Unfinished

by Fire

mc; Ff; Mf; fg; Mdom; Fdom; oral; preg; caution

Although inspired in part by true events, the following is a work of fiction and any resemblance to actual persons, present or historical, is coincidental—in case the interplanetary travel isn't enough of a tip-off. Any social commentary you think you might detect is solely the responsibility of the reader, as it should be.

I didn't understand my sentence until after my trial, when my lawyer spoke to me for the first time. That he came to see me at all was probably the biggest surprise of my life, even more than the way he defended me in court when he didn't have to, but I guess at the time I was too wrapped up in thinking about my friends—praying hopefully, and silently so as not to add to my recorded offenses, that just one of them might be caught for something and sent to Facility 43 with me instead of getting brainwiped—to really process how extraordinary such a visit must have been.

Two National Guards with big boobs pulled me out of the pen and marched me into a meeting room, where they locked me wrists and ankles into a cold steel chair. I decided that I liked the one with slightly smaller boobs more than the one with slightly bigger boobs, and I was glad that she was the one who stayed behind with her finger on the trigger to my active restraint collar. You haven't told me about your own experiences, Mistress, but maybe you understand how grateful I felt that if I were to be shocked and choked to death, it would be by the partner who was performing her just duty and not by the one who gave as much impression of enjoying her authority as you can imagine in a Guard. And it was a total shock—the emotional kind, not the electric one, I'm sorry if my choice of words is sometimes confusing—when the citzin came into the room on the other side of the triple layer transglass. I was, I think for the first time in my life, aware of a need for modesty. The shapeless prison dress, thankfully, was plenty long enough to supply such over my small frame. The ankle cuffs left me little leeway to effectively close my legs on the too-big seat.

"Really, that's a bit much, isn't it?" he addressed the Guard first. "I'm hardly in any danger from my own client." And he rapped a knuckle on the glass with a muted, distant-sounding "tunk."

I tried my hardest to keep still and succeeded only in clenching all my muscles against the chair. I squeezed my eyes shut and thanked Heavenly God for as much life as I had had; but the arc didn't tighten around my neck. I wish I could tell you how long I waited to die. I don't think it was long because my visitor didn't appear to notice, but in feeling it was anything but instantaneous before I cracked my eye to peek at the Guard. She was still standing at readiness in the corner to my front right. She never moved a muscle, except once, during the whole interview until the lawyer had left and her partner came back to drag me to the pen again. I couldn't even see her breathe, which even considering the armor was quite a feat given her chest.

"This conversation is confidential," he intoned and after a pause the Guard nodded, a brief tilt of the head down and back to level. I didn't quite understand that part, but it seemed to be some sort of order for the Guard; of course he was a citzin and a lawyer and he could make obscure citzin demands if he wanted to. I remember wondering what "confidential" meant and how I would avoid trespassing on a rule nobody had explained before, but maybe it only applied to a National Guard.

"Poor thing, she's frightened half to death."

Yes, because he had broken the rules. I had made three visits with my mother and aunts to see family who had been seized and brought to the Glorious Hall of Righteous Justice and every time the many rules had been emphatically detailed. Including that it is forbidden to touch the wall. But of course he was a citzin and wouldn't have to worry about some things. My two uncles and my older brother hadn't been cuffed so tightly, either, and no Guard had stayed inside the cell. I'm sure Master would say that it was to demonstrate the completeness of my incarceration in front of a citzin witness, and even National Guards would have to worry about a thing like that—except maybe Master would use even bigger words if he could, not that I need to explain Master to you, Mistress. I only held my breath and waited. Far more important than touching the transglass, a helliot like me never, ever argued with a citzin.

"Mll. Ghatmashanka, I want to appeal your case," my lawyer said. "And with your permission to do so, I believe your sentence will be considerably reduced." He looked at me expectantly.

A helliot never argues with a citzin! But he wanted my permission!! A citzin asked, asked, my permission!!

I realize now, Mistress, that I have not described this man's appearance. My own you can readily guess, much as you have known me, Mistress, but slightly younger. Easily done: he was the youngest citzin I had ever seen aside from trivees and murals. And if he was certainly a lawyer, having presented my defense earlier that day, he must have been a very junior one since his head was barely shaved, the thick, ebonish mid'hawk seven, perhaps even eight, centimers wide. His eyes were a bright brown, and slanted much as your own, and his skin nearly glowed with the color called honey—or at least, it had seemed quite healthy at my trial, for few things looked well in the weak leds of the meeting room. The Guard's polished armor was the clear exception, and no doubt Master would have a remark for that detail as well.

I am sorry, Mistress, if I have carelessly interrupted my story. I ask you, as humbly as I may, to punish me thoroughly, and I plead with you not to forgive me out of hand. Perhaps to you, Mistress, it will seem a trivial thing, but in my heart it seems like a great sin in my fledgling attempt at composition. I am so afraid to multiply my literary errors by trying to poorly cram my ideas into an earlier place where I did not have them, that I would rather you offer your own correction directly upon my limbs. The particular trust you have committed to me requires that I learn your desires; and I foresee no immediate method of attaining Master's longer years of wisdom except by your lash.

I stared unbelieving at this earnest citzin lawyer who would ask a helliot's permission before doing what he himself obviously desired. All my poor brain could manage was a weak, and painfully honest, "I don't understand."

"It's quite simple. The punishment does not fit the crime. Even the stingiest Grand Arbiter on the Jury of Appeals is a parent, and a grandparent as well. They will surely understand the difference between such terrible crimes as the court today would publish and the childish shenanigans you actually carried out. Better yet, with just a little more digging I believe I can uncover collusion between judge and prosecutor. They're second cousins by marriage, you know, and very well set up by the Materials Corporate Board that oversees transportation to and from Extraplanetary Detention Facility 43."

I was—"aghast," the thesaurus tutor suggests, but I wish I could find something stronger. A combination of flabbergasted and outright terror. "No," I squeaked out.

If my arms had not been tied down I surely would have clamped both hands over my mouth. A helliot never argues with a citzin! The youthful lawyer was more surprised than I. He actually opened and closed his mouth just like the fishes in the trivee aquarium. In a less perilous setting it might have been comical, and perhaps you may safely laugh at him, Mistress, imagining the stupefied look on his face as his goal, his educated, crafted, infallible, citzin plan was cut off in one word from a dark-skinned, unshaved daughter of the ghettos. I myself only stared at my Guard's finger on the trigger of the arc control while I awaited squeezing, burning death for a second time.

"Mll. Ghatmashanka, reconsider. The facts are all on your side. And a favorable appeal will not only expose a corrupt judge, it will surely serve as precedent for future sentencing of non-citzins. Thousands could be spared, maybe even your family and friends."

The man had no idea—no, how could he when I was incapable—even now, I do not fully comprehend, not with the awareness Master would bid me seek—how thoroughly frightened he had made me by his entreaty. Here was a citzin, one of the great masters of the Earth, and he was pleading rather than commanding. How upside-down for a poor helliot convict.

"But I'm guilty. You said so. I will say so. I never said otherwise. Please, I did everything right. As soon as I saw that I knocked that citzin over I stopped. I waited for the National Guard. I never fought. Please, I did everything right. They'll kill me. They'll wipe my mind away and then they'll kill me. Please."

It was all true. I had no illusions about my innocence. I would have gladly confessed but I had no standing to speak in court. My own lawyer, the same man in front of me now, had entered my guilty plea. With the trivee footage of me and Mana taking Glori's new red bra in the Ward 498732 Female Showers, and the trivee of the street as she chased us, and the testimony of the citzin whom I bumped into and broke his wristech, with all that what else could I be but guilty? Larceny, battery, willful destruction of property: how could a citzin lawyer not understand a criminal conviction?

And they weren't going to kill me. They weren't going to mindwipe me. They were sending me away, to Facility 43 on some distant planet, to strengthen the Greater Earth People's Republic not just on our home, but amongst the stars. They weren't going to mindwipe me: it was the grandest thing that had ever happened to me. I admit, in the dreary days before the trial I had moped that I did not get more time before I did something so stupid that I must be arrested; but the three I had visited were far from my only relatives to end up in the pens of the Glorious Hall. I had expected, if not these precise circumstances, then some vague thing on some vague day: an expectation that resolved itself into this thing on this day. The prosecutor had carefully explained how my behavior displayed a wanton pattern of disregard that could merit capital punishment. It was only when he changed his theme and said that killing me would be waste that I knew what "capital" meant. And I waited for the words that would erase my mind, that would be just as much a death penalty without the convenience of dying. Instead he asked for Transportation. I would live, I would be whole, and I would offer my small bit of strength to the human race on a vast new world.

"But, Thalia," my visitor said—memorable, the only time a citzin ever used my name—"you don't deserve this. It was just a prank that went poorly. You're only ten."

As if age mattered when a helliot had assaulted a citzin. As if being young was a bar to either criminality or to eager, redemptive labor.

I hadn't learned a whole lot of bigger words yet, the kind they liked in the Glorious Hall of Righteous Justice. But I knew "intransigence." That meant arguing. That meant that if you refused to admit being wrong and tried to fight against the True Laws, they would need to punish you worse. A helliot should never contradict a citzin, but a small, frightened helliot convict can even less afford to anger the Magistrates of Righteous Justice.

"No," I told him again. "I don't want a change. I don't want to be mindwiped. I want to go live on another planet. No one from my family has had a chance like this. I'm guilty. This is the best I can do. I don't want to be mindwiped."

By now the strain had me in tears. It was hard to see his face clearly. I regret that, now. I wish that I could have a better memory of him at the crux of my life, more personal instead of searching his trivee in the transmitted records. I can't honestly say what his true reaction was, but in the echo of my mind he pities me, unselfishly, when he says, "Thalia, didn't you know? Your sentence is for Class III Transportation. That includes multi-operative judicia-admin mental reconditioning en route."

"——Oh."

How else to sum it up? One syllable must suffice because ten, or ten thousand, will make no difference. As I said first, I didn't understand my sentence until that moment. It was not in the courtroom that I learned my fate. I have no other words to use, Mistress; I can't even open up the thesaurus tutor. I can only rely on your sympathy, Mistress, to express myself.

In its effect, that was the end of my childhood. As I have already tried to tell you, Mistress, it was, in one way of thinking, no surprise at all. Yet even so I ached as I contemplated that whatever in me that I could call "me" would be ending. I hurt, not with pain, but with numbness, despair.

"Oh."

The would-be advocate still tried more to obtain my agreement toward his proposal. He tried to paint a horrible picture of slavery and sexual abuses, and failed, and became miserable in his failure. His revelation had itself been the first preparation in breaking my original spirit. I sometimes think that I understood better than he did in his life of rank, but then I think I am being too proud because what could a helliot brat have learned—and learned that was truth?—which a full citzin could not? Perhaps he had known mindwipes, even worked with them in some way. The guilty were never returned to their homes; all I had was spun of secondhand threads, hushed and wide-eyed rumors passing through the ghetto.

"It's a crime. I know it. Soon I'll have proof. The True Law protects us all, Thalia, even you. Just say yes and I can stop this terror."

I stared pathetically back. "How can it be a crime? I'm guilty. The Justice of The Republic is the Transcendent Expression of the Beautiful Will of the People."




I have recorded, Mistress, much more of that one meeting than I ever expected to when you suggested that Master would want me to transcribe my tale someday. I hope you approve, Mistress, and I hope you remember, because now that I have done it it seems exactly the sort of thing Master would find deeply meaningful. "The last day of the rest of my life," he might make a joke of it, to soften the terror, to temper the melancholy. And his voice echoes in my ear with subtle challenges to go back, to know myself in my last full moments of freedom, when I was at my oldest and most mature before all that happened after, to be more than I have ever yet been by adding it to all that I am now. It is not a happy memory, but very powerful, and Master would surely desire to draw out the power in it, for both of us to use. Please, Mistress, you must remember, and be strong, for my sake and for his and yours not least of all, my beautiful Mistress.




Of the voyage itself from one world to another, from my home and the home of all our kind to an unbelievably distant place, I have only dim and dark recollections. My pen was gassed, I think, though all I am sure of is going to sleep on Earth and waking at Facility 43. In between are murmurs and vanishing dreams. Some few I can reconstruct from things I did and said afterward, the things that the mindwipe wrote into me. In the first days of my new life I know that the two words, "Master" and "Mistress" were confused and unsettled. It is not hard to guess that the program prepared me for either choice; my addresses came out in a muddled "Mastress" if was not very careful speaking. I have heard other, very new slaves make the same confusion at the Orphanage but it never seems to last so long as it did for me. But I have been too embarrassed, Mistress, to ask closely enough to discover just how these newcomers feel: my failures to investigate are another opportunity to chastise me, Mistress.

I came to my senses, such as I could have any longer, in the female slave facility below the dock elevator of Extraplanetary Detention Facility 43. How strange to think that I once traveled as does the starlight across the skies without, in any sense tangible to myself, ever leaving the ground beneath my feet. But I supposed that this was as it should be, for I had no need of any experience that would not serve my new Master or Mistress or whomever should command me. The dockside workers brought us out of interplanetary slumber a scant three-quarters hour before my group was to be auctioned. No doubt Sir Smythelee has considerable experience in organizing such matters, and I am thankful for the kindness shown to his charges: for the staff, dressed in simple yellow blouses and skirts, none with shaved hair, emphasized to us waking slaves that they were not permanent Mistresses— they were all female attendants in the women's and girls' chamber, obviously—rather they informed us that we would all be sold as quickly as possible, and if the delay had been any longer I might have done myself harm through sheer anxiousness. I was fully as eager to begin my life of servitude as I had formerly dreaded the process that rendered me into that state.

Once all of us were up and ready to move they formed us into double lines and escorted us to the auction stage. I tripped across my own feet at least three times on the short journey. All of my fellow passengers appeared impaired to some degree, presumably an after-effect of space travel. Master later told me I probably had one of the worse times because I was so young: the older wipers would not need to adjust to growing limbs as well as shaking off the sleep inducement. The slavers, of course, had anticipated our clumsiness and we arrived in plenty of time. The stage itself was shaped like a broad horseshoe. The attendants divided us into small groups around the perimeter. I constituted a group of one, though I hardly needed to raise my arm to touch my fellow slaves on either side of me. Across the way I saw the male slaves being treated similarly on their side of the stage. All of us were completely naked. I averted my eyes—I was hardly ignorant of boys' anatomy or even the commoner acts of sex, for in the crowded ghetto there had been many opportunities for a budding helliot criminal to see what her elders wished she would not—because my own exposure ashamed me greatly and I hoped to avoid attention, or at least the knowledge of attention. I could remember clearly how my cheeks had burned back in the Glorious Hall of Righteous Justice when presented to the citzin lawyer with my legs spread even though covered by the prison shift: the first comparison I ever made between my current and former lives, and surprisingly congruent in spite of the intervening mindwipe. I did not try to cover myself, on stage, since my prospective Masters or Mistresses could hardly judge me ready to begin my punishments if I hid myself from them.

In short order the auction began, with the Auction Master calling out numbers and attendants bringing the designated slaves to the center spotlight. I quickly concluded that I was not to have a Mistress after all, since all the bidders were men, generally of middle age and all older than the oldest uncle I could recall. I studied each of them keenly to learn as much as I could of my future role. I carefully counted seventeen spread out by ones and twos among folding metal chairs on the bidding floor. They all had shaved heads of considerable distinction, mid'hawks ranging from a respectable four centimers all the way to a scant two. Two centimers represented the most exalted citzin I had ever seen apart from the judge at my trial and the People's Party Chairwoman on trivee. And all but one of the seventeen also wore a moustache and beard, a weird thing beyond all my experience on Earth. Some of my older siblings had bragged about staying up late to watch a trivee movie about the evil warlords of the distant past who all sported beards, but I had not believed them until now. And how could it relate to the men in front of me, anyway, to whom the People's Republic would entrust the castigation of felons? No answer could be forthcoming until my sale was final, so I waited with increasing nervousness in regard to my ignorance of local customs.

The slaves to be sold were brought forward in lots of up to eight—men especially, the females were much more likely to be pairs or triples; but then there were more men awaiting sale—while the Auction Master accepted bids via an electronic system. Each of the bidders had a variety of devices to which they referred—some hardly glancing at the actual merchandise on stage—but the rules of the place apparently required tapping a particular, gold-colored tablet to enter their bids. Once a frustrated buyer called out that eighty thousand for a lot of two males was ridiculous and only my awe of being in front of so many potential Masters kept me from shouting in surprise. I had no way of knowing how currency might be valued on distant planets but in the ghetto I doubt I had known anyone who could have earned eighty thousand goldens in a lifetime. The man was quickly shushed and received a warning from the emcee: apparently it was expected to keep the prices silent in front of the slaves. When my turn came—nearly at the last, in a lot to myself—I had considerable hope of belonging to a certain man who occupied a place on the floor nearly opposite my position on stage. He seemed somewhat short, seated, but more importantly he was one of the two bidders with the thinnest mid'hawks. He had a powerful gaze as he assessed the slaves on stage, relying least on his computers, and I thought that a Master of such obvious will would be perfect to tame my wretched helliot disobedience. What was more, he clearly desired young females since he had bid on every woman offered singly and won more often than not, though he had not raised much when challenged. I desired with all my heart to be perfect for him, so that I could make him happy, so that he could make me complete when he used my cunt.

I hope you are laughing at me, Mistress, since you must have guessed who this man was and you know well enough what followed afterward. How silly I was in the newness of my mindwipe, that my only goal was to live in worship of a man's cock. It is good to imagine you laughing, Mistress, and it will be infinitely better still to hear it for real. Please, good Mistress, do not feel burdened on account of my sad early story, for the best parts of my life are still to be uncovered.

Yes, I said that I wished to live in worship of a man's cock. Peeping had taught me the ways of men and women, the mindwipe filled me with longing to bare myself skin and soul, and I had compared the great muscular men to my child's body on the auction stage: all these led me to utter certainty that the only labor I would be fit for would be performed on my back and on my knees. I do not remember for certain what expectations I had of a Mistress; if anything, I must have imagined more of the same cleaning and babysitting I had done at home with mother and my aunties, though with no woman buyers I never gave it a second thought.

How crushing, then, when I received no bids at all. This had happened twice earlier, and those groups had been split for the buyers to consider in smaller parcels, but I could not be treated so. The Auction Master lowered my starting price three times while I stood trembling in horror. My hopes drained away, let me be claimed by any one of them, any one at all! The Master who had been the object of my foolish daydreams stared hard at me at first, but turned in his seat to watch his competitors without a glance at his bidding pad. I had the darkest skin among the females, I was by five years at least the youngest to be offered singly, and now I understood that these fine gentlemen sought useful workers and companions, not a stupid, mindwiped helliot fuck-toy. I sobbed, and my despair only deepened as the tears and snot marred my face and created an even worse appearance of an overgrown baby.

After the auction, one of the helpers tried to console me. "It's okay," she told me, "this can happen sometimes, especially when you have special codes on your file. Sir Alan—he's the Master in charge, Alan Smythelee—will just advertise for a private sale, that's all. I'm surprised Sir Drew didn't make an offer; he sort of specializes in hard cases at the Orphanage. But he's also notoriously tight with money: maybe he thought he could get a better deal this way, hey? And if not, we'll find you some odd jobs to do until you find a permanent home. Master Smythelee won't force you to be idle forever, I promise. Anyway, a pretty little girl like you will get plenty of interest whatever your codes."

While she was saying all this she had taken me by the hand and gently led me to a small private cell where I collapsed, morose, to the floor, not even taking the three steps to reach the bunk. Her speech was the first I heard about the important topics of my medical codes and the Orphanage and Master Drew. But I was too withdrawn to process even the slim hope of being sold privately. So many had already rejected me, I had no touchstone for her sunny confidence. Is "touchstone" the proper word, Mistress? I found it in the thesaurus tutor but it's new to me. Instruct me, if it pleases you, Mistress.

And so I was still crying on the floor when the door opened behind me. "Mareeanna said she was extremely upset," a man was saying, and his voice was the same as the man who has led the auction. By instinct alone, which is to say more likely the mindwipe programming, I scrambled to my feet. Two men were just entering, the Auction Master and a reddish-brown-'hawked citzin of even higher rank: the same man I had longed to buy me earlier.

"Well, I am very sorry to hear that, but that kind of price, even seeing she's a fit young girl, was rather risky, Alan—after all, most of the buyers were worried that she's rather too healthy in a couple different ways, eh? I think we shall cheer her up soon enough now," the new citzin explained. And then he commanded me directly: "Lift your arms up, high over your head."

I did so instantly. I was surprised by how easy it seemed. And even better, all my theories about the man's talents of observation were confirmed when he asked me—yes, asked ME!—"Do you have something to report about this little exercise, Mll.?"

"It doesn't hurt, Mastress—I mean, Master—I mean, I have lots of pain right now, Mastress—I mean, Mastress—I mean—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to complain about my treatment, Master—Please forgive me, Mastress—Master—But what I mean is it doesn't hurt any more—My shoulder always used to, on Earth, I mean, when I stretched it far, Mastress, and now it doesn't—Master." I spoke all in a rush, overcome by his scrutiny.

And he laughed! A little chuckle! "Everyone is sore and aching after interplanetary travel, little one. And I mean everyone entire, the very highest sitzes would be hurt after a dozen intravenous lines all over, two laparo-surj needles to the abdomen, and a six centimer eliminatory receptacle inserted via the rectal sphincter." What magic in his voice allowed the man to project such pleasant straightforwardness when he was as bad as the lawyers for using oversized words? You or I, Mistress, would sound ridiculous trying to imitate Master's manner. "I'm continually surprised to see you wipers walking about straight off. The freelers who don't have to jump to every order spend as much as a week secluded in recovery. And I asked you to lift your arms because your file indicates that the artificial medical intelligence repaired a poorly remodeled scapular fracture. So it seems that much at least about you is in good working order. Your file lists you as Mll. Thalia Ghatmashanka. Is there a nickname or similar diminutive I could use? How did your family or friends used to call you?"

"Tali—Master."

"No need to be all formal with the 'Masters,' Tali, I have not bought anything yet. Oh, look at that poor little face! It doesn't matter, really, it doesn't: I am quite resolved to purchase your contract, I just want to make another examination or two before I settle on a firm value. Would you sit on the bed for me, Tali, and hold yourself wide open for me to observe your vaginal channel?"

Of course that's exactly what I did, stretching both my legs out and grabbing my pussy lips in my fingers.

"Oh, dear, relax your grip a little, Tali. Be assured that even if I ask you to do something momentarily uncomfortable, I will never want you to strain yourself to the point of injury. You are supposed to be healing, not getting worse."

He had turned his penetrating gaze to my immature little cunt. And as my own eyes followed his downward, I found the intervening bumps of my breasts, incredibly enough the first time I had noticed them since my hectic arrival. Not that they were in any way large—as you remember, Mistress—but I had not had any development at all when I was arrested on Earth. Such strangeness was too much to be wondered at; my new near-Master has seen my mysterious file and he accepted everything about my transformed body and thus he, unspoken, bade me to accept every miraculous change.

"Well, I knew the hymeneal membrane had been ruptured by interstellar flight preparations, but I don't even see enough from which to regenerate. Hardly matters for my purpose, of course, but it does knock down the private market price in general, Alan."

"I expected you to say that, you cheapskate."

"So, Tali, what do you think of me? Am I a decent enough chap to be your new owner?"

"YES!" I squealed. "Oh, yes, please, Mastress! I wanted you best of all in the auction, Mastress—I mean, Master! Please accept your slut's offering!" The mindwipe must have implanted "slut" in my thoughts, for although I had long understood the word's intimations I myself was still a virgin, barring whatever had transpired unaware during my space flight.

"Hmm, that was rather—enthusiastic." Master looked, for the first time so far, less than cheerful, but that disappeared in a moment. "Well, Alan, how about this number?" He showed the Auction Master something on his wristech.

Sir Smythelee's eyes widened. "That's six thousand beyond the last offer at the auction, Sir Drew. You just said it was too much." Six thousand, I thought, dazedly, and that's just the extra bit.

Master—already I thought of him as "Master," my very own Master!—chuckled again. "I do have a reputation to maintain, my friend. It was too much in open bidding. But just think how you can crow to your superior officer when the income statements record your first-rate negotiating skills."

"You always take this 'many hats' thing too far," the other replied. But he was smiling and I guessed that he found it acceptable. They shook hands, and then Master took my hand as well and squeezed it caringly.

"One more question for you, Tali, my new pretty little slave. Back on Earth did you ever pray to a God? Do not answer if it makes you too uncomfortable: the mindwipe sometimes reinforces the Republic's prohibition, sometimes not. But know that I am aware many helliots and former helliots such as yourself believe in a universal divinity regardless of the Party stance. I do not ascribe to any religious tendency myself, I'm thoroughly atheistic, but I will not begrudge the comforts of faith to my charges so long as they keep fairly quiet. Just be aware that I am not incensed by anything you think if ever the devotional impulse comes to mind, so long as it is praying and not something dangerous like self-flagellation. It is only fair to warn you that some others you meet will not be so tolerant: keep in mind that Ave, to whom I will introduce you shortly, is one of them. She knows my attitude and she won't lift a finger against unobtrusive practices, but she was raised on strong sitz values and she can be slightly militant in regard to slaves keeping silent on the topic."

That was a pretty complicated instruction to digest for my first official order. I would have much preferred to hear "Swallow my cock" at that point but I dutifully replied, "Yes, Master. I mean, yes, Mastress—I mean, yes, Master, I did pray to Heavenly God sometimes before. And yes, Master, I will remember what you told me about praying. Both things, Master, yes, Mastress—Master."

He smiled to hear my stuttered explanations. "Well, come along," he told me. I accompanied the two citzins, as I thought then—still stumbling occasionally but Master held my hand throughout—to yet another room, a sort of atrium with large transglass windows and doors opening to my first sight of my new world. The season was late First Autumn, so most of the nottrees has shed their summer coat and the sky was hazy with low cloudmist. I didn't think well of Facility 43 in comparison to the strong sun and bright sky of Earth. First Autumn is still my least favorite season; the deep blues of Transsummer and the somber violet hues of Winter would have entranced me immediately, had I any attention to spare from my new Master.

In the atrium we met four women I recognized as the slaves my Master had purchased earlier; they were grown into adulthood, unlike me, but still obviously young. They wore a thin, felt-like white cloak wrapped around their nude bodies, and a petite slaver attendant handed me a similar garment before our group of six set off, I expected, toward Master's residence. He lectured us as we traveled on the rules of our new life—one of the women was native, but it was all new to the rest of us—the system of ranks on Facility 43 and how they differed from Republican Earth, the forms of address to use, and the revelation that he himself had once been enslaved, a "wiper" as they called us here, and earned his way to the topmost ranks of the "freelers," who were almost the same as "sitzes" but mostly wore beards as a sign that they would not be considered proper, loyal citzins on Earth. A wiper usually needed special treatment, a sort of mindwipe in reverse, to move up to freeler status, but he told us that as many as seven out of every ten female wipers would likely earn that boon. He told us that none of us belonged any longer to the Greater Earth People's Republic, reminding us that we were no longer "Earth" People, and promising that good service would give us a better chance of promotion as wiper slaves in Facility 43's small society than we ever had among the billions of helliots on Earth. Not that freshly minted slaves were likely to cause difficulties, but he insisted that seeing the bright goal of freedom was just as great a motivation as the fear of failing our Master that the wipe had imparted. And how could we disagree? A wiper never argues with her Master.

One piece of news explained part of the curious exchange I had witnessed between the two men in my cell: Master's title of Portmaster made him the boss of the Cargomaster, who ran the slave auction as part of his duties. No wonder Sir Smythelee had been amused when Master had told him the extra money would impress his superior.




After a brisk third of an hour we arrived at a large building, perhaps the size of the trivee theaters of my former existence. This, Master had told us during the journey, was the Orphanage, which in spite of its name could be better thought of as a house of prostitution: our new home, more or less permanently for four of us—until we could entice a free man to buy out our slavery contract for his exclusive use, at least—and temporarily for one of our number. I must admit I wondered whether I was to be that one, after seeing so many unique circumstances applied to my case already. That thought I dismissed as prideful and uncharitable toward my fellow slaves, who for all I knew were more deserving than I. Whores served a vital social need, Master explained, given the unbalanced ratio of men to women residing in the planetary workforce. Some fellows simply had to share, and we would be a few of the women to do the sharing. Important work, indeed, yet tedious: for his present and former staff all insisted, Master observed wryly, that a man racing the clock leaves his imagination at home where it won't slow him down. We all laughed, and not entirely from our new sense of duty.

A sign at the entrance proclaimed "Auction Day — No Walk-Ins — For appointments visit our wristpage." A startling date was included, but Master had warned us that Facility 43 matched its timekeeping against the raser transmissions from Earth: messages that outraced our starship by five years' time, and so the calendar was that much advanced of the day we had left. We ourselves were not five years older, though, and Master insisted that the missing years simply disappeared into "relativity." I have never understood "relativity," Mistress, and it is one of the very few things Master never explained clearly, even later when he and I had more time to talk. When I continued to be dumb, Master did tell me I should work harder on my mathematical reasoning. Keep his words in mind, Mistress, as you make plans for my further education.

The interior of the building proved to be divided into two salons, the outer devoted chiefly to welcoming clients and the inner more to mingling between working women and customers. Behind those rooms extended a series of assignation chambers and beyond them the actual living quarters. We were told it was an unnecessary strain to practice our trade in the same rooms as we resided. I am not so certain on this point, Mistress: since Master had enjoyed the privileges of middle rank before his own wipe, he seemed to expect a minimum standard that I, a former helliot, would describe as grand luxury. But then again, Mistress, the whole point was to aspire to the better life that Master showed to us. And a slave does not argue with her Master!

In the inner salon the new group was introduced to the rest of the staff and slaves. "Ave, everybody, we have Kaylara, Nicca, Bethi, Ming, and Tali," Master said, pointing us out. "Ladies, the beautiful young woman in white is Ave. She oversees all aspects of operations here and I expect you to heed her very closely indeed. She's technically still my slave, but very, very close to reaching high freeler status and it's fine, a helpful reminder even, if you wish to address her as 'Mistress Ave.' The very large gentlemen next to her are your bouncers: they keep you safe from rowdier elements and I hope you will trust them implicitly, as I do. All the rest are your compatriot sex workers—you'll pick up the names quickly enough unless you keep in bed the whole day long. All the housekeeping is done by you, the employees. There's no set hierarchy but it's expected that the older staff will look after the younger ones and, complementarily, that the youth will respect the instructions of the eld. If you volunteer for some of the chores instead of waiting for orders you'll make friends in no time." I was very surprised to see that some of the slaves here were younger than I, who had felt out of place at the auction. So I first learned that there was some truth in the name of the Orphanage after all. And I was also surprised to see the three boys shyly standing among the girls. There must be a few women among the freelers who also need a companion on some nights, I reasoned, though from my peeping experience I thought them too young to penetrate far. How naive I was, Mistress!

"Ave, a word, if you please," Master said.

"At your pleasure, Master Drew," the lady replied.

"Tali come aside with us, please." So my two keepers drew me to a quiet corner. Mistress Ave was—and still is, Mistress, I ought to add—the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Her age, I believe, was nineteen. Her soft skin appeared pale yet radiated a glow of perfect health. Her eyes were a deep, crystal blue; and her shining blonde mid'hawk so perfectly suited her that I never once questioned its presence on a slave. For Mistress Ave was never anything like a "slave": I came to know her as thoughtful, brave, and fierce in her care for us. Other than Master, every man I ever saw in the Orphanage deferred instinctively to her aura; and even he, my wonderful old Master, seemed drab in comparison, with his dun skin and dry intellectualism. Only in his proud, searching eyes did he ever come near her intensity, yet I could discern from this first introduction the deep love they had for each other, the match they had discovered in their souls.

"My Ave," Master began, "Tali here is paid for out of my personal accounts, even as you are, and for similar reasons. While the starship is in port I will be far too busy with my government job to attend to you and her as I would desire: so I bequeath her to your capable oversight. My instructions are to ask that you be careful of imparting your special fetishes, I want her hale when I return to my more important business, and that she be lodged here at the Orphanage. I know there is an open bed, and she will have necessary companionship while you are busy with your management tasks. Test her knowledge, and begin instruction in whatever she lacks in the feminine arts of beauty and seduction."

"Then she is your new project, Master Drew?"

"I believe she has more potential than those witless churls saw who would have chained her to a bed: just as much as I found in a sitz's daughter who never listened to her parent's warnings until she was wiped. Tali will be unsteady, so newly arrived, but simply treat her as you would another slave here and it will be enough at first to keep her occupied. Only bear in mind, and I cannot stress this enough, she is not medically cleared to engage in compensated coitus. That is the other reason I did not use the Orphanage fund to purchase a contract."

"Not cleared, Master?"

"No, her file lacks the notation for oophorectomy." This news caused her to peer at me, as if shocked, but neither of them enlightened my ignorance. "It may be dangerous to keep her here, but at the same time it is here that I have the best assurance of her safety, both physical and emotional while she explores her new conditioning. I trust you in this, Ave."

"Will you want me to arrange dildo training, anticipating your future expectations, Sir?"

"I defer all schedules to your well-honed judgment, but I personally intuit that the best course is to concentrate on the Sapphic arts at first."

Master excused himself by kissing Mistress Ave lovingly, bid the Orphanage at large good-bye and good luck, and departed to the business of loading and repairing the great interstellar vessel for its return voyage. Mistress Ave watched him go, saying nothing more.

"Mistress Ave, may I ask a question?" I ventured.

"Do you truly wish to do so?"

"Yes, Mistress Ave, if it pleases you to allow it."

"I think Master Drew was correct about your wipe, then. Ask."

"That word, the big one: Master said it was dangerous. Will I make people sick, Mastress?"

She hesitated, but answered, "No, kid, Master fears you would not be safe from what customers do to you, not the other way 'round. And if you are so eager to learn, then it is time to begin the testing Sir Drew spoke of. He wants me to check your lezzie skills, so—." She seated herself on a couch, lifting one foot to the cushions in a pose of perfectly languid enticement and so exposing her labia, dusky with engorgement. "Lick my cunt."

The thesaurus tutor admonishes me to use the word "frisson" as I describe that act. I felt something like a sense of passage, and tearing, as if walking through an invisible curtain woven from my own nerves. You need to understand, Mistress, I had had no clue about "Sapphic" or "lezzie" practices until that exact moment. My ghetto voyeurism had never turned up anything of that sort; homosexuality of both flavors was derided vehemently among the helliots. Yet for all that, the mindwipe must have thoroughly readied me for a potential Mistress: I was neither scared of performing nor upset by my acceptance. But the rear corners of my mind registered the impossibility that I should understand the command at all. I had never witnessed nor imagined nor had instruction in making love between a woman and a girl. It was an immeasurably greater and more sudden imposition than my impulse to punctuate every sentence with "Mastress." In a flash I became acutely aware of the gulf between the two halves of my life, before and after: a free helliot girl-child on Earth, a lesbian tongue-slave on Facility 43.

I came forward and I tasted.

That is the story of how I met you, Mistress, and loved you, and lost my innocence to love, and received the first intimation of my arduous journey beyond slavery. Thank you, Mistress. For everything, Mistress, and for many lessons yet to teach me.




So Mistress Ave kept me in the Orphanage, and tested the limits of my wipe. Such was the pattern of my days: I would be one of the first to awake, because I did not stay up so late working as the rest, and I would do a few light chores such as starting the coffee machine and then I would find a tablet to use for my school lessons while the common area of the house was still quiet. I was joined by the younger slaves—I mean those slaves who were younger than I. They also had been wiped, I was told, but it seemed different in either kind or degree since they adored Mistress Ave but had little notion of cooperating with the rest of us. Because I knew that Master had commanded that all the children get as much education as practical, I and a few of the older women who had woken to supervise us kids would borrow heavily on Mistress's name to settle them down and insist they work at their daily assignments before playtime. After lunch I would deliberately hang around the adults, trying to absorb their rapid banter over hosiery and makeup and blowjobs and similar topics in deference to Master's request that I study feminine seductions. Mistress Ave would attend to individuals who had some special need or other in her office above the inner salon, including daily interviews with myself. Then I was sent to dinner, usually cold sandwiches since the Orphanage opened for business in the early evening and the workers often had to grab a snack between entertaining. Because of my unique health concerns I was strictly forbidden from the working portion of the building during operating hours. So I helped again with the children—every slave except Mistress Ave and myself was required to meet regularly with clients, but the youngest, up to the age of ten, were booked by appointment only, with a select few who met Mistress's firm standards; at my age I would have been working the floor but rationed to no more than two customers per night, and finished earlier than my new near-aunties—playing games in the residence, some of them educational and some of them that were, well, pillow fights.

Of my personal lessons from Mistress Ave, I do remember that I was terrified by my abject failure in my first attempt at high heels, for which Mistress consoled and comforted me, saying that eight and a half centimers had been an unfair test without any implanted skill. But I felt comfortably eager when she proposed to use a strap on my legs and butt. She questioned me hard afterward, repeating many questions with slightly different words each time, and seemed unsatisfied by my answers, which bothered me far more than the soreness. I was sent to this planet as punishment: I had expected pain and I was resolved not to allow any bruises in my flesh hold back my desire to serve my Mistress and my Master. What other answer could she have sought? In the meantime I obediently practiced my cunnilingus on Mistress Ave and a handful of others, who had to be approved beforehand. Mistress claimed that she wanted to keep each slave in top condition for the nightly workload, but I couldn't see any great difference myself. Twice one of the workers was allowed to go down on me, and so my lifetime count of orgasms increased to two. I never touched myself. I had no reason to do so, since lazing about would not serve the household. Mindful of what Mistress had said to me about catching sick, I kept my distance from the boys and was cold to them whenever they tried to engage me. I need to apologize to them, Mistress, but I didn't understand Master's plans and reasons yet. Do you think they will forgive me, Mistress?

At the start of my third week in the Orphanage we were all surprised by a visit from Master who brought a new girl a little younger than me, whom he introduced as Melissa. Master told us that her previous owner had not used her regular name for a long time and that we should all make a point of doing so so that she would become used to it again. I was sleeping in a cozy upper room; there was not much space but I had only a few changes of clothes to keep in it. This space included two beds, the other had been empty and now I got a roommate. After I had welcomed her solemnly to our shared space, she disrobed and I saw that she had many bruises, including on her face and her pussy—though strangely not her butt cheeks—and very nasty, ragged wounds that appeared simultaneously old and fresh on her wrists. I realized much later that those had been the marks of long imprisonment in handcuffs. It was not hard to guess what her cruel former master had called her: the words "Fuck Meat" were tattooed in Gothic script across her chest and again in block letters above her cunt and over her ass. It would be weeks before I heard her speak any syllable. From her condition I divined at once that hers was one of the "hard cases" that I had once heard about. I made a point of speaking to her about little things—things like, "Let's put panties and a dress on, Mel, and head down for breakfast"—she hardly did anything at first, only what she was told—and using her name as Master had asked. Sometimes she didn't respond. Other times she might make a strange face with her mouth open and her lips pursed, her tongue wiggling just a little at the bottom. I think I may have spent five minutes the first time seeing it before I made the connection, since I lacked personal experience in serving men. Many of the others became exasperated with this behavior, but I always reminded Mel gently that I was a girl like her and I didn't have a cock to be sucked. I even showed her peeks at my own pubescent cunt, but still she kept doing it. Mel had had a very bad wipe indeed.

The starship left Facility 43 about a month after my arrival. The next day when I was summoned to Mistress Ave's office, Master waited there as well. Together they chatted pleasantly with me about how I had acclimated to these new surroundings. I answered with all my poor wiper earnestness, excited beyond belief to see Master again. The other slaves here belonged to the Orphanage, and they all answered to Mistress Ave as its head—Master was principal owner, but he gave no direct orders to the employees. But I remembered in my heart that Master had claimed me specially, and for all my love toward the Mistress I had felt incomplete without this reminder that he was watching.

"Still enthusiastic, I see," Master remarked to Mistress.

"Yep."

"So, Tali, would you be just as eager if I wanted to whip you with my belt?" He actually moved his hands toward his waist.

"Yes, Master! I always want to serve you, Master. Please scourge your undeserving slut-slave, Master."

"And was she this eager when you whipped her, my dear?" He unfastened the buckle; I nearly hyperventilated.

"She wasn't begging for me, but she was plenty willing, Sir Drew. Not because she particularly likes pain—the pattern's not that type of girl—but she is happiest with a clear goal or direction, and she doesn't worry a whole lot about her own self-interest."

"Well, my self-interest is not to physically disable growing young women who ought to be developing personal motivation without the constant threat of corporal chastisement." He pulled down his trousers. "So let's consider fellatio as an alternative."

I am glad there is no need to describe Master's cock to you, Mistress. This was my Master: how could I see, touch, smell, and taste anything but perfection? I have no measurements, no adjectives except my sense of joy. Yes, I was elated; I would have driven myself to faint if the necessity of impaling my mouth had not moderated my breathing. I don't remember moving, all happened in a blink: "YESMaster!" and then my nose pressed into his skin. I had forgotten all the tips I had gleaned and simply swallowed his cock whole.

"Huh," Master grunted.

"Not the way I taught her," Mistress Ave noted. I remember now, I see what I failed to notice before I recorded my story: Master's cock was almost perfectly matched to the dildo on which you had me practicing that week. You are clever, Mistress, and very good at planning ahead. Do not doubt yourself, Mistress, now that I need your wisdom. I blushed in shame when I heard Mistress's comment but I could not stop. My cheeks burned but I could not release one half centimer of Master's cock except to gulp air and then I was back down, flesh to flesh. Well, Mistress, I have heard that men claim to enjoy such, but it does not place the mouth for the most effective stimulation. It was many, many minutes before Master came. I did not orgasm, the wipe never increased my slavish devotion with that trick, but I did feel a calm analogous to an afterglow: I had performed one of my most basic duties, completed my simplest task. I rejoiced inwardly that I was alive to feel Master's seed in my throat.

"Do you feel better now, Tali?" Master asked, tucking his clothes together.

"Yes, Master! Thank you, Master, for allowing your humble slut to serve you, Master!"

"Still very much under the influence of your wipe, I see. Well, that's actually the subject I wanted to discuss with you today. Tali, why don't you sit back and take a deep breath? Good. Now think about this before you answer: are you happy being wiped, Tali?"

That was a puzzle. I was happy serving Master; I was happy serving Mistress Ave; I was—a little bit empty. Those two happinesses filled so much of my spirit that I hardly ever saw past them. "I think I may be—something, Master. I don't know the word, Master, please instruct me or punish me, Master. But I—I don't have friends here, not good friends like on Earth, and I don't have my mother and I don't have my aunties and I miss the bright yellow sun. It's so slow, Master, I'm different from the others and I have to BE different even while I'm trying to fit in. —That's all, Master."

"The word you are looking for is 'homesick,' I believe. And it's perfectly natural, especially considering your wipe codes. It is actually very good news to me, Tali, although I am a little bit sad to hear that you are a little bit sad. The good news is that it is one more sign, one more piece of a metaphorical puzzle, which confirms what I suspected when I first loaded your file off the ship's logs. You see, Tali, I can confidently declare that you really are different from most of the slaves here, and I will try to explain why that should be so. Do you know how the mindwipe works, Tali?"

"They put me in a machine and it erased all my desires and replaced them so I could serve you better, Master. I was a thief and a criminal before, Master. You wouldn't have liked me, Master, not like now."

"I can decide for myself whom I shall appreciate or disdain, and you might be surprised by some of those choices. But the important concept to take in at the moment is that you are completely, absolutely, one hundred percent wrong. That is not at all how the mindwipe operates."

I was speechless, the only time I couldn't answer Master. I had been mindwiped! Didn't I know in my inmost soul how utterly alien my slave self was to that careless helliot brat?

"To reduce some very complex neuropsychology to simplistic elements, the fact is that the procedure popularly nicknamed 'mindwipe' does not do a single bit of wiping at all. The process is purely additive: for the duration of a chemically induced coma, various mechanisms stimulate a patient's sensory nerves—primarily auditory and glossal with a heavy dose of optical—in ways that are calculated to imprint certain patterns in his or her brain. The nature of the cortex makes it nearly impossible to actually erase anything, certainly not with precision, but inducing specific new information is relatively easy to accomplish. While the patient lies quiescent, hyperstimulated neurons forge new bonds so strong that they dominate both conscious and subliminal reasoning after regaining awareness. Do you understand that, Tali?"

"Almost, Master." Mistress, I hardly followed a word. But a wiper does not argue with her Master.

"Reasoning further, this means absolutely none of your personality or memories is missing, Tali. Everything you were then is still inside, even if you can't always recall it easily because the wipe has placed a big wall in the way. Is that a better way of putting it?"

"Yes, Master. I think I understand that, Master. I haven't forgotten my friends and my family, Master."

"Just so, and you also have not forgotten yourself, a selfhood which existed prior to enslavement. That part gets a bit tricky, because of course your present forms of ideation are an equally valid expression of consciousness, speaking quantifiably. But you have an advantage that most wipers do not. Do you recall, Tali, that I once remarked you are 'too healthy?'"

"Um, yes? Master?" No, I did not. I didn't mean to speak untruly, but my mind was swimming in information and it slipped out. Punish me, Mistress, in Master's name.

"I was referring in part to the fact that your carrier's medical logs indicate the mindwipe machinery failed approximately three-quarters through the process. You are not wholly ensorcelled, my pretty little one."

"I'm—I'm not wiped, Master? Do you need to fix me, Master?"

"Absolutely not, Tali! Never worry about that. You are far beyond the stupid subjugations of the so-called People's Republic! Let me change the subject for a moment. Can you understand that the vast majority of persons arriving at Facility 43 are wipers?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good. Well, the thing about mindwipes, that perhaps you have not yet inferred, is that they fail. In fact, it is quite a regular occurrence, certainly much more often than you were led to believe on Earth."

"But why, Master?"

"For just the reason I have told you: what everybody calls a 'mindwipe' is a particularly intensive form of learning and training that replaces your otherwise 'natural' response. But if you go on living and learning afterward, then all that new information can eventually replace the wipe. Over time the wiper rediscovers freedom and self-motivation. Now, the length of time varies quite a bit, depending on the individual case and how much opportunity that person has to learn. You, me, Ave—we all have or have had a wipe that crumbles very quickly, even if you haven't noticed it yet. But lots of others will become independent after a decade or two, possibly less with assistance. The whole of Facility 43 was filled with people who outgrew their wipes and weren't about to go back. And they insisted the local laws be changed to allow wipers to claim their freedom if they could."

"Yes, Master. I don't have to be wiped again because I can be a freeler instead."

"Very good. Now, standard wipers—there are a few different programs actually, let's just consider the typical libidinous female type who is expected to become a sex worker—experience an intense compulsion to obey orders, especially orders that result in copulation or sexual stimulation of a partner—"

"I have that, Master. I don't think I'm special, Master."

"I do. As I was about to say, they believe, internally, that they need to be enslaved. Not that they want or deserve it, but that they need it, almost as strongly as they need nutritive sustenance. You are different, Tali: you've told me and you revealed it to Ave while she tested your behaviors. I do not doubt that you enjoy your new life as much as you can manage, but you also remember being happy on Earth and you think your former life still has its attractions. The majority of wipers simply never claim their past."

"Mel is like that, Master. I don't think she remembers anything, Master."

"Hm? Oh, yes—Melissa is a particularly bad case. Just as I consider myself a chivalrous man who provides opportunities, there are some who prefer to hold on to their slaves tightly so they never escape. What would happen after a wiper is programmed to believe she is worthless and then her contract owner ties her down and repeats the same message three times a day, every day? The pattern emplaced by the wipe only becomes stronger and stronger. Melissa is a sad example, and it will take considerable patience to undo the damage just to reach a state on which we can rebuild her confidence. I have some ideas there, and I'd like you to help, Tali. Would you like to be something more than a receptacle for seminal fluids?"

That was, in truth, about the level of my highest desire at that point in my life, Mistress. My Master had not, according to my wiped-in instructions, taken enough advantage of me these past weeks. But when he tells her that she can grasp a higher, nobler purpose in life, how can a poor confused slave argue with her Master?




So two days later Mel and I were summoned together to Mistress Ave's office; Master was absent again, but at least I knew that I was following his plans now.

"Hello, Melissa, Tali. Are you feeling well?"

"Yes, Mistress Ave," I answered. Mel only made her blowjob face.

"Very pretty, Melissa, but I had in mind something for your cunt rather than your mouth today. Do you mind that, dear?"

Mel raced to undo her skirt and pulled her panties aside. She didn't drop her expression—I had come to realize it was her way of agreeing or expressing acceptance. Poor Mel, her twisted master had forced her to agree to everything he said.

"Very good, dear. Let's just sit on this divan, now, and we'll let Tali slurp on our pussies, doesn't that sound like fun?"

Mel seemed a bit confused but with Mistress's arm on her shoulders she followed directions. Mistress Ave herself simply slipped off the straps of her dress and placed herself, gloriously nude. Following prior instructions, I ate them both to orgasm. Mistress Ave's juices tasted as full and bold as every other aspect of her person. I did her first, not only because it was appropriate to give precedence to my Mistress, but also because it had been explained to me that this would demonstrate to Mel what a privilege she was to receive. After Mistress came—not faked, I am sure, but she did encourage me more loudly and demonstratively than usual—I switched to Mel, seated next to her. I approached her carefully, my tongue barely floating across her outer lips—the bruise there had begun to heal but I could not be sure how sensitive she would be. She twitched, startled. We had anticipated this, and Mistress Ave rubbed her back and calmed her. I moved inward slowly, the slowest I have ever licked in my life, letting Mel accept each sensation. Her outer lips were puffy and surprisingly soft, like silk: she had been so battered, endured so much that it was sometimes easy to forget that her thin body was ten years old. I did not really need to use my hands, her abuser had stretched her flower nearly to its breaking point, but I did so anyway just to introduce the idea of a female's caress. I stroked her then, along the inside of her thigh, always gently, as I began to touch the tip of my tongue against her inner pair of doors. She gasped and trembled. I waited. I began again, and she trembled again, but Mistress Ave nodded her eyes to go ahead. I was nearly shaking too, fearing that Mel could never sign refusal, that I was raping her on top of all she had suffered. I trusted Mistress, I clung to that, and I forced myself to be calm for Mel's sake. Everything is good. Nothing to fear. My tongue slipped into the top of her cleft. I traced the hood—slowly, always slowly— and finally touched her clit. She shuddered again. I did not linger. I was too tempted to bury myself, to nibble and suck as I had learned before, and Mel was too fragile to undertake that sort of love. I moved lower, toward her bright pink hole. Mel tasted of—salt and sugar and clearness and light—forgive me, Mistress, or punish me, I am insufficient at describing tastes; please, Mistress, instruct me. I feasted in slow motion, gently. Here at last I could probe—not too deeply, I had to keep my face clear to watch hers and Mistress Ave's, but I could press into her channel, put more than the utmost tip of my tongue to her flesh. I gently, gently licked up and down, in and out, I tongue-fucked her in miniature. At last, I had found a motion with which she was familiar, and in time she poured out her sweet nectar, silently and clutching Mistress Ave tightly. I wondered then if her lifetime count was now one, and I thought she might not remember any other within the prison of her wipe, so I was glad to be her first.

I withdrew and said, "Thank you, Mistress Ave, for allowing this slave to give you pleasure. Thank you, Mel, for allowing this slave to give you pleasure." That was the most important part, to help her to understand that we did this because we valued her as a person. She needed to know that she was more than furniture before we could unlock the chains in her mind.

We repeated the same exercise the next day; then we left it aside for two, because Mel should not come to expect it as one more part of her sexual routine. But we did it again once more on the fourth day, and each time she was calmer, more accepting, although she always trembled while my attentions progressed.

After that the plan called for me to continue on my own: Master insisted that Mel's new self-worth could never be imposed from above—her horrible past had twisted her relationship to authority into a dark sort of cowering that even I, mindwiped, could barely recognize—but that she ought to begin to respond, in time, if she was consistently buoyed up by someone who related to her as a peer. So I ate her out sometimes, in our room, at odd intervals, and diligently reported to our mutual guardians. Progress was slow, uneven, and Mistress Ave complained that the men who came to her at night only set her back from reading her tattoos and taking them as their cue—Mistress Ave had had quietly asked, once, if Mel might like to have them removed, but she only made her blowjob face and shook so violently I had to take her away immediately. Master overruled Mistress on the subject of men's visits, sharply, and said that she could not leave her old existence all at once or she would only view our efforts as a different sort of imposed condition instead of a genuinely new idea: care. At first I asked her to sit on the bed, like we had done in the office. After a while, as she became more comfortable with the pressure of my touch, I switched to letting her straddle my face, always looking up to watch for telltale signals of anxiety or distress. The novelty scared her, but luckily she did not retreat from assuming the dominant position. Whether she even understood it so was difficult to say, but Master and Mistress both agreed that just letting her be on top was enough.

Finally, one evening that Mistress Ave had cleared of callers for Mel, I gently guided her to kneel on all fours—a position, sadly, that she knew too well; but I would be using it differently tonight. I wormed my way underneath her, sliding my body against hers until I reached her cleft. I began slowly and gently as I always did. I worried because for the first time I could not really see her reaction. Also, Mistress, it was slightly strange to me working upside-down from my familiar positions. But all went well, just as fantastic as I could have hoped: at the same time I starting probing inside her clit hood, I felt a tongue-tip reach out for my own cunt. I managed to dampen my reaction, so as not to startle the girl on top of me, and I kept after my own task. While I licked and probed, Mel licked me as well. Her tongue traveled wildly and without any sense of where or how hard to move, true, but she had done it. That was my first sixty-nine, and as soon as I felt her orgasm was over, I—gently, still—rolled her over. I had not come, of course, but I had no trouble smiling to show her how excited I was.

"Oh, Mel, thank you! Thank you! You didn't have to do that you know. I didn't ask you to, you did it all on your own and I'm so happy! I'm proud of you, Mel; you've made me so happy tonight." And I hugged her. And to my amazement she hugged me back, stiffly and tentatively but with undeniable pressure. She really had learned to take at least a few small things on her own initiative.

After that night Mistress Ave asked me to slow down the frequency of my lovemaking with Mel. I don't know if she understood why I stopped making her feel nice. It was a bit of a rough patch, but by then I had grasped the necessity that we wean Mel's thoughts away from her constant expectation of sex. Privately, I continued to hug her and to receive hugs, and we often slept in just one of our two beds, snuggled together. I didn't let myself think of asking for more, but it was nice to have that reminder that she liked me in any case.

And I was deeply proud of my all-important role in chipping away at Mel's enslavement. Along the way I had realized the scope of my task that Master and Mistress Ave trusted me to accomplish, in private where they could not. Of course, I always reported in detail, but at each encounter I bore the responsibility for my own actions not to scare her or scar her. And it dawned on me—literally, Mistress, for the idea was freshly formed in my mind one morning when I awoke—it dawned on me that nothing in my wipe had prepared me for such a task. Yes, I had listened to my keepers and followed their suggestions very closely indeed. Yet the resources to do so must have been pure Thalia; the People's Republic would never have given a helliot fuck toy the instinct and empathy to heal another wiper. Such was Master's gentle wisdom, that he would find a way ease two burdens at once if he could; now I believed in my heart that my wipe was not the end of my life as a self, a whole person.




Master's cleverness in helping Mel is only the most illustrative lesson in his care for us. Now that the starship had departed and his duty as Portmaster was effectively nil, he appeared almost daily at the Orphanage. His visits were brief, yet he projected quiet concern for each slave's well-being. And he visited specially with Mistress Ave and me, talking and comforting us as we each took our steps toward freedom, though mine always wobbled. Mistress Ave had advanced much farther than I; it was only rarely, and then indirectly, that I glimpsed some remnant of her wipe. She and Master could spend hours together alone in her office space, mostly talking, I supposed, but sometimes, faintly, we could overhear cries that sounded like great pleasure. Yet when I could see Mistress Ave undressed, welts sometimes laid atop her beautiful skin. That frightened me, Mistress, greatly, to think that Master could be so cruel to his finest companion; in time I recalled his lessons on the nature of mindwipes and I understood that some patterns of need could not be broken by optimism alone.

Now that Master was free of overseeing the docks, Mistress Ave spent most nights at his residence rather than her tiny sleeping room adjoining the office. I was not jealous, Mistress! I wished Master to be happy and you to be happy, and I truly believed—I think I still believe, for what little such longing is worth—that your best happiness was to lie together in love. But my lack of resentment did not restrain my elation when Master said that my duty toward Melissa no longer demanded that I stay in the Orphanage and that I ought to accompany him out in the colony. He took me to his apartment then, and quizzed me on my skills as a maidservant. I must report that these had suffered during my early stay while I concentrated on the intricacies of Sapphic sex; Master explained my duties patiently and waited while I practiced them. Within the week I was taking coats and serving drinks to his visitors, happy to be serving a role that fit my wipe even though I knew also that it was his intention for me to listen to freeler conversation and so be introduced to the wider life of society on Facility 43.

In due course Master claimed my two remaining virginities. First, though, he explained still another reason that I could be special to him: because some malfunction had aborted my wipe prematurely, the program had not completed the physical surgeries that kept Facility 43's population acceptably low in the Republic's eyes. I was one of very few women on the planet who could, and someday would, bear children. Master tried to convey some of the civic responsibility entailed by fertility; I am sorry to say, Mistress, that I answered him flippantly that I was familiar enough with caring for my little sisters and brothers and cousins on Earth. Will you punish me, Mistress? You know that Master would not have chastised me over an irksome remark, Mistress; but I pained him, Mistress, and I beg your aid to atone for my errors. Master only shook his head and lectured me about the processes of conception and the measures I must use until I should be better prepared in mind and body. Master believed that I was still too small at thirteen years of age to endure pregnancy and birth as well as an older woman—for that was the age Master assigned me, and he knew my file: my eleventh birthday passed, he reported, in the interval between my trial and my voyage—the laws of the People's Republic would not have allowed my particular punishment prior—I had slept through my twelfth while voices whispered in my ear that I must obey and serve.

Now that I was better informed about my medical history I was allowed to tend the bar in the outer hospitality salon, admonished strictly never to suggest that my body was available to rent. Yet the nature of our business gleaned profits from exciting men's lusts, and I was eager to practice my heretofore theoretical knowledge of flirtation, and Mistress Ave punished me several times for failing to discern the required balance. Thank you, Mistress: always you have known well how I ought to be instructed, my Mistress.

Better yet, and more carefree, were the nights that Master would take me home to his apartment, where I could practice all my love on him and sleep afterward enfolded in his arms. I think it may have been good for Mel's sake too: a call to serve a man's desires was an excuse that her torn-up mind could comprehend, and forgive me for not embracing her as I once had. So sometimes I would go to Master; sometimes Mistress Ave went to him while I stayed in my old room; and some rare nights he asked us both to join him, and these were best because I continued to learn the ways of love and I could serve my two beloved keepers at once.

More often, though, Master would only converse with me or deliver lectures or invite me into debates. The latter idea did not work well—I was ever afraid to argue with Master—but always he was interested in teaching me the great multitude of things I ought to know as a free woman. His methods were more subtle than the computer educators, and his favorite topics were philosophy and ethics along with as much as I could pick up in the sphere of the physical sciences. I must report, Mistress, that I was a slow pupil, for Master's philosophies were and are strange, open-ended, and vast: more suited to a middle-aged freeler scholar than to a tiny ex-helliot wiper. But he persevered with consummate patience, laughing at my consternation and assuring me that the wipe would dissolve in good time and that one day we could celebrate my freedom together.

I cannot record my story, Mistress, without reminding you of your sorrow. I beg your forgiveness, Mistress. The day of the fire—. I will not, I cannot say any more. Forgive me, Mistress. Forgive me.

The day after Sir Alan, Master's closest friend but Mistress Ave, came to the Orphanage on the business of Master's legacy. We two special slaves received him in the office. Mistress Ave read the letters silently through her tears and wordlessly passed them to me. The first, and I thought the best, was a simple message saying that Mistress should now be free—and the certificate of manumission was all filled out except her signature, and dated months before—Master had only been waiting in hope that he could ease her fear of the final step. The language was simple, but from the hand of my Master I thought it the finest love letter I could ever read.

Mistress touched her arm, where I knew the mark of the strap was concealed beneath her sleeve, and I understood the weakness of her wipe still possessed her thoughts. "I can't," Mistress sobbed. "I'm not ready."

"I will help you, Mistress," I insisted. "I cannot be a substitute for him, but I think I can break through my wipe that much, if I know how much it means to you, Mistress. Please, Mistress, let me serve you." The other letters had included the disposition of Master's property giving my contract to Mistress, but that could not be followed until her status was raised. Automatically my wipe had dropped your name to simply "Mistress," Mistress, and I don't know what would have become of me or my progress if you had refused.

Mistress shook her head. "No, Tali. I can't ask that from you. Not while you are still a slave under contract. Not ever. I love you, Tali, I do." Thank you, Mistress, for saying that you love me.

"Master Drew wanted me to be free, Mistress, but I am not free yet. I wish to serve you, and if that service requires me to be stronger than the wipe then it will only hasten the day, Mistress. It is Master's command, Mistress," I exhorted, falling back on my default position. I could not imagine failing to serve when not only my love but my obedience demanded it. I do not know, Mistress—it is private to you and you need not tell me, Mistress—how much my plea influenced you. But you signed, Mistress, and I was relieved that you accepted me, Mistress, that you would still find a task for me to finish. Thank you, Mistress, always thank you. If nothing else, I hope that my story explains all the kindnesses, small and large, that I have needed from you. Always you exceeded my dreams, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.




Mistress, I am still afraid, or rather afraid again and again. Master left me unfinished, Mistress; I know that I am incomplete in my freedom yet incomplete being only a slave. I need you now, Mistress, as I needed Master before. I know you grieve Mistress, and I don't know how to restore your strength. Teach me your needs, Mistress, because if I cannot help you to be a free woman, how can you ever lead me out of slavery? Let us aid each other, Mistress. You know I will accept any burden you lay on me, my Mistress; do not be afraid that you will knock me down again if you reach for my help. I trust Master's vision, Mistress, and I believe with all my heart that you will pick me up instead.

Because, Mistress, I don't know how to be free yet. I have tried, Mistress, but I only created trouble. I remembered that Master wanted me to be sexy and I tried to seduce a man—the best man I could think of now that Master is gone—and I succeeded, Mistress. But I was not ready, Mistress, and foolish, and two days ago I learned that I am pregnant with your brother, Mistress. I knew I could never carry Master's child as you do but I thought that I could be like you, and be free like you, and it has all gone wrong, Mistress. Master surely would not have approved of me giving birth at the age of fourteen, Mistress, but he would have loved me and I know you love me, too, Mistress, but I need you, please Mistress, to show me your love. Your father will surely Disavow me and his son just as before he Disavowed you and sent you to be wiped. I don't know what to do, Mistress.

You told me, Mistress, that Master would have liked me to record my story and learn from it, but, Mistress, I have not learned! I cannot argue with you, Mistress, I see no flaw in your plan; only I have failed you, Mistress. Punish me, Mistress, if it pleases you. Teach me to love pain as you love it, Mistress. I have done as you asked, Mistress, but I am still too blinded: I know that once I was free and happy, but I can't remember why; I can't remember how to choose my course happily when I have no guidance. Please, Mistress: I need your knowledge and planning to become free. Complete me, Mistress.

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