The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Frantic activity kept the terror at bay.

Sliding out of the padded chair, Fenisha was satisfied that the modifications were complete. The controls had been straightforward to hack and installing a one-time programme that selectively deactivated some of the devices while leaving others operational, with no trace behind, had been relatively easy.

Based on the movement patterns she’d observed over the past couple of days, there was a three hour gap at night when the former Rec-Room was left untended. She’d already modified the security system so it would run a loop of pre-recorded footage just in case anybody was observing in real time.

This was a huge gamble.

And there was no guarantee of success.

But she’d carefully, methodically, logically rejected the alternatives. They were rounding up people, one by one. Systematically. If she tried to hide, her absence would be noted and a search carried out. Although the Bellerophon looked big to outsiders, the number of spaces where you could successfully conceal yourself were actually quite limited. Besides, she’d still be trapped.

No. This was the least-worst option. A huge risk, no mistake, but what other choice did she have? If she played this right, this should give her the chance to get to the Launch Bay undetected and escape.

Pausing, she took a deep breath, forcing herself to stay calm and retain focus on the bigger picture.

A vision shimmered in her mind’s eye. Mischievious brown eyes sparkling with merriment... dimpled cheeks that only appeared when she smiled with genuine delight... raucous laughter... lustrous chestnut hair...

Naobi!

They’d encountered each other in a Reineport bar six months ago and clicked. From the very first moment she had known this was more that just a casual hook-up.

And the feeling had been mutual.

At first she had been suspicious, not daring to believe this was happening to her. Years of cynicism and deception had made her wary. Letting somebody in had been difficult—trust issues were a problem. Was Naobi just using her? But, slowly, gradually she had realised that Naobi was the real deal.

And once the dam had burst, then she’d fallen for her—deeply.

Suddenly a whole new future had appeared; sharing her life with another. A soul-mate. It had been something she had never dared to contemplate before.

Exhaling, she felt stronger, more centred, focussed on what she had to do to survive.

Leaving the circular table, she returned to the open ventilation duct she had entered the former Recreation Room from and secreted her Data-Pad and the strange silver-coloured cylinder within.

The Battlecraft Bellerophon had been built at a time when the older, thicker Muhnrow-Takashita honeycomb construction techniques were being replaced by the new thinner and more flexible hybrid-lentalinium method. However, this change had not been reflected in the design plans; for much of the ship, it had no effect. But for the contoured sections of B, C, D and E-Decks, the result had been a person-width void between the double-skinned exterior hull and the interior bulkhead that wasn’t listed on any plan.

Located where C-Deck curved inwards, her personal quarters were slightly smaller than even the Spartan accommodation allocated to a lowly Eng-Tech. In a place where every millimetre of personal, private space was treasured, the others had sympathised whilst also relieved to have avoided the cramped cabin. But the room had allowed her easy access to the uncharted void behind the vent system. There, safe from prying eyes, she had used the secret storage container secured to the bulkhead to stash her secure Long-Range Comms Unit (that piggybacked on the Bellerophon’s transmission array), the powerful Data-Pad and other assorted tools.

It had been relatively straightforward to enlarge that small opening behind the cabin vent-system and crawl into the emptiness beyond. The terror of climbing into the cold, empty chasm separated from the dark, endless void of space by nothing more than the impossibly thin outer metal skin of the hull had made her shudder. Heart pounding, she had climbed in the pitch blackness, fingers gripping the seams of the hard bulkhead, her bare feet struggling to find purchase on the smooth metal, forcing herself onwards, knowing that any misstep meant doom.

But she’d made it—cutting through the metal on E-Deck, heaving herself into the vent system once more, crawling along the metal tunnel until she reached the Rec-Room. She had been lucky; any taller and she’d have gotten stuck. The movies lied: utility systems were tight, stiflingly claustrophobic and agonisingly difficult to propel yourself along—Miatta certainly wouldn’t have managed it.

Smiling sardonically to herself, she knew it was ridiculous; this was the hackneyed plot of a cheap vidtainment where the hero clambers through ventilation ducts, passes herself off as one of the baddies before saving the day after lots of narrow scrapes and adventures.

She was living the cliché.

But that was where the resemblance ended. This was all too real.

Replacing the ventilation grille and locking it in place, she shuddered at the thought of the sinister-thin device she had removed from one of the ominous devices hanging over the circular operating table.

Taking another deep breath, Fenisha ticked another box off her mental check list as she returned to the ominous circular surgical table.

Seven days ago everything had changed. Crewmember after crewmember had gone down sick. Fear had slowly spread amongst the bored crew who had not yet been rotated for shore leave on Caelum Nova. Then, Captain Zhelliko, followed by the other senior officers had succumbed to the unknown sickness, leaving Sub-Commander Nguyen in charge. While a very capable officer, Nguyen just hadn’t the experience to deal with a situation of this magnitude.

It was obvious to all that the Bellerophon was in the midst of a disease epidemic of some sort.

Barely suppressed panic had been palpable among the crew.

Nguyen had ordered all non-essential personnel to remain in their quarters and issued two weeks rations to each. Later, there had been the ship-wide broadcast from the Chief Planetary Medical Officer on Caelum Nova, Doctor Xi, confirming the worst: a Pox outbreak. Under Article Sixteen protocols, they were ordered to continue orbiting the planet and remain in strict quarantine until they were checked out by the medical staff.

Fortunately, she had not succumbed to the disease.

It took a number of attempts for her dry mouth to gather enough saliva to force the two yellow powerful pain-med pills down. Adrenalin coursing through her body, Fenisha levered herself on to the table and pressed herself into one of the moulded person-shaped indentations, steeling herself for what was to come. The machinery hummed into life.

Slowly, the monstrous carousel began to rotate.

As an undercover operative of the Office of Public Tranquility, Fenisha was there to report on the political loyalty of the crew. Her upbringing on Abundantia Settlement had been tough. Abundantia was a hard, cold planet that turned its inhabitants into hard, cold people. She had been no exception. Joining one of the gangs had meant some form of protection from the brutality surrounding her.

She would doubtless still be living that life if she hadn’t fallen into the clutches of the OPT. It had been a routine robbery in the sector where the corporate managers lived, safely distanced from the grim housing blocs where the rest of the inhabitants existed and the Defenders of Public Order feared to tread. Fenisha had planned everything with meticulous care.

How was she to know that her victim was under surveillance?

She had walked into their trap.

Alone, in a holding cell, awaiting interrogation, they had offered her a choice.

And she had accepted.

Fenisha’s false testimony as a long-term Public Tranquility undercover-asset who had infiltrated a clique of corrupt corporates in league with the gangs had been enough to discredit a number of mid-level leeches who had incurred the wrath of higher officials (including the Governor) doubtless because they hadn’t received their cut. She had no qualms about betraying some of the blood-suckers who were responsible for the misery of the Settlement’s inhabitants.

They’d even given her a medal, the Order of Authoritarian Valour (Second Class), for her courageous work in unmasking wreckerist-elements.

With her false-identity as a Tranquility operative established, the local officials, still basking in the glow of the Governor’s approval, had been keen to rid themselves of an inconvenient loose end.

A posting to Directorate IV, the covert agency within the OPT responsible for watching the military, was normally reserved for the best. But strings had been pulled. After quickly earning her engineering qualifications and joining SpaceOps she had been posted to the Bellerophon almost two years ago.

The engineering role had been perfect cover, allowing her access to all areas of the ship, enabling her to observe everything. As somebody from the despised Outer Colonies, the officers hardly even noticed her. Despite the claims of equality for all, the Authoritarian system was built on a strict hierarchy where those from Earth and the Inner Colonies sneered at the unfortunates who dwelled in the bleak, Outer Colonies who were regarded as little more than serfs to be exploited in the mining and manufacturing sectors that kept the elites in the style and comfort they had become accustomed to.

With the Pox apparently raging outside her cabin, locked-down, alternating between terror and tedium, subsisting on emergency rations, she’d turned to her Data-Pad to find out what was going on. Her Data-Pad, a Pfalsz Mod-53 K.6 Spec issued to all Directorate IV operatives, had been covertly linked to the ship’s systems ensuring nothing was off limits to her including the security vid-cams.

That was when she had stumbled on what was happening in the E-Deck Rec-Room. Unsuspecting crew members arrived, were strapped down and then operated on by the pair of medics from Caelum Nova.

Although there were blind spots in the coverage and distance obscured details, the footage was clear enough to see the circular metal discs embedded in their foreheads when they emerged from whatever process they went through. Then they were placed in seats nearby, sitting placidly as a cable was plugged directly into their head-mounted devices. She couldn’t see what happened next, but the ever increasing numbers of faceless, black-clad figures swarming over the ship, led her to conclude they were the crew.

The eerie passivity of those who underwent the process was evident from the vid-footage. It didn’t take her long to join the dots and figure out that it must be some form of thought modification or mind control, probably involving some form of interface linked into to the brain of the hapless victim.

It had taken all her resolve to prevent the horror from overwhelming her.

Fenisha knew it would only be a matter of time before they appeared outside her cabin door and dragged her away for her own operation.

She had to act. Fast.

Calling for help was useless—her hidden long-range Comms unit was inactive because the Bellerophon’s transmission array had been deactivated. She could see signal activity, probably from a separate, stand-alone encrypted system un-linked to the ship’s systems, but she couldn’t access it.

This ridiculous, insane, plan had been the result of sheer desperation.

The rotation of the table halted as a frame slid over her head, the unmanageable frizz that had taunted her forever efficiently shorn away in a matter of moments, leaving her completely bald.

Concentrating on her breathing, Fenisha forced herself to lie still as she was brought under the surgical incisor which gleamed malevolently in the dim light. Tensing herself, she readied herself to spring out of the table at the first sign that the laser machinery was going to activate.

There was nothing.

Breathing a long sigh of relief, she exhaled some of the tension.

The table began to revolve once more.

Staring up, she saw the darkened ceiling twirl as the table steadily moved her onwards, swallowing nervously in anticipation of what was about to come.

Naobi.

Clenching her fists, she focussed on the woman she loved, blocking out everything else.

The gleaming surgical arm came into view, looming over her. Tensing, she shivered as the cold, hard, pitiless medical device pressed firmly down upon her forehead.

Then there was a blinding pain.

Torture that seemed to reach deep inside her and pierce her very soul.

That seemed to go on and on.

Opening her mouth wide she screamed silently as the plate was bonded to her flesh and sealed in place.

Eventually, the arm swung away. Blinking the tears away, she stared upwards, stunned with pain as the moist-blurred ceiling began to slowly move once more.

At the second attempt, Fenisha managed to claw her way out of the recess and clambered to her feet, swaying unsteadily as she centred herself. The pain-meds were starting to kick in, dulling the searing agony somewhat.

Dizzy, she looked at herself in the reflective metal surface of one of the machines. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she met the gaze of the anxious, smoothly depilated woman staring back at her. Her hair... would it grow back?

Banishing the question, she concentrated on the silver metal circle that glittered in the centre of her forehead, inspecting it closely. She hadn’t noticed it before but a curiously complicated inverted triangle shaped docking-port was centred in the middle of the otherwise flat disc.

Bald, naked, a circular silver-metal plate now firmly fixed to her forehead, she looked identical to the others.

Pushing away the tears that threatened to overwhelm her, wobbling on her feet, she hurriedly shut down the equipment before padding towards the seats where her former crewmates sat, blankly staring into nothingness.

Swallowing her nausea, she staggered through the mass of bare, passive flesh, finding a vacant seat in the middle row. Beside her, sitting motionless, was Sub-Lieutenant Parrkh, staring mindlessly into space, a heavy wire firmly jacked into the metal port centred in her head.

Pain-drunk, Fenisha groped blindly beneath her until she found a cable beneath her seat. After a few moments of fumbling, she plugged into her own forehead mounted disc.

The redhaired nurse looked at her Data-Pad again. “Frukking Makayla,” Ana swore venomously, muttering darkly. “Nine.. only supposed to be eight...”

“Stand,” she snapped harshly. In time with the rest, Fenisha got to her feet, heart pounding, desperately trying to keep the fear from her face, focussing on nothing as Ana’s eyes roved over the wall of exposed flesh, her outstretched finger moving from naked woman to naked woman as she tallied them once more. Standing stiffly beside the nurse was one of the strange black-clad female shaped figures she had observed on the surveillance footage, a mirrored oval mask replacing her face.

The searing pain had been a blessing in a way. It had dulled the terrors that would have otherwise assailed her as she forced herself to sit still amongst the others, waiting, stomach churning with anxiety, her flimsy disguise becoming all the more ridiculous with every passing moment.

Confirmation bias was her friend, she had told herself. People generally saw what they expected to see. The cons she had played on the Casino high-rollers in Abundantia had taught her that.

Concentrate.

Focus.

She grasped that knowledge tightly as she stood vulnerably exposed, body trembling, stretching her taut facial muscles into an expressionless mask, staring into the middle distance, forcing herself to stay calm, as the nurse continued her inspection.

Hissing with annoyance, Ana tapped something into the pad before glaring at the group once more, obviously irritated at the discrepancy.

“You!” the nurse snapped, her index finger stabbing accusingly towards her, causing Fenisha’s heart to skip a beat. “Come here!”

Beside her, Parrkh stepped forward, pivoted and marched towards the angry woman.

Keeping her breathing in check, her facial expression stiffly neutral, she slowly calmed down as the adrenalin jolt faded. Observing the scene unfolding out of the corner of her eye as she maintained her stiff gaze forward.

“Makayla and her sloppiness,” the nurse vented, hands roving over the firm body of the petite woman who stood blankly before her. “Cutting corners like always...”

“But, I suppose,” the medic conceded, licking her lips hungrily, “we have all been rather distracted of late.”

“And I’ve had my eye on you...” the green eyed woman leered wickedly.

“Kneel,” the nurse purred, hiking up her white skirt to bare her moist cunt. Gulping discreetly, Fenisha stood rooted to the spot, trembling, mind racing, trying to keep control, desperate to not betray herself.

Fortunately Ana was far too preoccupied with other matters to notice anything untoward.

The nurse had both her hands on the smooth head of the Sub-Lieutenant, forcing her between her legs.

“That’s it,” she cooed, “pleasure me with your tongue.”

Head tightly pressed into the nurses’s snatch, Parrkh submissively set to work.

“Yesss...” the medic hissed, “this is what you live for now, whore.”

Ana’s moans grew louder as Parrkh’s tongue started to produce results, her body bucking and twitching, grinding against her, riding her face mercilessly. Finally, the redheaded nurse emitted a loud howl as she climaxed.

Satisfied, Ana roughly kicked the kneeling woman away, causing her the lose her balance and sprawl on the hard floor, laughing as the helpless Sub-Lieutenant struggled back to her knees.

“Return to the group,” the nurse ordered.

Keeping her gaze firmly fixed on nothingness, Fenisha did her best to discreetly inspect the Sub-Lieutenant her slick-slack face now glistening with Ana’s juices. Halting in place, Parrkh turned and snapped to attention with the others.

The chirping noise of an incoming vidcall cut through the silence. Ana’s expression changed instantly, her stern facade contorting into obsequiousness and need.

“Get them Imprinted,” she snapped at the featureless creature that had stood attentively behind her throughout, dismissing them as she hurried to answer the call.

The group pivoted in unison and followed the strange black-clad figure as they were led out of the room.

“Doctor...” the nurse breathed huskily behind her, responding to the caller as she left the room.

Fenisha couldn’t suppress the shudder any longer. Luckily none of the naked crewmates surrounding her seemed to notice.

Here she was in the middle of a group of her colleagues who until a few short hours ago she had served with intimately for two years. But now... they had been transformed into... these things.

Nausea bubbled up, threatening to overwhelm her.

Concentrating on every step, focussing on her breathing, she slowly gathered her strength as their strange guide brought them to what had been a nearby storage room where they lined up once more.

For the first time Fenisha had the chance to inspect the creature up close.

Fully clad in a thick uniform that completely covered it from head to toe in black material that resembled heavy-duty synthetic rubberite, it was difficult to imagine that a person lay beneath. But there must be. It was the only explanation for the sudden appearance of these things all over the ship.

Red digits glowed on the strange robotic-person’s collar spelling out the word Subjugator above the number ten.

In complete silence, the obsidian figure retrieved items from a nearby container and proceeded to hand them to each naked woman in turn. Working hard to quell her trembling body, Fenisha stared into the middle distance, forcing her features into a mask of indifferent blankness.

A few moments later, she was handed a bundle of her own.

In the gleaming curved visor where the head of a human being should have been, she saw her own twisted, distorted reflection; a brittle, vulnerable woman trying desperately to hold it together.

“Attend,” a familiar voice commanded from beneath the silver dome. With a start she recognised it instantly; Kendyll! “Dress in the slavesuits provided.”

Kendyll Andyrshon, her mind raced, a Med-Tech. There had been a minor incident a few weeks ago... some gossip about her and Rakelle McKern, who was under investigation for anti-Authoritarian tendencies... an off-colour joke had been overheard and reported... she had added the association to her report about the political loyalty of the crew, recommending her personnel file be changed to category H9... a suspicious element who should be kept under close observation...

Silently, the group complied.

Gulping, Fenisha examined the bundle for the first time and was greatful to see that it was clothing but disturbed to see that it was the same black outfit Kendyll wore.

Her mind finally caught up with the Med-Tech’s words... a slavesuit?

What...?

Inspection revealed that the garment was indeed made of some sort of thick synth-material that bore a similarity to very heavy artificial rubber. While the exterior of the garment was a smooth, hard matt black, the interior was slick and slippery to the touch with circuitry visibly threaded throughout.

Looking around discreetly, Fenisha noted her companions had all begun dressing in identical outfits.

Taking a deep breath, Fenisha pulled the first garment over her legs, the soft, slick rubberite gliding over her body as her feet settled into the built-in boots.

Next was the matching black top. Pulling it over her head, she was immediately engulfed in blackness as she struggled to slide the thick garment over her body, her hands finding the gloves incorporated within the sleeves, tugging the hem downwards until it met the waistband. Greatfully emerging from the huge turtleneck collar that had swamped her, she blinked in the bright light. The hems of both garments had press-seals which formed the upper and lower sections into a single seamless sea of black, the embedded circuitry now touching her body loosely, while a slightly thicker section provided support for her breasts.

Another discreet peep, showed that her crewmates were similarly attired, their expressionless faces framed by the immense black turtleneck collars of their uniforms.

It was only then that she noticed that the same complex inverted triangle shape on her implant cover-plate was embossed into their thick black uniforms. Looking down, she saw her own suit bore the same emblem impressed into the heavy synthetic rubber-fabric over her chest.

Now the others began to pull on their long collars, sliding them up over their bald heads, forming tight fitting hoods that covered everything apart from slack faces and glittering forehead mounted discs.

Emulating her crewmates, she pulled her own turtleneck collar up over the rear of her head, completing the resemblance to an underwater diver’s heavy wet-suit.

The silent Kendyll-creature approached the group once more and began distributing more items to the line of blank-faced women.

As expected, this latest item was a mirrored faceplate.

Examining the hemispherical mask, she discovered that it was made of the same lightweight but incredibly strong synth-glass used in spacecraft. Flipping over the mirrored ovoid, she discovered that a long pin extended from the interior which bore the same complex triangle-shaped profile as the interface jack on her implant-cover. Circuitry was visible along the edges of the strange curved faceshield but it was otherwise smooth inside.

Around her, the others were raising dome shaped masks to their faces.

Taking a deep breath, Fenisha raised the hemispherical dome to her face, carefully positioning it so the pin would mate with her forehead-disc and pressed firmly.

There was a slight click as the mask locked in position, her features vanishing as the edge of the faceplate sealed itself seamlessly to the black rubber hood.

Exhaling, Fenisha felt her strained facial muscles collapse with relief. A small mercy. Her face now safely hidden behind the mirrored mask, at least she had some degree of freedom—one of the main dangers of discovery had passed.

Blinking, she was relieved to see that her vision was unimpaired and there was some sort of ventilation system incorporated into the mask as she could breathe quite easily.

Fully dressed, emulating her crewmates, she dropped her arms to her sides, becoming just another female-shape indistinguishable from the rest.

Kendyll now produced a small control unit and pressed a sequence of buttons.

A loud humming seemed to surround her, growing louder and more intense. Fenisha gasped as the entire suit begin to shrink, pressing against her flesh, compressing more and more, tighter and tighter, constricting, until her entire body was gripped in the tight embrace of the thick black syth-rubber, forming a second-skin over her.

Maintaining her stance, she looked at the taut figure of the blank-faced Kendyll observing the group in silence.

Next what could only be a data-display activated within her mask, overlaying information through the glass of her mirrored faceplate. At the same time, her skin prickled as electricity danced over her body, the slick synth-material starting to radiate with unexpected heat.

A word appeared before her eyes, the large letters projected clearly upon the interior of the concave dome.

ACTIVATING...

Blinking uncertainly, the suit growing steadily warmer, Fenisha stood unsteadily, wondering what was going to happen next.

Inside the mask, a brilliant-white scanner beam activated, dazzling her as it slowly ran down her face from top to bottom, performing a facial recognition check.

Looking through the glass, she registered the data-display increasing in intensity. New words appeared as a hissing noise started oozing softly into her ears.

IMPRINTING PROCESS INITIATED...

The words vanished, replaced by others as a firm female voice started speaking to her from what she realised must be speakers embedded in her turtleneck-hood.

SLAVE CLASSIFICATION: AUTOMATON

“Slave Classification: Automaton,” the voice announced through the speakers, as the throbbing warmth spread over her every part of her body. “Confirm.”

Puzzled, she struggled to process the meaning of this. They were actually calling her a slave!?!? But... Automaton... what was that?

SLAVE CLASSIFICATION: AUTOMATON the words flared before her eyes once more as the voice repeated the same sentence.

“Slave Classification. Automaton. Confirm.”

Tentatively, she spoke, her words soft and uncertain. “Automaton,” she tried.

That seemed to satisfy whatever process was happening. Obviously a vocal response was required.

Electricity danced over her body, sending sparks and tingles cascading through her, the restrictive rubber coating her growing increasingly uncomfortable.

SLAVE DESIGNATION: AUTOMATON 237

“Slave Designation: Automaton two thirty-seven,” the voice insisted. “Confirm.”

Ok, her thoughts whirled, was this supposed to be her? Some sort of identity number? The facial recognition process took on a new significance: each new Automaton must be scanned by the mask, their identity confirmed from the crew database and then assigned a Designation. That made sense. This was merely inventory control.

“Automaton two thirty-seven,” she replied, the voice-activated system inside the hemispherical dome recording her words as the molten interior of the slavesuit began to feel like she’d been dipped in napalm. With sudden sickening realisation she knew what it was; the slick interior of the suit was made of some form of bio-engineered reactive material, probably linked directly to the mask. But before she could form the thoughts about what this might mean, new information demanded her attention.

AUTOMATON 237 ASSIGNED TO SLAVE SHIP SUBJUGATOR

Puzzled, she considered the new data. What was this? What did that mean? Subjugator... was that the Bellerophon? Had it been renamed? Then she remembered the word on Kendyll’s uniform. Yes, that was it. Now, back to the reactive material... it was designed to...

“Automaton two thirty-seven assigned to Slave Ship Subjugator,” the voice trilled in her ears, claiming her thoughts. “Confirm.”

Consumed by the heat of the boiling, bubbling bio-reactive material pressing against her, the sudden pulse of sexual energy took her by surprise, almost causing her to gasp. Goddess! Slave ship... what were they doing to them all...

Moistening her dry lips, she repeated the words as best she could. “Automaton two thirty-seven assigned to slave ship Subjugator.”

AUTOMATON 237—PURPOSE: SERVITUDE, OBEDIENCE, WORSHIP the mask-screen and voice announced.

They had really turned everybody into brainwashed slaves.

“Automaton two thirty-seven, purpose, servitude, obedience, worship,” she recited unwillingly after being prompted, the hot bio-engineered suit constantly pulsing and throbbing, pleasuring her... sending tendrils of thought-warping bliss through her...

AUTOMATON 237—PRIMARY FUNCTION: ENGINEERING SLAVE

“Automaton two thirty-seven, primary function, engineering slave,” she confirmed, acknowledging the job assigned to her as the boiling need flowed over her body... bonding to her flesh... painting her excited body with a coating of viscous bio-reactive blacknesss... every millimetre of her flesh alive with desire... seeping deep inside her... invading her... electricity sizzling through the cells of her body... finding her secret places... innermost places she didn’t even know existed, until now... becoming one with her... connecting... fusing... bonding...

Biting her lip, she barely suppressed the sudden need to cry out.

She gaped wide eyed in horror as the next command filled her eyes and ears.

Oh, no!!

Please, Goddess!! No!!!!

AUTOMATON 237—SECONDARY FUNCTION: SEX-SLAVE

Her lust-fogged mind recoiled, resisting the words. They didn’t... surely not... She wouldn’t...

“Automaton two thirty-seven; Secondary Function, Sex-Slave,” the voice in her ears prompted her once more, the irresistible flames of molten fire blazing brightly within the blackness that enwrapped her.

Gritting her teeth, she mustered all her strength to say the words.

“Automaton two thirty-seven... secondary function... sex... s...slave...” she spat.

There was a pause as the system registered her answers, probably checking her compliance... Suddenly the mask display blazed into life, dazzling her with intensity, the voice louder, echoing through her disorientated mind.

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

“Automaton two thirty-seven. Serve,” the voice ordered sternly as Fenisha absorbed the flashing words, dazzled into insensibility by the compelling the audio-visual onslaught on her consciousness, each new pulse of the sensuous black reactive coating blasting away yet another thin layer of her resistance, exposing more and more of her core.

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

“Automaton two thirty-seven, serves,” Fenisha replied almost thoughtlessly, her earlier responses conditioning her to repeat the strobing words stabbing into her brain as she cast herself into the flames licking against her flesh. Completely enshrouded by heavy rubber, it almost felt as if the suit was a living being, consuming her. Devouring her. Undulating constantly, throbbing, pulsating, stoking the scorching, blistering, unbearable joy, pain and pleasure merging together, the blackness assaulted her relentlessly. With every moment, she felt her grip on reality, her grip on sanity, fade. Was that so bad? Why was that wrong? She knew it was wrong... wasn’t it? She hadn’t...

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

“Automaton two thirty-seven. Obey,” the voice instructed, her body now nothing more than a piece of meat thrown on to a rack over the white hot coals of a barbeque, juices dripping, sizzling helplessly before the remorseless heat.

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

“Automaton two thirty-seven, obeys,” she recited, her eyes wide, transfixed by the words dancing in front of her, conscious thought fading, her hot, needy sexflesh melting, melding seamlessly, becoming one with the sensual black that cocooned her in bliss.

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

“Automaton two thirty-seven. Worship,” the strict voice insisted, the pleasure boiling and surging through her as she swam in molten, dripping sex, all the tension of the past few days vanishing as her body responded to the overwhelming, urgent need that cast everything into the flames. Nothing mattered. Nothing... except feeling this way. Forever.

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

“Automaton two thirty-seven, worships,” she responded, her treacherous cunt dragging her weak mind deeper and deeper into the depths of a vast ocean of blankness and pleasure.

Just like an obedient Automaton...

No... the thought bubbled up from the cloying treacle of her mind... Not true! She was only pretending...

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

She was an Automaton, the multi-sensory conditioning insisted. A humanoid drone. A slave that existed to serve, obey and worship.

N...nooo... she wasn’t... wasn’t a...s... slaveee...

Was she?

No!

What was she then? She was her... a person... an individual... yes, that was it! Pleased, she clung on to the knowledge, desperately resisting the pull of the blackness that wanted to devour her... that she wanted to devour her...

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

The display flickered into life once more, the words larger and more insistent, the voice louder, overwhelming her, destroying her thoughts, obliterating her sense of identity, the frantic sexbliss burning through her, rewarding her for her compliance, telling her she wanted this... needed this...

No! She had to resist... to hold on... she couldn’t allow... allow... allow...

Allow it inside her...

Allow it penetrate her.

Allow it to weaken her.

Yes. Weak. So weak.

Weak and powerless.

Powerless to stop what was happening to her.

What was being done to her.

What needed to be done to her.

What she wanted to be done to her.

So she could Serve.

So she could Obey.

So she could Worship.

Wait... no... that was... wrong!! She didn’t... didn’t... didn’t want to... Serve... Obey... Worship...

She wasn’t like them... not... an Autom...

No!!!

Need to fight this... to stay strong... resist... don’t fall for it... don’t get sucked into the lies... wasn’t going to Serve... Obey... Worship...

Had to keep focussed... focus on who she was... what she was...

She was... wasn’t... wait... no... allow... she was...

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

She wasn’t a slave... that’s right... wasn’t an Automaton... correct... not an Automaton... stop thinking about this... not Automaton... not a slave... two thirty-seven... no, wait?... Automaton two thirty-seven... what, wrong?... Automaton two thirty-seven... why was she fighting?... Automaton two thirty-seven... slaves felt pleasure... Automaton two thirty-seven... slaves like her... Automaton two thirty-seven... slaves needed pleasure... Automaton two thirty-seven... yes! being a slave... Automaton two thirty-seven... mindless slave... Automaton two thirty-seven... brainwashed slave!... Automaton two thirty-seven... slutslave... whoreslave... sexslave... slave...

slave...

slave...

slave...

Automaton two thirty-seven Served...

Automaton two thirty-seven Obeyed...

Automaton two thirty-seven Worshipped...

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

“Automaton two thirty-seven, Serves,” she sighed contentedly, the confusingly disobedient thoughts vanishing, the blackness no longer something to be fought. “Automaton two thirty-seven, Obeys. Automaton two thirty-seven, Worships.”

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

AUTOMATON 237—SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

“Automaton two thirty-seven, Serves,” she affirmed into the mask, surfing the endless waves of sensual ecstacy that had buffeted and battered her, eroding her will, resculpting her thoughts until only submission remained.

“Automaton two thirty-seven, Obeys,” her voice pleasingly hard and strong as she surrendered to what she must become.

A slave.

An Automaton.

“Automaton two thirty-seven, Worships.”

The display changed, the earlier sequence vanishing, replaced by the image of a stern Asian woman staring out at her disdainfully.

OWNER

The face was familiar... somebody... Medical Officer... from... Caelum..?

MISTRESS

Oh! The woman was so powerful... domineering.. sexy, sure... but there was somebody else... somebody softer... smiling... dimples... laughter...

CREATOR

“Automaton two thirty-seven is Owned by Mistress,” the voice revealed. “Automaton two thirty-seven exists because of the Creator.”

Gasping, she understood, the confusing memory-thought crushed instantly as the electrical blackness swelled and surged, assaulting her tightly constricted body.

This was her Creator! Automaton two thirty-seven’s Owner... who had brought her into being!

As a slave, Automaton two thirty-seven Served, Obeyed and Worshipped her Owner... Mistress... Creator!

“Creator!” she exclaimed happily as the stimulation built, her entire vision now filled with the beautiful, radiant sight of her Owner.

The mask-screen flashed once more, the words brighter, more intense, the voice echoing through her mind as the Woman’s intense, powerful eyes—Owner...! Mistress...! Creator!—pierced her. Her powerful, compelling, beautiful eyes penetrated her easily, bored deep into her soft, weak brain... bound her... lashed white-hot chains of steel around her thoughts... trapping her...

Yesssssssss!!!!

Breathing speeding, gasping lightly, her body vibrated, subsumed by the agony of loving blissrapture.

OWNER—MISTRESS—CREATOR

“Creator!” she declared with awe, transfixed by the gaze of the Woman who possessed her.

OWNER—MISTRESS—CREATOR

“Creator!!!” her voice quivered as the ecstacy took her.

OWNER—MISTRESS—CREATOR

“Creatorrrr!!!” she exclaimed frantically, eyes fixed upon the holy image of her Owner as she was worked into a frenzy, the sexpleasure driving her wild. She was nothing but a slave.. a whore... a humanoid slut... a brainwashed Automaton fuckunit that craved to be told what to do... to Serve this Higher Being... to dwell in Obedience... to surrender her soul in Worship... forever...

OWNER—MISTRESS—CREATOR

“Creatorrrrrr!!!!!!!!!!!!” the femslave screamed, succumbing to the joybliss, the molten hot lava of submission ravaging her, thinking of nothing but endless adoration, of love so pure it blinded everything else.

“Automaton two thirty-seven,” the hard voice instructed her coldly. “Orgasm.”

Her body responded immediately, the climax washing through her like a tidal wave of sensual delight, a tsunami of joy deluging her in the liquid, orgasmic ecstacy of pure slavery. Nothing else mattered. Eyes bulging, she stared enraptured at the image of the Woman, cumming on command for Her, sacrificing everything upon Her Divine Altar, adoring her Owner, loving her Mistress, worshipping her Creator.

As She desired.

As She demanded.

“CRE... ATORRRR...!!!!!” the slave designated Automaton two thirty-seven shrieked in a frenzy of desire, branding the Blessed Name into the Owned brain that existed to Serve, Obey and Worship Her... exploding... releasing everything... climaxing...

Over and over again.

Accepting what she was.

Cumming hard for her Owner.

Screaming her love for Mistress.

Worshipping her Creator.

OWNER—MISTRESS—CREATOR

Slowly, her breathing returned to normal. Before her, the image of Mistress faded slowly, but never quite disappeared, forming a faint mirage as the she looked through the mirrored glass dome that encapsulated her. Her body felt alive, stimulated while, by contrast, her consciousness had whited out into the comfortably docile, passive blankness of an obedient slave.

The compelling whisper returned, calmer, slower, accompanied by words that flashed quickly before her eyes in perfect time to the endless repetitions that reverberated through her vapid mind.

Her Owner’s uniform was now part of who she was. What she was.

The throbbing, pulsing obsidian slavesuit was a physical extension of her obedient slaveflesh, just as her weak, submissive slavebrain had been reformatted to allow the Creator’s Superior Mind to think for her.

AUTOMATON 237 OBEY

AUTOMATON 237 SERVE

AUTOMATON 237 WORSHIP

Perfectly synchronised, the voice and the flashing words spoke to her soft pliant consciousness, reassuring her what she was, as the tender loving blackness stimulated her body.

Thinking was difficult. But Automatons didn’t need to think. They were slaves.

It was far better to serve and obey and worship.

SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP

The former-Kendyll appeared before her, tapping something into her Data-Pad. No, her mind corrected. The black-clad humanoid was an Owned slave. An Automaton. Nothing more.

“Automaton two thirty-seven, report to Engineering and commence Function,” Automaton ten instructed. “Obey.”

“Automaton two thirty-seven, obeys,” she acknowledged, the order seared into her servile brain.

Pivoting, she left the room, eager to serve, compelled to obey, knowing only worship, the Creator’s Divine image shining and glowing through the facemask directly into her hypnoslaved consciousness.

Upon her collar, the Designation that signified the anonymous humanoid was nothing more than Automaton 237 assigned to the Slave Ship Subjugator glowed in red.

SERVE—OBEY—WORSHIP