The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Drone

11

“Is it really you, Alexandra? Is it, hidden deep inside there?”

Alex’s consciousness focused, like light narrowing to laser perfection. One moment everything was the dull, ever-present fuzziness of being a drone, and only a drone. The next, Alex was aware that her owner, the Countess Justine Xarusha, was asking her a question. [Attention Mode]. She was nodding before she had even fully grasped what was happening or where she was.

Justine leaned back and laughed.

“Then it’s true! You really are the Baroness Panara!” She laughed again, wicked delight written across her features. “I own Baroness Alexandra Panara. The Baroness Panara is my pleasure drone!”

The depraved aristocrat could barely keep her hands to herself in her excitement.

Alex’s eyes scanned without moving. She became aware that she was in a private tubeway car speeding down a narrow tunnel at ear-popping speed. The underside of Chiron City was honeycombed with such tubes, most of which had been reserved for the exclusive use of the Betan nobility but in recent times had been opened up to the common people. As a former member of that aristocratic group, Alex knew there were tubeway tunnels not on the official maps, secret channels that for one reason or another over the years had become “lost” and, hence, their use even more exclusive for the handful of nobles that knew about them. [Mistress Justine is escaping] Alex processed, upon realizing they were traveling down one of those tunnels. [She is making her getaway].

They were not alone in the car. With them was the Drad, Ovidia, flanked by two remaining Xenonic mercenaries. The spy was hunched over a portable console and reading. Occasionally, the creature tapped out something. The mercenaries sat staring forward, at attention, as always.

All of them were ignoring the countess and her drone.

“What’s it like, Alexandra?” Mistress Justine asked her. “Can you tell me?”

Alex shook her head miserably. No, she was still mute.

“This is almost worth the price I paid,” the Betan said. “All my plans to be consort of the sovereign, dashed to pieces by your interference.” She had looked cross for a moment, but then she smiled.

“But I still have you, Alexandra. Yes. I own the Baroness Alexandra Panara, and oh, the things I shall do to you! You’ll think you were in heaven compared to the hell I have in store for you now!”

The Drad closed its console. “We are approaching the end.”

Justine looked up and nodded. “You promised me an escape. Are you sure the ship is ready?”

“Definitely, countess. Most definitely. I always keep my promises.”

Justine returned to Alex. “The Drads have promised me a refuge. A new body, even.” Delicately, almost in a kindly way, she touched Alex’s cheek. “You ruined everything, my little doll, and don’t think I won’t make you pay me back. You’ll pay. You’ll most definitely pay.”

She tapped her cheek, then slapped it hard. Alex wanted to strangle her, but whatever power of independent mobility she had had seemed to have been used up. She could not move on her own.

The tubeway car stopped with a hiss. Outside the windows was darkness. The Xenonic mercenaries got up first as the door opened. One of them went out first to reconnoiter. Justine stood, and Alex, who had been sitting next to her, felt a programmed urge to go to her knees. She did so, looking up at her owner, who smiled. She leaned down.

“Is it terrible, Alexandra? Being a pleasure drone? Is it terrible?”

Alex nodded, then, to her surprise, shook her head. Justine laughed again. Alex was so confused. She dreaded the thought of being owned by Justine, yet the programming inside her was already heating her up at the thought. Mistress Justine was going to punish her! That would be bad, and yet so good!

The merc came back. Wedged between the two Xen, the party left the car. The secret tubeway tunnel had deposited them in a great open space. In that space was a medium-sized spacecraft, circular, about forty meters in diameter. A man in a yellow utilities uniform stood by an open hatch. He was green: his flesh was pitted and coarse, not human flesh at all but the soft emerald fibers of a plant. He was as bald as a cucumber, literally.

Alex recognized the captain as an Agron, a “neosentient” hybrid of human and plant DNA. Sap rather than blood ran through its veins, and although the specially bred creature could eat, it probably just photosynthesized, which had been one of the motives for the species’ creation in the first place. They had originally been used by the Solarians as a cheap labor force. Beings such as it were rare among the Centauri worlds, which had been populated by “old-human” protesters against the genetic exploitations practiced in Sol System. Aside from a few health improvements, most of the Alphans, Betans, and Proximates that made up the Three Systems were not all that dissimilar from people born three thousand years ago, before space flight. The Agron shook hands with the Drad and led them onboard its ship.

The ship was a converted Solarian warship, heavily modified. Alex wondered where they were that they could have landed so close to Chiron and the Sovereign of Beta Prime. She would probably go on wondering too. Nobody told pleasure drones anything. The Agron captain brought the party to a central cabin where several men, all more or less pure human in appearance, were waiting for them.

“When are we leaving?” Mistress Justine asked. The plant hybrid answered.

“I have a chemiprocessor connection in Prime Space Control left over from when the Solarians were in charge of the planet. It will be months yet before everything is fixed. I set up a relay so that when the traffic patterns are just right, word will be sent here. We’ll clear atmosphere without the major security forces being alerted, at least for a few minutes, more than long enough to use the ship’s transdrive.” The Agron brushed its hands over each, making a whooshing sound to indicate their perfect escape flight.

The Drad nodded. Justine raised her eyebrows.

“I am the Countess Justine Alicia Demetia zee Xarusha,” she said condescendingly. “You will address me in the future with more respect for my lineage.”

The hybrid captain looked at her, and then it laughed uproariously, little seeds flying out of its mouth instead of saliva. The rest of the crew laughed as well. Justine blushed.

“How dare you!” She made as if to slap the Agron captain, but the hybrid didn’t let her. It caught her hand as she tried to strike it and then pushed her. Another crewman—pirate, obviously—caught the countess, sneaked a quick kiss at her neck, then pushed her back. Alex had been forgotten apparently. She stood by the lounge wall ignored by everyone. She noticed from her viewpoint that one of the pirates was holding a sinister-looking pink package. The texture of the package was very, very familiar.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Justine said, raising her voice. She had regained her balance and was now surrounded by the menacing group of spacemen.

“Don’t you know?” Mistress Ovidia asked. “Can’t you guess?” The pirates closed in.

Justine looked this way and that, then at the Drad spy again. “You promised me refuge!”

“And I shall provide it,” Mistress Ovidia said. “An escape from all responsibility, in fact.” The creature gestured. The waiting pirate opened the package. Inside, of course, as Alex had anticipated, was a slaveskin. Justine saw the amorphous, pinkish shape and blanched white.

“No! NO!!” The aristocrat’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened in a terrified scream. “NO!!!”

“Yes,” Mistress Ovidia said. “You see, I have kept my promise. I have provided you with an escape. A total escape, not merely from your sovereign lord’s justice but also from the burden of ever having to make another sorry decision again. Or any decision, for that matter.”

“You . . you must be joking,” Justine said. She tried to back away, but there was nowhere to back away to. She and the Drad spy were surrounded. “I . . I have money . . connections.”

“Which are now entirely worthless,” the Drad said. “As such, we of the Drad no longer have a need for you,” it went on, smiling maliciously. “But fear not, Countess. I believe these . . . gentlemen here have in mind a new function you could perform.”

Justine just stared at the creature, eyes widening.

The Drad tilted its head questioningly, mockingly. “Well? Aren’t you going to thank me, countess?”

Justine instead cried out again and tried to run. The men prevented her, of course. They were an eclectic group of cutthroats. Most, Alex saw, were Betans as she had once been, but standing near the exits were the Drad’s remaining pair of Xenonic mercs, and the man in back with the long silver hair and flowing overcloak was obviously a philosopher-warrior of Plato’s World, from one of the more aggressive intellectual cults that thrived there, no doubt. Whatever their origins, they all looked extremely competent, and they gazed upon Justine without an iota of sympathy. Despite Ovidia’s words, Justine would not be escaping after all.

“No, please,” she cried. “Don’t turn me into a drone! Please, don’t turn me into a drone!”

“But why ever not?” Mistress Ovidia asked. “Would you begrudge these men the pleasure of your company?” Panic-stricken, Justine turned from side-to-side desperately, her eyes in constant motion seeking a way out and not finding one. Frantically, she tried to push her way past two of the pirates.

With almost indifferent strength they threw Justine back into their circle, where she collapsed, crying.

Alex looked on, utter indifference painted on her plastioid face. Yet inside she was torn. Despite everything, despite every indignity that had been inflicted upon her, the baroness-turned-pleasure drone found that she pitied Justine Xarusha. She knew too well what was in store for her former owner. As such, she could not find it in her heart to find happiness in Justine’s plight. Quite the opposite, in fact.

“You shouldn’t carry on this way, Countess,” the arrogant Drad spymaster said, still displaying mock sympathy. The creature stood over the aristocrat, putting hands to its hips. “You are fortunate. At least you will still be alive. That’s more than can be said for your erstwhile lover.”

“Please, please,” Justine begged. “Let me go. I’ll . . I’ll leave the Three Systems.” She shook her head desperately. “You’ll never hear from me again!”

Mistress Ovidia nodded. “On that point, we agree.” Justine sobbed hopelessly. “No one will ever hear from the Countess Justine zee Xarusha again. For soon she will no longer exist.”

The Drad leaned down. “In her place soon there will only be a soft and mindless puppet, a pleasure drone that will never give anyone the least cause to suspect she had been anyone important.”

The creature straightened. “At least until she fulfills whatever undercover purpose we of the Drad see fit to provide her.”

Alex saw the creature’s hand reach for a pouch. Withdrawn was a chemical injector filled with solution.

[Ah, Justine, Justine] Alex thought. [Now you’ll get the answer to your question].

It only made sense. The Drad already had one submissive slave spy in their stable, and her mission had been a success. Why not add another? The Drad Republic was nothing if not efficient. They now had a system for producing the perfect spies/assassins. Alex imagined that if they took care to keep Nax’s formula the secret that it was, the Drads would soon have a whole brothel full of drone spies at their beck and call. Inside, Alex sighed. It had only been with the greatest determination that she had managed not to kill Sovien. She didn’t think she would be able to muster that kind of willpower again.

“I don’t want to be a drone! I don’t want to be a drone!” Justine brought her hands to her face in terror. Ovidia laughed, and Alex wept with rage, unseen. No one deserved this. No one deserved this cruelty. Finally, the snow-haired Secundian stepped back to give the pirates room to move in.

“Hold her,” the creature ordered its men.

And then a strange thing happened. None of them moved. Not one of the men budged so much as a centimeter. Alex saw it took the Drad a moment for this fact to sink in. The creature looked around.

“Well? Hold her. I need to give her an injection before you suit her up.”

Again, none of the men moved.

Ovidia blinked in surprise.

[Oh my] Alex thought, a tentative rejoicing creeping through her chemiprocessor memory cells. [Oh my]. [They wouldn’t]. [They couldn’t]. Ovidia looked around at the pirates. Carefully, as a wary animal might suspect danger, sense that the very air around it had changed, Ovidia put the injector back in its pouch. “Gentlemen,” the creature began slowly, suspiciously. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Don’t you know?” the photosynthetic man said, repeating the line said earlier. “Can’t you guess?”

The room rumbled with low laughter. The Drad stiffened. Justine, still on the floor, was trembling, so caught up in her own fright Alex suspected she didn’t understand what was happening, not that it would make any difference for her. The man holding the one slavesuit handed it to a companion. From his package he drew forth a second skin, giving the vague thing a short flap to straighten it out. The two transparent forms lay side-by-side, half-on, half-off the floor, their empty feet pointing toward the two women. Ovidia took a sharp breath of air through the nose. It looked to the Xen bodyguards.

“You two,” the creature said, addressing them. “Defend me.”

Neither bodysuited mercenary moved. They remained as still as statues guarding the ways out.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ovidia asked furiously, whipping its stolen head from one to the other. “I have a contract!”

“If I may explain,” a voice said from the back, and the men parted as the long-haired Platonian stepped forward. “Ma’am,” he said, addressing Ovidia and bowing. “It seems a question of your identity in regard to your contract with these fine mercenaries has arisen, stemming from a conversation we shared earlier.” The Drad’s expression was priceless. Its mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

“What?” the spy sputtered finally.

The philosopher-warrior actually looked embarrassed, as if his disingenuousness was not totally apparent. “The crux of that conversation was this. The Xen did not like that you ordered their brother-clone’s death just to provide a cover for your intrigues. To them, it smacked of . . . abuse.”

“But . . their lives are mine!” Ovidia said angrily. “Their contract mandates that their lives are mine!”

“Yes, yes, of that there is no dispute,” the Platonian philosopher said, waving his hand as if to concede this point in a formal debate. “But, and this is the crucial thing, they didn’t appreciate it. The Xen don’t mind dying, you see. They just mind dying for no good reason.”

He smiled at Ovidia, and the creature recoiled angrily.

“Your cavalier attitude for their brother left them open to certain, how shall I put it? arguments that I proposed to them later, after the others and I, upon seeing how lovely you were, decided it would be in our best interests to acquire two slaveskins instead of just the one.”

“Two is better than one,” the green man said, adding its say. “Now my crew will get to enjoy three.”

“Yes, indubitably,” the Platonian agreed, nodding.

Ovidia took a step backward, carefully. Alex recognized the way its woman’s fists clenched, the way the muscles were bunching. Once, she too had been a martial artist.

“These Xen are sworn to obey and protect my person.”

“Yes, and that’s it,” the devious philosopher-warrior said. “That was the loophole the Xen wanted found, which I modestly pointed out. You see, you made that contract while you were in another body, another ‘shell,’ as I believe your people say.” He waved his hands about, highlighting the obvious.

“From a technical perspective, even you must admit, you are no longer the person you once were.”

“But that is . . that is absurd!” Ovidia declared. “I am Halan Ovidia III! Whatever body I wear is meaningless! I am who I am, always!”

The Platonian shrugged. “That is a thoughtful position, which under different circumstances I would enjoy debating with you. My people enjoy a good argument. But the fact is, your contract with these Xenonic mercenaries specifies the contract-holder as ‘Halan Ovidius III,’” he said, emphasizing the suffix change. “I admit, it’s a small issue, an unworthy consideration, in fact, but, then again, these Xen wanted to be convinced now, didn’t they?”

Ovidia nodded, once. The brain that he/she/it was must have been thinking rapidly. The creature came to a decision, a decision Alex imagined she might once have made. The Drad’s hips rolled suddenly, shifting the balance of its weight. It spun and attacked. The right leg had only begun to lift in the savage kick that would have decapitated the talkative Platonian, though, when he, equally as quickly, dropped to the floor and scissored one of his legs through the Drad’s, upsetting the creature’s stance.

Like Alex, he too must have noticed the groundwork for the attack. He rose, put his hands to the small of Ovidia’s back as the Drad stumbled, and brought the creature crashing to the floor, all within the blink of an eye. The philosopher-warrior then bounced back up holding the palm-sized particle pistol Ovidia had been hiding. Even with her improved drone senses, Alex missed the split-second disarming.

The Drad roared and tried to turn about, but the other pirates moved in. Alex noted the Xenonic mercenaries did not join them. They just turned and left the room quietly. Their contract was finished.

They no longer considered their employer to be a person anymore, in any sense of the word.

Seconds later both Ovidia and Justine were on their feet firmly held. The green-skinned Betan touched Ovidia’s neck with a stunner. There was a buzz, and the Secundian shivered in electric turmoil. The creature collapsed limply in the pirates’ arms, the strength drained from its stolen limbs.

“Wait,” Ovidia gasped somehow. The strength of will necessary must have been enormous. “Let’s . . talk . . about this. There is . . . still . . room . . . for negotiation.”

“There’s only thing we want,” the green man said. “And now we have it. You were foolish to come here with us, girl. Surely you knew that if we could get one slaveskin, we could as easily get two from those twice-cursed Solarian scum.” The pirate crew nodded, chuckling. Ovidia struggled futilely.

The philosopher-warrior spoke.

“I think perhaps this one secretly wanted to become a pleasure drone. That would explain her behavior with the Xen certainly. Some women do, my brethren and I have often conjectured.”

“No!” Ovidia yelled forcefully, and Alex believed it. She thought the Drad had come alone with these men was for the simple reason that it hadn’t thought of herself as a woman, as another potential victim of droning. It had thought of herself solely as a Drad, a transplantable brain only temporarily inhabiting a shell. Well, that was a mistake, and Alex rejoiced. Anyone not another Drad of Bungula Secundus, looking at Ovidia now, wouldn’t see a brain. He would see only a woman. And if the person looking happened to be a cutthroat pirate, he would see that lovely, arrogant, white-haired woman as a more than suitable subject for slaveskin droning, as Alex herself did.

[Aren’t you going to thank them, Ovidia?] she processed. Unlike Justine, she felt no sympathy for the Drad whatsoever. The men stripped the women quickly and efficiently. The Drad was incapable of putting up any resistance due to the stunner. Justine struggled, but she was no match for the larger men.

“Drone!” the Agron captain spoke sharply, and Alex’s sensors tuned to it at once. A rush of submissive pleasure ran through her at the masterful tone. “Come help hold your owner’s legs still.”

Alex complied. She took Justine’s legs by the ankles and held her. [I’m sorry, you godrotting bitch] she thought. [But at least soon you won’t care, one way or the other].

One of the Betans stood beside Alex and, holding an empty slavesuit, slipped the stocking legs over Justine’s twitching limbs. She cried out upon feeling the suit’s tingling, tuned to female flesh. The three of them working together, Alex, the Betan, and the plant man, had little difficulty encasing the soon-to-be ex-aristocrat. With the soft material covering her legs and arms, they pulled the stretchy hood over Justine’s head and then sealed the front with their fingers. She screamed the whole way through.

Completely ensheathed, the three then lowered the countess to the floor, where for a long second Justine just sat aghast on her rump with her pink-coated legs sticking out in front of her.

Her eyes were wide and painfully aware, as Alex could see through the transparent membrane. Her screams were almost completely muffled. Her mouth worked furiously, fogging the skin in front of her lips. As the suit began to warm and tighten, tighten and warm, Justine fell to her back. She twisted, trying to grab hold of the soft pinkish material shrinking around her, and failed. As Alex remembered attempting, Justine too tried to bite her way out. Again, though, the effort was totally wasted.

Ovidia, in the meantime, had regained a little kick. It took all the others, working together, to wrap the creature in a slavesuit. Again, Alex developed a grudging admiration for the strength of will displayed by the Drad, though it would soon no longer account for much. Stunned, naked, and held by two men, it still took the help of a third and fourth to get all four limbs inside the slaveskin. After that, though, the process became easier, and before too long both females were writhing on the floor, beginning their respective transformations.

Already to outside observation, there was little to distinguish them. One was a Betan noble. The other was a Drad spy. Soon, however, both would be nothing more than pleasure drones, abject playthings for men, just as Alex herself was. Equality achieved through Solarian bioengineering.

One of the men patted Alex on the ass. She turned and automatically began rubbing up against him.

[Ohh, Master!] she cried out inside, and for a few minutes she forgot all about Justine and Ovidia.

The pirates, disreputable though they may have been, were not Solarians. They were Centauri. They were not accustomed to witnessing a girl become a pleasure drone. Barely had Alex started providing Service to her use-Master when he stopped and joined the others in watching the change, spellbound.

Even Alex, disappointed as she was, mouth and pussy empty of fresh cum, found the process fascinating. For the first time, she was able to observe a droning from an outsider’s perspective.

It was terrifying, yet undeniably erotic.

By the time she started watching, the suits had constricted enough that both women were flat on their backs immobilized. Their breasts were obscenely shaped by the compressing film, not flattened as might have been expected but forced into jaunty peaks by the terrible and ongoing squeeze. Their arms and legs were likewise spread-eagled. Their hands were forced into fists, the slaveskin so tightly wrapped about their extremities they could not unbend even a single finger. Lines, or, rather, creases caused by the intense pressure, had formed at every joint and curve, giving the women the look of ancient mummies. Through the membrane, Alex could still see Justine and Ovidia’s faces. They were horribly deformed: lips and eyebrows squashed into blurry caricatures, eyes frozen open because there wasn’t enough room to close the lids, their cheeks pressed inhumanly flat by the restrictive film. They looked as if they had been shrink-wrapped in plastic, the air slowly drained to form a vacuum seal.

The two women quivered, though whether this motion was on account of their fright or the increasing stress of their shrinking casings Alex couldn’t tell. She empathized with what they must have been undergoing, and so when the stress creases slowly let out and disappeared, as the texture of the slavesuits began to grow bright and liquidy, the former baroness was relieved despite what she knew this next stage entailed.

The skins grew soft. The pressure let up. The lines crisscrossing the girls shrank from the ends inward, coming to a point and vanishing, leaving in their wake a smooth, level, yet increasingly oily consistency from top to bottom. The figures were able to move again, though slowly, as if they each expected the excruciating force to return at any moment. That they were entirely coated in what looked like red-dyed honey also had its hindering effects. They glistened. Their bodies shimmered like liquid glass.

The effect was beautiful. Alex was horrified.

The slaveskins slowly turned tacky and ran. The greasy liquid flowed evenly about them then, drawn to their bodies as if by magic. The transforming subjects thrashed about, pulling on their arms and legs as if trying to brush away the bubbles from a bath. It was futile. The gooey stuff stuck like glue. It was, truth to tell, worse than glue: it moved on its own like an oversized amoeba, a living creature of liquid plastic, enveloping first, then sticking fast. The liquid skins wrapped around their newly loosened fingers. It enshrouded their toes one by one. When the two women opened their mouths to cry out, the molten film formed a dent, then slipped oozingly down inside their bodies, as if they were swallowing molasses. Within a matter of minutes, the slavesuits were no longer suits. They were paint, thick, pinkish coatings of paint smeared over every centimeter of flesh of the two helpless figures, and inside.

Alex knew what came next. Justine and Ovidia began to writhe, not in pleasure yet but in pain as their hair was slowly drawn out strand by agonizing strand.

The first wisps appeared, an ivory buzz for the Drad, long black locks for the countess. Then, everywhere, especially at their crotches, every stray piece of hair, every artfully maintained bush. The strands rose magically from the liquid surface, appearing as if the hairs were the things holding still and it was the film rather sinking below them. The paint analogy became more pronounced. The women looked as if they had each carefully used decorative bodypaint, dying their skin but leaving their hair untouched. It was surreal, this contrast: artificially pink flesh, perfectly normal tresses and manes.

Soon after this the real pain started.

Even the pirates for a second or two were shocked.

On the floor, the women shook. They thrashed about, beating the floor with oozing hands. Drops flew, then slid inexorably back to the mother-mass. The bright pink film—brighter now because it was entirely melted—turned red, first in spots along the girls’ individual limbs, then in growing splotches, merging, as if the real skins of the women underneath were releasing blood into the exterior layer. Both Justine and Ovidia tensed up and arched their backs sharply, so sharply that it looked as if they were trying to snap themselves in twain. Only their feet and the backs of their heads touched the floor.

The men drew back, afraid to touch them.

Then, just as abruptly, the two oily figures slammed down to the floor and lay flat again. For Alex, this was the part that most interested her. This was the time in her transformation she had gone sensory dead, unable to see, hear, or feel anything. As much as a pleasure drone could, she leaned in to watch.

It was nothing short of amazing. Before her eyes, the Countess Justine zee Xarusha and the Drad spy Halan Ovidia III disappeared. Their sedately red-tinted faces, revealed again as the slavesuits had melted, the distorting pressure released, started to melt and soften into amorphousness.

It was as if they had been carved in soap and then dipped in hot water. It was as if busts of their heads had been made of sand and wind were blowing the pieces away, bit by bit. The change was not sudden; that would have been horrific, clumps of flesh eaten from the inside out. No, this was a slow process comparatively, a steady erosion of identity. As their “paint” dried, Justine and Ovidia simply melted away. Their cheekbones withdrew into themselves. Their lips shrank; their mouths became straight lines. Their noses grew flat, foreheads dull and indistinct. Simultaneously, their bodies began to soften and stretch, as if their very substance had been turned to rubber. All elements of uniqueness vanished. Fingerprints filled in, as did pores. Heights became uniform, figures likewise. Their hair, so painfully extracted earlier, sedately retracted back into their shifting forms, leaving behind a dry, smooth, and shiny plastioid skin that reflected the lights from the overhead displays. Where Justine and Ovidia had been minutes before, soon only two vague and scarcely feminine, life-size clumps of clay lay.

[Goodbye Justine] Alex processed. [Goodbye Ovidia, and good riddance].

As mesmerizing as the erasure had been, the “filling in” of drone characteristics was all-consuming. The two nameless mannequins became two nameless, extraordinarily attractive sex objects.

Their breasts expanded, first. Before the eyes of the assembled witnesses, the nearly flat chests ballooned, growing bigger, bigger, bigger! At the same time, the waists narrowed, their legs grew shapelier, the buttocks they were lying on became rounder and fleshier. Their lips similarly filled out, thickening into the soft and fleshy tools Alex knew would soon be wrapped about some pirate’s dick.

Golden nails surfaced on blank hands and feet. Their clits grew huge, their labial folds deliciously moist and puffy. The red skin faded and became pink again: a very bright, very artificial pink.

It was the faces that really captured attention, though.

The featureless countenances left behind by the identity erasure developed new distinctiveness. The chins lowered and sharpened. The hollow cheeks opened out, and modest new noses formed, each identical to the other. Alex’s eyes remained still, but her focus managed to shift from one face to the other. They were, she saw, the same: the same lips, the same ears, the same bald heads.

They had become the same face, equipped with the same perfect cock-sucking lips. It was same face Alex saw whenever she caught a glimpse of herself in a reflecting surface.

The drones-to-be’s breasts continued to grow. Their waists continued to shrink. Soon they were the same hourglass proportions that Alex herself knew so well. Limbs became supplier; abdomens grew tight.

The transformation was nearly complete, physically at least. Alex wondered what, if anything, of the women she had seen suited remained yet. If there was anything remaining, it would soon be gone. Programmed instructions from the viral chemiprocessor circuits would already be at work in them, she knew, setting parameters, testing, preparing the new drones for their upcoming lives of perpetual sex.

Alex herself burned sexually, and so she waited with annoyance as the two figures on the floor finished processing, knowing that when they were done, they would likely all be put in their proper places.

In the end, she did not have to wait long. An hour, no more. The pirates grew almost as impatient as Alex felt. One of them stroked Alex absently, and she pressed into him eagerly, kissing and sucking at his legs. Meanwhile, the two drones continued to gestate. Finally, after an interminable wait, the drones’ eyes opened. Twin sets of featureless, golden orbs stared blankly at the ceiling.

Alex sighed mentally. Two new pleasure drones had come into service.

“Finally,” one of the pirates said, mirroring Alex’s thinking. He rubbed his hands together.

“Yes,” the Platonian said, also looking eager, inappropriately so for an ascetic, Alex thought as well.

“Stand up,” the green-skinned Betan ordered the reclining drones. Of them all, it had to be the least interested, at least in the sexual use of the newly made automatons. Agrons were neuter.

As one the new drones gracefully climbed to their feet, towering with their new matching height. “Go stand with them,” the captain ordered Alex, and she did so, taking a position to their left.

The Agron turned its back to the drones for a long moment and then turned round again, as if wanting to view them without discrimination. Alex could well imagine the sight.

The three drones were indistinguishable in every way. If ordered to switch places without any one watching, there would have been no easy way to tell them apart. Such was the intention of the Solarian bioengineers. Any pleasure drone was like any other pleasure drone. [Except for me] Alex processed sadly. [Except for me].

The captain approached.

“Let’s see,” it said, lifting a finger and pointing. “You,” indicating the drone in the middle to Alex’s left, “used to be the Drad. And you,” pointing to the drone on the far right, “were once the Countess.”

Neither newly processed plastioid automaton spoke. Neither could, of course, nor ever would again.

It put green hands on the former Ovidia—the drone gasped soundlessly in mechanistic delight—and felt her up, patting the weight of her new breasts and the perkiness of her permanently engorged nipples.

The men snickered.

“I would say a change has come over this one,” the philosopher-warrior said. “A change for the better, I dare say.” He somberly held his hands close to his abdomen and interlaced the fingers.

“Definitely,” one of the other Betans said. He and another man began touching “Justine,” causing her to squirm too beneath their hands. Still another fellow started to feel Alex up—finally!—and petted her, causing her to respond just as spasmodically. It always came as such a surprise to Alex how indecently wonderful the touch of male hands on her body felt. Servicing Justine had been one thing, but there was nothing like the warmth and masculine energy of a male member probing her drone cunt.

Her use-Master bent her over so her fantastically large tits were easier to fondle. She clutched at him hungrily.

The pirates made “Ovidia” crawl along the floor on all fours. They had her lick the boots of everyone there. One of the Betans took it upon himself to spank her, hard, across the ass while another shouted at her, calling her “slut,” “whore,” and so on, at length. To a woman, these humiliations would have been effective. To a drone, though, they were meaningless, and it didn’t take the pirates long to realize this. Thereupon, they had the drones serve them as they were meant to serve men, first on their knees, then, not all at the same time, pressed against a bulkhead or a table with their legs spread. The pirates passed about liquor, and they made a celebration of their conquests, quickly becoming drunk. Although no one noticed—no one could notice—Alex grew upset. First deliberately, later through mischance, she only got to suck three cocks while her fellow drones were completely and repeatedly fucked. It was so unfair! The insobriety of the pirates, combined with the drones’ indistinguishable looks, caused confusion. Initially, the men only wanted to use the former Justine or the former Ovidia. Alex, the “old drone,” was employed only to suck and lick. Later, as the party wore on, and the pirates realized with drunken embarrassment that they were no longer sure which drone was which, distinctions such as these were put aside.

Nonetheless, as the living party favors were passed about, in the exchanges Alex was time after time only put to her knees. Her pussy howled in dismay as she watched how her new sister-drones got to mindlessly enjoy their repeated penetrations over and over. Such neglect was torture!

Eventually, the celebration wound down. The three drones cleaned up afterwards. Later still, since it no longer mattered anymore which was which, the pirates divvied the three drones up equally, each taking his respective turn with a sexdoll at a time in a separate cabin. There, Alex was at long last used to her satisfaction and beyond, not once but twice! Later, placed in a storage locker alongside the former countess and commissioner, she felt the ship’s engines ignite and its thrust as it left Beta Prime.

Once more, she realized, she was leaving home.

[What now?] the former baroness questioned. Nax was dead, as was the hapless Sovien. Justine, her former owner, stood beside her staring blankly at the wall in front of them, as did the spy Ovidia.

Everyone who knew that she was still conscious inside her drone body was gone, and already she could feel herself slipping away again, lapsing into the mindless bliss of being a drone, and nothing more than a drone, always. In a way, Alex welcomed that slippage.

It would be a comfort now, with her beloved Master Peter so far away.

[I miss you, my one, true Master] she thought.

The engines roared, lifting them high and far enough away for the tranship’s light envelope to form.

And, inside, Alex let herself dream . . of men . . of cocks . . and of Service.

Soon, there was nothing else.

. . . to be completed