Masks
Morgan pushed a button. The door to the interview room opened.
“This,” she said, needlessly, “is a suckfuck girl.” Her male subordinate grunted and adjusted his seat.
It certainly is, Reynolds thought, already feeling warm. The girl who had come in was short, blond, and naked, or practically so. The wide-gap fishnet bodystocking in which she was clad hid absolutely nothing. Her tanned skin glowed, as if she were coated in baby oil, and the way the bodystocking pressed into her soft flesh, revealing all yet providing support, gave the impression of a heat and passion only barely held in. Her breasts were enormous, areolae wide, pink, and perfect the way Reynolds liked them. The nipples were engorged and poked through the black netting, stretching it over her glistening skin. She was shaven, or, more likely, permanently denuded. Her pussy slit was neat and smooth and practically begging to be stroked and filled. Long, light-blond hair in tight ringlets stretched down to the middle of her back and framed the perpetually smiling Asia Mask obscuring her features.
Morgan closed the door as the girl took a position near the table. She sat back down next to Reynolds and used the remote control again. The blond sex slave responded to the prompt immediately.
“Me good suckfuck girl,” the simulated voice from the Mask spoke in its clichéd, more-than-slightly derogatory Asian singsong accent. At the same time, the girl began to gyrate, rubbing her breasts and pussy provocatively. “Me love you long time. Long time. Me need you, sir.”
She directed her advances to Reynolds, the male in the room. He knew it was an automated response. His knowledge that it was automatic, however, did nothing to prevent his reaction. Again, the detective had to adjust his seat, an uncomfortable pressure having built in his pants.
“Me want it so badly,” the suckfuck girl went on, squirming closer and closer to Reynolds. “Me need your hot dick in me’s pussy. Please. Me so horny.” She started to crawl along the table.
Morgan stopped her with a ping! from the control. The girl backed up and stood, silent once more.
Reynolds looked at the superintendent. “I take it you didn’t get her for my birthday next week?”
“Hardly,” Morgan said dryly. She handed Reynolds a datareader.
He scrolled through the text on the small screen as she spoke. “Officially, this girl’s serial number is LV-729-F-17. Before she was processed, her name was Jeanette Riley from Knoxville, Tennessee, a Class-B Citizen. She was convicted on multiple drug charges two years ago and sold to BioTrust, who in turn sold her to Tanjo Holdings Ltd., an off-shore purchasing company for S-F Bionics. There, she was drug-conditioned and Masked in New Tokyo, whereupon she was sent back here to America where she’s been working the streets for the past eighteen months. Her licensed pimp is one Jerome Hartley, who sends a percentage of the profits she makes for him back to S-F Bionics every month.”
Reynolds waited for the other shoe to drop. “Yes? And?”
“And . . ,” his superior said, gesturing to the blond slave, “. . nearly all of that is untrue.”
“Ahhh,” Reynolds said, leaning back. “Okay, you’ve got my attention. Go on.”
Morgan stood and indicated that her subordinate should join her.
They examined LV-729-F-17 more closely.
“First of all,” the superintendent said, “there isn’t any Jeanette Riley from Knoxville, nor has there ever been. Second,” and she held up the sex slave’s hands, “even though this slut hasn’t fingerprints anymore, and we can’t access her retina patterns due to the Mask, her DNA says she’s a Felecia Engels from New Indianapolis, who disappeared eighteen months ago, right around the time ‘Seventeen’ here went into service. Her parents reported Engels missing after a few days without hearing from her, and the New Indianapolis PD eventually concluded that she was kidnapped.”
Reynolds nodded, understanding. Not long after their introduction by BioTrust, Unlimited, the corporate partner of the Republic of America, the demand for mind-controlled sex slaves, especially female sex slaves, outdistanced their supply. Prices rose, but this did little to affect the market. When legitimate sources for new dollygirls, suckfuck girls, biosluts, and so on began to dry out—there were only so many criminals, rebels, or Class-C Citizens in financial straits—buyers turned to other means.
Reclamation agencies started to look closely at any woman in debt regardless of her Citizenship Class.
Mimic drugs were introduced on the streets to slowly transform addicts into slaves.
Other men, impatient, began to use more direct methods.
The kidnapping rate in America had doubled, at least, every year for the past fifteen years. It had become so bad that many women never went out anymore without a trusted, and insured, bodyguard.
Reynolds looked closely at LV-729-F-17.
So, he thought, you weren’t a hard-luck Cee or someone stupid or insane enough to break the law now. You were just a girl in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now you’re a mindless, computer-driven sex slave.
He shook his head. Damn. That’s a crying shame.
The detective stood at least a foot taller than ‘Seventeen.’ He lifted her blank hands for inspection. As Morgan had said, she no longer had fingerprints. Her palms and fingers were as smooth as a doll’s, courtesy of the same chemical treatment that had removed all other distinguishing marks from the former Felecia Engels from New Indianapolis’s body. He let go of the featureless appendages and took her head softly in his grip, tilting her covered features towards his. The Mask looked as if it could be lifted from her face with a finger, resting as it did over the chin and rising in a rough, porcelain oval to just under her hairline. But it could not. The Mask was what made a suckfuck girl a suckfuck girl; it was bonded to the skull and would have required surgery to remove, not that such a procedure would do any good now. The old Felecia Engels was gone forever, Reynolds knew. The neurallink chips would long since have erased any remaining vestiges of her original personality, burying them beneath a mindless litany of “Me good suckfuck girl” and “Me horny all the time” and other charmless routines.
She had essentially become a robot of flesh and blood. Her Mask was pretty yet completely anonymous: a geisha face with exaggerated Asian features, lightly colored cheeks, and a tiny rosebud of a mouth, all set in white porcelain-like plastic. The caricature was eyeless, but the sculpted cheekbones and indentations where the eyes should have been hinted their existence. It was a cartoon face, an anime face of a sultry Asian siren drawn from more than a century of Western stereotypes reimagined by S-F Bionics, the “S” and the “F” standing for “suck” and “fuck,” naturally.
“How did you find out about this?” Reynolds asked.
“My people have had Hartley under surveillance,” Morgan replied. They sat down. The nameless suckfuck girl continued to stand beside the table, a pretty ornament. “We’ve suspected for a few years he’s been putting out illegal merchandise, but this is the first time we’ve actually caught him.”
She frowned. “As it is, we’ll have to let him go.”
“Why?”
“Because we can’t build a case against him. All we’ve got him on is possession of an unregistered slave, and his attorneys could argue that, so far as he knew, and so far as the State’s records show, this girl was legitimately acquired.”
“What about charges of kidnapping?”
Morgan shook her head. “We can’t prove for certain that it is a kidnapping case, let alone charge anyone with the crime. The fact that Engels is a slave now doesn’t prove that she was kidnapped earlier. For all we know, she might have voluntarily submitted herself.” She caught the look on Reynolds’ face. “Yeah, I know. Who in their right mind . . ? Still, a lot of people do it, and we can’t prove she didn’t. All the Indi cops had were their suspicions. They didn’t actually find anything.”
Reynolds thought about that. After a moment he asked, “What do you want me to do, ma’am?”
Morgan reached for the datareader and clicked it. A list of several hundred names appeared on the screen. “So far as we can actually prove, the only crime that’s been committed is illegal access of the Republic Database to create the false ‘Riley’ identity. As you know, that’s a major felony in and of itself. If we can find the person or persons responsible, we can lean on them and crack this kidnapping ring from that angle.” Reynolds brushed his lips with his fingers thoughtfully, already thinking about ways to go about solving this problem. He was an old hand with the Republic Enforcement Agency.
An old hand, literally. The woman sitting across from him looked as young as the suckfuck girl was, which is to say, they both looked like they were in their early twenties, though Reynolds had it on good authority S.I. Morgan was at least twice that.
Reynolds looked his real age, fifty-five. He was, in this brave new world of the perpetually young, an old man. BioTrust, Unlimited had brought America eternal youth, which had gone a long ways in cementing that company’s intimate relationship with the government, but he, unfortunately, was part of a very small minority of people fatally allergic to the youth-restoration process.
He wasn’t suffering. He felt fine. Health care was nothing if not spectacularly good nowadays, and Reynolds fully expected—hoped, anyways—to reach his hundredth birthday. But he was by no stretch of the imagination a “young man” anymore, nor would he ever be again. Only the poor died of old age now, and Reynolds’ looks made nearly everyone who saw him think he was a “Cee,” the bottom of the Citizen hierarchy. Sometimes that gave him problems. Mostly, though, he found, it was an advantage.
He scanned the list in front of him. All of these people had Database privileges. They would all have to be checked. “I notice there are more than a few Class-A’s on this list,” he mentioned casually.
Morgan lifted an eyebrow. Once, a woman with her appearance would have been a high-class fashion model. Now, everyone looked like an old-time Hollywood star.
“Does that bother you, Fred?”
“No. I only mention it in passing.” He wasn’t afraid of the pecking order. He was an “A” himself, as were all senior Enforcement agents. It would just make the job a little harder, that’s all.
“I’m giving you full audit clearance,” Morgan said. “You can go anywhere, see anything you want. But, for God’s sake, Reynolds, use some discretion.” The elder agent nodded. His superior handed over the datareader with all the other data he would need to launch his investigation. He asked one or two more questions, determining for himself the level of support he would receive, and he was reassured.
They got ready to leave. The suckfuck girl was still standing beside the table.
“What happens to her?” Reynolds asked.
Morgan shrugged. “Well, she’s a bought and paid for commodity. Hartley will file a claim, no doubt, and pay a fine. But unless we connect him to the kidnapping ring, she’ll likely end up back with him.”
Her tone of voice said she really didn’t care one way or the other. She opened the door.
“Somebody will be around to pick her up,” she said and left.
Reynolds lingered for a moment. He sighed. “Wrong place at the wrong time, Felecia. I’m sorry.”
There being no response, he went back to his office.
Trisha had never felt so horny in her entire life. Nor had she been so completely terrified.
She lay spread-eagled on her back on a polished metal surface, her wrists, ankles, and waist bound to the table with plastic straps. Though her struggles to free herself were futile, she continued to thrash about, bucking and rearing on top of the hard, reflective surface. The only lights in the room shown down directly upon her. Beyond the table was an inky darkness, though every once and a while Trisha would catch a glimpse of a manly figure passing by. She screamed invectives towards them, along with pleas to see to her sexual need, grown monstrous since she had awakened with it hours earlier.
“Please, let me go!” she cried. “Please! Fuck me! Please, fuck me! Free me! I . . I need you!!”
All it had taken was one wrong step. Trisha had come around in a cell, still confused from the drugs her kidnappers had used to capture her, her senses enflamed by the hormonal changes they induced. She had looked down at herself first thing and seen how huge her breasts had grown, how ripe they felt, her throbbing nipples aching to be fondled. She had sobbed in dismay.
She had been made into a dollygirl!
“No! No!” she had screamed, unable to accept the horror and the joy of it.
She was a dollygirl! She was a bioslut! A man’s sextoy . . . a living fuckdoll!
She had heard the rumors, of course. The stories about abduction teams capturing women and turning them into slaves, but she had never thought it could happen to her!
Trisha remembered the party—last night, was it?—and the autocab she had hailed. She had been going home, it had been late, and then a gas had seeped into her sealed compartment. She remembered growing dizzy, and everything went black. The next thing she knew, she was in a cell, and her boobs had grown to twice their original size. She had been caught. She had been caught by the slavers!
Trisha had cried out in misery and need. She had been given the dollygirl drug!
It was an erotic mutagen from BioTrust, Unlimited. It promoted growth in all the erogenous zones while simultaneously increasing their sensitivity. It amped up a woman’s hormonal levels, placing her in a constant state of heat. Trisha had woken up with an unearthly burning inside her, her need for a man dominating her every thought.
Her captors—owners now, for once a woman was given the dollygirl drug there was no going back!—had heard her cries and come in to inspect their new property. They were concerned, it seemed.
Had the treatments worked? Had the chemicals had their proper effect?
They had. Trisha had gasped when the men came in, her arousal instant and total.
She had felt a sudden and irresistible urge to be penetrated . . . to be fucked. Not “loved tenderly.”
Fucked.
To be used like the slut she now was. Her hands had clutched the bars of her cell; she screamed; she flailed about; she would have done anything, anything at that moment, to relieve the atrocious passion consuming her. And in the hours since, her burning had grown only worse, only more painful.
“Oh God. Oh God. I need it! I need it!” She thrashed about. “Please! Fuck me! Fuck me!”
But the men steadfastly refused to use her. She had needed to be “processed.”
First had come the “bath,” a lengthy body-wide dip in a chemical vat with only her head and face held above the fluid. The liquid tingled from the start and continued to tingle for over an hour. She was held in place by a collar arrangement about the neck and could not budge. A similar set-up kept her arms and hands below the fluid level too. It was almost painful, but not quite, not quite a discomfort. It stank, though, and Trisha had struggled, crying. The one thing she did not do was fight back. She couldn’t. Despite the torment she felt, despite the anger, she had obeyed her masculine captors like the docile, submissive dollygirl she now was.
She had begged them instead, praying that one of them would use her and grant her the satisfaction—the climax—she now so desperately craved.
Her skin felt different afterwards. She was sprayed down with water and given a towel with which to clean herself. Trisha had whimpered upon seeing her body, seeing how utterly smooth it felt, how shiny and glossy, as if she were oiled down. She gleamed. At the same time, all her birthmarks, her freckles, even her fingerprints! had disappeared.
It had been like she had been sealed in a very tight, very form-fitting bodysuit. It was like she had been dipped in plastic! From below the neck, she looked like a mannequin. No, not a mannequin. She still had her throbbing, burning pussy, she still had her massively enlarged breasts, her iron-hard nipples.
She looked like a fully featured love doll!
Other things were later done to her. Injections. Another bath. Throughout it all, she had burned, begging to be used, if she was to be a dollygirl, see to her needs, please, see to my needs! she had thought. Maybe it won’t be so bad, she thought now, lying on the slab. Maybe it won’t be so bad serving men, of being used for pleasure, my hot body’s needs satisfied over and over.
The feelings she had were unreal, the sensations beyond belief.
Trisha had actually begun to look forward to her sale and meeting her future owner, just so long as she was fully and completely fucked by him. She heard a noise above her. The lights dimmed slightly, as if something were passing between them and her. Someone came up behind her.
Hands gripped the sides of her head, holding her still.
“Soon, little doll,” Trisha heard a man say, a glorious manly man! “Soon it will all be over.”
“And I’ll be fucked?” she asked, unable to keep the desperation out of her voice. “Then I’ll be used!?”
“Oh, yes. Oh, definitely. You’ll be used quite often in your new life. As soon as you’re Masked.”
Masked? Masked!! Trisha’s eyes scanned above her.
Certainly enough, she saw now the interior of a curved, oval-shaped object lowering toward her face, blocking some of the light. Seeing it, she knew at once that she had been mistaken.
She was not to be a dollygirl. That was a suckfuck Mask lowering toward her!
She was going to be turned into a lowly suckfuck girl!
She was going to be turned into a mindless fucking machine, nothing more.
No personality. No memory of her past life. No thoughts of her own, ever again.
It was one thing to be a dollygirl. It was one thing to be rendered obedient and loving through BioTrust brain surgery but to still essentially be herself even so. A suckfuck girl, in contrast, was an automaton.
A suckfuck girl really was little more than a living fuckdoll.
Once that Mask was in place, she knew, every bit of the old Trisha would be erased.
“NO! Please GOD, NOOO!!” She struggled, really struggled for the first time, not just in heated arousal but in stark terror of what she now knew was her fate. The Mask came down on metal arms and settled gently across Trisha’s face, brushing against the hands of the man holding her steady.
Trisha screamed. The sound was muffled as the Mask affixed itself.
It was very cold. It chilled Trisha’s forehead, cheeks, and chin. It pressed against her nose and lips.
Everything went black. Instinctively, she had closed her eyes. With the Mask in place it was like having a blindfold further placed over them. Trisha tried to moan, but it was hard getting her mouth to open.
She felt something tickle her lips and nostrils, felt things stiff and wiry thrust themselves in.
Something metallic touched her tongue. The organ went numb and unresponsive. Something else, a pair of things, touched her eyelids, and they squeezed opened onto total darkness. She couldn’t stop it.
She felt pressure on the orbs themselves then, as if things were being inserted inside . . .
Abruptly, Trisha heard a voice inside her head. It did not originate from within her ears. It was not a sound or a vibration. It was, simply, a Voice, and it came from everywhere and nowhere at once.
[SYSTEM START] [NEURALLINK IN PROCESS] [IMPLANTATION PROCEEDING]
No!! Trisha thought. Stop it! This isn’t happening . . this isn’t happening!
The worst thing, despite her terror, she couldn’t help but still feel the raging inferno in her loins. She was still highly turned on. At the same time, Trisha became aware that her face beneath the Mask had gone numb. She could longer feel anything that was happening to her. And still her pussy was so, so wet!
The Voice spoke again. It was emotionless, the impassive articulation of a computer.
[NEURALLINK ESTABLISHED] [SCANNING HOST SYSTEM] [TESTING] [TESTING]
What . . ? Trisha felt pinpricks in her hands, in her feet, in her nipples, everywhere.
Her right arm jerked, then her left, then her legs one at a time. Then she stopped moving altogether.
I . . can’t . . move! she thought. The warmth from her hypercharged pussy continued to torment her.
Abruptly, Trisha sat up. She hadn’t felt her bonds removed, but they had been evidently. She sat up in one reflexive motion, the movement mechanical in its abruptness. The Masked girl felt her head whip about robotically, again totally outside of her control. She was unable to stop herself a moment later either as she swung her legs off of the table and stood, swaying slightly as she gained her balance. The movements were totally not her own, the gestures far and removed from the Trisha of old.
She was then standing, naked, save for the Mask, blind and dumb.
[TESTS COMPLETED] [BIOSYSTEMS CONTROL ESTABLISHED]
No . . no, don’t . . . please . . .
[NEUROSYSTEMS SCAN IN PROGRESS] A cold hand seemed to reach into Trisha’s brain and open it up, spreading her memories wide. The events of her life unfolded before her unseeing eyes.
Enjoying herself at the party. Dressing for the party. Working at the ski shop. Applying for the job at the ski shop. Graduating republic school. Mom’s hand on her shoulder waking her up for school. It was all there playing out in reverse order in her mind, each memory crystal clear in its clarity. Trisha was there: seeing it, hearing it, feeling it. [NEUROSENSORY NET FORMING] In the midst of her recall, light peered into the windows of her soul. Trisha saw red, not a deep red but a dull shade. A grayish red. It was everywhere, it was everything. Slowly, the color split apart, dividing into discrete lines before her. The red lines formed figures. The figures sharpened. Trisha could suddenly see a man standing beside her watching her intently. A pulse of desire raced up her erogenous zones. Numbers flashed in the corner of her vision, computing, always computing. The red lines sharpened further.
Trisha could see again, but her sight was not her sight. It was with the simulated vision of an automaton that she saw, a robot’s vision, a toy’s. She felt her head turn from side to side, not seeing the world before her but grading it, calculating it. She saw the man beside her, and she perceived him less as a human being than as a collection of nerves, muscles, and bones. Automatically, she evaluated what it would take on her part to render pleasure to this collection, and she felt an internal prod to her already super-hot cunt to stoke its eternal flame. [Me good suckfuck girl] Trisha heard inside her mind. [Me love you long time] It was a different voice than the Voice, but it was no less impossible to hear.
[Me suckfuck girl . . . me love you long time . . . me so horny . . . me so horny] Over and over.
Please, Trisha thought, begged. Please . . I don’t . . want . . this . . I don’t . . . .
[NEUROSENSORY NET ESTABLISHED] [FORMATTING] [FORMATTING]
No, please, I . . [me suckfuck girl] . . No, I’m not, I’m not, I [suckfuck girl] . . I . . [suckfuck girl] . . what? . . no . . I . . . [me good suckfuck girl . . . me so horny . . . me so horny] . . . yes . . I am horny, but . . but [Me suckfuck girl. Me good suckfuck girl] . . . yes . . . no . . I mean, NO!
Memories flashed behind Trisha’s red-seeing eyes. Thoughts screamed and echoed in the hollow chambers of her soul. I . . I am . . Trisha Denvers . . I . . am . . I am . . . I . . . I . . . i . . . i . . me . . . me . . me good . . . me good suckfuck girl . . . me suckfuck . . . me like to suckfuck . . . me wants it so badly . . . Me wants it so badly . . . Me good suckfuck girl . . . Me good suckfuck girl . . . Me so horny . . . Me love you long time . . . long time . . . long, long time . . . . Me good suckfuck girl.
“Me good suckfuck girl,” the suckfuck girl said. She turned and looked at the man beside her. “Me want it so badly. Me love you long time. Long time.” She gyrated before him, rubbing her tits.
[FORMAT ESTABLISHED] [OUTDATED SYSTEMS DELETED] [PV-034-C-11 READY]
“Me need your hot dick in me’s pussy. Me so horny.” The voice was not Trisha’s. It was an Asian voice, a singsong voice without real personality or warmth. It was a standard suckfuck girl’s voice.
“I’m sure you are,” the man said, and he swept PV-034-C-11 into his arms. He fondled the suckfuck girl’s breasts and her ass, and her body’s enhanced responses aligned perfectly with the instructions from the Mask to make her desirable and wet. Satisfied that her reactions were within specs, the man turned her around to face him and then pushed her down to her knees. She complied obediently.
The Mask might have looked like white porcelain, but in truth it was a memory plastic. As the suckfuck girl fell to her knees in preparation of performing the first of her nomenclature’s stated functions, the tiny bud of a mouth opened. The man dropped his pants and pointed his huge member at the service slave before him. Obeying instructions that were now the most important, and, really, the only things in her life, SFG PV-034-C-11 bent forward, swallowed her user’s cock, and mindlessly began to suck.
Ronnie woke when he heard his name called out. He grumbled something unintelligible, rested his hand on the smooth warm flank of his bedolly, and was about to turn over when he realized she would never—in fact, could never, bedollies had only minimal vocal ability—call out to him by name.
He sat up in bed with a start. A man with a gun was sitting in a chair against the wall facing him.
Ronnie frantically reached under his pillow and found . . . nothing.
“I removed the weapon,” the man said in the half-darkness. “I also deactivated the panic button on your shirt, so don’t bother. I put your slave to sleep so she doesn’t interrupt us.”
Ronnie rubbed his eyes, realizing only after the fact that sudden moves while a gun was pointed at you were not smart. When his eyes adjusted enough to the light, he saw the man speaking was a Cee.
He was an old man, physically old. He was heavyset. His face was grotesquely wrinkled. He might have had gray hair, too. Ronnie couldn’t tell in this light.
“I have money in my pants. You can have it all,” he said. Since the man was a Cee, he was odds-on either a junkie or a welfare recipient. Ronnie glanced at the bedolly that had come with the room. She was curled up on her side breathing softly, looking lovely. Ronnie’s member gave an involuntary twitch in memory of the things she had done to him last . . . night? What time was it?
It was still dark outside the motel window.
“I’m not interested in your money,” the Cee said. “I want to know who pays you to hack into the R.D. and fix records on kidnapped girls.”
Ronnie snorted. “I don’t know what you’re talking . . .” The man fired. The headboard next to Ronnie exploded. Ronnie screamed and ducked as splinters of wood smashed into the side of his face.
He wet himself. The bedolly continued to sleep peacefully. Her perfume sweat was intoxicating.
The intruder’s voice was casual. “The next time you lie to me, I’ll put a round in your leg. If you don’t answer my questions, I’ll put a round in your leg. If you try to get up, well, same thing.” He didn’t sound like a person of the undercities, shabby appearance notwithstanding. “I have a nullsound module activated, in case you want to scream again. We won’t be disturbed.”
The Cee gestured at the nightstand next to Ronnie. “Smoke a tranq, if you like.”
Hands shaking, Ronnie did indeed pick up the pack he had left there. He put a cig in his mouth and sucked. A wisp of fragrant smoke drifted from the self-activating cylinder. “I . . I . .” he stammered.
“Calm yourself,” the man repeated. “Breathe. I’m not in a hurry.” The man was leaned back in his chair. He uncrossed his legs, recrossed them the opposite way. He looked perfectly relaxed.
The barrel of the gun in his hand never wavered.
“Comfy? Good. Whom do you fix records for, Ronnie?”
Once he had him where he wanted him, Reynolds finished the interrogation in fifteen minutes. It was brief, to the point, and, from his perspective, eminently satisfactory. Finding Ronnie had taken the detective the better part of a week, but it was worth it. The hacker’s frenzied account of his illegal actions corroborated everything Reynolds had earlier been able to discover for himself. Either because he was too scared or he was under the delusion he could still make a deal, he told Reynolds the truth.
Because of that, Reynolds was of a mind to give the boy a break.
“All right, Ronnie,” he said. He observed critically the look in the boy’s face, the sweat on his brow, the shaking. “I’m going to give you a choice, son. I’m Senior Agent Fred Reynolds of the R.E.A.”
Ronnie whimpered. He bit his lip. Reynolds already knew which option the boy would take.
He went through the motions anyway. “You know what that means, don’t you, boy? Just so that we’re clear, there’s no way out. So, here’s what can happen. I can arrest you. You’ll be convicted, and since we don’t have prisons or the death penalty anymore, you’ll be sentenced to bioslavery. You’ll become someone’s plaything, like that bedolly lying next to you. But you’ll live.” He saw Ronnie’s eyes flick to the pretty little sextoy still sleeping. The too-wide eyes, the super-soft velvety skin, the ragdoll hair: she was unmistakably a girl remade-for-purchase. Reynolds wondered for a second how she came to her life of slavery. Conviction? Tenant confiscation? Kidnapped and illegally processed?
The detective sighed. There were too many ways to count.
“On the other hand,” he went on, and he made a gesture with the varipistol, “if that’s something you can’t bear thinking about, if you really can’t stomach the idea of sucking someone’s cock for the rest of your life, like that slave you entertained yourself with last night will for the rest of her life, I can just shoot you.” Reynolds waited a second for the words to sink in. Then he asked, “Which is it going to be?”
The boy groaned and cried for a bit. Then he made the choice the detective had expected.
“Arrest me. Please.”
To spare him any further embarrassment, Reynolds adjusted the setting on his weapon and fired a sedative slug before Ronnie could say another word. The boy fell over in bed. Reynolds would make sure the next time the hacker woke up, it would be in his sentencing chamber.
He got up from the chair and went to the motel door where he had attached the sound dampener. “This is Reynolds,” he said a moment later into the buttoncaller fixed to his lapel. “I have a pick-up at this address.” He gave his people the particulars. Within the hour, Ronnie would be transferred to a temporary medjail while the bedolly would be awake and looking for her owner’s next customer.
He gave some other orders as well, for later. He told his snipers he wanted the man alive. Alive!
Outside the motel, Reynolds got in his car and told it to drive to the next location. As he changed clothes in back, the detective tried to shrug off the black depression he felt. I don’t know why I’m doing this, he thought. It’s not going to make any difference. Even if did get to the bottom of this kidnapping ring, it wasn’t going to do anything to change the big picture. The girls who had been kidnapped were going to remain suckfuck girls, because the law didn’t care how they had ended up that way, it only cared about the property rights of the people who would one day come to possess them.
As for the ring itself, where one avenue of clandestine merchandise dried up, another would soon take its place. The demand for slaves, like the supply, was never-ending. Between what the Revised Constitution permitted and practiced and the illegalities it overtly punished but secretly condoned, Reynolds saw a future in a few generations where the only class division was between the owners and the owned. Reynolds tried to avoid too much hypocrisy—he used slaves for his entertainment when the need arose—but the idea of such a bleak future made him glad he wouldn’t be around to see it.
In the meantime, he had a job to do. Soon, the car entered the metal gates of the Grainer Estate.
It was a classy place. Wooded hills, neatly trimmed hedges, floodlights, high security fences. The car rolled down a long curving driveway lined with marble statuary and let Reynolds out at the mammoth front step, also looking like solid marble. A pair of handsome goons in tuxs approached. Both were carrying assault minis. Both were wearing dark sunglasses at night. Typical.
“You can’t stop here,” the one on the right said. “This is a private party.”
The one on the left was even more direct. “Get the fuck out of here, old man.”
Reynolds had already taken out his badge. “Reynolds,” he said. “Republic Enforcement Agency . . . boy.” The guards bristled, but Reynolds had the satisfaction of watching both of them take an involuntary step back at mention of the organization he worked for. He started to walked past.
One put a hand on his shoulder. “Uh . . sir,” and Reynolds noted with an inner grin the effort on the man’s part to use that particular word, “this really is a private affair, and . . .”
Reynolds stopped and looked at him. After a heartbeat or two, the man let go and averted his gaze.
A uniformed butler met the detective at the door. “Good evening, sir,” the functionary said, hiding his disdain and his surprise at Reynolds’ appearance better than the two yokels had outside. Once, the stereotypical image of a butler at a posh mansion like this one would have been of an older gentleman. Like everyone else, this guy looked like a male model twenty-something barely out of college. He asked if the detective would like to stay in the foyer while the computer checked his credentials.
Reynolds looked around while he waited.
The house was big. There were three floors. Outside the foyer, Reynolds spotted a library, a dining room, a breakfast nook, and a study huddled off to one side. Two staircases dominated the main hall, both sweeping upward to the second floor.
The butler didn’t come back. Instead, a pretty young thing in a very low-cut cocktail dress met him, her heels tapping gently against the marble floor. She had vivid red hair. Between that, her enormous bosom, and the characteristic plastic sheen to her skin, Reynolds knew at once she was a dollygirl.
“Good evening, sir!” the slavegirl said exuberantly. The perpetual happiness of their product line was a Dollygirls, Inc. standard. “Mr. Granier is this way, if you’ll follow me, sir!”
She pivoted and beckoned at the detective. The dress she wore was low on top and short on the bottom. It fit her like a liquid coating, displaying every bounteous curve to maximum effect.
“I’m Mary,” the dolly said, turning slightly to speak to her master’s guest. “If there’s anything I can do to please you, please let me know. Mr. Granier has instructed me to inform you that I am at your complete disposal.” She smiled beautifully. The only smiles Reynolds ever received came from slaves.
“Thank you,” he said. He doubted he would avail himself of the privilege.
The hallway walls were in green mosaic wallpaper. The overall aesthetic was 18th Century: huge proportions, lots of balance, lots of engravings and artwork. All the furniture was antique in fancy woods. Reynolds wouldn’t have dared sit down in any of them.
“If you’ll permit me to say so, sir, you’re very handsome,” Mary told Reynolds. “I’ve never seen anyone in person so . . . distinguished.” Reynolds snorted under his breath. There’s a politically correct term I haven’t heard in a while, he thought. “Thanks,” he said, knowing she spoke the truth.
Dollygirls couldn’t lie. Then again, due of her conditioning, she would find all men “handsome,” one way or another. She took Reynolds down a broad set of stairs behind the two he had noticed earlier.
The senior agent heard raucous conversation. “I bid three thousand New Dollars!” someone said loudly. “Four!” another man yelled out. Instead of taking him the direction of this noise, though, at the bottom of the first landing Mary took him left, not right. The hallway, gilt-lined, curved. Around the corner a large window opened out over what Reynolds thought looked like a small indoor stadium.
Standing around an upraised platform were a dozen men in tuxedos, all young and perfectly formed. “Handsome” men. They were pushing and shoving at one another but not in an aggressive way, just in the manner of rowdy boys having a good time. Their attention was on the bound figure on the platform.
“Five thousand New Dollars!” “Seven thousand!” “Ten!”
“What the hell’s going on?” Reynolds asked. He had stopped at the window. Mary slid up next to him.
“Those nice gentlemen are making bids on the first rape of my sister, sir,” the dollygirl said sweetly. The agent spun to look at her, for a moment not believing what he had heard could be what he had heard.
“What!?”
“My sister, sir,” Mary said, putting her delicate doll’s hand to the glass. “I remember my first use.” She shivered in obvious delight. Reynolds followed her gaze. In the middle of the platform was a metal pole, and tied to that pole was a woman who did in fact bear a strong resemblance to the slave next to him. She was naked. Ropes held her to the pole tightly enough that all she could do was struggle.
And struggle she did, mightily, though to no avail.
While his own vision could not possibly be as perfect as the immortal young studs and beauties surrounding him, Reynolds’ sight was good enough for him to be able to see the obvious. The girl tied to that pole—she was screaming in terror—was not a dollygirl. She had not been drug conditioned.
In other words, she was not a slave. She was a free woman!
Reynolds went for his varipistol. Someone put a hand on his arm. It wasn’t Mary the dollygirl’s hand.
He tensed and looked up into the face of one of those bodyguards from outside. He was still wearing those silly sunglasses. A flutter of movement brought the second of the guards to his attention as well, standing right behind him. A third man, who despite appearing not all that dissimilar, same age, same tux, same well-chiseled features, was clearly in charge, approached them. “Agent Reynolds,” he said.
He extended a hand. “I’m Anton Granier.” The bodyguard on top of Reynolds seized the weapon from his jacket and backed off. Reynolds turned back to the window.
“It’s too late,” Granier said. “See?” He gestured.
It was. A half-naked man in an executioner’s hood had walked onto the stage beside the bound woman. The crowd in front was cheering. Drinks were raised. Backs were slapped. Someone had won the bidding war. As Reynolds watched, the man in the hood lifted a pneumo to the side of the bound woman’s neck and injected her. Her eyes widened and she screamed, but it was too late, now.
Within a few seconds the girl tied to the pole had begun to shake, no longer in terror but in self-evident ecstasy. One of the men from the crowd started taking off his clothes to the encouragement of the others. He climbed onto the stage.
The window went dark. Reynolds turned in anger to Granier. “I’m recording it on solidoe,” Granier confided to Reynolds, then indicated that they should go. Prompted by the bodyguards, Reynolds had to follow the son of a bitch. “We can talk as long as you’d like, Agent Reynolds, so don’t worry. It’s inconvenient timing, but I’m assured I won’t a miss a moment of my daughter Leslie’s deflowering.”
Reynolds’ stomach rolled over. For the first time, he noticed Granier’s luscious crop of red hair. He stopped in the middle of the hall despite feeling the immediate press of an assault mini in his back.
“She’s your daughter?”
“Well, yes,” Granier stopped and turned, looking surprised. He put his hands on Mary’s backside as she undulated over next to him, cooing delightedly. “Didn’t you know? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
Reynolds’ fists clenched. Then he remembered. He didn’t need to do anything. Snipers.
“No,” he said. “I had no idea. What in the name of God are you doing?”
“I’m enslaving my daughters,” Granier said simply. “I enjoy seeing them get fucked. After they are warmed up by my friends, I sometimes use them myself.” He shrugged. “You’re what, Mary?”
“I’m your fifteenth daughter, Father,” she answered prompted. Reynolds gagged.
“Ah, yes, Fifteen.” He smiled at Reynolds. “I sometimes lose track, I have so many.” He frowned.
“But, if that’s not the reason you’re here, then I don’t understand. I know my little hobby is, well, not quite approved yet by Congress, what? though I can assure you that new Amendment next year will make it perfectly legal, Mr. Reynolds, but . . . why are you here, then, eh?” He looked quite befuddled.
Reynolds wanted to throttle him until his eyeballs bulged out. “You thought I came here to ask you for a bribe,” he said. “So that I would look the other way while you . . . did that to your own family.”
“Well, yes,” Granier said, starting to smile again. “All the agents do.” Reynolds saw he was an idiot.
They went to a study adjoining the basement stadium. There was another large window overlooking the action, which Reynolds asked if that could be blacked out, too. Granier obliged, and Mary did the honors. The senior agent saw a clock on the wall. His men would be already on the estate by now.
“I came here this evening because I have evidence implicating you in a kidnapping and illegal records-tampering case,” Reynolds said when he and Granier were both seated.
The two bodyguards stood behind the agent. “A man named Ronald Javier provided me the last bit of information I needed for an arrest only a little under a hour ago.”
Granier frowned, looking confused. He turned to his dolled daughter, Mary. “Call my attorney,” he told her. She bowed and left the room. Granier blinked several times. “I . . . I don’t know what to say,” he said. “Those are . . . those are outrageous charges!”
“Coming from the man who turns his own daughters into fucktoys, that’s rich,” Reynolds said. “Call your attorney, if you like. If you surrender now, maybe something can be arranged.”
The crafty look one fool might give to another crossed Granier’s face. “Arrangement?” he asked slyly.
The implant in Reynolds’ left ear, the one connecting him to his team leader, came on, inaudible to all but himself. His men were inside and beginning their sweep. They had his location pinpointed.
“Maybe the prosecutor will let you choose what kind of slave you’ll be turned into,” Reynolds said.
Granier drew back. “But . . but that’s absurd! I’m a rich man! They can’t enslave me. I’ve done nothing wrong!” He became angry for the first time. “You’re a bad man. I think I’ll have you shot.”
He gestured at his bodyguards.
“I don’t think so,” Reynolds said. Before another word could be spoken, there was a sharp whizzing noise in the study, like the sound a sharp knife might make if swung through the air very, very fast. The three men—the two bodyguards and Granier—collapsed as one, neat puncture wounds drilled through their heads by the drillbullets fired by Reynolds’ snipers. He stood up shouting as his men entered.
Three smoking holes, very tiny, had opened up in the study walls.
They were making arrests, Reynolds was told. Confiscating the slaves. I wanted Granier alive, he informed them. One of the snipers shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I thought you were in danger.”
“Who gave that order?” Reynolds demanded. But no one would tell him. “Congratulations, sir,” a man said. “It’s a closed case. We found the access files Ronnie had been using. It’s all wrapped up.”
“Great,” Reynolds said. “Just . . . great.” He looked up at Mary as she was brought back in. Despite the fact that her father lay dead on the floor next to her, Reynolds with no surprise saw that she was smiling.
Dollygirls like her were always smiling.
How they grabbed Danica, she didn’t know. Her security was the best. The last thing she remembered she was walking outside her office to get to her car, bodyguards to either side, and then . . . nothing.
She woke up feeling horny. Really, really horny.
Danica Morgan, Superintendent of the Republic Enforcement Agent, gasped in horror. “NOOOO!!!” she screamed. She tried to lift herself up, and she found herself bound to a table, unable to move.
She squirmed helplessly. She was on fire! Her breasts felt like they were turning into balloons! She heard men around her, talking, commenting on how the drug was affecting her. The drug! The drug!!
The dollygirl drug! They had given her the dollygirl drug!! She was a dollygirl!
The person behind Danica finally spoke. It was a familiar voice. Despite the raging heat coursing in her veins, Danica went cold upon hearing it. No! It can’t be!
“All right, boys. You’re done. Get out.”
The speaker came round the side of the gurney and into Danica’s direct eye line. Senior Enforcement Agent Fred Reynolds looked upon his former superior with an old, sad gaze.
Danica tried to say something, but the curses caught in her throat. She sputtered helplessly. Rage, fear, and dismay competed for her time. She barely noticed her other tormentors silently leave the room.
Reynolds tilted the gurney upright so he could speak to her face-to-face. His face—aged, wrinkled, haggard—had never before seemed so attractive. Danica saw him with new eyes. Previously, her lead agent, despite his ability, had been appalling to her, physically. Now, Danica wanted to kiss each and every one of his wrinkly folds, each and every stubbly jowl. She cried out in frustrated misery.
“I figured someone else had to be in charge,” Reynolds said without preamble. “Ronnie was a hacker. He had skill but no imagination. Those guys,” and he gestured at the door the last had gone through, “were hired to do a job. They did it, too, and without a real brain among them. By the way, they’ll each suffer an accident in the next week or so, I can promise you. There’ll be no loose ends.”
“You . . .” Danica tried to say, and then she groaned, wanting him to fuck her so badly.
“Granier was an idiot, too,” Reynolds went on. “But at least he had the money to finance this.” The agent swept his hands to indicate the processing equipment and presumably the facility itself. “But that’s where you made your mistake, Morgan. Granier didn’t need the cash a kidnapping operation like this would bring in compared to the risks he would take running it. Besides . . .” and the agent sighed and made a disgusted face, “he would have been content just to process and fuck his umpteen daughters.”
Reynolds shook his head.
“So, I dug deeper, past the false money trails and other links you set up for me to find. I went back to Hartley and all those licensed pimps it turns out you were getting a cut from. You set it up well. You provided them the extra girls your pimps wanted, the ones that were “off-the-books” from the Vice Commission, and in return they slipped a percentage of their earnings into a secret slush fund.”
He sighed again. “I’m . . . disappointed. You made sure Granier, or the dupe accounts you set up in his name, were paid from the profit of the sale of the girls themselves, but the money you made only came from the rental use of those same girls. You had them turned into fucktoys incidentally.”
He turned and walked away from Danica. She whimpered incoherently, her wet, burning cunt tied to her hated former agent by invisible chains, her iron-rigid nipples by a magnetic force to his delicious, overpowering manliness.
He stopped a few paces away and faced her again. He looked angry.
“That’s what really gets me. It wasn’t the girls themselves. It wasn’t the profit from the property you had made of their bodies. That was just misdirection pointed at Granier and the others. Camouflage.
“Your profit was ongoing, and the fact that you were shutting down this operation here wouldn’t have affected your graft one bit. You said it yourself. ‘A bought and paid for commodity.’ The pimps had their extra slaves. It doesn’t matter how they came to be slaves; the fact is, they are slaves, and so they’ll remain. The pimps skim from their companies, and you would have continued skimming from them.” He walked up to Danica, causing her to moan in heat. “Tell me. How much did you really get from each turned-out suckfuck girl? The street price for an illicit bioslut is a few hundred R.D.s apiece.
“You got, what? a few pennies per trick for each girl the pimps didn’t have to report income for?”
It adds up, she wanted to say. Instead, Superintendent Danica Morgan could only beg.
“Please, please fuck me.” She squirmed as much as the bonds allowed her. “I’m sorry, but please fuck me. I need it. I need it!” She ached for him.
Reynolds looked around the equipment. Soon enough he held up a suckfuck Mask for Danica to see.
No, she silently whispered.
“You’ll disappear. They’ll be stories, some even directed at me, but the same cover-up I imagine you hoped would bury the kidnapping ring will do the same for this shop. There’ll be nothing to link either one of us to this place. I even got the erotic mutagen you were injected with from Granier’s auction.”
Without fuss, he reached up and slipped the Mask onto Danica’s face.
“Just so you know, I won’t be touching your slush fund. No one will. Once the pimps figure out you’re no longer around to connect them with anything, they’ll stop paying into it. Case closed.”
The porcelain-white memory plastic was preternaturally chill. The Mask felt as if it had been drawn from a freezer instead of an equipment drawer. Danica felt Reynolds’ fingers withdraw. The neurallink probes stroked her face and eyes. Before the hair-fine nanowires could render her completely numb, the superintendent felt her lips pushed open by an extrusion of the memory plastic; the rapidly warming material flowed in and began the process of molding the inside of her mouth into a smooth, wet channel, a chamber ideally designed for the purpose of fellatio. Her tongue was coated in the plastic, remade into a tool exclusively devoted for pleasure, for a suckfuck girl’s mocking voice was wholly artificial.
She would never have to speak again. From now on, the Mask would do all her talking, and thinking, for her.
[SYSTEM START] [NEURALLINK IN PROCESS] [IMPLANTATION PROCEEDING]
The face is a sensitive part of the body. A myriad of nerve clusters exist beneath the skin. The probes inserted themselves into each.
Even though she knew it was useless, Danica fought. Before the Mask took control of her limbs, she pulled at her bonds. [NEURALLINK ESTABLISHED] [SCANNING HOST SYSTEM] [TESTING] [TESTING] Once released, like a puppet on her strings, she was guided around the room, blind yet perfectly aware of everything in the room, most notably the man standing off to the side.
[NEUROSYSTEMS SCAN IN PROGRESS] [NEUROSENSORY NET FORMING]
Subject—male . . . Height—70 inches . . . Weight—200 lbs., approx. . . . Density . . . Sorenson Index . . . Muscle Elasticity Index . . . Stamina Projection . . . . Danica saw/felt herself gyrate over to him, pictured herself putting her smooth, printless fingers into his clothes, felt the Mask plan exactly how she would go to her knees once she had undone his pants, how her rosebud lips would open . . . .
A hundred detailed sexual scenarios played through her mind’s eye, each story/technique imprinting itself onto the neural architecture of her newly forming memory pattern, overwriting the previous and outdated imagery: the limo ride . . . assigning Fred Reynolds the case while smirking on the inside . . . how she blackmailed Granier with evidence she had manufactured . . . her promotion to District Superintendent . . . the Enforcement Academy . . . her childhood . . . everything that made up the person who had once been Danica Morgan. And on the heels of this erasure, this loss of thought and volition, the whole of her life swallowed into a whirlpool of darkness, came a chirpy voice in her head and in her soul: [Me suckfuck girl . . . me love you long time . . . me so horny . . . me so horny]
Over and over. Forever.
This isn’t fair, she thought. This isn’t the way it was supposed to be. I [me] . . . no! I’m not a [me suckfuck girl] NO!! The District Superintendent’s office had only been her stepping-stone. She [suckfuck girl] had had plans. I [me] wanted to be [a suckfuck girl] a representative in Congress. The money [me good suckfuck girl] would buy me a seat [horny] . . . power [me so horny] . . . fame [me good at suckfuck . . . me so horny] . . . yes, horny . . . no, damn you Reynolds! . . . fuck me . . . me horny . . . me good . . . me good suckfuck girl . . . me suckfuck . . . me like to suckfuck . . . me wants it so badly . . . Me wants it so badly . . . Me good suckfuck girl . . . Me so horny . . . Me love you long time . . . Me good suckfuck girl.
“Me good suckfuck girl,” the pretty slave who had once been Reynolds’ boss said in singsong. She padded over to him, rubbing her breasts and abdomen, offering her seemingly wet plastic flesh to him.
Reynolds clicked the remote control in his hand. The invitation and enticing movements stopped at once. The suckfuck girl assumed a neutral posture before him.
Slowly, Reynolds looked the living doll up and down, walking around her, lifting his fingers to almost touch her beautiful shiny skin and then pulling back at the last moment. He breathed heavily.
Pulling a handkerchief out to rub his brow, Reynolds thought back to the girl he had seen in Morgan’s office, the former Felecia Engels from New Indianapolis. Aside from height and hair color, this suckfuck girl was all but indistinguishable from that suckfuck girl.
It was the perfect disguise. The perfect end.
Reynolds nodded, judging the appropriateness. Once she’s in Hartley’s stable, no one will ever find her, he thought. He wondered if the next Superintendent would also take bribes from the pimps.
Probably, but at least he or she won’t be adding to the slave population.
At least, not Morgan’s way. Enforcement of the Republic’s increasingly harsh laws did enough of that already. His country was turning into a plutocratic playground of slaves and facile slaveowners, but if he had anything to say, at least it would get to that hell on its own, showing its corruption without any mask.
It was the least he could do, after all.
Reynolds escorted the new slave to his car. He closed his eyes as they drove into the city, feeling old.