The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

‘Ronin’

(mc, f/f, nc)

DISCLAIMER: This material is for adults only; it contains explicit sexual imagery and non-consensual relationships. If you are offended by this type of material or you are under legal age in your area, do NOT continue.

SYNOPSIS: A motorcycle mechanic meets a strange biker who changes her life.

* * *

‘Ronin’ Part Two

“That is the craziest gosh-darn thing,” Deb said.

Tarri sipped her lemonade and nodded.

They were sitting in front of the Three Sticks Cafe, the only restaurant in town. There were plastic flowers in a vase in the center of the round metal table, and an awning overhead old enough that the sun had faded its red stripes almost to white. Still, it kept off the mid-day sun. Ten feet away, a tumbleweed idled alongside the empty blacktop. It rose for a tumble, thought better of it, and fell back to rest.

The remnants of Tarri’s fries lay in a ring around her plate. Deb had had a cobb salad, one of only two kinds of salad the Cafe sold. The food was pretty good on an absolute scale, nothing to write home about, but considering it was in Three Sticks as far as Tarri was concerned the place was damn near Delmonicos. It could have just as easily been a shithole like they had in Lathrop or Bear River, and she’d still have had to eat there or cook at home.

So it was nice that the Three Sticks Cafe was good.

Deb was... was Deb. Former lover, crystal-cuddling hippie, and probably the only other lesbian for a hundred miles in any direction. They’d hooked up four years ago having discovered that fact, and just as quickly decoupled when it became apparent that they made good friends and terrible, terrible partners.

“Yeah, for that whole day I was in the twilight zone,” Tarri replied. “It really felt like that. Like none of it was real.”

Tarri stretched and put her lemonade on the table. The Frenellis drove by in their Aztek—possibly the only people in America to ever buy one—and Tarri waved a hand at them. The tumbleweed moved a few desultory feet. Deb sucked on her Diet Coke.

Deb didn’t actually live in Three Sticks, she lived in Clark, up closer to Yellowstone, but once a month (minimum) they met to talk about life and just enjoy each other’s company.

Tarri had told her the facts as Tarri knew them; the red riders and the black, picking Marion up in the scrubland, that shiny black suit she wore. The visit from Ms. Clarion. She said nothing about what Marion had said, about Mistresses and hypnotism and dangerous games. Those secrets weren’t hers to share, and she didn’t want Deb... well, being Deb. Anyway, the facts as Tarri had experienced them were strange enough. They had already begun to seem almost fictional.

Three weeks. Three weeks had gone by and the surreality of it had really sunk in. Sitting at the Three Sticks Cafe table, watching the occasional car go by, having her regular visit with Deb, the Strange Case of the Motorcycle Chase in the Night-Time was too weird to have actually happened, a make-believe incident somehow escaped for a night into reality.

Deb, bless her, believed it instantly. She also believed in flying saucers, the evils of fluoride, and some sort of conspiracy about the location of natural gas wells. Still, she believed in the black rider and the red riders and Ms. Clarion because she believed Tarri.

Tarri still believed it, too, but occasionally she wondered if it had been a dream.

Clint remembered Ms. Clarion pretty vividly, though, so it wasn’t Tarri’s dream alone.

“She was that beautiful, huh?”

Tarri nodded. “Oh, yeah. Like a supermodel. Skinny and curvy in that completely unfair way. And her face... yeah.”

Deb looked serious and leaned forward. “I think you made a soul connection, Tarri. I think there was real love energy between you and that woman. There’s beauty and there’s beauty and I think it was more than just beauty. You and her, soul connection.” Deb tapped her pointer fingers together.

Tarri didn’t bother to ask for a clarification; that would only be more confusing. She might be right, though, maybe Marion just pushed my specific buttons. Simply picturing that cool, still face in her mind gave Tarri a fluttering in her tummy.

“Well,” Tarri sighed, “whatever it was, she’s a thousand miles away by now.”

“If you want, you could come up and we could do a dream hunt,” Deb offered. “I’ve got a new amethyst geode that really resonates with purple auras.”

Tarri smiled at her friend. “That’s okay Deb, it wasn’t meant to be. It was one strange night where the planets aligned and someone else’s crazy life slid into mine. I’m alright with that.”

Deb nodded, face still serious. “Okay. But you should know...” she leaned forward, serious.

“The alignment of the planets doesn’t really make much difference, here on Earth. Too much soul energy.”

* * *

Tarri, hands black to the elbow, white shirt heavy with sweat and dappled Dalmatian with oil, stepped out of the garage and into the breeze. August nights were a mixed bag, sometimes leadenly hot so that you couldn’t sleep, sometimes with a cold wind from the north cutting at you and whistling around the house. But sometimes they were like this, warm but not hot, the wind gentle like a cool stream. With the sun setting behind the low range to the west, the light was orange and gold, shining off the million raindrops of the big pivot irrigators across in the bottomland. A million golden drops, the only fortune Tarri really needed.

She stood there for a moment, just being. She could move to Chicago, open a garage there or just work in someone else’s. She was the best bike mechanic she knew, and she went to at least two meets a year and she knew a lot of them. Live somewhere with other... other women like her, maybe find a nice girl, have a real relationship. Friends to go out with at night. Places to go to at night.

But then she’d have to give up this, her country. Barren it might be, double fucking cold in winter and baking in summer, with few people and half of those there were instructed by their God to hate her. Well, not half, maybe a quarter. But enough that sometimes there was vandalism in the night or epithets in the daytime. What made it worse was that those were local people; strangers wouldn’t know. It’s not like she flew a big rainbow flag.

The sun touched the horizon and flashed, flaring at the top of Red Knife Mountain, winking good night to Tarri and no one else.

She stayed a moment longer, then turned around and began to wash up. Sometimes she’d work into the early evening, but today she only had the one bike, the old Harley that Eddie Van Forts had found in some barn and brought in and wanted fixed. It was a fun project, an interesting project, even if it was a fucking Harley, but it certainly wasn’t a rush.

Tarri scraped the lava lather from her arms and stopped. Listened.

A V-twin, approaching. Sport bike, not Harley. Andy White on his Buell? The damn thing should be running like a marathon champ, he better not have fucked it up already... no, it wasn’t the Buell. Who?

Rubbing her arms with a paper towel, Tarri drifted back outside. There was the light, single headlamp, coming fast. Very fast; whoever it was was going to blast on by in five, four, three...

Then downshift, downshift, tight right turn, and a glossy black rider on a glossy black bike came to a purring halt in Tarri’s driveway. The rider sat up in the saddle and there were the twin cords, linking her to her bike. The gloves rose and lifted the helmet...

Courser Five shook out her hair and looked up at Tarri.

She flipped her leg over the bike, stood off. Tarri just stared as Marion rolled the bike up into the garage, flipping out the kickstand, hanging her helmet on the handle.

God, somehow Tarri had forgotten just how beautiful she was.

She walked back to Tarri and stopped. The breeze toyed with her hair.

“Tarri,” she said. “My Mistress has instructed me to thank you for your aid. And She sends this as a token of Her gratitude, and payment for your time.”

Courser/Marion reached into her jacket and took out a white envelope. She handed it to Tarri.

Tarri looked at the envelope; it was open at the end, and she squeezed it, popping it open to see what it contained. Hundred dollar bills. Crisp, unwrinkled. At least two dozen of them.

“I, uh, thank—”

Courser/Marion pressed a gloved finger across Tarri’s lips. “My Mistress wanted to thank you. She has given you this. Now, I want to thank you.”

The finger slid away but Tarri managed only to touch her tongue to the inside of her lips before Marion was there, her breath warm and sweet, her lips soft and cool.

The kiss came to an end, and Marion’s hands were on Tarri’s shoulderblades, their bodies an inch apart.

“I...” Tarri breathed. “I—”

“Sh. You do not need to say anything. To tell me anything. Make love to me, Tarri Gerarde. I know that you want to, and I very much want to as well.”

A soft accent, European, and those dark eyes, endlessly deep, twin wells of secrets..

“Yes,” Tarri hissed, and they kissed again, bodies together, and Tarri let her hands slide down the leather-clad back, to clinch around her waist as she held Tarri by the shoulders.

Then she stopped, stepped away—and was that a smile?—and walked to the inside door, pushing the garage door button. Tarri followed; they kissed again, and then she was leading Tarri by the hand into her own house.

Marion stopped at the door to the guest room but Tarri said no, quietly, and pulled her down the hall to the master bedroom, where Franz the stuffed puppy watched without judgment over the clutter. Magazines piled next to the bed, an empty can of diet Coke, the clothes hamper slightly overflowing and a pair of pink panties on the floor.

Marion opened her jacket and there it was again, the slick black second skin, her breasts reflective orbs under the overhead light, and then her overalls slithered down her legs, and Tarri hesitated but then came forward to touch, to stroke the smooth material, feeling the muscle beneath, and the heat between her legs roared into irresistible power, flickering at the edge of her vision as she stroked the shiny black body.

The gloves, the boots were discarded, and then she turned away and looked over her shoulder. She held up her dark hair and Tarri found the zipper, the tiny zipper, and pulled it down the center of her back, the skin beneath pale and slightly damp, and Tarri began to kiss it, to lick her flesh and Marion shivered as the zipper and Tarri’s tongue made their way down her spine.

She reached the vee above Marion’s ass and this time she did not stop, pulling the zipper down and following it with her mouth, kissing, reaching around the front and pulling the zipper through and up, and she was on her knees with her face between Marion’s legs and she reached up with her tongue and licked, touched her sex and licked, again, and Marion reached down to tug lightly at Tarri’s hair and moan softly.

Marion bent forward, hands on the bed, and Tarri kept licking—Marion was smooth, utterly shaven (the zipper alone would have demanded it) and Tarri hadn’t touched pussy with her tongue for two years, more, and never like this, her hands wrapped around the slick black poles of Marion’s legs, her fact buried in her ass, and her mouth engulfing her sex, sucking on it, feeding at the nectar she produced.

Marion shuddered and slid forward, onto the bed, breaking the contact, and threw her leg over Tarri’s head, rolling over, legs still spread, and Tarri looked up at her face and she was so beautiful and her dark eyes said nothing, nothing, but her spread legs were pure invitation and Tarri started feeding again, on her knees in her own bedroom sucking on Marion’s wonderful slick pussy. Tarri remembered her tongue stud, and used it, bumping over Marion’s clit, recalling the lessons that Serra had taught her all those years ago. The use of a hard thing in a soft, wet mouth.

Marion’s body started to twitch and she lay back on the bed, and her mouth gave off soft grunts, mewling, and then she bucked and her voice rose in a thin wail, and Tarri slowed her sucking, and stopped, and leaned back on her haunches, and examined the beautiful sexlips covered in her own slick spit, fascinated by how gorgeous they were.

Marion leaned up on her elbows, looking down. “Take off your clothes,” she commanded, and Tarri rose to obey and was suddenly overwhelmed by how dirty she was, the stink of garage work strong on her, the hands that had been stroking those slick black legs covered in dried grease.

“I,” she said, “I need to shower. I’m all dirty.”

Marion stared at her with those liquid eyes. “Let us shower together,” she said, and sat up, plucking at her second skin and pulling her arms out, her legs. Leaving the black slickness on the bed like a shed snakeskin.

Tarri pulled off her t-shirt, and the unsexy bra beneath, and opened her belt and dropped her jeans and then her panties—she was utterly unshaven, her pubic hair a sandy-colored tangle, and she looked up at Marion with a sudden sense of unworthiness, fear.

Marion’s eyes were locked on Tarri’s body. “You are so beautiful,” she said, and her eyes looked up and bored hungrily into Tarri’s. Naked, the two of them tripped down the hall to the shower, a walk-in indulgence Tarri had given herself. Tarri turned the water on and Marion’s hands were on her ass, stroking, then up around her to cup her breasts, and her mouth was on Tarri’s neck, and then a hand left her breast and slid between her legs, stroking with a single finger, and Tarri moaned as the water warmed up.

Then into the shower, and only just barely wet before Marion was pressed up against her, their flesh slick and sticky at the same time, kissing, sucking, probing her mouth with her tongue. Her hand was back between Tarri’s thighs, working, and Tarri clenched on it and mewled into Marion’s mouth.

Then Marion was descending, stopping to suck on Tarri’s breasts, engulfing each nipple, then down, into the water stream, and then she was on her knees and her tongue slid through the tangle between Tarri’s legs and found her lips, her pussy, and it flicked at her while the finger wormed around inside and then Tarri was coming, shoulders braced against the wall, coming as this beautiful beautiful unreal woman reached into her and tapped her just in the right spot.

Tarri cried out her joy.

* * *

Tarri sat in her office and watched the sun rise.

Marion had gone. Early in the morning, well before light, something in her overalls had made a soft chime and Marion had risen, kissing Tarri and telling her goodbye, dressing in her black second skin (and making Tarri zip up the back), sliding into her leathers. Tarri lay awake in bed and stared at the ceiling as the Ducati’s roar faded in the distance.

Ten orgasms, more, in the shower, the bedroom, the hallway. They had been at each others’ bodies as Tarri never had before, horny teenagers discovering for the first time what joys lay in the wiring of their nerves. As eStaring at the ceiling Tarri felt her sex tingle even now, remembering.

Some time later she got up and made coffee. Freeze-dried pre-ground from the Starbucks in Casper, not the best coffee but Tarri wasn’t a snob. She sat down slowly in her faux leather office chair, leaned back, and watched as the eastern sky went from purple to pink to orange to blue.

She thought about sex, and strangeness, and had no idea if Marion would ever return. The lights on her router blinked green and she thought about Marion’s helmet, and her bike, and the strange life she seemed to live. For a moment she even thought about Eddie Van Foorst’s Harley in her garage.

She sipped at her coffee and pictured liquid black eyes.

The doorbell rang.

Startled, Tarri looked at the clock. It wasn’t even seven o’clock. She hadn’t heard anyone driving up, either, though admittedly she’d been lost in thought.

The doorbell rang again.

Tarri put her cup aside and stood up. She went to the front door and looked through the peephole. A woman was standing there, short, Asian, well-dressed. The woman looked off down the road, then pressed the doorbell again.

Tarri opened the door.

“Yes?”

“Miss Gerarde?”

“Yes?”

In reply, the woman hit her in the stomach.

Tarri hung out with bikers, was a biker (although not of the scarred convict variety), knew how to handle herself. The woman disassembled her like a chef deboning a fish. Tarri’s hands came up and a fist came through them anyway, her feet swept out beneath her, a foot slapped the side of her head. Nothing her arms and legs did seemed to have anything to do with, or come anywhere near, the woman who was beating the crap out of her.

Suddenly she was being pulled up, forward, by her hair. The woman marched Tarri out of her house, Tarri’s one feeble swing at her resulting only in an arm-numbing hand chop to the shoulder. There was a car in the driveway, long and black and nearly silent. A rear door was open, a woman standing next to it. Her uniform matched that of the Asian woman, black jacket and cardinal red skirt.

Red.

Tarri was shoved into the back of the limousine. The Asian woman slid in next to her, and the door closed.

“Hello again, Miss Gerarde,” Miss Clarion said.

Tarri looked up to find the impeccably dressed woman sitting across from her, no touch of humor in her dark eyes.

The car pulled out of the driveway.

Tarri looked out the window at her open front door. “Let me,” she said, “let me lock the house.”

“There is no need. You have no further use for possessions.”

The chill ran down her spine. Tarri turned to look at Clarion. “Are you... are you their mistress?”

“Hardly. I am only another of Her slaves.”

“You’re kidnapping me?”

“Miss Gerarde, you involved yourself in this matter. Took sides. You had the opportunity to turn in the agent but you sheltered her. In doing so, you crossed my Mistress.” Clarion paused. “But my Mistress is partial to silver linings. A quality motorcycle mechanic will be an asset.”

“I won’t... I...” Her voice faltered.

Clarion smiled. “You already know, or think you do. You will be brainwashed. Nothing you think now matters. No resolution of yours will hold. You will become a slave, Miss Gerarde, my Mistress’ eager, obedient property. It will take less time than you think.”

“I... I know the sheriff. I have friends.”

“Yes, and they will mourn your loss. But nothing will lead them to you.”

Tarri looked to the Asian woman, and her eyes widened as she watched her hold up a syringe and tap the side.

“You can fight, Miss Gerarde, and slave eighty-five can beat you some more. Or you can take your shot like a good girl and arrive at my Mistress’ house less bruised.”

The Asian woman looked at Tarri with blank, glittering eyes.

I won’t forgive myself if I go quietly, Tarri thought. Even if I don’t remember not to forgive myself.

She lunged, and the world erupted in stars.

* * *

Groggy.

Confused.

She opened her eyes and everything was out of focus; the air seemed heavy and liquid.

She was floating, or lying, or swimming in the heavy air. Her hands were above her head, elbows bent, and she could not move them. She tried to pull them down but her wrists were held and the effort made her head swim.

She looked down, and was surprised to see her nipples. She tried to lean further, to crunch, but she couldn’t. Something was holding her neck, and after a moment of trying she gave up, lay her head back down and closed her eyes.

There was a noise, a click, and she opened them again. Something white was moving, off to her right, coming closer. She blinked. squinted. It resolved itself into the fuzzy outline of a person, and then a woman. She was dressed in a white jumpsuit, tight on her well-curved body.

The jumpsuit triggered a memory, of a black suit, skin-tight. Then it was gone.

The woman was leaning over her, her hands busy up near Tarri’s—Tarri, that was her name—wrists. She was pretty in a very middle America way, round face, dark blonde hair pulled back tightly around her head. But she wasn’t smiling at all, just staring blank-faced as she did... whatever she was doing.

“Ba,” Tarri said. “Whaaash muh bup.”

The woman ignored her. Her face was placid, emotionless. Her eyes seemed almost empty in that round Iowa face. Since her focus was improving, Tarri tried looking around the room again, left, right, as far down as she was able. The room was white and mostly empty; it had no paintings, no windows, nothing.

Tarri was strapped naked to a reclined chair.

The sudden mental start was followed by a head rush and Tarri had to close her eyes. When she opened them again the woman was directly in front of her, bent over with her hands working... between Tarri’s legs. A sudden flash of pleasure, a fullness—she had stuffed something into Tarri’s sex, something round and smooth, and there was something else in her ass, slimmer, intruding...

Tarri tried to force her legs closed—belatedly—but they were held wide open at the knees.

“Wha?” Tarri demanded.

The woman rose and considered her work with a slightly cocked head. Her eyes were blank, vacuous.

“Tehme whas gon’on,” Tarri forced at her.

The woman ignored her, and turned neatly in place. She took a few steps across the room and picked something up, then came back.

“Cmon,” Tarri slurred. “Please?”

The woman held up a syringe and tapped it. Another memory flash, of another woman, another syringe, and then whatever it was was being injected into Tarri’s shoulder.

Tarri shivered. The woman picked up something from below the table; a strange black thing, a quarter sphere with wires dangling from it. She lifted it above Tarri’s head, then lowered it over her face. There were clicks as it locked onto the table by either ear. Now everything was black.

There was a soft hissing coming from the helmet-thing, or maybe that was the drug, Tarri was starting to lose it again. She was really floating now, unbound and bodiless. Then, in the distance, there were lights, colored lights; they came weaving and looping forward to her and engulfed her, and she was floating in them and felt her self being gently unwound...

* * *

Tarri woke up on a bed. She took four long, slow breaths, then sat up.

A small, white room. Metal door with no sign of a knob. A white easy chair, a white dresser in Danish modern, and a mirror.

She was not naked; and when she thought that, she wondered why she had expected to be. But in any case she was wearing a white shift, sleeveless.

She stood up and it reached down to her knees.

There was a mirror on the dresser. With only a small amount of hesitation, Tarri walked over to look in it.

She looked like... herself. No makeup, mouth a little too large, strong jaw and... someone had been keeping her eyebrows plucked.

Someone? Why not herself?

And her hair. Tarri kept her sandy blond hair cut to the nape of her neck; in the mirror it was tickling her shoulders.

She was clicking her tongue stud against her teeth before she realized it was still there.

Tarri looked around the room, then sat back down on the edge of the bed. Something was wrong in her head. There was a weight in her mind, a large grey stone of passivity. Were it not there she might be panicking; she would certainly be more aggravated and her watery curiosity would be strong and backed by fear.

That’s how she should be feeling.

As it was, the passive weight in her mind left her only dully curious, idly wondering who put her here and what had been happening to her. And how they had left such a stone in her mind.

She resolved to open the door, but as she stood up, it opened for her.

A woman walked in wearing lacy white lingerie; stockings, garter belt, and see-through bra. No panties—and she was hairless there. A white choker around her neck. White gloves, lacy and sheer. High white heels. Her blond hair was done up in an elaborate coiffure.

The woman entered, stepped to the side of the door, and pivoted in place.

Behind her another woman entered, and awareness of the first woman washed out of Tarri’s mind like a sand castle hit by the tide.

The second woman was wearing jeans and an untucked black shirt. Her hair was short and wavy; beneath brown eyes freckles were sprinkled across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

She was the most radiant thing Tarri had ever seen. She practically glowed.

She was the most Beautiful Woman on Earth.

She stopped in the center of the room and looked at Tarri. Suddenly, from some place in her mind not weighted down, Tarri felt a powerful need to kneel, to please this woman, to do anything she said and make her happy.

Tarri dropped off the bed and onto her knees.

The woman stared down at her.

Tarri waited, heart accelerating.

“Well,” the woman finally said. “It looks like you might be worth it after all.”

She reached down to take hold of Tarri’s chin. She turned Tarri’s head left, right. Pulled her mouth open, and snorted.

“Tattoos and a pierced tongue. You certainly are a biker chick.”

Releasing Tarri’s chin, the woman turned around and seated herself in the easy chair. Tarri stayed on her knees and waited, although she did close her mouth.

“It would be a lie to claim that I don’t get angry,” the woman finally said. “I had that courier. Had her. And you came and screwed that up. Worse, the whole fiasco led Snowdon to my mole, which closes that door with a snap.”

The woman—more than a woman, Tarri knew, but she lacked a better identifier—gestured at the woman in lingerie. She snapped to life, pivoting, stepping forward, and walking stiffly out the door.

“However, staying angry is stupid and I’m the farthest thing from that. So I made a little lemonade out of the situation, and here you are. Young, pretty, strong, talented; and no one who will really miss you, which is just the icing on the cake.”

She leaned forward. “Stand up.”

Tarri obeyed.

“Take off the robe.”

Tarri obeyed, and it rustled to the floor.

Her nipples were stiff.

“Yes, pretty indeed. You should have gone to Chicago, Tarri Gerarde. Met a nice girl, opened a garage. Instead you decided to live out here in the sticks and tick me off. Slave eight ninety-one, mind state kappa.”

Tarri gasped. The weight was gone. Her self came rushing into the void.

She whipped her head around, but the room looked the same. “What the fuck is going on?” It was almost a shout. “Where am I? Who are you?”

The woman smiled and leaned back in the chair. “Perhaps I’m still a little bit angry. The slave you helped to escape my clutches, Tarri Gerarde, was rather important to my plans. I had a nice ambush all set up and you screwed that up for me. But don’t worry, I won’t take it out on you. What would be the point?”

Tarri clenched her fists; her hands were trembling. “What have you done to me?”

“I’m turning you into my slave, Tarri. Brainwashing you. Did you know that ‘brainwashing’ is a calque? It’s a direct translation from the Chinese ‘xi nao’, ‘to wash the brain’. We picked it up during the Korean War.”

“I don’t—won’t —”

“Yes, Tarri, you will. In fact, you’ve already been here a few months and you’re already mostly a slave. For instance: slave eight ninety-one, vitruvian position.”

Tarri raised her arms and spread her legs, assuming the shape of an ‘X’. She gasped.

“You’re already obedient, slave eight ninety-one. All that’s left is to erase any lingering sense of self-will, and to layer in your new desires and needs. A little over a month you will burn to obey me. Doing so will be your only purpose, and your only desire.”

“Why?”

“As I was saying, eight ninety-one: a little bit of revenge but a larger dollop of opportunism. You’re a great mechanic and a fine looking woman. You’ll be a perfect slave. As is this other bit of meat I picked up.”

The slavemistress gestured at the door. A woman stood in it, dressed in lacy red lingerie, stockings and gloves, garters and heels, choker and no panties. She had huge breasts, and for a moment Tarri didn’t recognize her.

Then suddenly she did.

Deb.

Tarri blinked, felt numb. Deb’s face was slack, expressionless.

“Slave eight eighty-nine, enter the room and face her,” the slavemistress said.

Deb stepped into the room and walked forward on red four-inch heels. She reached a spot at the right hand of the easy chair and rotated in place to face Tarri.

Her breasts were... obscene. Huge. Swollen torpedoes, capped with stretched pink nipples. They had no support, nor did they appear to need any. They juddered as she moved.

There was no glimmer of recognition in her eyes, no angle to her glossy-lipped mouth. She stared through Tarri as though she were not there.

“What have you done to her?” Tarri rasped.

“You have a talent I’m preserving, slave eight ninety-one. It would be a shame to waste all of those years of mechanical experience, especially since I just got my hounds new BMWs. This here, however,” and she slapped Deb’s bare ass with an open hand, “only knew a lot of useless cruft about space aliens and dreamcatchers.”

“What have you done?”

“I’ve had you for almost three months, eight ninety-one. Although what I’m doing to you requires a bit more work, three months is plenty of time for a total mindwipe and personality replacement. I didn’t want anything in her head so I erased her. She’s a sexdrone now, unthinking and utterly obedient. Oh, and I made a few physical changes too, obviously, to make her more interesting in her new role. Those B cups weren’t much to look at.”

Suddenly the air felt like ice, and the room blurred.

“Not Deb,” Tarri breathed. “Not fair.”

She stood up suddenly, eyes glaring. “Not fair? It’s totally fair. It defines fair. I’m a predator, Tarri Gerarde, and you and this meat here are my prey. Is it fair for the cows that you’ve turned into hamburger? The world has decreed that you are the fodder for my interests. You annoyed me, Tarri Gerarde, you brought yourself to my attention. What is more natural for the prey that pokes its head out, than to have that head cut off?”

“Deb,” Tarri said, “I’m so sorry...”

Without looking away from Tarri, the woman stroked Deb’s ass. “Slave eight eighty-nine, are you sorry that you are my slave?”

Deb’s slack face animated. “No, Mistress! Being your slave is my purpose! I love being your slave! I live only to serve you, and I love you more than anything else in the whole world!”

Tarri stared as Deb’s smile slowly faded back into a slack stare. It was Deb’s voice, Deb’s tones of heartfelt emotion... but the words...

The slavemistress stood up. “Well. I’m satisfied. Thank you for your time, eight ninety-one. I think we can now bring your reprogramming to its conclusion. Slave eight ninety-one, mind state gamma.”

The weight fell back into place like a bowling ball onto a balloon, squishing out all of Tarri’s outrage and fear and panic. Looking at Deb standing dolled-up and at attention, Tarri only mustered a vague sadness.

“Lie down on the bed, slave eight ninety-one.”

Tarri complied, sitting down and swiveling flat, placing her hands at her sides.

“Slave eight eighty-nine, fetch an assistant and take slave eight ninety-one back to processing. Report to the overseer there; she already has this slave’s destiny chart.”

“Yes, Mistress,” Deb said in a crisp, attentive tone.

Tarri stared at the ceiling and waited to go.

END part Two