Mira: A Slave’s Story
6 — The Spots
After one particularly debauched night of passion, Mira woke the next morning still feeling randy as hell.
Her lover had gone home (or wherever, she didn’t particularly care). Finding herself alone in bed, she masturbated for a good long while, fondling her boobs and rubbing herself between her legs until she was screaming in absolute pleasure. “God! God!! Aiiihhhhh!!” Her orgasms were long and powerful, so long and powerful that it was several minutes—closer to an hour, in fact—before she had regained enough strength and clarity of purpose to reach for a vibrator, which her housecomp provided upon request. Then she started in again.
All in all, she was extremely late in rising that day.
Mira was in her bathroom about to take a shower (and play with herself some more, she was feeling really horny) when in the mirror she saw something on her left breast. At first glance, it looked like a green splotch of paint. Mira looked down at herself more closely, and she suddenly went deathly pale.
It was a slave spot.
“Oh my God,” Mira whispered, and she touched it. She rubbed at it, as if the mark in her skin were an ink blot that with effort and soap could be wiped off (and in her immediate panic that’s exactly what Mira tried to do, get some liquid soap and try to wash it off). “Oh my God,” she repeated, several times, in front of the mirror, later in the shower. But of course it wasn’t the kind of stain that could be wiped off so easily.
It was a slave spot.
Truth being told, it was a nearly triangular mark, precisely in the upper middle swell of her left breast. It was, under closer examination, a distinct shamrock green, this slave spot: the skin itself, that is, the pigment altered from the inside, like a tan, not on the out, like a tattoo. The spot was, despite this, a clearly artificial sign. Color aside, its lines were too regular, too precise to be natural. In dimensions, the mark was about two inches on a side, perfectly uniform throughout. There was a clear demarcation between her skin where the spot was and where the spot wasn’t. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”
She looked closely at her breasts.
They were bigger. She didn’t think it was her imagination. Her breasts had grown bigger overnight, just slightly enough to be noticed. Her nipples were tender and erect, and when Mira touched them such intense pleasure swept through her that it was extremely difficult to stop. She didn’t want to stop.
Mira sat down heavily on the edge of her tub.
For several long moments she did nothing, could do nothing except sit there with her bottom lip quivering, making small noises with her throat, occasionally tweaking her nipples. Then, eyes widening in explosive realization, she frantically began examining herself all over, examining every inch of her body, directly or using the mirror. To her dismay, she found another nearly identical slave spot on the inside of her right thigh.
She rubbed it too raw with soap and water, to no effect whatsoever.
These were the only two slave spots she found.
Mira bit her lip. She realized she was in a state of terror, and for a long time she sat not doing anything except talk to herself. “I have slave spots.” The way she said it, it sounded like she had a disease. If examined under a microscope, deep within the edges of each mark, she knew, there would be hidden a long number and letter sequence, clearly artificial, trademarked.
She had been trademarked. Branded.
She wore, branded in her skin, in her flesh, in her very DNA! the registered symbols of some Corporate Lord, symbols which marked her as a piece of that Corporate Lord’s stable. Marking her as a slave.
A slave. Not a pretend slave. An actual, owned bioslave.
What am I going to do? she thought. On the heels of that: I’m still horny.
Mira fought the temptation to touch herself again. She was more than horny: her pussy was hot and soaking. The O-inspired arousal, which usually wore off by now, hadn’t. Her nipples were still burning nuggets. The way she kept crossing and uncrossing her legs distracted her. It was difficult, extremely difficult, to keep her hands away from her crotch for even a few moments at a time.
She felt needy. Needy and receptive. Needy and empty. She wanted a cock. At that moment, she wanted a cock more than she had ever had.
What am I going to do? Then came another thought, one even more terror-filled: Did he see them?
Mira ran out of the bathroom crying, almost screaming. She hit the bed and fell into it, eliciting another distracting burst of pleasure. She recalled the orgasms she had enjoyed only a few hours previously, and the flesh-memories stirred with even greater ferocity the furnace that was already blazing between her thighs. She couldn’t remember what the man’s name was. The man who had had her last night. She couldn’t even picture his face in her head; she could only recall the rapturous sensation of his cock sliding in and out of her, all night long. That particular sense-memory made her hornier still.
She realized, sickly, that the man she had enjoyed so much last night could have been any one of a dozen lovers she kept more or less on retainer.
She would literally have to check with her housecomp to determine which one of them it had been.
She was mortified and uncomprehending of how she could have allowed herself to sink so low. What am I going to do? She curled up within her covers, trying to think, finding it difficult, enduring the heat in her pussy. Think, damn you, think. If . . . if whoever it had been had seen the marks on her skin, she would be in trouble. Hell, she thought, I might be . . . I might be confiscated.
She had to stop him. In a faltering voice, Mira called out to her housecomp, and she got a name. It turned out the man was only a common estate-dweller, technically a free individual but objectively little different from the city-dwelling serfs from which she had purchased her O.
She could easily find out his Lord. She could ruin him before he ruined her. She opened her mouth to do just that.
Wait a minute, she thought. Just wait a minute. She was in a panic, and she was afraid of making a mistake. Mira thought harder than she had ever had in her life. She couldn’t remember his face because it had been too dark. She had deliberately kept the lights down low. Why? Instinct, maybe? It didn’t matter. Plus, she was wearing the submask. She almost always wore the submask.
(Sometimes not, she realized. She had been getting lax.)
What mattered was . . . was that it was unlikely her lover from last night had seen the slave spots, assuming they had manifested during the time she had been with him. And even if he had, there was, very likely, no way he could identify her. Probably. Hopefully. Consequently, she would only make trouble for herself by trying to destroy him. It would only call attention to her condition.
Still, this was bad . . . this was very bad.
Using O wasn’t illegal—very little anymore was. Different Corporate Lords produced the drug, and any woman of the Estates could use it—but the consequences of abuse for the working poor were severe.
It was akin to the difference between drinking and being drunk. One could drink and take all the drugs one desired, if one worked, but if that indulgence meant an employee was ever too drunk or O’ed-out as to be incapable of doing her Lord’s business . . . that would be a disaster.
Mira had no Corporate Lord—she was of the Corporate class, but she held no managerial stock in an Estate—but her situation was nearly the same. As a member of the elite, she could do nearly anything she wanted . . . but if the slave spots were seen in her skin, she would be declared a slave and confiscated as her Lord’s property. Technically, in fact, with the emergence of the brands, she already belonged to some unknown Lord’s stable!
If discovered now, she would be taken to a slave-processing facility and the process already initiated in her completed.
“What am I going to do?” Think! Think! There had to be a way out of this trap.
Or was that just wishful thinking? The reason the Corporate Lords marketed O in the first place was to introduce gullible women—like her!—to the addicting pleasures of slavery. Admittedly, O was aimed mostly to lower-class estate and tower-dwellers; but that didn’t mean the elite didn’t use them, too.
The ultimate aim was to increase each Lord’s supply of sex slaves, by any means possible.
Usually, one of two things would inevitably happen to the habitual O user. She would overdose and subsequently transform into a full sex slave, with all the biological drives toward heat and submission already wired in, needing only the cosmetic surgery and last-minute gene therapy to complete the process; or she would over time—weeks, months, years even—gradually build-up the equivalent level of mutagens in her system, until she reached some arbitrary, legislatively mandated limit and be classified a slave that way, her citizenship revoked and her body shipped to a processing facility to finish the job.
Mira had known this could happen to her, but the drug made her feel so good, so alive, so . . . slave-like. She knew she couldn’t live without it.
Well, I’ll have to, she thought viciously, angry at herself. Objectively, Mira knew any addiction could be broken. A telomeric purge would rid herself of the erotic mutagens in her system. As a function of each Estate’s ongoing medical treatments, fully automated with the equipment in each of their homes, Corporates such as herself enjoyed perpetual youth and health. Between her regular treatments to look and feel twenty forever, and just stopping her use of O, the slave spots might go away on their own.
Might. But if she had already passed some legal limit, her household systems would report her.
That was a risk she was going to have to take. But could she? Mira suddenly began whimpering.
Forget the purge. The last couple of times she had tried to climax without O-ing she had been unable to. Without the drug, she might never experience desire again. She was completely aroused now, but eventually (she hoped) that wondrous feeling would fade, and without the drug she might never experience an orgasm again.
And Mira realized she couldn’t live without orgasms. She couldn’t live without her slave orgasms.
So, what could she do? What could she do?
All this was deliberate, of course. This restriction of her options.
It was designed to force her toward a third option, one that lay between the avoidable overdose and the inevitable decline: surrender.
Accept the logic of her situation and submit voluntarily to confiscation, knowing they would get her sooner or later anyway. Just the idea had Mira sweating, and when she touched herself she climaxed uncontrollably, a blazing wash of lust and erotic energy setting her nerves afire with pleasure.
When she recovered her senses, Mira still found herself in a quandary.
What was she going to do?