A continuation of the first story 'The Mission' and isn't standalone. I've switched categories from BDSM to Mind Control as has now become the leading theme.
-
Author's note
The second chapter is expressed to a well-known seventies song, the title of which you should have figured out by now already. However, I can't include the words of that song whilst you're reading this. Yet I can sing it my mind whilst writing, and you can sing it whilst reading. So consider it like a 'special musical operation' where we all know what's going on, but are too stuffed full of liberty to actually tell it how it is. I will leave some clues to the lyrics because they are synergetic with the writing. Please consider pulling up the lyrics in another browser tab if you can. You see, it's okay for you to bring them together with my story, and it's okay for me to think them together as well. I just can't be honest in the final written form because freedom, once determined by 'sinister-opaque-cabals' (or replace with rhetoric of choice), doesn't allow it.
Note: there's a short and non-glorified, first-seconds-of-rape paragraph near the end which is swiftly curtailed and called out for what it is, but could possibly trigger some readers, and I'm sorry. It's a vital inflection point, and I deal with it as sensitively as my vocabulary allows.
As some folks won't know, the Irish name 'Niamh' is pronounced here as 'nee-iv'. It's the same name as the anglicised 'Neave' & co., and can also be pronounced 'neev'. It's a well-known Irish truism that correct pronunciation is determined by how the stars and bottles align in Drombeg at the time of conception.
-
Chapter One
John fell into his seat and revelled at its unearthly softness. It was like the protective wings of angels had gathered him up.
He was still finding his bearings; it was as if he'd boarded a Victorian starship bound for Titan, not a coach set for the UDK. Immediately ahead of him was a deep blue leather upholstered drinks and meal console, with a stand-off supporting a VR helmet. A blaze of fat garnets studded the edges of the functional areas. The side view through a similarly adorned porthole tethered him to the drowned outer world. He figured when they said 'deluxe' they really meant it.
Everything was bejewelled, soft and scented with the UDK, he'd learned that much by now. He smirked as he recalled his first experience of the mission's restroom. He'd walked in and just stood there gawping for minutes, completely overwhelmed. When it came down to the basics though, he'd discovered they didn't use 'crude' toilet paper. He'd panicked, but their alternative turned out to be far superior. It was thick, napkin-sized leaves of a biodegradable spongy moss that absorbed and sanitised everything in one go with minimal fuss; and most critically of all, it felt like the kiss of freshly fallen snow. Along with everything else the UDK had stunned him with, it was this kind of innovation that made him realise why women should be in charge of everything. Simply put, there was no going back to the crinkled terror of Izal after that reality check.
An odious press of unkempt, muttering deadbeats was ushered past him, spoiling his reverie.
Mistresses shepherded the herd of down-and-outs, horny nerds, and lost dudes by barking them into seats.
Odd,
he thought,
I'd no idea there were others at the mission... and my boarding had been so civilised.
He mused warmly: having been 'introduced' to and exploited by the various missionaries, there was no way in hell that this rabble had been using the same restroom. He'd assumed the mistresses might have used it, but definitely not them. He recalled a confusing end to a conversation he'd overheard which was beginning to make sense. A mistress had complained about 'cleaning her pens'... He snorted darkly at his previous assumption.
A well-dressed Union women boarded last. She was quietly seated by a mistress, directly across the aisle from him, almost like she'd been smuggled aboard. At this late post-revolutionary stage, remnant women were quite content with their lot and usually amongst the most vocal enablers for greater marginalisation. He angled to get a better look at her.
He spied telltale clamp marks around her neck, and felt shame. She clearly had some years in her, so either she'd escaped from the breeding programme or had been liberated somehow? Feeling eyes upon her, she swivelled away her vulnerability.
Saddened, he returned his attention to the VR set and saw a tag hanging from it. It read:
"Play me!" and was surrounded by sparkling heart emojis.
He decided to put it on and familiarise with the options to kill some time. It was a snug fit and the headphones shrouded his ears for an immersive effect. He dropped the visor and felt something cold unfurl down the back of his neck, shift slightly and then stab heavy fangs either side of the top of his spine. Pain flared, but before he could flinch, a wave of pleasure cascaded down his body. It felt fantastic, and his cock hardened against its metallic confines. His reflexive urge to rip the headset off transformed into an intense need to keep it on.
The program kicked in. A sexy voice called out to him, seemingly from the seat behind him, and said, "Hey you! Stop holding your cage, and check this out!"
Classic funky music kicked in as the darkness transitioned curtain-like into light...
-
Chapter two
The sun sat at its zenith, and sparkled upon the thankful earth. Below, the joyful citizens and servants of Stiletto City One danced along the sidewalks and spilled into the streets. Sleek glass and steel buildings of every shape earthed the sky.
A leather-muzzled man pranced on all fours in a proud display of his primal nakedness. A rainbow spilled from his hind quarters, counter-swaying to the bopping movement of his mitted hands and padded knees. A thick and heavy steel collar chained him to his tall, muscular, thigh-booted mistress, whose tanned majestic breasts led them on, one beat at a time.
Verse:
"Well, you can tell......
/...... /...... /......"
A second ponyboy passed the other way. In unison, they turned their heads and raised their smiling chins in greeting. The joy of mutual recognition filled their eyes with brotherly love and cuddly sparkles.
Bridge:
"And now it's alright......
/...... /...... /
The UDK's effect on men."
John felt his legs alternately lift and drop to the music; and then his shoulders began to bop from one side to the other, like he was caught in a perpetual motion machine.
It felt good, but he'd no idea what the fuck was going on. The bass groove was simply
killing it
and he couldn't have stopped even if he'd had wanted to. His gaze swept across the mass of people and his mind jumped from one incredulity to the next. He struggled to comprehend the orgy of semi-clad women that were jumping, writhing and dancing in each and every direction. It'd been over a decade since he'd last seen more than a handful of them together, and he didn't know how to deal with it. He felt panic from the overload.
Suddenly a wave of pleasure flowed through him and he found himself relaxing. Panic receded and instead, he felt inspired by the throng, and firmed against his cage.
One of the mistresses in the street turned towards him and jiggled all of her considerableness in time to the popping bass. That's when he realised he was immersed in an interactive reel. He nodded back to her.
She grinned and then shuffled her way over like an exotic dancer.
"You can think your actions and words too!" she shouted, blowing him a winked kiss before spinning away, clapping her hands in time to the music.
Chorus:
"Whether you're in service or whether you're a Miss,
/...... /...... /......"
He'd hoped she'd have chosen to stay; given the cast of thousands, the first stunning woman to come along was more than enough. He was feeling highly charged and very receptive, and anyone would do. He watched her leave, hotly admiring her thong-parted fullness. He'd always preferred a bit of extra heft with his partners, although that was ancient history now. Since the rollout of the communal ReSiphonal depositaries, he'd grown accustomed to making out with one grubby patch of brickwork after another. The money shot was literally just that, and it meant he could squeeze out a few extra cents from Uncle Sam every day.
Maybe if I join with the dancing it'll be easier to manage,
he reasoned.
He took a deep breath and let go. He found himself moving forwards and felt pretty good about it; it wasn't every day he got to enjoy this kind of tech.
"Nice threads, boy!" a kindly-looking blonde said to him as she scooted past.
John gawped down and discovered he was wearing skintight red leathers and a pair of absolutely fuck-off dancing shoes. Not only that, he looked trimmer than normal.
Verse:
"Well now, I get......
/...... /...... /
I'm a dancin' man......"
He laughed out loud; this was becoming the most fun he'd had in decades. When he looked back up, everything had magically shifted. There were far fewer of those impossibly beautiful women, and a greater variety of everything else, many of whom were fully clothed. It was massively reassuring, and his dancing feet tapped in appreciation.
His seat-swaying hips translated into the reel and he span and glided, whirled and danced into the throng. He'd never felt so lithe and free in all of his life and it was exhilarating.
"Heya boy!" said a mousey-haired blonde.
She was tall, about his own height and solidly framed. John took her all in. She had the onset of a middle-aged spread and her long, carefree hair showed signs of greying. Her face gave away her Eastern European origin, which he found delightful. He found everything about her delightful.
She poked her hand into his virtual ribs, "There you are!" she grinned impishly.
John felt an instant attraction and revelled in her attention, yet at the same time had no idea how to respond; he just lacked the practised tools to do so.
"I can't believe you're real!" she continued, her eyes radiating an ethereal innocence that belied her years.
John blushed a smile. He was being seduced by an AI bot, and was like totally there for it. He didn't know what to say so instead swept her into his arms and danced. She gasped and threw her head back in joy.
"You're a natural!" she shouted in a whirl.
John attempted his first think-say, and it worked out well. He thought-said: "What's your name, ma'am?"
"Mistress Lusia," came the reply, "And you've been assigned to me, boy."
