The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Originally, all the major slave-processing medical facilities—they were now generally called “slave factories,” a term that implied more than anything else the way in which bioslave properties were regarded—were owned by BioTrust, the former State Company. They belonged now to the Corporate Lords themselves.

A tradition in the sales chambers that had survived the transition from republicanism to feudalism was the keeping of an on-site, in-house brothel for the workers. This bordello served both obvious and less obvious purposes. Naturally, it proved a superb morale boost for the workers, who had a free choice in the use of any of the sales-ready bioslaves whilst they remained at the facility. Invited guests could also seek use of the slaves, at any time. The brothel also provided an opportunity for the slaves to put into practice the intensive erotic skills they had learned and so further improve them, prior to sale. That this time was used for “product testing” and “quality control” was unstated (and usually unnecessary) but understood by all. This is why there were guests.

Serving duty in the brothel, finally, had the useful effect of teaching a new bioslut, practically speaking, that she was only a slut. This was already known, of course; a programmed imperative, in fact; but, as in everything, there’s a difference between theory and practice.

Delivered unto the brothel, the former Mira Lockard was immediately relabeled “Mira.”

Coincidence? Unlikely. Somebody in the factory must have been aware, at least to a cursory degree, of who FB34-3 had been. It was not an uncustomary practice for sales-ready biosluts to receive a designation—for that is what this was, not a real name by any means—similar or identical to the ones they had had before being processed. The slaves themselves cared not, but the workers of the factory found the custom amusing, and that was all that mattered. Bioslaves existed to provide amusement, and the sooner they learned this the better. Moreover, the slave’s registry code of “FB34-3” was not actually replaced by this rebranding, merely supplemented. The bioslut in question would retain this number forever, burned as it had been into several select bones in her body, which could then be read by scanners designed for that purpose, for immediate and foolproof identification of property.

But a girl’s “name” was easier to recall in the midst of fucking, instead of, say, as “#FB34-3” might be. Mira’s designation as “Mira” could be, and likely would be, changed by her first permanent owner.

All the same, she was rarely called anything other than “slut” or “slave.”

“Slut, come here,” a worker in the factory told her. Mira had been in her stall waiting for use, and at these words and his beckoning she peeled out of the container and knelt before the man.

“Suck me, bitch.” This was another common term in reference to the slaves.

She sucked him, drawing his organ into his mouth and giving him the ideal oral pleasure. Mira began kissing the base of the man’s cock, getting her tongue to lightly tickle his skin. She swirled her tongue up one side, then the other, coating the mighty rod in her saliva. At the same time she steadily squeezed and squeezed with her hands, building pressure gradually until his cock was throbbing in her grip. She kissed upwards then, dragging her lips over the sides of his organ, then licked downwards, repeating the pattern but shortening her laps until she was near the top. The taste of him was heavenly! The musk of his scent was enflaming, intoxicating! The man played with her heavy green breasts as she worked.

She gave him a good orgasm. Mira was as proud of it as any bioslave could be. Her own was exquisite as well.

Sex had become challenging. Not that it hadn’t been wonderful, necessary, even ecstatic before . . . but now it was intellectually interesting, too. More than academic, though there was much to learn, much to practice, countless techniques, positions, arrangements for the providing of pleasure, all of which she had had to master, yet sex for FB34-3 had also recently become philosophical, too . . . transcendent . . . almost a religion.

A subsequent session with a more experienced biostud, in her ongoing erotic practice, could serve as an example. Some hours after her daily brothel duty, Mira was mounted onto a stud facing him. Both slaves were upright on their futon. Her legs were drawn about the small of his back, he was holding her in his lap, and her massive breasts were pressed enticingly into his chest. From an outsider’s perspective the slaves were hardly moving at all.

In part, this perspective would have been misleading: the two slaves actually were engaging highly specialized muscles in this act of training intercourse—he was pulsing into her with select, nay almost diamond-cutting-like precise movements of his penis; she was massaging his member with an almost caterpillar-like internal crawling of her pussy flesh—and their stillness otherwise was only illusion.

But seen another way, this point of view was entirely accurate: their act of sex was virtually being performed by the sex organs themselves, with no other muscles engaged at all.

As an exercise in undivided muscle control, a strenuous activity such as this meditative sex required a great deal of concentration and practice. Mira’s concentration, though, served a greater purpose.

There was pleasure, first, as a base physiological response, heightened (naturally) by the artificial reworking of the new bioslut’s erogenous zones. Yet already greater than the ordinary, Mira’s focus on the pleasure—on the literal sensation itself—worked to sharpen it even more. An analogy to an old-fashioned, manual microscope is apt, perhaps, the sort with the physical lenses: by slowly turning the dial to control the microscope’s scale, the image under scrutiny becomes clearer. Details that had previously remained unseen appear, vague at first, then in crystal clarity; and by continuing to turn the dial, even greater, more precise details would come to materialize, even upon that which had previously been hidden. Given a powerful enough scope, clear enough lenses, even a change in the technology itself (electrons instead of photons), there was no theoretical limit to the level of detail that could be uncovered: worlds within worlds, infinite complexity . . . a complexity which, paradoxically, became at the same time increasingly simple and pure.

The apparent contradictions—simple and complex, pure and infinite—made sense when analyzed under the scrutiny of a human mind capable of both perceiving and resolving these differences. What Mira did with her pleasure—what all slaves did, to greater or lesser extents, even near non-sapient bedollies—was near the same thing. By concentrating on the sensation, she discovered more dimensions to it.

Ecstatic depths within depths. Pleasures hidden within existing pleasures. An orgasm broken down into its component nerve impulses, galvanic responses, muscular contractions, hormonal changes, brain response; and within each rich details emerging that could be individually explored and enjoyed.

The changes in FB34-3’s personality—really, her lack of personality—due to her neural restructuring allowed her to focus even more so on these details, more than any ordinary, non-resequenced female possibly could.

In other words, her orgasms were not just physical anymore. They were not solely emotional, either. Intellectually, they became greater than either, and calibrated on a set pattern of levels, as judged by previous generations of slaves. Mira and her partner embraced. As slaves, their orgasms exploded within them. Yet their faces remained still and aloof, and this was because their attentions were directed inward. They didn’t ignore the other—they were slaves, their duty was to provide pleasure to another—yet both felt for more awareness inside them than a human could, and under that awareness, under that concentration, those sensations Mira felt . . . these pleasures . . . their pleasures . . . approached the infinite.

Generally speaking, non-resequenced humans were limited to level 5 or below intensity orgasms. By her last days at the brothel, during her brothel usage and practice sessions with other bioslaves, Mira was regularly achieving level 20 intensity orgasms. And getting steadily better.

Such intense pleasure encouraged depersonalization. If one stares too long into bright illumination, the eyes go dim, even blind. If one experiences long periods of such intense ecstasy, an important quality of the human psyche is diminished. For slaves, this was not a bad outcome. This diminishment of self made for a superior slave, an ever-increasingly selfless slave, one willing to go to any length to bring about her purpose, which was to bring pleasure. It also reinforced the owner-slave dynamic.

Humans above were humans, by definition. Biosluts and biostuds, though at the bottom, were more.

Any gene-resequenced bioslave was more: they enjoyed (and the word definitely was “enjoyed”) superior endurance, superior sensitivity, often superior intelligence as well; and so, consequently, these could, under almost any other imaginable circumstance, lead to a feeling of superiority, and one appropriately deserved. The constant erosion of personality through ecstatic pleasure more than leveled the playing field. As the focus of their Obedience—by design, what gave slaves their greatest pleasure of all—their giving of everything in order to bring pleasure to any owner, though they were demonstrably more adept at about all tasks, the slaves’ Masters and Mistresses nonetheless became their idols of worship, literally in some cases, figuratively in most. Slaves didn’t just have no egos with which to be potentially competitive. They had no souls with which to object to any command, and their devotion to those who still did possess free will was thus augmented with every higher level of orgasm attained.

Eventually, the slaves disentangled from one another. “I do not have a master or mistress yet,” Mira said to the stud. “But in your thorough penetration of me I attained a level 24 orgasm.” She bent low and kissed the stud’s feet.

The biostud then stood before her.

“I do not have a master or mistress yet, either,” he said. “But the tightness and resiliency of your pussy allowed me to attain a level 27 orgasm.” Then he bent low and kissed the slut’s feet.

This ritual of Obedience complete, the two slave-whores toweled off, sprayed and perfumed each other, then returned to duty in the bordello. They never fucked or even saw each other again.

Each would find another bioslave to help him or her attain the next plateau of perfection.

Obedience went on.

Day and night were abstract concepts in the brothel. Mira was used twenty-four hours a day, minus assigned sessions with other bioslaves, slave-nutrient feeding times, and those hours spent in a stasis unit for periodic upkeep, getting her pussy and other orifices cleaned out. One “night” as she reported to the stasis-unit supervisor Mira was told she would not be returning to the bordello “tomorrow.”

“You have been sold,” the man told her as she was settled into the person-sized booth.

An indescribable feeling of contentment settled in the slave’s bones. It was like a key fitting into a lock, a jigsaw puzzle piece finally settling into place. Her resequencing had made being owned, being someone’s piece of property, her natural state. She was already a slave; now she was an owned slave.

“That is wonderful news, master,” she said to the supervisor. “Will I meet my new owner soon?” Her heat bloomed within her at the thought. She was already eager to serve him. On her back in the booth, the unit slowly tilted upward with her inside. She faced the ceiling.

“Stupid slut. You’ve only been bought by a broker,” the supervisor said. Mira understood at once.

The slave factories could sell bioslaves directly to customers, usually special orders of some kind, particular individuals, for instance, who had fallen into slavery; but for most units time in the brothel was just comparison-shopping time. She had been judged worthy of purchase by some independent slave broker, some man to whom she had given pleasure recently; and now she would become part of his merchandise stock. She was no special order. There was nothing special about her. She was just another bioslut. The stasis unit hummed into action. Unlike most times, Mira did not lose consciousness immediately. She waited patiently as the supervisor made whatever adjustments were necessary.

I will be put into suspended animation now, the slave, FB34-3, aka “Mira,” thought. Then I will be put naked into a tube, and potential owners will judge my flesh while I sleep.

Had she retained the memories, the purchases of a biostud “Vincent” and a bioslut “Marlene” would have been brought to mind. But she didn’t, and so they weren’t, ever again.

The slave’s pulse quickened. I will be sold, and a love-matrix programmed into my brain. When I awake, I will be kneeling before my new owner. I will no longer be “Mira.” I will be whatever he or she wants me to be. It was a lovely thought to go to sleep by, and that’s exactly what happened. Mira was put to sleep.

The brothel-whore of her would never awaken. The newly purchased slave would.

It was an ending and a beginning, all at the same time.