Mistress Aurora entered aseptic room D where her latest plaything was being kept. Standing at the farthest corner of the rectangular division, the mirrored black isolation chamber was a beauty to see. Its ovoid shape reminded anyone that looked at it of a sci-fi alien design you often see in Hollywood blockbusters but, unlike the fictional daydreams of screenwriters looking to get a buck, this sophisticated piece of tech was real and it had never failed her before.
Inside it, floating in a bubble of artificial amniotic fluid, metal tethers hooked to his temples, ass, and genitals, Subject Y dreamed of gorgeous oiled breasts, shiny boots, and tight pussies calling out to his tongue. He had a name once—at least, he thought he did. It started with a B...—Brad? Bob? Barry?—yet trying to evoke such memory was now as useless as walking around with an open umbrella on a scorching Summer’s day. His attention was needed for a higher purpose and she was it.
Mistress Aurora’s voice echoed within the bubble, a soft yet completely commanding tone that rewrote his neural pathways whenever he heard it. Most of the times, it was through recordings, harmonized collections of mantras layered upon one another until the confusing sounds plunged him in a perfect dissociative state. On joyful, yet too brief occasions, he would get the real deal, a personalized message to heighten the euphoria and desire for more brainwashing. This was one of them, and involuntary tears already rolled down his cheeks.
“Good morning, slave. Not too long now until your reprogramming is complete. Have you been thinking only the things I want you to think? Remember that any deviation from the course I have set for you will be met with scorn and worse, being deprived of my presence so be a good boy. I’ll be back sooner than you think to show you the true depths of slavery. Bye.”
Subject Y squirmed with delight at the promise of yet another verbal scrap. They were getting smaller and smaller each time, in direct contrast to his devotion and need to please. Mistress was a busy woman, she had an empire to run. He would learn and stay quiet, kneeling for her at every possible occasion, the yearning of being given the honor to suck the heels of her boots at least once in his lifetime. It would happen. It had to. Endorphins rushed in, keeping him sedated and happily compliant.
Mistress Aurora turned off the lights to let the darkness continue its conversion work. “Same time next week” she noted mentally before stepping out into the hallway to admire her ever-growing collection. One hundred and ninety-pods and counting. Life was good.