The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

The slave, Ilya, said she was from Moscow.

Sandra listened. Only hours before she had found Language—the soft, liquidy speech of her Masters—impossible to comprehend. Now, as much as she wished otherwise, Sandra could speak nothing else. The same was true of the other slaves as well, captured from all over the world. Moscow. Istanbul. Paris. Macao. Whatever else their Masters had done to them, and would do in the future, it made understanding one another easy. The doctor shuddered. Her breath quickened. Her Masters… .

Stop it! Sandra thought, fists clenching, thighs squirming, feeling a horrible yet familiar heat between her legs. It was how she thought of her kidnappers now. The word—and her awareness of those men as her Masters—had become a part of her. She had to fight not to think about it, like trying to resist a loathsome but persistent habit developed over many years. Sandra had awakened from a chaotic and bewildering dream late in the afternoon—or was it evening? she had no way of telling the time—and felt to her alarm the same flood of disconcerting and humiliating images that had driven her into unconsciousness. The ideas downloaded into her mind now no longer made her sick, but they were constantly bleeding into her thoughts and vocabulary.

Sandra closed her eyes and again attempted to control the emotions flooding through her. She concentrated with all her might. Despite her best efforts, though, the doctor soon found herself squirming again. The kidnappers who had taken her were her Masters, and she… she and all the other girls in that cell were slaves.

It was becoming harder and harder not to think of them, and herself, in this simplistic way. The insides of her thighs were damp, and the great aching emptiness between them threatened to cloud everything out.

All the slaves—Girls, dammit, a part of Sandra vainly insisted, Girls!—felt the same, or so she had been told. They all had similar stories. Drab men—Masters, her mind maintained—touching them and causing paralysis. Then, in account after account, the module to the forehead, once for the initial program, then a second time hours later for their total enslavement.

They’re aliens, Sandra thought. Alien slavers… and we’re going to be sold as sex slaves.

Again, she shuddered in disgust, though her nipples hardened at the very idea.

The young Russian girl beside Sandra whispered to her her story, and the doctor found it a welcome distraction. Anything that kept her mind off of her own needs was a good thing. Her belly fluttered; she couldn’t help but think about sex all the time. Other equally needy slaves knelt or lay curled about them, unconsciously adjusting their positions from time to time for maximum curvature, maximum seduction. None of them merely sat, and the idea of standing wasn’t considered by any of them. There wasn’t a girl in that cell who didn’t feel more comfortable staying on her hands and knees like an abject animal.

Sandra listened. As it turned out in the telling, Ilya’s was a common tale.

She was born in Moscow, she said. The Soviet Union had collapsed when she was still a child, but the optimism her country enjoyed in the wake of communism was long gone by the time she was old enough to get a job. By the time she was eighteen, in fact, Ilya said she had known in her heart there was no future for her in Russia. The only thing she had going for her was her beauty, though, in a way, this had been as much a burden as anything else. Ilya went to length describing the numerous job offers she had received from men—mobsters, most of them—whom she was sure had wanted to turn her out as a whore. She refused them. She hadn’t wanted to end up some man’s sex slave.

The slave laughed lightly. How ironic.

Ilya went on to say that a few weeks ago she read an ad in a magazine offering foreign jobs to young women. She was nervous—she had heard rumors of gangs using such things as lures—but desperation won out. She wrote to the magazine asking for more information, and soon enough she received an invitation to visit the advertisers at their offices in the city. Ilya said she checked it out as thoroughly as she could before making her decision. She played it carefully. She told her friends and family exactly where she was going and when they should expect her back.

The Russian girl laughed again.

“This slave thought she was safe,” she said, the randiness rising from her skin a palpable thing. “This slave thought that if her Masters tried to take her against her will, she would be protected.”

Her hands brushed against her ample bosom. The nipples were stiff.

“This slave was wrong,” she said simply.

Ilya met one of their future Masters at the office. Something… something happened at this meeting. The Russian girl didn’t know what or why, but she left that office in Moscow feeling very good, very safe, and very determined to meet someone again the next night in a part of the city she had never been in before.

She just had to. Her memory of the time between those two meetings was nothing but a confused blur.

Ilya said she did things she couldn’t understand at the time why she was doing. She got into a furious argument with her parents, for instance, for no reason at all. She called them terrible names and accused them of violating her privacy. She told lies to her friends about moving to St. Petersburg. She packed her belongings and then left them unguarded at a train station, where they were quickly stolen. Quietly, efficiently, Ilya said she ended up demolishing her previous life. She cut all ties. She burned all bridges.

And she waited. She waited and waited until the time of her second appointment came and she felt a mysterious force drive her into the bitter cold of an abandoned schoolyard. She waited… and, eventually, somebody came for her.

“The Master pointed a tool at this slave,” Ilya said, “and this… I fell into a blinding light.”

Sandra saw many of the other slaves nodding at this. Similar things had happened to them too.

“When I… this slave landed,” Ilya said, “she was somewhere else. She didn’t know where, and she was naked, with another Master waiting to take her. This slave heard them talking later, my Masters.”

Sandra saw Ilya frown, as if she were dredging the memory from deep inside her. “The… the projector hadn’t worked the way they had wanted. The Ma… the Mas… they had wanted to send this slave to a Base, but they couldn’t.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “My Masters put this slave in a van instead. This slave was driven here. This slave didn’t even know she was in America until the sla…” and she looked at Sandra and began crying. “Until you arrived.”

Sandra took the young Russian slave into her arms and soothed her as she cried.

It’s a scenario out of a bad science fiction novel, she said to herself. It’s pure fantasy.

Sandra was having trouble getting herself to accept where she was, that she was naked and in a pen with other slaves (Girls… no, women, she thought. Women!). She felt so damn passive, though, all the time, and so desperately needy. What had those Mas… bastards done to them?

Throughout her story, Ilya had had obvious difficulty referring to herself in the first person. It was always “this slave” or “the slave” or whatever. It should have sounded forced and unnatural… but it didn’t. That was the true horror of it, as Sandra slowly realized. It doesn’t sound wrong to this slave at all, she thought, tears in her eyes. This slave finds it perfectly natural.

Sandra felt like she was losing her mind. No, worse than that. She felt like something inside her was eating away at her mind, the way a cancer eats away at healthy tissue. Whatever the module had put inside her, it was drowning her in a lake of hot bodily lust and submissiveness. Sandra felt no anger toward her Masters whatsoever. She remembered feeling angry at them, in the outer office, but her urge to resist them in any way had vanished. What she felt instead was ruttish. Needy. Holding Ilya in her arms, Sandra thought about her own recent abduction. Looking back upon it now, she viewed it as something almost with affection. The memory alone made her feel hot and wet.

She whimpered.

This slave needs to be fucked, the thought abruptly and rather sublimely surfaced in her head. Not made love to, but fucked, fucked over and over again, fucked and used like the slut she was turning into… had already turned into.

That isn’t this… that isn’t me talking, Sandra thought. It’s slavethought. It’s what was inside that module the Masters put upside this… my head. She grit her teeth. I can fight this. I can fight this.

But even while so thinking, Sandra heard the bolt drawn from the cell door, and, like every other girl in the pen, she quickly and obediently got into line and knelt, spreading her thighs as obscenely wide as she could. She pushed her breasts out, too, and put her head down submissively. She didn’t think about why she was doing it. She just did it.

Maybe it’s one of the Masters, she thought, and heat flared once more in her pussy, which already felt so moist and inviting she could hardly stand it. She tried to smother the degrading way that servile need made her feel and couldn’t. She shivered, though whether in fear or anticipation the slave in her couldn’t or wouldn’t say.

The door opened. The bright light outside made them all squint. A few of the girls cried out in pain.

Sandra’s nipples became two small, hard nuggets of heated metal. Her sex throbbed painfully.

And yet… . It’s not a Master, she thought, trying to ignore her disappointment. It’s just a woman.

The slaves sighed, for one moment all sharing the same regret.

“Well well well,” their visitor softly said. “How delightfully convenient. All my shopping done for me.”

A woman stood there. Only a woman… yet what a woman!

The person framed in the doorway stood at least six foot, even without the heels. She had long blond hair bound in a braided ponytail and flung over one shoulder. Her uniform—if that’s what it could be called—flowed like black mercury over an incredible bust and hourglass proportions. Tight corset. High-booted heels. A spiked collar encircling her neck and framing a supermodel’s features. She was easily the most beautiful woman Sandra had ever seen… and the most frightening. She looked like the Bitch Queen of Hell, and her voice when she spoke again was the Voice of God.

She flung one hand out and cracked the long, studded whip she had had hanging from her belt. It made a sound like a gunshot.

“SLAVES!” she yelled at them, with jolly good humor. “Move your asses! Out! OUT!”

One of the girls—Sandra saw it was Ilya—tried to stand and speak.

“SLAVE! ON YOUR KNEES!!” The woman snapped the whip again and with her other hand struck Ilya in the face, knocking her savagely to the floor. “Crawl, damn you sluts! CRAWL!!”

The slaves moved at once, some of them crawling right over the downed Russian girl. Sandra pulled on her friend’s arm and tugged her along and out into the office and main warehouse floor. Other women were there too. Like their leader, each was dressed in a skin-tight, black rubber uniform, like something out of a post-modern Marquis de Sade fantasy.

The slaves were harangued by the uniformed women as they crawled. Sandra’s eyes lingered on their leader as she passed. Just seeing her caused heat in Sandra’s loins, the same heat she had felt when in the presence of her Masters.

A brief but intense vision struck the doctor. She saw herself licking this blond giant’s black and glossy curves, putting her mouth and tongue to what she knew would be a magnificent and delicious pussy. Along with this unfamiliar burst of passion for her own gender came a mortal terror beyond words. The heat blooming inside her was even stronger now than it had been before with her Masters! It was so strong Sandra felt like her body was going to go up in flames.

“Move, you slaves! MOVE!! CRAWL!!”

Sandra had never been sexually attracted to another woman before. But these women, and especially their leader, an Amazon dominatrix from beyond infinity, these women had the doctor panting like a dog and juicing madly.

And it wasn’t just her, either. All of the girls were moaning. Their heat and passion were undeniable.

Whips cracked. Several of the slaves screamed in pain as a lash made contact with their naked flesh.

The captive sluts were march-crawled into the warehouse proper. At least a dozen women in black latex and leather surrounded them. They carried whips and other cruel instruments and cursed at the slaves to get them into formation, five by five on their hands and knees. “Spread those knees, you sluts! Spread those cheeks!”

Sandra and Ilya crawled together and knelt side by side.

“Get your heads up!” The slaves obeyed. “Knees wider! WIDER! Lean BACK on those heels, you slaves!”

The group’s leader stalked out of the warehouse office and looked upon the formation of panting, yearning flesh. A sneer-like smile lined her blood-red lips. Her boots rapped like artillery shells on the cold concrete.

Out of the corner of her eye, Sandra spotted two of her former (Former?) Masters slumped beside a newly arrived truck. Their eyes were caught wide open and staring. They remained paralyzed evidently. Now, however, they were stripped of their clothes as well. They were as naked as they were. They were as naked as slaves.

Sudden, vicious pain lanced across Sandra’s back. She screamed.

A rubber-encased hand came up beneath her chin and raised her head. The chief dominatrix stared into Sandra’s face, snarling like a banshee. Her eyes were full of power. They were completely inhuman. Sandra screamed again.

“What are you looking at, slut!? Eyes down. Crawl!”

There was another flash of pain, this time against Sandra’s rump. It was awful, searing… and yet it stoked the flames ignited inside her to hitherto unsuspected intensity. Her pussy flared maddeningly, and suddenly it came to her.

This woman was her Mistress! Sandra belonged to this woman body and soul!

The dominatrix forced Sandra to crawl and kneel beside her. The handle of the whip pushed up her chin again. “I know you,” the blond giant said. “You were that doctor. The one from the hospital.”

Sandra’s dismay increased with the Mistress’ casual use of the past tense.

You were that doctor. Were a doctor.

The dominatrix stroked Sandra with the head of her whip, touching her enflamed breasts and poking at her flaming cunt. The slave moaned in dire need. “You’ve been helpful, my dear,” the Mistress said. She indicated the men at the truck.

“Their abduction of you led me straight to them.” Sandra moaned again at her prodding. Oh God, she thought. Oh please, please, this slave doesn’t know… doesn’t feel… .

“You’ve been very profitable… and I haven’t even sold you yet.”

The woman laughed again, and Sandra felt strangely pleased despite her utter terror. She had, after all, given pleasure to another. She didn’t understand the feeling—she didn’t want to understand it—but there it was. She had given pleasure to a superior. One of the female soldiers marched up and stood at attention in front of her leader and reported that the “chronal alignment had successfully been subverted,” all said in the liquidy and gargling syllables of Language.

“Excellent, bitch,” the head dom said, and the soldier looked pleased. She had been given a compliment. “Begin transferring the cargo.”

The subordinate saluted—she slapped her right arm over her shiny, ebony-coated bosom—turned, and began shouting orders to her fellow “bitches.” Some of them began removing gleaming, semi-oval-shaped tools from their belts while others continued to stand over and reprimand the slaves. The tools looked like the device Sandra’s previous Master (No! she resisted futilely. Kidnapper!) had tried to use on her in the hospital. She associated the device with a word emerging from her subconscious.

The oval-shaped device was called a projector. These were projectors.

Ilya had spoken of one back in the cell. Unlike in the Russian girl’s story, or back at the hospital, these women in rubber looked confident they would work. Those who had been standing behind the slaves marched out of the way.

Other soldiers lined up in a row firing-squad style in front of the formation. Sandra saw Ilya among the girls getting ready to be shot. She was crying. Sandra was horrified. Yet her dread wasn’t inspired so much by a fear of death—the projectors she somehow knew would and could not kill—as by what part of her knew would happen instead.

The head dominatrix beside her, controlling her, laughed loudly.

The women fired.

Instead of bullets, what came out of the weapons was light… a bright, golden curtain of light that enveloped the slaves in a shining cocoon of radiance. Sandra’s eyes widened. The light sunk into the girls—it absorbed them—and then a second and even greater flare of radiance flashed. When this was gone a mere second later, they were gone too.

The girls. The slaves. They had disappeared. There one moment, gone the next.

The air popped loudly.

Oh my God, Sandra thought. A second later a booted heel came down over her neck, and she was forced to lie with her face pressed flat to the cold floor. The soldiers’ leader stood over her, literally.

A flash of pain erupted along Sandra’s back as the woman’s whip dug in casually. Tears and other fluids leaked onto the concrete. “Time to go, pretty,” she heard her Mistress say.

Sandra didn’t see what happened. A flicker of light exploded around her—inside her—and she screamed again.

The floor beneath her feet disappeared, and she fell… maybe. The funny thing was that Sandra wasn’t at all sure in what direction she was moving. It could have been downward and through the vanished floor. Just as easily, though, she could have been falling to the left or to the right, or even upwards for that matter. For a second or two it seemed as if she were holding still and it was the world around her that was really in motion. All Sandra knew for certain was her stomach felt like it was turning inside out.

She found herself instinctively preparing for an impact which never came.

The light faded. They arrived… they reappeared. There was no jolt. There was no jar.

If she had been holding a house of cards, not one side of it would have fallen over.

Sandra heard screams—not her own this time—and the cracks of whips quieting the screamers down.

She was… elsewhere. Metal, not concrete, lay beneath her face. The air was different, too.

Only now did a shudder pass through her. The warehouse had disappeared! Cold metal surrounded Sandra on all sides, as if she were inside a battleship or a cargo container. Visions of Star Trek flashed through her mind. Silvery-white plates made up the surrounding walls, and when she looked up the ceiling was high and peaked like the inside of a hollow pyramid. Sandra could see no light sources, though the massive chamber was obviously well and brightly lit.

She didn’t get much of a chance to look around. The rubber-clad women snapped their whips into the crowd of slaves, some of whom were vomiting in fear and wetting themselves.

“Silence!” the soldiers yelled. “Slaves cry to please their owners!”

The leader’s boot came down on Sandra’s neck again. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” she asked sardonically. Sandra didn’t answer; she was afraid to. The dominatrix snarled, relishing her control.

The boot left Sandra’s neck, and she saw the tall blonde walk away, stepping over the bodies of slaves squirming on a cold metallic floor. Sandra didn’t dare raise her head, but her eyes tracked the woman as she made her way to a raised platform outside the ring of massed, heated flesh. She observed the smooth, glossy tread of the woman’s long and shapely legs. She shivered watching the dominatrix’s sleek, tight ass, snug so closely in her latex uniform. Sandra could see each lovely cheek outlined in separate ebony perfection. She didn’t try kidding herself. Sandra wanted desperately to serve this Mistress… to kneel before her and kiss and lick and do whatever else this heavenly Amazon might want of her, if only she were granted the privilege of polishing those gleaming leather boots with her lowly slave’s tongue.

Then, as if drawn by a magnet, Sandra’s eyes focused on the men working by the raised platform. The heat in her slave’s pussy went up another fiery notch. They were dressed in tight plastic and rubber, similar to what the women soldiers were wearing, only in red, not black: a deep scarlet that flickered and gleamed brightly despite the diffuse lights. Each crease in their uniforms served to fascinate Sandra, especially the leggings, which were very, very tight and strained in their attempt to keep their manhoods enclosed. Sandra gazed at the men’s huge and exquisitely worked codpieces, and only vaguely did she realize she had begun to drool. The slaves moaned, though very few of them from pain.

Their slave desires were much upon them.

A large man stepped around the platform to meet the dominatrix. They spoke in the liquidy tongue with which all the kidnapped girls there had so recently become familiar. “Celestra,” he greeted her. “Your shipment is larger than usual.”

The Amazonian blonde smiled. “Not as large as it will be,” she said, so softly Sandra barely heard her.

The dominatrix stood arms akimbo and down upon the other. He was big, but she was still several inches taller. “This shipment isn’t complete yet. I still have to go back and bring in my own captures.”

The eagerness in her voice made Sandra quiver.

The scarlet man, who appeared to be some kind of supervisor, took in the slaves with his eyes. A leer formed on his face. He was unshaven a few days, Sandra noted, who was attempting to control herself and not succeeding very well.

“They’re not yours from the field, I take it?” he asked.

He spotted the two men watched over by the dominatrix’s soldiers.

“Those are clones,” he said. “Colonist vatbreds. What’s going on here, bitch?”

Celestra—the head bitch—smiled and casually reached up with one hand to her tightly encased bosom. Her other rubber-coated hand snaked out to lightly touch the supervisor’s face.

“They,” she said, indicating Sandra’s paralyzed former Masters, “made a mistake. I was there to take advantage of it.”

There was a soft parting noise—latex peeling from latex—and the rounded cups which had formerly held Celestra’s breasts came away in her hand. The revealed orbs were magnificent, flawlessly perfect and tanned a smooth golden-brown. Sandra gasped uncontrollably.

Her Mistress’ nipples were large, erect… and as black as the void of space.

Sandra’s breath whistled through her teeth. A glistening rubbery material encased the tips of Celestra’s breasts. Or perhaps they were painted or otherwise colored. Sandra couldn’t tell from where she was. The dominatrix’s corset raised the ebony points, though, almost directly to the supervisor’s face.

A strange look went through the man. Sandra saw him shudder. His face went flush.

“Pheromones, bitch?” he croaked. “They won’t work on me.” His eyes, though, had gone very wide.

“Really?” Celestra said lightly. Her hand gently guided the supervisor’s head to her proffered breasts, and, in a quick and apparently involuntarily action, the man’s tongue furtively licked her right nipple.

A look of absolute bliss came over him. He staggered back against the platform like a man having a coronary.

“That’s good,” Celestra softly crooned. “I wouldn’t want anyone to think you were weak, Bors.”

The terrible yearning Sandra felt—for either of them—slipped up another level. She squirmed and put her forehead to the smooth floor, which felt even cooler than it might normally considering the heat radiating from her body.

The other slaves moaned too, and the soldiers whipped them into silence, cursing, calling them sluts.

This slave is a slut, Sandra thought. Oh God, this slave is a slut. She tried to think of something else—anything else—other than having sex with these people, and failed. The supervisor Bors meanwhile stepped up for a few more earnest, helpless licks of Celestra’s nipples and then groaned, clutching at himself. He almost fell from the raised platform. The dominatrix laughed suddenly, harshly, putting her hands to her hips again.

“Damn you, you conniving bitch,” Bors said. This time the word was not used complimentary. He put a hand out to steady himself and fell over. His men came to his aid, but he waved them off irritatedly. He took a deep breath. “I want to see your license, Celestra.” He tried not to squeak.

Celestra smiled again, reached down, and flicked something at the supervisor from her belt. Bors held it up—a plain red card—and it glowed faintly. He said, “This isn’t yours. It’s theirs.” He indicated the immobilized men. Three of Celestra’s rubber-encased soldiers were using them as footrests.

“Raider’s rights,” the blond giant said, still grinning. She seemed to have grown. She seemed, in fact, to tower over the supervisor Bors. She was more there than anybody else in the room. With casual indifference, and a mere stroke of the hand, Celestra parted the front of her corset. The black rubbery material fell to the floor with a barely discernible ripple. Latex-like liquid ebony still covered the giant’s arms and shoulders, and her legs from the hips down, but the entire front of her uniform now lay discarded, from her exquisitely sculpted throat to a point slightly below her navel.

She was incredibly beautiful. She was like the statue of some stern Greek goddess brought to life. Celestra’s naked abdomen was as flat and smooth as any athlete’s. Her unsupported breasts were golden hemispheres, large, firm, and upright. Sandra’s eyes, though, were drawn to the Amazon’s small and perfectly lovely navel. Her Sandra’s pussy gave out another tingling message.

Her teeth chattered at the thought of the treasures still concealed beneath black rubber.

“I claim them,” Celestra said to Bors, indicating Sandra’s Colonist Masters, “their slaves, and their license as my own.”

Bors shook his head weakly. If Celestra had grown, he had shrank.

“You can’t… do that. There are laws.”

The metal chamber had become silent. The slaves no longer cried out; their eyes were riveted to Celestra’s naked chest. So were the scarlet-clad men. All were shaking, and some were openly playing with their codpieces. Even Celestra’s rubber-clad women seemed focused on their leader’s every word. Many were parting their own skin-tight uniforms and inserting fingers into places moist and warm. Others rubbed up against one another in carnal fashion. The air was heavy. It was hard to breathe.

“Well,” Celestra said, taking one step closer to Bors the supervisor. His back ended up against the platform. “Perhaps we can make some other arrangement.” She let her fingers draw to her throat seductively, then trail slowly down.

Bors’ eyes followed like magnets had been attached.

What was it he had said? Pheromones? Sandra remembered reading about them in school.

“You can tell your Client these fools were ambushed by another Base,” Celestra said. “There needn’t be any record of our being here at all, is there?” She took another step, and Bors moaned softly. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

Bors made a grunting noise and raised his right arm. For a moment it looked as if he were reaching for Celestra’s tits again—and she in fact lifted them to his fingers—but then the supervisor put the hand to his left shoulder instead and unhooked a little hose dangling there. He brought the tiny red tube to his nose and snorted, like he was inhaling nitrous oxide. Color and animation immediately returned to his face. He stood straight and began cursing at Celestra, who for her part merely put her hands to her hips and laughed. Her company of soldiers chuckled too at the man’s obvious discomfiture.

“Ah well,” Celestra said, smirking. “You wouldn’t have survived a night with me anyway.”

She stepped back and let the man breathe again. The tension in the room lightened marginally, though the slaves at least were still captivated by the powerful sexual scent the blond Amazon generated.

“Slut,” Bors said finally. He had sat down on the edge of the platform. “I’ll see you in my collar someday, I swear.”

“But not today,” Celestra said, moving to stand in front of him again. “Today, we have other business to discuss.”

Bors took another whiff from his uniform-tube. “Lying to the Clients is never good business.” His eyes were dragged to the dominatrix’s breasts as if by chains, though he no longer appeared quite so feverish. He was just ogling her now.

“What are you really offering me, bitch?” he asked.

Celestra gestured nonchalantly with her hand. “A percentage of my profits, of course. Plus… other incentives.”

She turned, cat quick. In a flicker of barely perceived motion she had her whip in hand and was lashing out with it. The cord stretched impossibly long, guided by some unknown force, and suddenly a ring of pain enclosed Sandra’s throat!

The slave reared back on her heels, her hands pulling automatically at the tight black collar now encircling her neck, connected over eight feet away to the handle in Celestra’s hand. It had all happened in the blink of an eye.

Sandra was choking! Black spots bounced before her eyes.

With a turn of the dominatrix’s wrist, the whip retracted, pulling Sandra along. A soldier standing behind her gave the slave a boot in the ass to help get her going. And, throughout it all, despite the pain, Sandra’s arousal only strengthened more. In a moment she was again at Celestra’s feet. Her face was pushed down to the floor.

“I’ll lend you one of my new captures for a few hours,” the dominatrix said. “No charge.” She flicked downward with the whip, and the tightness around Sandra’s neck loosened a little, though not enough to come off. No, God no! she tried to scream, and couldn’t let out more than a whimper.

“No, please, no” she managed to cry, finally, and Celestra booted her.

“Shut up, slave. I’m giving you a reward for being so profitable.” She kicked Sandra again. “It’s an honor to fuck for your owner.”

“She’s a little old, don’t you think?” the supervisor said, looking critically at Sandra.

He leaned forward and grabbed her hair. He raised Sandra’s head to the level of his codpiece. It dangled before the girl’s eyes, and the pain in her neck diminished. He’s so big, the thought absurdly flashed through her mind.

Sandra’s jaw began to ache. She began to salivate more. She could hear the immense organ beneath the thick plastic shield throbbing. Sandra’s cunt became more hot and moist. The slave knew she was lubricating herself for imminent use.

Oh God, oh please no, she thought.

“What’s so special about this piece of meat?” Bors asked. “I could have any of a dozen sluts here at any time.”

“I know you too well, Bors,” Celestra said. “Why else did you take this job but that you have the pick of all the new ones, the fresh ones from the Property Worlds?” She prodded Sandra with the end of her whip. “This slave was a physician where she came from.” Bors gave Celestra a confused look.

“A kind of bio-technician,” the raider explained with a sigh. “She had high status in her culture… but you can be among the first to fuck her into slavery.”

Sandra stiffened. The words rang unbelievably through her ears. “Please, this… this slave doesn’t, this slave…”

She cried again as the whip flared against her skin and fell away.

“Silence, slave,” Bors commanded, and Sandra closed her mouth with a snap.

He looked up at Celestra. “Those Colonists… I know them. I know their Parent Unit.”

Celestra merely looked at him. “Fifteen percent, Bors. No more. Have we a deal?”

The supervisor considered for a moment, then nodded, and made a gesture to his men. Celestra turned immediately on her high-booted heels and stalked away. Her soldiers out among the gathered slaves began to shout and use their whips to get the property into line. Bors stood too and began walking in the opposite direction, toward a door set in the metal wall behind his supervisory platform. He kept his hold on Sandra’s brown locks as he did, and she had to crawl on her hands and knees to catch up, squealing in pain. “Please, Master!” she yelped. “Please! Master is hurting his slave.”

“Take care of the processing,” Bors said to one of his subordinates. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”

He didn’t say anything else, except to tell his new plaything to shut up. Sandra stopped begging, but try as she might she couldn’t help crying out as the man dragged her into the room beyond.

Bors was licking his lips. A salacious grin had formed on his stubbled face. Sandra screamed, but she nonetheless managed to get to her feet despite his fast pace. Her thighs squirmed. She felt her body’s juices leaking onto the floor.

Love oils, the words popped into her mind. Those are this slave’s love oils, heated for her Master’s pleasure. An instant later, her neck raw from the whip, her scalp on fire, Sandra thought, This slave will endure. This slave will not respond like last time, no matter how good a Master’s cock might feel inside her. This slave will not be a slave.

Bors picked Sandra up, ass front and belly over his shoulder. His strength was enormous. Her face pounded against the deliciously smooth latex of his back, and she thought, The Master is going to use this slave like a toy!

She pounded her fists against her future rapist’s back, struggling fruitlessly.

Bors’ room (Master must keep it for sluts like this slave, Sandra thought, and winced) was darker than the other chamber. It was smaller, too, and practically empty. The only noticeable feature was a leather couch in the center, which looked marvelously barbaric to Sandra’s programmed eyes. It had four square wooden posts for legs. The edges were polished brown in stained woodgrains. Thick, similarly colored leather covered the top, though Sandra saw this part but briefly. Bors flung her off his shoulder and to her (Rightful place, Sandra slavethought) back against it.

The supervisor stood over Sandra, letting her gaze up at him and laughing at her expression: a painful combination of lust, fear, and confusion. Her face had become an open book of submission.

He removed his codpiece. Sandra gasped, marveling again at the size of his magnificent organ.

He sat down next to her, and she told herself, This slave is going to be raped. This slave is going to be used, whether this slave wants to be so rightfully used or not.

Tears clouded her eyes. The supervisor reached and casually parted her legs, which, truth to tell, had all been about to fling themselves apart anyway. This slave will look up and think of nothing, and then it will be over. She would be inert, Sandra decided. Totally unmoving. This Master would have his rightful pleasure of her, but she would not resist.

She would not give him the satisfaction. If she could hold on to even this one little shred of dignity, she would survive.

But Bors the supervisor derailed this plan utterly. Completely. Casually, he sank his index finger into Sandra’s white hot, flaming, aching cunt, and the former doctor writhed immediately, screaming with absolute pleasure!

“Oh Master! Master!” The words were not her own, yet they were perfectly her own. “Thank you, Master. Thank you!” Sandra’s muscles clenched around the digit tightly, as if she were trying to milk it of badly needed sperm.

The supervisor removed his finger—there was a pop! surprising Sandra, who had had no idea she could grip so hard using her pussy alone—and began using his hand to massage his captive’s clit. He lowered his face at the same time and took one of Sandra’s helplessly engorged nipples between his teeth. He put his tongue to the center of the hard, rubbery nub of flesh and began to gently suckle. Waves of absolute ecstasy at once surged through the slave.

Sandra’s body strained. Her hips tried to rise, but the supervisor held her down with his other hand.

The sensations he was inducing were beyond description. Abruptly, as if mounting a motorcycle, Bors sat up, gripped one of Sandra’s breasts in each hand, and straddled her, forcing the bulging head of his penis inside her, parting her delicate folds in one massive, heart-stopping, pleasure-filled stroke.

Sandra screamed rapturously, incoherently.

“Ohhh. Oh… oh, please, Please! Oh, God, no, No! NO! Oh, OH, Yess! Yess!!”

“Not yet, slut,” he told her. “Not yet.”

Moving from her breasts, the supervisor reached between Sandra’s legs and began stretching the former doctor’s lower lips with his fingers. Slowly, rhythmically, he pumped his manhood back and forth inside her, filling the slave’s pussy with his hard flesh, then withdrawing at the same excruciating, maddening pace, teasing her mercilessly.

Her vagina closed tremblingly each time he pulled out. Sandra had to bite her lips to keep from crying out again.

Please, oh please, don’t torture this slave like this, oh please, Master.

Bors pinched her clitoris, filled her again, and allowed Sandra to clench about his shaft just a little more, just a little more. Then, teasingly, he pulled out.

Oh, please, please, Master!

“Slut of slave,” the man above her, using her, said to Sandra. “A bio-technician, eh? Eh? Answer me, slave.”

Sandra’s abdomen rose and fell with each slow push. Her legs clenched about the man’s back. Waves of mocking pleasure rolled through her, the supervisor leisurely bringing Sandra almost to climax, then taking her down again unfulfilled. She gasped and breathed, writhing helplessly, tossing her head from side to side vainly.

“Yes, yes,” she whimpered. “This… I… this slave… was a doctor. Oh, please, Master!”

“You must have thought you were important, didn’t you, slave?” He pushed inward, and Sandra moaned.

“Yes… yes, Master!”

“But you were only pretending, weren’t you? You were really only a slut of a slave waiting to be taken.”

“Yes. Yes.” Sandra squirmed beneath him, impaled.

“Say it. Say it!”

“I… this slave was a… oh, God, oh please… this slave was only pretending not to be a slave. She has always been a slut and slave, Master!” A newly awakened part of Sandra’s soul rejoiced in this admission and filled her with joy.

“Aren’t you grateful, then, slave? Aren’t you glad not to have to pretend anymore?”

“Master… master?”

Bors let her rise slightly, and Sandra immediately did so, kissing his face. Raw passion consumed her, enflamed her. He pushed her face back. She stared into his eyes from mere inches away. The power in his eyes was overwhelming, undeniable. Sandra felt like a tiny insect beneath that irresistible gaze.

She felt something important crumble inside her.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore. You know your place now.” He pressed inward. “What are you?”

“A… slave.” That was something Sandra could no longer deny.

Bors stopped stroking her clit suddenly. The slave groaned in denied gratification.

“What was that? I didn’t hear you.”

“A slave,” Sandra begged, whimpering. “Please, Master. This slave is a slave, Master.”

He chuckled lightly. He clutched her breasts and squeezed. “Beg!! Beg for it, you slut!”

“Oh… oh! Oh, yes, yes! This slave is a slave. This slave is a slave! Oh, oh yes, yess! yessss!” She screamed.

Bors pulled her face towards his, and Sandra tasted his sweat, his delicious sweat, licking at it desperately, hungrily. His hands again squeezed her breasts. Her slavebody screeched with pain and ecstasy. The supervisor filled her again, his warm and powerful rod probing Sandra, ravishing her, her slavemuscles clenching spasmodically around him.

“You need never pretend again, slut. You are in your rightful place, now. A slut of a slave, nothing more.”

“Yes. Yes, thank you, Master, yes.” He was right. She would never be able to go back now. Not after feeling what she was feeling now. Not after having the point of the matter proven to her so well, so completely. She was a slave.

She was nothing but a slave. She could be nothing but a slave now.

Bors roared, exulting in his absolute control of his new toy’s body. He released himself, finally, and his precious fluids blasted into Sandra. Each drop burned like a glorious acid. Her hips bucked and gyrated. Sandra rubbed herself against him, fulfilling her Purpose, her station in life: being fucked, being used like the fucktoy she was, being a slave.

The resulting climax was like an explosion inside her. Bors pushed her down, withdrawing, and she screamed. “Please Master! Fuck this slave! Fuck this slave! Use your toy, please Master, PLEASE!”

She tried to pull him back on top of her, her desires nowhere near satiated yet, but he slapped her.

“You exist for my pleasure, slut. Not your own.”

“This slave is sorry! Please, Master!”

He grabbed her by the hips. A second later his huge and delicious cock was pushing against Sandra’s pussy again. He buried himself inside her hot, burning flesh. Her fingers clenched at him and were unable to gain purchase on his slick uniform. He was inside her—inside her!—and she was screaming herself his slave at the top of her voice. Never had she had such completion, so excellent use by a man.

He withdrew a second time and flipped her over. A second later he was inside her again. He lifted her, shooting into her, thrusting back and forth. Sandra lost count of her orgasms. Each one brought her higher and higher… and lower and lower, each one reinforcing the image of herself as a slave, his slave, an empty receptacle for his pleasure. The passion kept building and building. His hands clutched at her breasts again, then down along the curve of her stomach, massaging, sinking his fingers into her soft, slave body. Sandra climaxed over and over, not of her own will or desire, but of his.

She had wanted to please him. She needed to please him.

Instead, he took absolute command of her body, as if his nervous system had been directly attached to her own. Each climax was burst inside her at his command, his command alone, and Bors laughed, mocking the pretty slave and ex-bio-tech he was introducing to a new life and new existence.

“Now, slut,” he whispered.

“Master? Master, please?”

“Now,” he said, and he twisted Sandra’s slave clit, and she screamed, whether in pain or pleasure it didn’t matter. Another monstrous orgasm rocked her. More burning hot seed ate its way into her body. It set her blood on fire.

“This is your slave! This is your slave!!” she screamed.

She could never go back. She could never go back now.

Then, horribly, after an eternity, Bors withdrew and set his foot against Sandra’s ass and kicked her off his couch. “Enough, slut. Enough, for now.”

Sandra fell to the floor squirming, her flesh never in her life so sore, yet never feeling so good or so complete.

“Master?” she whimpered, turning.

Bors reached out and grabbed Sandra’s head, shoving her face into his groin. “Attend to me, slut,” and she did so, eagerly, her slave’s tongue lapping at her Master’s delicious cum. Her hunger for it overwhelmed her. It surprised her.

She lost track of the time, licking at her Master’s groin, and, in the course of the next several hours, the number of times her slave’s body was used. It was many. The supervisor intended to get his money’s worth out of Celestra.

Sandra lost sight of her medical degree and her career in Oncology during this time too. She gave no thought to her daughter, Rosalie. No thought either to the hospital, and certainly no thought to the malfunctioning Varian.

Sandra thought, in fact, about nothing. She was too busy getting used.

She was too busy pleasing her Master.

She was too busy being a slave.