Mira: A Slave’s Story
3 — Put a Smiley Face On It!
Mira’s favorite program was “Put a Smiley Face on It!” She watched new episodes as soon as they were uploaded to the lordsnet, and she archived old ones and watched them over and over.
“Our women today,” the gaily-colored master of ceremonies said, standing in front of three bound and naked girls held upright against a wall, over which a big smiley face was emblazoned, “three tenant sluts from three different towers!” The women were young, late teens or very early twenties, and each of them struggled to free herself before the camera-view. Two of them were crying, obviously fearful; the third, on the far right, was also furious, her eyes simply blazing at the man and unseen holoperators.
“Let me introduce you.” The MC approached the girl on the left. “From Food Tower 48, in the southwest corner of the city, Alice 3954-48!” He put his hand close to the pretty blonde’s face, and Mira could hear her grunts and tears as she struggled, fruitlessly. No girl had ever escaped Smiley Face.
“Our next contestant is from Reclamation Tower 69,” the moderator said, moving to his right, “and we all know there’s something special about the girls of Tower 69 . . . Tina 9241-69!”
She had long brown hair and shiny green eyes. “Our last slut is Abigail 1186-89, from Energy Tower 89!” Again, he held his hand, and despite the rubber gag in her mouth she tried to bite him. The MC drew the paw back playfully. “Whoooeee, she’s a fighter!” He laughed. “Let’s see what they did, shall we?”
Interactive screens popped up around each of the girls. Mira went to the last girl first, because she was the most interesting. She touched the screen, and a holofield emerged, giving a rundown of the Slut from 89.
The image and narration, the former taken by security sensors and computer-enhanced, the latter supplemented with a musical score to make the action make dramatic, showed a rioting mob outside some undisclosed Energy facility. The men and women in front, in castoff clothes and undernourished figures, were throwing bottles and burning trash at the front of the building. It looked very exciting. Right in the middle of the demonstration, the figures all froze, and the camera-view zoomed in on one person in the center surrounded by others, not throwing anything herself - she was too far away - but with her arms similarly raised in protest. It was, of course, Abigail.
The action resumed. In short order, security personnel arrived and employed stun weapons on the rebels. Some, in the back, mostly, managed to escape, but virtually everyone leading the demonstration, and many in the middle, were rendered unconscious by the sonic onslaught.
Abigail 1186-89 was observed in an unconscious state, then later picked up by security. The first thing they did was strip her.
“Ooh, a little firebrand, this one is,” the moderator remarked. “What do you think, folks? Will she be our glorious winner!? She’s certainly got the passion!”
The stories of Tina 9241-69 and Alice 3954-48 were less incendiary, literally and metaphorically. Tina was picked up after her brother failed to meet - several times running - his daily, weekly, and monthly quotas in Reclamation, recycling material and foods from the surrounding Towers. Penalties imposed on the individual often fell onto family members as well, especially if the family members in question were so lovely (potentially, anyway . . . all three girls looked unhealthily thin). The image and narration revealed her being removed from her family’s apartment after they were all stunned into submission. Alice 3954-48’s story was even simpler. Her father broke a curfew, and rather than paying the fine, which he could ill afford, he sold his daughter to the program. Alice’s eyes welled up with even more tears at the image and narration focused on the traitorous negotiation, the older man sitting uncomfortably in front of a white plastic desk, a slave-executive in plastic taking his information. “She’ll stand a chance, won’t she?” the father asked, and the executive grinned at him.
“Of course she stands a chance,” the MC said, when Mira returned to the main screen. “All our girls stand a chance of avoiding a Smiley Face!” The music swelled.
There were lots of things about the program that Mira liked. When the moderator introduced “the Stud,” for instance: typically a big, extremely muscular male bioslave, a sex unit, built like a bodybuilder on the ultimate steroids. This evening’s Stud, like most, stood over six-and-a-half feet tall, with little hair; extremely broad shoulders; huge gorilla-like arms; a small braincase; a comparatively tiny waist, too, yet with a truly magnificent set of sex organs - he truly was hung like the proverbial horse, and, better yet, could force his magnificent organ to become erect at will, the accuracy of such claim the MC demonstrated by having the resequenced monster stand at attention and “raise and lower his flag” repeatedly before the camera-view. Mira tended to watch “Smiley Face” in the nude, in the privacy of her bedroom. As the Stud demonstrated his competency and flair, Mira touched herself repeatedly, mouth watering. Her nipples grew hard, and her pussy became hot and moist. Butterflies made of delightful fire bounced around inside her stomach. “Smiley Face” wasn’t the most sophisticated program on the lordsnet, but it got the job done.
“Let’s introduce the Stud to our sluts, shall we, folks?”
Mira liked this part, too.
The Stud took Alice first, after she and the others were moved into the Chambers of Submission and chained to their respective beds. “Smiley Face” Studs were well-trained, extremely proficient in rape: even though the tenant girl fought at first, she was no match for his potency, and free from the gag she was soon deliriously moaning and crying out in unwilling pleasure.
The Stud held her to the bed, his superior mass adding to the helplessness of her wrist and ankle restraints. He worked her breasts and nipples first, the customary opening strategy, little nips and bites and licks that had the poor slut squirming beneath him. The expression on her face, which could be seen in high close-up if Mira so selected, was a combination of attempted (yet futile) resistance, attempted (and failing) endurance, and reluctant (indeed, loath) gratification. Mira liked to imagine herself being raped by the Stud. She had her hand between her legs and was toying with her clit, poking her index and middle fingers inside her, rubbing her labia with the base of her palm, relishing her female softness. Soon enough, the Stud’s massive organ was drawn up alongside the tenant girl’s sex. By design, the bed restraints prevented her from closing her legs; even if that were not a feature, the Stud would easily have been able to force them apart. But such wasn’t needed in either case. “Please . . . don’t . . don’t stop, please,” the slut began to moan after only a few minutes beneath his thrall. She was rearing up to meet his thrusts, as best she could manage. When he entered her, Mira could see that Alice wanted to draw him closer, make the Stud go deeper. But, again, the Stud was expert in what it did. Alice’s rape was slow and methodical, thoroughly ensuring the betrayal of her original intentions to resist. No woman could resist the Stud. When Alice came, she did so loudly, and her rapturous cries through the holofield emitter echoed Mira’s as she achieved her own, inferior orgasm by way of her own base manipulations.
Tina and Abigail were raped next. Ironically, the “firebrand” broke long before the “Slut from 69,” the former rebel Abigail succumbing to the Stud’s playful use of her body within two minutes. “Go, go deeper. Deeper!” And then exclaiming in high note as her wish was granted. She was kissing the Stud by the end, helplessly licking his face and tongue as he did much the same to her. It was little Tina who resisted the longest, who showed the most self-control as the bioslave invaded her tight little pussy, fondled her undersized tits, and even nuzzled her ears (also an erogenous zone, if one knew how to manipulate the right nerve endings, and the Stud definitely did). The Girl of 69 finally climaxed, but it was a quick and snappish burst of pleasure, apparent in both the pained expression on her face and the look of dissatisfaction given by the sex machine. The Stud knew that it had failed to pleasure her completely, and that he would be punished.
As the scores were calculated, the three tenant girls were placed together in the “Soft Room.” A gaseous aphrodisiac was pumped into the chamber, and within minutes the three of them, including even recalcitrant little Tina, were stroking their bodies, fingering themselves, and even putting their faces between one another’s legs, licking and kissing. Close-ups revealed their eyes completely mindless with lust. Again, Mira’s imagination took her places she wanted to be. With the liberal use of lotion, she massaged her breasts and between her legs, visualizing in her mind’s eye an equally potent surrender to sensation.
“We have our scores,” the MC announced at last. The three sluts had been brought back to the original staging area, though by now the restraints were no longer necessary. They curled and quivered on stage, still under the influence of the gas, blissfully happy expressions on their faces; and they gazed upon the Stud standing off to the side with clear appetite. Their desires had been clearly awakened and enflamed.
The moderator pointed a finger at Alice. “Congratulations, Alice 3954-48! You are our runner-up! You get to be transformed into a bioslave of your Corporate Lord’s choice!” Again, an interactive screen activated. Mira chose to look upon her fate and saw that within days of the show’s recording Alice had been successfully resequenced into a puppygirl, her base DNA spliced with a canine formula. Without the interactive features, there would have been no way to recognize her. Her appearance had been radically altered, what with the addition of a big fluffy tail, the reconfiguring of her arms and legs for quadrupedal posture, body-wide white fur, and a poodle-like snout. She was also put into a permanent state of heat, naturally.
“And now, for our grand prize winner . . . Abigail 1186-89!”
The former riot participant failed to respond, only continued fingering herself.
“I knew you had it in you, slut. I just knew it. Passion never lies. Congratulations, Abigail. For your clearly remarkable and overwhelming sexuality, you get to spend the rest of your life as a premium-product dollygirl! The elite of the elite!” Through the interactive holo, Mira received a view of Abigail’s future. The bright plastic skin, the permanent smile, the enhancements to her bust and figure overall . . . she was made beautiful. A strange feeling of envy consumed Mira.
Dollygirls and toyboys were the best the Corporate Lords could make out of the tenant population. In addition to their limitless powers of copulation, they were living computers, capable of performing sexually and administratively in an infinite number of situations. Combined with the standard package of life-extending technologies, they were the most expensive bioslaves per capita on the planet. It was an envious fate. Dollygirls were exclusively owned by the Corporate Lords.
“Alas, for every winner, there must be a loser.” The master of ceremonies - himself a bioslave - looked genuinely downcast. He approached Tina with the smileygun.
“Tina 9241-69, you get a Smiley Face.” He pressed the device against her unresisting forehead. It was clear she had no idea what was happening to her.
There was a loud buzzing, and the girl winced, though the pain lasted but a second. When the smileygun was lifted, a Smiley Face tattoo was emblazoned in the middle of her head.
“You will never be a slave, my poor dear.” The Smiley Face was a permanent ban on bioslaving operations. Each tattoo was registered, and they were impossible to forge. Wearing one, a tenant would never again receive the attentions of the Corporate Lords. Tina had been found wanting and rejected, fit only to spend the remainder of her life working in the Towers, alongside the majority of the population. The moderator went down to his knees beside the still sexually delirious girl. He held her and gave her a hug. When she came down from the gas, she would be released back to her family, or wherever.
“Join us next week for a new episode of ‘Put a Smiley Face on It!’” Mira closed her holofield.
She was randy as all hell. Poor girl, she thought. Never a cock to suck, never a cock to fuck. Condemned to live the rest of her life in cold, sterile freedom, a mark of shame forever emblazoned on her forehead.
Mira called up her computer. She was randy. She wanted a lover.