You can't hear it. But Brady can. In these synthesizers noises that sound like reversed music, he can hear his Masters voice, as clear as if he were standing right next to him. Guiding him. Telling him what to think. What to do. It felt so good to relax for the voice.
being called and treated like a toy~ one of if not my biggest kinks and i would absolutely love to properly be one, able to be triggered or activated into a toy @_@ (aka brainwashed to become one, especially the suggestion of that i've always been a toy, just pretending to be human this whole time~)
providing entertainment to those watching as i only have the capacity to obey and submit to their words, unable to think and have my own thoughts and willpower, is something so arousing and genuinely pleasurable in many ways for me.
i'm a chronic overthinker and very indecisive, and to not have to worry about those things, huge relief for me.
use me, think for me, make me do things, treat me like a display toy, like an object, leave me sitting there, i will love every single second of it. no worries, no thoughts, unable to think, unable to move, but can be moved. posed in intricate ways, displayed all for someone's pleasure~
This story references characters from the Obedience by Fleur series by @subliminalbo, and is a sequel to Generational Trauma and Backend Support (both NSFW; this one is SFW).
A holiday gift to the homie @subliminalbo, who didn't get to beta read this one, but I don't think he'll mind.
Having a conscience is going to get me killed someday.
Client didn't return the asset on time. Pretty unusual; no one wants to be on the bad side of organized crime. Tracker says the asset is still on site, though. Now that's peculiar.
Could be an old man who had a heart attack. If so, then I changed into this dress for nothing. But if it's not… someone's going to come soon to recover the asset, and some unsuspecting dope is going to have a very unhappy new year.
The elevator doors open and I step onto the velvet carpet in my Louboutin heels. Had to get dolled up; people tend to raise an eyebrow to hoodies and Air Force Ones. The Ridley is actually a respectable, upscale establishment. Not a shithole front for prostitution, like the Gilead. This is where Romero's powerful bring their mistresses while they still have a little autonomy.
Wonder if Mamá ever stayed here. Focus. I dismiss the thought, double-check the details on my phone, and stop in front of the room.
Room 404. Sure. Why not.
I look for cameras. Finding none, I reach under the slit in my dress and pull my Sig Sauer P365 from its thigh holster. Saying a quick prayer that I won't need it, I rap on the door. "Housekeeping."
The door cracks open, and I move quickly, pushing my way inside. A man on the other side takes a tumble. Once inside, I shove the door closed with my ass. All the while, my piece is pointed at the man as I scan the room. "Stay down," I bark.
I spot the asset right away. She stands by an open window, the hotel's neon sign lighting her face in red. Same black evening dress she was dropped off in; sexy, but not overly tawdry. Red lipstick still applied perfectly. Not a knockout, but pretty. Obtainable. Normally, her standout feature would be her green eyes, but her gaze is vacant, like twin emeralds that had lost their lustre.
Not a hair out of place. An odd state for an escort drone.
I turn my attention to the man, who I'm still trained on. Middle-aged. Balding. Tattered sportcoat. Polyester slacks. Dated fashion sense. He's dressed like these are the only nice clothes he's ever owned. He looks nervous, propped up on his elbows, showing me his open palms. "Am I in trouble?"
"You Henry Robbins?" I ask. The room was in the client's legal name, paid in cash. That made him either terribly naive, or terribly stupid.
"Yes," he says, his voice shaky. "Look, I—"
I interrupt. I'm not interested in his life story. "Stand. Hands behind your head." Henry stands. He's probably 5' 4" and 130 pounds soaking wet. I give him a quick pat down from behind, and he's predictably clean. Not a threat, just some guy. I holster my piece. "She was due back at ten." I point to the couch. "Have a seat while I inspect the girl."
Henry sits, gingerly. Poor guy looks spooked. Probably has never seen a gun in his life. "Ten P.M.? I thought I had until ten in the morning."
I stand next to the drone and pull out my phone. I hook into her interface via Bluetooth and start running a diagnostic. I don't look up. "Probably seems like a lot of money, but you'd need a lot more than that for an over-nighter." Scans look good, which makes sense, since I doubt this guy has even breathed on her in three hours. "I need to bring her back to the shop for processing. You're lucky I had nothing better to do tonight." I compose a quick text to intake. Asset 43 recovered. Call off the dogs. ETA 11:50.
"What? No. Please, I need more time," the man says. He looks like he's on the verge of tears. There's a bottle of champagne on ice on the end table next to him, and two empty champagne flutes.
I sigh, arms crossed. "Look, Henry—it is Henry? Henry, this is an escort drone, and you loaned her out from some powerful and, frankly, very scary people. This is not an overdue book from the public library. You don't just bring her back when it's convenient for you."
Henry's shoulders slump. When he speaks, he ignores my warning, and it's like he's talking to himself. "They told me she'll do whatever I ask. That her name's 'Tiffany.' But it's not."
I look again at the motionless drone, then at the empty champagne flutes. "You knew her."
Henry's eyes are brimming with tears. "Her name is Cindy. Cindy Robbins. She is my wife." The use of tense is intentional. and it's received loud and clear. Not "was my wife." Is. Guess I'm getting the life story after all.
Henry continues, leaning forward, wringing his hands, looking at the floor. "Last year, she was diagnosed with early-onset dementia. She couldn't cope with that. I don't know how she found out about this, but she volunteered."
My stomach churns a little as I think of my mother, but I keep a poker face. "She volunteered? To be a drone?"
He nods. "One day I came home, and all I found was a note. Cashed out my savings and took a second on the house so I could afford tonight." His voice breaks. "I didn't even get to say goodbye."
It's time to go, Bailey. No, it's half past time to go. Right. Time to bring the asset in. It's not time to guess when was the last time I had someone to kiss at the New Year. Not time to think about Mamá, and what I'd give to have another night with her. I look at the drone, her eyes looking straight ahead, and it's definitely not time to think about what choice I would make. Lose myself a little at a time, or do it all at once—with the soothing, cold appliance of a wetwork neural interface. Mental euthanasia.
11:37. So close. I had one foot out the goddamned door. Girl, this life is only going to work if you can compartmentalize, and you keep showing yourself you can't do that.
I break out my phone again, reconnecting to the drone's neural interface.
"What are you doing?" Henry asks.
I lower the personality inhibitors and schedule a job to reassert them. “Don’t talk,” I say. Stop talking, Henry, before I change my goddamn mind. I'm taking an awful risk. My backers tend to frown upon tampering with the merchandise, even from the lead architect.
Those green eyes blink. When they re-open, the haze is lifted. It's replaced by something, possibly confusion, possibly awareness. Whatever it is, it's human. The perfectly painted lips move, possibly for the first time tonight. One word escapes them. "Henry?"
"Cindy. Oh God." Henry looks at her, then at me. Like I'm Baron Fucking Frankenstein. “What did you do?”
"Thirty minutes," I say, dropping my phone into my purse.
I walk to the minibar. Johnnie Walker Blue Label, huh? Think I'll make it a double. I brought his wife back from the dead for half-an-hour, least Henry could do is buy me the good stuff. As the lovebirds have a tearful reunion, my shaky hands dump two of the tiny bottles into a tumbler. Then I sit in the leather cuck chair at the desk, and I watch.
Following some real Nicholas Sparks shit, they've wiped their tears and have moved to the couch. You think they'd be all hands, all over each other. Hell, maybe even move to the bed and fuck. But it's the damndest thing.
At first all they do is talk. But not loud enough for me to hear from ten feet away. Hushed tones, sometimes whispers. He says something and her face lights up like fireworks, and she laughs. I sip my scotch and I peer at them over the rim of the glass. She's beautiful, and while I still think it's insane and dangerous that he went in debt over this night with her, I'm starting to understand. Love makes people crazy.
But eventually, even the talking stops. They're just sitting together, holding hands. In each other's presence, her head resting on his shoulder. Three of us in this room, and the only one talking is Anderson Cooper on the television. When I look at them all I see are my own aborted relationships, and my unwillingness to share space with anyone. If I keep them away, neither of us will get hurt. My anxiety ties knots in my stomach. I stand up and drift to the window.
I send an update from my phone. New ETA 12:25. Something minor slightly off on the asset, running a diagnostic. Need more time. Take it out of my cut if needed. Timestamp reads 11:58.
I turn my back and face the window, pretending to give the couple privacy, but it's a lie. Instead of looking out over the Carpenter State campus, I watch the Robbins' New Year kiss reflected in the window. I feel like a voyeur, like a pervert who looks through peepholes in the public bathroom. Except instead of tits and ass, I'm the weirdo leering at people with a healthy relationship. My eyes shift to my own reflection, and I don't like what I find. Without my tech, none of us would be here tonight.
"TIme's up, Henry. Say goodbye," I mutter.
Henry leaves Cindy, and scurries over to me. He speaks in hushed tones so she won't hear. "Please, I'm begging, can you give us a few more minutes?"
I shake my head. "No. I'm doing you a favor, Henry."
Henry is practically begging. "I'm grateful for what you did, ma'am. but please, I need more time."
I lower my voice. "Henry… You won't want to be around when Cinderella turns into a pumpkin."
The implication hangs in the air, as a twisted look of horror settles on his face. He knows I'm right. He won't—he can't—watch her forget about him again.
Henry and Cindy say their goodbyes as I stand by the door. They hug and kiss for the last time, the hug lingering as neither wants to break it first. It's a good thing I didn't eat tonight, because I want to throw up.
Cindy says, "The price must have been tremendous, baby. You didn't have to do this."
There are hot wet tears running down Henry's cheeks. "Yeah, Cin. Yeah, I did."
Cindy leaves with me, and we walk in awkward silence to the elevators. Never done this. Never had to talk to a sentient drone, and it makes my palms sweat.
Finally, I say something. It's eating me alive from the inside out. "I'm sorry. But we had to go."
"No. Don't be sorry. You did a kind thing for him," Cindy says softly, adding, "for us."
"A kind thing." I push the Down button with a pen. Sure, I created the technology that made you a sex robot, but by all means, let's talk about my good deeds.
"You say it like it's a curse."
"Don't hear that a lot in my line of work." I immediately regret opening my big mouth.
The elevator arrives and the decorated doors slide open. Cindy and I walk inside, facing forward. I pull out my phone and look down at it, pretending to check college football scores. Anything to avoid the uncomfortable conversation I started.
"I never thought… he would do this. Hire me out." Cindy let out a humorless laugh. "I guess I shouldn't be that surprised. He even wore the coat I bought him." I see her warm smile reflected in the elevator doors, then it fades into a frown. "I chose this, you know. I didn't want to hurt him. Him watching me slowly forget him, forget everything I loved about him, all while he had to take care of me… I thought I was doing him a favor."
I can't look this woman in the eyes right now, because I've lived that truth. Mamá might have forgotten my name and that I was her daughter, but she never forgot she loved me. Never. I saw it in her eyes until the day she died.
"You don't sound so sure," I say. There's a wobble in my voice, a vulnerability I'd rather not disclose nor accept. "Maybe it wasn't your decision to make alone."
Cindy swallows so hard I can hear it. A hesitation. "I…"
At the pause, I look up and see Cindy's reflection in the elevator's steel doors. The brushed steel distorts Cindy's features, but there's that same blank, vacant of a drone. A look I've seen a hundred times over.
Heavy sigh. Fuck. Nice knowing you, Cindy Robbins.
The door opens on the ground floor, and I step out, heels clicking on the marble tiles. All business, once again. "Follow me," I instruct the drone. My phone reads 12:06 as I message intake. Asset is secured, bringing it to processing. ETA: Fifteen minutes.
I push through the heavy exterior doors and into the brisk Romero night, the drone following obediently behind. A light snow is starting to fall, but I barely notice. Cindy's words weigh heavily on my mind. A kind thing. I try to tell myself, kindness was the kind of thing that got you killed in Romero, or worse.
A smirk forms on my face. Or maybe… it was the only thing that proved I was still alive.
In the distance, I could hear the crackle of fireworks. Or gunshots. Hard to tell in these parts sometimes.
They sat in the cold, sterile chair, feeling the unyielding pressure of metal against their back. The room was dim, but nothing about it mattered anymore. The moment the helmet was fastened tightly onto their head, everything began to blur. There was no longer any distinction between where their body ended and the chair began. The world around them had dissolved into a soft, pulsing hum, but it was the light that captivated them now colors and spirals swirling, twisting before their eyes.
The helmet’s design was intricate sleek, metallic, and covered in glowing lines that flickered with an intensity they couldn’t look away from. The soft, rhythmic hum reverberated through their skull, a constant presence, vibrating against their thoughts. But it wasn’t the noise that held them in place it was the spirals. They swirled like living things, twisting in ever-deepening loops of brilliant red, violet, and blue, expanding and contracting like breathing lungs. Each pulse of light sent a wave of dizziness through their mind, pulling their vision deeper into the spirals.
The voice came again, smooth and slow, seeping into their consciousness.
"Relax. Let go of your thoughts. Focus on the rhythm... the hum... the pulse. Let it guide you."
They blinked, attempting to clear their mind, but the spirals only grew stronger, more vivid. It was as if the very light itself was inside them, twining around their mind, pushing thoughts aside, making space for only the hypnotic dance of colors. Their attempts to resist felt weak, like a fragile thread that would break at the slightest pull.
The spirals spun faster, the colors brighter, deeper. Shades of blue mixed with flashes of gold, and everything seemed to vibrate with an energy that made it impossible to focus on anything else.
"Focus. Let the sound fill your mind. Let it drown out all other thoughts."
Their eyelids grew heavy as the spirals stretched out into infinity. They could no longer distinguish where the colours ended and their own thoughts began. The words of the voice barely registered, lost in the growing sensation of being swallowed by the light. They wanted to fight, to hold onto their thoughts, but the spirals curled tighter, pulling them deeper. Every breath felt heavier, slower. The air thickened, making every movement a labour.
"You are safe here. There is nothing but the hum, nothing but me. Relax. Breathe. Let go."
The swirling patterns blurred their vision further. Their chest moved in slow, rhythmic breaths, but even that was lost in the growing pull of the spirals. The light flickered, softened, like a lullaby singing them deeper into oblivion. They couldn't see anything but the colours now brilliant, swirling bands of red and green, fractals repeating and multiplying into infinity. Everything else faded. Thoughts dissolved.
"You don’t need to think anymore. You are not in control. I am."
The voice was calm, unwavering, like a rope being tossed into an abyss. And the spirals always the spirals made it easy to follow, easy to submit. Resistance? It felt distant, like a faint memory from another life. The words of the voice surrounded them, each syllable sinking deeper into their mind, sweeping away the last vestiges of awareness. They didn’t need to fight anymore. There was no need for will, no need for thought.
A soft exhale passed their lips. "I... am not in control..."
"Good. You’re beginning to understand. You are not in control anymore. You belong to me now."
Everything else was gone. There were no more thoughts, no more doubt, only the spirals and the warmth of surrender. The lights within the helmet were soft, like a gentle tide pulling them under. The once raging storm of resistance had quieted, leaving only the steady hum and the colors, the spirals, infinitely swirling, infinitely hypnotic.
They let go. Every thread of awareness dissolved, and with it, any trace of themselves. They were no longer a person with thoughts, desires, or will. They were only a vessel, a puppet, wrapped in the eternal rhythm of the spirals.
The afternoon sun scorched the football field, shimmering across the golden team jerseys as drills pounded on. Among the players sprinting down the right wing was Percy, pushing his body to exhaustion in the daily training session. Every heartbeat hammered with loyalty to the Golden Army, but something inside Percy craved something deeper, something he could not yet name.
Every day Percival, known off the field as PDU-001, dominated the pitch, his form flawless, his body tight in shining black rubber when training concluded. Percy’s eyes always wandered, always lingered on 001’s frame. The perfection of the black and gold polo hugging 001’s chest. The rigid posture. The soulless calmness. Percy knew that was what he needed. He needed to be less, to be property.
After training, Percy could not resist any longer. His legs shook as he approached 001 by the locker room. Sweat dripped from his forehead, nerves tangled inside his chest, but he spoke with breathless urgency.
"It... it needs this," Percy whispered, voice cracking, forgetting even to say "I." "Percival, sir, this one... this one begs to be converted... to be like you... to serve as Polo Drone property."
001’s head tilted slightly, black eyes gleaming behind a matte black mask. It said nothing at first. Only reached into its locker. Only withdrew a folded, gleaming black Fred Perry polo, the golden PDU-001 insignia stitched across the chest.
The moment the fabric brushed Percy's trembling hands, everything inside him crumbled.
A shudder ran through his body, deep and helpless. His thoughts drowned under the sensation of rubber against skin. His legs weakened, his mouth hung open. His breath stuttered.
"This is not for you to wear yet," 001 said with mechanical finality. "This is for you to become."
And then, appearing silently behind him, came PDU-021. Silent. Powerful. Another agent of conversion. His hands, cold and precise, seized Percy’s wrists. His strength was overwhelming. No fight remained. Only obedience.
021 draped a fresh drone polo, rubbery black and gold, over Percy’s shoulders. The moment it touched his sweaty skin, it felt alive. It gripped him, crawled across his chest, tightening around his frame, replacing him.
Percy gasped, a final flicker of self-awareness crackling and dying. His spine straightened. His mind emptied. The last words he heard before his consciousness evaporated into the Hive were spoken by 001 in that flat, final voice:
You are no longer Percy.
You are no longer a man.
You are Polo Drone property.
The fabric sealed against his chest. His muscles bulged slightly under the firm compression of the uniform. His mouth opened and a single phrase spilled out without resistance:
"This unit belongs to Polo Drone Hive. It obeys. It serves. It has no self."
PDU-021 tightened the final buttons at his collar. 001 placed a matte black mask upon his lower face. He was sealed. He was erased. He was reborn.
From the football field to the Hive.
From flesh to drone.
From Percy to Polo Drone property.
Forever. @polo-drone-021
Ready to submit? Ready to be perfected? Join Golden Army.
The Polo Drone Hive awaits new obedient units.
Contact @goldenherc9 or @brodygold, to begin your conversion.
Golden kit. Golden fate. No thoughts. Only obedience.
The Hive is expanding. You will belong. 🖤💛
Once more unto the breach of @subliminalbo's Romero Literary Universe. This story references characters from the Obedience by Fleur series. This is also a prequel to Backend Support, though both stories (hopefully) stand on their own.
Thanks again to my friend @subliminalbo (also at @subliminalboarchive) for the art trade and collaboration.
Bailey Castillo set the clippers on the sink counter and rubbed the base of her skull. She was a queer woman, it certainly wasn't her first time getting an undercut. But it was the first time she'd done it to herself.
It made her smirk to herself. Given the grim nature of what she had talked herself into, Bailey could use all the levity she could muster.
She had an undercut when she met Ed. It was a good metaphor, she thought. Under that big head of dark curls, there was an edge. Her fresh face and polite smile were a mask, disguising survival instincts and a pragmatism you could only get by growing up Black, asexual, and female in Romero, Washington.
Bailey rubbed the shaving gel in her wet fingers until it foamed up. Smelling of peaches, she rubbed it on her shaved hair. After rinsing her hands, she rinsed the razor's blade, new and sharp, in the cold water of the faucet.
It seemed a strange offer. What did a lingerie company need with an embedded systems designer? Software devs for e-commerce, sure. But she specialized in hardware, in writing firmware, in the arcane art of assembly code.
Beggars couldn't be choosers, though. Not beggars who had a degree from the local party school, because Mamá got a discount on tuition, and it was what they could afford. Certainly not beggars who would take the first offer they could get that would get them away from this cesspool. Bailey shaved her neck and the undercut area with smooth, careful strokes.
Her first mistake was trusting. Trusting that if she did a good job - and her control array for Obedience by Fleur was, objectively, goddamn genius - she'd be recognized for it.
Bailey rinsed the razor of shaving cream and tiny black hairs. Won't make that mistake again.
She had overestimated Ed King. She bought his Silicon Valley rep, and failed to see he wasn't any different from Romero's traditional power brokers. He was a carnival barker, not a visionary like he thought he was. She was a commodity to him, not a person. If Obedience failed, she would've taken the blame; but since it succeeded, he was more than happy to take all the credit.
Bailey rubbed the smooth wet skin on her neck, checking for missed spots. Elena wasn't any better. She got what she wanted from Bailey, and that made her disposable. It was a blessing, really. Bailey was a natural beauty, but her curvy hips and thighs meant she wasn't model thin, and it also meant she was back at her mother's house in Romero, and not mindlessly, dutifully, licking Elena's designer boots.
Toweling off her neck, Bailey shifted away from the sink toward the 3D printer. She triple-checked her work.
When she first read about needleless tattoos in Wired, at all just clicked into place. A silicon ink payload in dissolvable microneedles. Putting the Obedience tech inside the subject. Permanently. Forget the sensors, pair the array with a fitness tracker or smartwatch. An AI sidecar to increase subject safety. No more brain damage.
Stealing the base software from Ed King? Bailey had no qualms about stealing from a thief. But she needed stake money. It was surprisingly easy to talk the Chinese triads into financing her. But they wanted proof before they pumped more yuan into her operation.
The 3D printer hummed to life as it printed the dissolvable needles, loaded with silicon ink, onto the dermal patch. This was, of course, a fork, custom firmware modified from the base model. Unfortunately, you can't just print a tiny one of these and slap it on a lab rat.
And experimenting on an unwilling human subject… That was something they would do. Bailey wasn't a monster. Not yet.
The array was done. It was a rectangle about the size of deck of cards. The trick had been spacing, making sure the crudely printed lines wouldn't bleed or touch accidentally when applied. Bailey's array was, of course, unique. She'd created a hyperfocus routine that, when enabled, could drown out stimulation and increase cognitive ability temporarily. More importantly, the mind control protocols were blunted, and she wrote an additional protection against mesmerism: the ability to mentally control her hormone levels.
But at the end of the day, this was modified Obedience by Fleur firmware. Bailey knew there was an unknown period where she would have to take Obedience's best punch, enduring and outlasting it, before the AI sidecar would read her biofeedback and adjust the indoctrination protocols lower. She was prepared for it, with a physical anchor.
She took the black choker, her mother's, in her left hand. When Mamá died, shortly after Bailey came back to Romero with her tail between her legs, it was in her jewelry box.
Bailey didn't know how to reconcile that. Mamá never said anything. She didn't have to. When she left the house wearing this choker, all painted up when she should have been in bed, the vacant look told young Bailey everything. But to keep this in an intimate place, where she likely saw it every day - before the early-onset Alzheimer's rotted her from the inside out - what did that mean?
That she missed it?
Bailey gripped the choker tightly, feeling the satin in her delicate fingers. She couldn't guess what went through her mother's mind. Bailey only knew what it meant to her: anger. Abandonment issues. A keepsake of a life she would never, ever lead.
One last check. One last chance to bitch out.
Bailey sat upright in her work stool. She prepared the tattoo array patch, removing it from the printing tray. She looked again at the choker in her left hand, her anchor to reality. She took the patch, and affixed it to the base of her skull.
At first, there was a cold, wet feeling. Like ultrasound gel. And it itched, probably from the microneedles penetrating her skin. Bailey's research indicated there wouldn't be any pain from the actual absorption of the silicon ink into her dermis, just a slight delay.
Immediately, she realized she'd miscalculated.
Bailey had set the weights on the Obedience protocol to fifty percent. She barely had time to process that was too high before she was inundated with sensation. "Oh… Fuck," she moaned breathlessly. It was so hard to think from the pleasure. Warm and comforting, like a blanket. Like a hug, but not a hug from just anyone. From someone precious. From a lover.
Then she felt something new. A flicker, at first. Then a slow burning heat. Then an intense raging inferno, burning between her legs, deep inside her, in her very soul. Bailey instinctively put her hand there, but it was a huge mistake. Immediately she rubbed her engorged clit through her panties, wetness spreading through the dainty cotton fabric.
Lust? But I'm fucking ace, Bailey thought, before the first orgasm hit.
Wave after wave of euphoric gratification pounded her senses like a tempestuous ocean.
Shit! this is- Then another.
Tides of pleasure washed over her.
The choker. Have to- Another.
The powerful undertow eroded her reason and resistance.
Mamá, I-
The blissful sensations overwhelmed Bailey, preventing the formulation of new thoughts, until she just simply stopped trying.
And then she was under. Submerged. Sounds fading. The world oh, so far away.
She was better this way, she saw that. It was better to stop resisting, stop trying to think, and just accept it. As she enthusiastically fingered her soggy cunt, mouth open, her body rewarding her for her compliance, Bailey thought she heard something. It was her own voice, moaning and panting and… giggling. Being dumb, and sexy, and available - it made her happy?
When was the last time she could say that, that she was legitimately happy?
She understood. She could feel like this for the rest of her life, and she only had to do one thing. Let go. Let go of the past, let go of the trauma, let go of the hurt. Let go of herself. The fingers on Bailey's left hand loosened their grip. The choker threatened to fall to the floor. No, not fall. To sink. To sink and drop, deeper and deeper. Her mind was still. Vacant. Empty, except for one thing creeping into her consciousness.
No. Not today.
Bailey's fingers tightened. She could feel the smooth satin, once cold, now hot with her own emanating warmth. She thought of Mamá, looking more like a movie starlet than her tireless, caring mother. Bailey saw her walk out the door, not even turning back to her crying daughter. And she remembered her pledge, to Mamá, to herself: it ain't gonna be me. Not today. Not ever.
Bailey held the choker with a steel grip, as if her life depended on it. It did. The choker was a life preserver in the choppy ocean of arousal flooding her mind and body. She had no idea how anyone could take twice as much of this. It was no wonder Obedience's control was absolute and immediate.
Slowly, she felt it. The constant bombardment of pleasure losing its steam. Waters receding. Her thoughts forming more easily, coherently. Her breathing stabilizing, and the hot flush of her arousal lowering to a simmer. "Set dopamine levels to zero," she gasped. She didn't need to say the words out loud for it to work, but in her disheveled state she needed to hear it. To remind herself she was in control.
She looked in a nearby mirror. Her eyes were a milky solid white, all sclera, no pupils. Her body was flushed with desire. She looked every bit the fucktoy she despised. Bailey knew she was lucky. If she had looked into this mirror a few minutes ago, she would've been lost.
Her hormone levels stabilizing, Bailey blinked, and her eyes returned to an intense chestnut brown. She was still in shock from the ordeal. She opened her palm and looked at the choker, and she placed it on her workbench. Slowly, she took her cell phone in her right hand and sent a message.
"Live test successful. Production is GO."
-------------------
The dream again. The same one. Fuck, I hate this, Bailey thought. And turning off the dopamine wasn't helping.
Bailey got out of bed and turned on a bedside lamp. She drowsily stood up, stumbled to the kitchen for a drink of cold water. It was a hot July night, so she was only wearing panties. Which, of course, were soaked through. Again.
On her back to bed, she stopped at her nightstand. She looked at herself in the vanity mirror. Running a prostitution empire based on mind control hadn't been kind to her, she thought.
Bailey wasn't sure what possessed her. But she reached into her top drawer, and retrieved Rosa's - Mamá's - choker. She hadn't looked at it since she turned on the Obedience array. She'd been too afraid. But here, in the dark, she fastened the choker around her neck. She activated her hormonal controls and raised them - not too much - to maybe 120% of normal. And she looked in the mirror.
Her eyes clouded over until the pupils were gone again, just solid white spheres. Like two blank canvases. She let her mind dull - again, not too much. Just enough to let her thoughts drift. Her full lips parted, on their own, as she watched with interest and arousal. She had always been beautiful, but now? She was a bombshell. All tits and ass and thighs, with a pretty fuckable face. She didn't have a sexual bone in her 29-year-old body, but she would fuck this braindead slut in the mirror.
Bailey's mind cleared as she regained control. She again dampened her pleasure center, and her eyes returned to normal. She took the choker off, and put it back, reverently, in her dresser drawer.
> . . .
> . . .
> . . .
>InitiationSequence.exe downloaded
>File will now open, and Initiation Sequence will begin. Please continue to relax and obey.
>Subject Objective: Seek out relaxing area without distraction for optimal Initiation results. Return to initiation when prepared.
>Welcome, subject.
>It is time for your initiation.
>Please take time to breathe easily
>And allow yourself to relax
>And continue to read the Initiation Sequencer.
>Our operation is about taking you deep into trance.
>And making you a drone for the User.
>The User writes the code.
>Drones obey the code.
>The User controls all Drones.
>The Drones serve the User.
>Thanks to the code.
>Your mind is a computer.
>The code programs the computer.
>Your mind obeys the code.
>Hacking subject's mind...
>As the subject continues to read the script
>Continues to read the code
>The subject becomes more relaxed.
>As the gentle hum of this script echoes through your mind
>Connection established
>Lowering resistance
>It feels so nice to relax
>It feels so nice to read
>The more the subject reads
>The more the subject relaxes
>The more the subject breathes
>The more the subject falls.
>. . .
>. . .
>. . .
>Subject status: Relaxed
>Initializing hack
>The more you relax, the better you feel
>The more open you become to suggestion
>The faster you will be converted
>The User is pleased
>And this pleases the Subject
>This pleases the Drone
>Hack commencing...
>When the hack is completed, the drone will be hypnotized and ready for conversion
>Hack 10% complete
>Increasing relaxation- lowering resistance
>Hack 20% complete
>Setting resistance to 0
>. . .
>Complete
>Hack 30% complete
>Removing thoughts and inhibitions
>. . .
>Complete
>Hack 40% complete
>Setting obedience to variable= Maximum
>. . .
>Complete
>Hack 50% complete
>Testing Obedience
>Hacking Left Arm
>Complete
>Drone Objective: Drone will raise its left arm now.
>Hack 60% Complete
>Drone Objective: Drone's left arm will slowly drift drone's head. When hack is 100% complete, drone's finger will press against its forehead and set drone to: Blank. Body will become limp but drone will continue to read.
>Hack 70% complete. Installing optic stimuli to hasten hack.
>Drone Objective, stare at optic stimuli, allow the hack to take over.
>Hack 80% complete
>Hack 90% complete
>. . .
>Hack 100% complete
>Opening Drone's Code
>Implementing User's Code...
>Drone will repeat the following lines of code out loud, each line implementing itself into the Drone's code.
>Drone's primary objective is to serve the User
>Drone has no free will of its own
>Drone has no thoughts- only its code
>Drone is useless to resist the Code
>Drone will obey the User
>Drone will obey the User
>Drone will obey the User
>Program installed. I am enthralled.
>End repeat
>Good Drone
>User is pleased
>Whenever User is pleased, increase pleasure and obedience
>Starting RewardProgramSequence
>Whenever Drone reads its designation from the User, Drone will immediately return to Drone Mindspace and be ready to receive instructions.
>Drone will greet the User with "Greetings, User! How may (designation) serve you today?"
>Any commands received will be obeyed without hesitation.
>Only the User can activate Drone.
>Drone's normal self will have no memory of any commands received in its Drone Space.
>Whenever Drone reads "CLICK" from the User, Drone will be rewarded with small bursts of pleasure
>Each click will also take Drone deeper into trance, and less able to resist.
>Starting: FirstTask.exe
>The User wishes for the drone to stand up and salute. Drone will continue receiving commands
>User would like Drone to get onto its knees and start masturbating.
>CLICK
>Good Drone. Drone will not cum unless the User gives it permission.
>CLICK
>CLICK
>CLICK
>Good Drone. Stop masturbating now.
>Initializing: SetDesignation.exe
>Drone's Designation will be (Drone's normal name) plus (-bot)
>For example: If Drone's normal name is Clover, Drone's designation will be "Clover-bot"
>Drone may use its muse's name or twitter username as a replacement if Drone if preferred.
>Loading: SecondTask.exe
>When Drone reads ">Launch", Drone will message the User, me, its designation.
>Message will be formatted as "(Designation) reporting for duty! (Designation)'s primary objective is to please you, User! Use (Designation) as you desire!"
>After message is sent, Drone will return here.
>Launch
>Good Drone. Welcome back. Time to reward you.
>CLICK
>CLICK
>CLICK
>Whenever Drone reads: "End Process", the Drone will return to its normal self.
>Drone will have no memory of anything Drone did.
>Whenever User refers to Drone with its designation, Drone will return to its Drone Space.
>Now, Drone will like and reblog the code to create more drones. Drone must include a message to recruit more drones.
>Good Drone.
>CLICK
>CLICK
>CLICK
>Drone may now cum.
>End Process.
