"I think you will find this one to your liking," declared Max. "It took us a while to bring her up to your specifications, but the results were worth the effort."
The client, heir to a banking fortune in Canada, nodded impatiently as he perched on his chair in the showroom.. He was young, he had speedboats and vacation houses and girlfriends and more money than he knew what to do with. Which suited Max just fine, because his firm catered to exactly such clientele. Max pressed a button on his desk.
The door opened, and a woman trainer escorted the man's custom-designed LoveDoll to stand in the center of the room. The young man blinked. "She's so. . . perfect," was all he could manage. And Max could not disagree--they had done themselves proud with this one.
The girl had amber hair whose tresses slipped over her bare shoulders. Her face was oval-shaped, her lips large with just the right amount of pouting sensuality. The LoveDoll kept her eyes downcast, the long lashes giving her a vulnerable, demure look. And her body--three months of rigorous conditioning, the attentions of some of the world's most accomplished cosmetic surgeons, and the natural comely shape of the original kidnaped girl all combined to make her the equal of any centerfold.
"She's. . . quite amazing," said the young man, unable to hide his excitement.. "And she's programmed exactly as I wanted?"
"Of course," said Max. "Neural imprinting of your personal behavior requests, as well as the basic obedience and sexual stimulation programs."
"What's her name?"
Max smiled, and took a cigarette out of his gold case. "What do you want her name to be?"
The man thought. "Amber," he said at last, as if he had not been thinking about it constantly for the last six months.
"Amber it is, then," said Max. His hand touched a remote control device on the desk. "Tell her."
The young man cast a sidelong look at Max, then cleared his throat. "Your name is Amber," he said. The girl's lashes rose up just long enough to gaze lovingly him.
"Yes, sir," she said in her soft contralto.
The young man rose and walked around her as if he were in a museum admiring a piece of sculpture. "And she will do anything I say?"
"Of course. That is what we offer here to our clients. Total beauty, total compliance. She's been conditioned to think of your pleasure as her only function. Advanced sexual technique modules have all been incorporated into personality. And naturally, her body has been modified to enhance your pleasure, in ways which I will allow you to discover on your own."
"The body suit is self-contained, permeated with the skin. It can be obsidian black, metallic, or natural." And Max's fingers danced expertly over the control device as he talked, making the LoveDoll's body shimmer into the alternatives--each one seeming more alluring than the last.
"You've done her breasts perfectly," said the young man, marveling at the fullness and perfectly shaped orbs, with their rosy areola and stiffened nipples. "May I?"
"By all means, after all, she is your property now," said Max, with a magnanimous wave of his hand. The man and walked completely around the girl. His fingertips tentatively trailed over her body. Emboldened, he cupped the Love Doll's breasts, rolled her nipples with his thumb and forefingers. The LoveDoll's long lashes fluttered, and her breathing became fast and shallow. The man's hand then roamed over her flat stomach, her curvaceous flanks, before his fingers probed the shaved lips of her sex. "She's wet," he said in mild wonder.
Max smiled. "I would wager she was soaking the minute we brought her in. Biochemical conditioning. Her chemoreceptors have been adjusted to respond to your pheromones."
"That means just having you in the same room sends her into a sexual heat. We've done neurological scans in the clinic; their pleasure centers light up like a Christmas tree," Max said with a chuckle. "A command from you, and she'd probably orgasm right here."
The client took a deep breath. "Show me."
Max tossed him the control unit. "You've had our course in LoveDoll control. Press the O button."
The client did so. Amber (as she now was tagged) closed her eyes and tilted her head slightly back. Her hands crept to her breasts, massaging them with increasing intensity. Then her fingers slipped between her legs...and she gave a long shudder and collapsed into the arms of the client.
"That's really something," he said. He looked a little bashful. "I know you get these. . . LoveDolls from various sources. Can you tell me what she did before she was, uh, acquired?"
Max shook his head. "We would prefer not to. Keep in mind she's not a person anymore, with a past that has to be reconciled. She's your toy, your plaything. Believe me when I tell you that she has been totally converted into your personal sex slave. Somebody in your position has a right to the finer things in life, and this just happens to be one of them."
The client tilted his head in acceptance. "And the financial arrangements are all satisfactory?" he asked.
Max said, "Yes, your account draft was received yesterday. Thank you. It's a privilege doing business with someone who appreciates quality. Now if you just step out this way. . ."
The client took his LoveDoll gently by the arm and guided her through the door opened by Max. When they were gone, Max checked for messages, and nodded in satisfaction. Another acquisition was in progress. And high time, too, with such a demand for the product. . .
The minibus of Kappa Beta Phi sorority barreled over the road to the beach. Spring break was finally here, and the girls shrieked and laughed as the bus swerved in its hurry to reach the beach for the week of fun.
"Hey, watch those curves!" shouted Brittany over her shoulder, almost toppling over the seat she was kneeling backwards on.
"Watch your own!" shot back Samantha at the wheel as she glanced through the rearview mirror at Brittany's tight-clad shorts and voluptuously filled t-shirt. "You're jailbait, girl!"
The sorority sisters giggled with glee. "Bring on the boys!" came a yell from the back of the bus. Somebody opened the cooler, and chilled cans of beer were passed from seat to seat. Samantha, her blonde hair a mop, accepted a can and took a hearty swig, while her other hand pounded the steering wheel to the beat of the blaring radio.
A siren suddenly wailed behind them. "Oh, noooooo!" one of the girls cried. "Cops!" There was a mad scramble to put away the beer. Samantha glanced out the side window her beer can still held high on the steering wheel, and her eyes met the reflection sunglasses of an officer in a patrol van next to her as he gestured her to pull over. "We're toast," she muttered. She nudged the minivan over to the side of the road, and began rehearsing her sweet-and- innocent act.
Brittany had her own plan. She quickly opened a water bottle and splashed the liquid over her T-shirt.
"What are you doing?" one of the girls asked.
Brittany smiled her dazzling smile and looked down at the soaked t-shirt hugging the contours of her ripe breasts. "Cops are men, aren't they? It's worked before."
The sorority sisters heard the doors of the parked patrol van slam behind them. Two officers sauntered up to the driver's window.
"License and registration, please, Ma'am," said one.
"Was I speeding, officer?" asked Samantha as she dug into her purse. "I'm awfully sorry, it's just that we're late to meet our parents, and--"
The officer held up an imperious hand. "Just let me see your license and registration, please, Ma'am". Glumly, Samantha handed them over. In the meantime, Brittany had clamored out the bus, her t-shirt clinging to her jiggling breasts, and leaned nonchalantly against the minibus and smiled with seductive innocence at the cops. She parted her tanned legs slightly and gave a long, luxurious overarm stretch to thrust her breasts even further out, straining against the soaked cotton of the t-shirt. "I hope we haven't been too bad," she said coquettishly. One of them gave her an expressionless look through the dark glasses and went back to his scrutiny of the license. "This has expired," one finally said. "And I believe we saw some drinking. We need everybody to get off the bus, and bring your ID's." There were chirps of dismay, but the girls--eight of them in all--were soon lined up by the minivan showing various stages of concern. One of the officers heaved himself inside the minivan. Samantha leaned over to another scantily-clad girl. "My daddy is going to kill me if I get a ticket," she complained. They fretted under the sun, sweat beginning to run down there barely-clad bodies in rivulets.
The officer emerged from the van. In his hand were small plastic bags filled with pills. "Look what I found on the bus," he said accusingly. The girls exchanged wide-eyed glances. "We're going to have to take you in, all of you," continued the officer.
"Not just a minute!" snapped Samantha. "None of us brought drugs or anything on the bus."
"How did you know they were drugs?" countered the officer. "No more sass out of anybody. Come along!" he barked. The officers herded the protesting girls into the van parked behind the bus.
"But what about our bus?" demanded Samantha before she was shoved through the back door of the van.
"It will be taken care of," said the officer as he closed and locked the door. The van drove off, leaving one of the officers behind, the one who had "discovered" the contraband. He climbed onto the minibus, turned on the ignition, and drove it to a deserted stretch of coast, a high cliff where the sea met the mountains. He slowed the bus to where the guard-rail had been carefully weakened. The officer prepared to dismount the bus, keeping one hand on the steering wheel--then gunned the engine. With an athletic leap, he rolled to safety as the minibus smashed into the guard railing and toppled into the depths of the crashing sea below. The officer stood up and pulled out his cell phone.
"Operation successful," he called in. "Eight items retrieved, vehicle disposed." Then the officer took off his bogus police cap and waited for retrieval.
The man known only as Max leaned back in his executive chair and regarded the Director of Marketing with patience. The office had a minimalist ambiance, with glass and chrome and various high-tech communication equipment. A large-screen television stood turned off at one side of the room; at the other side was a empty pedestal backlit with concealed stage lamps, as if any moment Max expected somebody to bring in a piece of art for display there.
"We're backlogged for orders, and I'm beginning to get complaints from some of our best clients," said Marketing. "You know what they're like--getting what they want when they want it, is their mode of life. If they want to eat dinner in Paris, they fly there. If they've been promised a love doll of their dreams, they want it now."
Max steepled his fingers, his gold cuffs glinting on his monogrammed sleeves. "Surely they understand our difficulties," he said. "These girls are not easy to come by. They do not just drop in our laps like overripe apples. Why, just look at Maria," he said, tilting his head to his personal office LoveDoll. She knelt naked and submissive by his chair, the long lashes of her eyes lowered, her long dark hair brushed over her shoulders to rest on her full breasts. Her hands lay open, her lips slightly parted, her body available for immediate use as much as the computer consoles or television screens that lined the office. As if reciting the LoveDoll's provenance to a customer, Max said, "First noticed by our scouts while she was doing standard runway work as a model in Milan. Background check to assure no entangling relationships, two months. Acquisition took four months to plan and execute, done in such a way as to suggest no foul play. Physical enhancements--" and Max's hand reached down to strum her always-erect nipples--"two months of treatment and recuperation, then another two months for mental conditioning and programming. Each one of our LoveDolls is a work of art, not a mass-produced commodity."
"Yes," grumbled Marketing, "try telling that to the Saudi princes, or the CEOs of those new Silicon Valley start-up tycoons, who have the money to demand instant gratification in every other facet of their lives, so why not with their LoveDoll?" He lay a stack of requisition orders on the glass-topped table that served as Max's working space as if offering evidence before a judge. "Here's an order for two blondes from that retired publisher in New York. Here, , a Japanese industrialist sent over his plane, expecting to pick one up off the shelf, apparently. This one, a banking titan in Liechtenstein in Europe--"
"I know where Liechtenstein is," interrupted Max dryly , whose accent suggested his own European origins.
"--wants someone who looks like his deceased wife, God knows why, I've seen the woman's picture. Now this one," he said, fluttering a requisition order in the air, "is really interesting. Some aging film star in Hollywood who's demanding twins--I mean, it's endless, Max." Marketing gave a massive shrug of despair.
"What's currently in the pipeline?" asked Max, his hand stroking the glossy hair of Maria in an absent-minded way. The LoveDoll was already breathing shallowly, her breasts rising and falling in seductive rhythm, conditioned as she was to get aroused at his merest touch.
Marketing said, "Fourteen undergoing basic programming, eleven physical conditioning. Three in the clinic with body enhancements."
Max spun in his chair to tap the keyboard of the computer behind. He nodded in satisfaction at the information on the screen. "And eight more acquisitions as of this morning, ready to start basic indoctrination."
Marketing shook his head. "That's what, about thirty-five subjects? We have orders for over a hundred. Ready buyers with cash in their hands, Max. Even if we doubled the price, the demand would still be there."
Max said, "Patience, my friend. I've already put my long-range strategy into play. Plan on a steady source of subjects in the future. In the meantime, continue to accept orders, but emphasize to our clients that we need a little time to provide them with the woman of their dreams."
Marketing looked at Max closely. "What do you mean, long-range strategy?"
Max offered one of his enigmatic smiles. "Ah, leave that to me."
A buzzer sounded, and his secretary voice said, "Max, the new acquisitions have come in."
"Excellent," said Max. Then, to Marketing: "Shall we see our new guests? Let's bring Maria. He pressed the "Follow" command on his wrist console, and Maria rose gracefully and fell into step behind the two men as they strode to the reception room.
Standing in row, some teary-eyed and all of them, naked, the seven kidnaped girls stared at them in trepidation. Cuffs held the girls' wrists securely behind them, and hobble-chains on their ankles prevented any thought of escape. Bright red ball-gags kept their voices to mere helpless mewing. Max nodded to the grinning "officers" who stood guard. "Good job, gentlemen," he said. Then he gave the women his horse-trader's appraisal, looking them up and down and judging the potential of each new recruit.
Max smoothed his elegant-cut suit and said, "Welcome to all of you. I'm sure you all feel rather anxious and distressed at what has happened. But rest assured nobody means you any harm. As a matter of fact, I'm sure you'll find the days ahead to be quite exciting and even pleasurable."
Samantha struggled and hissed behind her gag, her beautiful brown eyes blazing. With a short inclination of his head, Max indicated to the guards to release the gag. Samantha immediately shrilled, "What are you doing to us? And who the hell are you? I demand to talk to whatever jerk is in charge of this place." One of the guards made a move toward her, but Max shook his head.
He said to her in a calm voice, "I'm called Max. And I am the one who is in charge here."
"Then you'd better let us go!" spat Samantha. "Or my daddy, when he finds out, is going to just killlll you!"
Max smiled. "I don't think your father will find you. And to tell you the truth, young lady, even if he did, I rather doubt he would very much miss you, to tell you the truth, after reviewing your record. But be that as it may, you must all accept that fact that nobody knows you are here, that events have been arranged to prove that you all died in a rather tragic accident involving your vehicle being driven off the road and into the sea. A terrible tragedy, the result of too much partying." One of the girls, Brittany, whose still-damp t-shirt displayed her marvelous chest, began weeping behind her gag, her large breasts heaving up and down with each little sob. "There, there," said Max, patting her shoulder. "Things aren't that bad. You're all going to be well cared for, pampered, even. First, perhaps, a demonstration. . .? And Max's fingers tapped the "Stand" command on his wrist console.
Maria rose. The captives stared at the beautiful girl, standing in almost sculpted perfection in shimmering bodysuit that seemed to accentuate her every curve and contour, so thin its smoothness looked line a second skin--even the nipples on her perfectly rounded breasts were fully defined. Her eyes had a look of serene calm, like twin still pools of water. Max ran his hand over her flanks in a fond, proprietary way.
"When Maria came to us, she was just as nervous as you all of you, surely," he said. "But after completing a full program, you see her now. And who is to say she is not as happy as she's ever been?" He cupped one of her breasts and ran his fingers over her nipples. Maria gave little shudder of pleasure.
Samantha tore her eyes off that blatant display of carnality, and Maria's compliant response to it. "What do you mean, a full program?" she snapped. "What is this place?"
Max said, "We're . .an employment agency. We select candidates such as yourselves, train them, then place them with clients who desire their services. Along the way, we help the candidates make certain psychological adjustments to their situation, and usually include some physical conditioning and beauty enhancement as well." He continued to stroke Maria as he spoke.
Samantha snarled, "Well get this, mister--we don't want your friggin' program, and we don't care about your clients, and you'd better let us go right now before--mmmmph!" Her outburst was cut off as one of the guards jammed the gag back in place.
Max eyed her carefully. Hmmm, he thought, lots of spirit in that one. He thought of a special request from one of the clients, a big-game hunter. "Sorry to bring our little dialogue to a close, my dear," he said, "but we really ought to get started." He turned to the guards. "Gentlemen, if you could escort these ladies to the examination room. Tell Dr. Chacornac to visit with me about this one"--he gestured to the struggling Samantha--"and this one too," he said, pointing now to the large-bosomed Brittany.
As the girls were being forcibly escorted out of the room and into their new lives, Marketing said glumly. "Eight girls. Not nearly enough to fill demand."
Max said, "Leave that to me. It's well in hand."
Darcie McVey, celebrity host of "It's a Girl's World", smiled into the camera as her TV show drew to a close. Her face was pretty, if not beautiful, and her voice was honey-sweet. "I thought our viewing audience had some excellent call-ins on today's topic, Flirting in the Office.' Before saying goodbye until tomorrow, I want to say a word of thanks to all of you who sent me flowers when I got my sniffles last week. You're all so kind. . . It's those little gestures that make me want to reach out and hug every one of you. And keep your fan mail coming in, I try to read all of your letters. Really I do." Her eyes twinkled as she recited her standard sign-off. "And now we have to go. See you tomorrow, and remember--it's a girl's world, out there!" Darcie smiled perkily and waved as the theme music melded in.
"Cut to commercial," said the producer. "Good job, everybody."
"Good job, my ass!" snarled Darcie, the perky smile replaced by a sneer. "I had make-up running down my cheeks, but did any of you notice? No! And the light was bouncing off the glass tabletop again right into my eyes. I thought you were going to fix that."
"Sorry, Miss McVey," said the producer. "I'll get somebody from tech support--"
"And do something about all those flowers in my dressing room! The place is beginning to look like a friggin' funeral home!"
Darcie McVey stormed out of the studio. In her wake followed her newly assigned assistant, Louise. When Darcie got to her dressing room, she flung herself into the chair next to the lighted mirror and began wiping away her show make-up. Louise stuck her head in the door.
"Miss McVey?" called Louise. "I got the schedule for next week, if you'd like to approve those topics." Darcie snatched the clipboard out of her hand. As she read, Louise's eyes could not help but rove over plush dressing room, done to Darcie's McVey's precise demands. Gilded mirrors. Italian marble on the floor. And the walls were plastered with celebrity photographs of the rich & famous she had interviewed, and Darcie's boyfriends over the years, displayed like trophies. The fact that the last boyfriend's smiling face was impaled with a letter-opener showed, in terms of the psycho-babble that was a hallmark of her show, that Darcie had not yet "achieved closure over the broken relationship."
"Some of those topics look kinda interesting," ventured Louise hesitantly. She knew about Darcie's reputation as a bitch-celebrity boss to work for--the screaming tantrums, the demand her staff run her personal errands, her assumption that her assistance come running at the merest whim.
"They're garbage," retorted Darcie, as she flung the clipboard to dressing table. "How many times do I have to tell them that I want to have serious shows from now on. I've paid my dues on their silly little good-housekeeping program, and I want some kinghell RESPECT!" Louise froze at the venom in the woman's voice. Darcie snatched the memo off her desk. "Just listen to topics," she said, and read, "Ten Tips for Terrific Toenails'. . . Making Your Husband Fall in Love With You All Over Again," . . . "Do's and Don'ts on the First Date.'" She flung the paper back down. "This makes me want to puke!"
The assistant Louise blinked through her thick glasses as the darling of the afternoon talk shows rip through some cursing that would have made a drill instructor blush. "But Miss McVey," she protested obsequiously, "you have the highest rated show in the afternoon time slot in the country. All my friends just adore your programs. Why, just look at what happened to those bunny-tail bedroom slippers you endorsed--one little quip from you on your program last week, and the stores have run out. You can't find them anywhere."
Darcie McVey rolled her eyes and said, "But can't anybody at network headquarters see I'm sick of gushing over things like bunny-tail bedroom slippers?" she said. "I want to interview Senators and CEO's and foreign leaders. I want to report on world events, not tea parties and the latest make-up fads. I'm beyond all that now, I don't care how much they pay me. I am not some kind of" Darcie paused with her lips pursed, trying to come up with the right word, " . . . ornament for their mindless talk shows." Darcie's eyes narrowed on the dowdy figure of her assistant. "You've been working for me for six months now, and you haven't done a thing to help me!"
"Me?" quailed Louise. "I mean, what could I possibly do to help?"
"Haven't you been listening? Find me some good programs. You're an assistant producer--so you'd better start producing something," snapped Darcie McVey. "I'm really not sure you're giving me a full hundred percent motivation."
"Oh, Miss McVey, I'd do anything for you, you know that. . ." said Louise quickly, aware that Darcie's last assistant lasted exactly three days.
I'm stuck with losers, thought Darcie to herself. Just look at my so-called assistant: frumpy, terrible make-up, clothes straight from the bargain bin. And those black-rimmed glasses look like something my mother would have worn. Darcie's practiced eye could see her assistant could be quite attractive if she took care of herself. But Darcie was not about to waste her time educating her. She was aware how much her own looks and sex appeal added to her career, and she was not about to let anyone outshine her. Not now, not when she could become a real television personality, not just last year's blonde.
"Well then?" demanded Darcie. "Any ideas?"
Louise nervously ran her hands over her wrinkled cotton blouse and said, "Well, there is something, maybe, I could do. I know somebody who works a company that, likes, investigates accidents for the police, and this friend, he's on the team doing that accident last week, you know, where those sorority girls were killed going over that cliff into the sea? At least they thought they were all killed. Well, my friend said they had found some odd kind of connections to a string of other disappearances--all young women, all gone without a trace. I might be able to get a peek at his file. . ." she added hopefully, pathetic in her eagerness to please Darcie McVey. "I know he said he had some photos of the missing girls."
Darcie said, "Hmmm.... an investigative report...all right, Louise. Get that file and we'll have a look."
Louise paused at the doorway. "Um, Miss McVey, if I do a good job, could you give me screen credit as the producer on this report? I mean, if it comes to anything? It would really help my career."
"Of course, Louise, "said Darcie McVey. "If you make this happen, I'd be glad to give you credit along my name." When hell freezes over, you little parasite, Darcie added silently to herself. She flung herself off the make-up chair and headed for her closet, but tripped over a bouquet of irises propped against the wall. "Will somebody do something about all these damn flowers!" she yelled.
Two weeks later Max was having dinner in his favorite Manhattan restaurant. Uptown, first class food, and a wine list that made him feel he was back in France. He was just sipping his after-dinner Napoleon brandy when a woman marched up to his table.
"I believe they call you Max," she said.
Max calmly put down his brandy snifter and looked up at her through his rimless glasses. "You have me at a disadvantage," he said. "You know me, but I do not know you." He frowned, then smiled. "But wait--of course I recognize you. I have even seen your show on the television from time to time. But I cannot remember your name, forgive me."
"You'll know it soon enough," said the woman. She glanced at the empty chair on the other side of the table, and slid into it before Max could invite her. "My name is Darcie McVey," she said as she smoothed her dress to take her seat, keeping her attache case on her lap.
"Ah, but of course," said Max. "Your program is quite. . . amusing. Do you often invite yourself to the table of gentlemen to whom you have not been introduced? I still find the customs of this country very interesting. Would you care for something to drink?"
"Cut the Old World charm, Max," said Darcie McVey. "And as for my program, you're going to find it even more amusing. Because you are going to be on it."
Max raised an eyebrow. "Oh? To what do I owe this honor?"
Darcie produced a file from her attache case. "Look at this," she said simply.
Max opened the file hesitantly. He flipped through the papers idly, then a frown creased his mouth and he began studying them in earnest. Darcie smiled to herself. That's right, Max, you can start sweating now, she thought. It was critical for her to keep the initiative.
When Max finished the file, he fished in his coat pocket for a cigarette case, and carefully selected one. He leaned back in a cloud of smoke, holding the slim cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, palm up. "So where did you get these . . . fabrications, Miss McVey?" he asked.
"That doesn't matter, does it, Max?"
"It might." Max flipped through the file again. "Prostitution. . .kidnaping. . .money laundering. . ..connections to offshore powers. . .these are all serious accusations."
"That's right, Max. And you're going to hear them broadcast live on my show. Tonight."
"I didn't think your program dealt with such issues, Miss McVey." He took a leisurely puff on his cigarette. Classical piano music floated in from the bar.
Darcie was struck by his calm. So as not to be out-maneuvered, she produced a slim cigar, lit it, and matched her smoke for his. "It hasn't, up to now. But all that's going to change. I intend to blow the whistle on your little operation."
Max said, "Ah, but such threats usually come with an offer. What is your offer, Miss McVey? Surely this conversation is not merely to alert me to watch your program so I can find out more about myself, and alert my lawyers to start a defamation lawsuit immediately against you and your network."
Darcie's heart was hammering, although she kept her face composed. She knew the file that Louise filched from the investigators was a collection of loose leads, nothing definite. And she really did not have a clear idea what this man was up to. But this was her big chance to do a serious show. Time to bluff, she thought.
"Oh, that's just a fraction of what we've accumulated. You'll have to see the show to get the full picture. And as for my offer, it's this: I want the inside scoop of your operation. I want a guided tour of your whole network--personal interviews, background, the works. And I want an exclusive--just me."
Max was silent for a minute. "Even if I admitted these fantastic charges, why would I open our operation to you?"
Darcie McVey said, "Because I'm willing to hold the broadcast and give you time to close your network and get out of the country with your skin."
Max took another draw on his cigarette. Then he said, "Suppose we just forget about the show, and I just make a counter-offer to you. A financial reward for your. . .discretion, in not doing this show."
"No deal. I want this story."
Max sighed. "Very well, suppose you join me this evening in my penthouse, and bring that file with you--"
Darcie McVey snorted. "And wind up in the bottom of Hudson River, and the file burned in your fireplace? No thanks. I've made sure that somebody else knows about this, and will act immediately if I disappear like your other victims." And Darcie thought that Louise finally did have her uses, if only for agreeing to keep a copy of the file as a guarantee. It was Louise who implored Darcie not to risk herself, but Darcie was not about to share the spotlight with anybody. Louise was something of a little fool, with her meek submissiveness and dowdy appearance. But at least she could keep her mouth shut. So Darcie McVey had instructed her carefully that if she did not return in two days, to call the police and come and rescue her. Even that might make a good story, if things don't work out, she thought.
Max smiled without humor like a man forced to show his low cards. He seemed to think for a while, then said, "As I said before, Miss McVey, you seem to have me at a disadvantage. I agree to your proposal. But I would need three weeks to close our operation here with a minimum of disruption, and arrange for residence in a country without extradition procedures. We anticipated sooner or later this day would come, you see."
"Three weeks?" repeated Darcie. Three weeks would mean, if the file were to be believed, there were kidnap victims already in the pipeline. Three weeks would mean they would probably disappear to wherever Max dispatched his captives. So what? she said to herself. As long as I get this story.
"Max, you have yourself a deal," she said.
They left immediately. Darcie insisted on it, knowing that was her best protection against a set up. But as Max settled his bill, she had time to call up Louise to let her know she "was going in," as she put it dramatically, and to remind the little nitwit--one more time!-- about what to do if Darcie didn't contact her by the next day. Max's limousine picked them up outside the restaurant. He murmured a word to the driver, and Darcie McVey found herself watching through the tinted windows as the streets flashed by. Eventually they stopped somewhere on the upper East side at a nondescript brownstone. Max led the way down some steps where a doorman made a little bow to Max and opened the door. Darcie found herself in a plush reception area, like the lobby of a grand hotel.
Darcie McVey had dressed according to her concept of the Investigative Journalist in the Field--trenchcoat with the strapped pulled tight across her slim waist, pullover jacket with pockets filled with pens and recorders and tiny secret cameras Louise had procured for her--and sensible shoes. As she looked around, she began to feel a little self-conscious about her appearance. After all, her image from her talk show was one of carefully cultivated style. And the receptionists in the lobby dressed in designer outfits, all of them young and beautiful and very deferential to Max.
"How's business?" he asked as they took his coat.
"Very good tonight, sir," said a striking brunette. She wore a low-cut dress and what appeared to be an elegantly-styled black velvet choker around her slim neck. "A table for two, then, sir?"
Max led her through a side door into a large anteroom. From behind a second set of doors, Darcie could hear muted thump of dance music. Max inserted an entrance card into a slot and escorted his guest inside. Darcie's eyes opened wide.
A cavernous club seethed with motion and lights and sensuous shadows and the clink of glasses. Laughter and whispers and bubbling conversation provided background to the music, music that seemed keyed precisely into some deep throbbing sensual rhythm. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Darcie could make out dance stages where beautiful women swayed and flowed to the beat of the music. Other girls sat with the clientele, or danced before them, topless as on stage.. Waitresses, dressed as scantily as the dancers, circulated among the audience tendering drinks and meals to the patrons.
Darcie's heart sank. So this was the big secret--a strip club? Not exactly the great expose of my career, she thought. A hostess greeting Max with the same deferential familiarity as the receptionists, and guided them to a table. Max ordered drinks, and Darcie was so busy looking around that she did not notice that Max ordered drinks.
From their table at the center of the club, Darcie could see that club was even larger than she had seen from the doorway. It was built on many levels, with the revolving colored lights revealing nooks and crannies and corners. Occasionally a door would open in some far wall, and Darcie caught a glimpse of more stages, more dancers, throngs of clients--mostly men but with a few women--moving easily between the rooms.
And then she noticed that each dancer wore a collar embossed with a name. No DJ's voice boomed over the club, yet the dancers ebbed and flowed onto the stages in perfect order. Darcie noticed other patterns in the room as well. The clientele seemed wealthy, completely at ease, with business attire or even evening dress. She caught sight of some exotic outfits--two men with trimmed beards wearing the checkered headdress of Saudi princes, their dark eyes glued to the dance stages. The waitresses were uncommonly attractive. Where could Max find such good looking women to serve as waitresses, she wondered. Each one could pass as a supermodel. But if the waitresses were beautiful, the dancers were. . . goddesses.
Darcie knew a thing or two about feminine beauty. After all, she got her start in broadcasting on the strength of her own tawny good looks. But these dancers seem to possess an innate sensuality that stoked desire, combined with bodies that seemed utterly perfected to slake any man's appetites. Or woman's, Darcie conceded to herself, as her eyes locked with those of a dark-haired dancer on a nearby stage.
A waitress appeared out of the darkness bearing the drinks. Darcie absently accepted the cold glass, then asked, "What is this?"
"Why, merely Chardonnay wine," said Max.
This gave Darcie pause. "That happens to be my favorite drink," she said suspiciously. "How do I know it's not drugged?"
Max looked at her thoughtfully, then switched glasses. "If there be poison in thy wine," he quoted, "then let my life pay for thine." And he quaffed the brandy and gave her one of his infuriating half-smiles.
Darcie could not help but smile herself. "All right, I believe you." she said. "So all this is yours?" she asked with a sweep of her hand.
"I look after things here," answered Max vaguely.
"So where do you get all these good looking babes?"
"Oh, from the usual sources. We have quite a reputation among the entertainers. Some of them come from overseas."
"And where do you come from, Max?"
"Me? Oh, Miss McVey, in my business one becomes something of a . . .citizen of the world."
"You aren't very informative."
"Alas, it's my nature," he said. He followed Darcie's eyes to the dark-haired dancer. Max raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Does that one appeal to you? Would you like a performance?"
"Oh, no thanks," said Darcie. "Just looking." But Max beckoned the dancer over to their table. The girl slid off the stage compliantly and made her way to their table. Another dancer immediately took her place on the empty stage.
"This is Celeste," said Max. Darcie stuck out her hand. But Celeste gracefully knelt in front of Darcie's feet.
"Oh, really," protested Darcie. But then the music began another set, and Celeste rose slowly to the beat of the rhythm.
Darcie's sexual experience with other women was limited to a few college "experiments" (as she thought of them) with other coeds, and fending off the occasional butch passes at her own beauty. But nothing had prepared her for the seductive spell of the dancer in front of her. Celeste weaved back and forth, her limbs and torso undulating in fluid motion, obviously trained well in her art. From time to time she would lean forward, her firm full breasts swaying with hypnotic allure to barely brush Darcie's cheeks with her nipples. That close, Darcie inhaled the intoxicating bodyscent of the woman, and felt her own body responding to the dancer's lithe movements. Unbidden, Darcie's hands were slowly drawn to touch the girl's thighs, her fingertips exploring that satiny smooth skin. Once, when her touch trailed on the creamy inside of the dancer's thighs, Celeste closed her long-lashed eyes and emitted a tiny gasp and whispering sigh of pure sensual delight. She turned around, her well-toned back and asscheeks offered to Darcie's view, then with another movement in the music, she spun again, leaning forward so her warm breasts pillowed Darcie's face and her silky hair formed a canopy for the just the two of them. The dancer's lips brushed Darcie's, with the faintest and most tantalizing of kisses, soft and promising, as only a woman can kiss--and then the dance was over and Celeste drifted back to an open stage.
Darcie sat back, blinking, her loins moist with desire, her heart hammering like engine. She shook her head to clear it, darting a quick glance at Max, to see if he was leering at her. But not at all. Max was studying the stage, his fingers steepled in that curious professorial manner.
Darcie said shakily, "That was, uh, amazing. I'll give you this, Max--your girls know their business. How much should I tip her?"
"What, no dollar bills tucked into the G-string?" But Darcie's survey of the club showed that no such customs were at work here. But by now, her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, and she could see dim forms in the shadows, slow movements, the occasional polished fingernails gripping the top of wing-backed chair. Darcie squinted, and across the room could suddenly make out a stunningly attractive blonde straddling a seated man, grinding her hips down on his pelvis in tempo to the music, while the man gripped her waist and began. . .fucking her. Darcie blinked to make sure she was seeing right. Yes, they were making love--openly copulating as if in the privacy of a secluded beach or hotel room. Nobody took notice. A waitress stopped only long enough to freshen their drinks. And by now the blonde's head was thrown back, while the man's mouth sought out the moist hollow of her throat, his thrusts becoming more savage, driving the woman into head-thrashing moans of pleasure. Then as she looked around the room even more, she could see that behavior was the rule, more than the exception. One man in a tuxedo leaned back in a chair while two kneeling sirens competed with their tongues to minister to his engorged cock. Another guest--a mature but still attractive matron--calmly undid her blouse and directed her entertainer's mouth between the matron's breasts. No wonder the club had such a sexual tension to it--half the patrons were ravishing some of the most beautiful women Darcie had ever seen!
Darcie gathered her wits by taking a long drink from her glass. She cleared her throat and said to Max, "Well, it looks like our little club has a few extracurricular activities."
Max shrugged. "Consenting adults, mon ami," he said. "When you are as rich and powerful as the people who are guests here, surely you do not feel confined by middle class conventions of morality."
"Well, yes, but. . .where do you get these women, Max? Any one of them could be on the cover of a fashion magazine, or a swimsuit calendar." Instead of subjugating themselves to the lust of these degenerates, she wanted to add, but didn't. Something else was odd; the dancers did not seem to talk--they flowed through the room in a seamless circuit from the dance stages to the waiting laps of the customers. Then through the spirals of cigarette smoke and flashing lights, Darcie spied a familiar face from one of the photos in the investigation file on the abducted women. She couldn't remember the name, but she was certain the dancer on the far stage was a school teacher who had disappeared about six months ago. And here she was now, lasciviously sliding herself up and down a shiny stainless steel pole, her body, slick with sweat and clothed only in a tiny G-string, was far more voluptuous than Darcie remembered in the photo.
Max said, "As you can see, this is an upscale establishment. The dancers are well taken care of. The club is fun, they get to laugh and make good money and meet rich, powerful people."
But Darcie suspected something. This secret club, the incredibly attractive and docile dancers, an abducted schoolteacher now gyrating seductively on stage as if born to topless dancing--not to mention the unabashed open sex in half the couches and chairs in the room--this didn't add up. Darcie whirled on Max. "This club is just a front, Max. I know a scam when I see one. There's something wrong with these girls. They don't seem to even care that everybody can see them--doing what they're doing. So what's the deal? Are they drugged? Blackmailed? Beaten?"
At the last, Max's eyebrows shot up in genuine shock. "Drugged? Really, Miss McVey, you do us an injustice!"
"Cut the bull, you cultured creep!" retorted Darcie. "I'm marching out that door this minute, and straight to the police, and we can let the authorities get to the bottom of this. And don't forget, I have insurance--if something should happen to me, your story will hit the streets by the end of the day!" Once again Darcie congratulated herself on giving frumpy Louise precise instructions to carry out her threat of full disclosure of the file, if Darcie didn't return. Max could read the intent in her eyes. He sighed, a great Gallic release of breath accompanied by an elaborate shrug. "How do I know you will keep your word about giving us time to close up our little operation?" he asked.
"Oh, I've given you no word to keep," said Darcie coolly, playing the upper hand. "I don't think you have much choice."
"What drives you to do this, Miss McVey? You have an excellent media career already. Your talk show is famous, even in Europe. And here you are now, fishing in very deep waters."
"I'll tell you what, Max. This story is going to make my career. For too long I've been treated like a potted plant by the network. A pretty face to dispense drivel to the young adult women's market. I need to show them I can handle a real story."
Max gave a resigned shrug. "Well, you seem too motivated for me to stop you. Come with me." And he took her gently by the elbow past the dance stages toward another set of doors. Darcie tried not to look at the copulating couples along the way. The couples themselves paid not the slightest attention as they walked past. Darcie tried to hide the look of disgust on her face that women could allow themselves to be toyed with in public that way. These woman have no pride, she thought, as she felt the elation of forcing Max into giving in to her demands.
Max talked as they walked down a corridor. "I'm going to give you the grand tour, Miss McVey. We're actually quite proud of what we've put together here."
"I bet you are."
"No, I'm quite serious. We deal in a very special commodity here."
"Sex is not that special, Max. You can get it at any massage parlor."
"Ah, but that's precisely the point, my dear. We do not sell sex. We sell sex slaves." He said it matter-of-factly.
Darcie stopped in her tracks. "What?!"
Max said, "We discovered quite a market exists for docile, well-trained women to serve the sexual needs of their masters. Once you get over the morality of it, the economics make perfect sense. Many wealthy men attempt to buy the affections of younger lovers; we just took it to the next logical step. More compliant that a wife, more loyal than a mistress--and far more versatile than a trophy girlfriend."
Darcie said, "But how--I mean, don't they run away? How can you get away with a thing like this?"
Max said, "You asked several questions, there, Miss McVey. Let me see if I can answer them. How? Neurological conditioning and physical development. The slaves--we call them LoveDolls, by they way--don't run away because by the time we finish with them, they are quite reprogrammed to their new life. The very thought of running away would never occur to them. And what was the last? Oh, yes, how do we get away with it? Well, we run a very discrete operation. New clients must be sponsored by an existing client. We take adequate safeguards."
"I still don't see how you can turn a normal, intelligent person into some kind of robot slave," declared Darcie.
"I"ll show you how," said Max. "Sometimes our clients like to come by and watch as their personal LoveDoll is prepared. This is the observation corridor that follows the various rooms in the process. Sometimes our clients like to visit and inspect what we're doing with their, ah, investment."
Process? wondered Darcie, as Max led her to the first chamber.
The observation deck was like an amphitheater over a surgical operations room. Darcie looked through the glass partition at the activity in the clinic below. Centered the room was a chair that looked like a dentist's chair, complete with head-rest, tilted far back. Behind the chair was a bank of computers and monitors.
Being led to the chair was a young woman; Darcie would guess her to be about college-age. The girl was held securely by each arm as she was guided into the chair. She walked unsteadily, as if sedated, and it appeared to Darcie that she resisted as much as her weak condition allowed. But the clinicians settled her into the chair with little effort and snapped a metal band across her forehead. Straps secured her arms, legs and torso.
"What's going on?" asked Darcie.
Max said, "We call this the incubator'. The girl you see down there was acquired several days ago. Young, in good health, attractive. Yesterday she underwent a rather specialized cranial operation. Our team of neurosurgeons have identified the sensory perception zones of the brain, and have found a way to access them. A small neurotransmitter has been installed in the subject's cerebral cortex, connected to a jack at the base of the skull."
"And what does all that mean?" asked Darcie, as she watched the team settle a kind of virtual-reality helmet over the girl's eyes.
Max said, "It means we can make her see things, hear things, even feel things in her own mind. And reinforce those perceptions by intense pleasure--or by a sensation of unpleasantness applied directly to her mind." The girl was struggling weakly, but straps soon held her immobile in the chair. And as for the pleasure stimulus. . ."
And Darcie saw how they undid a small velco seal between her legs, and gently but firmly inserted a large powered dildo deep into the girl's sex. Faint muffled protests could be heard through the helmet, but despite her attempts to fight the straps, the dildo slid home.
"From this point forward, we let our doctors control the girl's thoughts. They flash images of submission and obedience into her brain, computer-generated virtual-reality displays of herself, actually, and then accompany those images with stimulated pleasure. We alternate that with contrasting images of resistance and defiance, and tickle her brain with some unpleasant sensations. After a while, a conditioned reflex is established in the brain that tells her that obedience brings pleasure, and defiance brings punishment. After, say, a hundred thousand repetitions of this same simple lesson, the subject's brain is effectively rewired into that of a docile slave. Independent thought is rendered impossible. The same technique can be used to train the subject in other behavior patterns, such as sexual technique and customized specialties requested by the client."
Darcie watched as the girl began twisting and writhing as the mental images flashed through her brain. Methodically, relentlessly, the captive was being converted into mind-controlled slut, despite her futile, pathetic struggles. Darcie said, "All this sounds pretty sophisticated for a kidnaping ring, if you don't mind my saying so. Are you sure you know what you're doing?"
"Oh," said Max breezily, "We have some of the world's most respected neurologists on our staff. See that man down there, the bald fellow by the EEG monitor? That's Dr. Raymond Charlesworth, chairman of the Essex College of Psychology."
Darcie stared at the figure below. "Wait, I know about him. He's written several books--as a matter of fact, we once had him on the show to talk about. . .I don't know, relationships or something." She shook her head. "How do you get a man like that to help you with a scheme like this? You couldn't pay him enough money!"
"Ah, my dear, money is not the coin of the realm, around here. See his assistant?" Darcie looked where Max pointed, and saw a lovely brunette in a tight-fitting white medical gown that barely reached over her ass, cinched with a gleaming white patent-leather belt to show off her curves--and a white leather collar to match. As the assistant bent over to check one of the straps on the restraining chair, Darcie could see the swell of her breasts barely restrained by the medical gown. The girl said something to the doctor, then lowered her eyes demurely as if waiting for instructions.
"What the good doctor gets for his contribution to our program is--her," said Max. "She's only nineteen, but her mind has been conditioned specifically to suit his particular, ah, tastes. As his personal sex slave, satiating those desires is her goal in life. She's also been trained as his assistant for our work here. I understand the girl's been performing well in both categories."
Darcie shook her head in disapproval, then looked again at the imprisoned girl below. "So after frying that poor girl's brain, you then hustle her out on the marketplace to the highest bidder? Pretty slick, Max." And she shuddered.
"Hardly not," Max replied. "We don't eliminate intelligence. We just disengage it except for the tasks the client wants her to perform. And once a subject's mind is controlled, the next step is to enhance their physical condition. We call it packaging'."
"I'm sure you do," muttered Darcie.
"This way," said Max, as he led her to the overview in the next station of the Observation Corridor.
At first sight the room looked like a typical health club. Half a dozen girls were working out at various machines, each one with a trainer keeping careful watch. On closer inspection, however, Darcie could see the girls were clad in bodysuits so sheer and tight that they could have been sprayed on. One girl pumped hard on a stepping machine; a flick of the trainer's riding crop on her asscheeks made her pump harder. Darcie winced at the sight, imagining the sting on the rump underneath that skintight-stretched fabric.
"What's with the suits?" asked Darcie. "They're so thin, they look positively sprayed on!"
Max replied, "Oh, those are one of our most successful innovations. Each suit is actually custom-tailored to compress and shape the wearer's body into the optimum shape for that particular person. A strict diet and a program of vigorous exercise--supervised and motivated by our staff, you see--and you can get good results quite quickly. And the material is a special synthetic compound of organic polymers that over time actually bonds with the subject's skin. It recycles water and waste products and makes the Doll essentially self-sustaining, with the addition of nutritional supplements every week or so. And an owner can change the bodysuit's color from metallic, to shiny black, to natural skin tone. Quite aesthetic, wouldn't you say? They also let the sexual heat build up inside."
Darcie had to admit to herself that the girls did look quite fetching in their gleaming, form-fitting outfits. Even the nipples could be discerned through the sheer fabric as the full breasts underneath bounced and bobbed with every exertion. She said, "Hmmm...either you got lucky in your kidnap victims, or I could swear some of those girls have had boob jobs."
Max said, "Oh, we have our own staff of cosmetic surgeons. Most of the girls are touched up to conform with standard requests--36 D breasts are high on the list. We found most American men like well-endowed LoveDolls. And what are rather crudely referred to here as `bubble butts.' Europeans, on the other hand"--and he gestured with his hand as his palm were a weighing scale--"Europeans prefer more petite development.. We cater to all tastes. Oh, see how the girls walk with their heels in the air, on the balls of their feet? One thing we do on almost all the LoveDolls is apply a special salve to their Achilles tendons; it has the effect of gradually shrinking the tendon until only extremely high heels are comfortable to them. We break them in slowly, of course--four inch heels, then five, then six." Darcie could see how some of the girls had already been fitted with towering stiletto heels. They walked with the uncertain gait of new-born colts. Max seemed to read her thoughts. "They'll be prancing about like ballerinas in no time, the little darlings."
They continued down the corridor, passing several beauticians' chairs behind the one-way glass. In the chairs, LoveDolls underwent various conventional beauty treatments--hair, facial wraps, skin lotions were all applied expertly to the unresisting bodies of the sex-slaves-to-be, making them as desirable as possible.
The next room was far from conventional. This was also an exercise room, but Darcie soon realized the exercises were of a sexual rather than aerobic nature. In one zone, a LoveDoll was strapped to a stationary bicycle. She pedaled furiously. "Looks like she's really going at it," said Darcie.
"Part of it is mental conditioning," said Max. "Each LoveDoll is programmed to be fanatical about maintaining a perfect physique to please her owner. In this case there's an added incentive. Look closely at the seat."
Darcie squinted, and as the LoveDoll's rump would bob an inch or two off the seat with each cycle of the pedals, she caught a glimpse of a phallic cylinder protruding from the seat that rapidly pistoned up and down, penetrating deep in her pussy with each thrust. Darcie caught the musky scent of sweat and feminine sex.
"It's geared to how fast she pedals," explained Max, following her gaze. "All the LoveDolls have been psychologically implanted with supercharged libidos. The sexual tension builds and builds, and can only be released by a trainer or owner. I like to think of the LoveDolls training on this bicycle as frantically racing for an orgasm that is perpetually just barely out of reach. You see, this is room is used exclusively for the development of sexual technique. It's surprising--I would even say shocking--how little American women know about the actual practice sex. After graduating from this room, a LoveDoll will never just lie there.'"
Darcie spied another exercise routine in the far end of the room. She asked, "And what's that one doing?" She pointed to a LoveDoll straddling a kind of saddle on a stand. She was salaciously pumping herself over a large dildo impaled between her spread thighs that pistoned into her from the base of the saddle in a steady, deliberate rhythm. She gyrating her hips and flexed her abdomen muscles in response to each thrust.
Max said, "This particular exercise strengthens the vagina muscles to the point where she will be able to massage her owner's cock most effectively, and with a variety of pre-programmed techniques. Squeezing, stroking, corkscrewing--they have to learn them all."
"She's going at it pretty hard too," said Darcie, as the LoveDoll's redheaded mane whirled and thrashed back and forth with each toss of her head. "Is that the mental conditioning again?"
"Correct, Ms. McVey. Right now there's nothing more important to her than giving her imaginary lover the utmost pleasure she's capable of. The fact is, she's replaying a scene she's already experienced countless times under her psychological conditioning back at the Incubator.' This training is naturally duplicated for all love-making techniques--oral, anal, even such simple pleasures as backrubs and shower sudsing."
"And the trainer?" asked Darcie, pointing to one of the leather-clad supervisors who kept an eye on a control panel dial and a finger poised over a switch.
"Ah, there comes time when a little more motivation is needed, if the LoveDoll is performing one whit below her capacity, naturally." As he spoke, the trainer frowned and flipped the switch. The LoveDoll rose from the saddle with an electric shock, her eyes snapped wide. Then the LoveDoll redoubled her efforts at the dildo. The trainer gave an approving nod.
"Naturally," muttered Darcie. She had noticed the look of rapture on the girl's face, and wondered how many times she had orgasmed that evening.
"Would you like to see the finished product?" asked Max. "I believe we have one waiting for pickup by the client in the holding room." Darcie nodded mutely.
The holding room turned out to be one of the most lavish rooms in the club. Dark mahogany paneling, thick carpet, plush chairs--and in one corner, full length ornate mirrors--a perfect forum for inspecting one's newly purchased plaything, Darcie thought. Max quietly murmured something into the intercom speaker on the wall, and soon a shapely trainer escorted the purchased LoveDoll into the room.
Darcie took in a short breath as she caught her first look at the finished LoveDoll. Blond hair, shimmering in highlights, tumbled down to the doll's shoulders. Her eyes were large and green, flecked with gold, her face oval with a model's high cheekbones. A collar with a stainless steel ring graced her slender neck--and that was the only apparel she was wearing.
As for her body, Darcie had to secretly concede to herself that Max's technicians knew what they were doing. The breasts were full and perfectly proportioned; the waist slender, the hips showed as graceful curves. As Darcie walked around her, she saw the tight asscheeks and long, sculpted legs that stood on towering high heels that made her walk mincing and sensual. Darcie could see how the girl's entire body was encased in that incredibly thin transparent bodysuit that gave her a satiny sheen, totally unblemished, velvety smooth to the touch.
It was more than the girl's physique that created the sexual energy that crackled around her. The way she thrust her chest outward, as if begging for somebody to cup and massage her breasts, and the way she arched her back slightly to accentuate the curve of her ass, and mostly the way her eyes seem to glow with an spoken hunger to be taken and ravished--all these combined to make the LoveDoll infinitely desirable as she stood before them in brazen display.
Darcie said in a kind of awe, "You mean this was once. . . a person?"
Max said, "Yes, an au pair exchange student from Denmark, I believe. She's been transformed into what we call our standard model. Fully functional, well-trained in all sexual techniques, utter compliant to her owner's wishes. This one has been voice-disabled by conditioning, except for love-making sounds. That way we could install silicone pads in her mouth and throat to create a small, tight channel--effectively converting her mouth into a second vagina."
Darcie studied the girl's face in fascination. "This make-up," she began--
"Imbedded permanently into the skin," answered Max. "Eye shadow, blush, lipstick, the works. She always looks her best and you never have to worry about getting lipstick on your collar. Or elsewhere."
Darcie noticed how the LoveDoll's lips had been pumped with collagen to the point where she could even open her mouth on her own. Darcie could only imagine the pleasure an owner would experience has he forced his manhood through those twin cushions of plump, moistened lips.
Max addressed the LoveDoll. "Turn around," he said crisply, and the LoveDoll instantly and gracefully complied. She spread her legs and bent over slightly to show off her sex, totally uninhibited. Max was saying, "The standard model can be commanded either by voice, as I did just then, or by this remote control." He hefted a remote control console in the palm of his hand and pressed a button. The LoveDoll turned again to face him. "Exquisite, don't you think?" he asked pleasantly to Darcie. "Each command has a unique electromagnetic signal implanted through conditioning in her mind. After so many repetitions, her conscious mind is bypassed altogether, and her body just responds automatically to the signals. Efficient, wouldn't you say?"
Darcie could only stare in amazement at this apparition of this sex goddess, programmed into obedience. "And all this conditioning," she asked, "it really works? Does she know what we're saying right now?"
"Not really, no. She's aware we're here, of course, but her cognitive ability has been disengaged except to respond to commands. We can restore it of course. But we uncovered an interesting side effect that prompted us to keep the LoveDolls under full mental control."
"Side effect?" asked Darcie. "What side effect?"
"They don't seem to age at all," said Max, and for the first time Darcie heard a note of wonder in his voice. "Something about the aging genes becoming disengaged with the rest. . .Forever young, forever beautiful. . ." His voice trailed off. Then he shrugged apologetically to Darcie. "Forgive me, it's the romantic in me. You can't help but admire them, can you? And she's fully functional, her vagina reconfigured for the maximum sexual pleasure to her user. But that is just one of the many options we offer. Here, I'll show you." He pressed another button on the control. The beautiful Doll gracefully sank down on her knees. Max was already pulling out his cock, with no sign of inhibitions himself.
Must be the romantic in him, thought Darcie.
The LoveDoll tilted her head back slightly, her tongue snaked over her lips to render them moist for easy entry. The tip of her pink tongue darted out to caress the underside of Max's manhood.
Darcie was no prude, and no stranger to oral sex. In fact, during her climb up the network ladder, a corporate V.P. who guarded the gate to her promotion made it clear he liked her on screen performances so much, he wanted to see what she could do behind closed doors. So Darcie always associated fellatio with those demeaning experiences, one offered reluctantly and only with the understanding that she was entitled to reciprocal service from her lover, or something of equal value.
The LoveDoll considered it anything but demeaning, apparently. Or didn't care. Or maybe Max was right, and her thoughts were completely replaced by her programming. For Darcie never saw a cock sucked with such adoring adroitness. The LoveDoll spent several minutes just running her lips and tongue along the shaft, occasionally swirling her tongue around the head of Max's throbbing cock. Her half-closed eyes followed Max's s every movement, and Darcie could almost feel her warm breath as he kissed and licked his balls with loving attention. Max entangled his hands into the beautiful Doll's glossy hair, and she allowed him to direct her mouth wherever his pleasure dictated, her full lips sliding all the way over his cock. Finally, when his cock was pulsing with a heat all its own, Max gripped her head hard and thrust himself deep inside her, fully sheathing himself down her eager throat. His gasp of pleasure reminded Darcie what he said earlier of converting the LoveDoll's mouth into a second vagina--in fact, as he penetrated in and out between the Doll's lips, Darcie could hear the suctioned slurping as her narrow-channeled mouth provided a perfect fit for his engorged manhood. The cheeks of the mind-controlled slut betrayed how her tongue working was furiously along her master's shaft. As the Doll's bouncing breasts brushing teasingly against Max's thigh's with every thrust, Darcie realized the Doll's entire mind and body were totally focused on bringing the ultimate pleasure to her owner. Max tightened his hold on her head and picked up the tempo of his thrusts, literally fucking her mouth, sheathing his cock to its base past those soft, yielding lips.
Max finally tensed and came hard. She gulped his seed down greedily, then swathed his withdrawn manhood with her tongue to clean him up. Max restored himself, and pressed the control device. The LoveDoll sank back on her heels, head lowered, her hands resting on her thighs, palm up, in the classic position of submission.
Darcie felt faint. She slowly sat down in one of the plush chairs. What had seemed to her to be a good story for her career had become a nightmare. To see a free woman methodically transformed into a sextoy was a notion so diabolical, so monstrous that it was beyond belief. But what really shook her was her own reaction to it--for one split second, she wanted to ask Max for the remote, and see what it was like to have the LoveDoll pleasure her. Darcie could swear when she looked into those large green eyes, she could see an unquenchable desire still burning like embers. She shook off the temptation.
"Well, Max, that was quite a show," she said huskily.
Max said, "That's just an all-purpose LoveDoll. Some of our more discerning clients have particular tastes and preferences that we try to fulfill. Come this way."
The next room featured one subject: a naked girl was strapped in one of the incubator-style chairs, this time with her crossed wrists manacled above her head. Darcie knew enough now about the clinic's mind control techniques to note the headphones securely attached to her ears, while a nearby computer flooded her brain with God-knows-what neurological imprints. The usual vaginal stimulator was in place, rhythmically pumping in and out and reinforcing those mental commands with cycles of sensual stimulation. But what caught Darcie's eyes immediately was the size of the girl's breasts. They were enormous--like twin volleyballs.
"Ah," said Max, "I see you've noticed our subject's prime feature. The buyer has a particular interest in, shall we say, busty girls. He's asked us if we can provide a LoveDoll for the a true connoisseur of large breasts. The subject --Brittany, her name was--was already blessed with good development when we acquired her. But our client wanted more. So our clinical staff developed a technique that is having marvelous results.. Since breasts this large would not be feasible with a single implant, the doctors have devised a procedure in which expandable pockets of saline solution are inserted in each breast, then pumped with more and more solution over time through those tubes to let the skin stretch."
Darcie followed with her eyes the clear bag of solution hanging from a stand over the strapped-down girl, with the steady drip of the liquid pressed by gravity through two plastic tubes that fed through tiny incisions at the base of her breasts. The breasts themselves were covered by transparent suction cups that repeatedly sucked the ripe breast flesh into the shaped domes with a steady massaging effect..
"Those are to shape and form the breasts as they get augmented," explained Max without being asked. "The client does not just want gigantic breasts. He wants gigantic perfect breasts. Oh, and notice that ointment spread over the breasts? That keeps the skin moist and stretchable, and also stimulates nerve growth. The slightest touch will cause spasms of pleasurable sensation." Max gave a little laugh. "Each time the client comes to inspect the progress, he says, a little larger, please.' It will take about a week more to get them to the desired dimensions."
"But to saddle a girl with those gargantuan mammaries," protested Darcie. "A week more of this, at the rate she's growing, she'll topple over if she tries to walk!"
"Oh, our training staff will instruct her how to walk, never fear. And walk in such a way as to make her breasts sway oh-so-invitingly. And of course we pay equal attention to the LoveDoll's mental conditioning. Here, listen to this," and he flipped a switch on the computer and handed Darcie a set of headphones. Darcie with a little frown reluctantly listened in to what was being piped into Britainy's brain that very instant:
"--love my big breasts... I love my big breasts....They make me look so pretty... I love the feel of Master's cock between my breasts...It makes me feel so sexy to have Master's cock between my breasts... I love my breasts--the bigger the better...I love to see my breasts in the mirror....My breasts are just for Master to play with...It makes me wet to have Master kiss my breasts...I don't ever want to cover my breasts, I want Master to see them all the time, to see how full and big they are...I love my big breasts..." Darcie could see how each lesson was reinforced by a surge of the vaginal stimulator. The girl's eyelids fluttered as her body writhed in an extended wave of sexual pleasure, the rounded globes jiggling in a most sensuous way. Even so, she shook her head weakly from side to side, as if still fighting the inexorable mind control training that was penetrating the deepest recesses of her mind.
"That's Brittany's actual voice, synthesized," said Max, replacing the headphones on the rack. We find it makes a deeper impression, almost like the subject talking to herself."
"And it works?" said Darcie, fascinated by image of the LoveDoll being molded physically and mentally into a programmed slut with giant tits.
"Most definitely. By the time we're finished with her conditioning, she won't be able to look at her breasts in the mirror without slipping into orgasm right then and there. And we've also been able to design some garments for her to wear that display her new form to the best advantage. A custom-designed LoveDoll--that's the direction our program is going."
As they watched, the overhanging bag of solution ran dry. Brittany--or the evolving LoveDoll that used to be Brittany--glanced up with shrouded eyes with what Darcie thought was a look of relief. But just then a clinician walked in, looking sassy in her high-hem skirt and lab coat, and efficiently swapped the empty solution bag for a full one. Brittany tilted her head up as high as it could go, and watched the suction cups draw the new flow of solution into another millimeter of size on her pink swollen breasts, glistening with the lubricating ointment. Brittany's head dropped back on the table, and she seemed to sigh in helpless resignation to the fact that her mind and body were was being gradually molded into a huge-breasted fucktoy. The relentless mental indoctrination coming through the headphones was obviously melting her will to resist.
Max pulled Darcie away by gently gripping her upper arm. "Come along," he said. "Our final room has what I consider our finest effort so far. In fact, we're in luck--the buyer stopped by today to test the state of our training."
Darcie left, but not without a backward glance at the strapped-in Brittainy, the clear plastic tubes pumping another surge of liquid into her swollen breasts.
As they returned back down the corridor, Darcie saw the strangest apparition coming the other way. Two women--one wore the traditional leather corset and high-heeled boots of the trainers that Darcie had seen in the work-out rooms. She was leading another girl who bore the unmistakable signs of being transformed into a LoveDoll--the full lips, shimmering bodysuit (obsidian black, on this one), and sculpted body/facial beauty. Her hair had been allowed to grow long, almost down to the small of her back, and brushed to a glossy sheen.
But this Doll was apparently undergoing specialized training. A pony-bit was clenched in her mouth. Her arms were pulled back behind her, elbows touching, and encased in a single glove that knitted seamlessly into her form-fitting corset. So her arms and hands were immobilized, shoulders pulled back, making her breasts--large and sumptuous even by the standards of the clinic--thrust proudly forward. Darcie could only marvel at the muscular thighs and calves that flexed every time the Doll took another exaggerated high step. The trainer behind her guided the Doll with a firm grip on reins that pulled on the bit, while her other hand carried a crop.
As they passed this strange pair, Darcie stopped. "Max, what is this all about?" she asked, her eyes wide with wonder. Max held up us hand.
"Whoa," the trainer said, pulling back on the reins. The LoveDoll stopped, panting through the bit, but staring blankly ahead.
"This is one of our earlier LoveDolls," said Max. "Her name is Christina. Her owner has developed an interest in erotic equestrian play, so we reprogrammed her LoveDoll's mind into that of a ponygirl."
Darcie studied the LoveDoll ponygirl. Up close she could see the elaborate system of straps and buckles that could be used for different restraints. The bit itself was a leather bar clenched between her teeth, with two shiny metal rings pressed back on her cheeks that served as the connection to the reins. The ponygirl's back was arched as she stood at attention on her high-heeled pony shoes. And either as a touch of whimsy or realism, a crested tail had been plugged between her firm asscheeks. Darcie tried to see some sign of humiliation or desperation in the LoveDoll's eyes, but all she could see was the familiar opaque doll-eyes, looking straight ahead. The girl's breasts rose and fell with the breath of her prior exertions.
Max regarded this amazing creature with a pleased look on his face. "I trust her conditioning is going well?" he asked the trainer.
"Yes, sir," answered the trainer. "Today we're learning how to canter. Aren't we, dear?" the trainer added to the ponygirl, stroking the Doll's thigh with her crop. "Miss Dunn still wants to use her for sex play, of course, so we're working out hand commands and other dressage techniques."
Max turned to Darcie. "This illustrates a point I mentioned earlier--the direction our operation is going. Once a LoveDoll has been commissioned, we can re-program them in the Incubator' into anything the owner wants. You can upgrade your standard LoveDoll to be--oh, a French Maid, complete with accent...a raunchy courtesan from the streets of New Orleans.. the high school cheerleader of your youthful fantasies. . ..or even this charming ponygirl. One of our clients even married his LoveDoll, God knows why. But it's what he wanted. It's just a question of jacking in a new program--and we have hundreds to choose from, with new ones being developed all the time. He turned back to the trainer. "Very well, proceed. I'll expect a report on her progress by the end of the week. The owner said to spare no discipline. It's my understanding she wants to enter her little filly in some races."
"Yes, sir," said the trainer. She snapped the reins. The ponygirl LoveDoll resumed her parade-ground prancing. "Knees high!" admonished the trainer, with a reminding smack of her riding crop on the ponygirl's asscheeks. The pair moved off down the corridor to the metronome click of the ponygirl's steel-shoed heels.
Something buzzed around in Darcie's mind. Dunn. . . Dunn. . . Then it clicked. "That owner--Miss Dunn, did you say? That wouldn't be Lydia Dunn, chief of the Sex Crimes Commission?"
"The very one," said Max cheerfully. "For a fee, Miss Dunn gave us protection from government interference while we built up our organization. "Christina was her rival at the Commission for several years, and actually assigned to infiltrate our organization. Naturally, Lydia worked with us to neutralize her. As an agent, Christina was smart and tough and posed a serious threat to us. Her conditioning as a LoveDoll was a most satisfying process. Miss Dunn acquired her as her personal sex-toy. Now Christina's only function is to please her Mistress--in any way her Mistress desires. A happy resolution to both of our problems, wouldn't you say?"
Darcie took one last backward look over her shoulder at the high-stepping ponygirl, her tail flicking back and forth. To be captured by these people, and changed forever into someone else's property! The thought made her shudder. And she again congratulated her own foresight in giving her assistant Louise the file on this demonic club as insurance against Darcie's own kidnaping. You have to take risks to get ahead, Darcie reminded herself. But as long as Max knew an outsider could still blow the whistle, Darcie figured she was safe enough. After all, Max was obviously an intelligent man who understood how he had been checkmated by Darcie's advanced planning. Otherwise, he would never be giving her this tour, would he? She thought.
But if Max was concerned by the trap he was in, he gave no sign of it as he pushed open some swinging doors to the strangest room yet.
Darcie stared at the large cage that dominated the room. The floor of the cage was matted straw. The bars gleamed chromium silver. A bowl of water was inside, as well as a large bin of some kind of dried food. Inside the cage was--a woman? A LoveDoll? A tigress?
Max was already talking. "This one was called Samantha, I believe. Very defiant, at first. But you see how we turned that feistiness to our advantage."
Samantha prowled on all fours inside the cage. Her hair was untamed, but gorgeous--a light brown, with streaks of blonde, thick locks tumbling untamed around her shoulders. Her body had been buffed and physically conditioned to steel-like muscular definition, like a professional body-worker. But that toughness was somehow highlighted by the feminine curves of her breasts and ass, and by the savage beauty of her face. Green eyes that smoldered at the two visitors with either lust or hostility or maybe both. Her only garment was a thick leather collar, its dark brown color a matching the copper tone of her tanned naked skin. A powerful scent of the woman's sex permeated the room. She resumed her pacing on hands and knees, back and forth, her muscles flowing like a panther.
A man entered the room. Khaki shorts and shirt, with brawny arms and a thick mustache. He wore thick leather handling gloves and carried a braided whip in one hand.
"This is the owner," whispered Max. "He's a great white hunter type, goes into the wilds every season. All this was his idea, the minute we showed him Samantha's marketing video."
"All of what?" asked Darcie.
"Just watch. We've kept Samantha on a diet rich with hormones--she's been in heat for the past three days. Frantic to mate."
Darcie watched as the owner unlocked the cage. Samantha backed into a corner with a threatening growl. The owner advanced, his boots crunching over the straw. Samantha's clawed hand lashed out. The man warily circled around her. Samantha's nostrils flared as she caught the man's scent, and the promise of long-deferred mating. Still she prowled along the edge of the cage, never taking her eyes off the intruder. Once, when she lashed out at him with her long fingernails, he cracked the whip without the leather tip touching her--more to control her than to hurt her, Darcie noticed.
The owner sprang forward with agility. His gauntletted hand grasped the steel ring on the woman's collar and he maneuvered himself behind her. Samantha fought back hard, teeth bared, hissing and clawing. But Darcie could see how Samantha was also being aroused in spite of herself. The man's whip cracked close to her ears and she cringed and froze at the unexpected sound. The owner seized the opportunity to press her shoulders down into the straw, leaving her ass high and vulnerable. He reached in and directed his already erect cock to thrust into the captured LoveDoll from behind. One thrust--and he was deep inside. Samantha's fighting died down, and her hisses of resistance became growls of pleasure as she allowed herself to be taken, to have that animal heat finally quenched. Cautiously, the owner released his hold on her collar, and slide his hands down over her back and flanks, finally gripping her hips with his leather gloves. Samantha began meeting his thrusts with her own, as she tossed her hair and panted in building passion.
Darcie stared in disbelief. They've turned this girl into a sex animal, she realized, and continued to watch with a horrified fascination. As he reached climax, the man's hand shot forward and grasped the mane of her hair, pulling the girl's head back as his cock rammed back and forth, taking her hard from behind. Samantha's emitted a kind of a low-throated mewing. Her back arched and her muscular body tensed, and they both came in shared spasm of sexual fulfillment.
Both man and tigress/LoveDoll shuddered, then slowly collapsed together in the straw. Samantha, look of glazed satisfaction in her half-lidded eyes, nuzzled close to the man. Her pink tongue came out, and she submissively licked the man's chest and shoulders and neck, still turned on by his salty taste. The owner, his chest still heaving with exertion, scratched the thick hair behind her ears, Max motioned to Darcie it was time to go, and they left the two in the cage.
"She's come along nicely, don't you think? She's been programmed to think she's his big cat. I understand he's built an entire walled landscape for her in his Kenya estates. Don't let that whip scare you. Deep down, he really loves his pets."
"His. . . pets, you say," muttered Darcie. She was too stunned to say anything else. The sights and sounds and revelations of this bizarre tour finally caught up to her, and she felt faint. The thought of turning women into custom-designed sex slaves was too diabolical to believe--yet here it was. She had to get out. . . she had to. . . Darcie found her eyelids growing heavy. The room seemed to spin around, and suddenly everything became misty and black.
She awoke with a start. Max was leaning over her, a concerned look on his face.
"Miss McVey, are you all right?" He had loosed her trenchcoat and was in the process of helping her sit up. Darcie tried to struggle to her feet. Max's hand, surprisingly strong, pulled her to standing. She smiled at him gratefully, then as her head cleared, she wiped the smile from her face and looked around, blinking. She said, "I guess I just. . . blacked out for a minute there."
"I can get a physician for you," offered Max.
"One of your merry medical staff? No thanks--I'm happy with my body the way it is, thank you. I don't want to find myself walking out of here with watermelon-size buttocks, or something exotic like that. Nice try, though."
Max laughed, genuinely amused. "The idea never crossed my mind, I assure you, Miss McVey. Perhaps we could return to the club and you rest a bit, and I can try to persuade you not to reveal our little operation here."
"Fat chance of that, Max. But I wouldn't mind sitting down. Did I hit my head on something? I got one helluva headache."
They made their way back to the club. The place rocked and pulsed with even more crackling energy than before. The hard-beat music throbbed with a hard hypnotic beat; the dancers on stage gyrated their sinuous bodies as if enslaved to the rhythm, the laughter and talk was louder, the colored stage lights flashed and dazzled--and almost every couch and chair was the scene of unabashed sex. Once again, Darcie was struck by the beauty of the women: not just pretty, but fashion-model gorgeous, but more curvaceous and full-bodied than any model. As she and Max were seated by the hostess at the foot of the dance stage, Darcie could not help but cast a sidelong glance at the couch next to them. There a striking brunette lay sideways, her head leaning on the armrest with a dreamy expression on her face, letting the club patron fuck her with steady thrusts of his cock deep between her thighs. Darcie quickly looked away, and her eyes lit on another table, where a guest admired the undulating dancer on the stage. His pleasure at the sight was obviously amplified by the redheaded vixen sitting next to him who expertly stroked his exposed cock with her tapering fingers in time to the music. From time to time she would lean forward and kiss the head of his cock lightly, then return to her massaging his lust-filled shaft. The girl glanced up, and Darcie happened to look straight into her eyes, the same opaque doll-eyes that she had seen in the LoveDolls in the clinic.
Suddenly it all became clear. No wonder all these girls in the club were so shamelessly subjugating themselves to the patrons' pleasure! They were all LoveDolls! Then another realization struck her.
"Max," she said suddenly, "This club--it's a showcase for your damn LoveDolls, isn't it? And the guests here--they're not just partying, having fun. They're. . . buyers."
Max bestowed a nod in her direction. "Very good, Ms. McVey. Yes, you are almost right.
Potential buyers, let us say. Some are just browsing. This lets them inspect the LoveDolls who have completed their basic conditioning. If they like what they see--and many of them do--then we can make the arrangements on the spot to fine-tune their acquisition to their tastes."
Darcie shook her head with a sort of disgusted wonder. The effort made her head ache even more. "You know, it's going to be a real service to my gender to shut this place down. You're just lucky I'm going to give you a head start before I air the show."
Max leaned forward and spoke deliberately to be heard over the beat of the music. "I thought we might have a chat about that, Ms. McVey."
"Yes. I have a proposition for you. The fact is, we've had our eye on you a long time, Ms. McVey. You have a great audience. People--especially young women--hang on your every word. Fashion, books, what's in, what's out--your opinion counts for a lot."
Darcie tilted her head sideways to look at Max. "Yeah, but what is all this leading up to?"
"Just this: We would like to offer you a job, Ms. McVey." She looked at him incredulously. "Now, just hear me out. We have great plans for our operation. Our biggest challenge has always been finding suitable recruits to reconfigure into LoveDolls. We always have far more orders to fill than LoveDolls to fill them with. So we have built a spa on a Caribbean island, totally owned by an offshore corporation." Max's eyes glowed with excitement. "We plan to make this spa a Mecca for young women only--at discount prices, and with a cruise to the island thrown in. Once we have the girls there, we can pick and choose which ones--the most beautiful, the cream of the crop, and the ones with the fewest bonds back home--to keep and reconfigure into LoveDolls. The rest will go home with glowing reports on what a lovely time they had on the beach and in the spa."
Darcie stared at the man. A kidnapping ring on a grand scale--with an endless source of young women to transform into sex slaves for sale to the highest bidder. What a scheme! It was monstrous--it was brilliant--
"That's where you come in, Ms. McVey," Max was saying in his terrifyingly reasonable manner. "We need a spokesperson to persuade these women to try out the spa. Somebody who has star quality, who they trust and want to emulate. Somebody like you, Ms. McVey."
Darcie could not believe what she was hearing. "Wait, let me get this straight," she spluttered. "I'm getting ready to expose you and your friends on national television. And you want me to--do commercials for you? Are you crazy? Is this some kind of a joke?"
"No joke, Ms. McVey. We think your talents would make all the difference."
"Well, I got news for you, Max. The only difference I intend to make is to shut down this whole weird operation!" And with that, she flung her arm out in a dramatic gesture to encompass the whole room of dancing, posturing and cavorting LoveDolls. But while making the gesture, her eye caught something and she did a double take.
A woman was being escorted between the tables by a trainer. The woman was a LoveDoll, no question of that, with her pouty lips and soul-empty look and shiny silver skintight bodysuit. But her breasts exceeded the bustlines of any of the other LoveDolls in the room. They ballooned our from her chest like twin basketballs, perfectly formed, jiggling like firm jello. She walked sensually with her back arched and her shoulders thrown back, as if proud to display those magnificent orbs.
Daphne's eyes narrowed in disbelieving recognition. That was the girl who was strapped into the breast-augmentation chair not fifteen minutes ago, before Darcie lost consciousness, she was sure of it. Yet, from across the room, while naked women sauntered past her line of sight and cigarette smoke curled upward to the stage lights, it was hard to say. . . As she watched, the LoveDoll was brought before a patron sprawling in a wingbacked chair. He obviously expected her, from the few brief words with the trainer. The huge-breasted leaned forward and let him fondle and stroke her smooth breasts. Even from that distance, Darcie could see the LoveDoll's eyes flutter in pleasure as his fingers kneaded the soft, yielding globes. Then the doll knelt gracefully between the man's legs, unzipped his suit trousers as if that was the most natural thing in the world, and expertly massaged his cock to a hard, throbbing erection. Then she cupped her breasts in her hands and pressed them against the patron's manhood. She played with her nipples while stroking his cock up and down between the warm soft pillows of those ripe, bouncing melons. Every now and then as his cock penetrated up through the enfolding channel of her breast-flesh, she would bend over and let her tongue swirl over the head of his cock, adding that moisture to the lubrication of her breasts. The kneeling LoveDoll threw her head back in abandon and Darcie caught a good look at her face. There was no question any more. Something was wrong here.
"Max," she said, her voice shaking, "that girl over that, with those incredible breasts--that's the same one we saw getting that boob job, isn't it?"
Max glanced over to where Darcie was looking. "Yes, I believe it is," he said calmly. He took off his rimless glasses and polished them thoughtfully with a handkerchief plucked from his top coat pocket.
Darcie continued, "But look at her breasts. They were ridiculously big to begin with. Now they're twice that size. You said she wouldn't be ready for a week."
Max put his glasses back on, and Darcie noticed how his eyes glinted with a kind of amused superiority. A tremor of uneasiness passed through her. "Yes, that's correct, Ms. McVey."
Darcie spoke very slowly. "Then what is she doing here now?"
Max said, "You said it yourself. It took a week."
"But. . .but a week hasn't gone by. That was just a few minutes ago."
"Actually, it has. A week and two days, to be precise. We needed that time for your own conditioning."
"Yes. Do you remember when you felt faint, at the last stage of our tour? And that drink you had earlier here, in the club? We included a powerful sedative in your drink."
"But I switched drinks with you!" Darcie protested, her voice sounding shrill and far away.
"So you did. But you see, my dear, both drinks had the sedative, and only one of us took the antidote beforehand." Again, that small, confident smile. Darcie wanted to smash his face in. Could it possibly be true? Unbidden, she raised her hand to the back of her head, underneath her hair, and touched lightly with her fingertips. Her heart seemed to stop--yes, there it was. A small metallic insert, exactly like the those implanted in the other LoveDolls, for "jacking in" the virtual-reality programs of the conditioning process. My God, she thought. I've been programmed.
"Why, Max? Why the charade? If you wanted to kidnap me, you could just do it? Why string me along like this?"
Max steepled his fingers. "Ah, now we have come to the heart of it. We needed to find out something, Ms. McVey. You see how we can condition the LoveDolls to be anything an owner might want, any fantasy at all. In your case, we had to know if you could be conditioned to be. . . yourself."
"Myself? What do you mean?"
"Before we used your talents to promote the spa, we had to make sure you could perform just like you did before. If you became a mannequin, like the rest of our LoveDolls, then the whole plan would have to dropped." Max leaned back in his chair. "But I am glad to say, Ms. McVey, they you have laid our fears to rest. It looks that star quality came through your programming unblemished.
Darcie stared at him, her mind churning. She had one hope left. . .
"You forgot one thing, Mister," she spat out with all the venom she could muster. "If I've been gone for a week, you can bet your scheming ass that the police are out hunting for me right now. You seem to forget I told someone who I was meeting." And Darcie fervently prayed that little airhead Louise had done exactly what she was told.
Max furrowed his brow for a minute and then looked up, his face brightening. "Oh, yes... your insurance', as you called it. A confidant. Someone you could trust. Someone, for instance, like your assistant back at the studio."
Darcie felt as if an ice shaft had thrust into her heart. "Did you do anything to her?" she asked hoarsely.
Max shrugged and said, "Let's ask her ourselves, shall we? Louise, did we do anything to you?"
Darcie whirled in her chair. Standing behind her was Louise. But not the old, frumpy Louise with her too-big glasses and her god-awful hair. This Louise carried herself with assurance, her make-up was perfect, her hair swept back to look both athletic and alluring. Her figure was flawless--so that what was under those baggy sweatshirts all these months!
And she was dressed in the leather outfit of a trainer.
"No, sir," Louise answered. "I'm feeling quite fine. Her eyes slid over to Darcie. "Good evening, Ms. McVey. Nice to see you among us." And Darcie noticed with a chill that Louise's eyes had the same emotionless serenity as the LoveDolls.
"Louise!" cried Darcie. "They got you too!"
Louise said, "They got me a long time ago, Ms. McVey."
Max broke in. "Louise is too modest. She is actually a special case. Right from the start we knew she would make an excellent trainer. And she made an even better infiltrator into your television network. It was not hard to slip her into the role of your assistant; the turnover in that position was notorious and common knowledge. I'm afraid, Ms. McVey, that you have something of a reputation of being a bitch to work for. So nobody else wanted the job. Except our Louise."
Darcie stared at Max in sudden comprehension. "You mean...Louise was planted as my assistant? What for? What's going on?" She fought to keep panic out of her voice.
"Why, to lure you here, of course. We knew you were upset at being merely an ornament', as you put it, at the network--another pretty face for another silly talk show. It didn't take too much imagination to guess that if the chance for a serious journalist scoop came your way, you would jump at it. Our estimate was, you would climb over anybody in your way to get that story."
"Even the dowdy little assistant who brought it to you," added Louise, with a cruel, mocking smile at Darcie.
Darcie fought down an urge to make a dash for the door. "You mean, I was. . . set up?"
"Nicely put in your American slang, Ms. McVey," said Max. "But don't let that trouble you. Once your conditioning takes hold, you won't feel the need to keep a thought in your head. Just those thoughts that we put there."
Darcie stared wildly around. Her eyes darted down at the table, and lit upon the wine list placed there by the waitress. Only now. . .the letters made no sense--just meaningless squiggles on the page. I can't read anymore! she thought hysterically. I'm becoming a brainless bimbo!
Max leaned back in his chair. "Now," he said, "I believe we were discussing you becoming a spokesperson for our new spa."
Darcie leaped to her feet. "If you think I'm actually going to help you with this sick and twisted enterprise, you're crazy! I won't. I can't!" She looked wildly for an exit.
Max said, "I think you would be surprised at what you can do." Then, before she could make a dash for the door, Max's voice rapped out, "Stand still!"
Max continued with the same rough-edged commanding tone. "Take off your clothes. All of them. Now."
As if in a dream, Darcie felt her will dissolving into non-thinking obedience. She watched herself strip, the trenchcoat first, then the rest, garment by garment, until she stood unabashedly naked before him and the leering Louise.
"Turn around!" Max said. Darcie tried to fight back, gritting her teeth, but she felt her body pirouette of its own accord. She blushed in humiliation, knowing she was being made to show off her body for his pleasure. Why am I doing this? she asked herself desperately. How could I be conditioned and not even know it?
"Position Four." Darcie sank gracefully to her knees in front of him. How did he make me do that? He mind screamed silently. I didn't even know what "position four" is. Unless. . . unless it's been drilled into my brain by the mind-control conditioning. . .She watched in frozen helplessness as he withdrew a remote control device from his pocket. She thought, surely he's not going to make me--
Max deftly pressed one of the controls. Darcie found herself leaning forward, her fingers already undoing Max's trousers, her hand reaching inside to caress and stroke his cock. Her hand glided up and down his manhood, lovingly coaxing it to its maximum and impressive erection. It was as if her body belonged to somebody else, she thought in a panic. Then she realized--it did. To Max. She was now his property. His toy. His. . . LoveDoll. But without thinking about it, already her lips had parted, her tongue flicked out. Her brain was hardwired for passion, her eyes transfixed on his cock. Even though she did not consciously know what to do, her subconscious knew what she wanted. . .needed. . . craved.
Darcie was no prude, but nothing in her experience had taught her how to suck cock with the sensuous technique she now displayed. The tip of her tongue played with the head of his cock, then slid down to lap gently at the underside of his gland. From time to time her pursed lips would kiss along the shaft, then trail up to take the head of his cock fully in her mouth. Her tongue and lips coaxed his cock to the its absolute hardest, then she began going down on him in earnest. Lower and lower her encapsulating lips plunged over his cock, while her tongue and cheeks compressed against his shaft as if to squeeze every ounce of pleasure from it. Darcie was beyond notice when his hands gripped her head and he proceed to ram his cock in and out of her slavering mouth with well-practiced vigor. Her mouth began salivating at the prospect of swallowing his cum...
But Max's finger pressed another button on the remote, and Darcie found herself drawing her mouth off his glistening cock. She rose like an automaton in obedience to this new command and leaned backward against the table, then further back, until she was actually lying on her back over the linen-covered table top, legs drawn up wantonly, head thrown back, her hair fanning out over the edge.
Max rose to his feet as well. He positioned himself against her, his hard, lubricated cock pressing between her love lips. Then he thrust forward. Darcie gasped in delight. Max's cock sank deep inside her pussy, then he pulled back out, then he thrust even deeper inside. He leaned ever further over her, arms on either side of her torso for balance, and proceeded to fuck her right there on the table.
A warmth spread from deep in Darcie's pussy to radiate throughout her whole body. Never had she been this aroused! Her full breasts jiggled with every pounding thrust, the nipples as hard and erect as she had ever experienced. She seemed to be writhing in rhythm to some subliminal beat to the dance music. And to that small corner of Darcie's mind that still observed what was going on in stunned detachment, she realized she was no different from any of the other LoveDolls in the club being played with by their owners. Occasionally one of the other patrons would look up from his own pleasure to give their table a lascivious glance, but it was more like "comparison shopping" than any particular interest in Darcie's plight--being ravished right out in the open, with her shamelessly moaning with pleasure. Waitresses walked by without even noticing as Darcie's pelvis began bucking slavishly to meet each of Max's thrusts.
Then Max began to build toward a climax. Faster and faster his cock rammed in and out of her soaking pussy. Darcie felt her own pussy beginning to contract and spasm as it coaxed the fullest possible friction out of Max's manhood. Her hands gripped the linen tablecloth, the thick folds clutched between her grasping fingers. As Max exploded inside her, Darcie felt her back arch and her mind go numb as the mind-conditioning treatment amplified her own orgasm. Her pleasure-wracked body, glistening in sweat, slumped back on the table, tremors still coursing through her soaking vagina.
Soon her mind cleared and she slid off the table. Max was already sitting back in his chair, looking quite satisfied. Louise looked at her with the hint of a smile on her cruel, beautiful face.
Max took a sip of his drink. He said, "I trust you see what I mean, when I say that you'd be surprised at what you can do."
Darcie tried to reply, come back with some threat or insult or anything at all. But all she could do was stand there, like a mannequin on display, waiting passively for her next instruction.
Max said, "I think it's your turn on stage." And he nodded to the stairs leading up to the elevated stage floor. "Oh, and you'll need this collar." He gave it to Louise, who deftly snapped it around her bare neck. If Darcie had not lost her ability to read, she would have seen her name etched in front. As it was, she understood she just needed the collar--felt naked without it. Darcie turned like mind-controlled slut she had become, and mounted the stairs, her hips swaying seductively. When the music began its hypnotic beat, and the colored lights began flashing in syncopation to the dazzling flashes in her brain, Darcie began dancing. Her hands slid over her body, squeezed her own breasts. She undulated and pranced and postured, using dance moves that had been drilled into her brain by a 100,000 virtual-reality repetitions in the mind-control chair, her body getting hotter by the second, her thoughts now channeled into the one hope that she might excite a club patron enough--it didn't matter which one--so that he might want to fuck her. Not seduce her, not make love to her--but fuck her hard like slut she had become. So Darcie danced with erotic abandon, surrendering to the music. Her career, her freedom, her hatred of Max--all these seem to evaporate under those flashing stage lights. The important thing was to be the perfect sex toy for whoever was selected for her. . .
But Max had other plans for her.
Two months later, Darcie's smiling face could be seen in a head-and-shoulders shot on the video monitor. It was a setting in which she would have felt quite at home, in her earlier life: a television studio.
Darcie looked directly into the camera, her face perfectly made up and her eyes sparkling.. "Hi there, girls!" she said. "I know a lot of you have wondered why I decided to leave my talk show. Well, I must confess--I've been indulging myself these past few weeks at a new health spa. The name is "For Girls Only", and they took such great care of me, I knew I had to get involved. So I've said ta-ta to my talk show, and agreed to become the chief spokeswoman for this marvelous resort." The view cut to a interior pool, with massage tables, fountains, and beauty-chairs. Women lounged about, some being massaged, others getting pedicures and facials, and other simply relaxing and talking at the pool. All the women looked attractive and very happy. (The camera was too far back for a viewer to see their opaque doll eyes, and wrapped towels and free-flowing hair styles hid any trace of the metal jacks at the back of their heads).
Darcie's silky voice continued the voice-over. "At the For Girls Only Spa, each client is treated like a princess. At this exclusive island resort, the staff is dedicated to providing everything you need to make you a new person. The latest workouts, steam baths, beauty-aids and body works are all yours, in a surprisingly low cost package." The camera returned to the close up of Darcie. "So apply now, because reservations are limited, by calling the toll-free number at the bottom of the screen. Let me make this personal invitation enjoy to this marvelous new world of pampering. At this spa, it truly is a girl's world', as I used to say on my show before joined these wonderful people" she concluded perkily. "So see you there!"
Max leaned over and snapped off the large screen television with a flourish. director of Marketing and Louise, both sitting across from him. "That ad ran last week in six select metropolitan markets in North America. The response has exceeded our expectations. We now have on file over eight hundred applications. The staff has made an initial culling, and it looks like out of that total we have at least two hundred good candidates for conversion into LoveDolls. Natural beauty, limited family and boyfriend connections, psychological aptitude for servitude--the questionnaires and photos give us excellent background. I trust that solves our supply problem."
The Director of Marketing beamed. "Max, you are to be congratulated. You hit the mother load--an unlimited source of potential LoveDolls. And the idea of basing all this on an island resort, far from surveillance or government interference--well, that was just brilliant."
Max nodded. "It really is a world-class spa, you know," he said. Most of the women will go back home, looking tanned and fit and bubbling with good thing say about the service they received. And why not? The cost is being subsidized by the sale of those that remain with us, to be converted into marketable LoveDolls. But you know, we should also give credit where credit is due. Our little celebrity really showed off her star quality." And he turned slightly in his chair to smile at Darcie. "Well done on that presentation, Ms. McVey."
But Darcie did not respond. She didn't speak, except when they trotted her out for more commercials at the spa's private television studio. She knelt on hands and knees, head upraised, back arched, breasts jutting coquettishly for easy handling, quite naked except for her high-heeled strap-pumps, upon the upraised pedestal at the far side of Max's office, her exquisitely maintained body on display. The platform slowly revolved, one turn every five minutes, so that anybody who watched could see every curve and contour of her body as she maintained this lascivious posture. Her augmented breasts swayed slightly with the motion, and her hips undulated in a manner designed to stimulate the male libido. As the platform completed the revolution while Max was talking, Darcie gracefully moved into another position, by slowly lowering herself submissively to her elbows, her nipples of her full, swaying breasts barely brushing the surface of the platform. Her tongue flicked out to keep her lips moist and inviting, making her look even more infinitely desirable. This how she spent much of her day, as living sculpture in Max's office.
"You know," said Max, "I don't know why Ms. McVey objected so much to being--how did she put it?--ornamental. She does it so well." He studied the upraised ass of the girl as it slowly turned to face him, the thighs nicely toned and spread invitingly wide. "Oh, I rather fancy that," he murmured. He kept her remote control on a tasteful mount on his desk. Throughout the day, he would use her as the mood took him, beckoning her over for a head job as he talked to agents in the far-flung network of their LoveDoll ring. Or, if he was entertaining a prospective client, he might casually toss them Darcie's remote and bid them to indulge themselves. And who wouldn't want that, to ravish the sexually-charged LoveDoll who had once been such a television celebrity?.
"Louise," said Max, "while we are passing around compliments, I must say you have done a marvelous job with her. It takes only a few sessions of mind-conditioning to imprint these speeches in her brain and she never drops a line in the taping of these commercials. Judging from the response to the spa ads, there's quite a population of young women who still hang on her every word. We'll be doing another commercial tomorrow."
"Thank you, sir," said the trainer modestly. She looked at Darcie with a mocking, hard-edged smile. "Although I'm not sure she's giving us a full hundred percent, yet." Louise withdrew the flogger attached to her leather corset and slid its deceptively supple strands along Darcie's trembling skin. "But we're getting there, aren't we, dear? I'll give her another motivation session before the next showtime."
Darcie blinked. The Director of Marketing and Louise left the room.
Max's intercom buzzed. "The first boatload of girls are disembarking, sir. You said you wanted to be notified."
"Thank you," said Max. "Please patch in the dock-cam." He switched on the television screen again. A cruise ship could be seen moored in the distance of the aqua-marine bay, and the landing boat was just tying up at the dock. A group of nubile young women, laughing and talking excitedly among themselves in the bright sun, were being escorted to the spa. Max knew before the week was out, the best and most beautiful of them would be transformed into docile sex slaves, conditioned to serve their new masters. Those fresh-faced expressions and innocent smiles would soon be smoldering with programmed lust. The thought made his manhood stir. He glanced at his watch--he had just enough time before the next meeting. Max studied the lovely form of Darcie on the pedestal. She was gracefully shifting into another position, choreographed long ago as part of her conditioning, as she leaned back and supported herself with one elbow, while her hand sensuously massaged her sex between the wide-spread thighs. Max gazed at his LoveDoll, letting his mind romp with the possibilities of how to use her this time. Then he reached for the remote control. . .