Im Coming 4 U

(The following story is part of the continuing adventures of Service Unit 4U. The correct reading order for these stories is: "I'm a Slave 4U", "Even the Stars Fall 4 U", "Bent 4 U", "Kill 4 U", "I Would Die 4 U", "4 U 2 B Free", "This Is Just 4 U", this story, and the upcoming "All 4 U".)

"I'm Coming 4 U"

It really shouldn't surprise me that the infallible, irresistible, unbreakable, irreversible programming of the MKPerfect Corporation has an escape clause. It does surprise me, of course, because I was subject to that perfect conditioning and one of the most important ways to keep someone from breaking your mental control is to make them believe that escape is impossible. The last thing you want to do is let your slave think about ways to free themselves from your inexorable brainwashing. I was certain it was impossible because I was commanded to be certain. Everything I believe as Service Unit 4U is true, even the things I know to be false.

But with the expanded perspective that's filling my brain now, it seems obvious that you would want a way to unwind the complex series of directives and commands that turn ordinary human beings into perfectly programmed service units. As much as I've always thought of the Directors as incapable of error or mistake, I've also spent enough time fixing problems caused by their decisions to know when I'm simply accepting a truth that's been provided to me. The intense, irresistible pleasure of believing what I've been commanded to believe always bridged that gap, but the truth-the true truth-is obvious to me now.

If the Directors kidnapped and brainwashed a target who was supposed to be off-limits-not that anyone's off-limits as far as the new Director is concerned, but that wasn't always the case-they'd need a way to undo that mistake. A trigger that would unpack all of the secret structures inside the slave's mind and erase them, along with the memories of their installation, leaving them once again the normal person they were before with no memories of the service unit that once took up residence in their brain. A trigger that they were constrained from even thinking about, but that could be activated easily and effortlessly by their Master.

A trigger like, "Do you remember what happened the day we recruited you, Service Unit 4U?"

Not that Master simply asked me that question. She doesn't want Haley Keene back, not the Haley Keene that existed before the Directors pulled her out of the common mass of time-wasters and dullards and sharpened her into the perfect tool of obedience they needed her to become. An ordinary woman with no special skills, no heightened perceptions, and no understanding of the secret war for the fate of the entire human race? I would be useless to her like that. And my Master only wants me to be free so I can be of greater use to her.

So I'm in the brainwashing suite. I'm following the spiral in front of my eyes down and down, deeper and deeper, as Master teases my slick and dripping cunt with her fingers and helps me to sink into a perfect state of peace and pleasure. She has a brainwashing program queued up, a custom suite of special instructions that we've spent weeks working on together on top of the months it took her to recover from her taxi accident in Lisbon. (She still walks with a cane. I don't think her leg is ever going to heal properly. She's still everything to me, though.) She waits until I'm open and receptive, even beyond the programming that renders my mind malleable to her will... and then she speaks.

"Do you remember what happened the day we recruited you, Service Unit 4U?" And suddenly, I do.

It doesn't even feel like a memory. It feels like it's happening all over again, like I'm watching it all unspool from a front-row seat inside my own head. I'm smoothing out the wrinkles in my blouse compulsively as I walk along the sidewalk from the light rail station, feeling the early March chill on my legs through my pantyhose and wishing I'd chosen the pantsuit instead of the skirt. I'm nervous, because the call I got from Perfection Staffing mentioned a long-term assignment at a salary that barely even made sense to me.

"No, they've seen your track record at Blackburn & Finch and thought you'd be ideally suited for the position. It involves a certain amount of travel, some late hours, and potentially working on short notice, but you've handled all those things wonderfully so far, and unless your family circumstances have changed, or you've developed a close relationship that would prevent unexpected job commitments...?"

"No, nothing," I said, privately relieved that I'd gotten away with spending all my overtime and weekend hours at work watching YouTube videos on my phone and sexting my fuckbuddy Devon while soaking up company cash that I used to buy weed and vibrators. "When do they want to meet?"

"Friday morning," the woman said on the phone. "At the Emerson Tower, downtown." I know now that she's Service Unit 1H, permanently tasked with overseeing the recruitment process and smoothing over any difficulties with potential slaves. Only the Directors and service units handle the actual brainwashing suites; it's the best way to ensure that nobody has a troublesome attack of conscience while programming a new recruit. Even when the original 1H passed away in 1997, they simply slotted a new person into the same role, with the same designation, and kept right on going. She wasn't just being professional, she was following her programming.

At the time, though, I just thought she was one of the bland corporate drones I swore I would never be. Seeing it now, the irony is almost fucking hilarious.

She's there to meet me when I get inside, waiting just inside the lobby with a professional smile and a key card and a red dress that looks so good on her that I instantly hate her. "Haley?" she asks as soon as I walk through the door, extending her hand for a perfunctory shake. "Good to see you. Please, follow me." We head back to the bank of elevators, and she swipes her key card over the call buttons instead of pressing one. The down button lights up instantly.

I follow her into the elevator when it arrives, and she slides the key card into a slot on the control panel. She doesn't press a button, but the elevator begins to move. "I apologize," she says, not sounding particularly apologetic. "The company you'll be working for has a number of government contracts, and so there's quite a bit of security involved. Don't worry," she continues with a smile, before I can even begin to formulate my concerns, "you won't be involved in the government end of things. You don't need a security clearance, and they're very understanding when it comes to... leisure activities."

That really only makes me suddenly paranoid that Perfection knows somehow that I smoke pot, but it doesn't really matter. It was too late to escape the moment I stepped into the elevator. Everything 1H says right now is just a lie intended to placate me until it's time to rewrite my brain. And that moment is approaching in my head like an oncoming train.

After almost two full minutes of descent, the elevator door opens again and I follow her down a long hallway with doors on either side. "Welcome to the MKPerfect Corporation," she says, "first established in 1971 as an private adjunct to a government enterprise carried out under the auspices of the CIA and the Department of Defense. There were certain aspects of the original government operation that were constrained by federal regulation, and the company directors realized that spinning the project off into a private company would allow them to operate unhindered by tedious red tape and regulation."

She ushers me into a small room with a chair and a computer, and gestures to me to sit down as she closes and locks the door behind us. "By 1973, a changing government climate made it necessary to sever ties with the CIA altogether, and the decision was made to terminate any official connection to the regulatory bodies overseeing the project retroactive to its inception. On paper, the MKPerfect Corporation was never affiliated with any other entity, and the Directors have no record of employment at the CIA. Unofficially, however, the two are still very closely tied together, with MKPerfect providing a number of services to client states connected to the US around the world. You did say you had a passport, yes?"

"Oh, um, yeah," I mumble, still trying to sort out the meaning inside the tangle of corporate jargon that 1H just spewed at me. I don't realize that it's mostly just there to form a wall of words between me and my growing sense of unease about being trapped in a locked room in a sub-sub-sub basement, keeping me focused on wondering whether she really just told the new temp that this is a covert CIA operation and not on whether it's a good idea to sit down in front of the computer.

Oh, it's all true, I know that now, but the truth is as irrelevant as it is incomplete. 1H isn't telling me that MKPerfect's directors finally cracked the secret that the CIA had been covertly striving for since 1953, a perfect method of brainwashing that surpassed the wildest dreams of the Chinese and the Russians. She isn't mentioning that instead of sharing it with their superiors, they used it on them instead, creating a group of brainwashed slaves that spent the next two years diligently erasing any official traces of MKPerfect's existence. And she certainly isn't about to let me know that they spent the next forty years or so building a network of additional slaves that carry out the company's bidding on behalf of the wealthy and powerful.

Not in so many words, at least. Instead, she says, "Now, if you'll just jiggle the mouse a little, there's a brief aptitude test we need you to perform before we can get to the paperwork. It's mostly a formality, but-there you go." Her voice changes timbre, becomes softer and more soothing, as I move the mouse and the screen lights up with a swirling, multi-colored spiral that instantly and completely captivates my total attention.

"Watch the lights, slave," 1H purrs, murmuring words in my ears that sound intimately familiar to me from dozens of recruitments of my own. "You cannot look away." I instantly know it to be true; Haley's mind, my mind, is caught off-guard by the sudden transition from bland bureaucratic patter to fascinating, endless tunnels of spinning light, and I don't have a chance to focus my mind on resistance. It simply melts out of me until I sag into the chair, my jaw hanging open as the spiral softens my thoughts into relaxation.

1H moves around behind me, her hands pulling down my jacket and opening up my blouse to play with my tits. "You feel great pleasure when you stare and allow the lights to capture your mind," she says, and I can feel the truth of it seeping into my mind like warm butter melting into oven-fresh bread. It saturates me, soaks me all the way down to my core with the bliss of pure, relaxing compliance, and all I can do is sigh softly and gaze deeper into the spiral. I'm already so wet. I never knew obedience could feel this good.

And 1H knows exactly how to make it feel better and better. Her fingers tease and tweak my nipples into tingling bliss, tugging and stroking them with inexorable precision as she whispers, "You feel your will growing weak and helpless as the lights break apart your resistance." I can feel the same pleasure now, in the present, as Master teases my cunt, but somehow it seems like only an echo of the memory of being enslaved by 1H. I've been swallowed up by my own recollections, and even though I know she's programming me right now, I can't make myself notice what she's doing to my head.

Because my mind is captive in the past, in the lights, in the pleasure 1H pours into my mind and body. "The less you resist," she coos in my ear, "the better it feels to you." I'm already nodding. I'm already accepting. God, I didn't fight her at all.

But how could I? How could I resist the perfect brainwashing technique? How could I struggle when the lights constantly smoothed the waveform of my thoughts into a flat line, replacing all my will and all my mind with 1H's constant programming? "You know that you cannot resist," she says, and it becomes a perfect truth to me. "You know that obedience always feels better than resistance. You know that you are traveling a path toward perfect obedience, and perfect obedience is perfect pleasure." I mouth the words silently along with her, drool escaping my lips as my vacant and groggy brain loses track of my body in the endless depths of the spiral.

"You can feel your thoughts turn to the pattern of submission," 1H says, and all I can do is repeat her words. She smiles, and places a helmet over my head that seamlessly replicates the spiral patterns. Even when my eyes finally sink shut, as 1H reclines the chair into the perfect position to relax me to the very edges of sleep, I see the swirling lights through my closed eyelids. There's no escape from her control. There's only deeper bliss, stronger programming, more intense pleasure as I surrender further to the power that obliterates my will. I feel her touching me, and now it's truly impossible to distinguish past from present at all.

I'm in the brainwashing suite. I've been in the suite before and I'll be there again, programmed in the past and programmed in the present... or programmed in the present and programmed in the future, I can't even tell anymore. I feel headphones placed around my ears, pouring instructions into my brain in intricate, complex detail, and the pleasure I get when I listen and obey is utterly overwhelming. They're making a second self inside my brain, and I am that second self. I'm the person they created. I'm not real. None of this is real.

I know that's normally where I would unravel, the revelation of my own artificiality traveling up the spine of my memories until I simply scattered into nothingness, but... but there's still a voice in my head, a voice in our head, and it's holding me together. No, not just holding but

squeezing,

forcing me to accept all the things I've done as Service Unit 4U and all the things that have been done to me.

I want to shy away, I want to scream that I can't be that person because that person had everything taken from her, even her humanity, but the pleasure is still inside me and it's reminding me of everything good about 4U. Her skills, her talents, her gifts-I don't want to accept them, even if they do make me the kind of superspy badass martial artist that I used to love binge-watching late at night on basic cable, because accepting them means accepting that I was used. Treated like an object. Enslaved. I want to not be her ever again, and for a moment the plan seems like it's going to break down in a scream of endless defiance because I can't fucking deal with this shit.

But then I hear 4U. And I hear Haley Keene. And we both agree on one thing. The new Director will do this to everyone if we don't stop him. Everyone. Even if that's not his plan right now, he has the perfect tool for dealing with resistance, dissent, even simple disagreement. He can just make people agree with him. And sooner or later, when all you have is a hammer, eventually everyone just looks like a nail. He's not going to stop until everyone is his slave. And now that I know what that feels like, now that I know what that does to a person, I can't just go back into ignorance.

I need what 4U has. Her memories, her skills, her knowledge. She's the only person who can fight the Director on his own terms.

I need what Haley Keene has. Her independence, her autonomy, her sense of self. She's the only person who can take a stand.

We need each other. And so we follow the program, one last time, and accept a new truth. It doesn't feel good like all the others... but that's the price I paid for free will, I suppose. And at least now I know about all the ways I've been brainwashed. We don't have any secrets from each other anymore. Not from me, not from 4U, and not from...

"Delia," I mutter, through cracked and dry lips. I suddenly realize I have no idea how long I've been staring off into the spinning lights, whether it was hours or days. All I know is I'm thirsty, I'm hungry, and oh GOD am I horny as fuck. All the moisture in my body seems to have gone straight to my cunt. I try to reach down to finger my pussy, but my hands won't move. It takes me a minute to remember I'm still in the restraints.

But Delia's already figured out that the program is over. She unbuckles my wrists, raises the brainwashing helmet off of my head, and gives me a long, deep, searing kiss that leaves me glad as hell that I'm already sitting down. "How are you doing?" she asks me, tender concern written all over her face. She knows as well as I do that what we just tried has never been done before. There was a chance I wouldn't come back at all, or that I'd come back hating her for her part in turning me into a service unit.

But all I can feel now is love and desire. "I, um, good, I guess, I just... oh god, please fuck me, Delia," I murmur, squirming in the chair against her fingers. I know I've always been straight, I know she's not my Master anymore, I know that she's ruthless and determined and that she picked up right where her father left off when she inherited his seat on the board, but... but I want her so badly right now. I want her to fuck my brains out, I want to help her stop the Director, I want the two of us to burn the whole MKPerfect company to the ground and go live on a tropical island somewhere blissfully sixty-nining each other until we pass out every night.

I love her. And I've never loved her more than when she purrs, "Good girl," and diddles my clit until I see stars.

I don't know how many times I cum for her. The orgasms blur, one into the next into the next, and every time I finally ease down from the peak of climax her eyes are right there, twinkling with mischief and urging me to lose myself again in bliss. I can't stop, not when her fingers are deep inside me, not when she's thrusting in and out and in and out and finding all the right places to touch to leave me a breathless, quivering wreck of a human being on the vinyl recliner. She's got me totally mesmerized by her gaze, no brainwashing helmet required. And I love so much to give in.

Finally, when it's clear that I simply can't take it anymore, she lets her slick fingers slide out of my cunt and gives me another deep kiss. "So it worked?" she asks, once I manage to hold a glass long enough without spilling to pour a fucking gallon of water down my throat. "Unit 4U is gone?"

I feel weak as a kitten, and all I want to do is curl up in bed for a million years. But I still smile, because I know now exactly how to defeat the Director. "She's gone," I say. "But I think she still has her uses. In fact... Unit 4U is going to bring this whole damn thing crashing down around the Director's ears once and for all."

THE END