Saturday, November 22, 2014

A Tough Act to Swallow now out

Hey, my very patient fans. Sorry about the hiatus - rough summer that turned into a rough autumn, no need to go into details. On the up side, I finished a new story late last night, and my editor vetted it this morning, so without further ado, my latest title:

It's the same one referenced in my last blog post. Here's the promotional excerpt:

The sound of snapping fingers jolted me to awareness. I felt dazed, like I’d woken from a nap… one where I’d been dreaming about something very good. My eyes and mouth were bone dry, and it felt like every drop of moisture I’d lost there had ended up right between my legs. My stiff nipples rubbed against my blouse, every breath making it feel like someone was rubbing them. My cheeks burned as I rose to consciousness.
Then I opened my eyes, and saw that I was on stage, and my blush deepened furiously. An audience of dozens of people were watching me. I struggled to remember what had happened. The last thing I’d known, I had gone out with my friends Jenny and Carol to see a hypnosis act for our girl’s night out. It had been Jenny’s birthday wish, of course.
Jenny had been eccentric for as long as I’d known her. Every birthday was an exercise in crazy. When she was seven, she’d made her favorite Barbie into a punk rocker with food coloring. Last year, it had been horse riding lessons, and the year before that, a trip to Ecuador for reasons that still eluded me. This year, she just happened to want a stranger inside her head, and I’d come along on a lark.
I just didn’t understand how I’d ended up on stage too. The last thing I remembered was sitting down to watch the show. Right now, the stage hypnotist had his back to us, facing the crowd, and I realized I didn’t even remember what he looked like.
For a brief moment, I considered making my escape: there was a fire exit beyond the stage, and my purse was on the ground beside me. All I had to do was get up and make a dash for it. The only trouble was that my whole body felt leaden. Exhausted. I couldn’t budge a whole finger, much less stand and move.
The hypnotist asked the audience, “Now that we have our volunteers, you’d like to hear from them, wouldn’t you?”
The audience cheered, but I hardly heard them. It felt as though they were very far away. All that mattered was his voice: it was magic, sending little thrills up and down my spine. The notion of fleeing evaporated like the morning dew, and I stared at him with renewed appreciation.
Thanks for waiting for me. I'm already at work on the next one. I've missed being here very much.

It's already available on Smashwords. Per the usual, I'll offer more links to purchase as soon as it clears my various vendors. :)

- Jessie

Friday, August 29, 2014

Teaser for a new story

I'm still alive and writing. Sorry about the hiatus. Here's the prelude to a new story I'm working on, (you're seeing it before my editor). I'll get it out as fast I can - life has been distracting, lately:

Peter Owens had the sort of voice I could listen to for hours, even if all he was doing was reading the phone book. It was deep, smooth and confident, no matter what subject he chose. That was why there wasn’t even a hint of hesitation when he asked, “George, when’s the last time Nikki here sucked your dick?”
I should have jumped. A small part of me wanted to, but it was easier to just sit quietly on the couch. My brain was sort of foggy, as though I’d had a lot more wine than I remembered drinking with dinner.
My husband George looked similarly mellow. His expression was slack, his big brown eyes glassy and unfocused. He blinked in sleepy confusion and asked dully, “Huh, Pete?”
“Nikki,” Peter nodded at me and explained patiently, “I want to know the last time this hot piece of ass got on her knees and took your cock in her mouth. And,” he leaned forward and added firmly, “You want to tell me that.”
‹Hot piece of ass.›
I quivered at the description, feeling my cheeks flush. Peter knew better than to talk about me like that, much less to my husband, but it didn’t matter: I wanted him to go on.
George didn’t seem to mind either, although he was usually pretty protective of me. He shifted slightly in his big, comfy chair and said, with a small frown, “Nikki doesn’t suck cock, Pete.”
My cheeks burned at his admission. I couldn’t believe George was telling someone, even such a close friend, something so intimate about our love life.
Peter turned to me. His own wine glass was half full, and still in his hand. He made eye contact, his crystal blue eyes meeting mine as he asked, “Why won’t you suck your poor husband’s cock, Nikki?”
It took every ounce of willpower to keep my mouth shut. I bit my lip and offered him a tiny, apologetic shake of my head. I wanted to actually say something, but I knew that if I opened my mouth, I’d just answer him.
Peter leaned forward and said firmly, “You want to tell me every intimate detail. We’re such old friends.”
‹Tell me every intimate detail.›
‹Old friends.›
A thrill ran down my spine, and I shuddered. He was right, of course. Maybe the wine really had affected my brain: I’d forgotten what good friends we were, and how much I wanted to talk to him about my sex life.
My blush deepened, but I opened my mouth and said, “… it’s dirty…” I sounded half asleep. More than that, my voice sounded small, far younger than normal.
“What,” Peter sounded amused, “George doesn’t shower? I’ll admit I don’t want to check that closely, but he smells fine to me.” He added, voice going all firm again, “Explain yourself.”
‹Explain yourself.›
That didn’t feel like conversation. It felt like Peter was ordering me to speak. The thought made feel tingly and moist. I answered dreamily, “… no, blowjobs… are slutty… dirty…”
Stringing together a sentence was so hard, on nights like these.
Peter turned to George and asked him, “Is that what Nikki told you, Georgie?”
My husband nodded slowly and agreed, “… uh huh…” His voice sounded as sleepy as mine, now.
“How do you feel about that?” Peter asked gently, “Don’t you wish your hot little wife would get on her knees and blow you, George?”
“… yuh huh…” George agreed dully.
‹Hot little wife.›
“I want you to picture that,” Peter continued, “Nikki here, right on the rug. Picture her looking up, holding eye contact as her lips wrap right around your shaft. You can picture that in your mind, can’t you?”
George’s answer was obvious at a glance: his nice gray slacks were tented with an erection. Still, he breathed eagerly, “… yessss…”
‹Picture that in your mind.›
I squirmed in my seat a bit, listening to them talk about me like I wasn’t even there. It was making me wet a lot faster than just the orders and praise.
If Peter noticed my reaction, he didn’t comment on it.Instead, he kept his focus on my husband as he said, “I can help you with that, George. Nikki and I are old friends. I bet I can make her see how wrong she is. You would really love that, wouldn’t you, George?”
My husband nodded, faster this time, and agreed eagerly, “Yesss…”
“In fact, George,” Peter continued, “You really want to watch. The idea of having someone teach your wife to suck dick is the hottest thing you can think of. Try thinking of something hotter. You can’t, can you George?”
George shook his head and moaned, “… nuh-uh…”
“That’s good,” Peter said, “I’ll tell you what: you have my permission to whip it out, while Nikki and I are working. Go right ahead and jerk off, if you get too turned on. That’s really nice of me. Thank me, George.”
‹Teach your wife to suck dick.›
‹Whip it out.›
Peter’s words were meant for my husband, but they still bounced around in my brain, wiping away anything else on my mind. My heart pounded in my chest, even though my body felt sluggish and heavy, and I could feel moisture trickling down the insides of my thighs.
Watching George’s reaction didn’t help at all. He fumbled with his fly, fingers clumsy and useless. Even as he worked to unbutton his fly, he said dreamily, “… thanks, Pete…”
That was jarring enough that I found my voice. I managed to whisper, “What… are… you… doing?”
Peter rose and stepped toward me. He was already a head taller than I was, so he towered over me while I was sitting down. He looked down at me, smiled indulgently, and said, “Poor girl. You’re having such a hard time thinking. It’s like your head is full of fog, thick as pea soup. It’s wet and slippery and irresistible. The harder you try to fight it, the thicker it gets.”
‹Hard time thinking.›
The words seemed to fill my head. I tried to remember what we’d even been talking about, but I couldn’t focus. All I could hear were Peter’s words, echoing in my brain over and over. I wondered hazily if he was talking about me: I was certainly wet and slippery. I opened my mouth to say so, but all I could muster was a soft little groan.
Peter reached down and stroked my hair affectionately, the way he might pet a cat or dog. He said, “Really, all your pretty head has room for are my words. You can think of nothing else. You don’t mind, though. It feels good.”
‹Think of nothing else.›
‹Feels good.›
That was certainly true. I stared forward, taking in absolutely nothing that I saw. All that really mattered was that Peter’s wonderful words were filling my brain. I favored him with a big, vacant smile and leaned into his touch.
“Now, I’m your oldest, dearest friend,” Peter assured me, “Repeat that back for me.”
“… now,” I parroted softly, “… oldest… dearest… friend…”
“But there’s more than that between us,” Peter continued confidently, “We were lovers once, and that was the most intense sexual experience you ever had in your life.” His fingers drifted to my cheek, brushing against my bare skin as he finished, “That’s very true, isn’t it, Nikki?”
“… uh huh,” I agreed, suddenly keenly aware of how close Peter was, and how stiff he looked beneath his slacks. I stared fixedly as he unzipped.
I'm looking forward to wrapping that and getting it published for you. Hope all of you are doing well! :)

Wednesday, May 7, 2014


I'm offering a couple bundles of previously published stories, in case anybody wants to catch some reruns at a reduced price:

This has all three of the Conditioned to Serve titles. So far, it's up on Smashwords.

This one features Camera Shy, ReGifted and Hack Her. This one's available on Smashwords right now too.

I'll get a new story back out ASAP, and in the meantime, thanks for reading. :)

Friday, April 25, 2014

If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

Here's the latest:

And a brief sample:

The boardwalk was bustling with activity: countless men and women in skimpy outfits, blowing off steam on a glorious Saturday afternoon. It was mid-June, and the weather was absolutely perfect. Even the most clueless mind-blind could sense the excitement, overhear it in the raucous laughter and carefree conversations all around. The scent of it was in the air, as sure as suntan lotion and sweat.
Of course, I could feel it more keenly, whether I wanted to or not. Even with my barriers firmly in place, I could feel the psychic presence of the throng all around me. The pressure was constant and intense, little whispers and snippets of emotion leaking through. Really, it felt more like I was beneath the ocean than beside it. Unfinished snippets of pop jingles bubbled all around me like foam, while sexual tension seethed all around me like the undertow. I could pick out the odd stray thought even through the shield. Right now, a man was staring fixedly at my bikini-clad ass from across the way.
So that’s why I almost missed it when the hot dog vendor repeated himself, “That’ll be eight dollars, miss.”
‹Dumb bitch is probably high. Nice tits though.›
The irritation and frank appraisal did a better job of catching my attention than his nasal voice.
I didn’t let my own annoyance show. Instead I slapped on a big, toothy grin and replied, “Oh, sorry. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” Then I reached into my purse and slipped a one dollar bill out of my billfold. As I did it, I let my barriers slip.
The boardwalk lit up like the Vegas strip. Everyone glowed with their own special inner light, like little stars… You know, if the stars were obsessed with sex, fueled by beer and made you frustrated instead of warm. Being someplace so crowded, it was almost blinding.
Of course, the noise was the point. Moreover, amid the chaos, nobody could hear my abilities. I extended a thin tendril of my own light into the scrawny hot dog vendor’s head, shimmering icy blue and focused on a single suggestion:
«This is twenty dollars.»
The illusion was about more than words, or the command to believe. As I offered the bill, I focused on the image of a crisp, clean twenty laid over it. I could almost see it too. Being able to fool yourself was the first step in being a good Pusher. Inflexible minds didn’t last long.
The others liked to emphasize that.
The vendor took the dollar, and gave me twelve back. He said, “Good day,” only thinking, ‹Moron.›
“You too,” I smiled sweetly as I tucked away the ‘change’ and picked up my lunch.
As I turned away, his frustration with me segued into the beginnings of a vibrant but improbable scenario involving his cock and my ass, so I swiftly raised my barriers again. The first rule of reading minds was knowing when to shut it all out. Even controlling them was less important than that.
Maybe ten minutes later, I found a spot on a bench and ate my lunch, wondering what the day would bring.

It's available on Smashwords and Amazon. I'll update for Nook ASAP.

Hope you all enjoy it, and thanks for reading. :)

Friday, April 11, 2014

Industrial espionage... that's a paddlin'.

Here's the latest work:

It's about a young woman who has been implanted with a mind control chip... only to get hacked by figures wanting to steal the plans for it. Spankings abound - just had them on my mind this week.

Here's an excerpt:
“Turn around and look at me,” Mr. McNeil commanded firmly.
I turned around. I opened my mouth to say something, but no words would come out.
“Tell me,” he continued, “Precisely how late you are.”
My eyes flicked down to my watch, and I said, “Sixteen minutes and twelve seconds, Sir. But-”
“Come here, set down your purse and place your hands on the table, palms down,” my boss cut me off, rising from his seat. He set his phone on the table.
I tried to talk again, but my mouth just hung open stupidly. I walked to him, letting my purse slide off my shoulder and onto an empty seat. Then I bent forward and planted my hands on the table’s smooth, cool surface. I turned to look at Mr. McNeil, wondering what he was going to do.
He stepped beside me and asked, “Why were you late, Riley?”
I wanted to lie, to blame it on traffic, but all that would spill out of my traitorous mouth was, “I overslept, Sir.”
“That’s very naughty,” Mr. McNeil said. His voice was still stern, but there was a bulge in his slacks. He asked me, “Wasn’t it, Riley?”
I knew my boss liked the way I looked. I’d caught a few glances checking me out. But he had never, in the seven months I’d been working here, ever made an inappropriate comment or tried to touch me.
This was new and frightening.
Eyes wide at the knowledge this was turning him on, right in front of a group of strangers, all I could do was whisper, “Yes, Sir.”
“Tell me how naughty you were, Riley.” He was insistent.
I replied, voice still soft, “Very naughty, Sir.” My fingers clenched a bit at the table at the admission. All I could think was that maybe I was having a bad dream, like the kind where you’re naked in front of your whole class in school. Maybe I would wake up any moment…
Mr. McNeil continued, “What would you do to keep your job, Riley? Would you accept a punishment other than firing?”
I looked down at the table, not wanting to think about the bulge in his pants. I had to be dreaming. There was no way he would talk like this in front of half a dozen witnesses. Feeling a little more brave at the realization, I tried to put a little confidence in my voice when I refused him…
Except that all that came out of my mouth was, “Yes, Sir.”
“Tell me, Riley,” he asked, “Were you ever spanked as a child?”
“Yes, Sir.” My mouth, no longer at all under my control, seemed determined to make me die of shame.
Mr. McNeil’s hand touched my lower back. The contact was light, barely there, but it was still unexpected enough to make me flinch. He asked me, “Do you think that spanking is an appropriate punishment for a naughty girl?”
I’m not a girl, I wanted to say, I’m a college graduate. The thought was intense enough to help me keep my stupid mouth shut even if I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

It's available for sale on SmashwordsAmazon and Nook.

Thanks again for your support. :)

Friday, February 28, 2014

I, for one, welcome our reptilian overlords...

So, here's the latest:

It's the same story I talked about last time: the classic story of a girl abducted and enslaved by reptilian aliens. It's now available on SmashwordsAmazon and Nook.

This one took a little longer than I'd hoped, but the story itself is over 25000 words, which is always fun.

Hope you all enjoy it, and thanks for reading. :)

Tuesday, January 28, 2014

One year since I went live.

Technically, I guess yesterday was my one year anniversary as a writer. I mean, for pay rather than for my personal satisfaction: I've been picking at stories on the side... well. Always.

I realize things are slower here than they used to be, but it's actually been because things are going pretty well for me. This has been a nice year, and it's afforded me time to work on other projects, as well as the erotica. So, thanks everybody. I appreciate your support. Writing's loads of fun.

Here's a sneak peek at the story currently occupying me - no promises about when I'll be finished, or if it's the next one out, but I figured the best way to celebrate a day like to today would be to share a piece of the rough draft I'm working on:

Chapter One

A loud chime woke me from a deep sleep, setting my heart pounding like a frightened rabbit’s. I had no idea what I’d been dreaming, but it had been intense. My whole body was coated in a thin sheen of sweat, and I felt other moisture between my thighs.
For a moment, I ignored all of that and took a few deep breaths to try and calm down. It helped: despite the sound of ringing bells, I felt better. That is, I felt better until I tried to reach out and turn my alarm off.
I couldn’t move, not one inch.
My first thought was to wonder if I’d been in an accident. Maybe I’d been in a wreck, and I was lying in a hospital bed, trussed up to keep broken arms and legs from moving. Maybe a nurse would come by soon, happy to know that I was awake.
The only problem with that idea was that it didn’t make much sense. I could feel my arms and legs, but there wasn’t a hint of pain or numbness, just the leaden warmth of drowsiness. Every inch of my skin was bare, rather than bound in rope or covered by a cast. Beyond that, I couldn’t even open my eyes, nor make any noise at all.
With every passing moment, it seemed less like I was injured and more like my body simply refused to budge. Even stranger, I realized that I wasn’t lying in a bed. I was flat on my back on a smooth, hard surface. It felt like a slab of metal or plastic, except that I would expect either of those things to be cool to the touch, and wherever I was, at least it was warm enough.
Whatever was happening, I was as helpless as I had ever been in my life. So I laid there, feeling my heart speed up again, and tried not to panic.
After what might have been seconds or minutes to my sense-deprived mind, the chime stopped.
My eyes snapped open of their own accord, and I was greeted by a bank of dully lit fluorescent bulbs, inches from my face. Somehow, I had fallen asleep in a tanning bed. It didn’t make any sense: I had never actually used one. I liked my the way it was: pale and creamy.
Still, it meant that I wasn’t in a hospital. Maybe I’d gotten drunk, done it on a dare… my mind was still foggy, but it seemed like I might like dares.
The tanning bed opened of its own accord, with a low whirring noise. As the lid swung open, I saw that I was in a room with a very high ceiling. The lights above me were dim red, like in an old fashioned dark room for photography.
I blinked in surprise at that, then realized I’d done it. I blinked again on purpose, and smiled with joy at being able to control my eyes again. I still couldn’t move my arms or legs, but maybe whatever was wrong was wearing off.
The lights above me switched from red to a more conventional yellow, then began to slowly get brighter, as if to give my eyes plenty of time to adjust. After they reached a proper daytime level of illumination, there was a click from above me, the same spot the chime had sounded from moments ago.
Before I could think about it much, there was a tingling sensation near the base of my skull. It was like pins and needles, right where my spine met my brain. Whatever was going on, I responded as if on strings: I felt a tugging sensation in my arms and legs, and my into a sitting position of its own accord. The motions were clumsy and awkward, reminding me of nothing so much as a puppet.
For some reason, that thought made my pussy tingle with need.
Now that I was sitting up, I could see that I wasn’t alone. The room I was in was very big, with several rows of tanning beds all completely open. I still couldn’t turn my head, but I could see a girl sitting in each one. All of them were naked, like I was. I stared at the one right in front of me. She looked to be in her early twenties, just like me. She was maybe a little shorter, and had slightly fuller breasts. Her legs were slightly parted, and I felt my cheeks burn at the sight of her shaved, glistening pussy.
It looked like her dreams had been pretty good, too.
I quickly looked at her face. It was lovely, but her expression was dull and lifeless. Her blue eyes were glassy and unfocused, her mouth hanging slightly open. We were only six feet apart, but it seemed like she was looking right through me, not seeing me at all. Her hair was a close cropped mop of curly blonde locks, not even long enough to tease into a pageboy look.
I realized my own hair must be short like that now, too. I liked to keep it in a long ponytail, but the back of my neck was clearly bare.
I wanted to say something, to try to rouse her from wherever her mind was, but I still couldn’t talk.
Instead, I looked back and forth, taking in more of the room. The walls had what looked like hospital machines on them, all gray plastic and cryptic colored displays. The whole place was sterile white, although it smelled like aroused women right now.
For a long moment, we all sat quietly. There was no fidgeting, no yawning, no small talk. Probably, everyone else was at least as helpless as I was. Maybe more, given the lack of animation in the blonde girl that I could see.
There was another click from above, and a genderless, mechanically synthesized voice said, “Group three, to the showers. Group three, to the showers.
I felt a strong sense of deja vu at the voice, like maybe I’d dreamed about it and forgotten. Then there was another strong, tingling sensation at the base of my skull.
Every girl in the room rose in unison, including me, then we all stepped away from our tanning beds and into the central aisle of the large room, facing a set of plain metal double doors. Each of the six girls ahead of me had extremely short hair, completely shaved at the base of their skull… right where I could feel my pins and needles coming from.
The only difference was that the rest of them seemed to be moving a little more smoothly: I felt like a puppet on poorly managed strings, while the rest of them were choreographed and harmonious. The doors slid open, letting quite a draft into our little room. We walked through anyway, into a hallway that was all gleaming white tile and bright white walls. Everybody was in step, like a marching band… or maybe ants.
We passed by several more sets of double doors, each clearly labeled: ‘Sleep Bay Two,’ then ‘Sleep Bay One.’ After that, we came to a door marked ‘Showers.’
The doors opened for us, and we all stepped into a large, communal shower area. We took up positions underneath the shower heads and simply stood there, arms raised to our sides, legs slightly parted. I flicked my eyes back and forth, but nobody else showed any signs of life or resistance. Nobody was smiling or frowning or blushing at our nudity. All the girls around me stood stock still.
They could’ve been statues, apart from blinking and breathing.
As soon as we were in position, foamy green soap poured from nozzles along the walls. It was slick, it smelled vaguely and unconvincingly floral… and it was completely indiscriminate. I barely managed to get my eyes shut before slick soap struck my squarely in the face. I could feel it everywhere: dribbling down my chin in a strange parody of a money shot, rolling down my back, dribbling between the cheeks of my ass. It was a strange sensation and somehow, it underlined my helplessness in a way that simple paralysis hadn’t.
For just a split second, the image of where I was and what was happening to me turned me on again.
Then the shower heads above us started up, deluging our helpless bodies with forceful torrents of piping hot water. It smacked me in the face, sloshed down my breasts and tummy. It stung my stiff and sensitive nipples, and was worse my pussy. Normally I loved hot showers, but I’d never thought about what they would feel like if I couldn’t turn my body, or step back when I needed to.
Any lingering arousal I felt was literally washed away.
Fortunately, the shower didn’t last long. After the coating of soap had been rinsed off our skin and out of our hair, the showers stopped. I cautiously opened one eye, and when it wasn’t splashed with hot water, I opened them both again.
The doors at the far end of the shower opened, and we lined up in front of them. I could see what looked like a locker room, beyond. The first girl stepped through, and a loud set of blowers turned on. It sounded like a hand dryer at in a fast food restaurant bathroom, only cranked way up.
One by one, girls passed through the blowers, then stepped to the right. I watched the girl ahead of me step into the oversize dryer, her short black hair flying around and her skin rippling beneath the hot air. Then, she stepped forward, turned on her heel and walked to the right. Even this close up, I couldn’t tell what was happening beyond the door. Not with all the noise, and the inability to turn my head.
Finally, it was my turn. I stepped forward, into the dryers, the hot air feeling almost as intense as the high pressure shower. My hair was definitely shorter than I remembered, too. I could feel it bounce in the artificial wind.
The room beyond the showers was indeed some kind of locker or equipment room. I could see rows of lockers and closed footlockers.
Once I was dry, a process that only took a few minutes, my body stepped forward and turned to the right.
For the first time since waking up, I saw people with clothes: there were two women in strange fetish wear. Each wore a pair of mirrored wraparound shades, a pair of large, noise canceling headphones and black latex bodysuit adorned with a chrome collar. Their outfits were form fitting, revealing model-perfect proportions, but covering every inch of skin below their necks.
They were just finishing outfitting my predecessor with a variation on their outfits: the brunette who’d gone before me was now wearing headphones, shades and a smaller one piece latex outfit with matching thigh-high boots. Her outfit was less concealing: it left her arms and legs exposed… and it had a zipper all the way along the crotch, so that both her vagina and ass could be exposed without removing it.
I felt a twinge of desire at the sight.
The pair of ‘helper’ girls finished by placing a shiny pink collar around her neck while she stood still. As soon as it was fastened tight, they let go of her and she left through another open door.
Nobody said anything.
For the first time in several minutes, I tried to struggle against moving forward to take her place. It didn’t matter, though: I was like a spectator in my own body, my struggle only serving to frustrate me, and make my heart beat a little faster. It didn’t even make my steps any clumsier.
The two women began to dress me. Their motions were swift and firm, their latex gloved hands posing me, holding me steady as they slid the tight clothes onto my otherwise naked body.
I felt a little like a mannequin.
After I had my latex, they put the headphones over my ears, muffling the dryer behind me. The wraparound shades came next, but I noted with surprise that they didn’t actually dim the room: they were completely transparent from the inside.
For a moment, I wondered if they were only there to conceal my eyes.
Then the women snapped a pink collar around my neck, and everything changed. I felt an intense sensation of pins and needles at the base of my skull, and it radiated outward. The feeling washed over my arms, down my body and even to my bare legs. Goosebumps rose all over my exposed skin, and my nipples stiffened beneath their thin latex covering, tingling shocks radiating outward from them like spikes.
A moment later, the tingling yielded to warmth, and a deep and abiding sensation of euphoria. For the first time since I’d woken up, I wasn’t worried about anything. I knew I should be: I had no idea where I was, or what was controlling me… but I just couldn’t work up any upset about it anymore.
Whatever was happening to me, it was just fine.
As I surrendered to the sensation, I saw glowing letters hovering on my field of vision. I realized dully that they must be being projected onto my new mirrored shades. It took me a moment to read what they said:

Unit 211
12.17.14 10:26
Status: Green
Mode: Drone
Task: Maintenance

The ‘10:26’ seemed to be a clock, as it rolled to ‘10:27’ as I watched. Before I could wonder any of that that meant, my headphones flipped on. The same mechanical voice from earlier said, “Unit 211 will report for sustenance.
With the headphones on, the Voice reverberated in my ears. It was a little like someone whispering, their lips too close to a microphone… except in this case, my brain was the mic. The words echoed in my increasingly foggy brain, chasing away my foggy confusion about what was happening to me.
I was hungry. I didn’t need to worry about what was happening, I just needed to let the Voice guide me to food.
When my body started walking again, the process felt smoother and more coordinated. I wondered if I’d felt clumsy before because my own brain had been too busy. If so, that was less and less of a problem now. My body sleepwalked through clean white hallways while I grew increasingly fuzzy.
The one thing that struck me was how alike everything looked. There were endless doors and maze-like hallways, giving me the impression that I might be wandering through a filing cabinet. There were no windows, making me wonder idly if we were underground. I couldn’t imagine a building so big.
Even the people were hard to distinguish between: with a few variations in outfit, everybody here looked a lot like me. They were all female, all between their late teens and late thirties, and all in latex fetish wear, with wraparounds, headphones and varying colors of collars and lengths of hair. Nobody spoke. Nobody fidgeted. They all either walked through the halls with a purpose, or stood as still as a statue.
Absolutely everybody here was under the Voice’s complete control, and that control was so deep that I couldn’t even be upset about it.
Finally, a door slid open and revealed what must be a mess hall of some sort. The room had rows of shiny white cafeteria tables with attached benches. Dozens of women were sitting at them, each with their own identical tray. At each table, the girls were eating in perfectly choreographed harmony, every single lift of a spoon or glass in sync.
I shivered at the sight, even as my remote controlled body stepped past all of that, toward the wall to my left.
There were dispensers for food and water there, rather than servers. Somehow, that didn’t surprise me. My body stepped into line behind three voluptuous black girls with brilliant blue collars and shiny bald heads, then I took a plastic cup and bowl.
I watched in fascination as gleaming metal spigots pumped out my breakfast. My blue plastic cup filled with some kind of dark brown beverage, and my matching bowl filled with lumpy white sludge. Then my body headed for a seat at a table with a group of pale redheaded girls who looked like they had to be either sisters or close cousins.
When I ate, my motions immediately matched their rhythm. The drink was unsweetened tea and the food was a very bland vanilla pudding. Both were just slightly chilled, probably more from storage than any desire on the part of our unseen masters to make them taste better. Even so, I didn’t mind. The more I ate and drank, the more peaceful I felt.
About halfway through my meal, I realized it was probably drugged to tamp down on what few independent thoughts remained in my head, but I didn’t bother struggling. As much as I knew the idea ought to scare me, I was too pleasantly lightheaded.
By the time I finished with my meal, I felt like I was floating. It was like being a passenger in my own body as I got up and deposited my dirty dishes in a large bin.
The Voice spoke again as I moved toward the exit, “Unit 211 will report for exercise.
At the new prompt, I suddenly realized that I didn’t remember my name. I thought maybe it had started with an ‘L,’ but I wasn’t sure about that either. I mused about that idly while my body took its second walk through the hallways on autopilot. By the time I reached the gym, it was clear I’d never come up with it on my own.
I surveyed row after row of exercise machine occupied by silent, obedient girls, and decided that ‘Unit 211’ probably summed up my new life better than ‘Leah’ or ‘Laura’ ever could have.
My body took up a position on a stationary bicycle, and I let myself drift while my legs pumped furiously. Maybe it was the drugs or whatever else they were doing to my head, but exercising felt fantastic. I was so into it that I didn’t even notice people walk up beside me… not until they spoke.
Is this the one?” someone asked, their Voice so much like the one in my headphones.
That roused me from my near-trance, leaving me torn between a desire to turn and look at the speaker, and a desire to show off my complete obedience.
No,” another stranger replied, “I’m not registering any anomaly in Unit 106. The signal variance originates from Unit 211. Observe: she can hear us.
I tensed at that, cheeks flush, wondering how I could have done something wrong, when I couldn’t really do anything at all.

I'm going to pick at it today, see if I can make any headway. Looking forward to having a new title out. :)