The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Jeanette Parsons would have loved to belong to that social stratum that disdains price tags, ignores expense, and lives by the motto “money is no object.” She did not. Especially now that she had lost her job in an L.A. music store. “Sorry, babe,” her boss had said. “It’s the damn mp3’s.”

And the job hadn’t paid all that well to begin with. She had some in savings, but not enough to support her for very long in Los Angeles. Maybe, she thought, it was time to search for greener pastures, especially since, at age twenty-five, she had reluctantly concluded that the movie business showed no eagerness at all to make her a star. Six years in L.A. and very little to show for it. Jeanette began to look around and thought that maybe Florida would be a nice alternative. Similar climate (and she was fond of freshly-squeezed orange juice), opportunities to do some theater work, and a booming population that needed people to serve it. Maybe she’d fly to Orlando, she thought, and see what she could scare up there in the way of gainful employment.

She spent a couple of weeks selling off her assets, such as they were. Her car brought her a few thousand dollars, her desktop a few hundred, her furniture a couple of thousand more. Together with her savings she had, she calculated, enough to finance a two- or three-month long job hunt in Orlando. Getting there was the next problem.

Jeanette had kept her laptop, and she went online to scope out one-way airline fares. They were discouragingly expensive—more than five hundred bucks, coach, unless she made a twenty-one-day advance purchase, a delay that would eat into her savings. Even the cheapie carriers didn’t offer much improvement. But as she went on her third “Cheap Fares” search, a red bug popped up in the upper right corner of the screen: Click HERE for Cheapest Orlando Fare!

Okay, so why not? Jeanette clicked on the bug and got a popup screen. “Los Angeles to Orlando: SIXTEEN DOLLARS if you qualify!”

She rolled her eyes. Oh, brother. Sixteen dollars! But still, that was four hundred and ninety dollars less than the average one-way ticket, so she clicked the “more info” bar. That asked her to fill out a questionnaire. She started, and after name and address, it got a little, well, personal. But sixteen dollars . . .

Age: 25 Gender: F Married/single? S Involved? N

Nearest living relative: Jeanette paused. Then she typed in Sister, Mary Caudell, and Mary’s address back in Ontario. Not very near, at that. The page changed to a fill-in block and the question asked her to describe her relationship to her nearest living relative.

With a shrug, Jeanette typed, Not close. We have not seen each other for six years. I send her a Christmas card.

More irritating questions about her height, weight, general health, and so on. Entirely too nosy.

But for sixteen dollars . . .

The computer thought it over for a few seconds, then displayed a bright screen: Congratulations! You qualify for TransSky’s Introductory One-Way Rate of Sixteen Dollars ($16.00) Los Angeles/Orlando.

Well, how nice. Jeanette went through the rest of the reservations screen feeling better. She needed to be careful with her money, after all.

N-4 was an Operations Transform. In a previous life she had been Norma Chettle, but she had virtually no memories of that time. As Norma, she had worked for the IRS, and she retained her skills with numbers. “Sir,” she said to Mr. Gerrard, “this seems to be a good prospect.” She handed Gerrard the printout and stood at something resembling attention, a bespectacled, rather plain-faced woman of thirty-four, trim but not particularly attractive in her tailor-fitted gray uniform, her appearance remarkable only in that she wore a silver band around her head. It was a slender strip of shiny metal, with two round disks about the size of dimes on her temples. They flickered in shimmers of scarlet, as if small lights were shining through layers of ruby.

Gerrard, who was the sort of trim, tanned man who looked much the same between the ages of forty and sixty, looked through the documents. “Well spotted,” he said. “We’ll evaluate her when she arrives. Right now we need Sensual Transforms more than anything else. I hope she’s attractive and has an active libido.”

“She is of the correct age and career-aspiration profile, sir.”

“Well, we’ll see. How many does that give us in the pool?”

“One hundred and ninety-seven, sir.”

Gerrard nodded. “We should be able to cull sixty out of that pool. What’s our average on intake?”

“We are running at twenty-nine point twenty-six per cent, sir.”

“Well. That would give us how many out of 197?”

“Fifty-seven, sir.”

“That would be enough. Still, we have a couple of days left. We can probably hit the quota.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, N-4. Return to your station.”

Smoothly, with mechanical precision, N-4 turned on her heel and strode out of Gerrard’s office. He watched her go and ran over a few numbers in his own mind. Sixty out of, say, two hundred and five. That left 145 unsuitable candidates—girls who did, after all, have close living relatives, wide circles of friends, people who would miss them if they should drop out of sight. Or girls who were pleasant enough but who lacked the vital drive required. The pre-screening helped weed out the unsuitable candidates, of course, but even so, in the penultimate pool of candidates final screening always revealed a good many iffy ones, the ones they really couldn’t touch. So 145 possible rejects, tickets to Florida for each of them at the going average rate of $506.00, less sixteen dollars apiece . . . call it, oh, seventy-two thousand dollars. Set against that sixty new workers, each one happily serving the company for free, instead of an average wage-benefits package of maybe forty thousand a year. In the first year, then, a net savings to the company of . . . $2,323,800. Not too shabby.

Gerrard smiled to himself. Like N-4, like all the other employees of the company, he had a past life, too—although, as founder, sole owner, and president of the business, he did not have an altered personality or alphanumeric designation, nor did he wear the silver headband. Once he had been an innovator in supplying electronics and devices to NASA. He was an inventor. When he came up with the Resonance Chip, no one thought it had much potential. But here he was, not ten years later, a multimillionaire. Thank God for Internet sales, he thought. And for satisfied customers.

His company never left a customer unsatisfied.

The cab driver pulled up beside a building of dark, tempered glass and dazzling white concrete. TransSky, the sign above the entrance read. Jeanette got out as the cabby took her luggage from the trunk. “Is this the right place?” she asked, surprised. She had expected him to take her to LAX.

“Yes it is,” he said. After paying and tipping the driver, Jeanette turned to her pile of luggage—only to find that it had been gathered up by a gray-uniformed girl who looked like a teenager. She had efficiently stacked the bags on a cart.

“Which flight?” she asked brightly.

“Umn, Orlando,” Jeanette replied.

“Follow me, please!”

The teen wore a fetching gray outfit, tight-fitting and showing off a figure that in a few years would best be described as “lush.” Jeanette walked in her wake, surprised at the ambience: low lighting, mellow music, more like an upscale club than an airport. “I thought we’d be taking off from LAX,” Jeanette said.

Without breaking stride, the teen said, “Oh, no, we have our own field. Here we are. Check in, please, and I’ll take care of your luggage. What do you want to carry on?”

“I guess just my purse. You’re not going to lose my bags, are you?”

“TransSky has never lost a bag. Not one.”

“Oh.”

Jeanette crossed to a counter, where a smiling woman took her information, entered it into a computer, and printed out a boarding pass. “You have one hour and twenty-two minutes until your flight,” she said cheerfully. “Your gate is 2-A. Please enjoy the lounge until you hear the boarding call.”

“Thanks.”

She felt a little weird walking away from her bags and baggage, everything she had in the world, but you had to trust others sometimes, right? She followed a corridor to a series of passages and found a corridor to 2-A. At the far end she found not an airline gate, but a, well, lounge: small round tables, low light, and about twenty people sitting around drinking, laughing, and listening to the sleepy music. A handsome young guy, hardly older than the skyhop, greeted her. “Flight to Orlando? Certainly, Miss. Here, be seated, please. Are you alone? Yes, I see. What would you like to drink? It’s complimentary. I would suggest the Mimosa, it’s very good.”

Jeanette smiled. “I have a weakness for them,” she confessed. “Maybe just one.”

While she waited for the drink, she glanced around. Odd, every other passenger looked to be a woman, some a few years younger than she, some a few years older, all of them very attractive. There were one or two groups, but most of them, like her, sat alone at little round tables for one, sipping drinks. When her own glass came, she tasted it and smiled at the waiter. “Very good,” she said. And it was—a couple of ounces of cold OJ under first-class champagne, not iced (ice was an abomination in Mimosas, she thought) but frosty, crisp, and delicious. Despite her resolve, it was so good that she asked for a second one. By then she had a little bit of a buzz going. She felt kind of loose and giggly.

“Hi,” another woman said. “Mind if I sit here?”

Jeanette waved her glass grandly. “Please do. Are you going to Orlando, too?”

“Uh-huh.” The newcomer was very pretty—dark-haired, maybe raven-haired (the light made it difficult to tell). She seemed a bit shy and self-conscious. “I think I should have stayed on the East Coast, to tell you the truth. I gave myself a year to make it in the movies, and I’ve been here fifteen months, so—” she shrugged and smiled.

The waiter was there. “Another Mimosa for you,” he said, placing the drink before Jeanette. “And for you—a Bloody Mary, am I right?”

“Oh!” the new girl said. “Yes, I like them, but—”

“They are on the house,” the waiter said, and melted away.

“Very good drinks,” Jeanette said. “Hi. I’m Jeanette.”

“I’m Rose.” She giggled. “It’s a little early for me. But I do get nervous flying.”

“This will calm you down,” Jeanette assured her. “You wanted to be an actress too? So did I. No luck at all.”

“It’s hard to break in,” Rose agreed. The waiter appeared with the Bloody Mary and she thanked him. She took a sip. “Wow, this is strong! Good, though.” She took a deeper drink.

“I’ve been thinking it over,” Jeanette said, and a part of her wondered if she’d already had too much alcohol. “You know what I think? I think you and I couldn’t make it in the movies in a thousand years. We’re not plastic, you know?”

Rose nodded. “You are so right. My God, I’ve seen these starlets and they have like zero personality.”

“Zero,” agreed Jeanette. “Absolutely, Rose. They have nose jobs and boob jobs and ass jobs, and what’s underneath? No personality!”

“They don’t feel things,” Rose supplied.

“They are so unfeeling!” Jeanette frowned a little, gathering her thoughts. “I mean, once this guy I met wanted me to do like this porn movie, right?”

“Oh, God,” Rose said as she accepted a second Bloody Mary from the waiter. “You got those offers too, huh?”

“A goddam porn movie!” Jeanette said with a grin. “And it wasn’t even on film, you know, just a goddam ditig—digita—DVD thing. And he was telling me all this bullshit, how great I’d be and all. And I said ‘No, thanks.’” She waved her glass. “I mean, a love scene in a legitimate movie, that’s one thing. I’d do a nude scene if the script called for it, I mean. If it was, you know—”

“Justified,” Rose suggested.

“Justified,” Jeanette agreed. “But to screw some schlub on screen? Listen, when I make love, I don’t screw around, you know? I mean, I commit first. I have to have some feeling for the guy first, or nothing doing, you know?”

“I know what you mean,” Rose said. “I don’t know how many guys wanted me to do those quickie porn shoots. And for no money!”

“I know, like five hundred bucks or something! Well, fuck them!”

“Fuck ‘em all!” agreed Rose, and they clinked, Jeanette’s fourth Mimosa tinging against the rim of Rose’s third Bloody Mary.

Jeanette felt pleasantly floaty when a bevy of gray-uniformed airline employees appeared, holding clipboards, and began calling names. They summoned Rose away, and a moment later another one called Jeanette. She got up, a bit unsteadily, and followed the uniformed woman into a little cubicle of a room. “Good afternoon, Miss Parsons,” the woman said, indicating a chair.

Jeanette sat down, grateful for the support. “Hi,” she said, trying to keep a foolish smile off her face.

The woman, in her mid-forties with her hair in an old-fashioned bun, gave her a brief flicker of a return smile. “A few little questions and then we’ll clear you for boarding.”

“Okay.”

The questions at first were a lot like the ones on the computer—insisting on her telling all about her relationship with her sister (distant), with her three former lovers in L.A. (she’d lost track of all but Tony, and she wouldn’t mind losing track of him, the selfish pig), her arrangements in Orlando (an inexpensive hotel near the airport for the first few days, when she would be apartment-hunting), and so on. Then the questions took a kind of weird turn, though a muzzy Jeanette couldn’t quite put her finger on what was wrong with them. And for some reason she felt absurdly elevated and cheerful. Trusting, too. She answered every inquiry honestly and openly.

Was her natural hair color blonde? Well, no, sort of a light brown, but you know. How tall was she, exactly? She was exactly five feet six inches tall in her bare feet. And how much did she weigh? One hundred and fifteen pounds, all told. Bust? Thirty-four C. Natural. No implants, not like those goddam plastic actresses. Vaccinations? Flu shot last fall. This and that and the other. Did she enjoy sensory stimuli? Well, sure, who doesn’t? Did she reach orgasm quickly? Sometimes yes, sometimes no, you know how it is. With goddam Tony, she didn’t reach orgasm at all unless she reached down there and did a little stimulation while he was huffing away. Tony was too quick on the trigger and too selfish to help a girl off the hook afterward. But usually, no problems in that department.

Then the airline employee opened a door into a small room like a closet. “Please disrobe completely and step in here,” she said. “This is a health treatment.” She handed Jeanette some tanning goggles on an elastic and said, “Wear these. The treatment will only take a few minutes.”

With her head spinning, Jeanette undressed—“Underwear too,” the lady told her—and then stepped into the booth. She donned the goggles. She felt the woman’s palm between her thighs. “Stand with your feet a few inches apart. That’s good. Now hold that pose.”

Jeanette heard the door close, and then the walls lit up so brilliantly that she could dimly see the glare even through the nearly opaque goggles. She sensed a wonderful shimmering warmth on her body. It made her feel relaxed and calm. The light went out and the door opened. “Now please turn completely around. That’s right. Bend your arms and place both your hands on top of your head. Good. Hold that.” The door closed again and the wonderful radiance flooded over her body. She felt a little deprived when the lady said, “You can step out and get dressed now.”

“What was that?” Jeanette asked.

“Your skin has been sterilized,” the lady explained. “And your clothing has been treated to remove allergens and any stray disease-causing microorganisms. TransSky works to prevent the spread of colds on their flights.”

“Oh.” It made sense. Didn’t it? Jeanette got dressed and then the lady led her out, seated her again—oh, good, another Mimosa was waiting—and the lady called someone else’s name.

The passengers eventually trooped down the jetway and aboard an airplane. Once again Jeanette experienced a disorienting moment of surprise. The seats all looked like first-class—wide, with plenty of leg room. In fact, there was only one central aisle, with one row of seating on either side. Maybe fifty, sixty seats in all on a plane built for two hundred. Beautiful flight attendants in trim, brief gray uniforms ushered her to her seat, on the left. She glanced at the window and saw outside an airport scene, another plane some distance away, men loading luggage into its belly. She glanced around and found that Rose was her across-the-aisle neighbor. “Hi again,” she said. Not black hair, but deep chestnut brown.

Rose gave her a kind of bleary return smile. “Hi. You get sterilized?”

Jeanette giggled. “Didn’t it feel wonderful?”

“These are what I call friendly skies,” Rose returned.

Everyone had been seated. A voice on the intercom said, “We will ask for your complete attention while we go over some safety rules. You will find a lap restraint on your seat. Please cross it over, left to right, and buckle yourself in. Pull on the strap to make sure the restraint is secure yet comfortable.” A chorus of clicks. “In the event of a loss of cabin pressure, the panels above your head will open and oxygen masks will descend, like this.”

A hiss and a clack, and the panel opened, allowing an orange plastic nose mask to dangle down on a spiral of clear tubing just in front of Jeanette’s face. All the other passengers’ masks had dropped at the same instant. “Please grasp your mask and place it over your nose and mouth, now.”

In the aisles the attendants were demonstrating. Funny, Jeanette thought. She’d never had to do this before. But she obediently placed the mask over her nose and mouth and looped the elastic over her head. She had to tug the two ends of the elastic at the side of the mask to make it fit snugly.

“Now take deep breaths,” the voice instructed.

Air, or oxygen, was hissing in the tube. It had a somewhat sweet scent, like just a lingering trace of perfume. Jeanette inhaled and felt a wave of loose, giddy pleasure sweep through her. It was most like the one time in her life when she did a couple of lines of really, really good coke.

“We will ask you to take ten very deep breaths. Follow me as I count.”

Someone coughed.

“If you have to cough, you’re not inhaling deeply enough. Ready now? Inhale. Hold it in. All right, exhale. Inhale again. Hold it in . . . ”

Before she had hit ten breaths, Jeanette was floating in her own world, dreamy and dizzy, happy and relaxed. She was only dimly aware of the masks retracting, the panels closing, the deep roar of the engines, the shuddering of the cabin. When the captain announced they were cruising at thirty-six thousand feet, she barely registered the information. The flight attendants were bustling in the aisle. One of them said, “I’m going to lean you back. You’ll be more comfortable.”

“Okay,” she murmured, noting with amused interest that her lips felt numb. As the attendant leaned over, Jeanette saw that the woman now wore a kind of tiara thing on her head, with two red jewels at her temples. She thought it looked nice. Unusual for a flight attendant, dis—distinctive, that was the word.

“Here you go. Just lie back, dear.” The seat reclined fully, like a bed. So soft, so comfortable. A few moments later, another attendant said, “I’m going to help you undress, dear.”

“Huh?” Oh, it was all right. The attendant was naked herself. So it was okay, then. Chuckling at her own clumsiness, Jeanette unbuckled her lap-strap and squirmed out of her clothes. She handed them to the attendant and then lay back completely nude. God, she felt good.

Another flight attendant. “I’m going to open your legs, dear. It will make it easier when we shave you.”

“Mm. Okay.”

The leg support split into a Y, and now she lay spreadeagled. A naked attendant knelt between her legs, put a warm wet towel on her pussy, then took it off and applied a mound of shaving cream. She felt the pleasant scrape, scrape. She shuddered a little with pleasure.

Another attendant clipped her hair, vacuumed up the clippings, and then fastened the lap-strap and the arm and leg restraints, elbows, wrists, knees, ankles. “Thank you,” Jeanette murmured. “I couldn’t have done that myself.”

Everything was a pleasant, soft-colored, dreamy, distant swirl. “I’m going to insert this into you, dear,” someone said, and she felt something slip smoothly, as though it had been coated with oil, first into her ass and then into her pussy. It felt wonderful. She felt her pussy contracting on the intrusive shape, molding to it, giving it a friendly welcoming squeeze. “Just a pinch, dear.” Another attendant gave her an injection in her arm, a tiny prickle, no pain. Jeanette felt her inhibitions crumbling.

“Now relax, dear. You’ll enjoy this.”

The device in her ass and pussy began to throb, not like a vibrator exactly, but a pulsating, regular, slow, tidal rhythm. Jeanette writhed, biting her lip. It felt fucking great. Dimly, she heard other girls around her gasping and moaning.

“Wh-what is it doing?” she asked, squirming as much as the restraints would allow her.

“It’s finding your natural chemistry and rhythms, dear. And making some small changes in your tissues, building them up, making them capable of continuous use. It won’t hurt.”

“Nnuhh,” said Jeanette. “It feels fuckin’ terrific.”

“Then relax and enjoy, dear.”

Oh, God, yeah. This, she thought, was the only way to fly.

N-4 stood patiently while Mr. Gerrard fucked S-14 doggy-style across his desk. S-14 was an experienced Sensual Transform. Normally she worked in the Imprinting Complex, but at least three times a week Mr. Gerrard would randomly summon one of the S series to his office to relieve his tensions. S-14 was twenty-nine and like all the Sensual Transforms, she had close-cropped hair (coppery red in this case), shapely breasts, magnificent legs, and a round, firm ass. She wore only the tiara, a silver band around her head just above her ears. Two glowing ruby pads at her temples flickered and flared with her waves of excitement. Her face, cradled on her folded arms, held an expression of deep, utterly contented pleasure. She hummed a little. As a rule, the S series did not speak intelligible words. They had no need for verbal communication. Gerrard shuddered in anticipation of his orgasm, reached down, and stabbed a button on the desk surface with a trembling forefinger.

The ruby lights at her temples flared brightly, and S-14 twitched and cooed as the device gave her a jolting, sudden whole-body orgasm. She threw her head back and hoarsely panted, “Mmm-uhhh! Ngyahhh-mmmm!” Gerrard pulled out of her, his limp cock dripping, and she instantly pushed herself up, turned, knelt, and cleaned his dick with her tongue and with a soft cloth, smiling ecstatically up into his face as she did so.

“Very good,” Gerrard said, tucking himself back in. “You may return to the Complex, S-14. Shower first, please.”

The nude girl bowed her head in submissive acceptance of his directions, then rose, turned gracefully, and walked away, the insides of her thighs glistening with trickling streaks of her own juices and Gerrard’s cum. “Yes, N-4?” Gerrard asked.

N-4 passed him a printout.

He scanned it. “Sixty subjects, all responding well,” he said. “Do we have full information on them all?”

“Yes, we do. Any emails directed to any of them will be diverted here for our manufactured responses. All telephone service has been cancelled. Mail delivery will be diverted and, eventually, discontinued. Everything is satisfactory.”

“Very good,” Gerrard said. “Very good indeed. Did you enjoy watching me fuck S-14?”

“I have no sexual feelings,” N-4 responded simply, with no trace of embarrassment.

“Do you miss them?”

“The question has no meaning.”

“Of course not. Keep me posted on the processing.”

“I will do so, sir.”

I don’t want to do this.

Jeanette frowned slightly at the irritating little voice in the back of her head. Of course she wanted this. She had been born for this. This was her destiny, her purpose in life.

There had been more needles. An attendant had knelt in front of her and had slowly taken the device out of her ass and pussy—oh, she missed it, though the attendant had leaned forward and had given her clit a chaste little peck of a kiss as though in apology. There had been massages, loving strokes of her breasts and pussy, making her squirm, making her come. There had been sprays of delightfully scented lubricating oil, there had been a distant, drowsy humming. A nude, lovely attendant had knelt beside her and had stroked her close-cropped head. “You are doing so well,” the attendant had crooned and had leaned forward to kiss her, lingeringly, on the mouth. It was all so nice.

“Now raise your head, sweet one,” the attendant whispered.

Her arms and legs were bound by the restraints at elbows, wrists, knees, and ankles, but her head was free. She raised it from the headrest. Across from her she saw the nude Rose lying back, her face absolutely blissful. Rose was wearing a silver ring around her head, and a round ruby-red light was flickering at her temple. Jeanette smiled. She looked so pretty, her breasts full even though she lay on her back, her coral-colored nipples erect with sensuality, glistening with the scented lubricant oil. “Rrroose,” Jeanette murmured.

Rose turned her head, still smiling. She licked her lips. “It’s so good,” she mouthed.

Then the attendant was fastening the silver band around Jeanette’s head. She felt the pressure of two round pads on her temples, left and right, and faintly she caught the reflections of red, flickering light. Jeanette felt all tension drain from her body, and she became deliciously sleepy.

Relax, relax, relax.

Yes, relax.

You enjoy serving. You were born to serve. You want nothing but to serve.

Well, of course. Like everyone. Born to serve, yes, she wanted to serve.

You love sex. You glory in the act of sex. You are an artist of sex.

Oh, yes. Oh, yes. She wished they would spray her again, massage her again. She wished she could come again and again and again.

Your body is being modified. You will be capable of constant sex. You need sex all the time. You want to serve sexually. You constantly hunger for sex.

That was nice. That was good. That was right.

You will forget your name. Your new designation will be J-201. You are J-201. You are a Sensual Transform. You are a being dedicated to sex. Your purpose is to serve.

The breath caught in Jeanette’s chest. What are they doing to me?

Shut up, little voice. Shut up. Shut up. This is good, this is right, this is what I was made for.

. . . you were made for. As much sex as you are capable of experiencing. In every variety. You have no inhibitions left, none at all. You will do everything with anyone. This will be your life. You will be happy.

Jean–Jeanel? Jenn? No, J-201, yes, J-201, tried to murmur, “I am happy,” but only a muted “Mumm mmm mmmm” came out. It was the last time she would ever attempt to speak.

She fell into delightfully decadent dreams.

Over the next few hours, several planes landed in Orlando, and from them more than a hundred groggy girls deplaned, still a little buzzed from the drinks they had enjoyed in the airport. None of them were clear on the details of the flight, or on how they had wound up on an entirely different carrier from the one they had reserved, though each was delighted that the trip had cost only sixteen dollars. They went about their business as they had planned. None of them would ever remember the name of TransSky in the future or wonder about the odd luck they had experienced with that airline.

However, although it stayed in the air for many hours (true, three of them were spent merely circling while the conditioning of its passengers was completed), the TransSky plane did not land in Orlando.

The airport where it did land lay in a pleasant broad valley, a place where there were no houses or shops or factories. It was a green land, surrounded by wooded, rolling hills. Six small buses rolled up on the tarmac, and a few moments later sixty young women all clad only in light-blue fabric slippers and simple white pullover smocks and one dozen similarly-attired flight attendants quietly boarded the buses. They rolled away. Except for the heavy dark tint on the windows, the vehicles might have been tourist buses.

The bus ride didn’t take long, no more than thirty minutes or so, but in that time the sun set, leaving the world bathed in a rosy afterglow. The buses passed through a gate in an unusually tall chain-link barrier studded every ten feet with signs warning ELECTRIFIED FENCE: DO NOT TOUCH. A quarter of a mile farther on, the buses pulled up on a broad concrete apron in front of an enormous, sprawling complex of buildings. Most of them were windowless. A few, off to the side, looked a bit like college dormitories. Between the buildings, the grounds were pleasantly landscaped with winding walkways, fountains, and small, park-like gardens. No signs anywhere. No hint of what the place was, or where it was.

In the early dusk, J-201 walked with the others, shod only in those fantastically comfortable, soft slippers, wearing only the loose white cotton smock. It chafed her and bothered her. She wanted to be absolutely nude, the way she should be, and she fretted a bit at the unwelcome touch of fabric on her bare skin. To her left R-97, formerly Rose, walked placidly. They might have been recruits in some weird army, with their buzz-cut hairstyles and their silver headgear. The warm flickering feeling of the pads on J-201’s temples reassured her and spoke to her, spoke in an inward voice that only she could hear (though all the other Transforms were receiving identical instructions):

Walk forward. Pass through the doors. Select the next available seat at the next available table.

She did, sliding onto a bench beside R-97. They stared calmly ahead as other Transforms filled the bench on the other side of the table. A moment later, a troupe of nude Service Transforms brought trays of food and drink. The stuff looked unappetizing: a bowl of gray mush, a tumbler of white liquid. None of the Sensual Transforms looked at the food with anything other than a kind of pleasant indifference.

Take nourishment.

J-201 ate and drank. The food was bland at best, the drink only a little better, faintly sweet and spicy. She knew that this was a scientifically-determined diet, fully balanced with all required vitamins, minerals, and nutrients and having exactly the right fiber content for her—though she didn’t know how she knew that, except the knowledge had somehow come with the headband she wore—and that from now on, every day of her life, she would eat two meals and would drink two liters and the amount of food would be precisely matched to the calories her body burned every day. She had no more decisions to make about food choice, none about dieting. It was all taken care of for her. It was so nice not to have to worry, not to be distracted from her purpose in life.

After the meal the new group of Transforms marched double-file to their dormitory. A Service Transform ushered them into a huge open shower room, where they stripped off the hateful smocks (the last vestige of clothing any of them would ever wear) and luxuriated in a long, warm, relaxing shower. Like all the others, J-201 marveled at the smooth feel of her newly-shaven pubic mound. Like all the others, she caressed her sex with a palm filled with a delightfully scented soap. They lovingly scrubbed each other’s backs. Teasingly, J-201 slipped her soap-filled hands over R-97’s tits and felt the hard press of excited nipples. R-97 responded by pressing her yielding, soft, slippery ass back into the hollow at the top of J-201’s thighs and the base of her belly. They rinsed, toweled dry, cleansed their teeth, and then marched in naked unison into the sleeping quarters. Their headbands let them know they had twelve hours of rest and recreation before beginning their first shift. They were free first to amuse themselves, and then they had to sleep. This was to be the pattern of their days from now on, every new day the same as the last: twelve hours of down time, relaxation, and sleep; ten hours of work; an hour for two meals; an hour of toning exercises and maintenance to make sure they remained in top physical condition for the delightful demands of their tasks.

The beds were huge, king-sized or even a bit larger, and three girls were assigned to each. To her joy, J-201 found herself ensconced on a cloud-soft mattress, in the billow of luxurious white sheets together with R-97 and with K-132, a girl with a stubble of dark red hair, an enticing spray of cute freckles across cheeks and the upper slopes of her perky breasts, and a pink tongue that could not refrain from licking her lips. They all began to cuddle at once. J-201 had never made love to a woman before, but she had no hesitation, no faint lingering shreds of inhibition: she simply felt compelled to please and be pleased. She had no worries, no fears: all disease organisms had been eliminated from her body, and none could ever attack her in the future. She was now incapable of being impregnated and could safely have sex with anyone, male or female. It made no sense to resist or refuse. Pleasure was her only goal and only purpose. She was made for sex, as were the others. That was their function as Sensual Transforms. She could not get enough, could not give enough, not ever.

Lovingly, caressing, gentle hands stroked breasts, asses, pubic mounds. Lips found lips, slipped to the throbbing veins in throats, down to the eager, swollen nipples, lower still.

K-132 lay on her back, her arms wrapped around J-201’s thighs as J-201 knelt above her, and K-132 gently pulled the other girl’s pussy down to that flickering, eager, talented tongue. J-201 cupped her own breast and guided the swollen, super-sensitive nipple into the sucking mouth of R-97. They shifted, a constellation of wanton abandon. They formed a triangle, mouth to pussy, mouth to pussy, mouth to pussy. J-201 lovingly sucked and licked and nibbled at R-97’s wet, slippery slit, pulling the engorged clit in between her lips, flicking her pointed tongue over it, as R-97 did the same to K-132, and K-132 passed the favor on to J-201. Fingers parted the beautiful frilled labia, sought the hot depths. Teasing tongues probed assholes. They rocked with orgasm after orgasm, each powerful, stunning, and still they wanted more. Their lovemaking was timeless, eternal. At some point, though, the headbands told them:

Now you will sleep.

Instantly obedient, they drifted into simultaneous unconsciousness in a tangled pose, limbs intertwined, lips parted, soft tongues on soft flesh.

And then it was morning.

Shower, then a breakfast identical to the dinner of the previous day. They brushed their teeth standing side by side, sixty buxom, naked women, already so eager to begin work that above the scent of peppermint-flavored toothpaste each of them could detect the musky aroma of avid pussies. Then they marched double-file to the finishing floor. They were not Operations or Tech Transforms; they were Sensual Transforms. They had their own job to do.

K-132 and thirty-nine others trooped off to other stations elsewhere. Among the remaining twenty, R-97 and J-201 were again neighbors. They went to their places in Imprinting Station 12.

Down the center of the floor ran a low padded platform. Forms had been placed on it for them: forms that exactly fitted their bodies. They knew—the headbands again—that they had to kneel, legs spread wide apart, and rest their torsos on the platform. The soft, yielding surface was not only molded to receive their tits and torsos, but was made of some delightfully soft type of memory foam. It felt pleasantly warm, and they settled happily into position, opening themselves wide. J-201, her head turned to the side, smiled at R-97, and she smiled back.

Behind them, a complex conveyor brought out twenty rocket-shaped vibrators, aimed right at their waiting slits. The array moved forward, toward the girls, and the vibrators extended. J-201 felt a misting spray of warming lubricant—so nice—on her spread and quivering pussy and then sighed as her first vibrator of the day parted her slit and nudged into her already-wet depths. The device was switched on—a fabulous humming vibration, making her writhe with pleasure. She heard the other girls gasping and cooing, and knew that each of the nineteen others had received her vibrator. The array began to pump, in and out, with the maddening buzz becoming ever stronger. J-201 heard R-97 give vent to a throaty “Ahhh . . . " and knew that the other girl had climaxed. J-201 reached out to grip her hand. She was so happy for R-97. A second later, a blinding orgasm slammed up from her pussy, making her buck and gasp and moan with pleasure.

Within half a minute, every single girl on the line had come to orgasm, and the vibrators shut off and then withdrew. Thanks to the information fed directly into her brain by her headband, J-201 knew they would be cleaned, packaged, and crated for distribution to sex-toy stores all around the world. She was so pleased. The girls had a ten-minute rest cycle, but none of them needed it. Each yearned for the next set of vibrators.

The second set came out on the conveyor belt, to the Transforms’ urgent whimpers of anticipation. An insatiably horny J-201 settled her knees, spread her thighs a little wider, and determined to do a good job.

N-4 brought to Gerrard the first vibrator that J-201 had processed and then left him alone at his desk. He turned it over and over in his hands, sniffed it, and caught the intoxicating aroma of pussy. It had not yet been cleaned, then. It was one of the very simple models, shaped not like a real penis, but rather more like a streamlined 1950s version of a rocket ship. But it was made of very soft, pliable, gel-like plastic. And it had within it his greatest invention, the Resonator chip.

Sensutech sex toys were revolutionizing sexuality.

And, not incidentally, coining money. Each Sensual Transform imprinted one device every twenty minutes, three an hour, thirty in a working day. Even the basic model retailed at a hundred dollars, fairly expensive for a sex toy but so far advanced beyond all the others that demand increased every day. Of every retail sale, Sensutech netted sixty per cent, except for direct factory orders, on which they netted seventy-five per cent of the normal marked-up retail price. That meant that J-201, for example, contributed to a minimum of $1800 in income every day. Since no Transform earned any salary at all, the manufacturing and overhead cost of maintaining the working staff accounted for less than two hundred dollars a day. Add in the materials costs, the inevitable breakage, and (more irritating with the retail outlets) employee theft, and the profit at the end of the day still was in excess of $1500. Thirty thousand for one section of Imprinters. And they had so many sections. . . .

Gerrard smiled at the report that N-4 had given him along with the vibrator. According to the feedback graphs, J-201’s initial orgasm on the Imprint line was impressively complete and full, more wrenching than any of her colleagues’. Each subsequent one had at least matched and, most of the time, had exceeded that one. Gerrard had been watching the new line of Sensual Transforms on closed-circuit, and he’d thought he had noticed something really special about the way the girl had come. He looked at the monitor again. All twenty of the girls were servicing more vibrators now, twitching and writhing, but, my God, J-201 was pumping hers, tightly holding the hand of the dark-haired girl next to her as she threw her head back, a grin of wild debauchery showing how much she was enjoying the act. The readout showed that she was doing fantastic things with her pussy muscles, a rippling, squeezing, demanding clutch of lewd passion. This girl possessed a great and unusual talent. Gerrard sensed that she would be going places with the company. Maybe put her in the dom line of the strap-on production team. She appeared to have some affection for the new, what was her designation, R-97. Yes, put J-201 in the Dildo Delighter strap-on, bend R-97 over in front of her, and see what sparks might fly.

Speaking of which . . .

“N-4,” Gerrard said into his intercom, “please come back in.”

The super-efficient woman strode through the door and stood before his desk.

“N-4,” Gerrard said, “you are an Operations Transform.”

“That is correct, sir.”

“You’ve been with the company since we began. You were one of the very first Operations Transforms.”

“Yes, sir. There were four of us. N-1 is now supervisor in the Unit Assembly Wing. N-2 is in charge of Employee Recruitment and Operations. N-3 is overseeing Sales and Distribution. And I am your personal assistant.”

Gerrard nodded. “And as an Operations Transform, part of your conditioning involved the sacrifice of sexual feelings.”

“Yes, sir. Sex is a distraction for an Operations Transform.”

“Remove your clothing, N-4.”

With mindless obedience, N-4 quickly, efficiently stripped—there was nothing of the temptress in her movements—and then stood naked before Gerrard. She wasn’t fat, and she wasn’t ugly. She simply was not beautiful. Just average, an average build, though excellent for a thirty-four-year-old woman, looking more like the body of a twenty-year-old. N-4 possessed an an average face, devoid of playfulness, invitation, or enticement. Though she had all the right equipment, she tempted Gerrard not at all.

He handed her the vibrator. “Sit in the chair, N-4.”

She took the leather armchair across from his desk.

“Switch the vibrator on.”

It began to hum.

“Now stroke your pussy with the tip, slowly.”

“Yes, sir.” She opened her knees enough to admit the tip of the vibrator and did as she had been told.

Again, the movements had nothing but efficiency behind them. Like all Transforms, N-4 was permanently depilated, with a gleaming, bare pubic mound. The pointed tip of the buzzing vibrator passed up and down, up and down, regular as the sing of an old-fashioned clock pendulum.

“Do you feel anything?”

“I feel the physical sensation of vibration, sir.”

“Put the shaft inside you, N-4.”

“Yes, sir.”

N-4 shifted her grip and pressed the nose of the vibrator into her slit. She took a deep breath. “Permission to spread my legs, sir?”

“Granted.”

Leaning back, thrusting her ass forward in the chair, N-4 threw her thighs across the chair arms, opening herself. She began to fuck herself with the vibrator, gasping. “Oh. . . . .”

“Now do you feel anything, N-4?”

“Yes—yes, sir. A very pleasant tingling—a warm feeling in my clitoris, sir. And other throbbing, warm sensations inside me—” her hand began to move faster, faster.

“That would be your G-spot, I expect,” Gerrard said.

“Oh. Oh, yes, sir, I think you are correct, sir. Yes, sir, I feel it, sir!”

And then she threw back her head and screamed. Her breasts flushed pink; her areolas suddenly puffed, obscuring the fact that her nipples were fully erect.

Gerrard smiled. “Very good, N-4. You may dress and return to work now.”

“Th—thank you—s-sir.”

“And let me have the vibrator, please.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

Gerrard smiled. “I’ll give it back to you later, N-4. You can have it to keep in your dormitory as a souvenir. You may amuse yourself with it in your down time. Don’t let it become a distraction during work, though.”

“Oh, thank you, sir. I won’t let it distract me, sir. Thank you.”

Gerrard watched her dress and go back to her office. He looked at the glistening shaft of the now-silent vibrator. If J-201 was that good—if her recorded orgasm could Resonate so much that it made even a neutered, completely frigid Operations Transform, stripped of all ability to enjoy sex, come that hard, that enthusiastically, and lust for more—yes, the girl was headed for big things.

Every vibrator that she primed with an orgasm carried a recording of her intense feelings and licentious, shameless responses. Every woman who probed her own pussy with one of those vibrators would experience the same shattering, wonderful climax that J-201 had stored and would become a more eager, more abandoned, more satisfying woman. Gerrard knew he would have to make good use of this girl. She could prime Sensutech vibrators, dildos, anal beads, butt plugs, strap-ons, the whole line. And maybe, he thought, in a week or so he would call her up to his office and remind her that the real thing was good, too.

The world outside would gradually forget Jeanette Parsons. But J-201’s thrashing, gasping, fantastic orgasms, experienced and recorded by the dozens day after day after day, would go on and on, all around the world.

They would make her immortal.