The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Good morning.”

Mira’s eyelids fluttered. She stretched on her own, confusedly, recognizing that she was in a bed. The room was white, like an old-fashioned hospital suite. She looked around and saw a man in uniform sitting in a chair beside her. He appeared bemused by her puzzled expression.

Seeing him, a bolt of wet heat pulsed from between her legs, dismayingly powerful, like that which she had enjoyed when using O. Her nipples tightened. Mira squirmed around beneath the sheets she had found herself wrapped in. She was naked and warm and still green. She gave a plaintive moan and bit her lower lip.

She wanted the man to fuck her. She needed him to fuck her.

“How are you?” the man asked her. His uniform was bluish-black with bright blue trim: he was a medpoliceman. A biocop. He was extraordinarily handsome. Mira felt staggered by his physical attraction.

“Wha . . what?”

“How are you?” He pointed at her. He spoke slowly. “How do you feel?”

“Ah . . confused.” She was having trouble remembering what had happened after . . . after . . . Mira sat bolt upright in bed, heedless of her green nakedness. Marlene! Marlene had been caught and was going to be processed into a bioslave!

Mira had run from the pushers, certain they were chasing her, that they would catch her. The streets of the abandoned city district had been so grimy and dirty. Her feet had hurt. She had been naked! Literally, naked and exposed! She had run until she was exhausted, scurrying from broken building to broken building, until she had collapsed.

She had been so certain that she would be caught and processed herself. The thought was terrifying . . . and still not a little arousing in its depravity. Marlene! Mira thought. Marlene!

Marlene is going to be a slave. She is going to become a bioslut.

It was hard to fathom.

She didn’t know whether to be thrilled, horrified, or disgusted.

Her gaze returned to the biocop. The man stood. “Where . . where am I?” Mira asked, in a small voice. Her eyes trailed the length of his body, focusing on his delicious crotch. He had broad shoulders. She wanted to kiss his face.

She wanted to suck his cock so bad. What’s wrong with me? she questioned.

“To answer your question, you’re in medjail.” He smiled again. It was a beautiful smile.

Medjail? She was in a medjail!? Ohmygod . . ohmygod!!

“Get up,” he told her. He reached out and helped Mira out of bed. His touch on her green bare skin was delightful. Wait a minute, wait a minute, she thought. I’m naked. I’m still naked. Her larger sized tits, leftover from her overdose, pressed against his arm - she was still having problems adjusting to their size; she was always hitting her boobs against something nowadays - and an explosion of pleasure swept through her, causing Mira to stagger and moan. The sheets fell from her. He let go of her hand, standing within hand’s reach of her.

She wanted to rub her green body against his. She wanted to kiss him all over. She was so hot and wet. “Go to your knees, please,” the medpoliceman ordered. Mira’s knees buckled. She almost had, without question. Just because he had told her to.

She hesitated, at the last second. This isn’t right, she thought. I . . this isn’t . . . .

“Kneel, slut!” The sudden crack of his voice eclipsed everything else, and Mira fell to the floor beside him, looking up at him. He seemed to tower over her. He was male! and she was but a slut.

The sexual fire burning between her thighs blazed even hotter at the preemptory command. A revelation of her own insignificance filled her along with that wet, soaking heat. It was a part of the heat, a part of the desire she suffered, her wet need to be taken, to be fucked, to be filled with a cock, to love a cock and feel it inside her, squeeze it, cherish it, milk it of cum, because she was a cum receptacle, a lowly fucktoy, a slave. She needed cock. She needed instruction. She had needed to be put to her knees!

Being on her knees felt so right, so right, especially on her knees at his feet, a man’s feet.

She felt so very low and needy and slutty.

At the same time, as these raw emotions flooded her being, swept over her soul and drowned it in dreams of submission, Mira reacted with equally strong measures of horror and apprehension. This was wrong! This was so completely wrong! She wasn’t a slave. She didn’t want to be a slave.

She fought the tide of servility that swelled from within her. An awareness of where she was, the situation she was in, what was occurring inside her, the latent effect of the mimic drug and her current overuse of PaintO, the hormonal changes that inspired her heat and her need to be penetrated, and, overall, the submissive persona the combination of all this produced, all this, inspired a sense of panic.

Her heart beat with equal parts fright and craving.

“That’s better,” the medpoliceman said, voice softer again, looking down upon her (he seemed so godlike in her estimation). “That feels better, doesn’t it?” Mira nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, and he hushed her. “A woman like you should learn to speak only when you’ve been given permission.” He put his hand to her hair and rubbed her scalp.

Mira’s eyes closed in bliss. His touch so excited her!

“You did a fine slutjob on yourself.” He crouched beside and felt her up, squeezing her breasts.

Mira’s head rocked back in yet another explosive orgasm. With the PaintO still active, in the state she was in, his careless fondling of her was like a direct hard-line to heaven, her climaxes. He put his hand between her legs and rubbed her, eliciting even greater screaming pleasure. She bucked and squirmed under his manipulation, her very soul laid open by his ministrations.

“You don’t need to know who I am,” the man said, continuing to massage her intimately. “My rank is secret. I serve a Corporate Lord.” She was melting under his manipulation. Simply melting.

“I don’t need to know who you are, either,” he continued. At length, the biocop stopped, but only after working her up into an absolute frenzy without satisfaction. It took Mira a few minutes to recover sufficiently that she could pay attention to his words again. She looked at him questioningly.

“A patrol found you unconscious in an alleyway last night and brought you in. At first, they thought you were a bioslave, naturally enough. That is what you were pretending to be, after all. But there was no tag on you, so a routine DNA scan had to be conducted.”

She had been arrested. I’ve been arrested, Mira thought. I’ve been arrested for impersonating a slave. She hadn’t even known that was against the law. “I . . I want to call my attorney.”

The medpoliceman stood up. “That is your right.” He patted her head again, delightfully. “It is one of your choices, assuming you still want to have choice in your life.” She didn’t understand. “Before you make that choice, though, you should listen to what I’m saying to you.”

“I . . I . .”

“Be quiet, slut.” Mira bit her lip.

“Now, the DNA scan revealed that you were a member of the Corporate class. A seal was then automatically put on your identity, and I was called in to help you. I am here to help you.”

“Help me?”

“Yes. You caused a lot of people, myself included, a lot of bother last night, you know,” the medpoliceman said. “Still, what’s done is done.” He crouched down again and took her chin roughly in his hand.

It felt good.

“You’ve . . you’ve given me something. A drug. To make me . . want you.”

“Yes, of course. That’s standard procedure. Now listen, slut,” he said, staring her in the eye. Mira moaned, feeling his power on her. “Due to the circumstances of your case, and your elite status, there is some discretion over what becomes of you, so I’m going to give you a choice. It’s very likely to be the last choice you’re ever going to be given.” He laughed.

“Oh, please, please, let me go,” Mira begged. “I just want to go home.” But his hand felt so good.

“That is one of your choices, I agree,” the secret biopoliceman said. “But it’s not your only one.

“Before we go on,” the medpoliceman said then, his fingers lightly brushing Mira’s cheeks and drawing her eyes toward his, “I just want to say how proud I am of you.” He looked sincere, nodding gently.

Mira blinked. “Wha . . wha . .” she started to stammer, but the man quickly put his finger to her fulsome lips, to silence and enflame her. “Shhhh, slut,” he told her. “Remember, silence until prompted to respond. This is a lesson that will serve you well in your future life.”

He leaned back. “You’ve obviously gone to a lot of trouble to get yourself enslaved,” he said. “More so than any other woman I’ve seen, and I’ve seen a lot.” He put his hand to her cheek again, rubbing softly, eliciting a relaxed feeling in Mira. She closed her eyes and moaned. “You’ve always wanted to be a slave, haven’t you?” Guided by his fingers, responding to the kind tone of his voice, the submissive mind-set her altered brain chemistry put her in, wanting to please and to be pleasing, Mira nodded.

“Yes,” the man said, touching her, “you sought this out. It’s brave of you. Most true serviles only let themselves get enslaved. They take the drugs, they overdose, they wait to be picked up. Or they go places where respectable women don’t, they flirt with dangerous men, and hope to be abducted. It’s a pattern we medpolice see all the time. But you, little slut, are different.” Mira opened her eyes.

“Tell me, you go out in public and let yourself get fucked as a bioslave, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Mira whispered. Was the heat that she felt in her face shame or sexual delight?

“Of course you do. You want to be fucked like a slave because you know in your heart that you are already a slave, just waiting to be processed. That’s why I know you’ll sign this paper.”

The medpoliceman brought forth a document. It was printed on computer-sensitive paper, a legal requirement. He handed it to Mira, and she read it. It was a slave document, a bill of legal forfeiture of one’s status and rights. Mira’s breath quickened.

If she signed this, if she put her name and her DNA on this, she would become a slave. She would be reduced to the status of property.

“That’s why I know you’ll sign this. You don’t need a court to tell you what you already know. You’re a slave. You’ve gone almost the whole way on your own. That’s very brave. Very intelligent. All you need to do is sign this, and I’ll take care of the rest. I’ll take care of you. You won’t have to worry about a thing anymore. The only thing you’ll need to do from now on is obey, and you desperately want to obey, don’t you? Don’t you?” Mira nodded, tears gently falling from her sensitive eyes.

“Sign it, slut,” the man said soothingly. “You’ll feel so much better.”

He allowed her to read the document over and over. It made her hot and wet, more so.

“You’ll be a slave. Sign it. You know you want to.”

No, no, she thought. It was so hard to think, so many conflicting feelings and thoughts in her head. I’m not a slave. “You said I had . . . choices.” It was such a hard thing to say!

He looked actively disappointed in her, too, and that was a hard thing to take as well. She wanted so much, instinctively, to please him! She had to fight that impulse!

“Because you are Corporate class, the law is obliged to give you three choices. Were you a common tenant slut, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.” He returned to his chair. Mira remained on the floor. “First, you can just walk out of here. You’ve broken no laws, yet. Your DNA registers as having definitive slave coding. But you haven’t reached the legal threshold for confiscation. While you aren’t a legal bioslut, yet, you could well end up one, naked as you are and painted up like a slave.”

“No, that’s not true,” she whispered.

“Yes, it is. So, you can just walk out. We won’t stop you, but we won’t provide you any assistance, either. You’ll have to make your way home on your own . . . without clothes, without I.D., without transportation . . . a painted slut.” Mira shuddered in shame. How could she have done this to herself?

“Two, you can indeed call your attorney. He or she can advise you further of your rights. You can be provided clothes, transportation, everything . . . but you’ll have to give us your identity, you know. We’ll know who you are. Everyone will know who you are.” Again, Mira put her head down.

“Third, and the easiest decision by far, just sign that slave document. Become a slave, and you won’t have to worry about any of this anymore.” He touched her. “Please. You know what’s best for you. That’s why my Corporate Lord set this operation up in the first place, to help sluts like you achieve their rightful place. You’re so bound up in your elite life and the obligations that go with that identity. Just . . . surrender. Lay the burden down. Become a slave.”

The paper was burning her fingers, it was so hot.

What was she going to do?