The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Y

6

If it hadn’t been for her memory of their firearms and their flying platforms, and the air-tight seal around her cell, Serry might have thought the Epsilonians had regressed to a simpler time. The city beyond her window consisted largely of squat pyramidal structures of the same fused, crystalline stone that made up her prison. While admittedly this construction material looked very advanced, Serry had otherwise seen no applications of a technology beyond the purely medieval. No flying vehicles filled the air. No pedestrian slidewalks were in use. No holographic advertisements shown their wares. Instead, the officer from advanced Beta Prime saw pack animals and tent-filled marketplaces, wooden carts and pottery shops, half-naked women lugging vegetables, half-naked men sparring in rings on rooftops. All of it was thoroughly archaic. And then, of course, there were the furnishings of her own cell to ponder.

Serry had a table and a chair made of wood. Real, honest-to-goodness, naturally grown wood.

When she pulled on the cord next to her bed (real rope, too, of woven fibers!), a huge, muscled, and red guard—Serry hadn’t seen a Epsilonian male yet who wasn’t huge, muscled, and red—brought her a bowl of chopped meat and vegetables along with an enormous ceramic jug of water. This guard never said a word, and his expression when he looked at Serry showed not the slightest prurient interest, in contrast to every encounter the Centauri officer had had with Solarians. That, at least, was reassuring.

She was taking her comforts where she found them. Her situation was terrible.

Serry had a canopied bed with woolen blankets and a mattress she thought was filled with actual bird feathers. It was surprisingly comfy, which was nice considering she was essentially trapped in it. Her leg, cocooned from toe to thigh in a thick calcium-knitted cast, itched intolerably. Her shoulder was similarly encumbered, similarly itching. Serry sighed. A week, and she was already going stir crazy.

The first thing that had had happened following her team’s capture was separation.

Her men were taken one way, she another. As a Centauri officer, and a Betan woman who had fought during the Solarians during the occupation of her home planets, Serry carried a death capsule concealed in a tooth in the back of her mouth. One hard, practiced bite, and she would be dead before anything more could be done to her. She would have used it by now if she had been captured again by the Solarians. The Solarians liked to do things to their prisoners. More precisely, they liked to turn their prisoners into things, and the fact that she had been segregated from her crewmates on account of her gender had left Serry more than a little anxious. On the other hand, aside from her confinement, she hadn’t been mistreated at all. The Epsilonians had even been considerate enough to let Serry keep her medical equipment. She had found a chemigenerator that worked and used it to sterilize her cuts and abrasions. Her whole body ached, though, and of course her leg and shoulder were still absolutely frozen. The spider-like calcium knitters had been hard at work: their needles had been inserted deep within her broken bones, and their bodies had ballooned on the outside into rock-hard coatings.

In another week, she would be fine. In the meantime, she was an invalid.

She had a lavatory. Every couple of hours, a red-skinned Epsilonian woman came in to assist her. Her nurse was absolutely beautiful. Unlike the Epsilonian males, she was almost Serry’s size, maybe even a bit smaller. She had long black hair. Her skin was as brightly red as a tomato. Serry had tried talking to her, but, like the guard, she too refused to speak. Unlike the guard, her female nurse at least smiled.

Serry believed she was a slavegirl. Of everything she had seen so far on this planet, it was her nurse that scared Serry the most. The Epsilonians kept slavegirls. And she was a woman.

A long time ago, she had been equally as vulnerable in the hands of the Solarians. Some governments start with noble intentions and only become corrupt over time. The Solarian Empire had been decadent from its beginning: hedonistic, profligate, and obsessed with genetic engineering, particularly to the reshaping of the human form for its own dissolute pleasures. Ruled by the Congress of Species, a diverse and immoral group of “neosentients” who had cast their humanity aside—figuratively and literally—in favor of their own twisted definitions of perfection, the Empire controlled the old worlds of Earth, Mars, Venus, and a dozen others equally as infamous. That her Epsilonian hosts were treating with her kid gloves gave Serry hope that she might eventually be released. In Solarian hands, she would long since have been transformed and raped.

There was still a chance—a remote one, but a still a chance—that her and her crew’s imprisonment was all just a horrible misunderstanding. The Centauri Independence had been destroyed in what was either an accident or an act of war. Without it, their chances of seeing Beta Prime again were slim to none. But so long as there was a chance of returning home and a peaceful resolution, Serry would not give up seeking it. She owed it to her crew not to despair.

Serry returned to her view outside the window. The Epsilonian buildings reminded her of military barracks and religious temples. They were solid—not an individual block used in their construction—but at the same time divided into tiers. Vaulted openings and ramps connected each terrace. Topping most of the pyramids were flat, rectangular platforms of unknown purpose. Opposing sets of stairs led to each. There were no flags, signs, or fanciful decorations to be seen. Serry tried to recall a lecture she had received once on architectural psychoanalysis. It had been part of her Intelligence training. One could tell a great deal about a people from how they built things. The nuances escaped her. All she got from looking at the Epsilonian city was a sense of strength and confidence, with a stark lack of embellishment. It was as far from her expectations of the Flowerworld as she could have imagined.

The one obstacle the Solarians had never quite overcome was distance. Even with tranships racing at the speed of light cocooned in space-bending light envelopes, the expanse between the stars had put a check on the Empire’s domination. It was distance from the Congress of Species that had inspired humanity’s extrasolar colonies. During the long ago Expansionist Period, there were even elements within the Empire that had encouraged the interstellar flight. It was either that or face civil war. While the resources of the Solar System were endless, political pressures and philosophical disagreements made sharing all but impossible. So, groups left, some with the intent to forge empires of their own—the Drads among the Triple Suns of Alpha Centauri, for one—others in self-imposed exile, like the pure-human dissidents of Andromeda and Ramanananan. Accordingly, while the Solarians achieved the impossible and sank even lower into the mire of their own decadence and decay, their colonies grew up, grew independent, rebelled, and, in time, created their own interplanetary states, states like her own society, the Sovereignty of Outer Alpha Centauri. And, too, like the Flowerworld of Epsilon Indi.

It had been with the hope of an alliance with the Flowerworld that The Flags of Centauri Independence had departed the Three Systems of Alpha, Beta, and Proxima Centauri nine-and-a-half years ago. Wherever she had ended up, Serry was morally certain this was not the Floran homeworld.

Where the hell are we? she wondered for the hundredth time.

* * *

A large part of Bea’s training to be a slavegirl, a very large part, consisted solely of being fucked and “kindled”: her slave’s appetite for sex encouraged with each use of her body until being fucked was the only thing she could think about. There was no satiation with this kind of her use. Instead, the exact opposite occurred: her carnal abuse only stoked her need for more. Instead of feeling contentment with the pleasure she was forced to endure, each total use of her body and soul left her craving another.

Bea recalled one recent cavalier service. She had been polishing a table—whenever the slavegirls were not in training at the Academy, they were assigned any number of menial tasks around the place—and one of the Trainers offhandedly came into the room, grasped her up in his arms, and thrust her over the table and onto her belly. A second later, he was inside her and using Bea for his pleasure.

“Oh, Master!!” she had screamed, joyously, feeling the head of that enormous red cock pushing past her delicate folds. That never failed to thrill her now. She distinctly remembered clamping down, squeezing her inner passage about him. She had done this reflexively. The girls were trained in the procedure, and after innumerable uses at the Academy, it had become instinct. The Trainer’s enormous length, like the red eel she had once imagined, slipped up inside her, invading her in a rocking rhythm. Bea had flexed around him. For a minute, she had been partially lifted off of her feet through the sheer strength of the man’s savage thrusts, but then she settled again, moaning as the Trainer’s length came up completely inside her. She had squirmed helplessly.

“Your cock, Master!” she exclaimed. “Your cock, oh your cock, Master! Fuck me! Fuck me!!”

Days later, she was still wet with the memory of it.

The Trainer’s thrusts became more savage, more intense as her entreaties continued. Her ass met his belly. Bea had writhed in a tormented ecstasy, the pain of the massive assault nothing compared to the depths of pleasure and submissive fervor it elicited. One moment spent polishing a table. The next, the entirety of her being was devoted to the giving of pleasure to a man. A man! The words came to her then, as they always did: I am a slave. I was born to be a slave. I was born to please men.

Bea had wriggled her ass and adjusted the tempo of her backward thrusts, for his pleasure. The Trainer’s hands had been all over her, feeling her, stroking her, playing with her tits and her smooth belly. At times like this, it was hard to imagine the life she had once led. Bea remembered pressing her hips onto her Master’s as she finally came. Her existence as an officer in the Centauri Expeditionary Force was drowned, and not for the first time, in the ecstasy of being a Yn slavegirl.

Minutes later, the Trainer left, and Bea, albeit shaken to the core, and her need for another fuck so made stronger by her use that her pussy dripped for the ache of it, had had no choice but to resume her polishing as if nothing had interrupted. Such touchings and casual fuckings had been far from uncommon, even in this first week of her training. The former Centauri officer had lost count of the scores of men who had used her. Their purpose, aside from boosting the Trainers’ morale, was to accustom the slavegirls-in-training to frequent and submissive sex. It was intended to habituate the girls to think of themselves as mere playthings. Moreover, it was intended to increase their physical addiction to sex, an easy thing to accomplish since her altered body seemed hardwired for it.

The awesome physical and emotional needs a rapacious Yn slavegirl had for sex were immeasurable.

The paroxysms of pleasure Bea could now experience in a man’s arms were so far beyond her prior understanding and appreciation that to call what she had previously referred to as orgasms were to diminish them. It was like referring to Mount Zubaidah on Beta III, the largest peak in the entire Betan system, as a mere upturning of the earth. To become a Yn slavegirl scared Bea, but every time she found herself admiring the muscles of the uber-masculine Yn males, every time she gazed upon their lean stomachs and dreamed about their toned thighs, every time she was pushed to her back, her legs spread, and her pussy so gloriously invaded, she wanted it. Between the kindling and the swaying, she was becoming a very different person. She was becoming a slaveslut. The Trainers would order Bea to kneel, and she would instantly become wet for their thrusts inside her. She approached the end of her training days, after she had been used a dozen times or more, in a frenzy of absolute, burning desire.

So too did all of the training slaves. Often, they were put into restraints solely so they would not injure themselves or one another in their pathetic yearnings.

“Please, Master,” Bea begged on her knees, arms bound behind her, throat encircled with a collar and leashed to the wall in back of her. She inched as far forward as she could, straining to reach the Trainer standing outside of her reach. “Please!! I need you inside me. I need your cock, Master!”

It was the end of another training day at the Academy. A long row of bound slaves was chained to a single restraining wall, in front of which, just out of reach, the Trainers walked back and forth, talking amongst themselves and examining critically the raw slaveflesh pawing and mewling for their least touch.

“Please, use me first, Master!”

“No! Me. Fuck me, my Master!!”

“I will give you great pleasure, Master!”

“I’m a better slave than she is, Master!”

“No, you’re not! I am!!”

“No! I am!!”

Dozens of female voices, and all of them crying out for the same thing. Bea was just one of many many, begging for relief after a hard day. “Fuck me first, Master!” she begged, pulling desperately on her chain, thinking only of putting her tongue and lips to the sandals of the well-hung Yn male in front of her.

All Yn men were well-hung. Enormously well-hung.

“I will give you great pleasure, Master! I know I can!!”

Expressionlessly, the Trainer moved on to another panting slut. Bea howled in frustration. Her need for penetration was all-consuming. She needed a long Yn penis inside of her! She ached for it!

“Please, Master!” she begged, her voice joining the chorus. This selection at the end of the day was a part of the routine at the Academy. At the end of the day, the most pleasing and best performing sluts were quenched first. The least pleasing and poorest performing were quenched last or not at all before being returned to their kennels. Quick relief from their constant sexual hunger was a strong motivator among the training slaves. It also encouraged a high degree of competition among the girls.

Bea now understood what the slave Onora, days ago, had meant when she said, There are worse things than the whip. Much worse. She understood too why that slave had begged to be lashed rather than be deprived of quenching. Having been used numerous times herself that day, with each use increasing her appetite for more to higher and higher levels of complete sexual arousal, Bea too now would have begged for the whip instead. It really was the less painful punishment.

Bea looked off to either side of her and saw girls being pulled by their leashes into the next chamber, one by one. She envied them. Fuck, she screamed inside her head. I need to be fucked. I need it!

She had been at the Academy a week so far. It was a training facility near the center of a city called Tolaam, which the Trainers claimed was the finest city in the West. Bea was hardly in a position to judge. She had to admit the grounds of the slave school were lovely. It lay on its own walled compound. The pyramidal-style stone buildings were surrounded by arbors of trees and decorative shrubs. It was at the school that Bea had first learned the proper name for the planet she was on: Y.

Just the one letter, Y.

The people of Y were the Yn. Geography and nomenclature were the least of her lessons, though.

Primarily, Bea was taught such important slavegirl necessities as how to walk with a pleasing gait, how to heel a man in public, how to apply makeup, and so on, along with more mundane skills such as shopping, laundry, and cleaning (not cooking, though: the men of Y cooked and served all the food).

What Bea mostly had learned was how dependent she was on what the men of Y could give her. And she didn’t mean food.

“Please, Master!” “I can give a man much pleasure, Master! Choose me next!” “Master, please!”

One of the Trainers said something to a colleague, laughed, and lifted his kilt briefly, showing his massive cock to the starving slavegirls. Even flaccid, it was better than a quarter meter long. A sharp pang seized Bea’s insides, and a resounding moan of desperation could be heard from the captive audience.

“Use me next, Master!” Bea begged. A Trainer stopped pacing in front of her and another slave.

“I can provide a Master great pleasure,” the slavegirl next to Bea declared. “I was born to please men, Master! Use me before her, Master!”

“No!” Bea yelled, suddenly furious with that conniving slut. “I too was born to please men, Master! Pleasing men is my greatest desire!” She pulled on her neck chain. “Use me first, Master! Please!!”

The Trainer carefully scrutinized the two of them. He consulted a hand chart he held. It was, Bea knew, a list of scores. In the end, he disconnected the chain of the slave next to her.

“Master, no! Please!!” Bea exclaimed, watching as the girl was led away. She turned her head back and gave the former officer a catty expression. Bea shut her eyes and collapsed quivering onto the cold stone floor. Her blood was boiling. She felt dreadfully empty inside. She needed to be fucked. She would have done anything at that moment to be fucked. She writhed in her desperate ache.

It was nearly another hour before Bea was finally led into the next room. By that point, she could barely speak. Her hands unbound, she crawled beside her Training Master and mewled him her thanks. He said nothing, merely forced Bea to her back and climbed on top of her.

His caresses were routine. He slid into her with no fuss or fanfare. She was hardly his first fuck of the day, and Bea could tell he was tired. Despite that, a flush came over her at his entry, and his manipulations had her reveling in the sensations, as always.

“Oh, Master! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!”

She was being fucked, and being fucked felt so goooood!!

Bea practiced what she had been taught. She spread her legs and folded them over the small of the Trainer’s back. She adjusted her internal muscles to accommodate his girth and length. Hard at first, she was becoming quite adept at this vital skill. The pleasure she received at being able to better knead a Yn shaft inside her was excelled only by her knowledge that it improved the pleasure she could give men. I was born to please men, she thought and squeezed down on the joyous intruder inside her.

The Trainer may have been tired, but he was thorough in his professional duties. He kissed around Bea’s breasts. He held her wrists so that her feelings of helplessness were all-consuming. He thrust deeper and deeper, making her work ever harder to accept him. She groaned in happiness.

Her flesh was rippling with the effects of his treatment. She was melting from the heat he induced.

“Master!” she yelled. “I love you, Master!!” These weren’t just meaningless words uttered in momentary excitement. They were absolutely true. Bea did love this Master. She loved every Master who gave her such pleasure.

She screamed in submissive joy. She had never enjoyed sex as much as she did now as a lowly Yn slave. She had never needed sex as much as she did as a Yn slave. Her body was painfully sensitive to erotic exploitation. Anything and everything turned her on. She was kept naked or near naked all the time. The sight and touch of muscled Yn male skin kept her constantly on the edge of combustion.

“Master! Fuck me, please. Fuck me!! Harder! Harder!!”

The Trainer’s fingers manipulated her clit. He pinched at the base of her breasts lightly. He took her sensitive nipples in his mouth and tickled her with his tongue. And all the while, he thrust, he thrust!

“Thank you, Master! Fuck your slave. Fuck me! Fuck! that’s so good, so good! Fuck!!”

Her back arched. Her smaller, softer body pressed tightly unto his. Her pussy continued to stretch.

She felt the first torrents of his seed start gushing into her loving cavity. She kissed at the flesh offered her. She squeezed tighter, ever tighter. The Trainer grunted, once, finally, and released his hold on himself. Bea’s eyes, closed for a moment in the delight of her carnal use, opened widely as the shock hit her. It was like having a hose inserted inside her. The ejaculate squirted within her with perceivable impact. The wet contact rocketed sensation throughout her body, causing her whole being to shake.

“Oh, oh, oh, ohhh! Ohhh . . ahhhhhiiiyaaaa!!!! She screamed in overwhelming ecstasy.

And now, because it was the end of the day, and she had been a good slave, instead of letting her Yn slavegirl’s body, inspired by its abject and total use, feed her desires back unto herself and reignite her appetites, as had been let done deliberately throughout the training day, the Trainer leaned his face down beside Bea’s ear and set about quenching her. He swayed her.

“You are a slave,” he said, and Bea automatically responded: “I am a slave, Master.”

“You were born to be a slave.” “Yes, Master. I was born to be a slave.”

“You were born to please men.” “I was born to please men.”

He touched her cheek tenderly. The formula changed. “You have pleased me, slave. You have pleased your Master.”

A wave of cooling satisfaction swelled within Bea. She had pleased her Master! It was a sublime feeling. The experienced Centauri officer inside of Bea was dulled but not dead. She recognized that she was being brainwashed, that something inside her, the endorphins released by her Yn slavegirl climaxes, perhaps, made her susceptible to vocalized mind manipulation. She recognized that.

It didn’t matter at all.

“You are a good slave,” Bea’s Master told her, and she believed him. “You are a good slavegirl. You have been used well. It feels good to be used.”

“Yes, Master,” the slavegirl within his arms whispered in reply. “It feels so good to be used.”

“It feels good to have been pleasing to men.” Sleepily, for now Bea was starting to feel sleepy, she agreed. It did feel good to have been pleasing to men. To have been pleasing to her Masters. Her desires were fading. They never completely left her, her hunger for sex, her need to be a pleasing Yn slave, but they did ebb when in the control of a merciful Yn Master, and, most importantly, he desired them to ebb.

She had been a good slave today. She was quenched.

“Relax now, little slave. Relax, and dream about pleasing men.” He disengaged her from his arms.

Bea hardly noticed as she was put into her kennel, as a blanket was pulled over her, as she was chained to a wall, as she was made comfortable. “Thank you, Master,” she whispered drowsily.

“You’re welcome, little slave,” she heard her Trainer say before he left. Bea went to sleep, smiling.

She dreamed about pleasing men.

. . . to be continued