The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Curiosity

by Fool’s Page

Tracy had spent so much time sitting in her parked car the automatic brain asked her twice if she was feeling well. Both times she replied were a lie. She felt anxious and nervous. Her stomach was full of knots. Though she had never used it, her hands kept reaching out to grip the ceremonial steering wheel.

Do I or don’t I? she thought, over and over. Do I or don’t I? Her hands were shaking.

Finally, knowing she would never rest if she didn’t at least go in, Tracy muttered a soft “Open.” The driver’s side door unsealed, and she got out. Conscious of her breathing, Tracy walked toward the entrance of Dollygirls, Inc., trying with every fiber of her being to appear nonchalant.

If anybody she knew saw her here, the jokes would never end. She wouldn’t be able to bear it.

As she approached, the door opened for Tracy. What was unusual in this was that it did not happen automatically. A mostly naked attendant standing near the entrance saw her coming and worked the door herself, manually. It was such a novel occurrence that Tracy stopped mid-stride, surprised at this small but meaningful touch. They have so many, she thought. They can spare them for door duty.

Taking a final deep breath, she walked in.

“Good morning, ma’am!” the dollygirl gushed exuberantly. “Welcome to Dollygirls, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of BioTrust, Unlimited.” The attendant was stunningly beautiful.

Like Tracy, she had shiny blond hair that reached below the shoulders. Unlike Tracy, that flow of hair served to almost conceal a black plastic collar ringing the attendant’s throat. That collar, a smile, black short-shorts, and a pair of high-heeled, knee-high black boots were all she had on.

“Hi,” Tracy said, nervously. She stopped in the doorway and looked around while the woman held the door. Now that she was actually there, she wasn’t sure how to proceed. Fortunately, the dollygirl did.

“If you’ll walk straight ahead, you’ll see a service desk. The attendant on duty will help you, ma’am.”

The dollygirl smiled even more brightly and tilted her head to one side, like a little coquette.

Tracy wondered what the girl had been in her previous life. She wondered what she had done to deserve her sentence. Her naked skin shone. Her figure was perfect. She was absolutely flawless, a living work of art. But, then, that was exactly what Dollygirls advertised, wasn’t it? Living works of art.

Tracy went to the service desk. As promised, another dollygirl was waiting for her.

She was a pretty, light-colored brunette. Like the woman at the door, she too was all but naked. Her breasts were firm and shapely. The nipples were extremely perky.

“Good morning, ma’am,” the desk attendant said, beaming. Her smile was radiance itself. “Welcome to Dollygirls, Inc. How may I serve you?”

“I . . I would like to see someone about purchasing a . . a dollygirl.” Tracy’s own smile, in contrast, was hesitant.

“You came to the right place, ma’am,” the attendant said. “We don’t get many walk-ins, though, so it may take a few minutes to locate a sales representative to speak with you. Would you care to wait, ma’am?” She gestured toward a small room with chairs set off from the grand entrance hall.

“I . . yes, all right. I can wait.” The attendant seated Tracy and asked if she could bring her any refreshments. Tracy said she was fine. The dollygirl left to return to her duty station.

Tax evasion? Driving her automobile on manual? The rare but still occasional capital crime? Tracy again speculated on the sort of crime a citizen might have committed to warrant her dollygirling.

Maybe she had done nothing wrong at all. Maybe she was abducted, Tracy thought, a little shiver passing through her veins. Just a woman in the wrong place at the wrong time. There were still neighborhoods in the country, even in these brave days of the Restored Era, where a woman would have been unwise to travel without an armed escort. Too, maybe she had just got on the bad side of a senior magistrate. That was another dollygirling rumor Tracy had heard about and investigated.

Merely because it was an urban legend didn’t make it impossible. Legends had to start somewhere, after all. Tracy didn’t have to wait long. A man in a business suit came to see her within three minutes.

“Ms. Mouston? Hello!” The man had fashionably gray hair at his temples. His suit was silvery, plastic, and expensive. He shook Tracy’s hand when she stood to meet him.

“I must say, you gave us a bit of a start upstairs! We haven’t had a customer come to our front door in, oh, I don’t know, months.” He chuckled lightly. “My name is Jonathan Casado.”

“How did you know my name?” Tracy asked. Her heart was suddenly beating much faster.

“Our sensors matched your retina pattern when you walked through the front door.” Mr. Casado guided Tracy out of the waiting room and toward an elevator. “So, our desk unit tells us you’re in the market for a dollygirl. Well, I’m pleased to tell you that, whichever unit of ours you ultimately purchase, you will be pleased.” He paused as the door slid open. “We contractually guarantee it.”

“Thank you,” Tracy mumbled, looking down. The elevator whisked the two of them upward.

“Our records show this will be your first purchase of a dollygirl, yes?” Tracy nodded. “Have you ever used one before, ma’am? That is to say, are you a lesbian?”

Tracy felt a rush of anger at the presumptiveness of the question, but the look on Casado’s face was perfectly bland. He was seeking information on how best to satisfy his customer, no more.

“I . . I enjoy a woman’s company occasionally,” Tracy said. “I prefer, ah, sex with men, though, for the most part.” She cleared her throat nervously.

“I see,” Casado replied. “Are you sure you want a dollygirl, then, ma’am? Perhaps you’d prefer something from our sibling company, Sissyboys, Inc., yes?”

Tracy’s lips were dry. “No,” she said quickly. “I . . I’m interested only in . . . dollygirls.”

She looked down again, embarrassed.

“Very well, Ms. Mouston.” The elevator came to a stop and opened. “Let me show you what we have, unless you’ve already got a type in mind?” Tracy shook her head. “No? Then, please, come this way.” The salesperson escorted Tracy into a curving, egg-shell white room. The ceiling and two side walls slanted downwards smoothly from the elevator side while the floor and its greenish-gray carpeting remained level. The effect achieved was that the wall opposite the elevator was considerably shorter than its counterpart. It consisted solely of three empty man-sized glass alcoves, flush on all four sides, as if the room had been shaped in emulation of the inside of an antique camera. A coffee table sat between the two comfortable-looking chairs in the middle of the chamber facing the alcoves. Classical music filled the air. The lighting was soft. Aside from the elevator, there was no obvious way in or out.

Casado asked Tracy if she would like something to drink. Once more, she silently shook her head.

They sat down. Casado picked up a remote control and pointed it toward the cubicles.

In the center alcove a smiling naked woman appeared.

Tracy shivered. An electric current seemed to run up and down her spine. Her stomach fluttered.

She’s for sale, she thought. For a brief moment, Tracy felt dizzy, but she recovered quickly and didn’t think Casado noticed.

“Have you seen our advertisements, Ms. Mouston?” he asked. “Well, of course you have, or otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” He chuckled. “Then you know we have the finest selection of sex slaves on Earth, each guaranteed to be absolutely loyal and hot to serve to the best of her outstanding ability.” It was a rehearsed line, pulled from one of the circulars Tracy had saved. She had done her research.

“From here we can project a solidoe image of any dollygirl in our files,” Casado said after a moment, fiddling with the control. “We can rotate her image, change her posture, show the dollygirl with or without clothing.” The three-dimensional picture in the middle cubicle reacted to his ministrations. The dollygirl presented was a very dark-haired brunette. She had dimples in her cheeks. Her lips were plump and glossy. Her image, standing at attention with her hands at her sides, revolved first to the left, then again to display her cute little ass, and then a third time to come back around front and center. Her hotpants, collar, and boots disappeared, then reappeared. The dollygirl knelt to the cubicle floor with her knees spread, then sat back and lifted her legs high and wide in the air.

A second later she was back in her original position. “Very impressive,” Tracy said quietly.

She bit her lip gently.

Casado shrugged modestly. “The shame of it is, as I said before, so few of our customers come to the shop directly anymore. They prefer going to the public auctions.” He leaned over to Tracy and confided in her. “I get to come here so rarely, this is a treat for me.”

He laughed and tapped Tracy’s hand gently where it rested on her armrest. She stiffened, then smiled tentatively.

“We have a choice of clothing, too,” Casado went on. At his impetus, the dollygirl’s brief uniform was replaced by a gauzy harem outfit straight out of the Arabian Nights. Another flick of the control had the girl’s image dressed in black leather and chains. Tracy twisted on her seat. She was growing warm.

Casado used the remote control and returned the image to the initial dollygirl costume, which, along with the classic position of attention, was apparently the viewer’s neutral setting.

“Finally, if you like, we can have the unit speak.”

Casado used the control. The raven-haired dollygirl’s smile grew even wider. She said, “My serial number is RB-17. How may I see to your pleasure?” Her voice was low and sensuous. Her tone and facial expression promised a delightful time while at the same time conveying her dollygirl need for use.

“So,” Casado said, after waiting for Tracy to see if she wanted to say anything, “how shall we begin? Our dollygirls are cross-indexed. Shall we start with hair color? Bust size? Ethnic type?”

A flick of the control shifted the brunette to the left cubicle. In her place, a lovely Latina appeared, also smiling the customary dollygirl smile. In the far right cubicle, a beautiful blonde appeared.

Put on the spot, Tracy floundered.

“Ah . . I’d like to see . . . I’d like to see girls, I mean, dollygirls. . .”

She stopped and started again, speaking more surely. “Can you show me the dollygirl who was at the entrance below?” she asked.

“Certainly,” Casado said. He put the remote down on his armrest and waved a hand over it. A solidoe formed in the air above the control, a list of dollygirl serial numbers with small head shots beside each one. The salesman waved his hand through the semi-transparent display, and the files moved, sliding up and down along rows and columns. A second later the files stopped, Casado touched one floating head, and the blond dollygirl from the front door appeared in the center cubicle. The chica dollygirl flicked over to the left. The brunette jumped to the alcove on the right, replacing the other blonde.

The girl from the door spoke: “My serial number is BY-73. How may I see to your pleasure?” She had the same laughing, excited inflection to her voice as before. Tracy’s tongue touched her lips.

“Can you tell me . . who she was? I mean . . before she was . . . dollygirled?”

“Why, of course.” Casado’s hand brushed through the solidoe. Information appeared in the air between them. “BY-73,” the sales representative read. “Let’s see. She was acquired two years ago. Cause: outstanding financial debt.”

Tracy looked at the display. “Her name was Erica Pastur.”

Casado hummed. “Yes. Let’s see. Ah yes, she was married. Her husband was a plastics manufacturer. Hmmm. There’s an associate file from Sissyboys. Apparently, they were both in debt.”

Tracy read the information. The words were short, concise, and utterly impersonal. Erica and her husband, Jeff, had done some speculating on the stock exchange. Some heavy speculating, and in some very radical investments. Their stocks plummeted, they went into debt, and when they couldn’t pay off their accounts, they were sold into receivership, to BioTrust. It was as simple as that.

“Would you care to view the solidoe of their formal acquisition?” Casado asked. “We always record these for legal purposes. Many of our customers find the viewing . . . interesting.”

Tracy nodded. “Please.”

The salesman waved his hand. Immediately, the words in the air disappeared and were replaced by a frozen flat-screen image of a man and woman in an office somewhere. Casado touched the screen.

The picture moved. Tracy heard voices from an invisible speaker.

“What are they doing here?” the man, Jeff, now animated, asked. His eyes were wide and expressive. He was a handsome gentleman, with chestnut hair and a strong face. Tracy wondered whether he had been sold to a man or a woman. His wife, Erica, beside him, was shaking with fright.

The dollygirl-to-be looked stunned. Tracy saw her clutch her husband’s arm.

“Jeff . . Jeff, what are we going to do?”

She’s totally helpless, Tracy thought, feeling the warmth. She’s totally, totally helpless.

Behind the pair of young people were a couple of gray-garbed public enforcers, these evidently being the “they” of whom Jeff Pastur had spoke. Their gorilla-like faces were flat and unemotional. The four of them faced an African-American gentleman sitting behind a desk. He looked like he was in his early twenties, though with today’s advanced medicines and longevity treatments, he might well have been in his seventies or even his eighties. The Obovov-Hocksley Process for mitochondrial reenergizing had been a boon to everyone, including, most of all, BioTrust, its developers in the first place. The company’s enslaved assets were as perpetually young and fit as everyone else in this Restored Era.

Naturally, perpetual youth had helped BioTrust’s lobbying in the Restored Congress considerably, resulting in any number of political and moral changes from the long-ago Twentieth Century.

“Mr. Pastur,” the executive said. A legend on the screen identified him as Ronald Gedden, a director of the brokerage firm to which the Pasturs were now in debt. “Please be aware that this is being recorded for our protection as well as your own. I ask you formally: can either you or your spouse, Mrs. Pastur, pay the $113,578.52 you owe my firm?”

Beside Gedden stood an equally, and perhaps as deceptively, young blond woman in a tight blue business suit. The screen’s legend identified her as Dr. Marie Childs. She was with BioTrust.

She was in Human Acquisitions. Tracy’s mouth was dry.

Jeff Pastur looked around wildly. He attempted to stand, but one of the gorillas put a thick hand on his shoulder to keep him in his seat. Erica Pastur began to sob. She was still holding her husband’s arm.

“Please, Mr. Pastur, Mrs. Pastur. We need an answer from at least one of you.”

“Go to hell!” the indebted man screamed and tried to stand again, this time with more violence. It was as futile as before. Public enforcers were nothing if not formidable.

Gedden glanced at Dr. Childs, and she nodded. They both projected the same manner of professional corporate sympathy on their faces, neither too sad nor too completely detached.

“We acknowledge that response as a negative,” Gedden said. He touched a touch-sensitive point on his computer screen, inputting this data. “Therefore, seeing that neither you nor your wife . . .”

“Jeffrey and Erica Pastur,” Childs said, interrupting. “Class-B Citizens under the Restored Code.”

She smiled at Gedden. “I’m sorry, that was for the record. Please, Ron, go on. You’re doing fine.”

“It’s my first time,” he admitted, chuckling. “Thank you. Ah hmm, well, as I was saying, seeing that neither you nor your wife can pay the owed debt of $113,578.52 to my firm, we now call upon the provisions of the Forty-Third Amendment, Section Twelve, and hereby claim your bodies in restitution.”

He looked again at Childs. She nodded.

“I, Marie Childs, a Class-A Citizen, hereby witness this procedure.”

“No . . no,” Erica Pastur said, screeching. “You can’t do this . . you can’t do this!”

“The best thing is,” Childs said, ignoring the outburst, “with this updated software, the contracts now complete themselves. All you need to do is add your witness statement, and it’s done.”

“That’s really neat,” the broker replied. “That’ll save a lot of work.”

“It’s a big improvement over the last model, let me tell you,” Childs said, agreeing. The Pasturs were still struggling in the grip of their respective enforcers.

“I, Ronald Gedden, a Class-A Citizen, hereby witness this procedure.” He then tapped the screen.

Bing! Two sets of contracts instantly emerged from the printer, both as neat as pins.

The two executives glanced over the paperwork, then Childs nodded at the enforcers. “Give them the injections, please.” Each of the gorillas had an injector in his free hand. Jeff received his shot first, in the neck. Erica got hers a moment later, in the same location. The married couple went still immediately.

After about ten seconds they both started to smile.

The recording froze on those smiles suspended in mid-air. Then it vanished.

Tracy looked up again at the girl in the middle cubicle.

“My serial number is BY-73,” the former Mrs. Pastur repeated gleefully. “How may I see to your pleasure?” She was all smiles and happiness, in dramatic contrast to the record of her enslavement.

“But is she truly happy?” Tracy asked softly. She wasn’t aware that she had spoken out loud until Casado answered her.

“Naturally, Ms. Mouston. All our dollygirls are happy with their condition. Happiness is, in fact, one of their defining traits.”

Tracy breathed deeply. “I’d like to see more blondes, please.”

Casado obliged her. For the next hour the BioTrust representative showed Tracy a bevy of beautiful, golden-haired models. Their lovely figures flickered in and out of the three display cubicles one after the other, sliding from left to right as each was highlighted in her turn. Tracy was amazed with the variety available. She quickly lost all track of them, the girls’ singular and gorgeous faces nonetheless blurring in her beauty-inundated vision. There were short dollygirls. There were tall dollygirls. There were buxom models. There were demure models. Dollygirls with long, flowing hair were followed by dollygirls with short and elfin locks. Aristocratic beauties, platinum divas, beach princesses: all were there for Tracy’s immediate purchase. Casado showed his skill and eye for costumery. His fingers danced through the overhead display, and as a result umbrella-holding Gibson girls, Catholic schoolgirl harlots, sweet Daisy Mays, biker sluts, French maids, army brats, flappers, gypsies, gun molls, and more showed their stuff within the transparent partitions. Tracy grew dizzy. The figures were put through their paces. One dollygirl stood in profile to Tracy with her breasts and ass thrust out in different directions. Another lay partially on the floor of her partition, back and shoulders to flat and holding the rest of herself upward.

Tracy’s flesh was warm all over, so warm it felt like her skin might burst.

Hundreds of girls, hundreds of positions. They went to their knees before Tracy in the classic position of slave offering, legs spread and arms held high. Others held their backs to Tracy, crouching on their heels and displaying their perfect buttocks to her. Still others lay horizontally within their booths, turning from side to side and revealing every aspect of their smooth and gorgeous forms. It was quite a show.

She would occasionally check the backgrounds of those dollygirls that most closely reminded her of . . of . . of someone she knew. Their stories were all different; their stories were really all the same. The causes were manifold—debt, criminal prosecution, political confiscation—but the results were identical.

They were made into dollygirls. They were made to serve others.

Tracy’s hands shook.

The room grew very hot. The faces of the enslaved women began to merge together. Tracy visualized what their lives were like. They had to serve. They lived to serve. They had to be obedient. Nothing else was demanded of them save perfect obedience. Tracy could see a blond dollygirl waiting for her master (No, she thought. Her Master, and shivered) to come home from a busy day. She could see this helpless, helpless girl pressing herself against her owner’s body, feel his hands over her body, those hands stripping her, making her wet, making her want him. She would undress him. She would remove his clothes one at a time until both of them were naked. He would hold her. He would take her to the bedroom and put her on the bed. She would feel his heat. She would feel her heat. She would feel—could feel now—her muscles clenching around his hardness. She would lick him, kiss him, fuck him.

God, the warmth, the warmth, Tracy thought. It would be so good . . . it would be so wonderful . . . . The caressing. The skillful use of her tongue. The surrender of herself to a man’s—her Master’s—pleasure. The dollygirl would feel her orgasm building, knowing she could only come at his command.

She could see it. She could see their hips grinding together. She could feel the penetration, the deep, deep penetration not only of her body but of her soul. And the climax would be so good, so utterly complete. It would complete her, complete this lowly dollygirl, remind her that she was a nothing but a mere and submissive dollygirl, and it would be beautiful, beautiful, so very . . . .

Casado touched her arm. Tracy jumped.

“Are you all right, Ms. Mouston?” he asked. He waved his hand through the display. The succession of blondes—and think! these were only the blondes, there were brunettes, redheads, and so on still to go through . . . an endless progression of beauty!—halted. Tracy suddenly felt sick to her stomach.

“May we speak privately, Ms. Mouston?” he asked.

He was no longer smiling.

Leave? Tracy thought. But he hasn’t finished using me . . her yet. Then she caught the look in Casado’s eye, and she meekly agreed to go with him. Her stomach was churning. She felt unsatisfied.

They took the elevator again. A few minutes later they were settled in Casado’s office sitting across from one another as he sat at his desk. It was a very large and well-furnished office for a mere salesperson, in her opinion.

“Ms. Mouston,” Casado began. He looked straight across at Tracy. “Ms. Mouston, I feel as if you’ve come to us today under false pretences.” He had an unreadable expression on his face.

Tracy’s cheeks grew warm, almost as warm as her pussy had been back in the display room.

“I . . I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” she said, flustered. “I’m not here under . . under false pretences!”

“But you are, ma’am. Of course you are.” Casado leaned back in his chair. It was a nice chair.

It was a nice office, high up in the Dollygirls, Inc. building. It was a corner office. The window on the south side filled the entire wall. “Tell me, honestly, Ms. Mouston. You have no real interest in purchasing a dollygirl today, do you?”

Tracy’s mouth opened but nothing came out. She flushed again, and then her lips began to tremble.

She felt the first hint of tears in her eyes. He was absolutely right, of course.

She really didn’t want to buy a dollygirl. She never had.

“No,” Casado said, confirming his own opinion. “You don’t act like a customer. You don’t feel like a customer.” He smiled gently then. “I’ve been in the business a long time, Ms. Mouston, and I know. You have no desire whatsoever to own a dollygirl. That’s as plain as the nose on your pretty face.”

He hunched forward again and tapped his fingers against his large and impressive desk.

Tracy’s expression was answer enough.

“So, that’s that, then,” he said. “I have to ask, now, why precisely are you here, Ms. Mouston?”

Tracy said nothing for a long moment. Her throat didn’t seem to want to work. Her hands clenched the armrests of her chair nervously and then let go, all without any conscious act on her part. She couldn’t meet Casado’s eyes. She looked down, an array of unfamiliar emotions passing through her mind and stomach. She couldn’t say it. She wouldn’t say it. It was impossible to say, save perhaps only in the privacy of her own thoughts. Tracy made up her mind to give some excuse and leave.

And then Casado said something that changed everything, forever.

“You have no desire to own a sex slave,” he repeated. Then, “You want to be a sex slave, don’t you?”

Tracy gasped and looked up. How dare you!? she wanted to scream. How can you say that, you evil, evil man!? And then she caught the perception on his face, the look of non-surprise, as if he knew exactly what was on her mind and what she wanted to say, and she realized abruptly that she was going to do it. She was going to say it.

For the first time in her life, she was going to admit it to someone else.

In a way, it was something of a relief.

“Yes. I . .” She stopped. She closed her eyes. She tried again. “I . . want . . to be a dollygirl.”

There. Finally, finally. It was out. Tracy immediately went flush. Oh my God, she thought. What have I done? What have I done? She put her hands to her face and started to cry weakly.

Casado, a gentleman, handed her his handkerchief. He then brought his hands together and steepled his index fingers thoughtfully and waited as Tracy worked to bring her emotions back under check. He took his time responding and spoke only when he saw that Tracy was again listening to him.

“You realize, Ms. Mouston, that in the normal course of things, the dollygirling procedure is a punitive measure?”

She looked down again. “Yes, I know,” she said softly.

Casado slowly unfolded his hands. He adjusted his seat and turned to sit at an angle to her.

He said something that surprised her again. “You aren’t the first woman to make this admission, you know.”

That got Tracy’s attention. She looked up, startled, and he nodded.

“Yes. Almost from the beginning we’ve had volunteers,” he went on, speaking casually. “In both companies, in fact, in Sissyboys as well as Dollygirls, Inc. Not many, but a certain percentage each year. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Ms. Mouston.”

She sniffed indignantly. “Of course there is!” she sobbed. “God, of course there is! Do you know what I’ve done? The things I’ve . . I’ve risked?”

She hadn’t expected him to respond, but he did. “I can guess. You’ve accumulated debt, haven’t you? Very large debts, yes?”

She nodded. “How did you know?”

“It fits the pattern. You’ve run with dangerous crowds, too, I imagine. Traveled alone. Practiced other ill-advised activities for a single woman in the Restored Era.”

“You . . you’ve been spying on me.”

“No,” he said simply. “Again, it just fits the pattern. On a subconscious level, you’ve been courting slavery, Ms. Mouston, that’s all. We’ve seen it before, many times. We’ve run statistical models.” He smiled. “We knew why you were here almost immediately. We had you spotted in the parking lot.”

“You arrogant bastard,” Tracy whispered. It was all she could do. “You smug son of a bitch.”

Casado shook his head. “Not at all, Ms. Mouston, Not at all. Please, don’t mistake my intent. I’m not trying to be cruel. I have nothing but the highest regard for you and your feelings. But I am legally required to give you this information. Your decision, if you make one, must be an informed one.”

Decision? Tracy thought.

Casado depressed his intercom key. “Send in a unit, please. It doesn’t matter which.”

While they were waiting, Casado handed Tracy a handkerchief. “I would recommend that for the remainder of this meeting you speak honestly and completely with me. I assure you, anything you say will be held in the strictest of confidence.” He smiled. “Would you care for something to drink?”

Tracy shook her head. “No . . no I . . .” She sobbed again. “This is so hard.”

Casado was commiserative. “Take your time,” he said. “How long have you known you were a submissive?”

I’m not, Tracy wanted to say. But he had asked her to speak honestly. “All my life,” she said quietly.

Casado looked at her. “Please, Ms. Mouston . . . I have to know. Why?”

“Why what?” she asked.

“Why are you a submissive? What is it about . . about being a dollygirl that fascinates you?”

Tracy shook her head. “I can’t . . I can’t put it into words . . .”

“Try. Please, try, Ms. Mouston . . Tracy, if I may.” She looked at him, and his eyes were kind.

It was hard to put into words. She had barely ever addressed the matter with herself, let alone others.

“Ever since the Restoration,” she began. “I’ve looked at the . . the dollygirls . . and envied them.” She looked up, almost accusingly, but Casado was nodding gently, compassionately, and so she went on.

“They’re so happy. They’re so . . so free.”

“But they’re not, Ms. Mouston,” Casado said, not understanding. “They are the exact opposite of free.”

“Not that way,” she said. “They don’t . . . they don’t have the responsibility anymore.” Casado looked confused, and so she continued, the words struggling out of her mouth. “People, and women especially, they have to be responsible. They have . . they have a responsibility imposed upon them . . by society, by their parents, by themselves, even. Especially by themselves, probably. They have to hold up a certain ideal. They have to live the way everyone expects them to live or they are judged bad.”

“Is that wrong, Ms. Mouston?”

There was a polite knock at the door. Casado patted Tracy’s hand and then went around to his desk again. “Come in.” A moment later a nude and absolutely stunning redhead of a dollygirl entered. At Casado’s direction, the beautiful woman posed beside the desk, gazing at Tracy with an open and radiant expression. One could see at a glance the palpable happiness in her face and demeanor.

She had no cares, worries, or responsibilities, save those of being absolutely beautiful and pleasing.

I’m jealous, Tracy realized. I’m jealous of a slave. Tracy shivered with the force of electric tingling in her sex.

Casado sat down. “Please, go on, Tracy. Please. What responsibility?”

“It’s not wrong,” she said, answering his previous question first. “People should be responsible. But sometimes . . . sometimes it’s a hardship.” She swallowed, then steeled herself and went on. “I’m talking about sex, really. Of being sexual. If a woman is too . . too ‘loose,’ as they say, she is condemned. She is called a slut. She is looked down upon. But a dollygirl . . .”

She stopped and thought. Casado waited patiently. The redheaded dollygirl was patience itself.

“They’re not judged. That is what makes them free. Because they are slaves, the duty of running their lives belongs to their owners, their . . their masters. They can be sexy, they can be sluts, they can be without any morals at all. They can do anything. They can be whatever their masters want them to be.”

Casado nodded slightly, but he still didn’t understand. Tracy could tell from the look on his face.

“A free woman can be anything she wants to be, too, but in the end she has to be responsible, if only to herself. She has to maintain a certain, oh, say decorum, or she is condemned, again, if only by herself. But a slave, all a slave has to be is be responsible to her master. She suffers no guilt, no restraint, no limits. She is free. She can be free to love, to be sexy, to be as . . as she needs to be, and no one, no one can ever condemn her for it.” Tracy wiped her eyes. “I can’t explain it any better than that.”

“All right,” Casado said thoughtfully. “All right.” He took a deep breath and sat for a long moment.

“Before we continue,” he said, “you should know thoroughly what the dollygirling process entails.”

Casado gestured toward the redhead. “This unit will tell us. What’s your name, girl?”

“I have no name, sir,” the dollygirl said. “My collar bears the designation FK-62.”

“FK-62, tell us about your dollygirling. Describe in your own words the procedures done to you.”

“Yes, sir!” Her smile, if anything, got even wider. She was excited, sexually, and very much so, by the command given her. According to the constant advertisements put out by Dollygirls, this was true for almost any command. Still, this order in particular seemed provocative, at least in Tracy’s limited experience. Dollygirls, she knew, were conditioned to find pleasure in submission and humiliation. She looked briefly at this enslaved girl’s tits. They were stiffening. The dollygirl’s thighs squirmed as well.

“As you know, sir, dollygirling is basically a two-stage process.” The nameless unit was silent for a moment obviously planning how best to proceed. “The first thing that was done to me, after the rights to my person were duly acquired by the company from the state corrections service, was that I was given an injection of the dollygirl drug.” She looked down and smiled again. She rubbed her behind vigorously, playfully. “I remember that I was most uncooperative. I didn’t want to become a dollygirl.”

She laughed delicately. Tracy’s own nipples stiffened at the soft and delightful sound.

“How silly I was! I started to feel better almost immediately. I felt warm and receptive and randy, so randy I forgot all about being resistant. The dollygirl agent really is a remarkable cocktail of exotic and trademarked chemicals. It promoted tissue growth in all my erogenous zones while simultaneously increasing my nerve sensitivity.” She lifted her hands to cup and squeeze her large, perky breasts.

“I increased a whole cup-size in under twelve hours. My labial folds became puffier, and my clit . . ooo, my clit became ever so permanently aroused.” The dollygirl shook with glee. Tracy’s mouth went dry. “The technicians supervising my procedure gave me a nice, fat dildo to play with. It was so nice. This was both a consideration on their part, because by that time I was really, really aching to have something stuffed up my soaking pussy, and a means to keep me occupied while my body changed.”

She beamed. “That dildo felt so good. I slid it in and out so many times, and gave it such a good squeezing, why I felt like I was going to break it, and . . .”

“Go on, dear,” Casado said. Tracy was sweating.

“Yes, sir! The second step in my dollygirling was the brain surgery. I was taken to a lab and put on a table with restraints for my arms and legs. The technicians put a helmet on top of my head and used an imaging scanner to map all the points in my brain the company needed to change. I could see everything on the big screen. It was exciting because they inserted another dildo inside me to keep me from being a nuisance. It was metal, and it had a very nice vibration.”

She closed her eyes in happy recollection of the sense-memory.

She sounds so ecstatic, Tracy thought. It sounds so horrible . . . and yet . . . and yet . . . .

“It was very quick,” the dollygirl continued. “I felt nothing at all while it was happening. I heard a few buzzing noises, and I saw some lights in my brain on the overhead panel go out, but that was it. When I was released from the straps, though, I didn’t need the dildo to keep me nice and respectful anymore.

“It was like . . .” The girl looked off into the distance thoughtfully.

“It was like opening my eyes for the first time in my life. I felt humble and submissive and, most of all, obedient. I knew that men owned me, and I wanted to be owned. I wanted to serve them.”

Casado put a hand up to stop her. He looked at Tracy.

“Just so we’re absolutely clear, Ms. Mouston, our units are not given lobotomies. That’s a vicious rumor spread by our competitors. Our dollygirls merely have their priorities redirected. For example, FK-62 . . .” he said, addressing the dollygirl, “. . . what is the product of nine thousand, one hundred, and sixty-two and four thousand, three-hundred, and, errr, twenty-three?”

“Thirty-nine million, six hundred and seven thousand, three hundred and twenty-six, sir,” the slave replied, hesitating not even a moment to reply.

“How long have you been a dollygirl, exactly?”

“Sir, I have been a commodity of Dollygirls, Inc. for exactly four years, seven months, two days, and . . .” She looked at the clock. “. . . seventeen minutes.”

“Where were you on February 7, two years ago?”

“I was being used for entertainment at Master Sinclair’s residence in Cyprus City. The exact coordinates are . . .”

“Stop. What is the atomic weight of cadmium?”

“One hundred twelve point four, sir.”

“What does the phrase ‘Death, be not proud’ mean to you?”

“Sir, those are the first words of a sonnet written by the English poet John Donne nearly four hundred and fifty years ago. The poem is a meditation on the ideas of death and salvation, with the central conceit being that death is really the beginning of an eternal life. Death, therefore, is a feeble enemy and should definitely not be full of pride.” Again, she hesitated not at all.

She smiled, inordinately pleased with herself to be of service to a man.

Casado looked significantly at Tracy.

“The average dollygirl comes to us with a less than standard education. The majority never even graduate from secondary school. The neural realignment frees the mind from self-imposed limitations.”

He stopped and tilted his head. “Ah. I begin to see what you meant, Ms. Mouston. Yes, I think. The limits imposed by proper society. Yes, I see. From that perspective, I suppose, our dollygirls are free.”

Tracy nodded in agreement. Casado went on.

“Our units have perfect recollection, heightened processing ability, and, after a remedial learning course, a background in a variety of arts and sciences.” He lifted his chin. “We want our products not only to be good in bed but to be of invaluable assistance to their owners in whatever endeavors they pursue.”

Tracy shuddered, picturing herself providing such helpful service to a future owner. The idea was so incredibly hot she felt like she was going to melt right there in her chair.

“Proceed with your story, FK-62.”

“Yes, sir. There’s very little left to say. I was taken to a training center, sat in a chair, and played 256 different solidoe tapes. I remember each and every one. They taught me everything I needed to know.” And she looked at Tracy. “And now I’m a dollygirl, ma’am. It’s great!”

Tracy flushed. Casado thanked the young woman—she, like everyone else now, would be a young woman for the next fifty or sixty years of her life—and sent her on her way.

He then twisted in his chair and spoke briefly to his computer. A moment later a set of papers emerged from the printer. Casado picked them up, examined them briefly, and then handed them to Tracy.

“What you’re holding is a legally binding contract for the sale of your person to Dollygirls, Inc. So long as it doesn’t leave this office, you may read it at your leisure.”

Tracy’s hands were shaking. “Why . . why can’t I take it home with me?”

“Publicity,” Casado explained. “While the contract is legal under the Forty-Third Amendment, which extends the state’s powers of eminent domain to citizens under special circumstances, we at BioTrust would prefer not to advertise the fact that individuals can and often do sell themselves to private corporations. While the public accepts the practice in regard to criminals and debtors, who have already forfeited their rights, our studies show they are not quite as open-minded about voluntary enslavement. They associate it with coercion.” He smiled. “We have public relations people working on the problem. In a few years, I’m sure it will become a more accepted lifestyle choice.”

Tracy looked over the document. It was detailed. The language was as obtuse as all legal contracts.

She looked at Casado helplessly.

“I can summarize it for you, if you’d like,” he offered. “Essentially, the contract recognizes you as the lawful owner of your own body. That’s where the Forty-Third Amendment comes in. As the owner of your own body, you have the recognized right to surrender that selfsame property to the state.”

Tracy made a concerted effort to hold her hands still. It was hard to read. “There’s no . . no money involved,” she observed after a moment.

“No,” Casado agreed. “When I say ‘sale,’ I mean the word only metaphorically. Really, it’s closer to a ‘donation,’ legally. Your person is donated to the state, and we, meaning the company, immediately assume the rights for that property. That’s where the only money changes hands. After all, it’s not as if you’ll have a need for it afterwards.” Tracy looked up at him sharply, but his face was neutral.

He went on.

“In practice, the moment you put your signature on that contract, with two Class-A citizens acting as witnesses, you become the property of Dollygirls, Inc. You become a dollygirl, in name if not in actuality. But since by law we are required to give you the dollygirl agent within a minute of your signing, that gray area won’t last long.” He tapped his fingernails against the polished surface of his desk, startling Tracy, who had gone back to reading the document. “With the agent in your system, you’ll be just another company unit, to be processed like any other.”

Tracy read a little further, shivering. Can I do this? she asked herself. No. This is just a dream.

She looked up at the executive.

“Do you . . do you think I’d make a good dollygirl?” she asked, a little meekly.

Casado looked at Tracy critically. She shivered, though the room remained quite warm.

He appeared to make a decision. “Stand up,” he said, in a tone of voice quite unlike his earlier easy-going, conversational manner. It, and the new look in his eyes, frightened Tracy, a little. “Now.”

Obeying an instinct which seemed to swell within her, Tracy put the contract down and got up from her chair. Casado told her where to stand. She hadn’t noticed the small, perfectly round white circle on the floor before. “Stand with your arms at your sides,” he commanded. “Spread your legs. More.”

Tracy did so, trembling.

Casado spoke to his computer and touched a series of panels. The white circle beneath Tracy lit up briefly. Something seemed to flash before her eyes, but that could’ve been just her imagination.

Casado turned about and smiled, suddenly all warm again.

“That’s all. Please, take your seat, Ms. Mouston.” The frightening, severe figure he had been a moment before completely disappeared, as if he had never been there at all. He was all smiles once more. He tapped yet another panel. Superimposed over blackness, a 3-D image of Tracy appeared on the screen. It was in the same basic position she had been in moments before.

“Remove clothing,” Casado said. For a second, Tracy thought he was speaking to her.

On the screen, the image of Tracy became naked. The real Tracy jumped in her seat involuntarily.

“Pivot.” The image rotated on the screen.

It was her! Right down to the mole on her left buttock, it was her!

“Kneel,” Casado said. The Tracy-figure knelt, spreading her knees wide and invitingly.

Tracy’s nipples tingled. She felt moist. At Casado’s direction, the image of her assumed a variety of other submissive postures. It was her, actually her on that screen, doing those raunchy things! Tracy bit her lips, unable or unwilling to say anything to stop him. Suppose he ordered her to go away?

Would she have the courage to come back? Did she really want to?

“Begin dollygirling sequence. Standard design.”

On the screen, Tracy’s image began to change. The breasts expanded (Tracy touched herself involuntarily). Her hair was cut. The blemishes were removed from her skin. Tracy considered herself to be a pretty woman, but the cosmetic alterations performed by the program made her extraordinary.

A beautiful, desirable dollygirl stared back at her from the solidoe.

Tracy shivered all over.

Casado returned his attention to the real Tracy Mouston sitting on the other side of his desk.

He summed up. “Yes, Ms. Mouston. I have to say that, as a professional, you would make an excellent, in fact, a most beautiful, dollygirl.” She flushed . Warmth just seemed to flow through her.

“You have already shown naturally submissive tendencies, which were already advanced since you came to us on your own with enslavement in mind. These tendencies would be rendered all the more powerful under the effects of our erogenous sensitization and brain surgery.”

More powerful, Tracy thought. Her sex tingled.

“So, in short, Ms. Mouston, the answer to your question is yes, and we at Dollygirls, Inc. would be glad in accepting you as a dollygirl, if and when you sign that contract.”

He left his desk and stood over her, a powerful, masculine figure. “Sign it,” he said, “and we would begin your processing at once.”

Do I, or don’t I? she thought. Do I, or don’t I? She shook. She put the papers back on the desk.

“I . . I can’t . . I can’t . . not now . . .”

Casado smiled and nodded. “Of course, Ms. Mouston. There’s no rush. Please, go home. Think about this. Consider your decision carefully.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “I don’t want to do you a disservice, Tracy. I truly don’t. I think you should go home and not come back. That’s what I think.”

“But you . . you just said . . .”

“I am a corporate officer for BioTrust, Unlimited, Tracy. It’s my job to make the offer. But I don’t think you should accept it. If it was me, I certainly wouldn’t accept it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I prefer to be in charge of my life. I am the captain of my own soul, as some poet said once, I believe.” He reached down and took Tracy’s hand in his. “I want you to know. You need to know. If you come back, if you sign that contract, that will be it. There will be no turning back. You will have surrendered yourself totally.” He smiled. “As you said, the responsibility would no longer be yours.”

He stood and helped her stand. He escorted her out of his office and toward the elevator.

“Goodbye, Ms. Mouston. Whatever you decide, we will not see each other again.”

The elevator doors opened. Tracy was about to go in, and she stopped. She turned to look back at Casado. “Thank you. Thank you for . . for putting up with me.”

“It was an honor and a privilege, Ms. Mouston. Can you make it home by yourself?’

“Oh, yes. Yes.” Her hand touched the elevator side and slid along it forlornly. “I have a lot to think about.” She looked sad.

Casado nodded. Tracy entered the car, and the doors closed. He went back to his office. He had a lot of work to do that day, but he didn’t do it. For a long time after the interview he just sat in his chair and looked out the window. She wanted to know, he thought. I hope she makes the right decision.

Would he ever know?

* * *

Some Weeks Later:

“The new unit is here, sir,” a voice from the air pronounced.

“Send her in,” Casado said. After a moment of thought, he stood up. Usually, he screened new dollygirls while remaining at his desk. For some reason that didn’t seem appropriate in this case.

The door slid open, and a blond, smiling, exquisitely beautiful girl walked in. There was a black collar about her throat. She wore black short-shorts and knee-high boots. She smiled brightly.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the unit said. “My serial number is RK-19. How may I see to your pleasure?”

“Come stand over here,” Casado ordered, indicating the space beside him. The dollygirl did so at once, assuming a position of respectful attention, hands politely held behind her back, eyes up and her head tilted slightly downwards in such a way so that even though she was nearly Casado’s own height, she seemed to be looking up at him. Dollygirls quickly mastered the mechanics of such subtle body language. Her naked skin shone. Her smile projected happiness, energy, and absolute obedience.

“What’s your name, girl?” Casado asked. He always started out that way.

They always answered the same way, too.

“I have no name, sir,” the newly finished dollygirl said. “My collar bears the designation RK-19.”

“Yes.” For the first time in a long time, Casado broke his pattern. He had to know.

“What was your name, RK-19?”

“Until I was acquired by Dollygirls, Inc., sir, my name was Tracy Mouston,” the dollygirl said promptly, exuberantly.

Casado nodded. “What do you remember of our meetings together? Do you remember our talk?”

“I remember everything, sir. Would you like me to describe it? I can provide a complete and verbatim transcript of everything we said to one another.” She sounded eager to start on such a project.

“That won’t be necessary,” Casado said. He leaned back on his desk. “Tell me: what do you know about curiosity and cats?”

“Those are the two elements of a proverb, ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’ The expression most likely originated in a short story written by O. Henry, ‘Schools and Schools,’ though there are antecedents as far back as the Sixteenth Century. Among the possible interpretations: people should mind their own business; excessive curiosity can be dangerous, in that it can drive one to make risky decisions; cats, being naturally snoopy creatures, deserve punishment for their excessive snooping; people too . . .”

“That’s enough,” Casado said. RK-19 promptly closed her mouth and smiled at the company officer.

A feeling of extreme well-being filled her heart at being able to so adequately satisfy his need for information. Along with that well-being was an upsurge in her body’s almost constant state of arousal.

She hoped the senior executive would deign to use her sexually. Her nipples hardened at the thought, and the moist heat of her pussy increased in intensity. She licked her lips, proclaiming her availability.

“For the remainder of this interview, your name is Tracy,” Casado directed. “What is your name?”

“My name is Tracy, sir,” the dollygirl answered. She lifted her beautiful, bouncy tits in his direction, but the company officer ignored the faint invitation. He asked her about the procedures she underwent.

Tracy described it all, in great detail. How she felt in those moments after she signed the contract. The blossoming heat in her loins as the dollygirl agent went to work. How she felt coming out of her brain surgery. Her tutoring. At his urging, she spared no detail.

Finally, he asked the question he had been saving for last. “Tracy, tell me. Was it worth it?”

She didn’t need him to clarify. She knew exactly what he wanted to know. “Oh, yes, yes, sir! Oh, very definitely, sir. The way I feel now . . . the sensations that take me when I’m used . . . the feelings of devotion and obedience . . . of knowing that I’m nothing but a humble slave, a slave girl . . . it’s wonderful, sir. Wonderful!” She shivered, no longer in fear or trepidation but excitement. “I love obeying. I love knowing I have to obey. I love having no choice but to obey. I love knowing that my entire life from now on will be one of service and pleasure . . . my owner’s pleasure and my pleasure in serving him or her. I love knowing that my life will be a sexual one, an overwhelmingly sexual one, a totally sexual one.” Her dollygirl smile grew wider. Casado knew it was a programmed reflex.

“I love knowing that I will be obedient because I must be obedient.”

“If you had the choice,” Casado asked, “would you choose not to be obedient?”

“No, sir. Not at all. I have no choice but to be obedient, but if I could choose, I would choose to be obedient. I would still choose to be a dollygirl.” She smiled blissfully. “Part of me wishes I could sign that contract over and over. If I had only known then what I know now . . . I would hesitate not at all! I would sign it a million times!” She clutched her enormous, naked breasts. “I love being a dollygirl!”

She looked like she was on the edge of rapture.

Casado decided to indulge her. He reached his hand out and stroked one of Tracy’s tits, once.

She climaxed immediately, explosively. Her entire body shuddered with the force of her orgasm, and she collapsed at the company officer’s feet, gasping for air, shaken to the very soul.

“I love being a dollygirl, master,” she whispered. Recovering, she bent down further and kissed Casado’s feet. “Thank you, sir. Thank you, master. Thank you for accepting my freedom and making me a dollygirl. I will remember you forever, my master . . . my first master.” She kissed him again.

“You’re welcome . . . RK-19. Get up.”

“Yes, sir,” the nameless dollygirl said at once. She climbed to her feet, breasts still heaving.

“You will be sold soon,” Casado said. “I wanted to see you one last time. Good-bye, dollygirl.”

“Good-bye, sir,” RK-19 said. “And thank you, sir. Thank you for everything.”

“It was nothing. I helped a submissive girl become a slave. It was nothing.”

“You helped a person achieve her dream, sir,” the dollygirl said. “That’s everything, sir. Everything.”

Casado nodded, thoughtfully. His computer chimed softly, reminding him of the time. He still had several more dollygirls to interview before his day was finished. “You are dismissed,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” RK-19, no longer a person, let alone a person who had achieved her lifelong dream, turned and walked away. The man, Casado, went back to his job. This time, they would never see each other again.

But that was all right. They were no longer important to one another.

Curiosity had been satisfied, for both of them.

End