The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

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When she woke up, Bea’s head felt like it was full of space dust.

She had that dull, muffled feeling crewmen habitually report after their first time in suspended animation, when they complain they feel like they had left the better part of themselves in the hibernation capsule. Bea had never had that problem. Senior Lieutenant Stoc had always prided herself on her alertness. She never took stimulants; she didn’t drink cofftea. Most mornings, she didn’t need a chemiprocessor to prompt her awake, though she always arranged for one, just in case. It was simply Bea’s habit to awaken early every morning, fifteen minutes prior to whatever time she needed to get up. She always knew what the time was. It was an astrogator’s skill cultivated through years in the Centauri Space Force. One moment Bea would be asleep. The next she would be in bed, awake, aware, and ready to start her day. But she felt groggy now, and she didn’t know why.

The cold, hard surface beneath her felt rough upon her skin, her curiously soft and sensitive skin.

Her breasts throbbed. She felt absolutely aroused. There was a familiar, yet curiously irresistible urge between her thighs. She let her hand explore her pussy mound, bare and particularly responsive this morning. Her gently moistening lips twitched spasmodically beneath her fingers.

The way it felt, the sensations this measly touching of herself brought, made Bea’s thighs quiver and her back arch involuntarily in a way it never had before. She breathed deeply and felt an increased weight across her chest. Her boobs felt bigger. Her skin was goose-pimpled from the cold.

The cabin spun crazily, and she lost consciousness.

The second time she woke up, Bea made a concerted effort to hold onto her thoughts.

Despite the chill, she was sweating profusely, as if she were in a sauna. She was on her back. She licked her lips. They felt hugely swollen. Softer, too, like everything else about her. She felt randy.

Memory came hurtling back like an asteroid strike. That huge red phallus. Her rape!

Her own red skin!!

She must have passed out again, for in what seemed like the next moment, Bea felt a hand in her hair. She was pulled up and awake. Her reactions were pure, primal, and unthinking. And, for the stern soldier she had been, quite uncharacteristic.

“No, please, stop,” whimpered Senior Lieutenant Bea Stoc of Beta Prime, Chief Astrogation Officer for the starship Flags of Centauri Independence, like a little girl. She cringed into the wall of her cell as if she could escape through it. “Don’t hurt me, please.”

“Hold her,” ordered the beautiful woman standing in the doorway. “Make sure she doesn’t injure herself.” The three equally lovely women—red women—with their hands on Bea pulled her to her feet.

“What . . what’s going on?” Bea said.

Belatedly, her officer’s training came back to her. Bea gathered her thoughts. She was a prisoner. She was being held in an underground cell, somewhere on one of the Epsilonian planets. Her captors were using pain—pulling at her hair—to disorient her. She would resist. She would resist. She knew she could. I’m Bea Stoc, she thought with determination. Whoever you are, you screwed with the wrong woman. She stood on her own. The cell spun for a moment, but she recovered.

Or thought she had recovered, at any rate.

She gasped. The sight of her new skin color stopped her in her tracks. Bea’s hands—her thin, delicate, and exquisitely red hands—roamed over her radically altered body, forcibly reminding her of her crimson metamorphosis. “What have you done to me!?” she screamed.

She was an alien!

She had been turned into an alien: a young, beautiful, and very red alien, with glossy black hair cascading down her back. She tried to break free, but the red girls were on her, holding Bea’s arms at her sides. She couldn’t break free. She felt weaker in her arms and legs. Softer, too. Bea moaned. She noticed that even her voice no longer sounded like her own. It was at least two octaves higher.

Bea felt like she was melting. Her head was full of clouds. It was hard to concentrate. Her gaze fell across the big-breasted woman standing there and observing. Her stomach fluttered.

“No, no,” she muttered, in a voice and in a language that were not her own.

“Put her to her knees,” the short Epsilonian said. The women forced Bea to the floor. They made her kneel and spread her legs open obscenely. Bea tried to fight. Though stunned, she instinctively didn’t want to be . . to be so open in front of them, these crimson women who looked so much like her.

The cold floor contrasted with the aroused wetness emanating between her thighs. Her body was still excited, more so now, in fact. Her nipples tightened. Her stomach trembled wildly. Bea tried to block out the unwelcome feelings and couldn’t. She was wet. Her pussy had instinctively begun lubricating itself for penetration. She found herself longing for her Master’s penis.

“NOOOOO!” the Centauri officer screamed and tried to tear at her new and obscene flesh.

The women around Bea pulled her hands back with alarming ease. They were costumed the same, and scandalously so.

On top, they wore tight black leather brassieres that wrapped round the underside of their huge bosoms and half-cupped them . . . quarter-cupped them, really, leaving their nipples and most of their huge breasts exposed. Straps curved around each massive tit, joining on top. They were close-fitting, and they were threaded through a metal ring in front of the collar each girl had encircling her throat. The straps squeezed the heaving flesh firmly, forcing the women’s figures upward, beckoningly, brazenly.

Below, a black ruffle girded the women’s hips. That was all.

The ribbon was a shockingly short thing: broader on the sides but thinner in front and behind, leaving the girls not the least bit of modesty. The top of it was still several centimeters below each girl’s ornamented navel. A slight turn in any direction, and their naked pussies could be clearly examined.

Needless to say, the whole of each ass was left totally exposed.

Metal armlets and bracelets decorated the girls’ limbs. Their faces were made up, lips painted violet, their eyes shadowed in black. This unusual color scheme complemented nicely their red complexions. The women were simply gorgeous, each of them. They carried themselves in a way that emphasized their feminine curves, tilting their hips one way, thrusting out their naked breasts another.

There was only one difference in apparel between them. The Epsilonian woman in the front of the cell, the one in charge, carried a whip. Seeing it, involuntarily, Bea began to tremble.

“Greetings,” this figure said. “I am Theru. I am your proctor.”

She spoke in the language that was not her own, yet which Bea understood now as well as her own.

“You have undergone a transformation, I am told. It does not matter. Regardless of where you came from, you are now here. You are no longer a free woman. You are a slave.”

“What . . what have you . . done to me?” Bea stammered. “How? Wh . . why?”

“I’m here to prepare you for our master. He wants to see you and soon. You should be honored.”

Bea tried to calm herself, to think clearly and straightly. It was hard. This can’t be real, she thought.

This is . . this is just a dream. The world began to go dim, and Bea realized she was about to faint.

The lead slavegirl stepped forward and slapped Bea across the face. The sharp pain snapped her back to consciousness. “Your master is waiting for you, slave!” she said sternly.

“Bitch!” Bea cried out. Furious, she tried to rise to her feet, but the other slavegirls held her. “I’m not a slave! I’ll never do want you want! I don’t care what you do to me!”

The proctor stepped back. She unhooked her whip. “I assure you, you are a slave now. You have a slave’s weaknesses. There are things that can be done to you that couldn’t before.”

“No, no,” Bea said, shaking her head. “You bitches!” In her rabid anger, she actually started to get the better of the three women.

“You must learn respect for your sisters,” the proctor said, a resigned tone in her voice. She glanced at the three slavegirls. “Prepare her for her first lesson.”

Once again, the three girls pushed Bea to the floor, this time all the way down so that her face rested against the cold surface. Two of them held her arms while the third in back sat on her legs.

Bea struggled viciously but uselessly.

“I have been patient with you,” she heard the proctor say from somewhere above her. Bea could see only shadows from where she was positioned. “But no more. If you beg for mercy, you may be granted it. Whether I grant it or not will be my decision.”

Bea felt something lightly touch the skin of her back. It was the end of the lash. She flinched involuntarily.

“You are a slave, my dear. Just like me. And your insolence is an insult to our master.”

Again, the lightest of touches on Bea’s back. “Prepare to be whipped,” the proctor said. This can’t be happening, Bea thought, amazed.

Then the whip fell across Bea’s back, savagely, cruelly, and she screamed in pain, shock, and amazement. “No! Noo!” There was another stroke, quickly followed by a third.

The pain was unreal, appalling in its intensity. There was no way she could prepare herself for it.

“No, you can’t . .”

A fourth stroke. Once, during the war, a ship Bea was astrogating for triggered a Xen scattermine. She got off lucky. She was on the other side of the vessel, and she was wearing an armored space suit at the time. Still, enough of the millions of microscopic flechettes the mine released reached her so as to pierce her skin like a rain of red hot needles. She had nearly died. She was months in a chemigenerator tank regrowing the shredded flesh. Painful as that experience was, it was nothing compared to this pain.

This was real. This was no dream.

A fifth stroke.

“Oh God, please, no, not again . . no, please, God no . . .”

A sixth stroke.

“Please, mercy . . have mercy!”

The beating continued. The proctor delivered ten strokes to Bea’s back. By the time she finished, Bea was babbling uncontrollably, willing to say anything, do anything, to stop the fall of her whip.

“Do you freely acknowledge yourself a slave?” the Epsilonian woman asked after a minute.

“Yes . . yes, anything.”

Bea felt the whip descend on her again. Blinding pain seized her. She couldn’t explain why it hurt so much, it just did.

“Say it formally,” the proctor commanded. “Do you acknowledge yourself a slave?”

“Yes! I am a slave,” Bea screeched. She would say it over and over until this woman stopped.

Pain. More blinding, blinding pain.

“Say ‘Theru,’” one of the girls beside Bea whispered.

“Theru! Theru!” Bea screamed. She screamed it until her throat hurt. “Theru! Theru!!”

“Once more. Formally,” the proctor ordered.

“I . . I am a slave, Theru,” Bea said, wincing in anticipation. No blow further descended, however.

“Very good,” the girl with the whip said, grunting her satisfaction. “Do you beg for mercy?”

“I beg for mercy, Theru,” Bea said. She meant it. She really, really meant it.

“Good.” The whip descended a thirteenth time. Bea screamed long and hard. “I grant you mercy.”

She was given a few moments to rest, and possibly for the pain in her back to settle in and really begin to ache. Some unknown time later, Bea heard the proctor give orders to her fellow slavegirls: “Have this new slave cleaned and her back tended. Adorn her appropriately and bring her to the main hall.”

“Yes, Theru,” the slaves said. Bea did not look up.

“Onora. You broke discipline when you spoke to the new slave.”

Bea sensed rather than saw one of the girls nod and lower her head submissively.

“Yes, Theru,” she said. “It was wrong of me.” She sounded near tears.

The proctor grunted. “It is a serious lapse. I shall have to speak to a man. You will not be quenched this evening.”

“No, please, Theru!” the girl exclaimed and fell to her hands and knees before the proctor. She put her head to Theru’s bare feet. “Please, Theru. Whip me instead. Whip me!”

She rose to her knees and clutched at herself, just below her black ruffle. She fingered her pussy.

“Please, Theru. I’ll never do it again!” The girl sobbed. “I’ve been used six times today. I need to be quenched!”

The proctor considered as she rolled up her lash. Finally, she said, “Very well. Report outside my kennel tonight, after your needs have been seen to. I will give you five strokes.”

The relief on the girl’s face was unmistakable. “Thank you, Theru! Thank you!” She bent and kissed the woman’s feet. “Thank you, Theru! I will give you the berries in my gruel tomorrow morning.”

The proctor grunted again. “Carry out your orders.”

“Yes, Theru,” the three slaves said, in unison.

The proctor left, leaving Bea alone with the three leather-clad slaves. Silently, they got her to her feet and half-carried her out of the cell. Bea did not resist; she didn’t have the strength to resist, nor the will.

Her mind was shaking. She felt undone in every possible respect.

What in her God’s name was happening? Who were these people? What had they done to her?

Everything about her “new” body felt real and incredibly receptive. Hideously, monstrously susceptible!

The marks on her back throbbed in tune with her heartbeat. And mental changes? Bea couldn’t deny that she felt different inside as well. She felt soft, weak. She was an officer in the Centauri Space Forces! She had never been driven to tears so easily before. And her rape, earlier . . ?

Despite the repugnance she felt, Bea couldn’t deny how good it had been. How utterly fantastic those orgasms inflicted on her had been. And there was still more . . . but she refused to acknowledge that.

Not that, never that!

She would not think about the ecstatic little thrill she had felt when the proctor took control of her. Or how, during the whipping, she had become . . felt . . so aroused . . . .

No! She would not think of that! That didn’t happen!

The slaves took Bea to a mirror-laden boudoir and forced her to lie stomach down on a flat massage table. It was the first time that she had had a chance to really get a good look at herself. She was shocked by what she saw. Bea had never been thought of as beautiful, even by herself. Her complexion was ordinary, her hair was coarse, and while she was not flat-chested, her development had not been as pronounced as it could have been. Previously, Bea had most often been referred to as “sturdy,” or words to the equivalent.

She had grown to loathe the word “nice” (or worse, “pleasant”) growing up. Even as a young girl, Bea had but rarely deigned to wear makeup. No one was surprised when she joined the military.

What she saw reflected in the mirrors was a young red trollop. Her new figure was generous and fine; it was bountifully proportioned, the breasts and hips curvaceous and inflated. She had a bellydancer’s build. Her nipples were upright and perky. Her buttocks were curved, the cheeks full and brazen. Bea was fifty-three Betan years old, the equivalent of thirty-six standard years.

The girl staring back at her from the mirror was half that. Long, thin black hair descended down her back. There was a sheen to the hair that emphasized the mirror girl’s beauty, health, and vitality. Bea avoided looking at her face. She didn’t want to see that, not yet.

One of the slaves went to a drawer and took out a bottle of lotion, the contents of which she spread liberally over Bea’s back and gently rubbed in. It stung at first, though this pain was nowhere near as intense as the lash had been. After a few minutes, the pain of the beating diminished. A cool, soothing languor seeped into her skin and her head, and for an unknown time Bea simply luxuriated in the touch of trained hands on her incredibly receptive body.

The slaves worked silently. When Bea eventually summoned up the strength to say something, they hushed her to silence. She let herself be taken care of, something which the Centauri officer in her would once never have permitted. The slavegirls gave her a quick and efficient sponge bath. Bea was then led to a chair. One of the slaves began applying makeup to her face while the others rubbed lotion into her feet and hands. It was a totally unfamiliar process, these constant hands on her body, stroking, petting, making her melt, yet somehow it awoke deep and comfortable feelings within the soldier.

The slaves adorned Bea’s lips and applied blush to her cheeks, like their own. They applied mascara to make her eyelashes darker and more noticeable. They painted her nails a lovely shade of green.

They combed her long black hair. The graceful strokes almost lulled her back to sleep.

The slaves helped Bea get dressed, so to speak. They stood her up, lifted her arms, and drew the leather slings under her bosom. A collar was fitted and locked around her throat. The straps from the bra cups were threaded through it. It was tight, so very tight. It did incredible things to her figure.

They’re turning me into one of them, Bea thought, at once horrified and thrilled. Her sex was throbbing in a way that was both delightful and embarrassing.

“When you address a man, say ‘master.’” one slave said. “Lower your eyes. Push out your breasts.”

“No.”

“You must.”

The slaves wrapped the black ruffle low around her hips. The Betan gasped in sheer delight as the soft material slid over her responsive lower lips and only partially hid them. I can’t be seen like this, she thought. She was more naked than naked in this costume. She watched everything in the mirrors.

For the first time, Bea noticed that her skin tone wasn’t an exact match to the others. Too, there were differences between them as well. While all of them were red, one of the girls was more of a magenta shade than pure crimson. Bea herself was coral red, not quite purely crimson either, but close. One of the slaves brought forth a tray covered with a towel. She put it down on the table. Removing the cloth revealed an assortment of piercing needles, earrings, and studs of various sizes.

“No,” Bea whimpered. She tried to move away.

The slave, Onora, smiled at her. “You must. You have no choice.”

They pierced her ears and hung heavy gold ornaments from them. They put another gold stud in her navel, one just like theirs. “Congratulations. You are now legally a slave,” one of them said, smiling.

“What?”

“Your slave stud. You wear one now. All girls are studded when they come of age.”

Bea could no longer deny this was truly happening. No hallucination could be so real or so vivid.

Finally, she was ready. At the last, Bea revolted, as much as she still could. “I don’t want to go.”

“You must. You have no choice. Remember the whip.”

Bea shuddered.

“There are worse things than the whip, new slave. Much worse. You will learn.”

Before they went, they made Bea examine herself in the mirrors. They told her she would be expected to arrange herself next time. They made her examine every centimeter of her new face and body.

Oh God, she thought, finally seeing her face and figure in the reflection. Oh my god, no.

The face—her face—was doll-like. The eyes were wide and yellow, the lashes absolutely perfect. The purple blush brought out the highlights in her cheeks. Her lips were rose-shaped, violet, and lovely. They were lips made to be kissed; they were lips made to cherish a cock. Bea recognized the face in the mirror as her own, but it was her face seen through a different colored lens. It was the beautiful girl she could have always been had she wanted to go to the trouble . . . only red.

Bea gazed downward. The loose ruffle emphasized her hips and her legs obscenely.

Her new and improved breasts were lifted high in their half cups. Their massive coral swell heaved charmingly with each confined breath. The leather outlined them in absolute splendor.

Her navel stud gleamed.

Bea returned to the face, red and foreign but still undeniably her own.

My god, she thought. I really am a slavegirl. They really did turn me into an alien slavegirl.

When she was finished, they took Bea to the main hall.

The Centauri officer in her, trained in observation and intelligence gathering, took note of the layout of the keep as they walked through it, or as much of it as she could see. It was large. Stone hallways stretched off in all directions. Doors—real wooden doors that swung at an angle on old-fashioned hinges—hid an assortment of rooms. Bea felt like she had traveled back in time instead of space. The décor was thoroughly archaic, like something out of a historical amusement center of Earth’s Classic Period, or a Hereditarian veneration of the same, praising the glories of ancient civilizations like Egypt and America. At the same time, however, the skilled officer in her saw the differences.

Everything was much bigger, for a start. The doors, the furniture, the windows: they were all half again as tall as they needed to be. It was a keep built for giants. The petite slavegirls, Bea included, were like children scampering down its halls. The scale alone made Bea feel small and delicate. Another difference: the white-colored stone was all of one piece. The material was perfectly contiguous. Floor merged seamlessly into wall merging seamlessly into ceiling. Where there were windows, the stone opened naturally to form the necessary gaps. For all that they were shaped and regularly spaced, they looked like innate slits in the material. Altogether, the construction had an organic look despite the hard edges. The stone was smooth to the touch and might have been a dense, very opaque crystal instead.

The thought was intriguing, despite the circumstances. Had the castle been built, or had it been grown?

There was no dust in the air, nor even a draft. It was hermetically clean. Those who had made this place had done an incredible job, as good as anything the Sovereignty itself could have done.

Bea gave a sudden whimper.

How could she go back to her old life looking like this?

I can’t think that way, Bea told to herself. She concentrated on the details of the castle. I’ve got to find a way out. Get help. Make them change me back.

The noise of a celebration caused Bea to raise her head from her feet.

It was a large, cavernous room the slavegirls brought her. And there was, again, strangely, something of the medieval about it, a quality that contrasted with the higher technology that must have been used in the keep’s construction. Two of the great walls were plain and unfinished. A roaring fireplace large enough to cook a horse, and flowing out of the wall like the mouth of a huge animal, dominated a third. The light created flickers of shadow everywhere. Antique weapons hung in sets on the last wall.

Some were familiar to Bea: swords, spears, hammers. Others were not. One weapon was a curving blade attached to a pole lengthwise, like an oversized straight razor. Another appeared to be a huge cross, with blades instead of arms and a handle replacing the fourth limb. Somewhat out of place, Bea thought, rifles were also hung beside the prehistoric weapons, huge brass-colored rifles that curled in on themselves like musical instruments. Bea saw at once that they were all useless to her. They were made on the same scale as the rest of the environs. All of the weapons, projectile throwers and hand-to-hand ones alike, were so big their size alone would make them impossible for Bea or any other Epsilonian woman to ably wield. Up to that moment, despite the magnitude of everything around her, a part of Bea had forgotten the sheer size of the red giant that had raped her. Now, she was powerfully reminded of it, and at the same time of the passion she had been made to feel. In the middle of the room was a vast wooden table with many huge chairs around it. The remains of a dinner—dishes, metal goblets, uneaten food—overflowed its surface. Around the table sat a crowd of large, crimson-skinned Epsilonian males, laughing and joking and carrying on. Bea’s sex gave her a pulse. A very strong pulse.

The Epsilonian men looked simply . . . awesome.

Breathtaking. Tremendous.

They . . were . . huge! each and every one of them. Huge and red! Giants! No wonder the castle’s furnishings were so big! From what Bea could see, the Epsilonian males averaged a little less than two-and-a-half meters apiece! They towered over the more average-sized Epsilonian females!

A man at the table saw them enter. He leered at the transformed Betan. The hunger in his eyes made the officer tremble. Bea had never been looked at like that before. She had received looks from men before, on occasion, but never like this, never in such a brutal way as to make her feel so vulnerable.

You are a slave now, Theru the proctor had said. You have a slave’s weaknesses. There are things that can be done to you that couldn’t before.

Bea tried to step back into the passageway. The trio of slavegirls pushed her forward, giggling.

In addition to the men, there were many Epsilonian women at the party as well. The women were not laughing or participating in the party, though. They were serving the party. To an extent, they were the party. One woman, clad in a flimsy and diaphanous assortment of scarves, danced undulatingly in a corner of the room. She twirled and twirled, and with each graceful movement another semi-transparent scarf fell to the floor. Her long, raven-black hair, so much like Bea’s own, trailed her.

Other women brought drinks to the men. They carried large jugs of greenish liquor and offered them to the seated men with much deference and lowering of the eyes.

Not all of the slaves wore costumes. Many served in the nude, their only adornment the metal collars about their throats. Bea touched her own collar and continued to shiver. Other girls did wear the same leather costume as she, and, like her, the full measure of their loveliness was thereby exposed.

The contrast was alarming and arousing. The male Epsilonians were universally tall and well built. They had athletic physiques and strong, commanding voices. Every Epsilonian female was short, beautiful, and stunningly voluptuous. Many of the women had breasts as large as or larger than their own heads!

Bea’s eyes widened at the sight of one poor woman on her knees before a giant. Her face was in the man’s lap, and it was clear from the expression on his face what service she was performing. Another slavegirl straddled the hips of her master, fucking him as he sat in a throne-like chair. Her back arched gracefully. She moaned in obvious overwhelming pleasure as the man’s hands rudely explored her body’s delicious curves. “Master!” the used slave breathed. “Oh, master! I love you, master!”

Equally intense scenes of debauchery met Bea’s horrified and envious gaze. The men filled Bea with a sense of heat and wonderment. Her pussy was wet and throbbing. Her nipples were painfully tight.

There are things that can be done to you that couldn’t before.

Her legs felt as if they had been turned to rubber. She had been made into a slavegirl, and as she could see, the slavegirls on this planet were muchly used. Bea’s “interrogator” from before was seated at the head of the table. He saw Bea and the trio enter, and he beckoned them to come forward.

“We present the new slave, master,” one of the slaves said, smiling.

Tremblingly, Bea stood before the man whom she had first called Master.

Oh, what he had done to her! She remembered everything now. She had been sick for hours following her “interrogation.” Her breasts had throbbed ceaselessly. Her pussy remained still a furnace.

Bea was ashamed of the things she had said and done, but she could not deny how they made her feel.

This creature had made her his slave!

He looked her up and down casually. “An improvement, I dare say,” he said. “But then all slaves look better ornamented.” He stood, and Bea nearly fell over in fright. The Epsilonian towered over her by at least seventy centimeters!

His very presence was an intimidation. Bea’s head barely came to the level of the man’s chest. As if pulled magnetically, her gaze was drawn to the front of his enormous kilt, even with her own abdomen.

She saw the massive penis stir beneath the leather cloth. A wave of instant arousal hit her.

She wanted it! She wanted him! She wanted him to jam his cock back inside her and make her scream herself his slave again! She whimpered. The slavegirls in back giggled in a knowing fashion.

“You interest me, girl,” this giant said. He reached down and cupped Bea’s face. The touch made her moan in heat and moist fear. “You’re the first slave I’ve ever owned who was born on another world.”

With his other hand, he pulled at a cord along his waist. His kilt loosened and fell to the stone floor.

Bea gasped at the sight of his magnificent manhood, as did the slavegirls in rear. It was impossible that any man’s cock could be so big. It was impossible that she had had this monster inside her, inside her cunt, inside her mouth. But she had. While she was a little sore from that first encounter, she felt in no way damaged by it, despite the clearly forty or more centimeters involved.

Her mouth watered. She wanted him inside her again.

NO! she screamed at herself, as her face and mouth was pulled into the proper position. With a practiced motion, her Master thrust himself into the helpless opening he had made.

Bea choked but could not dislodge the tip of the humungous penis in her mouth. Not even all the way in, it filled her mouth and throat. But then, as previously, her jaws seemed to unhinge in a weird way, and, despite his enormity, her owner’s hard body was soon pressed closely against Bea’s weeping face.

She swallowed him, feeling his great length in the cavity of her mouth, tickling the insides of her throat. Her tongue instinctively exerted pressure against the ridged organ as it passed. A response was immediate. The monster penis swelled and pulsated in Bea’s mouth. The Centauri officer tasted the sweet, milky precoital fluid, and, unable to wretch, unable to spit it out, nor wanting to, for the taste was divine upon her seeking tongue. It seeped down her throat and into her veins.

Bea felt the barbarian giant’s hands grip the back of her head, grab hold of her beautiful hair, and then, using the leverage, begin pulling in and out of her rapidly, literally fucking Bea’s mouth, taking total advantage of her smaller size and scandalous appetite for cum.

Weakly, driven by impulses beyond her control, Bea slurped at him hungrily.

She licked at her Master’s penis. She found that she couldn’t not lick her Master’s penis. She couldn’t not drink in the pulsing semen that before long gushed into her mouth’s cavity, down her throat, and into her accepting stomach. It threatened to fill her mouth and choke her, but the same trait that had unhinged her jaws to accommodate his enormity did the same for her throat muscles, apparently.

She gulped down her Master’s sperm. She climaxed. The heat in her body increased in intensity.

Bea felt immediately giddy, drunk with the ecstasy of it, and more. She felt as if she had imbibed a drug. She felt as if she was actually intoxicated. She was buzzed. She must have been intoxicated. Why else, then, when a line had formed behind her Master by the time he was through, did she pounce upon the next man’s cock and seize it in her mouth, like an addict? Why else, then, did one man after another, as she desperately sucked their cocks, bend down to speak in her ear?

“You are a slave. You were born to be a slave. You were born to please men. You were born to please men with your body.” And why else did she believe it?

Why else did the words resonate with such utter conviction in her mind?

I am a slave, Bea thought, blissfully sucking.

I was born to be a slave. I was born to please men. I was born to please men with my body.

Semen stained her brief slave’s costume. It covered her face where she could not lick it off. Bea’s pussy dripped hot juices down the inside of her thighs. The heat blossoming in her transformed sex began to rival the fire of her abused mouth.

The line gradually shrank. The men stretched Bea’s mouth. She lost count of the number she serviced.

Fluid exploded again and again in the rear of her mouth.

The men spoke in her ears. They spoke into her mind.

“Pleasing men is your greatest desire. Pleasing men makes you hot. You are a hot and needy slave.”

Pleasing men is my greatest desire, Bea repeated to herself. Pleasing men makes me hot. I am a hot and needy slave.

Her mind was going numb from the constant pleasure and the constant refrain that she was a slave, that she had been born a slave, that she had been born to please men with her body, as numb as her tongue was after one giant squirting organ after another had rested on top of it. Semen ran down Bea’s breasts. The salty, deliciously masculine taste became Bea’s entire universe.

She sucked. She licked, which for some reason only enflamed her female sex even further.

That she was excruciatingly aroused was irrefutable. Between mouthfuls, Bea moaned, partially in pain, but partially too as a result of the ecstasies inflicted upon her. Some of the men—her Master was the first—squeezed her nipples. Others put their hands on her pubic mound and slipped their fingers inside.

They stroked her. They played with her, as they played with other serving girls at the table. The men here knew exactly how to touch a woman. They knew exactly how to make a woman burn with desire. They massaged Bea’s neck; they fondled the sides of her breasts; they stroked her thighs. They made Bea realize without any reservations whatsoever what she had become.

Stream after stream of masculine seed flowed down her vulnerable throat. Instead of satisfying her hunger for cum, the taste of it only increased her desire tenfold, a hundredfold. The moist heat of her pussy also increased. It’s an aphrodisiac, she thought at one point, too late, not that she had ever had a choice in refusing. The Epsilonian cum was making her a slut.

When Bea reached the end of the line, she had tears in her eyes, tears not from pain but from the simple fact that she had no more to suck. She looked around in desperation. Many of the other slaves were blissfully being fucked. The arousal in the Centauri officer escalated. It was like a fire inside her had been lit. Like a fire, her need grew hotter as fuel was added to it. Sex had been that fuel. Being left unfucked now would be a torture.

Fortunately, a hand grasped Bea by the neck and pushed her down. Her haunches were lifted, and she cried out in renewed ecstasy as her pussy was penetrated.

“Ohhh, Master!!” she cried out, not knowing who was fucking her, nor caring. The man pumped his shaft into her, his groin striking against her ass. Her insides stretched like well-lubricated rubber to accept the massive organ. She hardly needed to squeeze at all to provide tightness, though she did, lovingly, groaning with pleasure as his ridged member slid across her delicate insides.

She bucked as the unbelievable vibrations filled her quaking lower body. The vibrations spread through her in swelling waves. Her head shook up and down. Her mouth opened and closed uncontrollably.

“Oh, Master! Oh, Master! Oh, oh, Master!”

She wailed gratitude as her clitoris throbbed and her tight cavity milked the man’s organ for sperm. Her quivering body was taken from her. She was taken away from herself. She became a vessel for her Master’s seed, nothing more, and she loved it! She loved having no control. She loved being a slave!

“Oh, Master!! Thank you, Master!! Thank you! It’s so good! It’s so good, your cock. Your cock!!”

Bea screamed ecstatically as a jolt of uplifting pleasure stabbed through her insides, radiating outward through her veins, as the man inside her climaxed and his sperm shot into her with the force of a laser cannon. “Aaiiiihhhhh!! Oh, MASTER!!”

Bea shoved herself back and down onto her Master’s shaft.

More pleasure exploded inside her. She gasped in pleasure, stuffed to utter fullness by the incredible pole so divinely penetrating her. She was gleaming with cum and sweat. She squealed in ecstasy as the force of her Master slipped it to her, twisting madly as the multiple orgasms overtook her senses.

She collapsed afterwards, those senses left reeling.

Eventually, Bea was lifted and brought around to clarity. Her Master, the Epsilonian male who said he owned her—You’re the first slave I’ve ever owned who was born on another world—stood over her. Bea felt an overwhelming desire deep inside her to be of service to this strong man. Something deep inside her wanted to serve, without condition, perfectly and absolutely. Her pussy was a starship engine on full burn. Her breasts ached for their desire to be handled. She wanted him to rape her.

She wanted to be a pleasing slave.

“You will be taken to the Academy tomorrow,” her Master said. She could hear the capital ‘A.’ “You will be trained to be a pleasing slavegirl. You want to be a pleasing slavegirl.”

“Oh, yes, Master, please,” Bea exclaimed. “Oh, please, let me serve you, Master.”

She wasn’t acting or joking for the sake of her life. She wasn’t playing a role. Bea wanted to serve.

She wanted to be a pleasing slavegirl.

She wanted to be fucked! She had slurped down God knows how much sperm in the last hour, and she had just been quite thoroughly used on the floor, but her desire to be fucked had not in the least bit been diminished. Rather, the opposite had occurred. Her desire for her Master—for any of the Epsilonian men in the room—now seemed only stronger!

The desire she felt was a blazing sun inside.

“Please,” she begged. “I ache for you, Master.”

He touched Bea’s face. He used his finger to gently scrape some of the cum off. He put his digit to her mouth. She sucked at it desperately, fervently, as if she hadn’t already sucked down gallons.

The taste tingled in Bea’s mouth. She moaned. Her desire for sex became even more intense! She felt her pussy’s ache even deeper than before.

From just a taste.

“You desire to be a pleasing slave,” her Master said. Bea felt momentarily lightheaded, but she repeated the words nonetheless. “I desire to be a pleasing slave.”

The Epsilonian was satisfied with the response apparently. He nodded. A pair of slavegirls took Bea away without resistance, as if she were a sleepwalker. She was washed and cleaned thoroughly before being put into her cell for the night. Manacles were locked about the young woman’s lovely red limbs.

Thus ended Bea’s first full day as an Epsilonian slavegirl.

. . . to be continued