The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive


by Vendatrix


When Tamantha scanned the sundeck looking for Kira and noticed that other couples were entwined together, the beautiful women using their bodies in any possible way to satisfy their male companions. One girl straddled her lover as he lay on a deck mat. She rose and fell slowly with each measured thrust of his hips, as languid an rhythmic as the rolling seas around the ship. A few paces forward a woman with lips as fulsome as Tamantha’s own sat in a deckchair shoved against a bulkhead. Her man stood over her, oaken thighs on either side of the chair. With one hand he held her wrists pinned above her head against the wall. With the other hand, he held her head in a strong grip, fingers entangled in her glossy hair, as he repeatedly thrust his cock back and forth in her mouth. Tamantha could tell from the wet, slurping sound how tightly his cock must fit in the girl’s mouth—hers must be as narrowed as mine, thought Tamantha. The very thought of it made her mouth water. A few feet away, two other girls—a blonde and a redhead—had snuggled on either side of a man, their tongues competing for his rigid shaft. It was just like the club the night before, except now the scene was bathed in sunlight and out in the open, with the girls abandoning every inhibition as they sought to wantonly pleasure their dominant lovers.

Tamantha picked her way through the men and women lovers until she found herself at the very bow of the boat. She stood there at the little forecastle, the waves surging beneath her, her body warmed by both the sun and the musky arousal of witnessing the submissive service rendered by the girl passengers. She leaned forward, gripping the railing, so her oversized breasts swayed gloriously to the sea. Tamantha felt a surge of happiness.

There was movement behind her, then strong masculine hands gripping her torso, his fingers digging in to the oiled tanned flesh of her hips. Without even looking behind to see which man it was, she obediently spread her legs on those high platform heels, arched her back, and breathed a deep moan as the man unabashedly thrust himself deep into her from behind. As her body rocked back and forth to accommodate his hungry, surging cock, her mind slipped into a kind of dreamy acceptance of her role as a sexual plaything. It seemed so natural, so right. As she stared at the clean blue ocean in surging beneath the bow and then up to the horizon, she felt like she was flying.

Tamantha stayed on deck all afternoon. She spent the day being passed around from partner to partner, and felt a delight with her encounter with Kira—all out in the open, now, amid approving looks of her new friends. That evening the ship’s crew held a huge banquet in her honor, and it was Andre himself who snapped on the gold medallion on her collar: Tami, it read—her new name. Her gave her an endearing hug, and then pushed her back on the linen tablecloth, knocking over bottles of wine and glasses in the process, as he took her right there on the dining table, amid the cheers and applause of the other girls and crew.

The next morning Andre had the radio room send another scrambled message to Max on the island: ANDRE TO MAX. COMING HOME. WILL RUN KIRA (#23) AND TAMI (#24) THROUGH INCUBATOR TODAY. ETA THIS WEDNESDAY MIDNIGHT. It was not long before the ship’s radio picked up a coded reply: MAKE HASTE. CARGO ALREADY SPOKEN FOR. “That Max,” commented Andre while he stood in the radio shack sipping his coffee. “Always the taskmaster. Buzz the clinic and tell them to warm up the incubators.”

Tami was sunning herself on the deck, next to her friend Kira. They had made love twice that morning—once in bed, and once in the chaise-lounge on deck, and in between the girls had been casually fucked by crewmen who paused in their duties long enough to sample the two lithe young women.

Tamantha’s traced a lazy fingertip down her thigh, admiring the new tautness of her calf muscles. At the suggestion of that nice man Andre, she and Tamantha had been spending more time in the ship’s workout room. When they asked about the rowing machines on deck, the trainer suggested first some simple treadmill walking. Obligingly, Tamantha gingerly lifted her high-heeled sandals on the treadmill. At the trainer’s suggestion he, attached what he described as heart monitoring clips to her nipples—by this time, Tamantha was beyond challenging anything the crew told her. As the treadmill lurched to life, she tried walking in her old brisk style. The trainer shook his head.

“There’s a walking style that works best for cardiovascular conditioning,” he said. “Follow the monitor. I’ve arranged for the clip to give you a little buzz if you happen to fall back into your old style.” Tamantha nodded and dutifully watched the monitor. It showed a woman of Tamantha’s build walking in the most saucy style imaginable—hips swaying, breasts thrust far out, one foot delicately placed in front of the other—all in a slow, seductive gait. “Okay, I’m turning the machine on now,” said the trainer.

Tamantha followed the image on the screen. It took work, but eventually she got the rhythm right, and it worked well with her feet in her tip-toe high heels. A few times she let her mind wander—this was happening more and more these days—and she was brought up short by a slight buzz in her nipples—not enough to hurt, but enough to rivet her attention back on the screen. She kept her eyes glued to the monitor from then on, absorbing her lessons subconsciously on how a woman should walk while on board. Hours later, it seemed, the trainer helped her sweat-streaked body from the machine, and he grinned as she walked out to the deck, her walking style a perfect reproduction of the image of the screen.

As she was sunning herself next to Kira, Tamantha now wondered when her next exercise period would be scheduled. Maybe this time they would let them use the rowing machines. Then two of the crew approached. They gently guided Kira on her feet and walking toward the clinic. Mildly curious, Tami followed. It occurred to her, somewhere deep down where a small part of her rational brain still functioned, that it ridiculous for her to try to secretly follow anybody—her enormous breasts would jut around any corner she was trying to peek behind. Nevertheless, she took mincing steps on her way down the same passageway that Kira had been taken.

Surprisingly, the men led Kira past the clinic doors. At the end of the passageway, one of the men produced a key in front of a door that Tami had never noticed before. While Kira waited passively in the grip of the other man, the first opened the door and the party stepped through. Tami thought she caught of glimpse of Andre in the room behind. After they closed the door behind them, Tami tip-toed up to the portal—she could hardly do anything else in her ultra-high heels—and pressed her ear to the door. Words came though, muffled and indistinct: “Strap her in the cradle. . . calibrate the feedback. . . get ready to jack her in. . .”

Suddenly the door swung open and Tami toppled forward into the room.

“Well, what have we here, another little cabbage?” asked Andre, a half-smile on his lips. The men helped Tami to her feet. She blushed at her intrusion, then looked past Andre. Tami’s eyes widened in surprise. Kira was strapped to something like a dentist’s chair. One of the white-coated attendants was just fitting a large half-helmet around the girl’s head. Kira’s eyes were covered by a visor that fitted into the helmet. She was naked—well, nothing new about that, these days—but her legs were spread wide in the chair with what looked like an industrial-strength dildo buried deep in her pussy, with supporting straps on her thighs. A whole series of wires and leads protruded from the base of the dildo and ran to the computer. Large transparent suction cups capped each of Kira’s breasts, with similar control wires leading to the same computer. One of the technicians—a beautiful girl herself, with her white coat stopping at mid-thigh to reveal her own shapely curves—was busy braiding Kira’s glossy long black hair to keep it from interfering with another and even more heavy-duty set of wires extending from the back of the helmet to the same computer.

“What. . . what are you doing?” asked Tami in alarm and confusion. “What are you doing to Kira?”

Andre said, “We’re taking Kira one more step on her journey.”

“Journey? What journey? What are you talking about?” Tami’s mind struggled to understand what was going on.

Andre lit one of his long brown french cigarettes. “Mon amie, you and your friend here have been selected for a very special—” he appeared to be searching for the right English word—“. . .destiny. You should first understand that none of this is personal.” He gestured to the attendants, and they pulled Tami into the other chair. She was too stunned and confused to resist, even when they began to secure her arms to the armrests and her spread-wide ankles to the foot-brace of the chair. Andre continued talking. “My associate and I shop the world for a very special kind of women. It’s not so much what they are, you see, as what they have the potential of becoming. Our market requires women who are susceptible to mental control. So susceptible, in fact, that they can be conditioned to be obedient mind-slaves to their owners—for whatever purpose their owners require. Our clients are wealthy, and could afford to hire out for almost any kind of service of a conventional kind. This, I am sure you understand. . .” As he talked, Andre kept his penetrating eyes boring into Tami’s own, like a snake that freezes it’s prey merely by an unblinking stare. Andre kept talking soothingly while the attendants briskly snapped shut the various restraining devices over Tami’s body.

Tami began to resist, weakly and helplessly. “Wait,” she said, “You’re making a big mistake. I have friends that will come and find me. So does Kira. . .Please don’t. . .”

“Ah, your friends, mon amie. . . your friends will be grief-stricken at the news, I’m sure.”

“The news?” The attendants were already slipping a large fitted collar around Tami’s neck, and swinging out a dildo on a mounting poised like torpedo between Tami’s legs.

“About the sinking of this vessel. You and your friend, in fact all of the beautiful young passengers on this ship,” he said, with a wave of his hand to the upper deck above them, “will be lost at sea. End of story.”

“But Andre, I’ll escape somehow. . .you’d better let us go—” Tami pulled at the unyielding bonds as she gazed down at the pebbled, whorled dildo aimed right up toward her loins.

“No, my dear, you will not escape. Not ever. Your mind will be conditioned so that the very concept of escape will be beyond comprehension. All you will think of his how to serve your new owners. Now listen, my friends here will be placing a helmet over your head, just like your friend Kira. You will see what we want you to see and hear what we want you to hear. And soon enough, you will do what we want you to do and think what we want you to think.”

With that, he gave a nod to one of the technicians, who operated a control switch with one hand that propelled the dildo toward Tami’s open loins. With the other hand, he spread her lips and adjusted the rounded point for a perfect aim. Tami thrashed as much as the bonds let her, which was not very much. Just before the dildo penetrated her, the technician coated it with glistening lubricant. Tami winced as the intruder eased deep inside, inch by inch. The more she struggled, the more the slippery dildo seemed to settle into her, held in place by a piston arm that projected from an engine at the foot of the chair. At last it stopped. Tami felt impaled, and fought the sensation that made it a pleasurable impalement—the warm, tiny quiverings of the device that seemed to awaken every pleasurable nerves in her loins.

She was so entranced by the feeling that she barely noticed the two technicians who came from behind the chair to slip a helmet like Kiri’s over her head. Again, she tried to resist, her head jerking against the restraining headband so that her glossy hair shimmered slightly. But it was no use. Out of the corner of her eye, before the helmet came over eyes, she saw how the trailing wires of the helmet snaked toward the computer. The helmet settled over her and clicked into place. Tami felt the coolness of electrode pads settling on her forehead, then the jolt as an electrical jack slid into receptacle that had been set into her skull during one of her stays in the ship’s clinic. Her whole body shuddered as she tried to withdraw inside herself. Her mouth opened to scream at the shocking sensations—

“Connection made with auditory and visual cortex,” said a technician at the nearby computer. “Starting sedation sequence. . . now.” Immediately her thrashing ceased, as her mind was flooded with soothing lights and soft sounds.

Andre nodded in satisfaction. These early minutes were always so delicate. The subject’s mind had to softened and grooved into compliance to reduce resistance—that had been accomplished with both girls, he could see.

“Activate visuals,” said Andre. A technician’s fingers tapped on his keyboard, and Tami’s body stiffened at the first onslaught of unexpected imagery, played against her shuttered eyes. The girl had no idea that these images were uploaded directly from the databanks of the computer. Some of the visuals were direct replays from her submissive conditioning—Tami on her knees looking up for approval at the man she was servicing, Tami dressing in provocative slave-sandals with high heels, even the time when she had leaned over the bow of the ship and had been taken from behind by an anonymous male, while she arched her back and moaned with lasvicious delight at every thrust. All such moments had been carefully recorded, and now played back in her one-person theater of the mind. And as she involuntarily watched each scene roll by—how could she avoid it, since she was experiencing direct input to her auditory cortex?—the dildo between her legs hummed to life and began a slow, sensual mechanical thrusting. Tami could not help but groan as the pleasurable sensations seem to become a part of her submissive and erotic conduct in the visuals. Her body began to respond to the inexorable pleasure of both the mental and physical stimulation.

Andre watched the girl’s body begin to undulate in response to her conditioning. One of the technicians said, “She’s in the groove, sir,” and Andre nodded approvingly. “Insert the constructed images, the one we developed on the computer yesterday from the raw footage.” A another tap at the keyboard, and Tami’s helmeted head jerked back as new fantasy images played across her mind’s eye. These were fiction, computer simulation used by applying the captured video images of Tami to a matrix of scenes of increasing submission. Tami saw herself dressed in leather, a boned corset cinching her waist to unimaginable hourglass slenderness, being led by a leash down a stone corridor. She saw herself being ravished in dozens of different ways, some of which she had never experienced or even imagined. And with every image the phallus thrust deep and hard inside her, exciting a rainbow of pleasure. She could not help but respond, meeting each thrust with her own yearning pelvic writhings. And every pleasurable sensation further hard-wired the relentless brainwashing of submissive perspective in her mind. She lost herself in a dreamlike trance of unending waves of pleasure as her body responded to the scenes of erotic subjugation being played across her mind’s eye. . .

She heard another female voice—Kira, restrained in her own chair beside her! It was a moan of pleasure, just like Tami’s own. Her friend, her lovely friend Kira, was here too. . .how nice. . .And then Tami brought herself up short, and mentally struggled to regain her old self. A spark of her soul still flickered, and that ignited her consciousness. Her friend was in trouble. What’s going on? What are they doing to us? She fought to clear her mind. How did she come to this position? She focused all her will power on ignoring both the visual stimulation before her eyes (how did they do that!? She wondered) and the flood of physical stimulation thrusting deep inside her loins (she remembered very well how they did that).

In those few seconds of lucidity, she suddenly saw the future her captors had designed for her. The combination of visual training and erotic stimulation was designed to condition her, brainwash her mind into an unthinking sex slave. She remembered how women who were signed on the old passenger list were now docile lovetoys, their bodies being sculpted by the ship’s clinic to make them even more desirable. Just like herself—she could feel the weight of her own enlarged breasts against her chest. And her fulsome lips—no wonder she couldn’t talk right anymore. Her captors saw only one future use of her mouth, that was all so terribly clear now.

Were the women captives on the ship being trained for the crew’s private use? Or was there some kind of heinous female slavery ring at work here?

No matter—she had to get out. Somehow. You’ve been told you’re the coldest, hardest bitch in your business—now prove it!

And Tami tried to block the images and sensations from her mind.

Outside, Andre saw the girl struggle violently against the restraints in the chair. His eyes darted to the EEG monitor.

“She’s starting to resist,” said the technician. “Alpha rhythm waves spiking.”

“Bien,” said Andre, “good. Engage the automatic response. We will see how long it takes her mind to learn that there’s a price to pay for thinking bad thoughts—or thinking at all.” Then he studied the monitor intently.

Tami had just begun to focus her anger when she was seized by the most unpleasant sensation she had ever experienced. It was not pain. It was the reaction one feels after pain, the automatic jerking back of a hand that has touched fire, except in this case it was her whole mind and body that took the shock. Simultaneously, the phallus inside her stopped churning and the erotic stimulation ceased. Her resistance faltered. What was that? she wondered in panic. Pleasure had been replaced at a snap by that awful feeling of distilled wretchedness. Her mind’s eye had gone blank, she felt utterly abandoned and cut off from the world. Then, slowly, the submissive images began to play once again across her mind’s vision; she could see herself chained spread-eagle on a satin-sheeted bed, while a lover took his pleasure with her body. She could hear his deep growls of pleasure through the earphones n the helmet. And the phallus inside her hummed back to life, moving ever so slowly, it’s steady thrust re-awakening the bud of pleasure in her loins into it’s sensitive, swollen state. Tami took a deep breath and surrendered weakly to the sensations of sensuous delight, in this bizarre crash course in submission.

Andre spoke to her through the microphone connected to the helmet’s audio headset. “There’s also a physical fitness side to this, my dear. Your loins will be getting quite a workout. That phallus that is pleasuring you right now used low-voltage electrical stimulation to sensitize your pleasure nerves. It also has the side effect of contracting your internal muscles. By the end of our little exercise, you will be well toned to service your future owner, or so the Monsieur Doctor assures me. You will be a most finely tuned sex-machine.”

Much of what Andre said was lost on Tami, as she had already begun to writhe and buck. Andre watched with amusement the first helpless pelvic thrusts as the restrained girl’s body tried on it’s own accord to massage more pleasure out of the slow-pistoning phallus. “Audio,” he ordered.

“Cuing audio,” said the technician as he tapped his keyboard. The men listened intently to the speaker that broadcast through the room what Tami was now being forced to listen to inside her own head, via the earphones in the helmet.

“—feels so good,” her voice came through. “To be fucked like this feels so good. That’s what I’m good for, to be used as a playtoy, and to do what I’m told. I can’t think any more, I don’t want to think any more, I just want to feel pleasure, and to give pleasure, that’s what I’m good for. I want to be a good girl, I want to do what I’m told, that way I can have this kind of pleasure. . .” The endless loop tape was a refined version of the audio programming that had conditioned the girls during their sleep-training. Andre’s psychologists had made special note which phrases had the most impact on the Tami’s libido patterns, and now they put that knowledge to devious use, reinforcing her behavior patterns, programming her for pleasure.

At first Tami succumbed to the seductive message. Her eyes fluttered underneath the visor of the helmet and her body began to undulate in response to each new penetration of the phallus. Then she caught herself: But no! They were doing this to her! If she gave in now, her mind would become totally conditioned to the barrage of erotic stimulation. Once again she forced her mind to deny the pleasure, cut off the visual images that she could see even with her eyes blindfolded by opaque goggles of the virtual reality helmet. And once again that awful feeling slammed into her mind, leaving her weak and gasping. This time the audio channel whispered instructions to her in her own synthesized voice: “It’s not good to resist, that’s being a bad girl. I don’t want to be a bad girl, I want to do as I’m told. Bad girls get punished, and I don’t want to be punished. I want to be a good girl and do what I’m told. . .”

Outside, the computer technician gave an “okay” sign to Andre. “The computer’s got her pattern now, Andre,” he said. “Every time she tries to resist, her brain waves will show it, and that triggers the automatic negative reinforcement. She’s another one of these feisty ones.”

“All the better,” said Andre. “The more she resists, the quicker her brain will learn to. . . squelch?—is that the English word, squelch? Ah, bien—to squelch such thoughts.”

“There she goes again,” said the technician. And he smiled without humor as the computer pounced on the offending defiant brain waves with a jolt of discouragement. The defiance melted away, as the brainwave pattern flattened out after the initial spike of shock. The technician checked the submissive-imagery input into the girl’s mind, and nodded an okay to Andre. “Still perking,” he said.

“Excellent,” said Andre. “I’m going to my cabin to take a nap. Call me when she is ready for the next stage in her little psychological adventure.”

The technicians exchanged knowing grins. Andre’s naps usually involved one or more of the converted girls now basking on the deck. He sauntered climbed the stairs into the bright sunlight outside, and adjusted his silk scarf in the polished brass of the binnacle. His eyes roamed the deck with the basking, tanned and oiled women now completely under his control. “My little cabbages,” he thought. The women were all gorgeous, but he tapped two of the most gorgeous and they docily followed him to his cabin.

After many hours had passed, Tami surrendered.

She had fought back, trying to quell the whispered directives in her earphones that encouraged her to be a good girl and do what she was told. She tried to deny the computer-animated images of herself that played across the viewing screen of her mind, each one more submissive than the last. And every time she had been jolted with the “exceeding unpleasant feeling” that the computer automatically responded with. Her moments of resistance became fewer and fewer, until she finally went numb and just allowed the images to imprint themselves in her mind. In fact, she was losing the power to resist at all. It was so easy just to watch herself be used like the lovetoy she knew deep down, now, that she was. So easy. . .

Outside, the technicians noticed the slight dip in the shiny helmet that was the telltale sign of her subjugation. His fingers flew over the keyboard, amplifying both the submissive images and the pleasurable stimuli that accompanied them—rewards for thinking the right thoughts. He noticed how her body no longer fought her bonds, but writhed in response to the waves of sexual ecstasy that the various mechanical accessories on the chair were designed to create. The dual dildos still churned in counterpoint rhythm in her belly and her backside, and suction cups on her breasts teased her engorged nipples with changing pressures. And yet the computer was so sensitive to her metabolism and neural circuitry that it could tell when she was just about to climax—and then the pleasure stopped. The whole system was to designed to keep her at the very edge of a woman’s ultimate orgasm, but always barely out of reach. It amused the technicians to watch her pelvis frantically surge up and down over the glistening dildos long after the mechanical phallus had been stilled. The girl was definitely becoming addicted to wanton sex.

It was long past lunch before the chief technician dialed up Andre’s cabin. “Sir, we’re about to start conditioning for special frequencies on Tami.” Once a girl was conditioned into a permanent submissive mind-set, the technicians could program her with behaviors in response to the frequencies of her individual remote control, thus making voice commands unnecessary. The behaviors could range from simple postures—kneel, lean over, spread-eagle—to more involved roleplay. A press of a button could turn a conditioned girl into a French maid or over-sexed personal secretary.

He could hear Andre panting and the uninhibited pleasure moans of at least two converted girls in the background. The nap was apparently going well.

“Very good. Proceed,” said Andre between his gasps. “I’ll be down. . .in a bit. . .”

When Andre finally came down—freshly showered, looking very urbane in his silk shirt, the technicians were just taking Tami out of the chair. The oriental girl’s chair was already empty with its former occupant strapped to a nearby gurney, her long glossy black hair swaying over the edge as they rolled her down the hall to the clinic. Andre nodded in satisfaction as Tami too was half-carried, half-led to her gurney. As the voluptuous girl was strapped in, limp and sagging from being force-fed hundreds of thousands of synthetic erotic experiences, her eyelids still flutttering from this barrage of mind-altering conditioning, Andre picked up her hand and kissed her wrist.

“Au revoir, mon amie. When we meet again, you will be even more perfect than you are now.” He pressed a button on the communications console to the bridge. “That’s the last of them. I want them all shaved, suited and at the oars by morning. Oh, and radio to Max we’re on our way, cargo all conditioned. That should make him happy.” As he watched the two gurneys disappear through the swinging doors to the clinic, he wondered, why was Max in such a hurry for these girls? Was business really that good?

The next morning Andre climbed up the ladder to the pilothouse. An unaccustomed silence reigned of the ship, its diesel engines silent. The decked rocked slowly as the cruise ship drifted.

“Ready to begin Operation Lost-at-Sea,” said the skipper. “Radar shows no other seacraft or airplane in the area.”

“Bien,” said Andre, “Good. Let’s put our rowing crew through their paces, shall we?” And he gazed fondly over the deck below.

It was an incredible sight. The rowing benches that had been stacked on the deck were now neatly positioned by the oarlocks, and shackled at each bench sat one of the twenty-four women passengers. You could not tell one from the other. They were all dressed in thick black rubber latex suits, from their toes to the hoods over their heads—one seamless suit that hugged their curves, with only their eyes and mouths showing. And since each of the women was physically enhanced by the clinic, they all looked like twenty-four perfect female forms, bending forward at their oars, the blades poised above the whitecaps, their breasts straining at the tightly stretched fabric of the suit.

“The girls will bake in that black latex black suits,” said the skipper. “By midmorning those suits will be sweatboxes.”

“That’s the idea, actually,” said Andre. “Every scrap of hair has been shaved off those girls. Then we slathered them in a cream to remove every last root, activated by heat. Max wants them as smooth as billiard balls by the time we reach port. Besides, a few days at the oars will tone them up nicely, make them ready for what’s in store for them at the Island. Work them hard, captain.”

“You worry about the girls, Andre, and let me worry about the ship. Max really thinks this trick will let us disappear?”

“But of course. He explained it to me. The whole seabed is covered with sonar devices. American, of course. Who else could afford to cover the bottom of the sea with sonar? In the old days, they tracked Ivans.”


“Russian submarines. The devices pick up the sound of engines. After the end of the cold war—something which I personally did not concern myself with, except for smuggling opportunities—the sonar system was turned over the merchant marine and coast guard, to keep track of the ships. I mean, what else could they do with it? They can track every vessel on the sea with those sonar detectors. By killing our engines, we have just gone off the system. Sunk, for all they know. All we have to do now is row like hell for the next twenty-four hours and our trail ends right here. Ingenious, no? And we have such lovely rowers. Let’s hope they can row together, eh?”

And at that he flipped a switch on the loudspeaker, and the hard-driving rhythm of a Madonna song blared out over the deck. Twenty-four oars bit the water at the same time. The morning sun glinted off the shiny rubber suits as the girls bent over their oars in unison. Andre knew the girls had been programmed for a mind-set of strenuous group exercise, and it showed with each beat of the oars. As we watched their slim bodies stretch and pull, their latex-layered breasts straining against the tight rubber, it occurred to him that all the girls had lost identity. Now they were just perfect female forms encased in identical rubber suits, with nothing showing except their pretty eyes staring straight ahead with docile contentment. Headphones were wired into the form-fitting hoods, and mental conditioning continued to be whispered into the receptive minds, along with the relentless beat of the music. Water jugs were suspended above each bench, with rigid sucktubes held at the horizontal. Each girl had been trained to coax the liquid through with tongue and lips and cheeks. Andre watched a few of them taking their water, sucktubes deep into their throats, their lips pressing all the way to the base of the sucktube and he approved the way the gag reflex had been conditioned out.

The skipper seemed to be watching the same thing. “Well, they seem happy enough,” he said.

Andre gestured at the nearest bench. “I would hope so,” he said. “Each bench has a phallus that is drawn inside the girl with each stroke of the oars. Max himself worked out the differential gears. Our problem won’t be whether they will pull hard enough. Our problem will be trying to slow them down.” Andre leaned back in the pilot’s chair, a huge grin on his face as the first subdued moans and mews could be heard from the rowing deck. And for a delicious morning, watching his lovely charges rowing like automatons with their glossy suits shining obsidian black under the bright sun, Andre imagined himself as the captain of a roman galley oared by a captured amazons.