Ultimate Love Doll, Part 2RETURN OF THE ULTIMATE LOVEDOLLS
By Vendatrix
(Copyright) 
[Disclaimer: Usual disclaimer for this archive: adult material, this is fantasy 
only. This is a sequel to the story "The Ultimate Lovedoll", in this archive, so 
if you want some more background on Max and his nefarious kidnaping / 
mind-control scheme, check out the earlier story.]
"I think you will find this one to your liking," declared Max. "It took us a 
while to bring her up to your specifications, but the results were worth the 
effort." 
The client, heir to a banking fortune in Canada, nodded impatiently as he 
perched on his chair in the showroom.. He was young, he had speedboats and 
vacation houses and girlfriends and more money than he knew what to do with. 
Which suited Max just fine, because his firm catered to exactly such clientele. 
Max pressed a button on his desk. 
The door opened, and a woman trainer escorted the man's custom-designed LoveDoll 
to stand in the center of the room. The young man blinked. "She's so. . . 
perfect," was all he could manage. And Max could not disagree--they had done 
themselves proud with this one. 
The girl had amber hair whose tresses slipped over her bare shoulders. Her face 
was oval-shaped, her lips large with just the right amount of pouting 
sensuality. The LoveDoll kept her eyes downcast, the long lashes giving her a 
vulnerable, demure look. And her body--three months of rigorous conditioning, 
the attentions of some of the world's most accomplished cosmetic surgeons, and 
the natural comely shape of the original kidnaped girl all combined to make her 
the equal of any centerfold. 
"She's. . . quite amazing," said the young man, unable to hide his excitement.. 
"And she's programmed exactly as I wanted?" 
"Of course," said Max. "Neural imprinting of your personal behavior requests, as 
well as the basic obedience and sexual stimulation programs." 
"What's her name?" 
Max smiled, and took a cigarette out of his gold case. "What do you want her 
name to be?" 
The man thought. "Amber," he said at last, as if he had not been thinking about 
it constantly for the last six months. 
"Amber it is, then," said Max. His hand touched a remote control device on the 
desk. "Tell her." 
The young man cast a sidelong look at Max, then cleared his throat. "Your name 
is Amber," he said. The girl's lashes rose up just long enough to gaze lovingly 
him. 
"Yes, sir," she said in her soft contralto. 
The young man rose and walked around her as if he were in a museum admiring a 
piece of sculpture. "And she will do anything I say?" 
"Of course. That is what we offer here to our clients. Total beauty, total 
compliance. She's been conditioned to think of your pleasure as her only 
function. Advanced sexual technique modules have all been incorporated into 
personality. And naturally, her body has been modified to enhance your pleasure, 
in ways which I will allow you to discover on your own." 
"The body suit is self-contained, permeated with the skin. It can be obsidian 
black, metallic, or natural." And Max's fingers danced expertly over the control 
device as he talked, making the LoveDoll's body shimmer into the 
alternatives--each one seeming more alluring than the last. 
"You've done her breasts perfectly," said the young man, marveling at the 
fullness and perfectly shaped orbs, with their rosy areola and stiffened 
nipples. "May I?" 
"By all means, after all, she is your property now," said Max, with a 
magnanimous wave of his hand. The man and walked completely around the girl. His 
fingertips tentatively trailed over her body. Emboldened, he cupped the Love 
Doll's breasts, rolled her nipples with his thumb and forefingers. The 
LoveDoll's long lashes fluttered, and her breathing became fast and shallow. The 
man's hand then roamed over her flat stomach, her curvaceous flanks, before his 
fingers probed the shaved lips of her sex. "She's wet," he said in mild wonder. 
Max smiled. "I would wager she was soaking the minute we brought her in. 
Biochemical conditioning. Her chemoreceptors have been adjusted to respond to 
your pheromones." 
"Huh?" 
"That means just having you in the same room sends her into a sexual heat. We've 
done neurological scans in the clinic; their pleasure centers light up like a 
Christmas tree," Max said with a chuckle. "A command from you, and she'd 
probably orgasm right here." 
The client took a deep breath. "Show me." 
Max tossed him the control unit. "You've had our course in LoveDoll control. 
Press the O button." 
The client did so. Amber (as she now was tagged) closed her eyes and tilted her 
head slightly back. Her hands crept to her breasts, massaging them with 
increasing intensity. Then her fingers slipped between her legs...and she gave a 
long shudder and collapsed into the arms of the client. 
"That's really something," he said. He looked a little bashful. "I know you get 
these. . . LoveDolls from various sources. Can you tell me what she did before 
she was, uh, acquired?" 
Max shook his head. "We would prefer not to. Keep in mind she's not a person 
anymore, with a past that has to be reconciled. She's your toy, your plaything. 
Believe me when I tell you that she has been totally converted into your 
personal sex slave. Somebody in your position has a right to the finer things in 
life, and this just happens to be one of them." 
The client tilted his head in acceptance. "And the financial arrangements are 
all satisfactory?" he asked. 
Max said, "Yes, your account draft was received yesterday. Thank you. It's a 
privilege doing business with someone who appreciates quality. Now if you just 
step out this way. . ." 
The client took his LoveDoll gently by the arm and guided her through the door 
opened by Max. When they were gone, Max checked for messages, and nodded in 
satisfaction. Another acquisition was in progress. And high time, too, with such 
a demand for the product. . .
The minibus of Kappa Beta Phi sorority barreled over the road to the beach. 
Spring break was finally here, and the girls shrieked and laughed as the bus 
swerved in its hurry to reach the beach for the week of fun. 
"Hey, watch those curves!" shouted Brittany over her shoulder, almost toppling 
over the seat she was kneeling backwards on. 
"Watch your own!" shot back Samantha at the wheel as she glanced through the 
rearview mirror at Brittany's tight-clad shorts and voluptuously filled t-shirt. 
"You're jailbait, girl!" 
The sorority sisters giggled with glee. "Bring on the boys!" came a yell from 
the back of the bus. Somebody opened the cooler, and chilled cans of beer were 
passed from seat to seat. Samantha, her blonde hair a mop, accepted a can and 
took a hearty swig, while her other hand pounded the steering wheel to the beat 
of the blaring radio. 
A siren suddenly wailed behind them. "Oh, noooooo!" one of the girls cried. 
"Cops!" There was a mad scramble to put away the beer. Samantha glanced out the 
side window her beer can still held high on the steering wheel, and her eyes met 
the reflection sunglasses of an officer in a patrol van next to her as he 
gestured her to pull over. "We're toast," she muttered. She nudged the minivan 
over to the side of the road, and began rehearsing her sweet-and- innocent act. 
Brittany had her own plan. She quickly opened a water bottle and splashed the 
liquid over her T-shirt. 
"What are you doing?" one of the girls asked. 
Brittany smiled her dazzling smile and looked down at the soaked t-shirt hugging 
the contours of her ripe breasts. "Cops are men, aren't they? It's worked 
before." 
The sorority sisters heard the doors of the parked patrol van slam behind them. 
Two officers sauntered up to the driver's window. 
"License and registration, please, Ma'am," said one. 
"Was I speeding, officer?" asked Samantha as she dug into her purse. "I'm 
awfully sorry, it's just that we're late to meet our parents, and--" 
The officer held up an imperious hand. "Just let me see your license and 
registration, please, Ma'am". Glumly, Samantha handed them over. In the 
meantime, Brittany had clamored out the bus, her t-shirt clinging to her 
jiggling breasts, and leaned nonchalantly against the minibus and smiled with 
seductive innocence at the cops. She parted her tanned legs slightly and gave a 
long, luxurious overarm stretch to thrust her breasts even further out, 
straining against the soaked cotton of the t-shirt. "I hope we haven't been too 
bad," she said coquettishly. One of them gave her an expressionless look through 
the dark glasses and went back to his scrutiny of the license. "This has 
expired," one finally said. "And I believe we saw some drinking. We need 
everybody to get off the bus, and bring your ID's." There were chirps of dismay, 
but the girls--eight of them in all--were soon lined up by the minivan showing 
various stages of concern. One of the officers heaved himself inside the 
minivan. Samantha leaned over to another scantily-clad girl. "My daddy is going 
to kill me if I get a ticket," she complained. They fretted under the sun, sweat 
beginning to run down there barely-clad bodies in rivulets. 
The officer emerged from the van. In his hand were small plastic bags filled 
with pills. "Look what I found on the bus," he said accusingly. The girls 
exchanged wide-eyed glances. "We're going to have to take you in, all of you," 
continued the officer. 
"Not just a minute!" snapped Samantha. "None of us brought drugs or anything on 
the bus." 
"How did you know they were drugs?" countered the officer. "No more sass out of 
anybody. Come along!" he barked. The officers herded the protesting girls into 
the van parked behind the bus. 
"But what about our bus?" demanded Samantha before she was shoved through the 
back door of the van. 
"It will be taken care of," said the officer as he closed and locked the door. 
The van drove off, leaving one of the officers behind, the one who had 
"discovered" the contraband. He climbed onto the minibus, turned on the 
ignition, and drove it to a deserted stretch of coast, a high cliff where the 
sea met the mountains. He slowed the bus to where the guard-rail had been 
carefully weakened. The officer prepared to dismount the bus, keeping one hand 
on the steering wheel--then gunned the engine. With an athletic leap, he rolled 
to safety as the minibus smashed into the guard railing and toppled into the 
depths of the crashing sea below. The officer stood up and pulled out his cell 
phone. 
"Operation successful," he called in. "Eight items retrieved, vehicle disposed." 
Then the officer took off his bogus police cap and waited for retrieval.



The man known only as Max leaned back in his executive chair and regarded the 
Director of Marketing with patience. The office had a minimalist ambiance, with 
glass and chrome and various high-tech communication equipment. A large-screen 
television stood turned off at one side of the room; at the other side was a 
empty pedestal backlit with concealed stage lamps, as if any moment Max expected 
somebody to bring in a piece of art for display there. 
"We're backlogged for orders, and I'm beginning to get complaints from some of 
our best clients," said Marketing. "You know what they're like--getting what 
they want when they want it, is their mode of life. If they want to eat dinner 
in Paris, they fly there. If they've been promised a love doll of their dreams, 
they want it now." 
Max steepled his fingers, his gold cuffs glinting on his monogrammed sleeves. 
"Surely they understand our difficulties," he said. "These girls are not easy to 
come by. They do not just drop in our laps like overripe apples. Why, just look 
at Maria," he said, tilting his head to his personal office LoveDoll. She knelt 
naked and submissive by his chair, the long lashes of her eyes lowered, her long 
dark hair brushed over her shoulders to rest on her full breasts. Her hands lay 
open, her lips slightly parted, her body available for immediate use as much as 
the computer consoles or television screens that lined the office. As if 
reciting the LoveDoll's provenance to a customer, Max said, "First noticed by 
our scouts while she was doing standard runway work as a model in Milan. 
Background check to assure no entangling relationships, two months. Acquisition 
took four months to plan and execute, done in such a way as to suggest no foul 
play. Physical enhancements--" and Max's hand reached down to strum her 
always-erect nipples--"two months of treatment and recuperation, then another 
two months for mental conditioning and programming. Each one of our LoveDolls is 
a work of art, not a mass-produced commodity." 
"Yes," grumbled Marketing, "try telling that to the Saudi princes, or the CEOs 
of those new Silicon Valley start-up tycoons, who have the money to demand 
instant gratification in every other facet of their lives, so why not with their 
LoveDoll?" He lay a stack of requisition orders on the glass-topped table that 
served as Max's working space as if offering evidence before a judge. "Here's an 
order for two blondes from that retired publisher in New York. Here, , a 
Japanese industrialist sent over his plane, expecting to pick one up off the 
shelf, apparently. This one, a banking titan in Liechtenstein in Europe--" 
"I know where Liechtenstein is," interrupted Max dryly , whose accent suggested 
his own European origins. 
"--wants someone who looks like his deceased wife, God knows why, I've seen the 
woman's picture. Now this one," he said, fluttering a requisition order in the 
air, "is really interesting. Some aging film star in Hollywood who's demanding 
twins--I mean, it's endless, Max." Marketing gave a massive shrug of despair. 
"What's currently in the pipeline?" asked Max, his hand stroking the glossy hair 
of Maria in an absent-minded way. The LoveDoll was already breathing shallowly, 
her breasts rising and falling in seductive rhythm, conditioned as she was to 
get aroused at his merest touch. 
Marketing said, "Fourteen undergoing basic programming, eleven physical 
conditioning. Three in the clinic with body enhancements." 
Max spun in his chair to tap the keyboard of the computer behind. He nodded in 
satisfaction at the information on the screen. "And eight more acquisitions as 
of this morning, ready to start basic indoctrination." 
Marketing shook his head. "That's what, about thirty-five subjects? We have 
orders for over a hundred. Ready buyers with cash in their hands, Max. Even if 
we doubled the price, the demand would still be there." 
Max said, "Patience, my friend. I've already put my long-range strategy into 
play. Plan on a steady source of subjects in the future. In the meantime, 
continue to accept orders, but emphasize to our clients that we need a little 
time to provide them with the woman of their dreams." 
Marketing looked at Max closely. "What do you mean, long-range strategy?" 
Max offered one of his enigmatic smiles. "Ah, leave that to me." 
A buzzer sounded, and his secretary voice said, "Max, the new acquisitions have 
come in." 
"Excellent," said Max. Then, to Marketing: "Shall we see our new guests? Let's 
bring Maria. He pressed the "Follow" command on his wrist console, and Maria 
rose gracefully and fell into step behind the two men as they strode to the 
reception room.
Standing in row, some teary-eyed and all of them, naked, the seven kidnaped 
girls stared at them in trepidation. Cuffs held the girls' wrists securely 
behind them, and hobble-chains on their ankles prevented any thought of escape. 
Bright red ball-gags kept their voices to mere helpless mewing. Max nodded to 
the grinning "officers" who stood guard. "Good job, gentlemen," he said. Then he 
gave the women his horse-trader's appraisal, looking them up and down and 
judging the potential of each new recruit. 
Max smoothed his elegant-cut suit and said, "Welcome to all of you. I'm sure you 
all feel rather anxious and distressed at what has happened. But rest assured 
nobody means you any harm. As a matter of fact, I'm sure you'll find the days 
ahead to be quite exciting and even pleasurable." 
Samantha struggled and hissed behind her gag, her beautiful brown eyes blazing. 
With a short inclination of his head, Max indicated to the guards to release the 
gag. Samantha immediately shrilled, "What are you doing to us? And who the hell 
are you? I demand to talk to whatever jerk is in charge of this place." One of 
the guards made a move toward her, but Max shook his head. 
He said to her in a calm voice, "I'm called Max. And I am the one who is in 
charge here." 
"Then you'd better let us go!" spat Samantha. "Or my daddy, when he finds out, 
is going to just killlll you!" 
Max smiled. "I don't think your father will find you. And to tell you the truth, 
young lady, even if he did, I rather doubt he would very much miss you, to tell 
you the truth, after reviewing your record. But be that as it may, you must all 
accept that fact that nobody knows you are here, that events have been arranged 
to prove that you all died in a rather tragic accident involving your vehicle 
being driven off the road and into the sea. A terrible tragedy, the result of 
too much partying." One of the girls, Brittany, whose still-damp t-shirt 
displayed her marvelous chest, began weeping behind her gag, her large breasts 
heaving up and down with each little sob. "There, there," said Max, patting her 
shoulder. "Things aren't that bad. You're all going to be well cared for, 
pampered, even. First, perhaps, a demonstration. . .? And Max's fingers tapped 
the "Stand" command on his wrist console. 
Maria rose. The captives stared at the beautiful girl, standing in almost 
sculpted perfection in shimmering bodysuit that seemed to accentuate her every 
curve and contour, so thin its smoothness looked line a second skin--even the 
nipples on her perfectly rounded breasts were fully defined. Her eyes had a look 
of serene calm, like twin still pools of water. Max ran his hand over her flanks 
in a fond, proprietary way. 
"When Maria came to us, she was just as nervous as you all of you, surely," he 
said. "But after completing a full program, you see her now. And who is to say 
she is not as happy as she's ever been?" He cupped one of her breasts and ran 
his fingers over her nipples. Maria gave little shudder of pleasure. 
Samantha tore her eyes off that blatant display of carnality, and Maria's 
compliant response to it. "What do you mean, a full program?" she snapped. "What 
is this place?" 
Max said, "We're . .an employment agency. We select candidates such as 
yourselves, train them, then place them with clients who desire their services. 
Along the way, we help the candidates make certain psychological adjustments to 
their situation, and usually include some physical conditioning and beauty 
enhancement as well." He continued to stroke Maria as he spoke. 
Samantha snarled, "Well get this, mister--we don't want your friggin' program, 
and we don't care about your clients, and you'd better let us go right now 
before--mmmmph!" Her outburst was cut off as one of the guards jammed the gag 
back in place. 
Max eyed her carefully. Hmmm, he thought, lots of spirit in that one. He thought 
of a special request from one of the clients, a big-game hunter. "Sorry to bring 
our little dialogue to a close, my dear," he said, "but we really ought to get 
started." He turned to the guards. "Gentlemen, if you could escort these ladies 
to the examination room. Tell Dr. Chacornac to visit with me about this one"--he 
gestured to the struggling Samantha--"and this one too," he said, pointing now 
to the large-bosomed Brittany. 
As the girls were being forcibly escorted out of the room and into their new 
lives, Marketing said glumly. "Eight girls. Not nearly enough to fill demand." 
Max said, "Leave that to me. It's well in hand."
Darcie McVey, celebrity host of "It's a Girl's World", smiled into the camera as 
her TV show drew to a close. Her face was pretty, if not beautiful, and her 
voice was honey-sweet. "I thought our viewing audience had some excellent 
call-ins on today's topic, Flirting in the Office.' Before saying goodbye until 
tomorrow, I want to say a word of thanks to all of you who sent me flowers when 
I got my sniffles last week. You're all so kind. . . It's those little gestures 
that make me want to reach out and hug every one of you. And keep your fan mail 
coming in, I try to read all of your letters. Really I do." Her eyes twinkled as 
she recited her standard sign-off. "And now we have to go. See you tomorrow, and 
remember--it's a girl's world, out there!" Darcie smiled perkily and waved as 
the theme music melded in. 
"Cut to commercial," said the producer. "Good job, everybody." 
"Good job, my ass!" snarled Darcie, the perky smile replaced by a sneer. "I had 
make-up running down my cheeks, but did any of you notice? No! And the light was 
bouncing off the glass tabletop again right into my eyes. I thought you were 
going to fix that." 
"Sorry, Miss McVey," said the producer. "I'll get somebody from tech support--" 
"And do something about all those flowers in my dressing room! The place is 
beginning to look like a friggin' funeral home!" 
Darcie McVey stormed out of the studio. In her wake followed her newly assigned 
assistant, Louise. When Darcie got to her dressing room, she flung herself into 
the chair next to the lighted mirror and began wiping away her show make-up. 
Louise stuck her head in the door. 
"Miss McVey?" called Louise. "I got the schedule for next week, if you'd like to 
approve those topics." Darcie snatched the clipboard out of her hand. As she 
read, Louise's eyes could not help but rove over plush dressing room, done to 
Darcie's McVey's precise demands. Gilded mirrors. Italian marble on the floor. 
And the walls were plastered with celebrity photographs of the rich & famous she 
had interviewed, and Darcie's boyfriends over the years, displayed like 
trophies. The fact that the last boyfriend's smiling face was impaled with a 
letter-opener showed, in terms of the psycho-babble that was a hallmark of her 
show, that Darcie had not yet "achieved closure over the broken relationship." 
"Some of those topics look kinda interesting," ventured Louise hesitantly. She 
knew about Darcie's reputation as a bitch-celebrity boss to work for--the 
screaming tantrums, the demand her staff run her personal errands, her 
assumption that her assistance come running at the merest whim. 
"They're garbage," retorted Darcie, as she flung the clipboard to dressing 
table. "How many times do I have to tell them that I want to have serious shows 
from now on. I've paid my dues on their silly little good-housekeeping program, 
and I want some kinghell RESPECT!" Louise froze at the venom in the woman's 
voice. Darcie snatched the memo off her desk. "Just listen to topics," she said, 
and read, "Ten Tips for Terrific Toenails'. . . Making Your Husband Fall in Love 
With You All Over Again," . . . "Do's and Don'ts on the First Date.'" She flung 
the paper back down. "This makes me want to puke!" 
The assistant Louise blinked through her thick glasses as the darling of the 
afternoon talk shows rip through some cursing that would have made a drill 
instructor blush. "But Miss McVey," she protested obsequiously, "you have the 
highest rated show in the afternoon time slot in the country. All my friends 
just adore your programs. Why, just look at what happened to those bunny-tail 
bedroom slippers you endorsed--one little quip from you on your program last 
week, and the stores have run out. You can't find them anywhere." 
Darcie McVey rolled her eyes and said, "But can't anybody at network 
headquarters see I'm sick of gushing over things like bunny-tail bedroom 
slippers?" she said. "I want to interview Senators and CEO's and foreign 
leaders. I want to report on world events, not tea parties and the latest 
make-up fads. I'm beyond all that now, I don't care how much they pay me. I am 
not some kind of" Darcie paused with her lips pursed, trying to come up with the 
right word, " . . . ornament for their mindless talk shows." Darcie's eyes 
narrowed on the dowdy figure of her assistant. "You've been working for me for 
six months now, and you haven't done a thing to help me!" 
"Me?" quailed Louise. "I mean, what could I possibly do to help?" 
"Haven't you been listening? Find me some good programs. You're an assistant 
producer--so you'd better start producing something," snapped Darcie McVey. "I'm 
really not sure you're giving me a full hundred percent motivation." 
"Oh, Miss McVey, I'd do anything for you, you know that. . ." said Louise 
quickly, aware that Darcie's last assistant lasted exactly three days. 
I'm stuck with losers, thought Darcie to herself. Just look at my so-called 
assistant: frumpy, terrible make-up, clothes straight from the bargain bin. And 
those black-rimmed glasses look like something my mother would have worn. 
Darcie's practiced eye could see her assistant could be quite attractive if she 
took care of herself. But Darcie was not about to waste her time educating her. 
She was aware how much her own looks and sex appeal added to her career, and she 
was not about to let anyone outshine her. Not now, not when she could become a 
real television personality, not just last year's blonde. 
"Well then?" demanded Darcie. "Any ideas?" 
Louise nervously ran her hands over her wrinkled cotton blouse and said, "Well, 
there is something, maybe, I could do. I know somebody who works a company that, 
likes, investigates accidents for the police, and this friend, he's on the team 
doing that accident last week, you know, where those sorority girls were killed 
going over that cliff into the sea? At least they thought they were all killed. 
Well, my friend said they had found some odd kind of connections to a string of 
other disappearances--all young women, all gone without a trace. I might be able 
to get a peek at his file. . ." she added hopefully, pathetic in her eagerness 
to please Darcie McVey. "I know he said he had some photos of the missing 
girls." 
Darcie said, "Hmmm.... an investigative report...all right, Louise. Get that 
file and we'll have a look." 
Louise paused at the doorway. "Um, Miss McVey, if I do a good job, could you 
give me screen credit as the producer on this report? I mean, if it comes to 
anything? It would really help my career." 
"Of course, Louise, "said Darcie McVey. "If you make this happen, I'd be glad to 
give you credit along my name." When hell freezes over, you little parasite, 
Darcie added silently to herself. She flung herself off the make-up chair and 
headed for her closet, but tripped over a bouquet of irises propped against the 
wall. "Will somebody do something about all these damn flowers!" she yelled.
Two weeks later Max was having dinner in his favorite Manhattan restaurant. 
Uptown, first class food, and a wine list that made him feel he was back in 
France. He was just sipping his after-dinner Napoleon brandy when a woman 
marched up to his table. 
"I believe they call you Max," she said. 
Max calmly put down his brandy snifter and looked up at her through his rimless 
glasses. "You have me at a disadvantage," he said. "You know me, but I do not 
know you." He frowned, then smiled. "But wait--of course I recognize you. I have 
even seen your show on the television from time to time. But I cannot remember 
your name, forgive me." 
"You'll know it soon enough," said the woman. She glanced at the empty chair on 
the other side of the table, and slid into it before Max could invite her. "My 
name is Darcie McVey," she said as she smoothed her dress to take her seat, 
keeping her attache case on her lap. 
"Ah, but of course," said Max. "Your program is quite. . . amusing. Do you often 
invite yourself to the table of gentlemen to whom you have not been introduced? 
I still find the customs of this country very interesting. Would you care for 
something to drink?" 
"Cut the Old World charm, Max," said Darcie McVey. "And as for my program, 
you're going to find it even more amusing. Because you are going to be on it." 
Max raised an eyebrow. "Oh? To what do I owe this honor?" 
Darcie produced a file from her attache case. "Look at this," she said simply. 
Max opened the file hesitantly. He flipped through the papers idly, then a frown 
creased his mouth and he began studying them in earnest. Darcie smiled to 
herself. That's right, Max, you can start sweating now, she thought. It was 
critical for her to keep the initiative. 
When Max finished the file, he fished in his coat pocket for a cigarette case, 
and carefully selected one. He leaned back in a cloud of smoke, holding the slim 
cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, palm up. "So where did you get these 
. . . fabrications, Miss McVey?" he asked. 
"That doesn't matter, does it, Max?" 
"It might." Max flipped through the file again. "Prostitution. . .kidnaping. . 
.money laundering. . ..connections to offshore powers. . .these are all serious 
accusations." 
"That's right, Max. And you're going to hear them broadcast live on my show. 
Tonight." 
"I didn't think your program dealt with such issues, Miss McVey." He took a 
leisurely puff on his cigarette. Classical piano music floated in from the bar. 
Darcie was struck by his calm. So as not to be out-maneuvered, she produced a 
slim cigar, lit it, and matched her smoke for his. "It hasn't, up to now. But 
all that's going to change. I intend to blow the whistle on your little 
operation." 
Max said, "Ah, but such threats usually come with an offer. What is your offer, 
Miss McVey? Surely this conversation is not merely to alert me to watch your 
program so I can find out more about myself, and alert my lawyers to start a 
defamation lawsuit immediately against you and your network." 
Darcie's heart was hammering, although she kept her face composed. She knew the 
file that Louise filched from the investigators was a collection of loose leads, 
nothing definite. And she really did not have a clear idea what this man was up 
to. But this was her big chance to do a serious show. Time to bluff, she 
thought. 
"Oh, that's just a fraction of what we've accumulated. You'll have to see the 
show to get the full picture. And as for my offer, it's this: I want the inside 
scoop of your operation. I want a guided tour of your whole network--personal 
interviews, background, the works. And I want an exclusive--just me." 
Max was silent for a minute. "Even if I admitted these fantastic charges, why 
would I open our operation to you?" 
Darcie McVey said, "Because I'm willing to hold the broadcast and give you time 
to close your network and get out of the country with your skin." 
Max took another draw on his cigarette. Then he said, "Suppose we just forget 
about the show, and I just make a counter-offer to you. A financial reward for 
your. . .discretion, in not doing this show." 
"No deal. I want this story." 
Max sighed. "Very well, suppose you join me this evening in my penthouse, and 
bring that file with you--" 
Darcie McVey snorted. "And wind up in the bottom of Hudson River, and the file 
burned in your fireplace? No thanks. I've made sure that somebody else knows 
about this, and will act immediately if I disappear like your other victims." 
And Darcie thought that Louise finally did have her uses, if only for agreeing 
to keep a copy of the file as a guarantee. It was Louise who implored Darcie not 
to risk herself, but Darcie was not about to share the spotlight with anybody. 
Louise was something of a little fool, with her meek submissiveness and dowdy 
appearance. But at least she could keep her mouth shut. So Darcie McVey had 
instructed her carefully that if she did not return in two days, to call the 
police and come and rescue her. Even that might make a good story, if things 
don't work out, she thought. 
Max smiled without humor like a man forced to show his low cards. He seemed to 
think for a while, then said, "As I said before, Miss McVey, you seem to have me 
at a disadvantage. I agree to your proposal. But I would need three weeks to 
close our operation here with a minimum of disruption, and arrange for residence 
in a country without extradition procedures. We anticipated sooner or later this 
day would come, you see." 
"Three weeks?" repeated Darcie. Three weeks would mean, if the file were to be 
believed, there were kidnap victims already in the pipeline. Three weeks would 
mean they would probably disappear to wherever Max dispatched his captives. So 
what? she said to herself. As long as I get this story. 
"Max, you have yourself a deal," she said.
They left immediately. Darcie insisted on it, knowing that was her best 
protection against a set up. But as Max settled his bill, she had time to call 
up Louise to let her know she "was going in," as she put it dramatically, and to 
remind the little nitwit--one more time!-- about what to do if Darcie didn't 
contact her by the next day. Max's limousine picked them up outside the 
restaurant. He murmured a word to the driver, and Darcie McVey found herself 
watching through the tinted windows as the streets flashed by. Eventually they 
stopped somewhere on the upper East side at a nondescript brownstone. Max led 
the way down some steps where a doorman made a little bow to Max and opened the 
door. Darcie found herself in a plush reception area, like the lobby of a grand 
hotel. 
Darcie McVey had dressed according to her concept of the Investigative 
Journalist in the Field--trenchcoat with the strapped pulled tight across her 
slim waist, pullover jacket with pockets filled with pens and recorders and tiny 
secret cameras Louise had procured for her--and sensible shoes. As she looked 
around, she began to feel a little self-conscious about her appearance. After 
all, her image from her talk show was one of carefully cultivated style. And the 
receptionists in the lobby dressed in designer outfits, all of them young and 
beautiful and very deferential to Max. 
"How's business?" he asked as they took his coat. 
"Very good tonight, sir," said a striking brunette. She wore a low-cut dress and 
what appeared to be an elegantly-styled black velvet choker around her slim 
neck. "A table for two, then, sir?" 
Max led her through a side door into a large anteroom. From behind a second set 
of doors, Darcie could hear muted thump of dance music. Max inserted an entrance 
card into a slot and escorted his guest inside. Darcie's eyes opened wide. 
A cavernous club seethed with motion and lights and sensuous shadows and the 
clink of glasses. Laughter and whispers and bubbling conversation provided 
background to the music, music that seemed keyed precisely into some deep 
throbbing sensual rhythm. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Darcie could make 
out dance stages where beautiful women swayed and flowed to the beat of the 
music. Other girls sat with the clientele, or danced before them, topless as on 
stage.. Waitresses, dressed as scantily as the dancers, circulated among the 
audience tendering drinks and meals to the patrons. 
Darcie's heart sank. So this was the big secret--a strip club? Not exactly the 
great expose of my career, she thought. A hostess greeting Max with the same 
deferential familiarity as the receptionists, and guided them to a table. Max 
ordered drinks, and Darcie was so busy looking around that she did not notice 
that Max ordered drinks. 
From their table at the center of the club, Darcie could see that club was even 
larger than she had seen from the doorway. It was built on many levels, with the 
revolving colored lights revealing nooks and crannies and corners. Occasionally 
a door would open in some far wall, and Darcie caught a glimpse of more stages, 
more dancers, throngs of clients--mostly men but with a few women--moving easily 
between the rooms. 
And then she noticed that each dancer wore a collar embossed with a name. No 
DJ's voice boomed over the club, yet the dancers ebbed and flowed onto the 
stages in perfect order. Darcie noticed other patterns in the room as well. The 
clientele seemed wealthy, completely at ease, with business attire or even 
evening dress. She caught sight of some exotic outfits--two men with trimmed 
beards wearing the checkered headdress of Saudi princes, their dark eyes glued 
to the dance stages. The waitresses were uncommonly attractive. Where could Max 
find such good looking women to serve as waitresses, she wondered. Each one 
could pass as a supermodel. But if the waitresses were beautiful, the dancers 
were. . . goddesses. 
Darcie knew a thing or two about feminine beauty. After all, she got her start 
in broadcasting on the strength of her own tawny good looks. But these dancers 
seem to possess an innate sensuality that stoked desire, combined with bodies 
that seemed utterly perfected to slake any man's appetites. Or woman's, Darcie 
conceded to herself, as her eyes locked with those of a dark-haired dancer on a 
nearby stage. 
A waitress appeared out of the darkness bearing the drinks. Darcie absently 
accepted the cold glass, then asked, "What is this?" 
"Why, merely Chardonnay wine," said Max. 
This gave Darcie pause. "That happens to be my favorite drink," she said 
suspiciously. "How do I know it's not drugged?" 
Max looked at her thoughtfully, then switched glasses. "If there be poison in 
thy wine," he quoted, "then let my life pay for thine." And he quaffed the 
brandy and gave her one of his infuriating half-smiles. 
Darcie could not help but smile herself. "All right, I believe you." she said. 
"So all this is yours?" she asked with a sweep of her hand. 
"I look after things here," answered Max vaguely. 
"So where do you get all these good looking babes?" 
"Oh, from the usual sources. We have quite a reputation among the entertainers. 
Some of them come from overseas." 
"And where do you come from, Max?" 
"Me? Oh, Miss McVey, in my business one becomes something of a . . .citizen of 
the world." 
"You aren't very informative." 
"Alas, it's my nature," he said. He followed Darcie's eyes to the dark-haired 
dancer. Max raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Does that one appeal to you? Would 
you like a performance?" 
"Oh, no thanks," said Darcie. "Just looking." But Max beckoned the dancer over 
to their table. The girl slid off the stage compliantly and made her way to 
their table. Another dancer immediately took her place on the empty stage. 
"This is Celeste," said Max. Darcie stuck out her hand. But Celeste gracefully 
knelt in front of Darcie's feet. 
"Oh, really," protested Darcie. But then the music began another set, and 
Celeste rose slowly to the beat of the rhythm. 
Darcie's sexual experience with other women was limited to a few college 
"experiments" (as she thought of them) with other coeds, and fending off the 
occasional butch passes at her own beauty. But nothing had prepared her for the 
seductive spell of the dancer in front of her. Celeste weaved back and forth, 
her limbs and torso undulating in fluid motion, obviously trained well in her 
art. From time to time she would lean forward, her firm full breasts swaying 
with hypnotic allure to barely brush Darcie's cheeks with her nipples. That 
close, Darcie inhaled the intoxicating bodyscent of the woman, and felt her own 
body responding to the dancer's lithe movements. Unbidden, Darcie's hands were 
slowly drawn to touch the girl's thighs, her fingertips exploring that satiny 
smooth skin. Once, when her touch trailed on the creamy inside of the dancer's 
thighs, Celeste closed her long-lashed eyes and emitted a tiny gasp and 
whispering sigh of pure sensual delight. She turned around, her well-toned back 
and asscheeks offered to Darcie's view, then with another movement in the music, 
she spun again, leaning forward so her warm breasts pillowed Darcie's face and 
her silky hair formed a canopy for the just the two of them. The dancer's lips 
brushed Darcie's, with the faintest and most tantalizing of kisses, soft and 
promising, as only a woman can kiss--and then the dance was over and Celeste 
drifted back to an open stage. 
Darcie sat back, blinking, her loins moist with desire, her heart hammering like 
engine. She shook her head to clear it, darting a quick glance at Max, to see if 
he was leering at her. But not at all. Max was studying the stage, his fingers 
steepled in that curious professorial manner. 
Darcie said shakily, "That was, uh, amazing. I'll give you this, Max--your girls 
know their business. How much should I tip her?" 
"Nothing." 
"What, no dollar bills tucked into the G-string?" But Darcie's survey of the 
club showed that no such customs were at work here. But by now, her eyes had 
grown accustomed to the dark, and she could see dim forms in the shadows, slow 
movements, the occasional polished fingernails gripping the top of wing-backed 
chair. Darcie squinted, and across the room could suddenly make out a stunningly 
attractive blonde straddling a seated man, grinding her hips down on his pelvis 
in tempo to the music, while the man gripped her waist and began. . .fucking 
her. Darcie blinked to make sure she was seeing right. Yes, they were making 
love--openly copulating as if in the privacy of a secluded beach or hotel room. 
Nobody took notice. A waitress stopped only long enough to freshen their drinks. 
And by now the blonde's head was thrown back, while the man's mouth sought out 
the moist hollow of her throat, his thrusts becoming more savage, driving the 
woman into head-thrashing moans of pleasure. Then as she looked around the room 
even more, she could see that behavior was the rule, more than the exception. 
One man in a tuxedo leaned back in a chair while two kneeling sirens competed 
with their tongues to minister to his engorged cock. Another guest--a mature but 
still attractive matron--calmly undid her blouse and directed her entertainer's 
mouth between the matron's breasts. No wonder the club had such a sexual tension 
to it--half the patrons were ravishing some of the most beautiful women Darcie 
had ever seen! 
Darcie gathered her wits by taking a long drink from her glass. She cleared her 
throat and said to Max, "Well, it looks like our little club has a few 
extracurricular activities." 
Max shrugged. "Consenting adults, mon ami," he said. "When you are as rich and 
powerful as the people who are guests here, surely you do not feel confined by 
middle class conventions of morality." 
"Well, yes, but. . .where do you get these women, Max? Any one of them could be 
on the cover of a fashion magazine, or a swimsuit calendar." Instead of 
subjugating themselves to the lust of these degenerates, she wanted to add, but 
didn't. Something else was odd; the dancers did not seem to talk--they flowed 
through the room in a seamless circuit from the dance stages to the waiting laps 
of the customers. Then through the spirals of cigarette smoke and flashing 
lights, Darcie spied a familiar face from one of the photos in the investigation 
file on the abducted women. She couldn't remember the name, but she was certain 
the dancer on the far stage was a school teacher who had disappeared about six 
months ago. And here she was now, lasciviously sliding herself up and down a 
shiny stainless steel pole, her body, slick with sweat and clothed only in a 
tiny G-string, was far more voluptuous than Darcie remembered in the photo. 
Max said, "As you can see, this is an upscale establishment. The dancers are 
well taken care of. The club is fun, they get to laugh and make good money and 
meet rich, powerful people." 
But Darcie suspected something. This secret club, the incredibly attractive and 
docile dancers, an abducted schoolteacher now gyrating seductively on stage as 
if born to topless dancing--not to mention the unabashed open sex in half the 
couches and chairs in the room--this didn't add up. Darcie whirled on Max. "This 
club is just a front, Max. I know a scam when I see one. There's something wrong 
with these girls. They don't seem to even care that everybody can see 
them--doing what they're doing. So what's the deal? Are they drugged? 
Blackmailed? Beaten?" 
At the last, Max's eyebrows shot up in genuine shock. "Drugged? Really, Miss 
McVey, you do us an injustice!" 
"Cut the bull, you cultured creep!" retorted Darcie. "I'm marching out that door 
this minute, and straight to the police, and we can let the authorities get to 
the bottom of this. And don't forget, I have insurance--if something should 
happen to me, your story will hit the streets by the end of the day!" Once again 
Darcie congratulated herself on giving frumpy Louise precise instructions to 
carry out her threat of full disclosure of the file, if Darcie didn't return. 
Max could read the intent in her eyes. He sighed, a great Gallic release of 
breath accompanied by an elaborate shrug. "How do I know you will keep your word 
about giving us time to close up our little operation?" he asked. 
"Oh, I've given you no word to keep," said Darcie coolly, playing the upper 
hand. "I don't think you have much choice." 
"What drives you to do this, Miss McVey? You have an excellent media career 
already. Your talk show is famous, even in Europe. And here you are now, fishing 
in very deep waters." 
"I'll tell you what, Max. This story is going to make my career. For too long 
I've been treated like a potted plant by the network. A pretty face to dispense 
drivel to the young adult women's market. I need to show them I can handle a 
real story." 
Max gave a resigned shrug. "Well, you seem too motivated for me to stop you. 
Come with me." And he took her gently by the elbow past the dance stages toward 
another set of doors. Darcie tried not to look at the copulating couples along 
the way. The couples themselves paid not the slightest attention as they walked 
past. Darcie tried to hide the look of disgust on her face that women could 
allow themselves to be toyed with in public that way. These woman have no pride, 
she thought, as she felt the elation of forcing Max into giving in to her 
demands. 
Max talked as they walked down a corridor. "I'm going to give you the grand 
tour, Miss McVey. We're actually quite proud of what we've put together here." 
"I bet you are." 
"No, I'm quite serious. We deal in a very special commodity here." 
"Sex is not that special, Max. You can get it at any massage parlor." 
"Ah, but that's precisely the point, my dear. We do not sell sex. We sell sex 
slaves." He said it matter-of-factly. 
Darcie stopped in her tracks. "What?!" 
Max said, "We discovered quite a market exists for docile, well-trained women to 
serve the sexual needs of their masters. Once you get over the morality of it, 
the economics make perfect sense. Many wealthy men attempt to buy the affections 
of younger lovers; we just took it to the next logical step. More compliant that 
a wife, more loyal than a mistress--and far more versatile than a trophy 
girlfriend." 
Darcie said, "But how--I mean, don't they run away? How can you get away with a 
thing like this?" 
Max said, "You asked several questions, there, Miss McVey. Let me see if I can 
answer them. How? Neurological conditioning and physical development. The 
slaves--we call them LoveDolls, by they way--don't run away because by the time 
we finish with them, they are quite reprogrammed to their new life. The very 
thought of running away would never occur to them. And what was the last? Oh, 
yes, how do we get away with it? Well, we run a very discrete operation. New 
clients must be sponsored by an existing client. We take adequate safeguards." 
"I still don't see how you can turn a normal, intelligent person into some kind 
of robot slave," declared Darcie. 
"I"ll show you how," said Max. "Sometimes our clients like to come by and watch 
as their personal LoveDoll is prepared. This is the observation corridor that 
follows the various rooms in the process. Sometimes our clients like to visit 
and inspect what we're doing with their, ah, investment." 
Process? wondered Darcie, as Max led her to the first chamber. 
The observation deck was like an amphitheater over a surgical operations room. 
Darcie looked through the glass partition at the activity in the clinic below. 
Centered the room was a chair that looked like a dentist's chair, complete with 
head-rest, tilted far back. Behind the chair was a bank of computers and 
monitors. 
Being led to the chair was a young woman; Darcie would guess her to be about 
college-age. The girl was held securely by each arm as she was guided into the 
chair. She walked unsteadily, as if sedated, and it appeared to Darcie that she 
resisted as much as her weak condition allowed. But the clinicians settled her 
into the chair with little effort and snapped a metal band across her forehead. 
Straps secured her arms, legs and torso. 
"What's going on?" asked Darcie. 
Max said, "We call this the incubator'. The girl you see down there was acquired 
several days ago. Young, in good health, attractive. Yesterday she underwent a 
rather specialized cranial operation. Our team of neurosurgeons have identified 
the sensory perception zones of the brain, and have found a way to access them. 
A small neurotransmitter has been installed in the subject's cerebral cortex, 
connected to a jack at the base of the skull." 
"And what does all that mean?" asked Darcie, as she watched the team settle a 
kind of virtual-reality helmet over the girl's eyes. 
Max said, "It means we can make her see things, hear things, even feel things in 
her own mind. And reinforce those perceptions by intense pleasure--or by a 
sensation of unpleasantness applied directly to her mind." The girl was 
struggling weakly, but straps soon held her immobile in the chair. And as for 
the pleasure stimulus. . ." 
And Darcie saw how they undid a small velco seal between her legs, and gently 
but firmly inserted a large powered dildo deep into the girl's sex. Faint 
muffled protests could be heard through the helmet, but despite her attempts to 
fight the straps, the dildo slid home. 
"From this point forward, we let our doctors control the girl's thoughts. They 
flash images of submission and obedience into her brain, computer-generated 
virtual-reality displays of herself, actually, and then accompany those images 
with stimulated pleasure. We alternate that with contrasting images of 
resistance and defiance, and tickle her brain with some unpleasant sensations. 
After a while, a conditioned reflex is established in the brain that tells her 
that obedience brings pleasure, and defiance brings punishment. After, say, a 
hundred thousand repetitions of this same simple lesson, the subject's brain is 
effectively rewired into that of a docile slave. Independent thought is rendered 
impossible. The same technique can be used to train the subject in other 
behavior patterns, such as sexual technique and customized specialties requested 
by the client." 
Darcie watched as the girl began twisting and writhing as the mental images 
flashed through her brain. Methodically, relentlessly, the captive was being 
converted into mind-controlled slut, despite her futile, pathetic struggles. 
Darcie said, "All this sounds pretty sophisticated for a kidnaping ring, if you 
don't mind my saying so. Are you sure you know what you're doing?" 
"Oh," said Max breezily, "We have some of the world's most respected 
neurologists on our staff. See that man down there, the bald fellow by the EEG 
monitor? That's Dr. Raymond Charlesworth, chairman of the Essex College of 
Psychology." 
Darcie stared at the figure below. "Wait, I know about him. He's written several 
books--as a matter of fact, we once had him on the show to talk about. . .I 
don't know, relationships or something." She shook her head. "How do you get a 
man like that to help you with a scheme like this? You couldn't pay him enough 
money!" 
"Ah, my dear, money is not the coin of the realm, around here. See his 
assistant?" Darcie looked where Max pointed, and saw a lovely brunette in a 
tight-fitting white medical gown that barely reached over her ass, cinched with 
a gleaming white patent-leather belt to show off her curves--and a white leather 
collar to match. As the assistant bent over to check one of the straps on the 
restraining chair, Darcie could see the swell of her breasts barely restrained 
by the medical gown. The girl said something to the doctor, then lowered her 
eyes demurely as if waiting for instructions. 
"What the good doctor gets for his contribution to our program is--her," said 
Max. "She's only nineteen, but her mind has been conditioned specifically to 
suit his particular, ah, tastes. As his personal sex slave, satiating those 
desires is her goal in life. She's also been trained as his assistant for our 
work here. I understand the girl's been performing well in both categories." 
Darcie shook her head in disapproval, then looked again at the imprisoned girl 
below. "So after frying that poor girl's brain, you then hustle her out on the 
marketplace to the highest bidder? Pretty slick, Max." And she shuddered. 
"Hardly not," Max replied. "We don't eliminate intelligence. We just disengage 
it except for the tasks the client wants her to perform. And once a subject's 
mind is controlled, the next step is to enhance their physical condition. We 
call it packaging'." 
"I'm sure you do," muttered Darcie. 
"This way," said Max, as he led her to the overview in the next station of the 
Observation Corridor. 
At first sight the room looked like a typical health club. Half a dozen girls 
were working out at various machines, each one with a trainer keeping careful 
watch. On closer inspection, however, Darcie could see the girls were clad in 
bodysuits so sheer and tight that they could have been sprayed on. One girl 
pumped hard on a stepping machine; a flick of the trainer's riding crop on her 
asscheeks made her pump harder. Darcie winced at the sight, imagining the sting 
on the rump underneath that skintight-stretched fabric. 
"What's with the suits?" asked Darcie. "They're so thin, they look positively 
sprayed on!" 
Max replied, "Oh, those are one of our most successful innovations. Each suit is 
actually custom-tailored to compress and shape the wearer's body into the 
optimum shape for that particular person. A strict diet and a program of 
vigorous exercise--supervised and motivated by our staff, you see--and you can 
get good results quite quickly. And the material is a special synthetic compound 
of organic polymers that over time actually bonds with the subject's skin. It 
recycles water and waste products and makes the Doll essentially 
self-sustaining, with the addition of nutritional supplements every week or so. 
And an owner can change the bodysuit's color from metallic, to shiny black, to 
natural skin tone. Quite aesthetic, wouldn't you say? They also let the sexual 
heat build up inside." 
Darcie had to admit to herself that the girls did look quite fetching in their 
gleaming, form-fitting outfits. Even the nipples could be discerned through the 
sheer fabric as the full breasts underneath bounced and bobbed with every 
exertion. She said, "Hmmm...either you got lucky in your kidnap victims, or I 
could swear some of those girls have had boob jobs." 
Max said, "Oh, we have our own staff of cosmetic surgeons. Most of the girls are 
touched up to conform with standard requests--36 D breasts are high on the list. 
We found most American men like well-endowed LoveDolls. And what are rather 
crudely referred to here as `bubble butts.' Europeans, on the other hand"--and 
he gestured with his hand as his palm were a weighing scale--"Europeans prefer 
more petite development.. We cater to all tastes. Oh, see how the girls walk 
with their heels in the air, on the balls of their feet? One thing we do on 
almost all the LoveDolls is apply a special salve to their Achilles tendons; it 
has the effect of gradually shrinking the tendon until only extremely high heels 
are comfortable to them. We break them in slowly, of course--four inch heels, 
then five, then six." Darcie could see how some of the girls had already been 
fitted with towering stiletto heels. They walked with the uncertain gait of 
new-born colts. Max seemed to read her thoughts. "They'll be prancing about like 
ballerinas in no time, the little darlings." 
They continued down the corridor, passing several beauticians' chairs behind the 
one-way glass. In the chairs, LoveDolls underwent various conventional beauty 
treatments--hair, facial wraps, skin lotions were all applied expertly to the 
unresisting bodies of the sex-slaves-to-be, making them as desirable as 
possible. 
The next room was far from conventional. This was also an exercise room, but 
Darcie soon realized the exercises were of a sexual rather than aerobic nature. 
In one zone, a LoveDoll was strapped to a stationary bicycle. She pedaled 
furiously. "Looks like she's really going at it," said Darcie. 
"Part of it is mental conditioning," said Max. "Each LoveDoll is programmed to 
be fanatical about maintaining a perfect physique to please her owner. In this 
case there's an added incentive. Look closely at the seat." 
Darcie squinted, and as the LoveDoll's rump would bob an inch or two off the 
seat with each cycle of the pedals, she caught a glimpse of a phallic cylinder 
protruding from the seat that rapidly pistoned up and down, penetrating deep in 
her pussy with each thrust. Darcie caught the musky scent of sweat and feminine 
sex. 
"It's geared to how fast she pedals," explained Max, following her gaze. "All 
the LoveDolls have been psychologically implanted with supercharged libidos. The 
sexual tension builds and builds, and can only be released by a trainer or 
owner. I like to think of the LoveDolls training on this bicycle as frantically 
racing for an orgasm that is perpetually just barely out of reach. You see, this 
is room is used exclusively for the development of sexual technique. It's 
surprising--I would even say shocking--how little American women know about the 
actual practice sex. After graduating from this room, a LoveDoll will never just 
lie there.'" 
Darcie spied another exercise routine in the far end of the room. She asked, 
"And what's that one doing?" She pointed to a LoveDoll straddling a kind of 
saddle on a stand. She was salaciously pumping herself over a large dildo 
impaled between her spread thighs that pistoned into her from the base of the 
saddle in a steady, deliberate rhythm. She gyrating her hips and flexed her 
abdomen muscles in response to each thrust. 
Max said, "This particular exercise strengthens the vagina muscles to the point 
where she will be able to massage her owner's cock most effectively, and with a 
variety of pre-programmed techniques. Squeezing, stroking, corkscrewing--they 
have to learn them all." 
"She's going at it pretty hard too," said Darcie, as the LoveDoll's redheaded 
mane whirled and thrashed back and forth with each toss of her head. "Is that 
the mental conditioning again?" 
"Correct, Ms. McVey. Right now there's nothing more important to her than giving 
her imaginary lover the utmost pleasure she's capable of. The fact is, she's 
replaying a scene she's already experienced countless times under her 
psychological conditioning back at the Incubator.' This training is naturally 
duplicated for all love-making techniques--oral, anal, even such simple 
pleasures as backrubs and shower sudsing." 
"And the trainer?" asked Darcie, pointing to one of the leather-clad supervisors 
who kept an eye on a control panel dial and a finger poised over a switch. 
"Ah, there comes time when a little more motivation is needed, if the LoveDoll 
is performing one whit below her capacity, naturally." As he spoke, the trainer 
frowned and flipped the switch. The LoveDoll rose from the saddle with an 
electric shock, her eyes snapped wide. Then the LoveDoll redoubled her efforts 
at the dildo. The trainer gave an approving nod. 
"Naturally," muttered Darcie. She had noticed the look of rapture on the girl's 
face, and wondered how many times she had orgasmed that evening. 
"Would you like to see the finished product?" asked Max. "I believe we have one 
waiting for pickup by the client in the holding room." Darcie nodded mutely. 
The holding room turned out to be one of the most lavish rooms in the club. Dark 
mahogany paneling, thick carpet, plush chairs--and in one corner, full length 
ornate mirrors--a perfect forum for inspecting one's newly purchased plaything, 
Darcie thought. Max quietly murmured something into the intercom speaker on the 
wall, and soon a shapely trainer escorted the purchased LoveDoll into the room. 
Darcie took in a short breath as she caught her first look at the finished 
LoveDoll. Blond hair, shimmering in highlights, tumbled down to the doll's 
shoulders. Her eyes were large and green, flecked with gold, her face oval with 
a model's high cheekbones. A collar with a stainless steel ring graced her 
slender neck--and that was the only apparel she was wearing. 
As for her body, Darcie had to secretly concede to herself that Max's 
technicians knew what they were doing. The breasts were full and perfectly 
proportioned; the waist slender, the hips showed as graceful curves. As Darcie 
walked around her, she saw the tight asscheeks and long, sculpted legs that 
stood on towering high heels that made her walk mincing and sensual. Darcie 
could see how the girl's entire body was encased in that incredibly thin 
transparent bodysuit that gave her a satiny sheen, totally unblemished, velvety 
smooth to the touch. 
It was more than the girl's physique that created the sexual energy that 
crackled around her. The way she thrust her chest outward, as if begging for 
somebody to cup and massage her breasts, and the way she arched her back 
slightly to accentuate the curve of her ass, and mostly the way her eyes seem to 
glow with an spoken hunger to be taken and ravished--all these combined to make 
the LoveDoll infinitely desirable as she stood before them in brazen display. 
Darcie said in a kind of awe, "You mean this was once. . . a person?" 
Max said, "Yes, an au pair exchange student from Denmark, I believe. She's been 
transformed into what we call our standard model. Fully functional, well-trained 
in all sexual techniques, utter compliant to her owner's wishes. This one has 
been voice-disabled by conditioning, except for love-making sounds. That way we 
could install silicone pads in her mouth and throat to create a small, tight 
channel--effectively converting her mouth into a second vagina." 
Darcie studied the girl's face in fascination. "This make-up," she began-- 
"Imbedded permanently into the skin," answered Max. "Eye shadow, blush, 
lipstick, the works. She always looks her best and you never have to worry about 
getting lipstick on your collar. Or elsewhere." 
Darcie noticed how the LoveDoll's lips had been pumped with collagen to the 
point where she could even open her mouth on her own. Darcie could only imagine 
the pleasure an owner would experience has he forced his manhood through those 
twin cushions of plump, moistened lips. 
Max addressed the LoveDoll. "Turn around," he said crisply, and the LoveDoll 
instantly and gracefully complied. She spread her legs and bent over slightly to 
show off her sex, totally uninhibited. Max was saying, "The standard model can 
be commanded either by voice, as I did just then, or by this remote control." He 
hefted a remote control console in the palm of his hand and pressed a button. 
The LoveDoll turned again to face him. "Exquisite, don't you think?" he asked 
pleasantly to Darcie. "Each command has a unique electromagnetic signal 
implanted through conditioning in her mind. After so many repetitions, her 
conscious mind is bypassed altogether, and her body just responds automatically 
to the signals. Efficient, wouldn't you say?" 
Darcie could only stare in amazement at this apparition of this sex goddess, 
programmed into obedience. "And all this conditioning," she asked, "it really 
works? Does she know what we're saying right now?" 
"Not really, no. She's aware we're here, of course, but her cognitive ability 
has been disengaged except to respond to commands. We can restore it of course. 
But we uncovered an interesting side effect that prompted us to keep the 
LoveDolls under full mental control." 
"Side effect?" asked Darcie. "What side effect?" 
"They don't seem to age at all," said Max, and for the first time Darcie heard a 
note of wonder in his voice. "Something about the aging genes becoming 
disengaged with the rest. . .Forever young, forever beautiful. . ." His voice 
trailed off. Then he shrugged apologetically to Darcie. "Forgive me, it's the 
romantic in me. You can't help but admire them, can you? And she's fully 
functional, her vagina reconfigured for the maximum sexual pleasure to her user. 
But that is just one of the many options we offer. Here, I'll show you." He 
pressed another button on the control. The beautiful Doll gracefully sank down 
on her knees. Max was already pulling out his cock, with no sign of inhibitions 
himself. 
Must be the romantic in him, thought Darcie. 
The LoveDoll tilted her head back slightly, her tongue snaked over her lips to 
render them moist for easy entry. The tip of her pink tongue darted out to 
caress the underside of Max's manhood. 
Darcie was no prude, and no stranger to oral sex. In fact, during her climb up 
the network ladder, a corporate V.P. who guarded the gate to her promotion made 
it clear he liked her on screen performances so much, he wanted to see what she 
could do behind closed doors. So Darcie always associated fellatio with those 
demeaning experiences, one offered reluctantly and only with the understanding 
that she was entitled to reciprocal service from her lover, or something of 
equal value. 
The LoveDoll considered it anything but demeaning, apparently. Or didn't care. 
Or maybe Max was right, and her thoughts were completely replaced by her 
programming. For Darcie never saw a cock sucked with such adoring adroitness. 
The LoveDoll spent several minutes just running her lips and tongue along the 
shaft, occasionally swirling her tongue around the head of Max's throbbing cock. 
Her half-closed eyes followed Max's s every movement, and Darcie could almost 
feel her warm breath as he kissed and licked his balls with loving attention. 
Max entangled his hands into the beautiful Doll's glossy hair, and she allowed 
him to direct her mouth wherever his pleasure dictated, her full lips sliding 
all the way over his cock. Finally, when his cock was pulsing with a heat all 
its own, Max gripped her head hard and thrust himself deep inside her, fully 
sheathing himself down her eager throat. His gasp of pleasure reminded Darcie 
what he said earlier of converting the LoveDoll's mouth into a second vagina--in 
fact, as he penetrated in and out between the Doll's lips, Darcie could hear the 
suctioned slurping as her narrow-channeled mouth provided a perfect fit for his 
engorged manhood. The cheeks of the mind-controlled slut betrayed how her tongue 
working was furiously along her master's shaft. As the Doll's bouncing breasts 
brushing teasingly against Max's thigh's with every thrust, Darcie realized the 
Doll's entire mind and body were totally focused on bringing the ultimate 
pleasure to her owner. Max tightened his hold on her head and picked up the 
tempo of his thrusts, literally fucking her mouth, sheathing his cock to its 
base past those soft, yielding lips. 
Max finally tensed and came hard. She gulped his seed down greedily, then 
swathed his withdrawn manhood with her tongue to clean him up. Max restored 
himself, and pressed the control device. The LoveDoll sank back on her heels, 
head lowered, her hands resting on her thighs, palm up, in the classic position 
of submission. 
Darcie felt faint. She slowly sat down in one of the plush chairs. What had 
seemed to her to be a good story for her career had become a nightmare. To see a 
free woman methodically transformed into a sextoy was a notion so diabolical, so 
monstrous that it was beyond belief. But what really shook her was her own 
reaction to it--for one split second, she wanted to ask Max for the remote, and 
see what it was like to have the LoveDoll pleasure her. Darcie could swear when 
she looked into those large green eyes, she could see an unquenchable desire 
still burning like embers. She shook off the temptation. 
"Well, Max, that was quite a show," she said huskily. 
Max said, "That's just an all-purpose LoveDoll. Some of our more discerning 
clients have particular tastes and preferences that we try to fulfill. Come this 
way." 
The next room featured one subject: a naked girl was strapped in one of the 
incubator-style chairs, this time with her crossed wrists manacled above her 
head. Darcie knew enough now about the clinic's mind control techniques to note 
the headphones securely attached to her ears, while a nearby computer flooded 
her brain with God-knows-what neurological imprints. The usual vaginal 
stimulator was in place, rhythmically pumping in and out and reinforcing those 
mental commands with cycles of sensual stimulation. But what caught Darcie's 
eyes immediately was the size of the girl's breasts. They were enormous--like 
twin volleyballs. 
"Ah," said Max, "I see you've noticed our subject's prime feature. The buyer has 
a particular interest in, shall we say, busty girls. He's asked us if we can 
provide a LoveDoll for the a true connoisseur of large breasts. The subject 
--Brittany, her name was--was already blessed with good development when we 
acquired her. But our client wanted more. So our clinical staff developed a 
technique that is having marvelous results.. Since breasts this large would not 
be feasible with a single implant, the doctors have devised a procedure in which 
expandable pockets of saline solution are inserted in each breast, then pumped 
with more and more solution over time through those tubes to let the skin 
stretch." 
Darcie followed with her eyes the clear bag of solution hanging from a stand 
over the strapped-down girl, with the steady drip of the liquid pressed by 
gravity through two plastic tubes that fed through tiny incisions at the base of 
her breasts. The breasts themselves were covered by transparent suction cups 
that repeatedly sucked the ripe breast flesh into the shaped domes with a steady 
massaging effect.. 
"Those are to shape and form the breasts as they get augmented," explained Max 
without being asked. "The client does not just want gigantic breasts. He wants 
gigantic perfect breasts. Oh, and notice that ointment spread over the breasts? 
That keeps the skin moist and stretchable, and also stimulates nerve growth. The 
slightest touch will cause spasms of pleasurable sensation." Max gave a little 
laugh. "Each time the client comes to inspect the progress, he says, a little 
larger, please.' It will take about a week more to get them to the desired 
dimensions." 
"But to saddle a girl with those gargantuan mammaries," protested Darcie. "A 
week more of this, at the rate she's growing, she'll topple over if she tries to 
walk!" 
"Oh, our training staff will instruct her how to walk, never fear. And walk in 
such a way as to make her breasts sway oh-so-invitingly. And of course we pay 
equal attention to the LoveDoll's mental conditioning. Here, listen to this," 
and he flipped a switch on the computer and handed Darcie a set of headphones. 
Darcie with a little frown reluctantly listened in to what was being piped into 
Britainy's brain that very instant: 
"--love my big breasts... I love my big breasts....They make me look so 
pretty... I love the feel of Master's cock between my breasts...It makes me feel 
so sexy to have Master's cock between my breasts... I love my breasts--the 
bigger the better...I love to see my breasts in the mirror....My breasts are 
just for Master to play with...It makes me wet to have Master kiss my 
breasts...I don't ever want to cover my breasts, I want Master to see them all 
the time, to see how full and big they are...I love my big breasts..." Darcie 
could see how each lesson was reinforced by a surge of the vaginal stimulator. 
The girl's eyelids fluttered as her body writhed in an extended wave of sexual 
pleasure, the rounded globes jiggling in a most sensuous way. Even so, she shook 
her head weakly from side to side, as if still fighting the inexorable mind 
control training that was penetrating the deepest recesses of her mind. 
"That's Brittany's actual voice, synthesized," said Max, replacing the 
headphones on the rack. We find it makes a deeper impression, almost like the 
subject talking to herself." 
"And it works?" said Darcie, fascinated by image of the LoveDoll being molded 
physically and mentally into a programmed slut with giant tits. 
"Most definitely. By the time we're finished with her conditioning, she won't be 
able to look at her breasts in the mirror without slipping into orgasm right 
then and there. And we've also been able to design some garments for her to wear 
that display her new form to the best advantage. A custom-designed 
LoveDoll--that's the direction our program is going." 
As they watched, the overhanging bag of solution ran dry. Brittany--or the 
evolving LoveDoll that used to be Brittany--glanced up with shrouded eyes with 
what Darcie thought was a look of relief. But just then a clinician walked in, 
looking sassy in her high-hem skirt and lab coat, and efficiently swapped the 
empty solution bag for a full one. Brittany tilted her head up as high as it 
could go, and watched the suction cups draw the new flow of solution into 
another millimeter of size on her pink swollen breasts, glistening with the 
lubricating ointment. Brittany's head dropped back on the table, and she seemed 
to sigh in helpless resignation to the fact that her mind and body were was 
being gradually molded into a huge-breasted fucktoy. The relentless mental 
indoctrination coming through the headphones was obviously melting her will to 
resist. 
Max pulled Darcie away by gently gripping her upper arm. "Come along," he said. 
"Our final room has what I consider our finest effort so far. In fact, we're in 
luck--the buyer stopped by today to test the state of our training." 
Darcie left, but not without a backward glance at the strapped-in Brittainy, the 
clear plastic tubes pumping another surge of liquid into her swollen breasts. 
As they returned back down the corridor, Darcie saw the strangest apparition 
coming the other way. Two women--one wore the traditional leather corset and 
high-heeled boots of the trainers that Darcie had seen in the work-out rooms. 
She was leading another girl who bore the unmistakable signs of being 
transformed into a LoveDoll--the full lips, shimmering bodysuit (obsidian black, 
on this one), and sculpted body/facial beauty. Her hair had been allowed to grow 
long, almost down to the small of her back, and brushed to a glossy sheen. 
But this Doll was apparently undergoing specialized training. A pony-bit was 
clenched in her mouth. Her arms were pulled back behind her, elbows touching, 
and encased in a single glove that knitted seamlessly into her form-fitting 
corset. So her arms and hands were immobilized, shoulders pulled back, making 
her breasts--large and sumptuous even by the standards of the clinic--thrust 
proudly forward. Darcie could only marvel at the muscular thighs and calves that 
flexed every time the Doll took another exaggerated high step. The trainer 
behind her guided the Doll with a firm grip on reins that pulled on the bit, 
while her other hand carried a crop. 
As they passed this strange pair, Darcie stopped. "Max, what is this all about?" 
she asked, her eyes wide with wonder. Max held up us hand. 
"Whoa," the trainer said, pulling back on the reins. The LoveDoll stopped, 
panting through the bit, but staring blankly ahead. 
"This is one of our earlier LoveDolls," said Max. "Her name is Christina. Her 
owner has developed an interest in erotic equestrian play, so we reprogrammed 
her LoveDoll's mind into that of a ponygirl." 
Darcie studied the LoveDoll ponygirl. Up close she could see the elaborate 
system of straps and buckles that could be used for different restraints. The 
bit itself was a leather bar clenched between her teeth, with two shiny metal 
rings pressed back on her cheeks that served as the connection to the reins. The 
ponygirl's back was arched as she stood at attention on her high-heeled pony 
shoes. And either as a touch of whimsy or realism, a crested tail had been 
plugged between her firm asscheeks. Darcie tried to see some sign of humiliation 
or desperation in the LoveDoll's eyes, but all she could see was the familiar 
opaque doll-eyes, looking straight ahead. The girl's breasts rose and fell with 
the breath of her prior exertions. 
Max regarded this amazing creature with a pleased look on his face. "I trust her 
conditioning is going well?" he asked the trainer. 
"Yes, sir," answered the trainer. "Today we're learning how to canter. Aren't 
we, dear?" the trainer added to the ponygirl, stroking the Doll's thigh with her 
crop. "Miss Dunn still wants to use her for sex play, of course, so we're 
working out hand commands and other dressage techniques." 
Max turned to Darcie. "This illustrates a point I mentioned earlier--the 
direction our operation is going. Once a LoveDoll has been commissioned, we can 
re-program them in the Incubator' into anything the owner wants. You can upgrade 
your standard LoveDoll to be--oh, a French Maid, complete with accent...a 
raunchy courtesan from the streets of New Orleans.. the high school cheerleader 
of your youthful fantasies. . ..or even this charming ponygirl. One of our 
clients even married his LoveDoll, God knows why. But it's what he wanted. It's 
just a question of jacking in a new program--and we have hundreds to choose 
from, with new ones being developed all the time. He turned back to the trainer. 
"Very well, proceed. I'll expect a report on her progress by the end of the 
week. The owner said to spare no discipline. It's my understanding she wants to 
enter her little filly in some races." 
"Yes, sir," said the trainer. She snapped the reins. The ponygirl LoveDoll 
resumed her parade-ground prancing. "Knees high!" admonished the trainer, with a 
reminding smack of her riding crop on the ponygirl's asscheeks. The pair moved 
off down the corridor to the metronome click of the ponygirl's steel-shoed 
heels. 
Something buzzed around in Darcie's mind. Dunn. . . Dunn. . . Then it clicked. 
"That owner--Miss Dunn, did you say? That wouldn't be Lydia Dunn, chief of the 
Sex Crimes Commission?" 
"The very one," said Max cheerfully. "For a fee, Miss Dunn gave us protection 
from government interference while we built up our organization. "Christina was 
her rival at the Commission for several years, and actually assigned to 
infiltrate our organization. Naturally, Lydia worked with us to neutralize her. 
As an agent, Christina was smart and tough and posed a serious threat to us. Her 
conditioning as a LoveDoll was a most satisfying process. Miss Dunn acquired her 
as her personal sex-toy. Now Christina's only function is to please her 
Mistress--in any way her Mistress desires. A happy resolution to both of our 
problems, wouldn't you say?" 
Darcie took one last backward look over her shoulder at the high-stepping 
ponygirl, her tail flicking back and forth. To be captured by these people, and 
changed forever into someone else's property! The thought made her shudder. And 
she again congratulated her own foresight in giving her assistant Louise the 
file on this demonic club as insurance against Darcie's own kidnaping. You have 
to take risks to get ahead, Darcie reminded herself. But as long as Max knew an 
outsider could still blow the whistle, Darcie figured she was safe enough. After 
all, Max was obviously an intelligent man who understood how he had been 
checkmated by Darcie's advanced planning. Otherwise, he would never be giving 
her this tour, would he? She thought. 
But if Max was concerned by the trap he was in, he gave no sign of it as he 
pushed open some swinging doors to the strangest room yet. 
Darcie stared at the large cage that dominated the room. The floor of the cage 
was matted straw. The bars gleamed chromium silver. A bowl of water was inside, 
as well as a large bin of some kind of dried food. Inside the cage was--a woman? 
A LoveDoll? A tigress? 
Max was already talking. "This one was called Samantha, I believe. Very defiant, 
at first. But you see how we turned that feistiness to our advantage." 
Samantha prowled on all fours inside the cage. Her hair was untamed, but 
gorgeous--a light brown, with streaks of blonde, thick locks tumbling untamed 
around her shoulders. Her body had been buffed and physically conditioned to 
steel-like muscular definition, like a professional body-worker. But that 
toughness was somehow highlighted by the feminine curves of her breasts and ass, 
and by the savage beauty of her face. Green eyes that smoldered at the two 
visitors with either lust or hostility or maybe both. Her only garment was a 
thick leather collar, its dark brown color a matching the copper tone of her 
tanned naked skin. A powerful scent of the woman's sex permeated the room. She 
resumed her pacing on hands and knees, back and forth, her muscles flowing like 
a panther. 
A man entered the room. Khaki shorts and shirt, with brawny arms and a thick 
mustache. He wore thick leather handling gloves and carried a braided whip in 
one hand. 
"This is the owner," whispered Max. "He's a great white hunter type, goes into 
the wilds every season. All this was his idea, the minute we showed him 
Samantha's marketing video." 
"All of what?" asked Darcie. 
"Just watch. We've kept Samantha on a diet rich with hormones--she's been in 
heat for the past three days. Frantic to mate." 
Darcie watched as the owner unlocked the cage. Samantha backed into a corner 
with a threatening growl. The owner advanced, his boots crunching over the 
straw. Samantha's clawed hand lashed out. The man warily circled around her. 
Samantha's nostrils flared as she caught the man's scent, and the promise of 
long-deferred mating. Still she prowled along the edge of the cage, never taking 
her eyes off the intruder. Once, when she lashed out at him with her long 
fingernails, he cracked the whip without the leather tip touching her--more to 
control her than to hurt her, Darcie noticed. 
The owner sprang forward with agility. His gauntletted hand grasped the steel 
ring on the woman's collar and he maneuvered himself behind her. Samantha fought 
back hard, teeth bared, hissing and clawing. But Darcie could see how Samantha 
was also being aroused in spite of herself. The man's whip cracked close to her 
ears and she cringed and froze at the unexpected sound. The owner seized the 
opportunity to press her shoulders down into the straw, leaving her ass high and 
vulnerable. He reached in and directed his already erect cock to thrust into the 
captured LoveDoll from behind. One thrust--and he was deep inside. Samantha's 
fighting died down, and her hisses of resistance became growls of pleasure as 
she allowed herself to be taken, to have that animal heat finally quenched. 
Cautiously, the owner released his hold on her collar, and slide his hands down 
over her back and flanks, finally gripping her hips with his leather gloves. 
Samantha began meeting his thrusts with her own, as she tossed her hair and 
panted in building passion. 
Darcie stared in disbelief. They've turned this girl into a sex animal, she 
realized, and continued to watch with a horrified fascination. As he reached 
climax, the man's hand shot forward and grasped the mane of her hair, pulling 
the girl's head back as his cock rammed back and forth, taking her hard from 
behind. Samantha's emitted a kind of a low-throated mewing. Her back arched and 
her muscular body tensed, and they both came in shared spasm of sexual 
fulfillment. 
Both man and tigress/LoveDoll shuddered, then slowly collapsed together in the 
straw. Samantha, look of glazed satisfaction in her half-lidded eyes, nuzzled 
close to the man. Her pink tongue came out, and she submissively licked the 
man's chest and shoulders and neck, still turned on by his salty taste. The 
owner, his chest still heaving with exertion, scratched the thick hair behind 
her ears, Max motioned to Darcie it was time to go, and they left the two in the 
cage. 
"She's come along nicely, don't you think? She's been programmed to think she's 
his big cat. I understand he's built an entire walled landscape for her in his 
Kenya estates. Don't let that whip scare you. Deep down, he really loves his 
pets." 
"His. . . pets, you say," muttered Darcie. She was too stunned to say anything 
else. The sights and sounds and revelations of this bizarre tour finally caught 
up to her, and she felt faint. The thought of turning women into custom-designed 
sex slaves was too diabolical to believe--yet here it was. She had to get out. . 
. she had to. . . Darcie found her eyelids growing heavy. The room seemed to 
spin around, and suddenly everything became misty and black.
She awoke with a start. Max was leaning over her, a concerned look on his face. 
"Miss McVey, are you all right?" He had loosed her trenchcoat and was in the 
process of helping her sit up. Darcie tried to struggle to her feet. Max's hand, 
surprisingly strong, pulled her to standing. She smiled at him gratefully, then 
as her head cleared, she wiped the smile from her face and looked around, 
blinking. She said, "I guess I just. . . blacked out for a minute there." 
"I can get a physician for you," offered Max. 
"One of your merry medical staff? No thanks--I'm happy with my body the way it 
is, thank you. I don't want to find myself walking out of here with 
watermelon-size buttocks, or something exotic like that. Nice try, though." 
Max laughed, genuinely amused. "The idea never crossed my mind, I assure you, 
Miss McVey. Perhaps we could return to the club and you rest a bit, and I can 
try to persuade you not to reveal our little operation here." 
"Fat chance of that, Max. But I wouldn't mind sitting down. Did I hit my head on 
something? I got one helluva headache." 
They made their way back to the club. The place rocked and pulsed with even more 
crackling energy than before. The hard-beat music throbbed with a hard hypnotic 
beat; the dancers on stage gyrated their sinuous bodies as if enslaved to the 
rhythm, the laughter and talk was louder, the colored stage lights flashed and 
dazzled--and almost every couch and chair was the scene of unabashed sex. Once 
again, Darcie was struck by the beauty of the women: not just pretty, but 
fashion-model gorgeous, but more curvaceous and full-bodied than any model. As 
she and Max were seated by the hostess at the foot of the dance stage, Darcie 
could not help but cast a sidelong glance at the couch next to them. There a 
striking brunette lay sideways, her head leaning on the armrest with a dreamy 
expression on her face, letting the club patron fuck her with steady thrusts of 
his cock deep between her thighs. Darcie quickly looked away, and her eyes lit 
on another table, where a guest admired the undulating dancer on the stage. His 
pleasure at the sight was obviously amplified by the redheaded vixen sitting 
next to him who expertly stroked his exposed cock with her tapering fingers in 
time to the music. From time to time she would lean forward and kiss the head of 
his cock lightly, then return to her massaging his lust-filled shaft. The girl 
glanced up, and Darcie happened to look straight into her eyes, the same opaque 
doll-eyes that she had seen in the LoveDolls in the clinic. 
Suddenly it all became clear. No wonder all these girls in the club were so 
shamelessly subjugating themselves to the patrons' pleasure! They were all 
LoveDolls! Then another realization struck her. 
"Max," she said suddenly, "This club--it's a showcase for your damn LoveDolls, 
isn't it? And the guests here--they're not just partying, having fun. They're. . 
. buyers." 
Max bestowed a nod in her direction. "Very good, Ms. McVey. Yes, you are almost 
right. 
Potential buyers, let us say. Some are just browsing. This lets them inspect the 
LoveDolls who have completed their basic conditioning. If they like what they 
see--and many of them do--then we can make the arrangements on the spot to 
fine-tune their acquisition to their tastes." 
Darcie shook her head with a sort of disgusted wonder. The effort made her head 
ache even more. "You know, it's going to be a real service to my gender to shut 
this place down. You're just lucky I'm going to give you a head start before I 
air the show." 
Max leaned forward and spoke deliberately to be heard over the beat of the 
music. "I thought we might have a chat about that, Ms. McVey." 
"Oh?" 
"Yes. I have a proposition for you. The fact is, we've had our eye on you a long 
time, Ms. McVey. You have a great audience. People--especially young women--hang 
on your every word. Fashion, books, what's in, what's out--your opinion counts 
for a lot." 
Darcie tilted her head sideways to look at Max. "Yeah, but what is all this 
leading up to?" 
"Just this: We would like to offer you a job, Ms. McVey." She looked at him 
incredulously. "Now, just hear me out. We have great plans for our operation. 
Our biggest challenge has always been finding suitable recruits to reconfigure 
into LoveDolls. We always have far more orders to fill than LoveDolls to fill 
them with. So we have built a spa on a Caribbean island, totally owned by an 
offshore corporation." Max's eyes glowed with excitement. "We plan to make this 
spa a Mecca for young women only--at discount prices, and with a cruise to the 
island thrown in. Once we have the girls there, we can pick and choose which 
ones--the most beautiful, the cream of the crop, and the ones with the fewest 
bonds back home--to keep and reconfigure into LoveDolls. The rest will go home 
with glowing reports on what a lovely time they had on the beach and in the 
spa." 
Darcie stared at the man. A kidnapping ring on a grand scale--with an endless 
source of young women to transform into sex slaves for sale to the highest 
bidder. What a scheme! It was monstrous--it was brilliant-- 
"That's where you come in, Ms. McVey," Max was saying in his terrifyingly 
reasonable manner. "We need a spokesperson to persuade these women to try out 
the spa. Somebody who has star quality, who they trust and want to emulate. 
Somebody like you, Ms. McVey." 
Darcie could not believe what she was hearing. "Wait, let me get this straight," 
she spluttered. "I'm getting ready to expose you and your friends on national 
television. And you want me to--do commercials for you? Are you crazy? Is this 
some kind of a joke?" 
"No joke, Ms. McVey. We think your talents would make all the difference." 
"Well, I got news for you, Max. The only difference I intend to make is to shut 
down this whole weird operation!" And with that, she flung her arm out in a 
dramatic gesture to encompass the whole room of dancing, posturing and cavorting 
LoveDolls. But while making the gesture, her eye caught something and she did a 
double take. 
A woman was being escorted between the tables by a trainer. The woman was a 
LoveDoll, no question of that, with her pouty lips and soul-empty look and shiny 
silver skintight bodysuit. But her breasts exceeded the bustlines of any of the 
other LoveDolls in the room. They ballooned our from her chest like twin 
basketballs, perfectly formed, jiggling like firm jello. She walked sensually 
with her back arched and her shoulders thrown back, as if proud to display those 
magnificent orbs. 
Daphne's eyes narrowed in disbelieving recognition. That was the girl who was 
strapped into the breast-augmentation chair not fifteen minutes ago, before 
Darcie lost consciousness, she was sure of it. Yet, from across the room, while 
naked women sauntered past her line of sight and cigarette smoke curled upward 
to the stage lights, it was hard to say. . . As she watched, the LoveDoll was 
brought before a patron sprawling in a wingbacked chair. He obviously expected 
her, from the few brief words with the trainer. The huge-breasted leaned forward 
and let him fondle and stroke her smooth breasts. Even from that distance, 
Darcie could see the LoveDoll's eyes flutter in pleasure as his fingers kneaded 
the soft, yielding globes. Then the doll knelt gracefully between the man's 
legs, unzipped his suit trousers as if that was the most natural thing in the 
world, and expertly massaged his cock to a hard, throbbing erection. Then she 
cupped her breasts in her hands and pressed them against the patron's manhood. 
She played with her nipples while stroking his cock up and down between the warm 
soft pillows of those ripe, bouncing melons. Every now and then as his cock 
penetrated up through the enfolding channel of her breast-flesh, she would bend 
over and let her tongue swirl over the head of his cock, adding that moisture to 
the lubrication of her breasts. The kneeling LoveDoll threw her head back in 
abandon and Darcie caught a good look at her face. There was no question any 
more. Something was wrong here. 
"Max," she said, her voice shaking, "that girl over that, with those incredible 
breasts--that's the same one we saw getting that boob job, isn't it?" 
Max glanced over to where Darcie was looking. "Yes, I believe it is," he said 
calmly. He took off his rimless glasses and polished them thoughtfully with a 
handkerchief plucked from his top coat pocket. 
Darcie continued, "But look at her breasts. They were ridiculously big to begin 
with. Now they're twice that size. You said she wouldn't be ready for a week." 
Max put his glasses back on, and Darcie noticed how his eyes glinted with a kind 
of amused superiority. A tremor of uneasiness passed through her. "Yes, that's 
correct, Ms. McVey." 
Darcie spoke very slowly. "Then what is she doing here now?" 
Max said, "You said it yourself. It took a week." 
"But. . .but a week hasn't gone by. That was just a few minutes ago." 
"Actually, it has. A week and two days, to be precise. We needed that time for 
your own conditioning." 
"What?!" 
"Yes. Do you remember when you felt faint, at the last stage of our tour? And 
that drink you had earlier here, in the club? We included a powerful sedative in 
your drink." 
"But I switched drinks with you!" Darcie protested, her voice sounding shrill 
and far away. 
"So you did. But you see, my dear, both drinks had the sedative, and only one of 
us took the antidote beforehand." Again, that small, confident smile. Darcie 
wanted to smash his face in. Could it possibly be true? Unbidden, she raised her 
hand to the back of her head, underneath her hair, and touched lightly with her 
fingertips. Her heart seemed to stop--yes, there it was. A small metallic 
insert, exactly like the those implanted in the other LoveDolls, for "jacking 
in" the virtual-reality programs of the conditioning process. My God, she 
thought. I've been programmed. 
"Why, Max? Why the charade? If you wanted to kidnap me, you could just do it? 
Why string me along like this?" 
Max steepled his fingers. "Ah, now we have come to the heart of it. We needed to 
find out something, Ms. McVey. You see how we can condition the LoveDolls to be 
anything an owner might want, any fantasy at all. In your case, we had to know 
if you could be conditioned to be. . . yourself." 
"Myself? What do you mean?" 
"Before we used your talents to promote the spa, we had to make sure you could 
perform just like you did before. If you became a mannequin, like the rest of 
our LoveDolls, then the whole plan would have to dropped." Max leaned back in 
his chair. "But I am glad to say, Ms. McVey, they you have laid our fears to 
rest. It looks that star quality came through your programming unblemished. 
Darcie stared at him, her mind churning. She had one hope left. . . 
"You forgot one thing, Mister," she spat out with all the venom she could 
muster. "If I've been gone for a week, you can bet your scheming ass that the 
police are out hunting for me right now. You seem to forget I told someone who I 
was meeting." And Darcie fervently prayed that little airhead Louise had done 
exactly what she was told. 
Max furrowed his brow for a minute and then looked up, his face brightening. 
"Oh, yes... your insurance', as you called it. A confidant. Someone you could 
trust. Someone, for instance, like your assistant back at the studio." 
Darcie felt as if an ice shaft had thrust into her heart. "Did you do anything 
to her?" she asked hoarsely. 
Max shrugged and said, "Let's ask her ourselves, shall we? Louise, did we do 
anything to you?" 
Darcie whirled in her chair. Standing behind her was Louise. But not the old, 
frumpy Louise with her too-big glasses and her god-awful hair. This Louise 
carried herself with assurance, her make-up was perfect, her hair swept back to 
look both athletic and alluring. Her figure was flawless--so that what was under 
those baggy sweatshirts all these months! 
And she was dressed in the leather outfit of a trainer. 
"No, sir," Louise answered. "I'm feeling quite fine. Her eyes slid over to 
Darcie. "Good evening, Ms. McVey. Nice to see you among us." And Darcie noticed 
with a chill that Louise's eyes had the same emotionless serenity as the 
LoveDolls. 
"Louise!" cried Darcie. "They got you too!" 
Louise said, "They got me a long time ago, Ms. McVey." 
Max broke in. "Louise is too modest. She is actually a special case. Right from 
the start we knew she would make an excellent trainer. And she made an even 
better infiltrator into your television network. It was not hard to slip her 
into the role of your assistant; the turnover in that position was notorious and 
common knowledge. I'm afraid, Ms. McVey, that you have something of a reputation 
of being a bitch to work for. So nobody else wanted the job. Except our Louise." 

Darcie stared at Max in sudden comprehension. "You mean...Louise was planted as 
my assistant? What for? What's going on?" She fought to keep panic out of her 
voice. 
"Why, to lure you here, of course. We knew you were upset at being merely an 
ornament', as you put it, at the network--another pretty face for another silly 
talk show. It didn't take too much imagination to guess that if the chance for a 
serious journalist scoop came your way, you would jump at it. Our estimate was, 
you would climb over anybody in your way to get that story." 
"Even the dowdy little assistant who brought it to you," added Louise, with a 
cruel, mocking smile at Darcie. 
Darcie fought down an urge to make a dash for the door. "You mean, I was. . . 
set up?" 
"Nicely put in your American slang, Ms. McVey," said Max. "But don't let that 
trouble you. Once your conditioning takes hold, you won't feel the need to keep 
a thought in your head. Just those thoughts that we put there." 
Darcie stared wildly around. Her eyes darted down at the table, and lit upon the 
wine list placed there by the waitress. Only now. . .the letters made no 
sense--just meaningless squiggles on the page. I can't read anymore! she thought 
hysterically. I'm becoming a brainless bimbo! 
Max leaned back in his chair. "Now," he said, "I believe we were discussing you 
becoming a spokesperson for our new spa." 
Darcie leaped to her feet. "If you think I'm actually going to help you with 
this sick and twisted enterprise, you're crazy! I won't. I can't!" She looked 
wildly for an exit. 
Max said, "I think you would be surprised at what you can do." Then, before she 
could make a dash for the door, Max's voice rapped out, "Stand still!" 
Darcie froze. 
Max continued with the same rough-edged commanding tone. "Take off your clothes. 
All of them. Now." 
As if in a dream, Darcie felt her will dissolving into non-thinking obedience. 
She watched herself strip, the trenchcoat first, then the rest, garment by 
garment, until she stood unabashedly naked before him and the leering Louise. 
"Turn around!" Max said. Darcie tried to fight back, gritting her teeth, but she 
felt her body pirouette of its own accord. She blushed in humiliation, knowing 
she was being made to show off her body for his pleasure. Why am I doing this? 
she asked herself desperately. How could I be conditioned and not even know it? 
"Position Four." Darcie sank gracefully to her knees in front of him. How did he 
make me do that? He mind screamed silently. I didn't even know what "position 
four" is. Unless. . . unless it's been drilled into my brain by the mind-control 
conditioning. . .She watched in frozen helplessness as he withdrew a remote 
control device from his pocket. She thought, surely he's not going to make me-- 
Max deftly pressed one of the controls. Darcie found herself leaning forward, 
her fingers already undoing Max's trousers, her hand reaching inside to caress 
and stroke his cock. Her hand glided up and down his manhood, lovingly coaxing 
it to its maximum and impressive erection. It was as if her body belonged to 
somebody else, she thought in a panic. Then she realized--it did. To Max. She 
was now his property. His toy. His. . . LoveDoll. But without thinking about it, 
already her lips had parted, her tongue flicked out. Her brain was hardwired for 
passion, her eyes transfixed on his cock. Even though she did not consciously 
know what to do, her subconscious knew what she wanted. . .needed. . . craved. 
Darcie was no prude, but nothing in her experience had taught her how to suck 
cock with the sensuous technique she now displayed. The tip of her tongue played 
with the head of his cock, then slid down to lap gently at the underside of his 
gland. From time to time her pursed lips would kiss along the shaft, then trail 
up to take the head of his cock fully in her mouth. Her tongue and lips coaxed 
his cock to the its absolute hardest, then she began going down on him in 
earnest. Lower and lower her encapsulating lips plunged over his cock, while her 
tongue and cheeks compressed against his shaft as if to squeeze every ounce of 
pleasure from it. Darcie was beyond notice when his hands gripped her head and 
he proceed to ram his cock in and out of her slavering mouth with well-practiced 
vigor. Her mouth began salivating at the prospect of swallowing his cum... 
But Max's finger pressed another button on the remote, and Darcie found herself 
drawing her mouth off his glistening cock. She rose like an automaton in 
obedience to this new command and leaned backward against the table, then 
further back, until she was actually lying on her back over the linen-covered 
table top, legs drawn up wantonly, head thrown back, her hair fanning out over 
the edge. 
Max rose to his feet as well. He positioned himself against her, his hard, 
lubricated cock pressing between her love lips. Then he thrust forward. Darcie 
gasped in delight. Max's cock sank deep inside her pussy, then he pulled back 
out, then he thrust even deeper inside. He leaned ever further over her, arms on 
either side of her torso for balance, and proceeded to fuck her right there on 
the table. 
A warmth spread from deep in Darcie's pussy to radiate throughout her whole 
body. Never had she been this aroused! Her full breasts jiggled with every 
pounding thrust, the nipples as hard and erect as she had ever experienced. She 
seemed to be writhing in rhythm to some subliminal beat to the dance music. And 
to that small corner of Darcie's mind that still observed what was going on in 
stunned detachment, she realized she was no different from any of the other 
LoveDolls in the club being played with by their owners. Occasionally one of the 
other patrons would look up from his own pleasure to give their table a 
lascivious glance, but it was more like "comparison shopping" than any 
particular interest in Darcie's plight--being ravished right out in the open, 
with her shamelessly moaning with pleasure. Waitresses walked by without even 
noticing as Darcie's pelvis began bucking slavishly to meet each of Max's 
thrusts. 
Then Max began to build toward a climax. Faster and faster his cock rammed in 
and out of her soaking pussy. Darcie felt her own pussy beginning to contract 
and spasm as it coaxed the fullest possible friction out of Max's manhood. Her 
hands gripped the linen tablecloth, the thick folds clutched between her 
grasping fingers. As Max exploded inside her, Darcie felt her back arch and her 
mind go numb as the mind-conditioning treatment amplified her own orgasm. Her 
pleasure-wracked body, glistening in sweat, slumped back on the table, tremors 
still coursing through her soaking vagina. 
Soon her mind cleared and she slid off the table. Max was already sitting back 
in his chair, looking quite satisfied. Louise looked at her with the hint of a 
smile on her cruel, beautiful face. 
Max took a sip of his drink. He said, "I trust you see what I mean, when I say 
that you'd be surprised at what you can do." 
Darcie tried to reply, come back with some threat or insult or anything at all. 
But all she could do was stand there, like a mannequin on display, waiting 
passively for her next instruction. 
Max said, "I think it's your turn on stage." And he nodded to the stairs leading 
up to the elevated stage floor. "Oh, and you'll need this collar." He gave it to 
Louise, who deftly snapped it around her bare neck. If Darcie had not lost her 
ability to read, she would have seen her name etched in front. As it was, she 
understood she just needed the collar--felt naked without it. Darcie turned like 
mind-controlled slut she had become, and mounted the stairs, her hips swaying 
seductively. When the music began its hypnotic beat, and the colored lights 
began flashing in syncopation to the dazzling flashes in her brain, Darcie began 
dancing. Her hands slid over her body, squeezed her own breasts. She undulated 
and pranced and postured, using dance moves that had been drilled into her brain 
by a 100,000 virtual-reality repetitions in the mind-control chair, her body 
getting hotter by the second, her thoughts now channeled into the one hope that 
she might excite a club patron enough--it didn't matter which one--so that he 
might want to fuck her. Not seduce her, not make love to her--but fuck her hard 
like slut she had become. So Darcie danced with erotic abandon, surrendering to 
the music. Her career, her freedom, her hatred of Max--all these seem to 
evaporate under those flashing stage lights. The important thing was to be the 
perfect sex toy for whoever was selected for her. . . 
But Max had other plans for her.
Two months later, Darcie's smiling face could be seen in a head-and-shoulders 
shot on the video monitor. It was a setting in which she would have felt quite 
at home, in her earlier life: a television studio. 
Darcie looked directly into the camera, her face perfectly made up and her eyes 
sparkling.. "Hi there, girls!" she said. "I know a lot of you have wondered why 
I decided to leave my talk show. Well, I must confess--I've been indulging 
myself these past few weeks at a new health spa. The name is "For Girls Only", 
and they took such great care of me, I knew I had to get involved. So I've said 
ta-ta to my talk show, and agreed to become the chief spokeswoman for this 
marvelous resort." The view cut to a interior pool, with massage tables, 
fountains, and beauty-chairs. Women lounged about, some being massaged, others 
getting pedicures and facials, and other simply relaxing and talking at the 
pool. All the women looked attractive and very happy. (The camera was too far 
back for a viewer to see their opaque doll eyes, and wrapped towels and 
free-flowing hair styles hid any trace of the metal jacks at the back of their 
heads). 
Darcie's silky voice continued the voice-over. "At the For Girls Only Spa, each 
client is treated like a princess. At this exclusive island resort, the staff is 
dedicated to providing everything you need to make you a new person. The latest 
workouts, steam baths, beauty-aids and body works are all yours, in a 
surprisingly low cost package." The camera returned to the close up of Darcie. 
"So apply now, because reservations are limited, by calling the toll-free number 
at the bottom of the screen. Let me make this personal invitation enjoy to this 
marvelous new world of pampering. At this spa, it truly is a girl's world', as I 
used to say on my show before joined these wonderful people" she concluded 
perkily. "So see you there!" 
Max leaned over and snapped off the large screen television with a flourish. 
director of Marketing and Louise, both sitting across from him. "That ad ran 
last week in six select metropolitan markets in North America. The response has 
exceeded our expectations. We now have on file over eight hundred applications. 
The staff has made an initial culling, and it looks like out of that total we 
have at least two hundred good candidates for conversion into LoveDolls. Natural 
beauty, limited family and boyfriend connections, psychological aptitude for 
servitude--the questionnaires and photos give us excellent background. I trust 
that solves our supply problem." 
The Director of Marketing beamed. "Max, you are to be congratulated. You hit the 
mother load--an unlimited source of potential LoveDolls. And the idea of basing 
all this on an island resort, far from surveillance or government 
interference--well, that was just brilliant." 
Max nodded. "It really is a world-class spa, you know," he said. Most of the 
women will go back home, looking tanned and fit and bubbling with good thing say 
about the service they received. And why not? The cost is being subsidized by 
the sale of those that remain with us, to be converted into marketable 
LoveDolls. But you know, we should also give credit where credit is due. Our 
little celebrity really showed off her star quality." And he turned slightly in 
his chair to smile at Darcie. "Well done on that presentation, Ms. McVey." 
But Darcie did not respond. She didn't speak, except when they trotted her out 
for more commercials at the spa's private television studio. She knelt on hands 
and knees, head upraised, back arched, breasts jutting coquettishly for easy 
handling, quite naked except for her high-heeled strap-pumps, upon the upraised 
pedestal at the far side of Max's office, her exquisitely maintained body on 
display. The platform slowly revolved, one turn every five minutes, so that 
anybody who watched could see every curve and contour of her body as she 
maintained this lascivious posture. Her augmented breasts swayed slightly with 
the motion, and her hips undulated in a manner designed to stimulate the male 
libido. As the platform completed the revolution while Max was talking, Darcie 
gracefully moved into another position, by slowly lowering herself submissively 
to her elbows, her nipples of her full, swaying breasts barely brushing the 
surface of the platform. Her tongue flicked out to keep her lips moist and 
inviting, making her look even more infinitely desirable. This how she spent 
much of her day, as living sculpture in Max's office. 
"You know," said Max, "I don't know why Ms. McVey objected so much to being--how 
did she put it?--ornamental. She does it so well." He studied the upraised ass 
of the girl as it slowly turned to face him, the thighs nicely toned and spread 
invitingly wide. "Oh, I rather fancy that," he murmured. He kept her remote 
control on a tasteful mount on his desk. Throughout the day, he would use her as 
the mood took him, beckoning her over for a head job as he talked to agents in 
the far-flung network of their LoveDoll ring. Or, if he was entertaining a 
prospective client, he might casually toss them Darcie's remote and bid them to 
indulge themselves. And who wouldn't want that, to ravish the sexually-charged 
LoveDoll who had once been such a television celebrity?. 
"Louise," said Max, "while we are passing around compliments, I must say you 
have done a marvelous job with her. It takes only a few sessions of 
mind-conditioning to imprint these speeches in her brain and she never drops a 
line in the taping of these commercials. Judging from the response to the spa 
ads, there's quite a population of young women who still hang on her every word. 
We'll be doing another commercial tomorrow." 
"Thank you, sir," said the trainer modestly. She looked at Darcie with a 
mocking, hard-edged smile. "Although I'm not sure she's giving us a full hundred 
percent, yet." Louise withdrew the flogger attached to her leather corset and 
slid its deceptively supple strands along Darcie's trembling skin. "But we're 
getting there, aren't we, dear? I'll give her another motivation session before 
the next showtime." 
Darcie blinked. The Director of Marketing and Louise left the room. 
Max's intercom buzzed. "The first boatload of girls are disembarking, sir. You 
said you wanted to be notified." 
"Thank you," said Max. "Please patch in the dock-cam." He switched on the 
television screen again. A cruise ship could be seen moored in the distance of 
the aqua-marine bay, and the landing boat was just tying up at the dock. A group 
of nubile young women, laughing and talking excitedly among themselves in the 
bright sun, were being escorted to the spa. Max knew before the week was out, 
the best and most beautiful of them would be transformed into docile sex slaves, 
conditioned to serve their new masters. Those fresh-faced expressions and 
innocent smiles would soon be smoldering with programmed lust. The thought made 
his manhood stir. He glanced at his watch--he had just enough time before the 
next meeting. Max studied the lovely form of Darcie on the pedestal. She was 
gracefully shifting into another position, choreographed long ago as part of her 
conditioning, as she leaned back and supported herself with one elbow, while her 
hand sensuously massaged her sex between the wide-spread thighs. Max gazed at 
his LoveDoll, letting his mind romp with the possibilities of how to use her 
this time. Then he reached for the remote control. . .
[To be continued. . .]