The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

One of the great perks of my unique job was the sheer number of places I got to visit. Queens and their Workers were locked into a single spot for life. Even my fellow Moons in the Guard only saw maybe twenty or thirty trade routes or border checkpoints in their career. The only ones who shared my depth of life experiences were those independent Moon merchants with the strange handle of Carpetbaggers. While I still had contacts in the Guard from my two years of training and one year of service, it was the Carpetbaggers that helped my business the most, and accepted me as one of their own.

To everyone in the Moon community, I was a Carpetbagger myself, not a thief. The only way that I could keep myself safe from the vengeance of the Queens, or the clutches of the Guard, was by staying totally hidden.

Publicly, I billed myself as a merchant of small, highly rare entertainments, which in most cases meant ancient pornography. A Queen who’s grown tired of fucking the same old slaves in the same old positions will pay a premium for some new ideas. I had a trunk full of drives and storage chips with over eight million VR sims and video clips. I also had ancient, non-pornographic “movies” for sale—action, adventure, mystery, and even something called rom-com—but most of those went to other Moonies. Queens didn’t seem to appreciate reminders of the past, when everyone could think for themselves.

Mostly my job was a cover since the gold I made from porn was pitiful compared to my secret occupation. But as a Bagger, I could travel almost anywhere, and I had a network of fellow Baggers who tipped me off to new jobs. To those few people who knew about my real offerings, I billed myself as the broker for a “rogue” Queen who did the actual abductions. No one would actually believe that a Moon could reprogram a Worker, so anyone who even suspected what I was doing figured that a Queen was running the show.

My kind lives in a precarious balance with the rest of the world—useful to the Queens, and sometimes to the Guard, but not fully trusted by either. I’d learned early on to be paranoid, so I tried to keep as many layers of anonymity as I could between me and my clients. Mostly that meant limiting face-to-face encounters. Sometimes that included working through other Carpetbaggers, but mostly it was through blind drops; leaving notes and other items in specific places at specific times. On the rare occasion when I needed to initiate contact with a Queen all I had to do was capture one of their workers, pin a note to them, and send them scurrying home.

While I probably could have survived as an ordinary Carpetbagger, I couldn’t imagine giving up the rush of stealing Workers. I hated Queens as much as any Moon, maybe more after seeing as many colonies as I had. Knowing how offended, outraged, or even terrified I could make them by stealing Workers from under their noses, was a feeling I’d always crave.

My delivery of the distiller, Elisenda, had gone without a hitch, and the secret compartment in the left rear door of my Land Cruiser bulged with gold.

Hector had left me a note along with my payment, offering me a permanent arrangement, but I’d politely declined. Denying a Queen could be dangerous since they were used to always getting their way, so I usually approached it with what my father called “carrot and stick.” I made sure to leave the door open for future jobs if they played nice. I also reiterated one of my basic rules of business: there would be no retaliation for the job I’d just pulled. Once a Queen was one of my clients, no one could hire me to steal from them in return.

At the same time though, I made sure Hector knew that I could hurt him if he caused me trouble. Queens were powerful and untouchable among their slaves, but in reality, they were vulnerable in a hundred different ways to someone who could think for themselves. The whole process was a balancing act, like so much else in Moonie life.

Hector had accepted my refusal without any real complaint, so I’d wished him good luck with his new toy, and headed north.

Four days later, a fellow Bagger named Anthony had found me in Oklahoma City and delivered a commission for me. Three days after that, I’d been in Spokane, going through the dance of setting up my next job.

The Queen there was named Melissa. Her colony was the largest in the area, at about 200,000 Workers. It had ballooned in size recently because a neighboring Queen had died suddenly, without leaving an heir. I remembered the call going out through the Moonie grapevine for any uncommitted Queens to take over, but there hadn’t been any available within a thousand miles.

After a while, the Queen-less colony had been on the brink of collapse. Without reinforcement from a Queen, the biological control of apiscene will fade over time. When it reaches a low point, the Workers suffer both mentally and physically, eventually slipping into a coma and dying. The whole process could take from sixty to ninety days, which was why Queens struggled to renew their bonds with their Workers on a strict schedule.

Melissa had taken over the leaderless colony, but she was having trouble integrating sixty thousand new Workers into her daily routines. One of the things she needed most desperately was a doctor, specifically an OB. The Queen who had died so suddenly had been trying to increase his worker population, and a huge number of the women that Melissa had inherited were pregnant.

Unless a colony could train their own doctor, or trade with a neighbor for medical services, they had to rely on the small number of Moonie doctors who rented their services on a rotation. Melissa’s colony had grown so large that her single trained doctor couldn’t handle the load, and the coming wave of births would just make things worse. She was also low on funds to hire a Moon doctor for any length of time, so her last, desperate option had been to spend what little gold she had to get one through my services.

The only sticking point we’d come up against was that I refused to steal another colony’s only doctor to give them to her—I wouldn’t be responsible for lack of medical care causing a different colony to collapse.

I’d made discreet inquiries about nearby colonies that might have a spare doctor, but the word was that everyone was hurting in that department. My fallback plan was to head to Los Angeles, where a larger than normal pool of medical Workers were trained to serve the mega-cluster of colonies there. So Melissa had given me my three kilos of gold and forty liters of biodiesel as a down payment, and I’d promised her a doctor from the colony known as UCLA.

The drive south had been mostly pleasant, although I’d found a road through the Cascade Mountains blocked by a landslide. The Guard usually kept track of such things because they controlled most of the trade between colonies, but the pile of mud and rock had been fresh. I made a note of the coordinates, and promised myself that I would send an update to The Mountain when I had a chance. Luckily, there had been enough sun to keep my batteries charged while I backtracked, which kept me from having to use my precious fuel to run the generator.

It was only when I got closer to my target colony that I remembered why I hated coming to Los Angeles, or any of the mega-clusters for that matter. Thousands of roads stretched out in every direction, and taking the wrong one could suddenly put me in the middle of a hostile colony. There were still some Queens—usually the younger, more aggressive ones—who didn’t trust Moons, especially Baggers, and their workers jealously guarded the borders of their colony against intrusion.

My Land Cruiser was painted in standard Moonie grey, with “Leopold Takayama Quality Entertainments” lettered in dark green on both doors. Usually, that was all I needed to get into a colony, but for the Moon-hating Queens, the car was a giant warning that I was coming. While navigating the maze of streets, I was pelted with rocks, bottles filled with urine, and once had a gun fired at the ground in front of me. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel as I wove through the sprawling mega-cluster.

I planned to head for a colony called Santa Monica, which shared a border with UCLA. The Queen there was known to me and had a documented taste for my Bagger wares, so I would have a legitimate reason for being in the area.

In theory, I was supposed to check in at the nearby Guard depot to let them know I was working, but I knew Captain Gregor, the man in charge, and had no desire to deal with him on this trip. Most of the Guard had a grudge against Baggers—probably because we lived the most unrestricted life of anyone on the planet—but Gregor took it to another level.

I sighed in relief as I finally found the street that would lead me directly to Santa Monica.

Roxy forced my cock into her throat, grabbing my legs and pulling herself tighter against me. Her lovely green eyes looked up to meet mine as she stretched her lips around the base. When the programmed timer went off in her brain, she pulled back, pumping my wet shaft with her soft hand while gasping for breath. I laid back on the giant bed, feeling like a Queen as the gorgeous young redhead served my every desire.

It was actually another Queen—Alexander of Santa Monica—who had given this lovely Worker to me for the night, along with the room. He’d been very pleased with the new vid files I’d brought him, and had practically thrown Roxy at me before hurrying off to his viewing room. I’d given him a discounted price, asking him in exchange if I could stay inside his colony while I did business with the other Queens. He’d been so anxious to watch the eighty hours of gang-bang vids I’d sold him that he’d given me leave to stay as long as I liked.

Along with Roxy, he’d provided this penthouse suite, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the Pacific. I’d been worried while going up in the ancient elevator, but Alexander was one of the more responsible Queens and seemed to be taking good care of the buildings in his territory. The suite was pure luxury, with fluffy towels and soft sheets, hot water, and even a brand of real shampoo I’d never seen west of Arkansas. My new redheaded friend and I had taken a long bath before we got down to business.

I’d almost forgotten my reason for being in L.A. as I got lost in pleasures that only a Queen would normally experience. Being a Bagger had its advantages, but free women and luxury accommodations usually weren’t among them.

There were a lot of open and abandoned spaces around the planet, since so many had died and the rest were concentrated into their colonies. I probably could have found a room like this on my own, but it would have been neglected for over eighty years. No plumbing or electricity. Peeling paint and water damage. Those were my normal bedrooms when I was on the road. Only Queens had the ability to keep places like this, and in particular, only those Queens who had a reason to deal with outsiders like me.

Not that I was complaining. Silk was becoming harder and harder to find, and the cool sheets felt decadent under my bare ass as Roxy went for another dive on my dick. I swept back her thick copper hair to watch her lips gobble up my shaft. She’d been programmed well, but I’d expected Alexander’s Workers to have some skill, with all of the porn he’d studied over the years.

The giant screen on the far wall was showing some of my own product purely for atmosphere, since I’d seen it all before and Roxy wouldn’t absorb anything she wasn’t told to. The rest of my kit from the Land Cruiser was scattered over the side tables and upholstered chairs that dotted the suite. Roxy had mentioned that there was a laundry in the basement of the building, and when I was done with her in the bedroom, her next task was to wash my entire wardrobe. That would also get her out of my hair while I scouted the UCLA colony, starting with the border clinics.

The next time Roxy came up for air, I laced my fingers in her silky hair and pulled her up on top of me. Alexander hadn’t put any restrictions on what I could do with her, but I was feeling relaxed and a bit lazy after the long drive, so I decided to let her do the work.

“Ride me,” I said, lying back and folding my arms behind my head.

The beautiful girl smiled, straddling my hips and reaching for my dick. She tucked it inside her and started a slow sensuous grind. As she worked up and down on me, her full, freckled tits rolled like the waves outside the window. Old fantasies resurfaced in my mind, of suddenly gaining the powers of a Queen and having dozens...hundreds…of women like this serving my every whim.

It was the same thing that every Moon boy dreams about growing up. Usually, those fantasies are shattered by the time they join their first Guard deployment, but I’d never really lost mine. A lot of what I did—the money, and the risks—was in pursuit of something more than just being a Moon, or a Bagger, the rest of my life.

Roxy looked so good riding on my cock that I kicked myself for not unpacking a camera. Very rarely was a Worker worth recording.

I checked the time and decided that I had an hour before I had to get ready for my night excursion. “Slower,” I said to Roxy. “Make it last.”

The first UCLA border clinic I found was on the corner of two streets named Sepulveda and Wilshire. I’d seen the electric glow in the sky from at least a kilometer away. The five-story building had a giant red cross painted on the side, just like Roxy had explained, and the entire ground floor was brightly lit.

The number of colonies in the L.A. area varied between forty-six and fifty-one, depending on who was defining the borders. All of them were pretty good sized, so the total population was well over three million Workers.

The Guard had an outpost of at least thirty here at all times, showing how important this cluster was to the world-wide system. Mostly their presence was a deterrent against the ambitions of the highly impulsive Queens. Some had been known to throw tantrums and attack their neighbors over the smallest imagined insult. Others had killed Moons just for disagreeing with them. To keep the balance, the Guard would usually step in and “counsel” the upset Queen before things got out of hand. If that didn’t work, then other, more extreme measures could be used. The Guard commanders would never say it out loud, but a Moon with a long rifle could change the course of a colony with one shot. It was a tightrope walk, and I was glad that I wasn’t a part of it anymore.

While most rural colonies tried to be self-sustaining, the ones in the bigger urban centers acted more like old-world corporations, each one specializing in a few things, and then trading with their neighbors for whatever else they needed. Keeping the commerce flowing was another of those delicate balances that seemed to define the modern world, all because Queens were greedy, lazy, and unrestrained by most logic.

As small in number as we Moonies were, we’d become an outsized force in the global dynamic. The lecture I’d heard in Guard training said that at last count, there were close to 46,000 colonies in the world, with a little over 50,000 Queens either active, or being groomed as heirs. The task of keeping them honest went to the Guard, staffed by about ninety percent of the total Moonie population. The 150,000 immunes on the planet were no match for the 4.7 billion Workers, which meant the Queens could wipe us out if they ever got together, but at heart, most Queens were bullies and cowards, not generals. And the threat of retaliation by the Guard usually kept them from sticking their necks out too far.

In theory, it should have been a stable relationship, but in reality, it clearly wasn’t. Most Queens and Moons lived in a state of perpetual half-trust, half-fear. It was one reason there wasn’t a Moonie “homeland.” Instead of bunching us all up in one place, we stayed dispersed and mobile. A Queen might go crazy and kill a dozen of us, but that Queen wouldn’t live long enough to celebrate. That didn’t mean that an individual Guard or a lone Bagger who pissed off a Queen wouldn’t disappear forever.

We lived in a world of giant Worker machines revolving around the hubs of their individual Queens, with the Moonies there to grease the wheels, but any disruption of the system had the potential to bring it all crashing down. That was one of the reasons that I was willing to steal a musician, or a liquor distiller from a colony, but not their only doctor—I wouldn’t be the wrench in the gears that might doom humanity.

It was also the reason that so few people knew about my real job. The Worker/Queen relationship was an absolute, taken on faith by every free thinker on the planet. If the Guard found out what I could do, they’d probably kill me themselves, rather than risk my conversion technique getting into the hands of an ambitious Queen.

The colonies of Los Angeles were one of almost a hundred similar mega-clusters world-wide, where symbiosis had become critical to the survival of everyone involved. In this particular case, the UCLA colony trained the doctors and medical staff that cared for the entire cluster. Supposedly, there had once been a famous ancient hospital and medical training facility within the colony borders, which was probably the reason.

Along with five satellite hospitals outside the colony—in places like “The Valley”—the Queen of UCLA had set up clinics like this all around her border. Workers from other colonies could travel to the edge of UCLA and have their needs met by the doctors without violating the colony grounds. For their expertise, UCLA received payment from the other Queens in a complex system of barter-based treaties negotiated and enforced by the Guard.

While I could appreciate the theory of all that cooperation, as someone who lived in the real world of a Bagger, I knew that it never worked out that smoothly. No Queen could plan for every possible contingency, and no Worker was allowed to make a decision for themselves, so there was always friction at the lower levels. That friction often provided the cover I needed to do my job in secret.

My biggest asset as a thief was the ability to lie, since deception just wasn’t on the mind of the average Worker. Some particularly paranoid Queen might add suspicion to their algorithm, but more often than not, you could tell any worker the most bold-faced lie, and they would either believe you or ignore you, based on their level of programming.

With that in mind, I strode directly into the clinic, without a disguise or a plan. The bottom floor of the clinic was set up for triage, with large signs directing the stream of workers into the proper lines. The first layer split physical injury from illnesses. After that, a helpful Worker in the UCLA uniform took down the patient’s information on a tablet.

I got into the “Illness” line and waited patiently as the various workers ahead of me were checked in. There were maybe a dozen colonies represented, at least from the different uniforms. With the pleasant weather in this part of the world, those uniforms were usually either very small, very tight, or missing certain pieces. One woman three places ahead of me had on a clinging red top with holes cut out to let her breasts swing free. A man in front of her had nothing but leather straps across his torso, and long leather pants with the crotch and ass missing. His dangling cock was sealed into a cage like I’d seen in some of my kinkier vids. All I could think was that it would be really uncomfortable if he had to run anywhere.

The quirks of the other colonies might be interesting, but my real goal here was to learn about the UCLA Workers. The one at the head of my line wore sky blue short-shorts and a tight matching top with a deep V-neck. Her shoes looked like slip-ons made entirely of plastic or rubber. The other clinic Workers wore the same thing, but in different colors. Oddly, the colors didn’t seem to represent that Worker’s job or level of expertise, but instead were truly random.

As the line got shorter, I could finally read the tag clipped to her chest: “Nurse Cathy—O Pos.”

Nurse Cathy was a tall, lean brunette, who barely filled out her top, but had amazing long legs and a nice ass under her shorts. Her long hair was back in a neat ponytail, revealing a lovely face with wide, innocent eyes and full lips. I didn’t know how this colony handled Worker sex, but if I had a chance, I was going to find her later.

Eventually, it was my turn. Nurse Cathy turned to me and readied her tablet. “Colony?”

“Moon,” I said.

She didn’t miss a beat, which meant these clinics had treated my kind before. “Guard?”

“Bagger.”

“Baggers will be charged in advance. 30 grams for an initial diagnosis, treatment to be paid based on amounts in Schedule 242-A.” She flipped her pad toward me so I could see all of the fees for different diseases. “Please verbally accept these terms.” She held the pad close to my face.

“I accept,” I said, loud enough for the pad to record. The formality was kind of useless, since as a Bagger I had no treaty to uphold, and who was going to prosecute me if I didn’t pay? The Guard tended to act in the interest of the status quo, so if a Queen really got upset over something, then they might work over a deadbeat Bagger just to keep the peace. But they’d have to identify me first, and then capture me, and with an incompetent tool like Captain Gregor in charge, that wasn’t likely to happen.

She held out a tray, and I took a few press disks from my pocket, counting out the 30 grams. She put the tray into a slot on the wall, and an answering chime told her that I’d paid the right amount.

“Name.”

“John Holmes,” I said, giving her one of my aliases.

The Workers ahead of me in line had given Cathy all kinds of information about their Colony, the street they lived on, and their history of illnesses. For a Bagger, it seemed that none of that was needed.

“Symptoms?”

“Fever, sore throat.”

She tapped it in, then pointed at an alcove off to my right. “Take the red elevator and wait there for a doctor.”

“Thank you, Cathy,” I said, just to play with her—politeness was wasted on Workers. As I moved past her, I grabbed a handful of her tight ass and gave it a squeeze.

“Refrain from sexual conduct until you rejoin your colony,” Cathy said, although she didn’t try to physically remove my hand.

“I don’t have a colony,” I said. While she processed that, I slid my hand under her top to grab her firm tit.

“Refrain from conduct that prevents the efficient processing of incoming patients,” she said, her eyes leaving me and moving to the Worker behind me. “Colony?” she asked him.

I moved to the side, continuing to squeeze her tits and ass while she processed the next patient. I’d found a gap in her logic, which was always fun, but I really couldn’t do much with it. I could continue to maul her, but going any further would keep her from performing her duties, and that would raise an alarm. With one last tweak of her nipple, I let her go and headed for the alcove.

My fear of elevators kicked in as the car lurched and rattled up to the third floor. L.A. must have a colony that offered maintenance of the damned things for there to be so many still operating. The elevator opened onto a small room with rows of seats against the walls. Four Workers sat quietly in the chairs closest to the red door in the opposite wall. I took a seat farther away.

In less than a minute, the door opened, and another UCLA Worker stepped out. He was older, but fit. His shorts barely contained his package, and the tight top bulged over solid muscle. His name tag said “Orderly Donovan—AB Neg.”

I got up and snuck closer to him as he called the name of one of the waiting patients. He ushered the man through the door, but before it could swing closed, I rushed forward to stab my foot into the gap. None of the others said a word, as I stuck my head through the door and took a look around.

The long corridor had a red stripe down the center of the highly polished linoleum. Door after anonymous door opened off the main artery. Orderly Donovan’s voice came from an open room midway down on the left side.

I closed the door to the waiting room behind me, and moved quietly down the corridor. As I passed Nurse Donovan, I saw that his patient was in the process of stripping while he asked more questions.

The corridor ended in a T, with passages going left and right. Other than room numbers, there weren’t any distinguishing signs anywhere, since every Worker was programmed to know the layout. I looked both ways down the cross-corridor, not sure where to go until I heard a familiar sound.

Down the left side, I made it past five more doors before I found what I was looking for. Opening the door just a crack, I took a look inside.

A muscular young man was flat on his back on a padded exam table, while an older woman bounced up and down on his thick cock. Her loud moans were the sounds I’d heard in the hallway.

As I opened the door wider, the woman’s eyes locked with mine, but she didn’t tell me to get out, or even ask me to close the door. She just kept lifting and dropping her shaved pussy on the guy’s dick. Her discarded top had a tag on it that said “Doctor Lisa—B Pos.” The man still had his shirt on, so his tag was hidden by Lisa’s curvy body.

While I’d never made a deep study of Worker programming, I knew that most Queens used a recording that had been compiled and added to by generations of earlier Queens. The first rule was always absolute obedience, but after that, it seemed to depend entirely on the colony, their history, and the intelligence of their various Queens. Some turned their workers into machines, creating logic branches that covered every possible action. Others used broad strokes and left at least some of the original human intact.

One of the best ways to tell what kind of programming you were dealing with, was to watch two Workers fucking. Not a Queen with a Worker, because that was usually more scripted, like I’d seen in Tequila, but the way that two Workers interacted without supervision.

According to my father, who had cataloged plenty of data about...well, about everything...the idea that Workers needed sex to remain viable was actually false. It had started as a rumor among the first Queens, and still persisted today. Back in the beginning, they’d thought that not getting laid was a possible source of colony collapse. No one had sussed out the mechanism of pheromones and respiratory microbes yet, and becoming a Queen had no intelligence requirement, so the early theories had been based on random guesswork. At some point, a Queen who regularly ordered his workers to bang each other must have bragged about how healthy his slaves were compared to other colonies, and the rumor had taken hold.

Not that I minded the mistake; I’d more than taken advantage of the situation over my years of travel.

Because the behavior of the Workers was a direct reflection of the desires of the Queen, watching Doctor Lisa bounce up and down on the young man was telling me a lot about Queen Wendy, the ruler of UCLA. She allowed heterosexual behavior, and was most likely hetero herself. Since most Queens tended to put their own gender above the other, it was no surprise that Lisa was a doctor, and the way she took charge of the sex also said it was probably “ladies’ choice” as far as who, where and when.

That was confirmed when Dr. Lisa took her playmate’s hand and forced it into the space where they were joined. “Rub my clit. Make me cum.” She tipped her head back and closed her eyes as the young man went to work.

Her orders to her partner told me even more about the colony. The level of spontaneity that Dr. Lisa showed was pretty rare. In a world where every Worker could be programmed to orgasm after a certain amount of time, or even a certain number of thrusts, letting them have control over their pleasure was uncommon, at least in my experience.

Soon, Dr. Lisa reached her climax, her legs trembling, and her hips jerking chaotically. She cried out in pleasure, and then collapsed on top of her companion.

I didn’t have any specific goals on this recon mission, so I stayed in the doorway, watching Dr. Lisa’s tight ass shiver as she came down from her orgasm. My cock was swelling in my pants, but I left it alone, not knowing how the others would react if I whipped it out.

Dr. Lisa lifted up off her young lover and climbed down from the exam table. She took his thick cock in one hand and grabbed a towel from the nearby counter. She stroked his shaft rather mechanically, while holding the towel over the head. “Ejaculate,” she said, and the young man thrust his hips up off the table. His face twisted in momentary pleasure, and a soft groan escaped his lips. Lisa held the towel over his cock until his butt settled back on the table. She carefully folded it, and then wiped up any remnants of cum from his dick, before tossing it in a bin against the wall. Still naked, she headed for the sink to wash her hands.

If this was the colony’s normal routine, I wasn’t looking forward to this extraction. What would happen if a female Worker singled me out for sex, and I couldn’t perform on demand like this young stud had? I wondered if she’d commanded him to get erect when they’d first started? No build-up, just “get hard.” And then at the end, to cum on command with no stimulation but a half-hearted handjob?

This one was going to suck.

Dr. Lisa had pulled up her short shorts, and was tucking her tits into the tight shirt as her boy toy straightened up the room. When he turned around, his name tag said “Nurse Cory—A Neg.”

Since this was a scouting mission, I figured that before these two went back to their duties, I should collect some intel. “Excuse me, Dr. Lisa,” I said, stepping all the way into the room. “I have a question for you.”

“Yes?” She turned her attention to me and waited.

“What is your medical specialty?”

“Thoracic surgery,” she said.

Too bad. I was looking for an OB/GYN. I was sure that Dr. Lisa would do fine in Spokane with a little reprogramming, but I didn’t want to steal a specialist if I didn’t have to. Taking a less valuable doctor would lower the chances that Queen Wendy would come after me.

When she figured out that I didn’t have any more questions, Dr. Lisa walked over to a phone hanging on the wall and picked it up. “Send an Orderly to Room 315 for an unaccompanied patient,” she said, never changing her inflection.

Busted. At least she wasn’t trying to move me herself, or have Cory do it. That meant I had time. “Dr. Lisa, Nurse Cory, I’m commanding you to forget my presence.” Before they could acknowledge me, I’d already turned and left. My words had a very low chance of actually changing their behavior, but it was usually worth a shot. Sometimes a gap in their programming would let random commands take hold.

The attendants would be coming up the elevator, so I kept moving deeper into the building, down the corridor until it ended in yet another blank door. There was no noise from behind it, so I twisted the handle and stepped through.

I laughed out loud as I found myself in a storage closet full of the colorful, tight uniforms of the UCLA colony.

By now, I’d played out my welcome in this clinic. I’d disrupted their routines, and it would take some time for everything to settle back to normal. In the meantime, Roxy was waiting for me back in Santa Monica. I had clean sheets, clean clothes and a hot bath in my future, so it was time to pack it in for the night.

I grabbed a laundry bag from the rack, and emptied the contents onto the floor, then filled it with different colors of the standard uniform. The rubber shoes were surprisingly comfortable, and I threw in a few extra pairs to keep after the job was over.

Tossing the pack over my shoulder, I checked the hall, and when I found it empty, I started opening doors, one by one. Usually, in these Pre-Separation buildings, there was a staircase that was always useful for stealthy escapes...

As I watched the sun setting over the Pacific, I finally knew what it felt like to be a Queen.

The morning after my excursion into the clinic, I’d gone to visit Alexander again. I’d complimented him on the room, and Roxy, and then laid it on thick about the incredible view from the window of the penthouse, while he smiled and nodded. Then I’d gone on about how all of the great urban views had disappeared, and regaled him with some of my travels.

As a Queen, he was stuck here in L.A., unless he wanted to give up all of his comforts and possibly let his colony collapse. He’d listened wistfully to my descriptions of Chicago and Denver and St. Louis, but I’d seen his limited intellect at work behind his round face, along with his ego. Then he’d gotten defensive, claiming that Los Angeles was the greatest ancient city still standing, and that his colony was the best among them. If I was looking for breathtaking scenery, I should check out the view from his hilltop retreat.

I hadn’t even pushed him. Instead, he’d forced two more beautiful Workers on me as “guides,” along with one of his personal chefs—the one who cooked something called thaifood—then gave me directions to his house in the hills.

Now I stood next to an actual working pool filled with crystal clear water, sipping bourbon, while blonde-haired Jazz knelt in front of me, worshiping my dick.

Alexander had been right; the view from his hilltop house was spectacular, especially the vantage that it gave me right into the center of the UCLA colony. I’d already taken a dozen pictures, and was planning to mark all the buildings on my map...as soon as I was done watching the sunset, and as soon as Jazz had finished her chores.

On the other side of the pool, Roxy and Kitten relaxed on padded lounges, wearing nothing but their programmed smiles.

All my life, I’d had to deal with Queens and their whims. Everything I’d ever done had been for the explicit goal of living the life that I chose, rather than the one that being a Moon forced on me. I’d seen Queens who commanded hundreds of thousands of workers who were dumb as rocks, and others who were as cruel as feral dogs. It had always seemed supremely unfair that a tiny genetic anomaly gave those beings the life that the rest of us could only fantasize about.

Not that I wasn’t grateful that I’d been born immune. The life of a Worker just seemed supremely empty. I supposed that they didn’t know any different, but I did. I knew that there had been a whole thriving world of individuals before the Separation—billions of people all possessing free will—and now less than a hundredth of one percent could even think for themselves.

As an Archivist for the Guard, my father collected artifacts from the old world and kept records of the lost past. I’d explored the Archives for years before going off to Guard training, and other than a couple of Father’s underlings, I probably knew more about the old world than anyone on the planet. I’d dreamed since boyhood about what would happen if the Queens all vanished, and people were allowed to do what they wanted again, but the truth was, it would never happen. The times of change and upheaval were in the past, and all that was left was survival.

One of the things that I’d admired about the ancient world, was that people were judged and rewarded by the work they did. The harder you worked, the more respect and wealth you could gain. The Queens of that time had been the ones who worked the hardest and made the smartest decisions, and I just knew that I would have been one of them.

But this was the real world, not a fantasy of the future or longing for the past, so I did the best I could with the situation that I’d been handed. My life wasn’t going to be the dull routine of a Worker, or the rigid order of the Guard. I was going to collect enough wealth and power to build my own little paradise, separate from the rules of the world. I’d find a Moon woman to share it with me. Someone like Elise; my best friend, occasional lover, and the only member of the Guard I could stand to be around. Maybe I’d try to convince a few other Moons to join in my dream as well. Then one day, I could forget about the ball of shit that the world had become, and actually enjoy myself.

It was too bad that I couldn’t take any Workers with me to my imaginary paradise, because having a girl like Jazz would definitely make things more enjoyable. Her hot mouth had kept me balanced on a knife-edge for the last twenty minutes, while I surveyed the splendor of the city at sunset. I took a sip of my bourbon, then closed my eyes and tangled my fist in her long hair.

“Ahh...yes...right there...” She gave her programmed squeal of delight as I erupted into her mouth, and worked feverishly to make sure she didn’t spill a drop.

I turned to look over my shoulder. “Roxy, tell the chef that we’ll be ready for dinner in ten minutes.” I watched her tits bounce and her ass jiggle as she leaped up to do what she was told.

Fuck all Queens. They didn’t deserve this.

I threw back the last of the bourbon and disengaged my spent cock from Jazz’s warm mouth. She licked her lips and gazed up at me, waiting for her next order.

I handed her my glass. “Pour me another one, then go sit down for dinner,” I said.

As she skipped into the house, I took one last look at the L.A. basin. The sun had vanished, and in the twilight, pockets of electric lights were coming on. The main building inside the UCLA colony was one of the brightest spots in the entire city. I had my disguise ready and was going to infiltrate the next morning.

I raised my arms to the night sky. “Fuck all Queens!” I shouted.

Feeling a little better, I headed for the house: I had an extravagant meal to eat, and three lovely, brainless women to fuck before dawn brought me back to reality.