Mira: A Slave’s Story
20 — No Longer Pretending
Mira’s rather futile attempt to escape was born of fear and confusion. Both emotions were natural reactions to the circumstances wherein the partially resequenced, former heiress had found herself.
They certainly explained her actions, which a neutral observer—such as the one Vincent had video-linked to watch the first true slave use of his former mistress—might judge as both wasted and not very intelligent. Mira’s body, after all, had turned green. Her skin now sported decorative (and patent-enforceable) cow-like slave spots. In preparation for her new existence of sucking and fucking, her sexual appetites had been hugely augmented (though not as hugely augmented as they were soon going to be). For similar reasons, so had her boobs grown (again, not as big as they would soon be getting).
There could be no escape for her. In some deep mental reserve, Mira knew this.
Nonetheless, her attempt at flight was predictable.
The door leading outside refused to open automatically when she approached, and Mira literally ran into it. “Invalid Input,” the housecomp shouted at her, again with the same unfamiliar lack of friendliness as before. There was a rarely used manual release near the floor. Despite some fumbling, Mira managed to access it and then open the door. Sunlight hit her in the face.
And then, again, she just ran. Blindly, without course, without reason, until exhaustion hit.
Out of breath, Mira finally had to stop in a grove of trees. She was still well on her Estate, not even a quarter of the distance away from her house (former house). Her chest—heavier now—was heaving, and she leaned over deeply to keep from fainting, balancing one hand awkwardly against a tree. She felt like she might topple over.
She got her breath back, but with breath came that unnatural arousal again, the constant, burning arousal of a bioslut. Mira groaned, unable to keep from touching herself. Her skin had become so sensitive.
Even the tree bark against her hand felt fantastic. Mira went to her knees in the grass, the two different shades of green subtly contrasting. Soon enough, she was gasping again, not with heated exhaustion but plain, unadorned heat. One hand kept working at her sex while the other, pulled from the tree, started playing with her nipples. I’ve got to . . got to escape, Mira thought. But she couldn’t keep from masturbating.
Her orgasm was shattering, leeching the strength from her so completely that she collapsed to the ground, unable to move. She lay on her back, legs spread, her enormous new bust jutting upwards.
“I’m a slave,” she said aloud.
Mira shook her head in denial. But there could be no denial. Her head filled with thoughts of what she could do, how she could escape. But they were fantasies born of desperation.
She was no longer the same. “I had an overdose,” she said aloud, to the world, to the trees, to herself. “Enough slave DNA has attached itself to my genecode to begin a cascading mutagenic effect.” Her tone was almost conversational. It was shock.
I’m green, Mira thought, rubbing her arms together. I’m green, and I have slave spots. The new coloration was at once enticing, horrifying, and perfectly natural. Rubbing her arms together got her hot. “Breathing” was getting her hot. Mira started to explore her body. Oh . . my . . God, she thought again, as she clutched at her big bioslut boobs. Just touching them caused a massive pleasurable reaction, the equivalent of sticking her fingers into an electrical appliance, yet instead of pain pure pleasure being the result.
She continued to masturbate, losing track of time, space, pursuit.
She didn’t notice the biocop approach from behind until he spoke to her. “Mira Lockard?”
He was handsome . . . deliciously handsome and anonymous. Mira immediately wanted to fuck him. Seeing the policeman behind her, Mira faced two choices. She could run to him. She could run away from him. In the hierarchy of human needs, the sex drive does come before personal safety. Nonetheless, Mira’s conditioning at the time was incomplete. She chose the latter.
Despite the man’s magnetic masculine pull, Mira forced herself to turn and run. And it was in the next moment, in her sudden, stunned reaction to his barked command, still several paces behind her, that the former heiress realized it was, in fact, true: she had become a slave.
“Stop, slut!” she heard, and Mira halted, instantly.
For her, it wasn’t at all a matter of choice. Master, she thought, and her nipples pulsed. Mira’s pussy flared with heat. Her clit throbbed with strength—the urge for flight just drained out of her body, as if concentrating onto that delightful little nub.
It wasn’t a choice: the words vibrated throughout Mira’s entire being, coursing directly through her nervous system, influencing her body at a root command level. The command affected her the same way a lovely, scrumptious piece of cock-meat penetrating her body did, drawing pleasure from her in a spasm of uncontrolled reaction. Mira orgasmed in response to the man’s order. Her inability to keep running was akin to her sluttish inability to hold still while climaxing. She moaned, squirmed, writhed, and shook during an orgasm; she had moaned, halted, clutched herself, and shook when this man exerted his authority upon her . . . his male authority in absolute charge of her female submission.
He is my Master, Mira couldn’t help but think.
The thought was prompted by make-up, not brainwashing (that would come later). Every fiber of her altered genecode felt inferior to his godlike superiority. And it felt so goooood! to be—to know—herself his inferior. It made her feel incredibly, unbelievably female. At the same time, there was a shuffling of social position in Mira’s worldview, in what was no doubt a biochemical rush of hormones through her brain, prompted in pure physiological response to a free man—Vincent hadn’t counted, in spite of his deliciousness—shouting at her, giving her lowly self this first command. One might imagine an old-fashioned teeter-totter, large enough to line up all the categories of human beings in Mira’s life: the Corporate Lords, the Corporate elite on one end, biosluts and biostuds on the other, free tenants and Estate workers straddling the center; and everything weighted, previously anyway, in Mira’s favor. That balance shifted. What once she had considered low and humble, deserving only of use, became—the teeter-totter finding a new center of gravity—high and awesome, well deserving of her own humble service and worship.
What once she had thought disgusting, Mira now found herself desperately wanting to please, because it was her rightful place—her function in life, in fact—to be slavishly pleasing to them.
This complex of emotions consumed Mira. No, it can’t be, she thought desperately. It can’t be!
Her thoughts remained free (for the moment); but everything else in her was slave.
The biocop came up behind her.
“Please,” she started to beg, to plead; but he spanked her ass, and all her other words evaporated.
Mira groaned in anguished delight. He touched me! her body told her gleefully. He put his hand on me! The pain-pleasure rocketed up and down her spine. He put his hands on her naked shoulders—another shudder—and flipped her around. Mira stared up at him, gasping.
His whole body radiated fire, it seemed. He was beautiful, strong, masculine, everything. She was hopelessly aroused, weak, feminine, and nothing compared to him. When he pushed her to her knees, Mira felt like she was coming home. Her place in the universe was at this man’s—any man’s—feet.
He unzipped. “Suck me, bitch.”
If the biocop’s face and body were godlike, his exposed cock was heaven itself.
Mira didn’t hesitate.
The heiress had lost count long ago of the number of cocks she had serviced. The combination of practice, Vincent’s tutelage, and her own O-inspired enthusiasm had made her—or so she had thought at the time—an expert cocksucker. She had liked everything about giving blowjobs. She had liked the sensation of being on her knees before a man, how servile it felt. She had adored the weight and presence of the serviced cock in her mouth, the way a man pushed past and separated her lips, how her lips could then press down and pillow his meat. She had liked kissing a man’s rod and licking him with her tongue. She had loved, simply loved the taste of cum. The O made it ambrosia. And the way a man would pulse in her mouth and spill his seed down her throat—the muscular gushing, the wetness, her own face and mouth and tongue working in concert to please him—combined with everything else to make sucking a cock an extremely pleasurable activity.
Again, she had had no idea.
The scale of difference between giving a blowjob as a mere O-addicted slut and providing service as a partially resequenced bioslave was like reading about a recipe and then tasting the prepared meal.
There was no comparison. What she had liked before, she worshiped now. And there was another salubrious effect on Mira, which may have played a part in the biocop’s motivation for making her service him, besides the obvious; and it was this: it reaffirmed even more so the submissive place Mira had in her new glandular perception of the universe.
While she still thought about escaping, the actual urge to flight in her had vanished.
Licking her lips, shaking in orgasmic pleasure from the taste and servility of service, Mira knew she had found her proper station. She was a slave.
The officer refastened his pants. “You didn’t get very far, did you?”
“No,” Mira said, shaking her head. She had almost said, Yes, Master. The word “master” begged to be spoken on her lips. Cum had never tasted better.
He probably noticed the knee-jerk reaction, for he smiled slightly. He waved his hand about. “You used to own all this?”
“Yes, sir.” In her mind, she still sort of did. Cognitive dissonance was still great for her.
“You will refer to me and all men as ‘master,’ slut.”
The instruction thrilled her to the core. “Yes, master.” The verbal acknowledgement of her place felt wholly appropriate. More: speaking the word aloud made her even hotter. She really was a slave.
“Now, you’ve lost it all, because you were such a slut.”
Shame and arousal. Arousal because she felt shame. “Yes, master.”
“Stand up.” Before she could comply, the biocop reached down and pulled her by the arm. “Hold still.” From his belt, he removed a long, curved tool, with straps attached. It was a dildo.
Before she could say anything or react, in alarm or anticipation, the biocop bent, spread Mira’s thighs, and inserted the tool inside her. Mira screamed in pleasure. The device immediately started vibrating. The straps wrapped themselves about her waist with organic speed and grace, sliding between her buttcheeks to create something much like a G-string, with the dildo held in place and working inside her.
It pulsed with rapturous, overwhelming strength. Mira climaxed, hard. Her whole body convulsed with demeaning pleasure. The vibrating pulses came inside her, alternating in duration and intensity; and in concert with the straps it thrust deeper and back again, back and forth. The result was more than just one orgasm: Mira began to shake in continuous orgasmic pleasure, body vibrating. As a restraint device, the dildo was as effective as chains or a leash. Mira could not budge from where she stood.
The biocop flipped her around again. When he touched her arms, Mira’s breasts rose, and her breath sharpened. Taking the back of her head, the man bent her face to the ground, exposing the back of her neck. A second later Mira felt something sharp sting the back of her neck, right below the skull. What felt like spider’s legs danced across her skin there, and the needle in the center poked in even deeper.
The pulse digging into her twat synced up with a milder but no less invasive vibration emanating from the device in her neck, creating a sympathetic series of waves passing up and down Mira’s body. The vibrations sang along each arm, danced through each leg.
The biopoliceman stood beside her. “Let’s go back to the house. You lead the way. Some of the men might want to fuck you before turning you over. It would be amusing to do so in your own bed.” Mira’s limbs moved forward without her active participation. The pulsing from the dildo directed her, as surely as if she were a puppet on strings.
Mira opened her mouth to say something—to argue, to beg—and she could not. She had lost all control over her body.
She had lost all control.