PLEASURE CREWS OF THE ULTIMATE LOVEDOLLS PART 10 OF 10 by Vendatrix

PART TEN

A half a world away, a young woman thoughtfully tapped her gold pen on the desk and read for a second time the insurance report on the loss of the XYZ. “Doesn’t sound right,” muttered.

“What’s that, Gert?” said the man across the office. He was dressed to play tennis, his afternoon court already reserved, racquet ready in his hand. “You still looking at that cruise ship report? Forget it. None of the authorities are pressing for an investigation, and the beneficiaries of all those policies aren’t complaining. A search turned up nothing. The sailing plan took them passed a restricted zone, where even the merest sound of a motor would have left a sonar signature, and there was none.” He took a slow swing with his racquet at an imaginary ball.

“Something doesn’t seem right about it. The storm was pretty tame, barely a squall. The ship had been inspected a few months before. No reason for it to go down. No S.O.S. signal. The ship just vanished.”

“Look, Gert, we’re insurance fraud auditors, not investigators of the paranormal. The insurance policies were on the passengers.”

“I know, Harry—”

“So where’s the fraud? Are you suggesting all the beneficiaries of the passengers—the mothers, the boyfriends, the charities—got together in one big conspiracy to sink the ship? Doesn’t make sense.”

She handed him a list. “This is what does not make sense,” she said. She brushed her hair back, and it occurred to Harry that Gertrude Sloan was one of the few women he knew that could work all through the night and still look beautiful the next day. Even the little shadows under her eyes from that sleepiness night of work made her look all the more desirable. Then again, he did not know many women like his partner who cleared a million each year on commissions solving insurance fraud cases. She was relentless. And she was almost always right in her hunches. That’s why he bothered to look at the list she had thrust at him.

“All right, what do we have here. Passengers mostly women—”

“All women,” she said.

“Very well, all women. . . ages all about the same, low twenties. . . " He glanced at the copies of the passport photos attached to the list. “A lot of them attractive. . . how is it I never get to go on cruises like this? . . .”

“They are all women. . . all young . . . all good looking. . . and all unattached.”

Harry shrugged and gave the list back. “So it’s a Club Med thing and quite a tragedy. I remember the case now, it was in the news a few months ago, wasn’t it?”

“That’s the one.”

“Well. . .like a said, there’s no motive for fraud. Those policies were all arranged through the travel agency, premiums paid by the tour. Ship went down without a trace, happens now and then, the search turned up nothing, file closed, beneficiaries got the dough, case over.”

But Harry could tell she would not be deterred. She had that same look in her eye that she had when entering her black belt karate tournaments. Which near as Harry could tell, was the only thing she did outside of her obsession for work. Rumor had it she had a fabulous apartment with half her wealth invested there in art. He had never seen it, and we wondered if any man ever had.

She put the list into her portfolio and reached for her leather coat.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Marseilles, of course. That’s where this little pleasure cruise embarked. I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole case.”

Harry tried to half-heartedly to stop her, but the door was already swinging shut and he could hear pumps tapping their way purposefully toward the elevator.

A few days later, the fat proprietor of the Bon Viveur Travel agency looked up from his newspaper to see a tall, slim woman with dark shades and clothes that spoke of the best shops in Paris. Two words entered his mind immediately: “American” and “Rich”. He put in paper down next to his tiny cup of coffee.

“Hallo, Madame, how can I be of service?” he asked in his horse-drawn English.

She answered back in grad school French. “A cruise, monsieur. I wish to get away from it all for a few days.”

“Ah! We have several fine tours. In fact, a vacancy has opened up for our next boat of Marseilles.” He had her fill out a standard passenger information form, took one glance at it.

“One moment, mademoiselle,” he said. He waddled back into an inner office and rang the number Andre had given him. “Yes, this is the Bon Viveur Agency in Paris. We have a little fish on the way, comprezvous?” And he read the information from her form.

He came back to her all smiles. “Everything has been arranged, mademoiselle. Now to get to Marseilles, you take the train from the Gard Nord . . .”

Meanwhile, a passenger had just settled in one of the yachts recently staffed by Andre’s lovedoll pleasure crews. He was a Swiss banker, a young man with strong appetites and the money to indulge them. He had just finished putting away his things when there was a gentle knocking on his cabin door. He opened it to see an extraordinarily beautiful girl, dressed in nothing but a thong bottom bathing suit and a soft bimbo smile. Her skin was deeply tanned and had the slight dull sheen of the lovedoll bodysuit, which even then was reconfiguring her body into its voluptuous shape. Attached to the thong on a velco strip was the standard remote control behavior control device. The passenger recognized it at once, since he had read the “Pleasure Crews—User’s Manual” that came with the ticket to this secret and exclusive tour. The thought of all the different options in the manual made him hustle her through the cabin door. The girl’s hair cascaded over her shoulders in glossy blonde curls, over her hyper-augmented breasts. She entered the cabin with delicate, mincing steps on her high-heeled sandaled feet. Tied around the girl’s neck was a ribbon, and on the ribbon was attached an engraved card. The passenger lifted the card to read it.

“My name is Tami,” the card said. “Your cabin-service dinner will be served shortly. And I’m the dessert!”

THE END

PLEASURE CREWS OF THE ULTIMATE LOVEDOLLS PART 9 OF 10 by Vendatrix

PART NINE

It was not until later that evening that the two men got together. Andre still sported his yachting cap tilted at a rakish angle, his silk scarf carefully tied loosely around his open-necked shirt. He drank his brandy, while Max nursed a small dark beer.

“Well, Andre,” said Max, as they settled down in his paneled study, “You look tanned and fit. The sea agrees with you.”

“Max, this was no picnic. You try kidnaping a boatful of women on the open ocean. A single coast guard cutter could have put us all in the clink.”

Max smiled. “Your sacrifice in boating with twenty-four beautiful, docile women has been noted in the corporate minutes,” he said.

Andre grinned his sea-dog smile and threw a leg over the armrest of his chair. “Actually, Max, it was not too bad. The worse part was writing those condolence letters to the next of kin about the loss of the ship.” He filched an apple from a bowl of fruit. A knife seemed to appear from nowhere in his hand. He flicked the blade open with a practiced snap and sliced off wedges to munch on.

Max said, “I bet they will be surprised that their lost loved one took out a life insurance policy before boarding. That should dry their tears.”

“And squelch any interest in investigating the loss. The next of kin will be too busy counting their money. Quite the chessplayer you are, Max.”

Max tilted his head to acknowledge the compliment. He said, “So no problems on the ship, eh?”

“I’ve told you, Max, no problems. The boys behaved themselves, the white coats knew what they were doing, the ladies were quite cooperative—”

“Except the one named Tamantha, apparently,” said Max.

Andre shrugged. “All in hand, mon chief. The sea was kind to us, too. No storms, glorious sun-filled days. Radiant sunsets. Ever see the sun set on the open ocean, Max? It can take your breath away. “He looked around, then his face brightened. “Ah, I see you still have your own private amusement show still. What was her name again?” And he gazed at the small amphitheater that lit one end of the study. On a pedestal beneath subtly changing colored lights, a voluptuous brunette postured in an endless routine of provocative poses. As Andre looked on with delight, she knelt on the pedestal and slowly leaned backwards so her full breasts quivered on upright on her chest like upturned bowls of jello. Her mane of glossy black hair cascaded behind her.

“Darcie,” said Max, his voice empty of interest. “Darcie McVey. She was going to do an expose newscast of our little operation here. She apparently thought it would help her career to bask in the limelight of the television cameras. Ach, it looks like the fates have given her what wanted—she is forever in the limelight now. Ornamental. Living art. I had one of the techs put her remote on an endless loop, had it coordinated with the changes in the lighting.” And as he said that, the girl reached down between her legs, her hand shamelessly stroking her loins, oblivious to the men in the room, as a new spotlight beam focused a rose-colored cone of light on her glistening fingers. “I barely notice her anymore,” said Max in a toneless voice.

“Oui, chief, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” said Andre, turning his attention back to his senior partner. “You need to get out more, to breathe the air. I’ve heard you have not spent much time with that other one—”

“Robyn Dorset” said Max.

“Yes, her. You keep her bound in those leather suits and hardly ever sample her treats. And the other day you sent me a memo—you know I don’t read memos, Max—that described the girls as. . . pleasure delivery systems’. Mon Dieu, man, you’re as tightly wound as those pocket watches you play with. Now look here—” and he got up, walked to the pedestal, and pulled the compliant Darcie to her feet. “Bend over, mon Cherie, that’s a girl. Now look here, that’s a marvelous derriere this girl has.” He gave it hearty slap with his palm. Darcie squealed a bit, then smiled. “As round and plump as this apple. Why not just enjoy her, Max? A little joie de vivre, a love of life, eh? Why all this brooding?” He glanced back at Darcie and said, “Go back to doing what you were doing, dear.” She began her arousing routine all over. Andre continued. “We have it made, no? You did it, Max. You built all this, not me.” And Andre’s wide swing of his arm took in the richly adorned office, the processing center outside the office, the island resort. “So do me this favor—live a little, okay? Am I coming through to you, Max? I hope so. Because when you get like this, you are. . .” he searched for the right English word. “Unfun. And I worry about you. Yes, I do. Me, Andre, your only real friend in the whole world.” And with that he threw himself back in his chair.

Max shifted in his chair. “Danke, mein Freund, my old friend,” he said. The fact is, we have a lot to worry about right now. Lydia Dunn was here, you know.”

Andre frowned. “I don’t like her. She’s a cold hearted bitch.”

Max tilted his head as if he was willing to concede the point. “Perhaps. But useful. She said that other groups are beginning to get back into this business.”

“Why? We do everything right, here. Our girls are primo, the best.”

“Demand, Andre, demand. The market demands. We need more, that’s all. That member of the British House of Lords was getting impatient. But if we can’t keep up with demand, others will try. They will not be as careful as we are. And before you know it, the authorities are alerted and the operation must close down.”

“But I just brought you twenty-four beauties!” protested Andre.

“Our agents have received orders this past month for twice that many. Oh, don’t get wrong, your cargo today took care of our most pressing needs. Nevertheless, our backlog grows. The customers on our waiting list won’t wait forever. They will turn to our competition. If we don’t fill supply, others, less scrupulous organizations might try to infiltrate the market, with their own careless methods. All it takes is one mistake—a murdered girl from a botched conditioning, a recruit picked up with a blown faked-death cover story—and then the authorities are suspicious and our whole operation will be exposed to the kind of publicity that will destroy us.”

Andre sliced another wedge of the apple with his razor-sharp blade. “I could handle the poachers, chief, the minute they try to muscle in. You know I have my people for this sort of thing. No problem.” His lips curled into an amused smile, but the eyes maintained their serious expression.

Max knew that on the Marseilles dockyards where Andre had his roots, there were still unsolved disappearances of men who had crossed this lithe Frenchman. He sighed. “Thank you, Andre, but to resort to violence means we haven’t done our work right. There was never a better man for a dark night than you. But they would retaliate—clumsily—and we would have to respond—effectively—and before you know it we would be reading about ourselves in the London Times and the Parisian L’Express, not to mention Interpol, Special Branch in the UK and the FBI in the United States. And then, my friend, we would be on the run again, just like in the old days. No. We need a more permanent solution. That’s why I had to consult with Ms. Dunn. An opportunity has presented itself.” And Max leaned out of his chair to hand Andre a file.

Andre flipped through it. “What is this, some kind of school?” he asked. Then he read aloud from a brochure inside the file. “St. Hypatia Academy for Young Women,” he entoned. He glanced sharply over at Max. “What is this all about?”

“Keep reading.”

Andre continued. “This world-class finishing school for women has long held a standard of excellence in developing mind and body and spirit, teaching proper deportment, and completing the education of young ladies prior to engagements or career opportunities. We specialize in

difficult’ students. We know how challenging it can be in a world of loosening morals to teach responsible behavior—’” Andre looked up and fanned himself with his captain’s hat. “So true,” he said philosophically. Then, impatient with his reading, he lay the file aside. “So tell me, Max. You have a plan, I can tell.”

Max said, “This academy is located in the United States, in a secluded New England countryside. Their usual student population is 300 per year, but that could easily be increased to twice that many. It is everything that brochure says it is, I’ve sent some of our people to check it out. The school is the most expensive, most in demand, and has an impeccable academic reputation. Unfortunately,” Max went on, steepling his fingertips, “the school also has a running deficit and most of their instructors quit last semester. Their finances are in disarray, the difficult students’, having been dumped here by wealthy parents, seem determined to turn this fine institution into what Americans call a party school’. The school is owned by a family trust, the last surviving member being the headmaster, who couldn’t unravel a garden hose, much less untangle the problems this place has.” Max smiled. " And that leads us to the opportunity.”

“What’s that, Max?” asked Andre.

“It’s for sale.”

Andre looked perplexed. “So now we are going into the school business, Max?”

Max’s smile became a wolfish grin.

“Ja, old friend. But our kind of school. Imagine a school of young women, essentially abandoned by their parents who ask only that we keep their spoiled children under control, and who pay us tuition and board for the privilege. A secluded school, where we can put in our own instructors, our own facilities. . .”

Andre’s puzzlement gave way to delight. “Max, you are a genius! We have and endless source of recruits. This kidnaping business could not go on forever—our people would make a mistake sooner or later.”

Max said, “Lydia Dunn said she will handle security. We can start conditioning the freshman class this fall. Perhaps you could be the one to teach our young charges proper deportment’”

Andre laughed. “But of course! After all, it is—” he grabbed the brochure and read from it, " We know how challenging it can be in a world of loosening morals to teach responsible behavior.’”

The two men refilled their glasses and made their plans far into the night, while the laboratory next door continued the process of transforming the cargo of girls into sex slaves of breathtaking beauty. . .

PLEASURE CREWS OF THE ULTIMATE LOVEDOLLS PART 8 OF 10 by Vendatrix

PART EIGHT

Once they got on the floor, Max noticed that each girl of Andre’s cargo had sported a “Handle with Care” sticker on her smooth black asscheek—Andre’s waggish sense of humor which only made Max shake his head. They watched as Tamantha/Tami was gently guided through the central door, a white-coated technician on either side. They unhooked something on her suit, and peeled the thick rubber off. Lydia Dunn could not hide her gasp. Every strand of hair had been shaved from Tami’s nubile body. Even her eyelashes. They took her a glass enclosed octagon-shaped chamber and postured her to stand with her legs spread and her arms held out. Streams of some liquid jetted out from all sides, drenching her body and splashing through the grate on the door, washing away the sweat and moisture and leftover cream from three days at the oars. Billows of steam partially clouded the view.

“That’s a special solution,” said Max to Lydia Dunn’s enquiring look. “It dissolves the remaining hair stubble right down to roots. She will be as smooth as a billiard ball from this point on. Secondly, it cleans the whole body surface—not a blemish will remain. Finally, there’s a chemical in the liquid that softens the skin, and will help bond her bodysuit.” Lydia Dunn admired the way the girl’s body glistened with that liquid shine. Somehow the shaved aspect of her nudity, combined with her totally submissive behavior, made her infinitely appealing to the jaded matron. The water stopped, and great fans took over, blowing heated air on the girl’s body. She kept her body still and her eyes closed.

When she had completely dried off, a technic opened the door and led the girl to what looked to Lydia Dunn to be a futuristic dressing station. Technicians projected an image of her body on large screen, with hundreds of little dots. Carefully they touched her skin with some kind of stylus, referring again and again to the screen.

“What’s all this about? Are you giving your girls tattoos, Max? I’m surprised at you.”

Max smile was as humourless as her own. “Hardly,” he said. “Those are ultraviolet registration points. Each bodysuit is custom-designed for every girl. Those points help them fit it perfectly.”

“Ah, yes, the famous bodysuits. I wondered how you squeezed the girls into them.”

“It’s not a matter of squeezing, as you will see. Each suit is made up of hundreds of thousands of special polymer fibers. We got the measurements of the subject was on shipboard, and from those we used computer simulations to create the one perfect body form for her—taking into account her starting body shape, the modifications we did on her onboard—just look at those breasts, won’t you?—and the demands of the market. When the bodysuit is fitted on her, those fibers are designed to shrink, slowly compressing and molding her body into the perfect shape. But that’s not all,” he added with his engineer’s enthusiasm for his own creation, “the liquid we coated her body with in the spray chamber”—and he pointed to the octagon compartment with the clear glass walls—” binds the body suit, actually melding the polymers to her skin. It’s an organic bond that keeps on moving inward through the body orifices, on a molecular level. After a few hours the bodysuit covers her—inside and out.”

“How do you get the damn thing off?” asked Lydia Dunn.

“You don’t. It’s permanent,” replied Max. “The subject stays that way, both her mind and her body reconfigured for pleasure. Ah, here it is now.” The two watched was the technicians gingerly extracted the bodysuit from its pre-marked plastic cover. They held it up to Tami, standing in docile silence. Then they opened the suit and fitted its gossamer sheen over her body, having her step through the lower half, then pulling the transparent fabric over her arms and the hooded helmet over her shaven-smooth head. Using hand-held sensors, the technicians tugged the bodysuit this way and that to make sure the registration points matched with the girl’s imprinted stylus marks. When he was satisfied that the silvery bodysuit fitted perfectly over her form, the chief technician led the girl to a machine that looked to Lydia Dunn like one of those iron maidens one found in ancient dungeons, except this was made of polished acrylic and form-fitted for a spread-eagle stance. Upon closer inspection, the surface appeared constructed of hundreds of octagon-shaped segments A breathing tube shaped as phallus was slipped between her lips, a dildo pressed deep inside her loins, and the technicians closed the shell with a snap.

Max and Lydia Dunn could still see her through the clear shell. The chief technician threw a switch, and the dildo began a slow undulating cycle of penetration.

“What’s this all about?” asked Lydia Dunn.

“Just watch,” said Max.

Tami began to respond to the relentless sexual stimulation. Soon her body was writhing within the confines of the shell. Her pelvis began to rise in rhythmic subjugation to the steady caresses of the machine. Her whole body was so sensitive now to sexual stimulation that Lydia Dunn’s practiced eye could tell the girl was right on the cusp of a super-orgasm. At the exact moment right before Tami’s body was about to spasm into the sexual frenzy of release, the chief technician threw a switch.

A jolt of sheer blue energy flashed through cradle. Lydia Dunn could see the segmented sections of the cradle press in with an audible hiss, like an industrial laundry press. The acrylic surface of the shell fogged over. After a few moments of checking various monitors, the chief technician unsnapped the shell. It opened slowly, with a few faint wisps of smoke coiling to the ceiling. The technicians helped Tami from the diabolical machine.

Lydia Dunn could see two differences in the girl right away. First, her skin had the blush and of sexual arousal, and her face had that yearning, hungry look of a woman who is right on the verge of a totally consuming orgasm—Lydia had seen it often enough to know, except now it seemed to be a permanent condition, like a freeze-frame of her psyche. Lydia commented on the second curious difference. “That bodysuit was snug before, but now it seems to be actually. . . melded on to her skin.”

“Very astute of you, Lydia,” said Max. “The cradle did exactly that.”

“What’s it made of?” she asked.

“Biochemistry at work,” said Max. “The liquid solution we put on before the bodysuit actually binds the suit to the skin. Then the organic polymers interact on a molecular level and the suit actually grows around and inside her—she will be totally encapsulated by the end of the day.” Max’s voice became animated as the engineer in him basked in the pride of creation. “We had the mind-control device before—we got that from the East Germans after the Stassi secret police had to leave their technology behind as they got out, when our Berlin Wall came down. The bodysuit came later.” He motioned to one of the technicians, who brought over the bodysuit intended for the next subject. He gave it to Lydia Dunn.

Lydia Dunn let the cool and smooth material run through her hand, like she was sampling fabric. On the girls, it looked so skintight it could have been sprayed on. Max continued speaking. “The material is actually millions of micro-fibers, all computer programmed to the girl’s physical specifications, which we get ahead of time. Only the specifications are not what the girl is—they are what the girl should be, for the most perfect form for her body. I’ve often thought that each woman has one perfect body shape, just for her. Once the suit is put on, and the cradle activates it through heat and pressure, the fibers start to contract to their programmed shape. The construction is gentle, but it is relentless. Once the girl’s form has been modified, then the beauticians take over, add hair and other features—makeup, nail polish, whatever the customer wants—and you end up with a physically-perfected, psychologically conditioned, and behavior-modified love doll.”

“But can’t the poor girl hear every word you’re saying right now. Maybe she doesn’t want to be a—what did you say, a perfect love doll?”

“She can hear all right, Lydia. But does she comprehend? At this stage, I doubt it. We’ve deactivated the centers of speech in her brain, and independent thinking is neutralized before it reaches the neocortex. We can even program her to hear only her owner’s voice—the voice of command.”

But Max was wrong.

Tamantha did hear. And some last tiny flickering spark of her self-awareness did comprehend. She did not fight back, she felt no desire to resist. In fact, thanks to the searing sexual hunger that had been hard-wired direct from her mind to her loins, she yearned to be put to pleasure-use. And yet she still knew what was going on around her. And the sensation she felt the most right now as she should stock-still, arms at her side slightly outstretched with her palms up, was the still-warm bodysuit molding itself around her body, joining with it, and molding her in turn like she was some shrink-wrapped delicacy. She could microfibers gradually tightening, shaping her body to its custom-marketed design, a cascade of sensations that the shadow of her mind followed with a kind of detached horrified fascination. Her ripe-melon breasts shaped themselves into perfect orbs with slightly upturned aureole. The bodysuit smoothed her asscheeks into a perfect “bubble-butt” that no amount of exercise would ever have accomplished. Oh, God, her waist!—it felt like a boa constrictor squeezing her stomach to form a perfect hourglass figure. Then her feet—the toes being drawn downward, as if by some magnet, locking feet into ballerina tiptoe posture so that she would walk on six-inch heels from now on. Tamantha even felt her the micro-fibers go to work on her mouth and cheeks until she felt her mouth assuming a soft bimbo smile, the last expression she would ever have. Once the pre-programmed microfibers had tightened to their specified tension, they locked into elastic compression. And Tamantha felt that last tiny spark of self-awareness being locked in, too—never quite extinguished, but never doing more than just being dimly aware what was happening to her.

Lydia Dunn’s eyes shone with admiration. “Max, you’ve done it. I never knew there was so much technology behind this.”

“Well, we pick it up as we go along. There is still much we don’t know.”

“Like what?”

“Like how to duplicate a natural tan.” Max beckoned to Tami, and the girl-doll obediently walked over to them. “The suit is in its transparent mode, so you can see the results of five weeks of being at sea. Look at that golden tan! Our clinicians have tried to come up with a synthetic tint to the skin to match it, but”—and he shook his head sadly, the engineer thwarted—“they have not even come close. That is why this one, all the girls that Andre brought in, will probably be assigned back to the cruise ships, where wealthy passengers enjoy the sun-kissed look on their playthings. We call such lovedolls Pleasure Crews’.”

Max led Lydia Dunn to the final station, where a new set of technicians took charge of the the body-suited automaton that used to be Tamantha. They fussed over her with wigs and nail colors and contact lenses, as if preparing a supermodel for a photo shoot. They tried a wig whose locks tumbled over the girl’s shoulders like strands of spun gold.

“The market is still strong for blondes,” said Max. “The Middle East princes always inflate demand for the blonde-haired, blue-eyed Western goddesses they see in American cinema.”

“There’s more after this. Back at our island clinic, there will be a few anatomical fine-tunings. Each doll’s vagina will be electro-stimulated to make them supple and strong and very sensitive. And I believe something the technicians call speed bumps’ are installed in all appropriate orifices for greater sensation.” Max’s attention was diverted by a man waving from the scaffold above. “Oh, look, there’s Andre now. Shall we have some sherry and talk some business? Then I need to meet with my associate. Our staff here will be processing this lot all day.” He gave her a knowing look. “If you see any one of them that interest you, let me know and I’ll set her aside.”

“Why, Max, you know just what to say to make me feel tingly all over.” The matron’s eyes glittered in anticipation.

PLEASURE CREWS OF THE ULTIMATE LOVEDOLLS PART 7 OF 10 by Vendatrix

PART SEVEN

At that very moment Max was entertaining one of his chief accomplices and occasional client, a woman of mature years and refined tastes. Her name was Lydia Dunn. The years she had put to use climbing her way to the top of the intelligence agency—the Commission of Sex Crimes—whose whole purpose was to find and catch people like Max. The tastes she had refined by a secret partnership with Max. Many years ago, before they developed this odd alliance, Max had actually assisted her career by pointing her to some of his competitors in the underground market of sex trafficking. Files on Russian Mafia prostitute rings and the inevitable Thailand trade had been sent through devious channels to land on Ms. Dunn’s desk. She had been impressed with their accuracy, and wealth of inside information. Recognizing a mind as ruthless and efficient as her own, she had tracked the information to its source—as Max had intended her to. The two had met at last, in Berlin cafe, each guarded at a distance by their own invisible security network.

Max had calmly accepted the gamble that he could be arrested right there in the cafe. Not so his associate Andre. The Frenchman had flung his hands in the air when he heard about Max’s plan to meet the chief of the Commission of Sex Crimes. He had railed that Max was taking too much of a chance, this she-devil Commissioner was not to be trusted. “These Americans are insane about sex—la cafard, crazy. As if sex could be a crime! We French are more civilized, we see sex as the gateway to love! And this woman, this Lydia Dunn, is the worst, la Grande Inquisitor.” When he saw that Max was determined to make the meeting, Andre had insisted on guarding Max’s back, and picked a seat in a bistro across the street with a clear view of the cafe sidewalk table. Max could see him out of the corner of his eye, the slender Frenchman holding a small glass of wine in one hand, and his sharpest knife palmed in the other.

Max and Lydia Dunn had both waved away alcoholic beverages and settled for espresso, trying to take the measure of each other: She, dressed in American casual, but with manicured hands that told of her expensive tastes; He, dressed in a dark blue pinstripe suit and looking for all the world like an English banker. But she noticed his hands had the rough texture and scars of an altogether different upbringing.

“How long have you been in the business, Max?” she asked.

“What business is that, Madame?”

“Come now, Max, let us not fence with each other. I know very well you are in the business of smuggling prostitutes into the States through your front corporation, the so-called ‘XTC Doll Company’. Only you have a new approach—from what my sources tell me.”

Max regarded the stainless steel pocket watch had propped against the ashtray to keep track of the time. One hour only, Andre had insisted, and then I’m coming across the street, knife in hand. “You cannot expect me to speak with such indiscretion about my affairs,” he said.

Lydia Dunn laughed. She had reached into her shoulderbag and dropped a file on the table marked “XTC Doll Company—Investigation”. “This is what one of my bright young woman investigators gave me a few weeks ago. We’re on to you, Max.”

Max’s face betrayed no shock or even anger. Instead, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out an thick envelope tied with a red string. “And this is what my people uncovered about the bribes paid by my competitors into a Luxembourg bank account which we later traced to a you.”

Lydia Dunn glared at him, then smiled. The smile of tiger, thought Max. “Well well well. It looks like we could both do each other some harm.”

“Or some good, Ms. Dunn.”

“I hear you got a whole new approach to the business, Max.” And when he hesitated, she said, “Come on, no secrets. Not between us. What’s the special deal you got going?”

So he had told her. How he and his associate Andre had stumbled across the mind-conditioning device left behind by the retreating Stassi when the Berlin Wall came down. The East German secret police had used the device to wring secrets from spies and informers, but Max had immediately seen a more commercial use—the psychological conditioning of sex slaves for the insatiable appetites of the post-Cold War global economy. He spoke with contempt for the clumsy violent methods of his competitors, who trolled the gutters of Eastern Europe and Southeast Asia for drug addicts to throw into filthy brothels. “We have it down to a science now,” he said. “Do you know how we get our merchandise across borders?”

“How?” she asked, intrigued. “Hopefully not stuffed in the trunks of Volkswagens.”

“Hardly. We fly them across, suitably escorted, on first-class tickets.”

“Their minds are that much under control?” She arched her eyebrows. “Why, Max, you clever fiend.”

“No, I’m not clever. But my competitors are worse than stupid—their methods attract too much attention. They’re so inefficient and clumsy that the world press would soon notice them, and that would be bad for my business. Now that they are out of the way, perhaps we can come to some agreement. Naturally, there would be compensation to you, the usual financial arrangements.”

“Naturally, Max.”

“And we could help your career. Most of the people in this business are actually rather. . .distasteful.”

“And you’re not? You and your French friend, who I gather is posted across the street?” And she had pointed a red-fingernail at Andre, making sure the Frenchman saw she was pointing at him. Andre’s face darkened as he realized he had been made, and he turned away, scowling.

“You think he’s with me?” Max had challenged, but he knew it was pointless.

“Well, either your friend—Andre, isn’t it?—has a big knife in his pocket, or he’s really turned on by American woman cops.”

Max had raised his coffee cup. “Salute,” he said, and quaffed the dregs of the thick coffee. “So you know my partner, maybe a little bit about our organization. But you, see, Ms. Dunn, I know a little bit about your organization, too. Like the young woman who drafted this investigation. She’s is after your job, isn’t she?”

Lydia regarded her table companion with a new respect. “You have done your homework, haven’t you? Okay, then, let’s get down to business. What do you want?”

“Information on any impending investigations by your agency, such as that one,” his eyes flicked down to her file. “What protection you can offer, should any of our people get picked up in the States. All we want is to be left alone. And what may we do for you?

Lydia Dunn’s smile hardened. “The usual financial arrangement as you put it. Double what your competitors were paying, you seem much better organized.”

“And what else?”

“The occasional collar. I need to show the Secretary of the department that my Commission is getting results. Surely you can let me have my little catches.”

“And what else?”

“The occasional young lady would be nice. Slender, with good hands. And tongue. Not drugged, thank you. ”

Max had heard about her personal tastes. “Drugged is not our style. I think we can handle that, Ms. Dunn. And what else?”

Lydia Dunn learned forward. “Since you brought it up, this woman who’s gunning for me, Christina Hilshire. I once made a—shall we say, overture?—to see if we couldn’t get better acquainted after hours, and the little hussy spurned me. Can you believe it, Max, the insult? I think she’s heard rumors about my extracurricular activities.” Lydia Dunn leaned back in her chair, her eyes flinty and hard. “I was hoping you could use your imagination on that one, Max.” Lydia Dunn drew a photograph out of her bag and shoved it across the table. “A real barracuda, wouldn’t you say?”

Max studied the photograph at length. Expensive clothes, haughty features presenting a cold beauty. And a look in the girl’s eyes that seemed to dare anyone to cross her. He didn’t say so, but the photograph struck him as what Lydia Dunn probably looked like when she was younger. He pocketed the photo. “We will see what we can do,” he said. Then he called to the waiter. “Otto! Zwei cognac, bitte!” He turned back to his companion as the burley German waiter put the cognac glasses filled with dark golden liqueur on the table. Max took one of the drinks and offered the other to Lydia Dunn. “To your health, Ms. Dunn.”

“And to yours, Max,” Lydia Dunn had replied. “And you will come up with something on that Hilshire bitch, won’t you? She’s really on my ass.”

Max had kept his promise and also kept the photograph. When Lydia Dunn was finally ushered into his office by one of his exquisite office lovedolls, Max rose to great the Commissioner with old-world courtesy.

“Miss Dunn. Welcome to the Island.” He gave her a single vigorous handshake, Saxon style. Her grip was as firm as his own. “Ah, you got my message about dressing for the weather. The island look really becomes you.”

Lydia Dunn tossed her Panama hat on the hatrack and smoothed her sundress. “Why, thanks, Max, how nice of you to notice.” She took the proffered woven cane chair. “It’s taken some doing to get away. But I finally get to see the famous Island.”

“Famous only to a select few, I hope.”

“How can you say that, Max? It’s a world-known resort.”

“True. Let’s say it’s true purpose is known only to a few. As for the resort—excellent camouflage, wouldn’t you say? Better than some silly deserted island that can be seen from surveillance satellites. Here we attract some of the most beautiful young girls in the world, at astonishing low discount prices, to spend a week on this picture-perfect paradise.” He spread his arm out to the bay window, showing the azure blue of the bay outside.”

Lydia Dunn said, “Only for some of them, that week turns out to be a lifetime.”

“Not one has complained yet,” said Max.

“You’ve rather taken that option away from them, haven’t you, Max?”

Max polished his rimless glasses. “I see we’ve come. . .accompanied.”

Lydia Dunn said, “Oh, yes, I never go on my vacations without It.”

“It” stood obediently and silently by Lydia’s Dunn’s chair. The girl was collared, with the leash held firmly in Lydia Dunn’s hand. Max glanced down at the faded photograph at his desk, then back to the figure at the side of Lydia Dunn. “I can still recognize her—well, somewhat.”

“Really? Well, we might need another treatment here on the island. I wanted to eradicate every last trace of my former nemesis—the former Christina Hilshire.”

Max studied “It” with professional interest. The whole technology of the Ultimate LoveDoll process focused on a single goal: to keep their Dolls as human and natural as possible, but condition their minds and bodies to be perfect love slaves for their owners. The kidnaped girls first underwent intensive mind-programming. When they were thoroughly brainwashed, a physical training program and cosmetic surgery produced females of breathtaking beauty to accompany their complete compliance with any sexual demand. Max always felt an engineer’s pride that you could dress up your LoveDoll and take her to an embassy ball as a princess, then have your way with her in the limo on the way back.

The same could never be said for “It”, he noticed. Because “It” had become the target of her owner’s wrath. And Lydia Dunn had never forgiven Christina Hilshire for trying to expose her connections with the very sex merchants she was supposed to be prosecuting as the Commissioner of Sex Crimes.

Max knew the girl’s mind had been reduced to machine-like obedience. He had heard that Lydia Dunn kept “It” chained (for effect only, the girl wasn’t going anywhere) next to the home entertainment system of her living room, and that her close circle of friends were welcome to use “It” along with the toys and amusements.

Physically, “It” could never be mistaken for an Ultimate LoveDoll. Under Lydia Dunn’s demanding instructions, Christina’s body had been molded to look like an old-fashioned rubber blow-up doll—a cheap one, at that. “It” had breasts inflated to ridiculous size, like twin watermelons protruding out from her chest. “It’s” lips were gigantic, thick and moist and soft, and pressed together to form a wet airtight seal, that would give heavenly delight to any cock thrust deep inside. Her other apertures were equally moist, swollen and inviting. “It’s” feet had been molded to walk on tiny ballerina points, the heels seven inches off the ground. “It’s” hands were covered by the rubber into useless mittens, that Lydia kept cuffed for appearances sake. And her skin! Max winced at the cheap plastic veneer that Lydia had insisted on for her hated rival, even the cheesy seams.

Max looked back at the face, those utterly empty wide-eyed doll eyes staring straight ahead, the corner of the lips turned just slightly up to form a daft smile. The make-up was deliberately overdone, heavy eyeshadow, Egyptian eyeliner, bright spots of blush on her cheeks, and fire-truck red lips—all tempting any fun-lover to make lasvicious use of her. “It’s” hair hung untamed and tangled, giving the doll a well-used look.

Christina Hilshire, rising star of the Commission, Vassar graduate cum laude, former model, had been turned into the cheapest variety of sex toy.

“You really can see that bitch’s face, still, Max? I think it’s the eyes. Just as cold and calculating as ever, hm?” (In fact, “It’s” looked quite blank as buttons to Max). “I know she looks a bit scruffy, Max, but I lent her to some friends of mine over the weekend, to use in their country home, and they barely had enough time to hose her down before returning her.” Lydia gave a quick jerk on the chain that snapped to the front of the collar. “And It’ could barely keep up with me, disembarking from my private Lear jet.” Max glanced down and saw the pointed feet were hobbled by eight inches of heavy chain. “You were a very bad girl for wanting my job, weren’t you, and you’re still a bad girl. That’s why I have to punish you every night, don’t I, after I play with you?” And Lydia gave the chain another sharp jerk.

‘Max shuddered at the vindictiveness of women in general, and Lydia Dunn in particular. Then again, he thought, the Hilshire girl had it coming. She could have exposed Max along with Lydia, and Max had no illusions the politicians and prosecutors in a dozen countries would be baying for his blood. His only security lay in secrecy. And the protection offered by this woman, Lydia Dunn, in her role as Commissioner.

Lydia glanced at a nearby side table. An architect’s lamp hung over it, casting a zone of light over a neat arrangements of tiny mechanical parts, tiny gears and screws all laid out in neat rows, together with delicate jeweler’s tools and magnifying glass. “Why, Max, what is this?”

“I repair pocket watches. It helps me to relax.”

“How. . . quaint. Don’t you like the modern digital ones?”

“Those you don’t repair, Lydia. You just through them away. But something of quality deserves to be polished and restored.”

“Just like your girls, Max?” she asked teasingly. “Exchange the parts, buffed and rewound for use.”

“I really don’t see the comparison. Well, to business. I wanted to show you the operation, because we’re going to have to tool up for some heavy production, and your agents might be reporting hints and clues of it, so it was important you knew what was happening. We have a new batch coming in from one of our Pleasure Cruises, and you can watch the process with them. Max’s hand flicked a control on his desk, and Lydia Dunn raised her eyebrows in surprise as the whole side wall flickered into transparent glass. Max’s office was in fact an observation deck over the whole laboratory that transformed the kidnaped subjects into programmable sex machines. The first cadre of Andre’s kidnaped women were being led inside, their rubber suits as black and glossy as obsidian, their pretty eyes looking out of the slits in the molded head hoods.

“As you can see,” said Max in his crisp engineering voice with just a trace of Bavarian accent. “we’ve split the conversion process into several different stages. It’s more efficient that way, and fewer mistakes are made. This group of, ah, subjects has already been pre-conditioned on board their ship. We found that we can handle them better as a group when they are already docile and obedient.”

“Quite,” said Lydia Dunn dryly.

“All of the girls have their cortex jacks inserted—the neurosurgeon who does this work is tops in his field, we pay him in blondes. And this batch have already had three weeks of physical sculpting and cosmetic surgery. Ah, the first one is coming through. Her name is Tamantha, I believe,” Max said, referring to a clipboard. “We can watch the whole process from here.”

“Better yet,” said Lydia Dunn, “let’s go down to the floor and see it.” And Max noted the way her eyes burned color rose in her cheeks..

“Very well. You can leave It’ here.”

“Your staff is welcome to use her in the meantime, Max.”

“Like trying to offer candy to workers in a chocolate factory,” he replied. “They’ve seen it all before.”

PLEASURE CREWS OF THE ULTIMATE LOVEDOLLS PART 6 OF 10 by Vendatrix

PART SIX

When Tamantha scanned the sundeck looking for Kira and noticed that other couples were entwined together, the beautiful women using their bodies in any possible way to satisfy their male companions. One girl straddled her lover as he lay on a deck mat. She rose and fell slowly with each measured thrust of his hips, as languid an rhythmic as the rolling seas around the ship. A few paces forward a woman with lips as fulsome as Tamantha’s own sat in a deckchair shoved against a bulkhead. Her man stood over her, oaken thighs on either side of the chair. With one hand he held her wrists pinned above her head against the wall. With the other hand, he held her head in a strong grip, fingers entangled in her glossy hair, as he repeatedly thrust his cock back and forth in her mouth. Tamantha could tell from the wet, slurping sound how tightly his cock must fit in the girl’s mouth—hers must be as narrowed as mine, thought Tamantha. The very thought of it made her mouth water. A few feet away, two other girls—a blonde and a redhead—had snuggled on either side of a man, their tongues competing for his rigid shaft. It was just like the club the night before, except now the scene was bathed in sunlight and out in the open, with the girls abandoning every inhibition as they sought to wantonly pleasure their dominant lovers.

Tamantha picked her way through the men and women lovers until she found herself at the very bow of the boat. She stood there at the little forecastle, the waves surging beneath her, her body warmed by both the sun and the musky arousal of witnessing the submissive service rendered by the girl passengers. She leaned forward, gripping the railing, so her oversized breasts swayed gloriously to the sea. Tamantha felt a surge of happiness.

There was movement behind her, then strong masculine hands gripping her torso, his fingers digging in to the oiled tanned flesh of her hips. Without even looking behind to see which man it was, she obediently spread her legs on those high platform heels, arched her back, and breathed a deep moan as the man unabashedly thrust himself deep into her from behind. As her body rocked back and forth to accommodate his hungry, surging cock, her mind slipped into a kind of dreamy acceptance of her role as a sexual plaything. It seemed so natural, so right. As she stared at the clean blue ocean in surging beneath the bow and then up to the horizon, she felt like she was flying.

Tamantha stayed on deck all afternoon. She spent the day being passed around from partner to partner, and felt a delight with her encounter with Kira—all out in the open, now, amid approving looks of her new friends. That evening the ship’s crew held a huge banquet in her honor, and it was Andre himself who snapped on the gold medallion on her collar: Tami, it read—her new name. Her gave her an endearing hug, and then pushed her back on the linen tablecloth, knocking over bottles of wine and glasses in the process, as he took her right there on the dining table, amid the cheers and applause of the other girls and crew.

The next morning Andre had the radio room send another scrambled message to Max on the island: ANDRE TO MAX. COMING HOME. WILL RUN KIRA (#23) AND TAMI (#24) THROUGH INCUBATOR TODAY. ETA THIS WEDNESDAY MIDNIGHT. It was not long before the ship’s radio picked up a coded reply: MAKE HASTE. CARGO ALREADY SPOKEN FOR. “That Max,” commented Andre while he stood in the radio shack sipping his coffee. “Always the taskmaster. Buzz the clinic and tell them to warm up the incubators.”

Tami was sunning herself on the deck, next to her friend Kira. They had made love twice that morning—once in bed, and once in the chaise-lounge on deck, and in between the girls had been casually fucked by crewmen who paused in their duties long enough to sample the two lithe young women.

Tamantha’s traced a lazy fingertip down her thigh, admiring the new tautness of her calf muscles. At the suggestion of that nice man Andre, she and Tamantha had been spending more time in the ship’s workout room. When they asked about the rowing machines on deck, the trainer suggested first some simple treadmill walking. Obligingly, Tamantha gingerly lifted her high-heeled sandals on the treadmill. At the trainer’s suggestion he, attached what he described as heart monitoring clips to her nipples—by this time, Tamantha was beyond challenging anything the crew told her. As the treadmill lurched to life, she tried walking in her old brisk style. The trainer shook his head.

“There’s a walking style that works best for cardiovascular conditioning,” he said. “Follow the monitor. I’ve arranged for the clip to give you a little buzz if you happen to fall back into your old style.” Tamantha nodded and dutifully watched the monitor. It showed a woman of Tamantha’s build walking in the most saucy style imaginable—hips swaying, breasts thrust far out, one foot delicately placed in front of the other—all in a slow, seductive gait. “Okay, I’m turning the machine on now,” said the trainer.

Tamantha followed the image on the screen. It took work, but eventually she got the rhythm right, and it worked well with her feet in her tip-toe high heels. A few times she let her mind wander—this was happening more and more these days—and she was brought up short by a slight buzz in her nipples—not enough to hurt, but enough to rivet her attention back on the screen. She kept her eyes glued to the monitor from then on, absorbing her lessons subconsciously on how a woman should walk while on board. Hours later, it seemed, the trainer helped her sweat-streaked body from the machine, and he grinned as she walked out to the deck, her walking style a perfect reproduction of the image of the screen.

As she was sunning herself next to Kira, Tamantha now wondered when her next exercise period would be scheduled. Maybe this time they would let them use the rowing machines. Then two of the crew approached. They gently guided Kira on her feet and walking toward the clinic. Mildly curious, Tami followed. It occurred to her, somewhere deep down where a small part of her rational brain still functioned, that it ridiculous for her to try to secretly follow anybody—her enormous breasts would jut around any corner she was trying to peek behind. Nevertheless, she took mincing steps on her way down the same passageway that Kira had been taken.

Surprisingly, the men led Kira past the clinic doors. At the end of the passageway, one of the men produced a key in front of a door that Tami had never noticed before. While Kira waited passively in the grip of the other man, the first opened the door and the party stepped through. Tami thought she caught of glimpse of Andre in the room behind. After they closed the door behind them, Tami tip-toed up to the portal—she could hardly do anything else in her ultra-high heels—and pressed her ear to the door. Words came though, muffled and indistinct: “Strap her in the cradle. . . calibrate the feedback. . . get ready to jack her in. . .”

Suddenly the door swung open and Tami toppled forward into the room.

“Well, what have we here, another little cabbage?” asked Andre, a half-smile on his lips. The men helped Tami to her feet. She blushed at her intrusion, then looked past Andre. Tami’s eyes widened in surprise. Kira was strapped to something like a dentist’s chair. One of the white-coated attendants was just fitting a large half-helmet around the girl’s head. Kira’s eyes were covered by a visor that fitted into the helmet. She was naked—well, nothing new about that, these days—but her legs were spread wide in the chair with what looked like an industrial-strength dildo buried deep in her pussy, with supporting straps on her thighs. A whole series of wires and leads protruded from the base of the dildo and ran to the computer. Large transparent suction cups capped each of Kira’s breasts, with similar control wires leading to the same computer. One of the technicians—a beautiful girl herself, with her white coat stopping at mid-thigh to reveal her own shapely curves—was busy braiding Kira’s glossy long black hair to keep it from interfering with another and even more heavy-duty set of wires extending from the back of the helmet to the same computer.

“What. . . what are you doing?” asked Tami in alarm and confusion. “What are you doing to Kira?”

Andre said, “We’re taking Kira one more step on her journey.”

“Journey? What journey? What are you talking about?” Tami’s mind struggled to understand what was going on.

Andre lit one of his long brown french cigarettes. “Mon amie, you and your friend here have been selected for a very special—” he appeared to be searching for the right English word—“. . .destiny. You should first understand that none of this is personal.” He gestured to the attendants, and they pulled Tami into the other chair. She was too stunned and confused to resist, even when they began to secure her arms to the armrests and her spread-wide ankles to the foot-brace of the chair. Andre continued talking. “My associate and I shop the world for a very special kind of women. It’s not so much what they are, you see, as what they have the potential of becoming. Our market requires women who are susceptible to mental control. So susceptible, in fact, that they can be conditioned to be obedient mind-slaves to their owners—for whatever purpose their owners require. Our clients are wealthy, and could afford to hire out for almost any kind of service of a conventional kind. This, I am sure you understand. . .” As he talked, Andre kept his penetrating eyes boring into Tami’s own, like a snake that freezes it’s prey merely by an unblinking stare. Andre kept talking soothingly while the attendants briskly snapped shut the various restraining devices over Tami’s body.

Tami began to resist, weakly and helplessly. “Wait,” she said, “You’re making a big mistake. I have friends that will come and find me. So does Kira. . .Please don’t. . .”

“Ah, your friends, mon amie. . . your friends will be grief-stricken at the news, I’m sure.”

“The news?” The attendants were already slipping a large fitted collar around Tami’s neck, and swinging out a dildo on a mounting poised like torpedo between Tami’s legs.

“About the sinking of this vessel. You and your friend, in fact all of the beautiful young passengers on this ship,” he said, with a wave of his hand to the upper deck above them, “will be lost at sea. End of story.”

“But Andre, I’ll escape somehow. . .you’d better let us go—” Tami pulled at the unyielding bonds as she gazed down at the pebbled, whorled dildo aimed right up toward her loins.

“No, my dear, you will not escape. Not ever. Your mind will be conditioned so that the very concept of escape will be beyond comprehension. All you will think of his how to serve your new owners. Now listen, my friends here will be placing a helmet over your head, just like your friend Kira. You will see what we want you to see and hear what we want you to hear. And soon enough, you will do what we want you to do and think what we want you to think.”

With that, he gave a nod to one of the technicians, who operated a control switch with one hand that propelled the dildo toward Tami’s open loins. With the other hand, he spread her lips and adjusted the rounded point for a perfect aim. Tami thrashed as much as the bonds let her, which was not very much. Just before the dildo penetrated her, the technician coated it with glistening lubricant. Tami winced as the intruder eased deep inside, inch by inch. The more she struggled, the more the slippery dildo seemed to settle into her, held in place by a piston arm that projected from an engine at the foot of the chair. At last it stopped. Tami felt impaled, and fought the sensation that made it a pleasurable impalement—the warm, tiny quiverings of the device that seemed to awaken every pleasurable nerves in her loins.

She was so entranced by the feeling that she barely noticed the two technicians who came from behind the chair to slip a helmet like Kiri’s over her head. Again, she tried to resist, her head jerking against the restraining headband so that her glossy hair shimmered slightly. But it was no use. Out of the corner of her eye, before the helmet came over eyes, she saw how the trailing wires of the helmet snaked toward the computer. The helmet settled over her and clicked into place. Tami felt the coolness of electrode pads settling on her forehead, then the jolt as an electrical jack slid into receptacle that had been set into her skull during one of her stays in the ship’s clinic. Her whole body shuddered as she tried to withdraw inside herself. Her mouth opened to scream at the shocking sensations—

“Connection made with auditory and visual cortex,” said a technician at the nearby computer. “Starting sedation sequence. . . now.” Immediately her thrashing ceased, as her mind was flooded with soothing lights and soft sounds.

Andre nodded in satisfaction. These early minutes were always so delicate. The subject’s mind had to softened and grooved into compliance to reduce resistance—that had been accomplished with both girls, he could see.

“Activate visuals,” said Andre. A technician’s fingers tapped on his keyboard, and Tami’s body stiffened at the first onslaught of unexpected imagery, played against her shuttered eyes. The girl had no idea that these images were uploaded directly from the databanks of the computer. Some of the visuals were direct replays from her submissive conditioning—Tami on her knees looking up for approval at the man she was servicing, Tami dressing in provocative slave-sandals with high heels, even the time when she had leaned over the bow of the ship and had been taken from behind by an anonymous male, while she arched her back and moaned with lasvicious delight at every thrust. All such moments had been carefully recorded, and now played back in her one-person theater of the mind. And as she involuntarily watched each scene roll by—how could she avoid it, since she was experiencing direct input to her auditory cortex?—the dildo between her legs hummed to life and began a slow, sensual mechanical thrusting. Tami could not help but groan as the pleasurable sensations seem to become a part of her submissive and erotic conduct in the visuals. Her body began to respond to the inexorable pleasure of both the mental and physical stimulation.

Andre watched the girl’s body begin to undulate in response to her conditioning. One of the technicians said, “She’s in the groove, sir,” and Andre nodded approvingly. “Insert the constructed images, the one we developed on the computer yesterday from the raw footage.” A another tap at the keyboard, and Tami’s helmeted head jerked back as new fantasy images played across her mind’s eye. These were fiction, computer simulation used by applying the captured video images of Tami to a matrix of scenes of increasing submission. Tami saw herself dressed in leather, a boned corset cinching her waist to unimaginable hourglass slenderness, being led by a leash down a stone corridor. She saw herself being ravished in dozens of different ways, some of which she had never experienced or even imagined. And with every image the phallus thrust deep and hard inside her, exciting a rainbow of pleasure. She could not help but respond, meeting each thrust with her own yearning pelvic writhings. And every pleasurable sensation further hard-wired the relentless brainwashing of submissive perspective in her mind. She lost herself in a dreamlike trance of unending waves of pleasure as her body responded to the scenes of erotic subjugation being played across her mind’s eye. . .

She heard another female voice—Kira, restrained in her own chair beside her! It was a moan of pleasure, just like Tami’s own. Her friend, her lovely friend Kira, was here too. . .how nice. . .And then Tami brought herself up short, and mentally struggled to regain her old self. A spark of her soul still flickered, and that ignited her consciousness. Her friend was in trouble. What’s going on? What are they doing to us? She fought to clear her mind. How did she come to this position? She focused all her will power on ignoring both the visual stimulation before her eyes (how did they do that!? She wondered) and the flood of physical stimulation thrusting deep inside her loins (she remembered very well how they did that).

In those few seconds of lucidity, she suddenly saw the future her captors had designed for her. The combination of visual training and erotic stimulation was designed to condition her, brainwash her mind into an unthinking sex slave. She remembered how women who were signed on the old passenger list were now docile lovetoys, their bodies being sculpted by the ship’s clinic to make them even more desirable. Just like herself—she could feel the weight of her own enlarged breasts against her chest. And her fulsome lips—no wonder she couldn’t talk right anymore. Her captors saw only one future use of her mouth, that was all so terribly clear now.

Were the women captives on the ship being trained for the crew’s private use? Or was there some kind of heinous female slavery ring at work here?

No matter—she had to get out. Somehow. You’ve been told you’re the coldest, hardest bitch in your business—now prove it!

And Tami tried to block the images and sensations from her mind.

Outside, Andre saw the girl struggle violently against the restraints in the chair. His eyes darted to the EEG monitor.

“She’s starting to resist,” said the technician. “Alpha rhythm waves spiking.”

“Bien,” said Andre, “good. Engage the automatic response. We will see how long it takes her mind to learn that there’s a price to pay for thinking bad thoughts—or thinking at all.” Then he studied the monitor intently.

Tami had just begun to focus her anger when she was seized by the most unpleasant sensation she had ever experienced. It was not pain. It was the reaction one feels after pain, the automatic jerking back of a hand that has touched fire, except in this case it was her whole mind and body that took the shock. Simultaneously, the phallus inside her stopped churning and the erotic stimulation ceased. Her resistance faltered. What was that? she wondered in panic. Pleasure had been replaced at a snap by that awful feeling of distilled wretchedness. Her mind’s eye had gone blank, she felt utterly abandoned and cut off from the world. Then, slowly, the submissive images began to play once again across her mind’s vision; she could see herself chained spread-eagle on a satin-sheeted bed, while a lover took his pleasure with her body. She could hear his deep growls of pleasure through the earphones n the helmet. And the phallus inside her hummed back to life, moving ever so slowly, it’s steady thrust re-awakening the bud of pleasure in her loins into it’s sensitive, swollen state. Tami took a deep breath and surrendered weakly to the sensations of sensuous delight, in this bizarre crash course in submission.

Andre spoke to her through the microphone connected to the helmet’s audio headset. “There’s also a physical fitness side to this, my dear. Your loins will be getting quite a workout. That phallus that is pleasuring you right now used low-voltage electrical stimulation to sensitize your pleasure nerves. It also has the side effect of contracting your internal muscles. By the end of our little exercise, you will be well toned to service your future owner, or so the Monsieur Doctor assures me. You will be a most finely tuned sex-machine.”

Much of what Andre said was lost on Tami, as she had already begun to writhe and buck. Andre watched with amusement the first helpless pelvic thrusts as the restrained girl’s body tried on it’s own accord to massage more pleasure out of the slow-pistoning phallus. “Audio,” he ordered.

“Cuing audio,” said the technician as he tapped his keyboard. The men listened intently to the speaker that broadcast through the room what Tami was now being forced to listen to inside her own head, via the earphones in the helmet.

“—feels so good,” her voice came through. “To be fucked like this feels so good. That’s what I’m good for, to be used as a playtoy, and to do what I’m told. I can’t think any more, I don’t want to think any more, I just want to feel pleasure, and to give pleasure, that’s what I’m good for. I want to be a good girl, I want to do what I’m told, that way I can have this kind of pleasure. . .” The endless loop tape was a refined version of the audio programming that had conditioned the girls during their sleep-training. Andre’s psychologists had made special note which phrases had the most impact on the Tami’s libido patterns, and now they put that knowledge to devious use, reinforcing her behavior patterns, programming her for pleasure.

At first Tami succumbed to the seductive message. Her eyes fluttered underneath the visor of the helmet and her body began to undulate in response to each new penetration of the phallus. Then she caught herself: But no! Theywere doing this to her! If she gave in now, her mind would become totally conditioned to the barrage of erotic stimulation. Once again she forced her mind to deny the pleasure, cut off the visual images that she could see even with her eyes blindfolded by opaque goggles of the virtual reality helmet. And once again that awful feeling slammed into her mind, leaving her weak and gasping. This time the audio channel whispered instructions to her in her own synthesized voice: “It’s not good to resist, that’s being a bad girl. I don’t want to be a bad girl, I want to do as I’m told. Bad girls get punished, and I don’t want to be punished. I want to be a good girl and do what I’m told. . .”

Outside, the computer technician gave an “okay” sign to Andre. “The computer’s got her pattern now, Andre,” he said. “Every time she tries to resist, her brain waves will show it, and that triggers the automatic negative reinforcement. She’s another one of these feisty ones.”

“All the better,” said Andre. “The more she resists, the quicker her brain will learn to. . . squelch?—is that the English word, squelch? Ah, bien—to squelch such thoughts.”

“There she goes again,” said the technician. And he smiled without humor as the computer pounced on the offending defiant brain waves with a jolt of discouragement. The defiance melted away, as the brainwave pattern flattened out after the initial spike of shock. The technician checked the submissive-imagery input into the girl’s mind, and nodded an okay to Andre. “Still perking,” he said.

“Excellent,” said Andre. “I’m going to my cabin to take a nap. Call me when she is ready for the next stage in her little psychological adventure.”

The technicians exchanged knowing grins. Andre’s naps usually involved one or more of the converted girls now basking on the deck. He sauntered climbed the stairs into the bright sunlight outside, and adjusted his silk scarf in the polished brass of the binnacle. His eyes roamed the deck with the basking, tanned and oiled women now completely under his control. “My little cabbages,” he thought. The women were all gorgeous, but he tapped two of the most gorgeous and they docily followed him to his cabin.

After many hours had passed, Tami surrendered.

She had fought back, trying to quell the whispered directives in her earphones that encouraged her to be a good girl and do what she was told. She tried to deny the computer-animated images of herself that played across the viewing screen of her mind, each one more submissive than the last. And every time she had been jolted with the “exceeding unpleasant feeling” that the computer automatically responded with. Her moments of resistance became fewer and fewer, until she finally went numb and just allowed the images to imprint themselves in her mind. In fact, she was losing the power to resist at all. It was so easy just to watch herself be used like the lovetoy she knew deep down, now, that she was. So easy. . .

Outside, the technicians noticed the slight dip in the shiny helmet that was the telltale sign of her subjugation. His fingers flew over the keyboard, amplifying both the submissive images and the pleasurable stimuli that accompanied them—rewards for thinking the right thoughts. He noticed how her body no longer fought her bonds, but writhed in response to the waves of sexual ecstasy that the various mechanical accessories on the chair were designed to create. The dual dildos still churned in counterpoint rhythm in her belly and her backside, and suction cups on her breasts teased her engorged nipples with changing pressures. And yet the computer was so sensitive to her metabolism and neural circuitry that it could tell when she was just about to climax—and then the pleasure stopped. The whole system was to designed to keep her at the very edge of a woman’s ultimate orgasm, but always barely out of reach. It amused the technicians to watch her pelvis frantically surge up and down over the glistening dildos long after the mechanical phallus had been stilled. The girl was definitely becoming addicted to wanton sex.

It was long past lunch before the chief technician dialed up Andre’s cabin. “Sir, we’re about to start conditioning for special frequencies on Tami.” Once a girl was conditioned into a permanent submissive mind-set, the technicians could program her with behaviors in response to the frequencies of her individual remote control, thus making voice commands unnecessary. The behaviors could range from simple postures—kneel, lean over, spread-eagle—to more involved roleplay. A press of a button could turn a conditioned girl into a French maid or over-sexed personal secretary.

He could hear Andre panting and the uninhibited pleasure moans of at least two converted girls in the background. The nap was apparently going well.

“Very good. Proceed,” said Andre between his gasps. “I’ll be down. . .in a bit. . .”

When Andre finally came down—freshly showered, looking very urbane in his silk shirt, the technicians were just taking Tami out of the chair. The oriental girl’s chair was already empty with its former occupant strapped to a nearby gurney, her long glossy black hair swaying over the edge as they rolled her down the hall to the clinic. Andre nodded in satisfaction as Tami too was half-carried, half-led to her gurney. As the voluptuous girl was strapped in, limp and sagging from being force-fed hundreds of thousands of synthetic erotic experiences, her eyelids still flutttering from this barrage of mind-altering conditioning, Andre picked up her hand and kissed her wrist.

“Au revoir, mon amie. When we meet again, you will be even more perfect than you are now.” He pressed a button on the communications console to the bridge. “That’s the last of them. I want them all shaved, suited and at the oars by morning. Oh, and radio to Max we’re on our way, cargo all conditioned. That should make him happy.” As he watched the two gurneys disappear through the swinging doors to the clinic, he wondered, why was Max in such a hurry for these girls? Was business really that good?

The next morning Andre climbed up the ladder to the pilothouse. An unaccustomed silence reigned of the ship, its diesel engines silent. The decked rocked slowly as the cruise ship drifted.

“Ready to begin Operation Lost-at-Sea,” said the skipper. “Radar shows no other seacraft or airplane in the area.”

“Bien,” said Andre, “Good. Let’s put our rowing crew through their paces, shall we?” And he gazed fondly over the deck below.

It was an incredible sight. The rowing benches that had been stacked on the deck were now neatly positioned by the oarlocks, and shackled at each bench sat one of the twenty-four women passengers. You could not tell one from the other. They were all dressed in thick black rubber latex suits, from their toes to the hoods over their heads—one seamless suit that hugged their curves, with only their eyes and mouths showing. And since each of the women was physically enhanced by the clinic, they all looked like twenty-four perfect female forms, bending forward at their oars, the blades poised above the whitecaps, their breasts straining at the tightly stretched fabric of the suit.

“The girls will bake in that black latex black suits,” said the skipper. “By midmorning those suits will be sweatboxes.”

“That’s the idea, actually,” said Andre. “Every scrap of hair has been shaved off those girls. Then we slathered them in a cream to remove every last root, activated by heat. Max wants them as smooth as billiard balls by the time we reach port. Besides, a few days at the oars will tone them up nicely, make them ready for what’s in store for them at the Island. Work them hard, captain.”

“You worry about the girls, Andre, and let me worry about the ship. Max really thinks this trick will let us disappear?”

“But of course. He explained it to me. The whole seabed is covered with sonar devices. American, of course. Who else could afford to cover the bottom of the sea with sonar? In the old days, they tracked Ivans.”

“Ivans?”

“Russian submarines. The devices pick up the sound of engines. After the end of the cold war—something which I personally did not concern myself with, except for smuggling opportunities—the sonar system was turned over the merchant marine and coast guard, to keep track of the ships. I mean, what else could they do with it? They can track every vessel on the sea with those sonar detectors. By killing our engines, we have just gone off the system. Sunk, for all they know. All we have to do now is row like hell for the next twenty-four hours and our trail ends right here. Ingenious, no? And we have such lovely rowers. Let’s hope they can row together, eh?”

And at that he flipped a switch on the loudspeaker, and the hard-driving rhythm of a Madonna song blared out over the deck. Twenty-four oars bit the water at the same time. The morning sun glinted off the shiny rubber suits as the girls bent over their oars in unison. Andre knew the girls had been programmed for a mind-set of strenuous group exercise, and it showed with each beat of the oars. As we watched their slim bodies stretch and pull, their latex-layered breasts straining against the tight rubber, it occurred to him that all the girls had lost identity. Now they were just perfect female forms encased in identical rubber suits, with nothing showing except their pretty eyes staring straight ahead with docile contentment. Headphones were wired into the form-fitting hoods, and mental conditioning continued to be whispered into the receptive minds, along with the relentless beat of the music. Water jugs were suspended above each bench, with rigid sucktubes held at the horizontal. Each girl had been trained to coax the liquid through with tongue and lips and cheeks. Andre watched a few of them taking their water, sucktubes deep into their throats, their lips pressing all the way to the base of the sucktube and he approved the way the gag reflex had been conditioned out.

The skipper seemed to be watching the same thing. “Well, they seem happy enough,” he said.

Andre gestured at the nearest bench. “I would hope so,” he said. “Each bench has a phallus that is drawn inside the girl with each stroke of the oars. Max himself worked out the differential gears. Our problem won’t be whether they will pull hard enough. Our problem will be trying to slow them down.” Andre leaned back in the pilot’s chair, a huge grin on his face as the first subdued moans and mews could be heard from the rowing deck. And for a delicious morning, watching his lovely charges rowing like automatons with their glossy suits shining obsidian black under the bright sun, Andre imagined himself as the captain of a roman galley oared by a captured amazons.

PLEASURE CREWS OF THE ULTIMATE LOVEDOLLS PART 5 OF 10 by Vendatrix

PART FIVE

Tamantha awoke slowly from her nap. She glanced at Kira beside her, curled up like a kitten. The room was still dim, with the late afternoon sun sending its rosy hues through the blinds on the window. Through the room wafted the deep musky scent of female arousal. Tamantha hesitantly reached down under the sheets and touched herself: soaking, she was. Then she glanced over her sleeping friend and saw the slight bruise marks of tender love-making on the girl’s alabaster breasts. Did we do it? wondered Tamantha.

Kira stirred as if awakened by Tamantha’s gaze. The oriental girl stretched like a kitten. Then she, too, began to note her surroundings and her body’s still smoldering responses. The two girls looked at each other for a long time.

“Do you suppose—?” began Tamantha.

Kira reached over the covers and put a finger to Tamantha’s lips.

“Shhhh,” she said. “Maybe we just had a dream. I don’t know what happened. But I do know this: I need a man,” she said, and both girls burst out laughing. Then Kira looked closer at her friend. “Gosh, I can tell they did some work on your face, Tamantha. You look terrific!”

“You think so?” asked Tamantha dubiously. “I think they overdid with my lips. I can barely talk!”

“Oh, that’s just normal swelling Tamantha—I’m sure that puffiness will go down. Stand up, let me see the rest.” To her relieve, Tamantha could speak a little better, although it felt better to use simple words.

Tamantha shyly slipped the covers off and stepped on the floor. “Ouch,” she said, “my feet. Wait, I need to get my support heels on.”

Kira said, “They did that foot-traction thing with you, too? They told me it came from too much jogging.”

Tamantha slipped on the ankle-clasps to her high-heeled sandals. When she stood up, she did a little pirouette for her friend’s benefit.

Kira laughed with delighted amazement. “Well, they certainly didn’t hold back on your breasts,” she said”

“You don’t think they’re too large?” asked Tamantha anxiously, cupping her enormous breasts. “I feel I can open doors with them.”

“With breasts like that, the men will be opening all the doors for you, never fear, my dear. You know what they say—the bigger the better.”

Tamantha said, “Right—the bigger the better, as they say. Now it’s your turn.”

Kira obligingly got out of bed, put on her high heels, and strode about the room. Tamantha applauded in appreciation. Her friend had always had a slender body, but now her figure was just about perfect. Tamantha could see that the oriental girl had likewise received substantial breast augmentation, but nothing that was out of proportion to her petite form.

They both regarded each other in the mirror above the vanity. “Too good for mortal man, I’d say,” said Tamantha.

“But we owe the guys a chance for some fun,” said Kira. “After all, that’s what our bodies are for, isn’t it?”

Took the words right out of my mouth, thought Tamantha. That’s funny. But then the thought drifted away, like so many were doing recently on this voyage so far. . .

The two girls sashayed into the clubroom. Already they had become adept at walking in their high-heeled deck sandals, placing each mincing step directly in front, their backs arched alluringly, their calves already sculpted from the strain of walking on their toe-points. The gentle roll of the ship taught them the art of balancing, as they learned to swing their hips to compensate. Their breasts jiggled and swayed with every step. Hips swinging, hair bouncing, breasts jiggling—how could they not attract attention, this time? And sure enough, it was not long before their small table attracted more and more men, until they were playing host to half the guys in the bar. Tamantha’s eyes met those of her friend Kira, and the oriental girl winked at her. “Things are looking up!” said Kira. And then she glanced over at the waist of one of their admirers standing by their table. Tamantha’s gaze followed her friend’s, and she could see what double meaning of her last statement—this guy was obviously aroused just to be around them.

The thing was, Tamantha was just as randy. It seems like every guy she laid eyes on, every tight butt or hard abdomen or flexing bicep, just seemed to make her insides quiver with a kind of simmering lust. She even found it hard to follow the conversation around them—all she could think about was how good it would feel to be held by any of the guys, to be stripped, to have him press her against his—

“Tamantha!” Kira’s voice broke into her fantasy. “I’m going to go visit with this guy over there on the couch. See ya!” And before Tamantha could reply, her friend was already being led by the hand to one of the low, comfortable couches in the darkened corner of the lounge.

A man slid smoothly into the seat vacated by Kira. He talked, at Tamantha did her best to keep up. Such big words he used! She tried to reply, to banter back in her old, cynical, put-down way, but the words just didn’t seem to form in her mind. Besides, when she did say anything, her collagen-enlarged pouty lips and modified mouth made her speech slurred and laborious—she felt like she was talking with marbles in her mouth. What a way to make an impression on this guy, she thought with despair.

But wait—isn’t a girl’s greatest asset her body? That’s what it’s there for, to give pleasure. . . the thoughts just seemed to pop into mind. She was oblivious to the fact that the lessons had been repeated countless times through the earphones during sleep. Now they seemed like the answer to her problems.

Tamantha took a deep breath and projected her breasts forward. She also tossed her hair and lightly ran the tip of her tongue over the pouty lips. Sure enough, the guy leaned forward, obviously drawn to her. Tamantha blushed at her success, and felt a moist heat building in her loins. Her head was spinning from this unexpected rush of passion so much that she missed what he asked next, and he repeated his question. “Wouldn’t we be more comfortable on one of those couches?” he asked, and he rose and offered his hand. Tamantha obediently took it without thinking and found herself snuggling with him on the soft cushions of one of the couches in the darkened corner.

He murmured something in her ear. She didn’t really understand what he said, but it did not matter. The important thing was that he was paying attention to her, letting her show off her new and exciting physique. She knew she could use her bust to attract him further (“That’s what breasts are for, the bigger the better. . .” the conditioning whispered in her mind), so she made a point of thrusting her chest out and letter her soft, warm globes press against his body.

His response to this lasvicious gesture came quickly. His hand slipped up and caressed her breasts, playing with them openly, right there in the club. True, it was dark in this corner, and many of the other men were brazenly touching and fondling their dates, but. . .

Then he leaned forward and kissed her deeply, while his other hand slid between her thighs and without warning began stroking her sex. Before she had a chance to protest, her loins quivered at this touch, and she felt herself compliantly spreading her legs to give him great access to her. (“That’s what your body is for, to give pleasure to men. . . .that’s the purpose of your body, that’s why you’re so beautiful, so you can let them play with you. . . " the conditioning ran like a endless-loop tape.) A slight moan escaped her pouty lips as his masterly guided touch seemed to spark off one sensation after another. Through her half-lidded eyelids, she could see Kira from across the room. Her friend was straddling the hips of her date, facing him as he sat in a great wing-back chair. The seated man’s hands were roaming all over her body, and the oriental girl writhed sinuously with pleasure at this touch. From time to time he pulled her close to kiss her, and Tamantha could only imagine the sensation of having Kira’s silky black hair caress one’s cheek as she leaned forward—actually, she didn’t have to imagine it, she reminded her self, she had experienced that exquisite sensation herself. The memory sent another jolt of desire through her body.

Her own date’s caresses were growing increasingly hungry and demanding. He took her hand and placed it over his hardening cock tented underneath his trousers, and Tamantha obediently began to stroke it to hardness. When she glanced back at Kira, the oriental girl was now slowly gyrating her hips in an unmistakable motion. She’s fucking him, Tamantha realized with a shock. Right here in the club! She tried to get up to intervene, but her own date held her fast with on hand while he unzipped his trousers with his other. Then Tamantha felt his strong fingers reach up and entangle themselves in her hair. The next thing she knew she felt her head being pressed down with gentle pressure until her lips hovered over the man’s throbbing cock.

I’m certainly not going to give him a blow job right here, she thought to herself. But the head of his cock brushed against her lips, and she felt a sudden tingle in her loins at the thought of taking that delicious, rock-hard cock into her mouth. Already she had automatically wet her lips. The pressure of his hand pressed her lips over the head of his cock, until the shaft surged forward and forced its way into her waiting mouth, or rather the narrow velvety-smooth tunnel that her mouth had become.

And then an odd thing happened to Tamantha. Her mind seemed to go blank. The minute her date began to thrust his hard cock past her lips, her head began to bob up and down over it of its own accord. The motion was familiar. . . This isn’t so bad, she thought, unaware that hours of subliminal programming had conditioned her for this function. Up and down her mouth slid over his cock, her puffed-out lips making an airtight seal. Her saliva glands were working overtime, as evidenced by the warm, glistening stream that gushed out of her mouth and lubricated her date’s cock. She could feel the head of the cock sliding back and forth through the narrow tunnel her mouth had become, feeling him spasm in pleasure as he forced his manhood past the rows of “speedbumps” that had been build in by the clinic.

Her hands reached out. While the fingers of one hand encircled the base of his cock, her other hand stroked and caressed his balls. That’s what men like, her mind told her—lessons learned from hours under the earphones.

Then the rhythm of his thrusts increased, became more demanding. His cock slid wetly through the narrow channel of her mouth, with barely enough room for her tongue to slaver over the underside of his shaft. Tamantha’s nostrils flared as she tried to keep pace with the quickened tempo of his thrusts. Her tongue ran slavishly over every vein, every fold, every heated contour of that pistoning cock. She discovered that if she drew in her cheeks, she could create an even tighter squeeze for his pleasure. As she leaned forward to service him better, she felt her full breasts swing out from the scanty deck dress she was wearing, her erect nipples apparent for all to see.

Tamantha wondered briefly how she most look. Leaning forward, breasts slipping out She felt thrilled to know she was now the center of her date’s universe, that she was bringing him to the pinnacle of pleasure. Soon his powerful thighs were driving his cock almost to the back of her throat. Then his strong hands gripped her head hard, holding it steady, as his manhood seemed to swell in size right in her mouth. He came deep down her throat, hot jetted spurts of his cum almost choking her. She swallowed again and again, her tongue teasing the underside of his gland to wean out every drop of fluid. Never once did her full lips break the seal at the base of his cock. Gradually he withdrew himself from her glistening lips. He patted her head, and she got wet all over at the thought of his approval.

The man stood up from the chair, and she felt a momentary sadness—leaving so soon? But he was no sooner gone than another man slid into the waiting seat. Without discussion, without even introductions, he reached forward to fondle her breasts, squeezing the nipples hard. Tamantha could not suppress her groan of delight. Then before she knew it, she was eagerly sucking on his cock as well. It was so much easier the second time around, now that she knew what was expected of her. The male scent of musk intoxicated her, and her head bobbed up and down as she serviced this second date. . . and later a third. . .

Once between cocks she stole a glance over at her friend Kira. The oriental girl had abandoned all inhibitions, and was know kneeling on the booth-seat on knees and elbows, while a standing stud with a muscular back thrust back and forth into her rear. The standing man gave her buttocks an occasional spank, which made her frantically redouble her efforts to match her bucking hips with the rhythm of his thrusts. Then the man reached forward and grabbed a clump of her glossy black hair. He pulled her head back as one might rein in a horse. Kira arched her back and let out a moan of pleasure as he buried himself deep inside her backside.

The evening seem to go on and on. It seemed to Tamantha that she had lost count of her all-too-willing partners, that she had even served the same man more than once. When both girls had passed out, they were carried back to their room, sponged clean, and left in the king-size bed together. But not before securing the headphones snugly over each girls’s mussed hair. Their lessons continued while they slept. You’ve been such a good girl the whispered voice assured them. It felt so good to give pleasure to so many men, didn’t it?. . . so much pleasure. . . it’s so easy to give pleasure. . . all you have to do is what you’re told . . . just to what you’re told. . . that’s what you’re hear for, to give pleasure. . . after all this is a pleasure cruise, isn’t it? Nothing but pleasure. . . no work . . . no thinking . . . just giving pleasure. . .now that you have the body for it. . . you’re so such a good girl to give so much pleasure. . . Gradually her mind was conditioned to regard sexual compliance as the controlling stimulation of her behavior. The lessons went on and on. . .

Tamantha awoke slowly, in a state of simmering arousal. She opened one heavy-lidded eye and saw Kira curled up next to her, the slender fingers of the oriental girl in her sleep slowly stroking Tamantha’s pussy, like a slow motion guitar strumming. Tamantha caught a scent of the girl’s perfumed hair and ran her own caressing hand down the sleeping girl’s flanks. Kira murmured something and snuggled closer. As she drifted back to sleep, Tamantha’s earphones whispered, “. . . and girls too. I love giving pleasure to other girls, if that’s what I’m supposed to do. I love the feel of soft skin on girls. . . I want to be a good girl and good girls do what they are told. . . that’s what I’m here for, to do what I’m told. . . I love doing what I’m told, it gives me so much pleasure. . . and I love giving pleasure to other girls if that’s what I’m supposed to do. . . it feels so good. . . all I have to do is do what I’m told, and I get to have more pleasure. . . I have such a beautiful body. . . I like to show off my body. . .” Tamantha drifted back off to sleep.

When Tamantha finally awoke, it was late afternoon. The rumpled sheets still bore the sweet perfume of her friend, but Kira herself was nowhere to be found. Tamantha slipped on the barest of string bikinis and then bent over to put on her high-heeled sandals; it was impossible to walk without them now. She caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror: long-legged, hair cascading over her shoulders, her newly-inflated breasts jiggling as she walked, the whole picture reinforcing her developing self-image as a bimbo.

Her eyes strayed to the desk where her laptop computer still sat unused. Her brow furrowed for a moment—there was something she was supposed to be doing with that computer, but she could not remember. She reached out to touch it as if to jog her foggy memory, her long-nailed fingers now unable to work the keyboard. As a matter of fact, she couldn’t even remember how to turn it on. Somehow, that did not seem important anymore. Anyhow, she should be outside, where all the fun was, Tamantha thought, so she opened the cabin door and stood blinking in the bright sunlight. The sea was azure-blue as always, and the deck sported several sunbathers. Thoughts of the computer vanished entirely.

“Good morning, sleepy-head,” said one the young men, raising his head from his arms. He was lying on his stomach, wearing the briefest of speedo swimtrunks. His eyes were covered by wrap-around sunglasses, but even without those, Tamantha could not tell if he was one of the men she had serviced last night. Nevertheless, she warmed at the thought of being recognized.

“Hi,” she said with a seductive smile, and then felt at a loss for anything else to say, because the man was not alone. A woman knelt next to him, rubbing suntan lotion lovingly over the muscles of his bronzed back. She wore a dreamy expression and little else.

Tamantha shaded her eyes with her hand and looked over the deck. Most of the men and all of the women were sunbathing in the nude. It was as if this was the day that everybody tossed off the last of their inhibitions.

“Mmm, harder,” said the man, and the girl bent over her task, her oiled breasts swaying with each movement of her arms. Tamantha noticed the girl did wear something after all—the gold medallion on the choker around her neck, of course, and the electronic device hooked to the string thong of her swimsuit. With a start of surprise, Tamantha saw the name on the medallion: “Candi”. The once-brash fashion editor had undergone a kind of sea-change. Her body, like Tamantha’s, had been perfected after frequent sessions in the clinic. Her blue eyes were limpid and pretty, with only a look of puppy-dog devotion in them.

“That’s enough on my back,” said the man. “Now do my front.” He turned over. To Tamantha’s surprise, Candi’s hands obediently slid over the man’s muscular thighs and gripped the elastic bands of his swimsuit. She pulled the trunks down over his legs, revealing a cock that was already throbbing into hardness. Candi squirted some of the white lotion into her hands, and went to work on his shoulders and chest, with her breasts brushing teasingly against his swelling cock. The man exhaled in pleasure as the docile girl worked over his chest with her hands. Then lower to his torso. Another squirt of lotion. . . and then Candi matter-of-factly was massaging the man’s cock with the lotion, masturbating him with those slender, glistening fingers. She made an “O” with her forefinger and thumb, and squeezed is dock up and down like a piston-driven pleasure ring. Tamantha watched as the man’s body flexed and hardened with each stroke, and she found herself wishing she could be the girl rending such pleasure. After all, she thought, isn’t that what I’m for? The thought seemed to drift back out of her head as she found a place on deck to sunbathe.

Later that day she was strolling past one of the crew cabins when she noticed a clipboard lying on the deck. She picked it up and idly examined it. The top sheet listed names under the heading “passengers”. She saw her own name, soon enough, and Kira’s. . . and Candace’s. . . but where were all the other guests? Her eye roamed over the first names listed on the sheet, with pencilled notes: Barbara, an agency executive. . .Samantha, heiress to a Hudson River fortune, Kristen, listed as an “actress/model”. Suddenly she felt a light go on in her head as she remembered the voluptuous hostesses in the ship’s restaurant with the medallions that proclaimed “Barbi” and “Sami” and “Kristi”. Through the fog of her docility, a hint of danger whispered. She cradled the clipboard and went in search of Kira.

Kira was in their cabin, putting on her make-up. (She hardly ever wore makeup before this cruise, thought Tamantha), but then Tamantha held up the clipboard for Kira to see in the large vanity mirror.

“I think there’s something strange going on,” said Tamantha. She had to work to get the words out past her collagen-engorged lips. “All these women were passengers, and now they all have these silly girly names like Bambi’ and Stefani’, and they all work on the ship, dressed like, you know, like us. . .”

“Like us?” asked Kira helpfully. “What’s so strange about that? After all, that’s what we’re here for.”

Tamantha thought she heard an echo in Kira’s statement of something she had heard many times before. It was all so confusing. She took her friend by the shoulders and turned her around.

“But what are all these women—most of them career women, like we used to be—like we are,” she stammered, getting more confused, “like we are, doing as part of the crew. It’s almost like they’ve been kidnaped or something.”

A look of flickering awareness finally flitted across Kira’s face. Her oriental eyes narrowed and she seemed to be struggling to think. Then she regarded Tamantha with concern. “I see a problem,” she said.

Tamantha nodded hopefully. Maybe the two of them could figure this out together.

Kira continued. “What are we going to do with your hair style?” the oriental girl asked. “There’s a party in the restaurant tonight and we need to get ready. Look at you! What if the men don’t think we’re pretty?”

Tamantha stared at her friend in despair, then slowly backed away. “Kira. . .not you too. Don’t you see? We’re in deep in something on this boat that could be very. . .” she searched for the word but couldn’t find it. In frustration, she fled from the cabin.

As Tamantha ran down the hallway as best as she could on her high heels, a man was just stepping down stairs in front of her. Strong, lithe arms reached out and caught her. “Why are you in such a rush, my dear?” said the French-accented voice.

Tamantha hammered his chest with her fists. It was futile, her own balloon-size breasts got in the way of her punches.

“There is something going on!” wailed Tamantha.

“Nothing is going on,” replied Andre.

“Yes, there is. Look what you you’ve done to all those passenger girls. Look what you’ve done to Kira. And—” Tamantha stepped back to gesture at her own voluptuous body. “And look what you’ve done to me!” She could barely hold back the tears.

“Now, now, Tamantha, nobody has done anything to you that you have not requested? You were the one who wanted to avail yourself of our fine clinic, no? And this exquisite tan you’ve acquired—Nobody has been forcing you to sunbathe on the deck, no? Come on, dry those tears. Sit next to me and tell me why you’re upset. You’ve always been such a . . . good girl onboard.”

Tamantha obediently responded to the trigger words “good girl”, implanted early in her conditioning. She sat down next to Andre. He put his arm around her in a friendly way, and she caught a whiff of that Parisian eue de cologne that he never seemed to be without . . . intoxicating. And Andre began to speak low, comforting words. He seemed to her like the high school principal, the mentor. Although she had a hard time following what he was saying—so many big words!—she still felt warmed by his attention. Phrases came though, all coated with his Continental charm.

“But what about the clipboard?” she asked. She had to labor to talk clearly. Not only was her mind so confused, her full-pouting lips and tunneled mouth reconfiguration made it such an effort to talk.

“Ah, the clipboard. Of course some of the passengers help out as crew, it’s part of the fun of the cruise. In a way, we are all like a happy family here. All cares tossed aside, always among friends—that’s what cruises are for, no?” And as he spoke, his hands slid down her flanks to rest on her hip, and Tamantha felt a bolt of sexual energy surge through her. Her eyes were now doe—like and burning with the embers of desire. The more his knowing hands caressed her, the harder it became to concentrate on what Andre was saying. Andre then began to lace his conversation with the trigger words he knew had been grooved into her mind. Each word raised her heat a notch higher.

“And why should you bother yourself with such concerns, hm? Isn’t that our job, the people who are looking after you? Hm?” He reached up and gave a playful pinch to the hardened nipples of each breast in turn. The sensual heat seemed to course its way like lightening straight to her loins. By now the poor girl couldn’t even think straight—her eyelids fluttered in a dreamy state of prolonged arousal. Her weak protests were swamped by the sexual heat being fanned by Andre’s expert touch. Her body was incredibly sensitized from countless hours of mental conditioning. Andre placed his fingers lightly between her legs, and she actually found herself rubbing herself shameless against his hand.

He said, “So you see there is no problem.” He noticed her breasts were rising and falling with each panting breath, and her unabashed scent filled the hallway. “So if I am not mistaken, you were going to meet your friend for an afternoon on the deck before our party tonight, no? Isn’t that what you came here to find out?”

Tamantha nodded. “I almost forgot,” she said. “I’ve been rather forgetful lately. Thanks for talking to me.” In fact, she had forgotten all about the clipboard.

Andre watched her hips sway and she climbed the stairs to the deck. “Thank heavens for little girls,” he said with an ironic smile.