The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mira thought about her friend. It had been more than twenty-four hours since she had been caught. By now, undoubtedly, the female Mira had once known as Marlene would be in a processing cocoon somewhere, her body being bathed in a sequence of eroticizing chemicals, her blood being pumped with DNA-altering solutions. Some of this work would already have been accomplished; it wasn’t as if this particular female was a blank slate, a virgin, either literally or in regard to mutagenic drugs.

Her friend’s use of O—and God knew what else—might speed her transformation up by as much as a few hours.

The entire process would entail days. Mira thought of her friend as “the female she had known as Marlene” because by this time the old Marlene was gone. Legally, Marlene’s identity would now have been stripped from her. Her home, her possessions, her stocks, Corporate seals, and whatnot: all by now would have been claimed by the state under a form of eminent domain that had been extended to one’s flesh and beyond. Slaves could not own property; they were property.

When exactly Marlene had crossed the line between persona and property, Mira could not say.

It depended on exactly what had been done to her. If they had brought her, as Mira had eavesdropped, directly to a processing facility, then the moment Marlene had gone into the cocoon she had become a slave. “Pre-processed,” perhaps, but, legally, still a slave. On the other hand, if the gang members had pumped Marlene up with enough O—Mira’s old pusher had been there, so this could easily have been done—she’d have overdosed, and in overdosing enough erotic mutagens would have attached themselves by then to her friend’s DNA that the legal threshold would have been passed, and, again, incurring a reduction to bioslavery. Life’s rules under the Corporate Lords were precise and exacting. They had to be since the penalties were so severe.

There were other means. If Marlene had been conscious enough, aware enough, someone might have gotten her to sign a slave document, like the one that had been waved in Mira’s face that morning. In the condition she had been in last night, Marlene would have signed anything in return for a good fucking. Such a certified document, signed before witnesses and sealed with a citizen’s own DNA, occasioned a legal slavery in itself, regardless of one’s body chemistry. A court verdict of guilty delivered in a courtroom by a judge, in regard to some crime, would serve equally well, as under the law a slave document and guilty verdict were equivalent. But Mira doubted this had been the route taken. As she had already learned, no laws had been broken by either of them last night, and a slave document required Corporate-level witnesses, and those street kids definitely did not qualify.

Thinking about all this, Mira sat in front of a large picture window in her mansion, undressed, unpainted, skin scrubbed raw of PaintO.

In the end, the biocop was proven less than honest. He had told Mira that if she refused his “help” without providing the medjail her name, she would be forced to walk home alone, with the implication being that it would be through the same abandoned district she had been found in. As it turned out, that particular medjail she was held in was already located in an elite Estate; the biopolice had taken her there upon determining that she was upper class. Walking home had presented no danger to Mira at all, merely embarrassment.

When she had made her choice, the unranked medpoliceman had stood up and walked out of the room, without saying another word. Perhaps that was the rule he had had to follow. Five minutes later, the door had opened, the hallway was cleared, and Mira had been free to walk out. Five minutes after that, she was out in the open garden paths of a protected Estate, perfectly safe from pushers and street-gangs. It had been early morning, too, and Corporates tended to sleep in. The sky was blue, the flowers were blooming, a few birds had been artfully released, for aesthetic purposes; and Mira ran into no one save service people and slaves; and seeing that she was still green and spotted, falsely though that may have been, no one looked twice at the naked sex slave returning to her rightful owner after a night of pleasure. Mira had even seen a few post-coital sluts walking home herself on her way back.

People had looked, looked at the pretty green bioslut, of course, Estate workers and tenant servicers; and no doubt they had speculated about how well she would squirm beneath them or suck their cocks; and, of course, this had excited Mira to the core, wondering the exact same thing, feeling and frankly appearing low and dirty and degraded, a mere slave; but no one had seen Mira, per se. Eventually, she had found a public-transport rental pod, scanned herself retinally, and charged it to take her back to her mansion, alone.

And who should have been waiting at her house’s front door, like a dog at its owner’s front stoop, than none other than her very own biostud, Vincent?

“Where the hell were you?” Mira had shouted, seeing him; and the slave had cringed, again like a whipped cur.

“Vincent is so sorry, mistress,” the biostud had sputtered, bawling. He was bigger than Mira, he outweighed her, he could clearly have torn her apart if he had wanted (yet, by genetic design never could have such a want); nonetheless, bound by love and lust for her, he was completely helpless in the face of her fury. “I waited as long as I could, mistress.” Mira believed every word of the explanation he tearfully gave her, how the street-gangs had delayed his arrival, how he had waited in the abandoned building, how he had searched for his owner, because the slave was simply too devoted to her, and had been rendered too simplistic in mind by his resequencing, to lie. She thought more about her friend.

While she was still in her cocoon, Marlene, or the female who had once been Marlene, would also be undergoing whatever aesthetic improvements her future life as a sex slave would require. The mutagens helped, but even today there was still no substitute for surgery when one needed basketball-sized tits, or, in Vincent’s case, a horse-sized cock. If the decision had been made to make Marlene into a catgirl, a tail would have to be grafted onto her spine. If she was to be a rubberslut, her entire epidermis would need to be replaced. The options were limitless.

The mental changes would also require surgery.

Premium dollygirls had their brains rewired to provide them computer-processing speed and retention. Naturally, they remembered their old lives; those lives meant nothing to them, yet still they remembered them. In all probability, though, whatever type of bioslut Marlene would be made into, her memories would be erased.

All that she had been would be replaced by programs and directives, making of her former friend a biological robot. Like Vincent.

Erased, Mira thought. To be erased. Her hand crept to her pussy. So horrible a fate, yet so horribly enticing at the same time. The very prospective almost made her hot and wet. Almost.

Yet she was still unable to cum.

“House,” she called out, “why can’t I achieve climax . . . without assistance?” She meant the PaintO, which even before last night had been declining in effectiveness, she realized now. How much difference a single day made. Just yesterday she had been hoping the PaintO would make an effective replacement for O. But the risks were just too great to take, obviously.

She did not mean Vincent. Vincent had been at her earlier, upon her orders and his fervent desire to make up for his misdeeds. But he could not bring her the orgasms she needed, not without assistance, not without the escalation of risk-taking. The PaintO was a dead-end.

“I cannot satisfactorily answer your question, ma’am,” the housecomp declared from all around her. There was an irony in this: no satisfaction was coming from any quarter. “If there are biological changes brought about by your previous use of the mutagen, they are below my abilities to scan.” They would have to be very low indeed for that. “If the problem is psychological, then there are chemical means to alter your state of mind, ma’am.”

“To bring me satisfaction?”

“To make you not care about achieving satisfaction, ma’am.”

No thanks, Mira thought.

“Incidentally, ma’am,” the housecomp said, “happy birthday, Ms. Lockard.”

Mira blinked, nonplussed. “I beg your pardon?”

“Happy birthday, ma’am. Today is your birthday, Ms. Lockard.” Mira blinked again, then did the calculations in her head. This was her birthday. She was forty-nine years old. She had lost track, being a perpetual nineteen or twenty, physically.

She would be fifty next year. A fifty-year old nineteen-year old.

It sounded horrible.

“Don’t mention it again,” she directed the house. “Yes, ma’am,” the housecomp said, at once imitating a suitably chastened tone. Mira looked out the window.

Today’s Marlene’s birthday, Mira thought. She is being born again today. She is a slave now. She is becoming a slave. “Happy birthday,” she said out loud.

The house was circumspect enough not to reply.