had naturally, the prisoner was taken without struggle to the treatment center. The remnants of her Prison uniform were removed—intentionally revealing though they were, they could still only be worn by citizens—and she was put in the temporary charge of a slave proctor, who had herself long ago undergone a DNA resequencing. Her unnatural pale-blue coloration was distinctive for biosluts.

“Put this on, slave,” the proctor order, throwing the ex-citizen a plain white apron.

Numbly, still reeling from the effects of the Whip, Deborah did as she was told. The proctor saw her obedience as a good sign. It meant the girl responded favorably to bliss conditioning. Some slaves-to-be didn’t and had to receive supplemental training: hours upon hours of induced orgasms until they were thoroughly addicted. The proctor could see that that wouldn’t be necessary in this case.

It had only taken one stroke from the Whip to turn this slave-to-be into a slut.

That was, of course, the whole point. A bio-slave was controlled through pleasure, and especially so a bioslut. Among other things, the genetic alterations they received exponentially increased certain glandular secretions in their bodies, keeping them in a constant state of “heat.” This, combined with brain modification, immune system enhancement, and augmented sensitivity to the erogenous zones, ensured that every pleasure slave was perpetually eager, playful, and, best of all, disease free.

The purely cosmetic changes, which were by no means limited to a standard aesthetic bodysculpting, were actually among the least complicated procedures in the process.

Deborah regained a little of her old spirit just prior to receiving her first resequencing injection. She tried to fight the proctor, but all that slave had to do was activate the ecstasy device built into her prisoner’s restraints. The proctor lifted Deborah up and inserted a knee between her legs, purposefully brushing against her spasming sex. The ex-citizen’s explosive climax was heard all the way down the hall.

The genengineers preparing Deborah’s cocoon laughed at the sound. Another subject was on her way.

“You will make a lovely slave,” the proctor reassured Deborah as they started down. “I promise. You will enjoy all that is done to you, as I did. We are allowed no choice otherwise.”

* * *

Interlude: A Catalog of Desire: You do, though. There are many biosluts. There are many other stories to be told. These are but a few, for your consideration.

#1: Picture: A bioslut on the bed—on her owner’s bed, that is—on her hands and knees.

The sex-starved slut stared into the mirror for the thousandth time. As always, strange yet hauntingly beautiful eyes stared back at her. She moaned in mixed misery and ecstasy over what had been done to her. Her sentence had been a harsh one. The Prison had reengineered her body, but they left her mind completely intact and unaltered. As such, she possessed all the unnatural and perpetual lusts of a bioslut but none of the deeply implanted behavioral modifications. Whenever she felt her new body’s need to be used—and used hard like the slut she was—she had to beg her Master for relief knowing everything she had once been. Everything!

The bed was soft. The leather she wore creaked when she moved.

Her image in the mirror was so attractive. Her green hair, pale skin, cow-like slave spots adorning her: beautiful. “Poodle” (that was her new name) hated being encased in leather and rubber like a whore . . . but she was coming to love it, too. That was what was so scary.

* * *

#2: Picture: A bioslut strapped to a chair, her head thrown back in ecstasy. Her skin is a cobalt blue.

The new slave screamed at the top of her voice. “Fuck me! Oh God, please fuck me, Master!” She pulled at the leather restraints holding her to the chair. Her breasts ached to be touched. Her pussy was on fire! “Please Masters!”

One of the bioslut’s interrogators casually stroked a nipple. The former rebel commander—they had captured her only a few days before—shuddered in ecstatic response. The interrogator knew full well, though, that the sensation of pleasure would do nothing to extinguish the eternal lusts that had been stoked inside this one. If anything, the brief contact would only enflame them more.

Since it became standard operating procedure to DNA resequence captured enemies, interrogations had become frighteningly easy. And, of course, it solved the difficult problem of what to do with them afterwards. Ms. Rebel would make a very nice gift to the Precinct Commandant.

“Shall we resume?” he asked. He oiled up his hands and began his questioning anew.

* * *

#3: Picture: A pretty pink slave crouching in schoolgirl panties and braids. Her face is eloquent in its need.

Shareholders enjoyed all the perks of the New Society. Unfortunately, things were often nowhere as fair for the Tenants. Jamie had run away from her arcology looking for a better life, believing the Police would never be able to catch her. She was mistaken.

Unable to pay her fine—Removal of Residence Without Leave—the nineteen-year-old was sentenced to bioslavery. Seeing great sextoy potential in her, she was reengineered into an XTC model pleasure slave. A pair of buyers strolled by her glass-faced enclosure. The pink toy licked her lips silently, her eyes riveted on their cocks. The New Society had a place for everyone, it seemed. Kneeling in her enclosure, damp sex throbbing beneath the “cute schoolgirl brief” (they came with her purchase price), burning now with an endless sexual need, Jamie had finally come to recognize her own.

No more mistakes.

* * *

#4: Picture: Two biosluts in rubber, the shiny material contrasting perfectly with their pale skin, their slave spots prominent. The sounds of eating and drinking and merriment came from the next room over.

“Remember,” the slave proctor instructed her pupil, “you are no longer a free woman. You have been reengineered for a Master’s pleasure.”

“I won’t forget, mistress,” the new slave meekly replied. There was no way she could; she squirmed helplessly in her tight black uniform, burning inside, aching for her owner’s touch. She had felt like this ever since her release from the State Prison, her mind blanked of everything but a desire to serve and make up for whatever it was she had done to be sentenced to bioslavery.

The proctor noticed her squirming. “I see you’re a hot slave,” she said. “Good.” She put a hand to the brief triangle of rubber covering her cunt and rubbed. “You remind me of my own first day of service.”

The proctor squirmed in helpless need herself. More than thirty years had passed since her enslavement, but all that time had done nothing to quench the irresistible desires perpetually burning between her thighs. But duty was more important. Her hand clenched around her whip.

There was a crack of leather. “Now, get in there and be a slave!” The party, after all, was starting.

* * *

Satisfying Everyone: For the curious, a rare look inside the company’s procedures! Tell your friends!

The buyer came in and made a special request from the experts at BioTrust. He wanted an equestrian bioslut for his ranch. A ponyslut, in other words. The chief genengineer on duty at once thought of the girl Lola, the young Tenant who had been acquired in the last arcology raid, and said, “No problem.”

He called up Lola’s DNA records on the spot and was pleased to see that her genotype would take in the necessary modifications easily. He went by her cell to tell her the good news. She had a buyer.

Typical for rebels of her sort, she did not take the news as she should have. “I won’t be a slave!” she screamed at the technicians as they prepared her metamorphic cocoon. “You can’t do this to me!”

But they could. Lola was put into her custom metamorphosis chamber as soon as one could be designed—it was the busy season—and the bioplastic cocoon the chamber spun soon completely enveloped her. She pulled at the thin but durable material. Outside in the control room, the genengineer watched the subject pull at the transparent wrapping, trying to draw it from her face. Her mouth opened and closed behind it, fogging the material. Her nipples were pressed upon tightly.

He flipped a switch. The first of the DNA-resequencing solutions began to pour in.

Lola felt the effects of the changing process immediately. She fell to her hands and knees. The cocoon fell with her, still holding her within its tight embrace. First, there was a slight tingling all over her skin. It wasn’t at all painful; in fact, much to Lola’s surprise, the tingling felt rather good. A strange kind of warmth settled into her body, a heat that radiated out from her most intimate places. Her breasts suddenly felt heavy; her nipples became hard; and her cunt went all wet and desperately needy.

The girl pulled against the tight plastic, yearning to be touched. She didn’t notice her hands changing.

In the ecstasy of transformation, Lola forgot all about protest. She forgot all about her rights as a human being. She had no rights, she realized. She wanted none. All she wanted was relief!

The girl squeezed and relaxed her thighs over and over, desperately trying to stimulate her aching pussy. She burned with a need greater than any she had ever experienced before. The person she had been gave one final scream, and then everything was lost in mind-numbing bliss.

The complete transformation took only a few days, and like every other girl who had gone through it, “Lola” experienced a complete change of heart over the matter of being a slave.

In fact, “Trixie,” as her new owner named her, grew to absolutely LOVE tapping around the training facility in her tight rubber uniform and sets of high heels, one for each of her new four hooves, and she absolutely couldn’t wait for her Master to come by and pick her up. The thought of “pulling his wagon” caused her loins to hunger so much she could barely stand it. She trained herself mercilessly to be the very best ponyslut she could possibly be.

It just went to show. The firm’s advertisers were right.

BioTrust really could satisfy all desires.

* * *

An Important Choice: You will be asked to make a decision soon.

In the meantime, more reflections for your perusal.

* * *

#5: Picture: A brand new red slave knelt in the examining room. Her eyes gleamed with heat, her thighs throbbed with desire, her dark hair hung enticingly over her back and shoulders. She was smiling.

The BioTrust genengineer stepped into the sampling room to examine his team’s latest innovation. The bioslut inside saw him and immediately thrust her exposed breasts towards him, her nipples hard and aching to be played with. Her eyes burned with barely restrained lust.

The tech liked the new shade of red his team had managed to produce in this latest clone line. The slave’s skin was so bright as to be almost fluorescent. The company’s trademark slave spots were more subdued in this model, but he thought that would be all right. After all, it was not as if anybody could ever mistake the red-hot slut for a free girl. Whoever she had been before her resequencing, she was now just one more piece of meat. Lovely, luscious meat, but meat nonetheless.

Of course, before he made his final decision, he still had to do the most important test. Or, rather, she did. “Position!” he commanded her. The bioslut spread her knees even wider for him. She licked her lips and gazed up at him adoringly. His job was quality control; he had a duty to ensure that each new model of sex slave BioTrust commissioned was up to company standards. Its very rigorous standards.

He pulled down his pants.

* * *

#6: Picture: This bioslut is chained to the railings of a stairway. Aside from her chains, her only adornments are the black ballerina gloves on her arms and the black leather thigh-high boots gracing her legs. Her slave spots are vivid upon her skin, which has an otherwise yellowish-white complexion.

Miranda—the bioslut’s name—loved having been transformed into a bioslut, expressly designed for the giving of pleasure. She couldn’t help but love it, she knew.

The State Prison had left her with at least that much of a mind, though her memories of the terrible person she must have been were hazy at best. She hardly thought about that woman now; her curiosity had largely been replaced with far more proper genetically implanted needs and desires, such as her current fascination with rubber and bondage. Her gloves and boots felt so natural and delicious!

She pulled futilely on the chain holding her to the railing. She didn’t really want to escape—the thought of actually abandoning her MASTER was almost physically painful—but she knew the motion made her look attractive to him, and that was her function in life, to look attractive and be absolutely the most pleasing slut she could be. Her slave spots flexed pleasantly along precision-engineered love muscles.

She had no regrets. She wasn’t permitted any. Her only concern was for her owner, and every time she saw him, she rededicated herself to his eternal, blessed service. She heard him coming up the stairs.

She flexed. It was her function in life.

* * *

#7: Picture: A fresh green slave on her hands and knees. Darker green slave spots are prominent on her back and face. A bridle has only recently been put in her mouth.

Since the introduction of bio-slaves into the society, especially the unique XTC slave variety, some free women began to express a certain, well, “curiosity” about what their lives were really like. Some wanted to know—and feel—at least a portion of the same lust and reaction to physical pleasure.

This curiosity led to the secret marketing of drugs designed to mimic the hormonal experiences of real pleasure slaves. Under their influence, a woman’s orgasms were amplified greatly, as were their natural sexual appetites. Furthermore, the more one used the drugs, the better they worked. Naturally, many, if not most, of the women who experimented with these drugs became thoroughly addicted to them.

This was not looked upon as a disadvantage by the manufacturers (a subsidiary of BioTrust). It was intentional. What was generally not known about the drugs was how similar they were to the more intensive drug regiment used to create real biosluts. In other words, the mimic drugs took longer, but their effects were virtually the same.

Mary’s teeth clenched around the bridle. The men standing over her had become so attractive! She found out the truth the hard way. She had begun taking the mimic drugs in ever-increasing dosages in her last weeks of freedom, hiding the slave spots that had started appearing on her skin, paying huge bribes to keep her many lovers from turning her in. Such a secret, though, cannot be kept for long. She had been awakened that morning by the feel of a lash across her bare back—the whip felt deliciously painful!—and turned in total surprise to see her pushers (owners, now) standing in her apartment.

They had finally come for her.

Her green skin had grown vivid in the hours of her first use. They put her in the same tight bondage gear she had worn the night previously. Always in secret, however.

In time, she would get used to wearing it in public.

* * *

#8: Picture: A bioslut with silver hair and yellowish skin, slave spots dark everywhere. One prominent spot covers part of her face, giving her the countenance of a cute puppy. She wears a collar with a dollar sign dangling from it. Lips painted red, she gazes up from the floor at her new owners.

Years ago, one of the problems in running a casino was the delinquency of debt some people accumulated. There were some who could never pay off their gambling losses. Fortunately, a way was eventually found to recoup even the greatest of liabilities.

Erica had simply been stunned to hear the casino wasn’t going to extend her credit any longer. That surprise, though, was a small one compared to her reaction when agents of the State Prison came in and seized her. She learned firsthand then the hazards of debt when her own body became forfeit and liable to seizure. She was taken for reengineering. The hotel manager, days later, remembered the girl being led off, crying and struggling. Her attitude now was very different. The new bioslut had crawled in and immediately knelt before him, apologizing profusely for something she could no longer remember doing.

Erica’s eyes had begged him forgiveness . . . and, of course, a good hot fucking.

The manager was a kindly sort. He forgave her. His first order had been for her to begin fingering herself, readying her remade love muscles for his penetration. She set to that task, and later the other, with great eagerness and skill. Later still, upon satisfying himself that she would do, he sent the former patron to the casino brothel, where, for the rest of her extended life, the former Erica would serve to pay off a never-ending debt, apology accepted.

* * *

#9: Picture: Another bioslut on her hands and knees, an increasingly familiar scene.

Had she still the capacity for it, Laura would have been terribly embarrassed. Here she was, on her knees, a bioslut dressed (if that was the word) in a latex sex costume that concealed nothing of what had been done to her. Imagine the terrible shame she would have felt, especially when who should walk in but her former best friend, Barbara, carrying a whip!

So it was she who had purchased her at the secret sale! Oh, the terrible shame of it!

On the other hand, biosluts have no shame. Laura merely crawled forward and licked her new Mistress’ feet.

* * *

#10: Picture: The pale pink pleasure slave with the dark hair looked out forlornly across the city, her loins aching for her Master’s touch. It had been hours!

She tried to stifle a cry and failed, her need to serve the Master now a desperate thing. It had been hours since her last fuck! Her Master sometimes delayed coming home like this on purpose. He enjoyed making her yearn for him, knowing how well her mixed emotions were.

This bioslut, so well pictured at the window, remembered her previous life. Most biosluts couldn’t; her superior recollection was an added touch of cruelty to her sentence. Gabriella Portenso . . . that had been her name. She was still pretty sure of that. Mostly. But that identity had been stripped from her by an angry Judge, and now, simply, she was “Pepita.” A bio-slave. A bioslut. A toy.

A genetically-engineered sextoy, to be precise, an item of pleasure for her Master . . . and, yet, helplessly, she burned for him, her modified genes keeping her in a perpetually aroused state. She moaned again. She wished he would get home soon, her Master. She could think of him in no other way, no matter how hard she tried. He was her Master. She squirmed in her heat.

Finally, after a seeming eternity, Pepita heard the apartment door open.

Thank God, she thought. The bioslut immediately turned from the window and assumed a more pleasing, more subservient posture on her Master’s bed. It was amazing how natural she felt doing so . . . and how dirty it made her feel. She cursed again the day she had thought she could steal money from one of the State Companies and get away with it. How foolish she had been!

The bedroom door opened. “Hello, Pepita,” her Master said. “Have you been waiting for me?” He laughed.

Pepita felt the usual rush of heat and desire upon hearing her lowly slave name used.

“Yes, Master,” she replied, as meekly and as seductively as she could. He crossed the bedroom and began removing his business clothes. He ignored the low, needy sounds his property made as she watched him, forbidden to move until he commanded. Pepita’s nipples were painfully erect. Her sex was uncontrollably damp. She hated what had been done to her . . . but she loved it, too, helplessly.

Were she given the same choices in life that she had had—if she could turn back the clock—she knew she wouldn’t. She couldn’t! The Master let her burn for another fifteen minutes. Then, turning to her at last, he nodded. Eagerly, trying very hard not to whimper, Pepita crawled over to him, opening her mouth and taking his blessed delicious Member inside. She sucked and enjoyed the taste of that which she had waited for so long.

* * *

#11: Picture: A bioslut licking her Mistress’s boots. This one is clad only in a net bodystocking.

“Do you enjoy licking boots, Lucinda?” Mistress asked her slave.

The bioslut nodded but could not lift her head from her delicious task long enough to answer. In truth, she didn’t need to. The question was a rhetorical one; bootlicking was just one of many conditioned responses now programmed into her. It was amazing how wonderful subservience made her feel.

She wished, sometimes, that her Mistress could understand the ecstasy. Lucinda knew she wanted to, but that was something only another bioslut could understand.

Maybe some day, if and when the Mistress finally succumbed to her secret desires.

In the meantime, boot leather was so delicious!

* * *

#12: Picture: Another bioslut. Is this repetitive? There is a purpose. Refer to the next-to-last interlude if you have any questions. In any case, this bioslut stands examining her body, rubbing her hands over her purple skin, her dark slave spots, the heat and passion trapped inside.

She thinks. She still has that capacity. She had been a woman of respect once, her Master said. The nameless bioslut cupped her enormous tits and tried to imagine what that life must have been like.

Yet it was impossible. She was just a slave. Her skin was the color of passion, burning eternally inside her, and tight, oh so very tight and sensuous, sensitive to the slightest breeze. Her dark slave spots marked her as a piece of property, nothing more. A pleasure slave: that was all she was and ever wanted to be, a sextoy, nothing more. But she really didn’t need to look at herself to know all that. The way she reacted whenever a man approached her—the way her nipples would harden and her cunt grow hot and wet—were enough to remind her, lest she forget. She had been turned into a slut. Her sexual needs had been magnified a hundredfold . . . a thousandfold! She needed to be used constantly; not made love to but fucked hard like the plaything she was. And her submissiveness: she no longer felt comfortable standing in the company of men, nor did she want to. All she DID want to do was please them . . . make them hard and excited . . . make them want her the way she wanted them.

Always.

What had she done to deserve this fate? She did not know; the past had been stripped from her, as easily as her clothes had been. She had been erased, and in the place of the woman she had been, there now stood only a nameless slut. That was all.

She was so proud of that.

* * *

#13: Picture: A funny one this time! A bioslut trying to push herself into a mansion wall, perhaps trying to escape! How silly! As if that were conceivably possible.

Mira whimpered in mixed fear and desire, anxiously staring at the front door of her lavish home and waiting for the men to come. She knew they would, inevitably. As much as she feared their arrival, though, a part of her—a growing part of her, she found, horrified—looked forward to it . . . of falling to her knees before them and begging them to use her . . . to fuck her . . . to treat her like the slut she had turned herself into. She continued to press her body against the bare wall. The paintings she had sold to feed her habit, long ago. The hard surface felt wonderful against her hardening nipples.

Her cunt, a bioslut’s cunt now, burned with need. It was all Mira could do not to run out of her mansion (former mansion) and crawl to the fist man she saw, praying for sexual satisfaction. There was no hope for escape, not now. Not for her.

She looked at her soft green skin, at the slave spots that had emerged so rapidly that morning, and despaired. How the dealers must be laughing now, she thought, and the image of those coarse and ugly men in her mind, who had only repulsed her until so very recently, enflamed her loins even more.

God! she needed to fuck somebody soon!

Mira felt as if she would DIE if she couldn’t get a man to mount her soon . . . if she couldn’t wrap her worthless, bioslut cunt around some heavenly prick!

They had purposefully overdosed her. It was her pushers’ fault. Their drugs had contained a little too many DNA-altering agents. Mira had wanted to sample pleasure—to know a little of the ecstasy felt by resequenced pleasure slaves—and now she had become one!

She was no longer a person. Her dealers could, and, she knew, would, claim her as an unlicensed slut.

God, she wished they would hurry.

* * *

Gender Equality: BioTrust is an equal opportunity employer!

The man (ha ha!) with the blue skin, blue hair, and even bluer slave spots licked deeply into his Mistress’s pussy. “Yesss,” Gwen whispered, moaning softly, delightedly. “Right there. Lick right there!”

Her bio-slave—a “toyboy,” one of the new line from BioTrust—didn’t respond, at least vocally. He did, on the other hand, increase the motion and pressure of his tongue, specially designed for the maximizing of oral pleasure, and pleasure was, of course, all he thought about.

Gwen writhed beneath his attention. Toyboys: BioTrust had had such great success with their biosluts—their line of female DNA-resequenced slaves—that it was really only inevitable that male versions would eventually be produced. The dominatrix market had been an untapped field so for long. The toyboys were expensive at first, but as new sources for male slaves came online, they began to sell like wildfire.

It was a buyer’s market.

* * *

#14: Picture: But later . . . .

Another dom stroked her newly acquired slave, drawing her lash across the slut’s multicolored skin.

The poor girl, overcome with helpless feelings of passion and lust, squirmed futilely under the attentions of her new owner. “You’re mine now, Gwen,” she gloated. “I own you . . . body and soul!”

Gwen—her transformed flesh burning with awakened bioslut desire—could not disagree. “Yes . . . YES MISTRESS!” Her owner’s crop slapped against her moist, flaming cunt, and the former dom climaxed again. She had long since lost count of her slave orgasms. “Gwen’s your slave!” she screamed. “Your slave! Only your slave!”

Edna smiled grimly, enjoying the sight of her old rival reduced to the level of a bioslut. Revenge was sweet, especially when it yielded such delicious results. Her decision to finance the new boytoy line was beginning to show fruit. She wondered how long it would be before it became generally known they were spiked with mimic drugs, that the intense pleasure they could give their female owners was addictive in more ways than the merely obvious. Long enough for her to reap a delicious profit at least.

She pushed Gwen to her knees. “Come with me,” she ordered. She could hardly wait to get her new slave into the playroom, with all her whips and chains and restraints, and, best of all, knowing that Gwen could do nothing but love every minute of it.

Equal opportunities indeed!

* * *

#15: Picture: A black-and-white bioslut stands in the auction circle, tight leather restraints covering her body. The restraints are unnecessary—she wants to be sold—but they are traditional. And her story?

Angela never saw the assault coming. Her car had been waiting. Her chauffeur-bodyguard had been standing by with the door open. And then she felt a tranquilizer needle going into her arm. She was unconscious before she hit the ground. After that, she was only one girl among hundreds that day to have their DNA resequenced. BioTrust authorities were notoriously unpicky in their selection process; no one raised an alarm anymore when one or two “extra” girls happened to find their way into line.

Not long after their introduction by BioTrust, Unlimited, the corporate partner of the Republic of America, the demand for mind-controlled sex slaves, especially female sex slaves, outdistanced their supply. Prices rose, but this did little to affect the market. When legitimate sources for new dollygirls, suckfuck girls, biosluts, and so on began to dry out—there were only so many criminals, rebels, or Class-C Citizens in financial straits—buyers turned to other means.

Reclamation agencies started to look closely at any woman in debt regardless of her Citizenship Class.

Mimic drugs were introduced on the streets to slowly transform addicts into slaves.

Other men, impatient, began to use more direct methods.

Angela woke just in time to see a transformation cocoon lowered around her body. The Shareholder lady screamed for help . . . but such screams were not uncommon there, and they were ignored.

She had been an influential woman, Angela. The daughter of a well-respected State Banker. It made no difference in her processing. She came out of the transformation chamber moaning in perpetual heated lust, begging to be fucked and used like any common Tenant girl. The ecstasy from her first slave rape made Angela forget any futile designs she may still have held about regaining her freedom.

The genotype used in her transformation was 386-129B (she was listed as a Tenant, and the former corporate aristocrat did not enlighten the processing agents); it gave her zebra-pattern slave spots as well as a soft plastic-coated skin. She had been turned into a ponyslut. The auctioneer at her sale called her a “tight little filly” . . . and so she proved to be in a State-operated racing brothel.

Years later, one of her users happened to see something in her face that reminded him of an old friend, an arrogant bitch who had thought she was too good for men. So this is what happened to dear Angela, he thought, pumping his seed into the sextoy and watching that beautiful face contort with mindless lust. We all wondered. The man made it a habit to return to that brothel, time and time again, finding a distinct pleasure in possessing such a scandalous, lovely secret.

* * *

One Last Reflection of the Times: Holly understood the purpose of all this. To be owner or owned? The choice is an important one, and irreversible.

Although the practice was generally considered punitive, sometimes a woman would approach the BioTrust authorities and ask to be transformed into a bioslut slave.

It was common knowledge that the XTC bio-slaves experienced an emotional fulfillment and level of physical ecstasy far above the ordinary. The stories, the reflections, were many. For some, the temptation was difficult to ignore even though the price to be paid was high. Holly struggled with her choice for years.

She accumulated debt. She ran with dangerous crowds. She traveled alone. She practiced other ill-advised activities for a woman of the New Society. Finally, when all that failed, she took the conscious step she had been courting for so long. She made her appointment in advance, stated her intentions, waived the necessary legal requirements, and was quickly usher into a transformation chamber before she could change her mind. BioTrust was always looking for fresh material; they told Holly to say goodbye as they wrapped the cocoon around her. She knew they meant her old life.

She was scared, but she HAD to know.

And, so, eventually, she did.

The “need” was the first thing she felt when she woke up. She came out of the processor begging to be used, just like any other bioslut. The techs were obliging; the sensations induced through her first slave rape more than exceeded her hopes and dreams. When the techs were done with her, they sent the now nameless girl down to the public auction stables. She thanked them.

It was worth it, she thought, waiting to be sold. She was no longer a person. She was just one more common sex toy among many, an endless many. But it was worth it. It was definitely worth it.

* * *

Final Question: Do you understand? Good.

In that case, back to the beginning.

Bioslut 367129—she had once been a woman named Deborah Channing—stepped into the auction ring and lowered her head, as had so many before her. One of them had been named Holly. Another, Mira. Years previously, Angela.

The chains linking the former Deborah’s wrists and ankles together jingled lightly. They were unnecessary but nonetheless provided a symbolic touch.

“Presented for your consideration,” a voice from overhead boomed. “We have here a former corporate executive. Bioslut 367129, tell us about yourself.” The audience of buyers rustled.

“Yes, Master,” the nameless slave replied. Her voice soothing, songlike. “I am told I was once an arrogant free woman. Now, I am but a humble slave, an XTC model bio-unit presented for your amusement and pleasure.” The slave began slowly twisting sensuously along the stage. Her reddish-purple skin stretched invitingly. It had been a few days since her decanting.

“I am the perfect plaything . . . the perfect toy for my future owner. I have no will of my own, only an aching need to be used like the slut I am.” She bent forward feeling deliciously subservient and smooth.

She was so hot . . . so desperately hot and needy! She hoped she would be sold soon; she wanted so much to serve a man!

“My body has been reengineered to provide perfect sex,” she went on. “My color-coded skin feels like soft velvet. My body produces a natural pheromone and aphrodisiac that increases male potency.”

She smiled and turned gracefully. “My sex-play potential has been rated in the upper 400s, with an increased strength in my vaginal muscles, a flexible and extremely dexterous tongue, and a completely retarded reproductive cycle.” She resumed her original stance and lowered her head in biologically imperative subservience. “I will remain forever young, beautiful, and desirable. I am totally insatiable.”

She moaned in need, eyes lingering on all the delicious cocks in front of her.

She was so glad to be a slave.

“Please, Masters . . . buy me.”

Justice was served. And so the bidding began.

END