The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mira: A Slave’s Story

15 — The Relapse

There were attempts to forestall the end.

For months, Mira deliberately avoided anything that she regarded as “sexual.” This was no small or easy undertaking, yet neither was her efforts attempted with any great rigor. What she did, she did perhaps with a foreknowledge of what was to come. While she didn’t outright sell Vincent, for instance, she did instruct him to keep out of the way, to stay out of her sight; and despite the hurt look on his face, the profound loss a bioslave suffered in the knowing displeasure of one’s owner, he obeyed this injunction, and for a long time it was as if Mira had no personal sex slave, though of course she did.

In a similar vein, she sealed up but nonetheless kept her “playrooms,” with all her tools and lusty accoutrements still hanging from the beds and walls, waiting. Rather redundantly, she erased Marlene’s name from her contacts registry; and she threw out her remaining cans of PaintO, knowing she could get more within an hour. She instructed her housecomp to forget the names of her paid lovers, knowing computers never forgot anything. She stopped watching “Smiley Face,” though she kept the tapes.

Mira wanted to break things off clean. She could not.

She went out more, though not in “society.” Corporate culture had become, generally speaking, such a thoroughly charged and sexual one, with so much indulgence of personal appetites available and sex slaves of every variety at hand, that most of the entertainments offered by the Estates were, by their very nature, of a salacious variety. So, for the first time in her life, Mira deliberately paid homage to nature. Outside the ruined cities, the Towers, and the Estates, the world of the Corporate Lords had been allowed to revert back to an almost primeval state. More than reversion, actually: most traces of the old world had been bulldozed down and covered over, new seed planted, forests transplanted, wild life reintroduced. Twenty minutes flight in her safetycar—she had recovered the pod from the impounders—and for all intents and purposes Mira found herself on another planet. The elite did not visit the wild, by and large, so Mira found herself utterly alone on these treks. She would instruct the safetycar to fly over some dense forest or seashore, and she would gaze out the pod’s windows, trying to think about nothing. When she saw a place she liked, she landed, and her microbots laid out a picnic area.

Occasionally, she would even sleep out in the wild, more or less. She stayed inside her safetycar. But she would look out the windows. Once she even saw a bear.

When nature failed to retain her interest, Mira turned to academia. Once, she had written scholarly articles on slavery in history. Unlike Marlene, she had had a mind capable of analysis and insight. She liked history. All the information of the world was available through Mira’s housecomp, so for weeks she immersed herself in the past.

Because slavery and the Corporate Lords were too intertwined a subject area, Mira avoided contemporary issues and studied instead more remote eras, the nineteenth through twenty-first centuries. She was dismayed with horror by Hitler’s Germany. She tracked with some interest the rise of globalization and industrialization. She developed an appreciation for Queen Victoria. But often as she read, or more often the housecomp read to her, Mira’s attention would flag, and she would stare out the window at nothing.

She entertained herself, with fashionable comedies carefully weeded of all prurient subject matter (which rendered them largely incoherent) as well as those of past eras, during the age of television (incoherent to Mira as well, for she lacked all context and sympathy for the characters). Mira had never cared much for music; nonetheless, she tried some, at times virtually vibrating the walls of her mansion with greats like Beethoven, Bowie, and Blaton. But she quickly abandoned that route, too.

She read. She painted. She smoked and she jogged (both activities abandoned after only a day). Mira definitely, in her mind, anyway, tried to distract herself from thoughts of sex, how good it would be to have a cock sliding inside her, of how delicious the taste of warm cut would be on her tongue, of how being on her knees in front of a man felt so right, so perfect, so appropriate for a girl like her.

But she discovered an interesting thing: the more she tried not to think about getting fucked, the more she thought about getting fucked.

All the time that bear was outside her travel pod, clawing at her window, Mira’s mind had been elsewhere, on her back with her legs in the air and straddling her Master Vincent. What she painted almost universally resembled, in retrospect, a phallic design.

The housecomp seemed to anticipate her needs. When one morning Mira sighed and requested an O-pill from storage, there was hardly a half-second lapse. “Yes, ma’am. Right away.”

And within two minutes the tiny white dose was in the palm of Mira’s hand.

“Call Vincent,” she said to the air.

“He is already waiting, Ms. Lockard,” the air spoke back to her.

Why? No particular reason. Or every reason. Mira stripped and took the pill.

There is a familiarity to addiction. Addiction is like slipping one’s hand into a well-worn glove; it is putting one’s foot into an old, comfortable shoe. The pattern is already present. The ruts have already been dug. The runner runs with the wind, not against it. The brain recognizes what it needs, and because of this the drug’s effects occur even faster than they happened the first time. Mira hadn’t used the erotic mutagen O in months, not since the incident with the slave spots. She hadn’t had a good climax since.

The tablet dissolved on her tongue instantly. Her hyper-drug-disposed system absorbed the content without fuss, welcoming it like an old friend. Seconds later, it was as if the sun was shining on Mira after months of cold, wet misery. Warmth flooded the surface of her skin. The room lightened, metaphorically, at least (it may well have been literally, though, in Mira’s perspective, with the sudden dilation of her eyes). Already perpetually youthful, a new sensation of youth and vigor nonetheless welled up inside Mira, eclipsing that previous state. Why did I ever give this up? was her first thought, even before the ensuing O orgasm. Mira was not particularly well-read, but she had encountered a few classics in her education, and out of the blue, in the kind of flash-inspiration that O could, but not always, induce on account of the sheer exhilaration the drug provided, the heiress recalled a punishment from Dante’s Inferno. There were groups of monks in Hell who, because of their crimes on Earth, had been sentenced to suffer in the afterlife under broad cloaks of solid lead, weighted down by these leaden shrouds for eternity. The cloaks were gold on the outside but lead within, and, regardless, the monks had been crushed beneath the enormous weight they represented. Mira had a good life. She was privileged; she knew that she was privileged. Nonetheless, these last months, that privilege had felt like it was weighing her down, glitzy on the outside, dull in the interior. Taking the mutagen again, it felt like someone had lifted a leaden cloak from her shoulders. Mira felt simultaneously lighter and brighter, free and resurrected. That these sensations were on account of a slave drug, a drug meant to induce slavery, only made them, particularly the feeling of freedom, more deliciously ironic.

Mira felt the wetness seeping from her pussy moments before the orgasm. Her head rocked back, her eyes rolled up inside her head, her mouth opened, and she climaxed on her feet, her whole body jumping from the force of it. A second later she was on the floor—the housecomp said nothing, nor made any attempt to help her, despite what must have looked like an epileptic seizure, because of prior experience—and she another explosion of pleasure rocked her. “Aiiiihhhh!” she exclaimed, rolled onto her back, and just lay there, shaking.

Her nipples had become rock hard. Her pussy was pulsing with power and strength. Never again, Mira thought, between surges of ecstasy. I’ll never give it up again. Never.

She could not live without this. She did not want to live without this.

Mira clutched at herself. Poking her finger inside herself induced a third climax, her whole body arching as the sensation swept over her. Pleasure rippled throughout her body, and she was crying as Vincent entered the room. Unlike the housecomp, her biostud was more sympathetic.

“Mistress!” the slave shouted and rushed to her. “Mistress, are you all right?” He touched her on the shoulder and stomach—there was a set of first-aid procedures downloaded into most bioslave minds, just as a precaution—and Mira passed through yet another orgasmic surge, at the pressure of his touch.

“Fuck me,” she pleaded with the slave. “Fuck me. Fuck me.” Through half-lidded eyes, she saw the awareness of his Mistress’ condition dawn in Vincent’s face. Oh, this expression said, Mistress is having a good time. His whole demeanor changed, from concern to excitement.

His cock, his magnificent resequenced, surgically enhanced cock, sprang into action. “Fuck me,” Mira demanded, and biostud that he was he did not need to be told again.

Vincent grabbed Mira’s legs and split them. He positioned himself atop her, laying his Mistress out on the floor. With a quick but decisive move, he slid his enormity inside her.

She climaxed quickly. He went slowly. His strokes were strong, consistent, methodical, going all the way in, holding it there, pulling it out again, repeating, like the fuck-machine he was. The joy of it was, from her perspective, he never got tired. He was a biostud: his endurance was not human. And his skills were superb.

Later, Vincent licked her. His tongue traveled over every inch of his owner, from the underside of her toes to the undersides of her breasts. His mouth opened and closed around Mira’s nipples, his tongue penetrated her pussy, he nibbled at her clitoris, he kissed her throat and her mouth.

These explorations, and the penetrations and manipulations that came next, did not in themselves induce another orgasm; but Vincent was a practiced biostud, his programming complete with every maneuver designed to bring pleasure to a woman (or a man . . . as many men bought biostuds as women, statistically), and he was finally being allowed to use these skills on his owner. He was in his element. The mutagenic started the cascade; Vincent completed it. After the sixth or seventh orgasm that night, with all the pleasures that followed, Vincent was the boy responsible.

* * *

Pleasure, absolute pleasure, like absolute pain, can induce a state of mind.

A clarity is sometimes achieved after one has been driven past the edge of sensory awareness, once the senses themselves are overwhelmed by deluge. It is the clarity of a person descending to her doom after jumping off a high building, seeing the ground rushing up and knowing, absolutely knowing, that the end was coming.

I’m going to become a slave, Mira thought, lying there, Vincent beside her, still partially inside her, in fact, gently stroking her in the afterglow. There is no turning back. Eventually, I will be made a bioslut.

Later, she would recant these thoughts and dismiss them merely as the wild ramblings of fantasy brought about by mind-blowing climaxes after so long without real pleasure, slave pleasure. But at that moment she knew the truth.

There was only one way this path she had chosen would end, and it would be with her becoming a slave.

Whether she volunteered for slavery, whether she ended up confiscated, whether her old pusher found her, the end would be the same. And she was glad.

It was, actually, something of a relief, this knowledge.

I will be a slave one day, she thought. Again, she would, even later that day, refute this. But at the moment she could tell no lies to herself. Mira Lockard will one day not be here. All this, and she swept her eyes over her mansion, all this will belong to someone else. And so will I, as well.

I will be a slave.

And so the course of Mira’s life was set, if not in stone then certainly in something even stronger.

. . . to be continued (Ch. 16—“Mira and Her Lovers”)