Preface
= = = = = =
Let's get this point out of the way right off the top. This is my first story where the main character's role is non-consensual. She does not want to be a sex slave.
We also have time travel, murder, body modifications, mind control, and perhaps another bits of this and that.
Let's get into it
= = = = = = = = = =
There is a deep silence around me as I awake. My alarm didn't go off. Though there would be no noise even if it had. One of the things these people got right was a more sophisticated way to wake you up. No insane noises. No sudden ripping you from your dreams. Just some gentle impulses to the correct parts of your brain to move you gently from restful sleep to complete awareness.
I'm nude. But there's nothing unusual about that. Even before I was harvested I usually slept in the nude. The different now is that I'll very likely remain nude, or nearly so, all day. I've been nude for most of the last three years.
I sit up, stretch, and look around the room, dimly illuminated by the night light. I'm in my nest. And aptly named two foot deep by eight foot across padded depression in the floor. Filled to overflowing with large firm pillows.
Saying "my nest," or really "my" anything, is mostly because they tiny word "my" is so much easier than trying to describe the reality over and over again. I use this nest and these pillows and this room. No one else uses them. So, in that sense, they're "mine." But, in fact, I own nothing. Not even my own body. A fact made painfully clear to me during my initial indoctrination after being harvested.
I'm trying to find my tablet. The only advanced device I'm allowed to use. It has my schedule and I use it keep up to date on both local and world news. Being intelligently conversational is one of the few requirement placed upon me.
The arch way to the adjacent bedroom is dark. It could be any time of day. I find the tablet under a pillow and flick to the main screen. The press of an icon depolarizes the window. Sunlight streams in. From the angle I judge it to be early morning. The clock on the tablet confirms it to be about seven.
Flicking to my schedule I find I'm to appear in the throne room no later than eleven. There are no other instructions. I don't need them. Marcie, my body servant, knows how I'm to be prepared. I don't even bother to consider why I must be there at eleven. It may be to provide sexual service. Or conversation. Or just to sit there and look attractive. I do wonder if I'll be wearing anything, but it's quite unlikely. It's been a couple of months. And many months before that.
I don't have to summon Marcie. My room is under constant surveillance with motion detecting cameras. She's already been alerted that I'm awake. I can expect her in a few minutes. I stand and stretch some more, wondering if exercise will be on the program for this morning. I put my tablet in the charging stand on the table and sit in the chair to read the news. There is no other furniture in the room.
I reflect, as I sit reading, that this is the craziest slavery I've ever heard of. When I used to read stories or watch movies about being a sex slave they were never like this. I chuckle slightly at the idea that I used to fantasize about being taken. And wonder, once more, if I wasn't picked because I played with myself while I read those stories and watched those videos.
I'm thoroughly cared for. Even in training I'd never been struck and never been in bondage. Well, both have happened during "play times," but never to control or teach me. That's not to say I've never been in pain. They just have better methods. Far, far better. Ways that teach lessons without damaging bodies.
And my body is of paramount importance. In the weeks after my capture I had plastic surgery to remove several minor childhood scars. I glance at my wrist. The three inch white scar an upset cat awarded me is no longer there. My nose was straightened where I'd broken it falling off a bike when I was ten. And so on.
But no changes. Just the repair of damage. The changes came later and, again, they had better ways. Those other changes had me wondering. I used to read a lot of science fiction. And still do when there's time. The things I'd seen made me wonder if I wasn't on another planet or in the future of my own.
Once I was given my tablet and allowed to explore, it became obvious I was in my own future. Some three hundred and twenty four years later than the last day I remembered. I looked up my disappearance. News articles from the time say I was killed when my apartment building burned down. I'd asked about the body that was found. The woman they'd captured before me didn't work out. She wouldn't "gentle," as they called it. So when they grabbed me they just left her behind. To be found and identified as me.
I could never be sure if that was the truth, but it did fit all the facts. And it scared me more than the pain from training. It didn't make me instantly obedient, but it did give me pause when I considered being difficult.
Marcie strides in wearing what can only be described as a "Little French Maid" costume. But I kind of envy it. She has panties and a bra and shoes.
She tosses a "Good morning, Erin." at me as she goes into the bathroom. I call it that out of habit. It's about three times the size of the room I sleep in and has everything you could imagine for preparing a woman to face the day.
Except, of course, clothes. There are clothes somewhere in the building that I wear when Marcie is told to dress me. She didn't bring any today, but she does have a pair of high heel slippers in highly polished clear acrylic. Something special is happening, then. I'm usually kept barefoot.
I stand to follow her and am mildly surprised to see her running water in the bathtub. Usually she just strips down and joins me in the shower. Oh, I didn't explain. I do not shower or bathe myself. She does it for me. And does my hair. And my makeup, when I wear any. She even brushes my teeth and cleans me when I use the toilet.
"Come, Erin. Let's get started." I smile at that. My name isn't "Erin," but it's the one my owner specified in the contract with the slavers. It was used all through my training. I just about remember that my name used to be "Alexandria."
The trainers often capture and break women on speculation. They also give them basic training before selling them. Or sell them at a higher price and finish their training to their new owners desires. In my case, they'd been acting as contractors right from the start. My owner had picked me specifically. Or, to be more exact, a woman who could be adjusted to look as she wanted.
I get into the tub. The water has been scented something similar to lilacs. That would explain the bath. A particular scent is desired for today. I expect perfume will not be used. My owner prefers subtle scents, when she want's any at all. I'm cleaned efficiently, thoroughly, and intimately.
I stand dripping while she dries me and examines every inch of my body for any errant hairs. All my body hair was permanently suppressed within days of my capture. But hair is persistent. Even after three years an occasional one will sprout. A miniature version of the device used originally appears from one of her pockets and removes these stubborn hairs as they're found.
When I say all my hair, I mean everything, except some of my eyebrows and the hair on my head.. Even that near invisible fuzz that people have on their bodies, I don't. I'm amazingly smooth.
Them I'm seated at the vanity where she does my hair and makeup, the latter unusual, but not unexpected having seen the shoes. Both are relaxed in style and very natural. I'm injected with something which has never been explained to me. I suspect it's hormones since I have not had my period since being harvested, as they call it. I'd call it "kidnapped."
The other changes I mentioned earlier I think must have come from these injections as well. My derriere is subtly more pronounced. Not "big butt," but more full. My skin softer. And my breasts, oh God my breasts. I've gone from a nice handy C cup to an amazing H cup. I wouldn't know exactly how big but on one rare occasion where I wore a bra, that was the size on it's tag. And it fit perfectly after Marcie spent a half hour adjusting the straps and the chest band.
The treatment also causes them to stand up proudly. No sag. They fall gracefully from my chest looking almost perky, considering how huge they are. My areola have expanded and my nipples are now nearly the size of my thumb tips. Looking at myself in the mirror while my makeup is applied I'm idly playing with them. They do feel good.
Another detail missing in real life that was in almost all those stories... I'm not forbidden, in general, to play with myself. Or even orgasm. When I'm in my room. I'm aware that I'm always on camera, and it used to put me off. But I've been required to jill myself in public so often that I can't see that it matters any more. I think at times that this alone is probably the most obvious sign that I've resigned myself to being Winifred's slave.
