The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Passing through BlissTech’s PleasureZone customs wasn’t pleasant. A claustrophobic set of airlocks, heavily guarded by zero-gee Sentinels—not the spacious luxury of suborbital first class that Dross’s money had bought.

If I hadn’t had the counterfeit specs for my modified, hardened CAT, when we were passed through to the customs desk, we would’ve been straight back on the suborbital and down to the surface. Or worse.

I noticed the I-toy wearers immediately—Gurney was oblivious. The woman in the immaculately pressed skirt with the Neuron at customs slid to one side of her desk and I saw the slightly bulging pantylines that indicated she’d played—more likely been forced to play—with an I-toy.

Maybe her good humor tipped me off instead.

“Thank you!” She said, smiling at Gurney and I, running her hands over her desk smoothly, her fingernails perfect, passing back our counterfeit official Datasocket, everything about her perfect.

“Everything is in order. Please proceed to sterilization. Enjoy your stay in the PleasureZone.” I could tell Gurney wanted to Stim her—but she’d probably Stim him first. I imagined pulling her string and hearing her say, “Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.” Over and over like the wretched doll she now was.

In an hour, by just paying close attention, I had made a rough calculation that more than one in two women running BlissTech orbital operations—the shuttles, the concessions, the gates, the maintenance, everything—were wearing the I-toy. Not only were they glowing with an inner blissful light, but they also were well-mannered and drop-dead gorgeous. Augmented breasts, slim, trim, muscular figures.

I told Gurney as we floated down the zero-gee tunnel to the guest quarters.

“That many?” I could see his internal calculations—almost hear his dismay at losing so many third-party Stim fucks to somebody else.

“What about the men?” He asked, a little shaken and trying to hide it.

“I’ll bet as many or more of them. It’s harder to tell—but I’ll bet the buff shuttle operator we met was wearing an I-toy.”

“How long do you think we have?” He asked.

“Probably until these dissolve,” I said, running my fingers over the SecondSkin face template that smoothed my facial features, “the counterfeiting is good and your buddy’s SecondSkin work is top-notch.”

Gurney smiled, his new sharp jaw lowering to show perfect teeth, saying, “I told you.”

“You did,” I replied. “Let’s stick together,” I said, holding his hand as we floated downward to the guest quarters, “I don’t want to pull down your pants for a check every time we’re separated. . . . Master.”

I smiled, knowing he’d get an erection from that—and without the Stim.

The room we were in had a wonderful view of the surface—a view that would improve as we arced through high orbit. It would’ve been fantastic if we could have seen the ground—the pollution was so bad I didn’t know how we breathed at all down there.

“Two-thirds gravity,” Gurney said, springing on the foam bedding.

“Yeah,” I said, looking at the PleasureZone brochure scrolling on the Player’s stage. Five clubs—the SinEma caught my eye, wraparound visuals from within a spherical stage. Six unique types of CAT entertainment in private and small group sessions—read orgy with strangers. Private dancers. Private massage. Private Stimming. SimBooths for the “ultimate aural oral experience.” The CATdrug lounge—with your choice of simulated heroin, opium, cocaine, ecstasy, LSD, mescaline, and fleshburn integration. And more.

PleasureZone was a cesspool of decadence—nothing special, really, like all the others—and perfect place to introduce the I-toy.

Using Connectivity while Gurney stared out the window at the grey and blue surface, I discovered that access to the highest ring on the outpost—the subsidiary that Gurney had identified—was connected by a zero-gee lift and a service conduit one grid over and two rings up.

It was a long ride to the top—and it might be our last if we didn’t get on the next suborbital, blast down to the surface, and stick our heads in some really heavy sand.

But we’d be found, eventually—our asses sticking up above the desert, exposed.

It was the way of these things—and I was almost broke.

—X—

An hour later I was sticking in my seat as Gurney floated off to get some drinks.

I was watching. Scrutinizing women and men, boys and girls, men and men, girls and girl—all the possible combinations—careening with one another across the large open space with an unbelievable view of the stars below through the over-engineered perspex.

They were dancing—a couple floating above was fucking through their skintight snaptex. Her body was arched backward—as was his—as he ground into her and her hands held onto his back while they spun slowly end over end in a gravfield, keeping them from floating out onto the dance floor.

Other couples were going at it, too, the bass pounding through the combined flesh that felt only pleasure and occasional release, augmented by a low-grade CAT Neuron with seduction protocols.

Gurney was horny when he returned with the drinks, dropping them into their molded plastic slots between us. I could see the bulge in his shorts.

“Look what I see,” he said, motioning up and to his right with his eyes.

An ultra-attractive blonde, hair pulled up and back so as not to be in the way, was coming onto a dark-haired girl. The blonde’s breasts floated freely, her nipples large and succulent—only a tight pair of snaptex surrounded her ass and dipped down around her upper legs to nest between them. The dark-haired girl wasn’t particularly stacked, but she had a young, tight body. The blonde was smiling, caressing the dark-haired woman’s breasts, reaching up under her sportstop to caress nipples that were hardening.

I saw something shift slightly in the blonde’s snaptex—an I-toy. It would’ve been erotic, but I knew how this episode ended: The blonde would be on top and the dark-haired girl wouldn’t be herself anymore.

In another moment, the blonde had dipped down in front of the dark-haired girl’s crotch and was rubbing and caressing and kneading like no tomorrow. Floating backwards, the dark-haired girl pulled at the blonde’s hair to stabilize herself and smiled—the blonde must’ve found a persuasive place to poke.

In a moment, the blonde was leading the dark-haired girl away and we were following them, bouncing discreetly across the dance floor after them, avoiding merging flesh and the occasional floating blob of unidentifiable sexual juices escaped from the snaptex and on their way into the filtration system.

Maybe I could save this girl—even though I had bigger fish to fry. Maybe with Gurney’s help.

But, probably not.