“The breakthrough development,” said Rena the tour guide, a willowy auburn-haired woman who looked about thirty Terran years old and whose skin had a very faint, extremely attractive pink candy-stripe pattern, “came in the year 3232 by old Terran dating, when Yeg Submissive Services’ scientists discovered a way to breed submissive humans to imprint on dominant ones, by means of command sounds in the form of special, secret phrases. These phrases, supplied to a girl’s master by YSS, give him a kind of benevolent authority over his girl’s erotic life that most dominant men find greatly to their liking. Before then, we had found with relative ease that we could breed submissives, and even cause them to fall in love with their masters. It was only when we found we could make them actually permanently subservient to their masters’ cocks that we could bring our clients, and our girls, the perfect dominance-and-submission experience.”
Hend wondered how much it cost to candy-stripe your skin these days. Everything Hend had seen of this vast facility for the breeding of submissives spoke of elegance and wealth, so he guessed this woman wouldn’t have that skin mod unless it were as expensive as, say, the caviar laid out in front of the little tour group Hend had infiltrated—caviar whose tin displayed in tasteful lettering its origin on the water planet of Bel, which produced only one hundred tins per Terran year for the entire galaxy, and priced each tin accordingly.
Trying to determine from the presence of the caviar and the scarcely less expensive true champagne how much one of the girls cost made Hend’s head spin. (The champagne was true champagne because it was of course from Champagne, on Earth, or it couldn’t be called that—even after more than a millennium of off-world wine production that rivalled and often exceeded the flavor balance of old Earth terroir.) The girls were like the caviar, but exponentially more valuable. They represented the kind of luxury that only a handful of men on a handful of planets could ever dream of owning.
And Hend was going to steal one.
“If you have taken the time and expense,” the tour guide continued, “to come all the way here to Yeg to see our facility, you have certainly done your research, and so you have no doubt realized that we keep the exact nature of how the imprinting phrases work as a closely held secret. Now that you have signed the agreements…” She gestured to a sheaf of the documents on a side table, which contained the papers Hend and the six other extraordinarily elegant gentlemen had been given, and then handed back to her, signed before the tour began. “…however, we can give you the sort of demonstration that will, I think, show you that your journey has not been wasted. Over the past hundred years, our conversion rate—that is…” (she smiled, a bit wickedly) “…the percentage of you who will be going home in a few days with one of our girls—has never been under 80%. That’s not because of the champagne and caviar, as you’ll experience for yourselves in just a moment.”
She ran a finger along the neckline of her elegant red dress, which was clearly of the precise shade that best brought out both the candy stripes on her face and the auburn hue of the long hair she wore loose down her back. Hend generally didn’t like most body mods, but he had to admit he found the candy stripes subtly arresting. The dress clearly had some woven circuitry; as soon as the tour guide’s finger reached the bottom of the V that revealed a perfectly tasteful amount of her minimal, but very pert, cleavage, a door opened in the wall behind her.
A tall, aristocratic-looking man in a business suit entered. He held a leather leash in his left hand, stretching into the darkness inside the doorway. Then, attached to the leash at her slim leather collar, a girl dressed in a white lace body stocking entered, her hands clasped before her and her eyes downcast. She came toward the little audience, to stand just in front of the tour guide and her master, in the middle of a circle that Hend now saw had been woven into the carpet. The girl, of medium height and stunning beauty, looked about twenty. She had long black hair gathered into a ponytail and healthy-looking, lightly tanned skin. Her breasts were a little bigger than the tour guide’s, Hend noted with approval, but just as pert, and because she held her hands at her midriff Hend could also see that she was bare between her legs, giving an achingly exciting view of her little pussy through the mesh of the lace.
“Good morning, sir. Good morning, Grace,” said the tour guide.
“Good morning, miss,” the girl replied, still looking down at the floor. Hend could scarcely believe how hard he was just at the sight of the girl in the body stocking. The crazy thought that perhaps he could just dart forward, grab the leash, throw Grace over his shoulder, and run out of there, onto his ship and out into the galaxy where he could spend the next few years doing nothing but, ahem, getting to know her much better, seemed for a moment to be almost sane. He might have done it, if it were not one of his client’s absolute requirements that the girl Hend stole not have imprinted yet.
“Grace is a demonstration girl,” said the tour guide. “That means that she has already imprinted, on her master here: she has loved him now, in the special way only Yeg girls can love their masters, for long enough for her to get used to the feeling. Should you choose to buy your own girl, you will probably want to be the one to awaken her, after she imprints on you. All the girls are kept entirely innocent until the age of eighteen. After that they receive regular erotic stimulation and lessons in submitting to the needs of their bodies. But their knowledge of sex is kept very vague until they are purchased; the first cock your girl sees will be yours, and you will have the pleasure of introducing her gradually to the advanced submissive delights her genes guarantee. As you and your girl get to know one another, and you enjoy her more and more fully, she will become familiar with your demands, but the magic of our breeding program is that, as you will see in a moment, the imprinting process means that your dominance over her always awakens her to new joys in serving you.”
The tour guide turned to Grace. “Grace, dear, kneel, please.”
Grace did not kneel. She looked back over her shoulder at her master. He nodded, and then she knelt on the carpet. Hend supposed that sort of thing happened wherever dominants and submissives gathered, but he could tell just from Grace’s look that there was something more involved here. The way Grace had looked at her master had gotten Hend even harder than the sight of her bare pussy peeping through the nearly transparent body stocking had.
“Grace,” the tour guide said, “how do you feel about your master?”
Grace’s blush showed even through her tan skin. “Master is like a god to me, miss. I cannot imagine anyone wiser or better.”
“What about your master’s cock?”
“My master’s beautiful cock is the most important thing in my world, miss. If I could spend all day, every day, doing nothing but pleasing my master’s cock, that would be the best life for me.”
The most amazing part of it was Grace’s utter sincerity: her face shone with an inner light at the thought of devoting her entire existence to the quite ordinary-looking man in the business suit’s ultimate erotic pleasure. This is where the thing got a bit creepy, Hend thought. But ethically, if Grace could only be happy if she were a specific rich man’s fuck toy, he couldn’t see the problem. Even if Hend had the money to buy his own Grace, though, he wasn’t sure he would. Stealing a Grace, though—that he could do… or at least try.
“Can you imagine anything your master would ask you to do that you would not do?”
“Well, miss, I’m not allowed to harm myself.”
The tour guide looked out at the group. “This is very important, gentlemen,” she said. “You must never ask your girl to hurt herself, or the imprint will be broken, instantly.”
She turned back to Grace. “I’m going to have you demonstrate now, darling.”
The man in the business suit said, “Grace, do what miss tells you.”
Grace looked back at him and said softly, “Yes, master.”
Candy-striped tour guide Rena said, pointing to a man in the front row, “Grace, go please that man’s cock the way you would please your master’s.”
One of the walls of the room suddenly became a view screen, and it showed a close-up of Grace as she crawled toward the man tour guide Rena had pointed out.
“Sir,” she said when she had reached him, looking up at him reverentially, “may I touch your pants?”
“You may,” said the man, who was gray-haired, quite fat, and rather unattractive otherwise, and obviously unused to being treated thus by a beautiful young woman despite his certainly enormous wealth.
Grace reached out and deftly unfastened the drawstring of the man’s silk trousers, and pulled them down gracefully. His cock sprang free from a nest of iron-gray hair. Grace looked at it as if it were the most delightful sight she had ever seen, and leaned forward to kiss it.
“You can see,” said the tour guide, “that Grace’s services are fully transferable, if her master chooses, though the imprinting applies only to him. Let me encourage you, sir, to take hold of Grace’s ponytail and move her mouth upon your cock. That’s the kind of treatment she’s used to, and she would feel you weren’t enjoying yourself if you did not use her to the utmost.”
Hend could certainly see how transferable Grace’s services were, as the fat man seemed quite willing to take Rena’s advice, and the view screen showed Grace getting a face-fucking of extreme thoroughness. Finally the fat man grunted, holding his seat with his left hand and pressing Grace’s head down with his right, as her eyes watered but she otherwise seemed nothing but grateful for the gift of his seed down her throat.
When he released her head, she looked up at him respectfully and said, “Thank you, sir. You tasted almost as wonderful as my master.”
It was again the extreme sincerity of the words, which would have sounded silly coming from a girl who clearly did not mean them, that got to Hend and made him wish he had been the fat man.
“Grace,” said the tour guide. “I hear you are a naughty girl. Is that true?”
“Yes, miss,” Grace said, moving back slightly from the lap of the fat man and turning to look at candy-striped Rena.
“Tell these people how you are naughty, girl,” said her master.
“I touch myself sometimes, when I think of my master. I can’t help it.” Grace smiled as she said this. “I know my pussy is for my master, but I still do it—I just can’t help it.”
Again, there was the creepiness in that—the repetition of how she couldn’t help her apparent self-pleasuring ‘problem’—but there was also such incredible eroticism in the way the warmth of her voice seemed to convey the perfect joy of submission, a joy that only grew greater when it encompassed little naughty imperfections like illicit masturbation.
“Would anyone like to punish Grace for touching herself?” Rena asked. She laughed merrily, and Grace’s master smiled, as five hands shot up. “Well,” Rena continued, “why don’t each of you take a turn?” She turned to the man in the business suit. “Is that alright, sir?”
“Of course,” he said. “Grace, accept your punishment like a good girl from each of these gentlemen.”
“Yes, master,” Grace said, and crawled toward the first one.
The body stocking, as the view screen now showed, was made so as to make chastising and—Hend thought, shifting in his leather-covered seat to try to make his erection a little less uncomfortable—enjoying the girl who wore it very convenient: a cut-out delightfully outlined the perfect little apples of Grace’s bottom. When she went over the lap of the first man in line, a handsome but rather prissy-looking fellow with a purple skin mod that was much less tasteful than Rena’s candy stripe, he had no impediment at all to his enjoyment of giving her sharp smacks upon her bare backside. The view screen showed the naughty bottom in close-up, its sweet little cheeks squirming most deliciously under their punishment. Grace squealed as she felt justice delivered for her disobedience.
“Thank you, sir,” she said when the purple man told her, with clear reluctance, to go get her next spanking. After the spanking, of course, it was time for what was clearly the most important part of the demonstration: Grace’s master placed her on all fours on the low display table at the front of the room and demonstrated just how convenient the cut-out at the back of the body stocking was, and how much Grace adored his cock. When he entered her, she cried out as if thunderstruck, and Hend watched in amazement as the man, without seeming to expend much effort, still less to comport himself like some sort of sex god, fucked Grace to at least five screaming and (Hend thought, at least—from some experience) unquestionably authentic orgasms. That was before he took her ass and made her sob out her submission as he rode her hard there, murmuring obscenities: “Do you need master’s cock in your ass? Will this teach you not to touch yourself? Is this what bad girls get?” to which Grace sobbed, “Yes… yes… yes, master.”
Through it all, the look on Grace’s lovely face, blown up to at least ten times its size on the view screen wall, told the entire story, and sold the product better than any sales pitch could have. It was not that she seemed robotically happy to be fucked very, very hard—the way, Hend knew, dominant men most enjoyed having sex. It was that the happy look with which she had greeted the fat man’s cock matched the look of contrition she exhibited when the five volunteers spanked her. And that look matched the passionate discomfort her face radiated when her master fucked her in the ass: all those looks corresponded to the way she had looked at her master when he had told her to do what Rena commanded—the pure wish to serve him.