The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Mira: A Slave’s Story

23 — Training

Had she retained the inclination, for philosophical introspection of this kind was not a design feature of the XTC bioslut model, or the necessary memory, the Mira might have spoken on the idea of scale being the most important thing in the world.

Scale wasn’t. Obedience was. Nonetheless, the notion possessed merit. Arguably, at least, scale did rule all. As above, so below. The same patterns, the same events, were all happening on different but nonetheless intimately connected levels. What seems massive to an ant is indescribably small to a man, yet what seems massive to a man is indescribably small on the scale of a planet, or a sun, or a galaxy.

Less abstractly, the woman the Mira had once been had experienced what she, in her naiveté, thought was pleasure. She had sought out pleasure. She had experimented with pleasure. She had, in the end, grown addicted to pleasure and let its pursuit fundamentally change her life. But with the awakening of her enhanced nervous system, and the comprehension provided the Mira by her biochemically adjusted mindset, supplemented by nanolevel brain surgery, the power of scale could have ably demonstrated to her that she had known nothing of this word, “pleasure.”

First impressions: she was in darkness. Wetness. The only reason the Mira knew she was awake was that she was so horny she felt like she was going to boil the fluid in the can.

For the longest time, her thoughts were absent, her mind was totally blown, and there was only the hunger for cock, for rampant, hardcore fucking. There was nothing else (certainly, no analysis on the subject of scale). There was only the NEED, and the Mira had become that NEED. She became the pussy that needed penetration. She was only the mouth that needed to suck. The nipples that were so hard completely defined her. The NEED was the center, the NEED was the edge, the whole, the universe; what little shards of former personality the Mira had left from her past were nothing in the comparison, less than little bits of paper caught in a burning column of fire, going round and round and round, without meaning, incinerating by the moment. Not even that: they were anti-substance, made of nothing, dissolving into nothing by the moment.

In other words, her arousal was crushing. Devastating! A raw sexual hunger that redefined what she thought of as carnal heat. Please, Master, the slave thought, no longer angry, no longer sad, feeling only her want, her overpowering, all-consuming appetite. Fuck the Mira. Fuck this low slave now! Please, Master! Any Master! The Mira could hear the need-directed tenor of her own thoughts. She knew—instinctively—that she had been changed inside, forever.

Master! Please, Master. The Mira is in such dire need, Master. This slave needs a Master!

Light shone upon her. The Mira heard wet sounds. She felt wetness contrasted by dry air. A cold breeze brushed against her, and she climaxed; and this climax only made her appetites worse, for they only whetted the hunger of the wanton tiger inside her for more . . . More . . . MORE!!!

What happened next, she knew not. One moment she was alone, suffering. The next, she had joined a gaggle of other recently decanted slaves, all, like her, shivering, not from the cold, although it was chilly in the white plastic decanting chamber. They shivered rather from the raw potency of their fully activated sexual desires, desires which had been implanted in them through the genetic resequencing they had all earlier received; yet which now, they realized, with dawning horror and delight, had been NOTHING!! like the real thing, the outrageous, all-consuming sexual volcanoes their physical transformations had wrought in their skin, in their empty, craving cunts, enflaming them, so wet and aching they would have stuffed anything, anything at all! inside them, if only to curb that overpowering need for a second!

Male voices spoke from hidden loudspeakers. The biosluts obeyed, without even considering objection. Their pleas for fucking immediately quieted down. This was a good sign.

They examined one another, as there were no mirrors to judge how each been transformed.

They felt each other, too, felt their own bodies, ran hands over breasts so enlarged they looked obscenely artificial (they were), put hands in cunts so wet and needy, and sensitive, oh so sensitive! that the merest brush of fingers brought about climaxes (a deliberate design feature), climaxes which only augmented more so their need for cock (again, deliberate), their little self-induced orgasms only stoking the raging fires inside them, not releasing any of that potency whatsoever. Whetting the appetite of the beast.

Smooth hands stroked the Mira’s flanks, hands not her own. She turned to her neighbor.

She’s blind, the Mira first thought, looking at the bioslave next to her, for the slut’s eyes were blank and featureless, just an expanse of white film without pupils or color. Then she saw that all the slave faces around her had similarly blank and featureless eyes; and when the Mira stared at her own transfigured hands, her own transfigured body, so similar to theirs, the slave assumed she too must be so endowed.

The blankness of their gaze—of her own gaze, so she pictured—made her excited. “The eyes are the windows of the soul,” she recalled, in the back of her mind (she recalled virtually nothing else).

Loud voiceboxes gave instruction. The slaves formed lines. They stopped touching one another. They stopped touching themselves. It was incredibly hard, yet they obeyed perfectly, without complaint.

I am a slave now, the Mira thought. I have been turned into a bioslut. The procedure was complete.

She had not been entirely unconscious the whole time. Not completely awake, either; but, vaguely, the slave recalled surgeries . . . or, rather, standardized “procedures,” for none had been performed by human hands, and all with a similar lack of urgency, they merely being the systemized steps in an assembly-line process, and herself the interchangeable product. Strapped-down and semi-conscious, she had actually traveled on a conveyor belt at one time, a mere unit no different from any other, before or after, slid along to different stations. She recalled . . . a mask supported by insect-like mechanical limbs slipping over her face, with injections and tiny tools working on her lips, blowing them up to suckdoll proportions . . . a huge, bulky motorized box lowering onto her chest, with large round holes for her breasts to jut into, the openings at first being too large and roomy, yet as biogel was pumped into her flesh, and massaging digits molded her the proper shape, her boobs were eventually made to fit these sockets perfectly . . . tools working at her twat, inserting themselves inside her, injecting, again molding, shaping in her still malleable flesh the kind of precision pleasure unit her Masters deserved.

Other procedures, finishing the product, as it were. Treatments to her skin. Applications to her eyes. Genetic resequencing provided the base structure of the bioslave. Fleshsculpting surgeries provided the refinement, the polish to the diamond.

The Mira even felt hair on her scalp again, long and luxurious hair which, her attention drawn to it, she parted with her fingers. The color was aquamarine: a doll’s hair. A bioslut’s hair. Dimly, the slave recalled a machine resting on top of her head at one time, inserting the new buds. She also recalled around the same time needles penetrating her scalp, her skull even, digging deep into her brain . . . .

The slave no longer thinks like a free person, she thought. The Mira is now different from what she had been. Something was happening inside her. She could feel it. Perhaps the processing wasn’t finished, after all; or, rather (pure speculation at this point, the human mind questing for answers even under circumstances such as these), the purely biological steps had been, and now only her psychology, her mindset, still needed to finish. She could feel a growing absence eating away at her, making her into something that she was not. She could no longer trust her own thoughts. This slave, she thought, not even attempting to fight the compulsion she felt to call herself a slave. This slave . . . this Mira . . . this humble Mira . . . this bioslut . . . this low slave . . . .

Mira felt herself adrift. Since her awakening, she had lost the most basic security she had had.

She was no longer sure she was even a Mira. She no longer felt like a Mira.

Instead, she felt like a . . . a mira.

Not a person at all. An object. She felt like an object. And it felt right.

The mira’s memories—her recollection of herself as “mira”—were cloudy. Her mental “cleansing” was not yet complete, though it was proceeding (that she recognized this was in itself proof of that lack of completion). She still needed to be trained. At this point in her bioslut transformation a complete state of tabula rasa would be counterproductive. However, the courses of brain surgery—the needles in her head—and chimerization—the cascading hormonal effects of her DNA resequencing—had had their effects: there was an internal sense of continuity with “being” Mira (or, rather, “a” mira) but little else.

Her clearest memories were those of the immediate past. The farther back, the less focused they were.

The slave had only the murkiest recollections of being anything other than a bioslave, with only the occasional snippet of trivia arising (“Eyes as the window of the soul”), and those less and less often.

She had had a last name; but she no longer remembered it.

She knew she used to live in a large mansion; but she must have done something bad: she had been made a slave. She remembered Marlene and Vincent. More precisely, she remembered having sex with Marlene and Vincent.

She remembered Vincent’s touch vividly. Marlene’s licking. It had felt wonderful, burning, exciting.

Then everything quickly, too quickly, turned black. She had no control over the memory. She wanted none, either. Slaves were not in control! Slaves had to obey!

Those were natural laws of the universe, like gravity and motion.

In any case, she remembered whom she had been . . . vaguely. Yes, there had been a mansion, a place where she had lived most of her life, but she couldn’t quite recall what its name was. Everything else, however, was taking on an indistinct quality, the memories turning faded and gray. She could not recall her last name. She knew she had had one, but it felt meaningless to her. In fact, the name “mira” itself meant little to her. It was merely a label, a convenience, someplace where she could put her mental finger so as to identify her slave’s self to her slave’s self. She felt bad, remembering. Her memories were bad. Unauthorized thinking was bad. She tried not to, and it was getting easier not to think and remember; but for the time being she kept falling into that bad habit. No, her processing was not yet complete, clearly. There was an . . . an emptiness inside her . . . not the sexual hunger, but another emptiness . . . a need for instruction . . . training . . . commands to tell her what to do, what to be.

Without those commands, without that training, she was flailing without true identity.

There were a few other memories, too, with her still; but recalling any of them was not a priority, not compared with her being Obedient. She had been told to remain still and not touch herself or the other slaves; and that was just what she was going to do. That was instinctual, primal. The crushing arousal she was experiencing—had experienced since awakening—also had the effect of focusing her attention.

Her need was constant, like gravity. It was just there, impossible to escape from. Her need was also overpowering, like walking on a floor of broken glass. Every breath, every motion was made in the soul-deep anguish of not being fucked, of not having a cock inside her, of not having cum on her tongue, of not being allowed to provide the sexual service that was her destiny, her very reason for being.

By all rights, by any reasoned consideration of the dire yearning that had been programmed in her flesh, the monstrous sexual craving that now defined her, the slave should have been incapable of any thought or action whatsoever. She should have been capable of little else than curling into a tiny ball and keening her distress. This was, in truth, what she wanted to do, what she felt only that she was capable of doing. Yet, miraculously, Obedience kept her on her feet.

Primarily, because Obedience was so engrained in her that not following someone else’s orders—even of not having orders, as yet—was somewhat like not breathing; but secondarily as well, in the forlorn hope that, by being found pleasing through her Obedience, she might be fucked.

The slave held onto Obedience the way another might hold onto a rope whilst dangling over an abyss.

The voicebox spoke, its tenor so deliciously male: “Stand with your hands at your sides. Put your feet together flat to the floor. Lift your breasts for inspection.” The slave did so; all the slaves did so.

Other instructions: they were told to line up in rows. They were ordered to open their mouths and lick their lips. A hundred slaves performed this action simultaneously, wantonly. They were approved.

“Next.”

This was only the beginning of their instruction. Of training.

* * *

A plastic phallus pushed itself into the slave’s mouth. It was ridged, and it bulged, and it released a substance that tasted like cum but was not cum. It was delicious.

The voicebox: “Press your lips down onto the cock. Adjust your tongue in the manner of the demonstration.” The slave sat in front of a holofield showing the precise technique being taught.

She followed the instruction perfectly. She was incapable of not performing it perfectly. Her thick, blowjob lips were designed for the purpose, and her skill was inborn, waiting only to be released.

Best of all, success was measured in cum.

“Next.”

* * *

“Cross your feet. Stride. Glide. Walk like a dream of erotic perfection. You are a bioslut designed for pleasure. Provide men pleasure as they watch you glide across the room.” Holofields demonstrated this approach, and the slaves, surrounded by glowing intangible figures of the ideal, tried and immediately succeeded in matching these perfect strides, their figures overlapping in glowing yellow.

Soon, even without the holofields, the movements were replicated in their entirety and committed forever to memory.

“Next.”

* * *

“This is Vaginal Pleasure Technique 17,” the ever-present voicebox declared. More holofields. The slave saw the pulsing of the bioslut’s pussy and, sitting in a chair with a biostud facing her, she duplicated the action. Working slowly, luxuriously, diligently, she brought the stud inside her to a climax.

“Pass,” the voicebox said. The holofields changed. A new holoprocedure started. “This is Vaginal Pleasure Technique 18.”

The slave focused on the lesson. Only a few dozen techniques left before she could move onto the next Oral selection. Other, more advanced Vaginal Techniques were scheduled for the next day.

Eventually . . . “Next.”

* * *

Regardless of content, the instruction the biosluts received was absorbed in a way unlike that of standard education. The curriculum was fast. No ordinary human would have been able to keep up. The slaves in training, however, had no difficulty. There was no need for repetition. They possessed perfect attention. They were focused, always. Simple demonstration provided the rudiments of mastery. Any bioslut’s reflexes were, by design, already honed to perfection. All they needed was practice, employment. Too, any bioslut’s resequencing instilled an intuitive desire to listen and to obey. Of primary importance, the biosluts’ neurological processing—their mnemonic imprinting—had been fundamentally altered, and until this procedure was reversed, no longer could new memories systematically impress onto old ones. The new memories the sluts’ formed replaced the old ones . . . overwrote the old ones.

Accordingly, in learning the basics of providing exemplary dining service at table, the bioslut formerly known as Mira Lockard lost her favorite color as well as the entirety of her nineteenth year. Her lapdance performance cost her the works of Beethoven, her Oral Pleasure Technique 33 cost her the ability to pilot a safetycar.

For the most part, there was parity. Neural connections usually formed over pathways of similar conception. Her basic ability to walk, for instance, was overwritten by the ultra-feminine, erotic stride of the bioslut. Her ability to chew food was supplanted by her swallowing of slave nutrient. Fucking procedures alone replaced the now outdated and mundane, as well as all previous likes and dislikes, and her entire recollection of her free lovers. But some things just vanished, never to be recalled again: particularly, memories of family, possessions, friends. There was a great deal of storage capacity to the human brain, practically limitless potential, in fact. But long ago the makers of biosluts, bedollies, pussyslaves, and whatnot had learned that too much stored information in the brain slowed the processing of even the smallest tasks. There were expensive ways to get around this—premium dollygirls and toyboys were famed for their eidetic recollections—but these were just common biosluts, run-of-the-mill pleasure units, intended solely, or almost solely, for sexual service and basic household maintenance. Consequently, no great effort needed to be spent on their training. There were Corporates needing fucktoys as soon as possible—these units had to be put into service quickly!

So, a limit was placed; and this limit could be likened to a jar which could contain only so many buttons or coins or other ephemera; and in order to make room for more some things had to be removed.

The training was gain, yet it was also loss.

* * *

At times, the nameless slave unit was fucked by human personnel.

This was necessary before any of the sluts could be allowed to leave the factory. The raw emotion of her first time left the slave stunned and unresponsive.

“Get going,” a Master said, afterwards, and He slapped her behind for emphasis. The slave climaxed on the spot. Only the compelling force of her Obedience kept her from pushing herself against Him again and begging for more: “Harder, Master! Harder!!” She wanted to so beg, but her Obedience was all.

“Yes, Master,” the former mira, but now only a mere nameless unit in training, instead cried out and ran, wetly, in the direction He indicated.

* * *

The mental imperative—a voiceless, commanding presence in her legs to keep moving, keep her ass swaying, this was the command of her Owner, it was her function to obey, she was a good bioslut—kept at her, and she worshipped it. The voicebox was no longer required toward the end.

* * *

At length, the slave received a designation.

Bioslut Unit #FB34-3 stood in line next to Units #FB34-2 and #FB34-4, her enormous boobs uplifted, her expression frank and expressive yet indicative of sexual readiness and randiness. Her flesh was a combination of pale white and soft green, the soft green in cursive lines along her entire body, curling around her eyes like a mask. She now knew everything about how to pleasure the male or female form.

Everything. Or at least as much as modern erotic science could instill.

In response to a prompt, beside her #FB34-2 stepped forward. A automatic device flashed light into the unit’s blank eyes, recording, imprinting. The unit did not blink. “FB34-2, you are now in service and ready for sale.”

“This unit is ready for sale,” she said.

“Set vocalization to the first-person singular.” The voice was automatic, computerized.

“FB34-2 is ready for sale,” the bioslut in front of the former Mira Lockard said. “I am ready for sale. I shall please my future owner.”

“Yes, you will,” the computer voice told her. “Step back. FB34-3, step forward.”

The fallen heiress did so. The same light flashed in her eyes. She did not blink.

“FB34-3, you are now in service and ready for sale.”

“This unit is ready for sale,” the former O addict said. A procedure had been performed on her brain just a few minutes ago. Her training was complete. Any new memories would attach now normally.

“Set vocalization to the first-person singular.”

“FB34-3 is ready for sale,” the once frequent user of PaintO declared. Of course, PaintO was no longer necessary to distinguish her from a human being. Her skin was now naturally pale and green. “I am ready for sale. I shall please my future owner.”

“Yes, you will,” #FB34-3 heard, and the joy of that pronouncement rocketed through her, driving her to a climax, though the expression on her face changed not at all. She stepped back when told to and enjoyed another minor level 3 orgasm. Now that she was trained, she frequently experienced orgasms of the single-digit variety in response to such minor commands. #FB34-4 was registered.

The three biosluts turned as one (level 4 orgasms this time) and made their way to the sales chamber.

. . . to be continued (Ch. 24 — “Life at the Bottom”)