The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mira: A Slave’s Story

19 — The Overdose

Mira’s grandfather passed from old age. He was among the last of the truly wealthy to do so.

Because of his riches, his son and the woman his son married were among the first generation of BioTrust’s so-called “utopians,” or Class-A Citizens, “Aces,” as they were also called, benefiting the most from the wildly improving medical techniques pioneered by that State Company, when there still were states. Blessed with eternal youth and health, many of these first generation of elites were still alive in Mira’s time, all but indistinguishable from their children, the second generation of elites, Mira’s peers.

Contrary to some expectations, which direly predicted an ever-expanding immortal elite the sheer size of which would devastate the planet, after an initial boom the number of Corporates actually stabilized (the rest of the human race, mostly reduced to serfs and tenants, continued to breed under the auspices of their new rulers). While still enjoying theoretical immortality, there was such a thing as the “mortality index,” which said that the longer one lived the higher the probability of eventually succumbing to death by accident, which is what eventually claimed the lives of Mira’s parents, both into their hundreds when the odds finally caught up to them. Later, adding onto the mortality index was the “enslavement index,” theorized, ironically enough, by an enslaved group of dollygirls and toyboys: this index proposed the parallel idea that the longer one lived the higher the probability of eventually being reduced to slavery.

Summed up, despite having the potential to live forever, Corporates like Mira did not. Even the most careful of them eventually fell prey to either misadventure or enslaving pleasure.

She continued to take precautions. She rationed her use of O. She visited the medical cubicle regularly. But, really, it was only a matter of time.

* * *

The night began as many others had. Waiting nude and painted for her scheduled lover, Mira took a dose of O and quickly masturbated into a screaming frenzy. When her lover arrived, she was already blinding hot and wet. When he fucked her, Mira completely lost herself, so much so that a conscious judgment or sense of deliberation was impossible.

She was careless, in multiple senses of the term. So careless, Mira took a second dosage of O to help sustain the high she was on.

Mira had done this before, rarely; and the next morning she spent more time in the medical cubicle in compensation, to no obviously lasting effects. Usually, though, she was cautious enough, thoughtful enough beforehand, not to have a second (or a third, or a fourth!) O pill near her when she was enjoying herself. She knew she would not be able to control herself. But she had grown lax. That, or some unconscious impulse had reared its pretty head: instead of taking one pill out of the container, she picked out two; and she didn’t replace it but instead brought it with her into the playroom (Another sign of laxity: while she still employed the bungalows on her Estate, Mira had of late been allowing one or two of her lovers a week to fuck her in her main house’s many equipped playrooms, where Vincent and Marlene entertained her. This allowed for greater experimentation.). After countless mighty orgasms already, mind floating in heaven from the experience, Mira didn’t even think about not taking the extra pill. For that matter, she didn’t even think about taking it. She didn’t think at all. She just took it.

She rode orgasmic waves all night, without rest. Without food. She wouldn’t have been able to rest or eat, even if she had so desired: she was so delirious with pleasure, so keyed up and aroused, sleep in the ordinary sense would have been impossible; and as for her appetite, well, what she hungered for was not food. She might have fainted and lapsed into unconsciousness; but she didn’t. Her routines had “toughened her up.” After exhausting her lover and abandoning him, while the housecomp was making the arrangements for his departure, Mira wandered feverishly throughout her mansion. The housecomp could not refuse her direct commands. Neither could Vincent or Marlene. And so, when she went to get more O, driven purely by impulse, no one stopped her.

She was warned, by all parties. But she did not heed these warnings. She could not “hear” them.

The next day and night were a blur. Mira’s state of mind was characterized more by its lack than its presence. When she eventually did collapse, from physical exhaustion and neural overload, her servants dutifully placed her in the cubicle, per her standing orders.

The housecomp’s medical services tried to help; but they were bound by programming that could not easily be overwritten, Once a certain percentage of slave DNA was attached to the base, all the system could legally do was repair, not remove . . . even if that was possible at that point, which it was not.

The cubicle door opened, and Mira staggered out, not quite capable yet of seeing what was before her.

In itself, this incapability was an alarming sign—people stepped out of medical cubicles always in the best of all possible healths—but owing to her condition Mira didn’t notice it. She took a few steps, then fell to the floor, a rush of bewildering (and delightful) sensations flooding through her. She had no balance, yet she felt no accompanying nausea. Quite the reverse, actually. Her boobs brushed the carpet, and a surge of pleasure sparked, like exposed livewires, yet instead of stinging pain overwhelming pleasure was elicited.

Uncontrollably, she squirmed on the floor. Breasts trapped beneath her, feeling plump and cushiony (more than they ever had), nipples blood-filled and hard, superbly sensitive, Mira rubbed them across the floor, squealing. She pressed her bare sex flat against the surface and began humping her house.

Mira had never had sex with her housecomp before. It was marvelous.

She writhed onto every hard surface, every surface that presented itself. She dragged herself along the floor. Steadied on her forearms, she pounded her groin against the carpet. Then she turned around and plunged in with her fingers, stroking inside and out, her breasts and her clitoris, screaming frantically.

It was several minutes before Mira noticed that she was green.

The shade wasn’t as deep and encompassingly lush as a coating of PaintO; but it was definitely a shade of green. A light mint green or honeydew, if definition was required. And her skin glistened. There was a light-catching sheen to its surface, as if from baby oil. Again, it wasn’t the full-on “plastic-coating effect” of a thoroughly processed bioslut or dollygirl; but it was definitely not normal. It made her look, and feel, slightly artificial, so smooth was she, the way her arms and legs and breasts felt. And beneath the sheen were slave spots. The pattern was classically Friesian, cow-like, and comprehensive. Later, when Mira had the opportunity to examine herself more closely, after the panic and the flight, she would see that the patterning was everywhere, from the soles of her feet to beneath the hair on her scalp. A big spot covered half her face, not quite across the middle but close, below her nose, at least, as if she were wearing a veil over her eyes and forehead. Most of the spots weren’t so big, though. They weren’t black, just a deeper shade of green. The arrangement was very aesthetic. Rather than appearing as blotches or irregularities, as deformations, the random patterning drew in the eye, subtly enhancing rather than distracting where they appeared, like artistically designed tattoos. They outlined the shape of Mira’s breasts, her hips, her ass, her limbs, even her face and lips (the latter of which had assumed the same shade of green as the spots), and made all of them more prominent and appealing.

Of course, in the beginning, in her alarm, Mira missed some of these subtleties.

Oh my God, she thought, staring at her arm. The bottom half of her body was still gyrating against the carpet. She was unable to speak. Her eyes went from her arm to her hands to—finally lifting herself up, with difficulty (it felt so good)—her newly endowed chest. In addition to the other changes, she had grown up top as well. Considerably.

Oh my God, she thought, feeling herself, unable not to cup the massive new tits blessing her body. Nor was she unable to hiss, moan, then whimper in abject pleasure-fear at how good this touching felt.

Oh my God, she thought, as a wave of need pulsed from her pussy . . . a dire craving for penetration that kept her from standing, so powerful was it. A shudder ran through her. Unbidden, her hand reached down, and once again Mira began masturbating, unable not to, imagining herself fucked.

Oh my God, I need to be fucked, she thought. I need fucking. And then it occurred to her, at last: she was fucked.

Somehow, she scrambled to her feet. She ran to the medical cubicle. “Open!” she ordered the housecomp. “I need a full purging!”

The cubicle did not open. The housecomp, always so polite before, said, coldly, “Invalid Input.”

“Open up!” Mira screeched, in vain. Some part of her realized the truth even then. The house no longer recognized her as a citizen. Nor was she a slave (she . . a slave!) registered as a subject user.

Panic-stricken, Mira ran into her bedroom. “Vincent, you’ve got to help me!”

The purple-red biostud rose from beside the bed where he had been asleep in a kneeling position. He coolly examined his owner. The expression on his face was different from at any time Mira could recall.

Usually, she was on the receiving end of a look of utter adoration, combined with some measure of extreme lust. This time the only look she received was that of frank appraisal.

“I cannot help you, Mira,” Vincent told her. He smiled. “You are a preslave now.”

“No, I’m not!” She threw herself onto the bed. “Please!” She didn’t know exactly what Vincent could do for her, but she wasn’t being overly analytical at the moment. She touched Vincent’s arm, and a curious thing occurred. Where previously she had stroked her slave countless times and luxuriated in his smooth, masculine perfection, that sensation notwithstanding had purely been an external one.

That is, in feeling Vincent up, or, more often, being felt up and being made love to by her slave—well, fucked by him—the experience had simply been that of extraordinary pleasure, nothing more.

This was different.

This time, their flesh-on-flesh contact produced something altogether stronger, more intense.

Mira pulled back, frightened, but Vincent moved forward and took her in his arms. He kissed Mira’s mouth, deeply, intoxicatingly, and a river of liquid ecstasy seemed to pour out of the one and into the other. This joy that Mira experienced was no mere physical sensation, though a sensuous physicality had much to do with it. This experience, though, transcended the merely physical, went beyond the mundanely corporeal into psychic realms previously unimagined and inexperienced. This was a happening more chemical than material, more internal than external, a reaction not merely of contact between two creatures—two slaves—but a synthesis between the two, that synthesis producing in Mira a chain-reaction of unearthly delight and extreme, deep-set desire. An electric warmth sparked inside Mira, causing every inch of her skin to tingle. Where Vincent touched her, kissed her, moving down her body with licks and sucks, this tingling grew more intense and sank in deeper, spreading out in waves of bliss that had Mira gasping within moments, unbelieving. Where Vincent touched her, he touched her everywhere. Every kiss was a kiss all over. Every lick was a lick to her nipples, her labia, her clit, her soul. But, still, this was only the physical part. When he penetrated her, sank his delicious cock into her blazing pussy, again this was just physical. The true warmth of the experience came emotionally.

Vincent wasn’t just making love to her body. He was making love to her soul.

Everything he did to her physically, that experience was magnified a thousand times greater mentally, inciting depths of emotions in Mira she had never before been able to explore. For the first time in her life, Mira knew what true happiness was. She had—she found—she achieved that which was in this use of her body, true happiness. She felt beautiful. She became beautiful. A key had fit into its lock.

Opposing magnetic poles came together, finally. Two chemicals combined to become something else, something greater. A need that Mira had never before contemplated, let alone known she had missed, was satisfied.

And pleasure.

Ah, pleasure! Mira felt a joy well-sprung from her very soul! A pleasure that by its very nature changed her soul, made it, made her into something different, something purer, something sublime.

She simply melted in Vincent’s embrace. “Oh, please, don’t stop,” she moaned.

Her climax as Vincent bent down to her sex and inserted his tongue inside her was beyond measure.

Once started, the orgasm wouldn’t stop. It exploded inside her womb and radiated outward, a perpetual explosion, bursting over and over and over . . . Mira tried to pull herself away, again frightened by the sheer intensity of what was happening. Vincent lay atop her, still inside her, moving.

“What . . what are you doing?” she asked, when she was again capable of speech. It felt so good!

Time had passed. A lot of time had passed.

Vincent’s expression was guileless, his words terrifying.

“I am distracting you, Mira. I called the biopolice.” The biostud gestured with his eyes. Mira followed and saw that her videophone was active, watching her, watching them as they cavorted on the bed.

When had Vincent done this? Mira couldn’t remember. “No,” she whispered. Although no face shown on the screen, the feed, she saw at once, was active. Their image was being relayed elsewhere.

In an instant, Mira realized the sick truth. She had been seen acting and moaning like a slave—looking like a slave—in front of a camera . . . in front of the world! My secret, she thought. My secret.

A secret apparently no longer.

She turned to Vincent, incredulous. “Why?”

“It is part of my training, Mira.” He no longer said ‘mistress,’ Mira noted. “When a woman succumbs as you have succumbed, it is my duty to inform the authorities so she may be collected and processed.”

“No!”

Vincent touched Mira’s face tenderly. “When you are trained and programmed, you will understand better.” He put his lips to Mira’s breasts and began to nuzzle and kiss at her. “I am so happy for you.”

“Nooo!” Mira moaned. She tried to pull away. But though Vincent wasn’t holding her down, wasn’t forcing himself on Mira in any way, it was difficult to pull out of his grasp. It felt so gooood!

“You don’t want to leave, Mira,” her former slave told her, in-between licks and sucks and pumps. “Our masters will be here soon. You will be used like the slave you and I both know you have always wanted to be. Because now you are a slave, and only a slave. With the way your body has adapted to the mutagens so quickly and completely, it is clear you are now the bioslut you were born to be.”

He hugged her. “I am so proud of you. You will make an excellent bioslut.”

“No!” Somehow, she pushed him off her. He offered no resistance, only a mild surprise at her reaction. “What are you doing, Mira?” he asked her. “Do not leave. You must be claimed now.”

Mira ran.

. . . to be continued (Ch. 20—“No Longer Pretending”)