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Hundehersteller Industries

This is the NEW visual and story-based blog for Maria Gutierrez, creator of the Hundehersteller Universe and author of the "On the Leash" series.

Titsy glared at the new girl as she left my office.

“What’s wrong Tits?”

“She thinks she’s so smart Master! She’s bad news. Bad! I can tell. She just wants your cock to herself!”

I chuckled.

“Actually Titsy, she’s inquiring about a high level executive position, due to the recent vacancy.”

“Umm, like, whatsa ex-sex vay-cun-see Master?”

“Well to be honest Tits, she’s applying for your former position, the one you were so against giving up.”

Her eyes widened.

“No Master! I love where I am now! It’s the bestest!”

She quickly dropped to all fours and crawled under my desk, head peeking out near my crotch.

“I know Tits, and don’t worry your pretty little head. There’s room under this desk for the both of you.”

She let out a sigh of relief.

“Now how about you use that mouth of yours to relieve Master’s stress.”

*giggle*

“Yes Master!”

PATREON REPOST: THE LAST SHOOT (Starring MC Bourbonnais)
I'm reposting my old Patreon content here during the month of June. It'll be in dribs and drabs so please exercise patience and, again, please don't send me 200 messages that effectively make me want to delete my account and retire to a nunnery in the Himalayas. Thanks.

Sometimes, it seems like the Empire is leaking through into this reality with alarming regularity.

Last month, talented cosplayer and breed exemplar for Tawny Cauc fuckpets everywhere Marie-Claude Bourbonnais posted this photo to her Instagram:


The Face of a Happy Cow

The fat-titted bimbo claimed it was an attempt to produce the infamous Ahegao face in real life. Anyone who's paid a visit to the Hundehersteller Empire, however, recognizes this as what it truly is: an animal begging to be put into the mindless bliss of Alpha.


Marie-Claude has long been a favorite transformation subject of mine. I generally prefer to see her as the Tawny Cauc fuckmutt she was born to be, but his particular turn of events made me realize those udders could be put to very productive work in a CowSlut Cottage.


Between this ahegao shot and Marie-Claude's very promising return to "glamour" modeling, it seems that at least one of the Empire's favorite pets understands what it was made to do, and is eager to do it.

This is adorable. Down with shaming of any kind, whether it be kink-shaming, slut-shaming, or book-shaming!

Anonymous asked:
If you could visit a country you haven't been to yet, what would it be? Oh and those patreon stories you uploaded are some of you're best work not counting your books. Stay awsome
Hey there. Thanks for writing. I haven't quite made it to Scandanavia yet (a bit ironic, given Dr. Hundehersteller's origins), but I'd LOVE to visit Denmark someday. And, while it's not actually in Scandinavia, Finland is a definite dream destination as well. Oh, and of course thank you for your kind words. Revisiting this Patreon content is actually helping to rekindle my passion for writing and creating, so I'm hoping to finish up some new stuff soon to share as well. The book is...90%?...done. Just like I did with "Haunted," I'm hemming and hawing instead of actually finishing it because I know that once it's finished, I'll have to put it out there for people to SEE. Which is kinda the point, I guess, but welcome to the neurotic hellscape that is life as a writer. Again, thanks for being a fan, and for your comments. More to come soon! -M.

I'm back!


I've been semi-retired from writing erotica(/porn) since 2018, but I've been itching to get back to it and I have an idea for what will be my most ambitious story yet.


It's called "My Feminist Journey" (click for link) and will take the form of a fictional blog, told in real time over an entire year, and it's already begun! It'll show the journey Alison (the main character) goes through, from staunch angry feminist (/feminazi) to eager happy fucktoy. 

As the story will be told in real time, through blog posts and reblogs, there might not be much erotic action for the first few months. Which, I know, is a bummer. It is, however, what the story needs and it'll help make the journey that much more believable and in the end much more enjoyable.

Who doesn't love watching a "good" girl turn bad? ;-)


To support the writing of this huge project, I've made a Patreon account, which will also have exclusive content, such as ways to interact with Alison's journey.

I'll also post (at least) one brand new Patreon exclusive story there every month, plus offer free books for the first six months.


I've made three tiers, to start with.


  • The $3 tier is simple. It's access to the Patreon with all its updates and the additional benefits outlined above.


  • The $5 tier is the above, plus the option to ask Alison in character questions on the blog. It's a small, but meaningful and immersive, way to affect the story and her journey. You can either ask these questions from your own BDSMLR account, anonymously or post them here and I'll handle it.



  • The $10 tier is all of the above, plus the ability to cast votes in polls here on Patreon about the story. These can range from simply naming characters to big life-changing events in Alison's life.


Every bit of support is hugely appreciated!


I hope you'll join me and Alison on her journey from man-hating feminist to docile fucktoy!

Hey, you! Yeah, you. You should do this. Sibs is not only a fantastic writer, but he's done something like this before to marvelous critical acclaim. Trust me, this is worth it!

I'm always going to signal boost creatives who make outstanding content.

Asian Imperials as a breed are versatile, obedient, and easy to train. The numerous sub-breeds available each have their own special charms, but every Asian Imperial holds the potential for many years of pleasure and obedience for its Owner or Mistress. 

You are nothing but a stupid, empty-headed, bitch in heat desperate for male attention and use. So be a good little fuckdoll and show men why you are worth paying attention to. Show off that body and show off your skills at pleasing cock. Offer yourself up like the piece of fuckmeat you are. 

Let go of the desire to compete. To pretend. To strive for more than your limited capabilities can achieve or appreciate.

Feel how comfortable it is to fall to all fours. How natural. How right.

Let your tongue loll from your hot, wet mouth. Feel your false identity—the idea of yourself as an equal to Men, as an equal to Dominant WoMen—drip to the floor along with your spittle.

Arch your back. Raise your eyes. Raise your ass, pushing your legs apart, letting your hot sex luxuriate in the open air, a dripping mirror to match your drooling tongue.

Make clear your desire to embrace your place. Show your betters that you know you are a Domestic Animal, built to please and obey, and in return receive pleasure, comfort, and protection.

Release False Equality, and find true freedom in the Natural Order.

Good dog.

PATREON REPOST: "OF CURIOSITY AND CATS"
I'm reposting my old Patreon content here during the month of June. It'll be in dribs and drabs so please exercise patience and, again, please don't send me 200 messages that effectively make me want to delete my account and retire to a nunnery in the Himalayas. Thanks.


FROM THE PATRON:

For my custom story I was thinking about one where a guy has been stalking a girl he wants as his pet. She has been on the run, trying to get to the Free States, but is nabbed just before she makes it and he turns her into his pet kitty.

This one was fun to write, since we haven't had a chance to do much with KittenSluts just yet. Enjoy!

-M.


STORY FOLLOWS


Come to me if you want to be free.

Was it the tenth? The twentieth? The hundredth message she'd received from the mysterious sender? 

Masako could no longer remember. She didn't know the symbol at the bottom of the message flashing on the HUD screen floating in front of her eyes, but she knew it wasn't the Hundehersteller sigil. A pawprint, pink, circled by flames. Was this the secret sigil of She-Wolf? No one in the 'burbs could seem to agree on what exactly the sigil looked like. 

She thought back to the slender, pneumatic Black girl she'd encountered in a 'burbside speakeasy, in the system of disused and abandoned high-speed train tunnels under the DaytoColumbiNatti metroplex. Rosie had been injected with BimboMaxx™, but her captors hadn't had the chance to activate the mental component before she'd been rescued by a small She-Wolf operation. She had taken one look at the messages Masako received and shrugged, her perfect hair falling back into place without effort on her part.

"Girl, those people work in cells. They prolly have as many sigils as Hundehersteller has nanites, if you can dig it. Shit, I didn't even know I was bein' rescued 'til those cleaning women pulled out their guns and dragged me outta the Acquisition Squad warehouse. Now look at me...runnin' for the border, 'cept this time it's even further north, and away from the States. What would my grandmama say?"

Masako hadn't really considered the symbolism attached to Hundehersteller's rise to power within the Black community, and while she certainly intended to give it a good long think once she'd reached safety, her primary concern had been trying to figure out whether or not she could trust the messages. And Rosie, her improbable figure packed into a tattered dress, was no help there. Her personal plan was to follow the instructions she'd been given by her rescuers and hope for the best.

Masako didn't have rescuers. All she had was the mysterious messages and the person or people who'd sent them. She didn't know how they'd connected to her NeuroConn, or how they'd managed to mask their RealMoniker™. She didn't even know if the coordinates they sent her were a real place, or some sort of autovertisement gone wrong. 

Maybe things didn't work the same, down here in this horrible, horrible place. She didn't know, and didn't want to find out more than she had to. Not really.

What she did know was that she was exhausted. Tired of running, day after day. 

Her mistake, she realized, had been in confronting Dylan. 


*******


He'd seemed so normal, back at the start of Uni. But over the year or so she'd known and dated him, his fascination with the Hundehersteller Empire—once an eye-rolling quirk shared by so many of the male students at Liberty Mountain University in Regina—had become a full-blown obsession. He shifted the focus of his thesis to the feasibility of the Imperial model applied to Canadian Free State's infrastructure, and the benefits of the Empire's Societal Enhancement Units in eliminating unemployment, homelessness, and hunger.

All of which Masako might've been willing to let pass, except she found the box. 

One "Deluxe Relocation Package," containing a bevy of ID cards and documents in Dylan's name. A list of Assets to be Transferred, including Dylan's household items, his motorbike, his library, and…"one Asian Imperial, slated for optimization and conversion with PrettyKitty™ nanites by Owner, licensing upon arrival."

She hadn't known what an Asian Imperial was, precisely. The words had seemed vaguely familiar, of course. Not because Masako was particularly engaged with her community (such as it was), but because of the commercials. Even in Regina, the Empire's incessant adverts saturated the airwaves and, naturally, the HoloNet.

It only took one viewing of a PromoFeed to realize it wasn't an item. It was a breed. 

Her breed. A designation, describing an animal. An Imperial term to control and categorize and debase women, turning them into mere beasts crawling at the feet of the men and women who sought dominion over them.

She should've run then. But she couldn't believe Dylan was seriously considering it. Or that anyone would ever dream of doing such a thing to her, in particular. 

So she'd waited until they were alone, in bed, after a so-so party with Dylan's friends, where the men pontificated about the misunderstood wisdom of the Empire and their dates did their best to indulge their collegiate bullshit. Or so they thought.

Masako, looking at the way Dylan and his friends cut off any woman who tried to join the discussion, suddenly realized all the girls in her social circle were slowly becoming the sort of bimboish sluts they used to make fun of in high school. Was it her imagination? Or all part of Dylan's plan with his friends?

Such were the thoughts racing through Masako's mind as she crawled into bed next to Dylan. He was fussing with his bedside table, no doubt setting the alarm for his morning class. 

"Dylan, I think we need to talk." Even having found the box, she still felt half a fool. 

He froze, still facing away from her. "Oh?" he said, his voice quiet and strange. "About what?"

"I found that ridiculous box," Masako replied, all in a rush. Why was she so nervous? 

"Box?" Dylan said, his voice still strangely quiet. "Oh. That. Have you been snooping, Kitten? Naughty-naughty."

He did that sometimes. Called her "Kitten," like they were a couple from one of those monochromers on NostalgiaNet. 

Why is he being so weird? "Yeah, that. So you want to explain what the hell you're doing with a box stuffed full of contraband? The Mounties would lose their shit if they knew you had it."

Dylan chuckled, low and mean. It wasn't anything like his usual friendly laugh. 

"And who's going to tell them? You?" He turned around, his dark eyes glinting in the moonlight.

"What? Honey, what's wrong with you? Can't you see this is all going a bit far?"

Dylan looked at her without speaking. His hands were behind him, and the smile on his face didn't reach his eyes. 

"On the contrary, Kitten. I think it's time we took things a bit further." He pulled his hands from behind his back, revealing a glittering pink collar in one hand, and a syringe full of some dimly glowing red fluid in the other. "I was saving this for our anniversary, but you won't care either way in a few minutes." 

Masako gaped. Was he serious? 

Then Dylan lunged at her, and in her shock, Masako tumbled backward, falling off the bed and landing on the carpeted floor with a dull thud. 

"Shit. Hold still!" Dylan hissed, climbing over the bed toward her.

"Fuck you!" Masako gasped, throwing the blanket up and over Dylan's head as she leapt to her feet.

"The hell?" Dylan, his hands full and suddenly wary of the sharp needle in one of them, struggled with the blanket. Masako dodged around the bed and out of the bedroom, stopping only to grab her purse and kick on a pair of slippers as she ran from the apartment building and out into the street. 

He's crazy. I just have to get to the Mounties, and they'll help me. Someone will save me. They have to.

She ran into the street without looking back or around. Which is why the man driving the late-model sedan at 40 miles an hour down her quiet side street never had a chance to brake, let alone stop.

He only clipped her, but Masako went flying. She slammed into the shrubs surrounding the busy petrol station across the street and slid to the mulch-covered ground, dazed but largely unharmed. Her purse was gone, skidding off into the night for parts unknown. The sedan screeched to a stop a block away, lights blinking.

Across the street, Dylan burst out of the apartment building and ran toward the street. The man who'd clipped Masako, mistaking Dylan for an avenging angel, sped away, unprepared to risk life or limb over an accident he could pretend never happened. 

"FUCK!" Dylan screamed into the night. He looked toward the gas station, then up and down the street. He spotted one of Masako's slippers lying in the street and started toward it, muttering to himself. 

Masako suppressed a groan and crawled deeper into the shadows under the shrubs. A line of blood trickled from a split in her scalp, just below her jet-black hairline, and ran alongside her nose, staining her creamy skin with crimson. 

It wouldn't be long until Dylan found her. She had to get away, somewhere safe...she spotted a beat-up pickup truck with unfamiliar plates at the pumps. Its owner was inside the station, paying for his fuel. As quickly as she could, she darted toward the truck, kicking off her remaining slipper in the process. She crept into the open bed, nestling under a thick stack of tarps and hides, wedging herself between stacked boxes held to the bed with taut elastic cords.

She planned to hide out only until the next town, but hadn't realized quite how hard she'd been hit. She was unconscious before the owner of the truck—dressed in an Imperial Couriers jumpsuit—returned. 

What followed—waking up deep inside the Empire itself, escaping her unknowing ferryman by the skin of her teeth, slowly learning to negotiate the highways and byways of strays, spies, freaks, and terrorists that ran quite literally underground—now seemed like a blur. 

Dylan had nearly caught up to her twice. She didn't know how he knew she was here, only that life had become even more difficult once her photo and vital information had started appearing on every PromoFeed, NewsCast, and BountyBlast. If it hadn't been for the mysterious messages, and their assistance in helping her elude the authorities, Masako would've gone mad or been captured weeks earlier.


Come to me if you want to be free. 


The most recent message directed her to NeuroConn told her to take the Harlot's Highway, a stretch of largely ignored and broken asphalt that used to connect Old Dayton to Toledo, before the Colubinatti merger swallowed Dayton and the Resource Wars had turned Toledo into a city of stone and iron and its inhabitants into fragile deposits of rare minerals. 

It was rarely traveled these days, having been supplanted by both quantum displacement and MassTrans erected by the Empire for maximum efficiency. It was a hard road to travel, but it had lots of good places to hide from roving patrols, and She-Wolf was said to maintain supply lines along the grass-covered byroads that trailed alongside the main strip of shattered asphalt like remoras on a shark. 


Come to me if you want to be free.


The voice had grown more insistent of late. Masako wondered what awaited her. A She-Wolf transport? A tunnel under the border, like in the old-style cinema reels? She was tired of not knowing where she was, or where she was going. One way or another, she'd have her curiosity satisfied.


********


The trip along Harlot's Hightway took four days. She ran into a few other women, some of them tough and practical, others even more terrified and poorly prepared than she. All of them spoke of freedom as both a dream and a destination. The Harlot's Highway led into the Warrens, it seemed. 

The city of Toledo was no more. Only the Warrens remained.

And in those endless columns of glittering mineral statues, fallen buildings, and uneasy ghosts, few Imperial Patrols dared to wander.

Make it through the Warrens, make it out of the Empire.

And now, here she was, on the outskirts. And she wasn't alone. 

One of the girls she'd met along the road had elected to join her. "Safety in numbers," Amanda had said on the night they met. "Besides, I've been running this road for She-Wolf for more than two years. Can't get a better escort that that, can you, girly?"

Masako had been in no mood to refuse help when offered. Amanda had been a comforting presence in the intervening two days, sniffing out resouce caches left by her fellow agents and generally keeping Masako from losing her shit when the night was cold and dark. She'd come to think of the plainspoken, lanky blonde as a confidant and friend in the two days they'd traveled together.

They came to the Warrens just as twilight was falling. Masako could hear the cries of strange birds in the distant trees. She hugged herself for warmth, suddenly glad for the coat she'd acquired from one of Amanda's stashes. 

"Cold, ain't it, girly? Well, it's gonna get colder. But don't worry, we get into the Warrens, there's plenty of safe places to build a good fire. Provided y'ain't scared of ghosts, that is."

Come to me if you want to be free.


The voice surprised her, and Masako blinked, forgetting her reply. This message was more elaborate than the others; it had not only the usual text, but a full-color map. It showed her position as a flashing dot, and her destination as a pre-war building just outside the Warrens, marked with that inscrutable sigil. 


Masako examined the map, considering. 


"Whatcha lookin' at?" Amanda said. She touched her NeuroConn at the same time she tapped Masako's with her other hand, activating Shared View. "A map, huh? What's that thing?" she said, pointing to the sigil.

"I was kinda hoping you'd know," said Masako, feeling a bit sheepish. "Some of my friends thought it might be, y'know, one of your secret signs or something."

The leggy blonde stared at it, her grey eyes narrowing as she chewed her lower lip. "Hell, I dunno. Might very well be. But why the hell you wanna bother with this foolishness? One She-Wolf agent is just as good as 'nothter, right? 'Sides, I got myself a shortcut through the Warrens. And a few nasty surprises for any snoopin' Imperials that put their snouts where they shouldn't."

Masako stopped in her tracks. "Amanda, I...it's just that I've been following this signal for the whole journey. It hasn't steered me wrong yet."

The other woman snorted dismissively. "Honey, I'm not trying to tell you your business, but ain't you ever heard 'bout a bird in the hand bein' worth two in the bush?"


Come to me if you want to be free, chimed the voice insistently. 


Masako sighed. "What if...what if we just take a quick, sneaky side-trip to check it out, and then, if it's not some of your sisters, or if it seems weird at all, we'll scoot back here and take your route."

Amanda looked away, chewing on her lip once more. "Girly…"

"Pleeeeeeeaaaase?" Masako begged. "If I don't find out what this is, or who's been helping me, I'll never be able to live with myself."

After a beat, Amanda smiled and said, "You know, my daddy always used to say that curiosity killed the cat."

Masako returned her smile, with interest. "Well, my daddy always followed up with "But satisfaction brought her back."

"Ha!" Amanda's laugh seemed as loud as a gunshot, echoing off the broken ruins. But she nodded her head and said, "All right, you win. Come on, let's go see what kinda pig is in this poke."


*******


They followed the signal and map in near silence, both women keeping to the shadows. After half an hour of slow creeping, they came to the edge of a flame-scarred subdivision. One house remained in a plat of at least fifty, miraculously undamaged by whatever catastrophe had transformed the earth and water and people into raw materials for the war machines of old.

"Do we just go in, or what?" Masako whispered.

Amanda waved her to silence, pointing. 

Across the blasted street, a pair of figures was approaching the building. Masako couldn't quite make out their faces in the moonlight, but it was clear they were both young and female. 

"Here," one of them whispered. "The voice said…"

"COME TO ME IF YOU WANT TO BE FREE," thundered the voice into the NeuroConns of its latest victims. Both Masako and the two girls standing in the shadow of the building grabbed their heads at the unbearable cacophany. 

The false walls of the house fell away. Overhead, floodlights blazed to life, and Acquisition Agents swarmed out of the fallen house, several of them holding the leashes of baying Fuckmutts wearing AA uniforms. All across the plat, girls staggered from the shadows, holding their heads, some of them trying to run even as the agents closed in.

"SHIT!" growled Amanda. "C'mon, girly, we gotta go." She grabbed Masako, who was still reeling from the auditory attack, and pulled her back toward the highway. 

They'd made it less than ten feet when a large dart full of bubbling green nanites took Amanda in the throat. She crumpled to the ground as Masako screamed, falling back. A slender figure stepped from the shadows, quietly reloading a stylish dart-gun with fresh ammo. This dart, Masako noted with terror, was pale red. 

Dylan looked different. More confident. Taller, even, if that was possible. It probably was, here in the Empire. He finished loading his pistol and said, "You know, the good Doctor and his people have been at this for a while now. Why on earth would they go haring after every stray when the silly little cunts will come to them?" He shook his head at the foolishness of dumb animals. 

Masako felt her throat dry up. Beside her, Amanda was thrashing, her body changing as it absorbed the instructions of whatever nightmare Dylan had injected into her flesh and mind and soul. Masako crawled back on her palms, scooting away as Dylan sauntered toward her. He smiled as his former girlfriend, and soon-to-be pet, backed into a wall, mewling.

Dylan raised the gun. Masako stared into the barrel, willing someone, anyone to come to her aid. To set her free. 

"Time to come home, Kitten," he said, and fired. 


********


"ARF! ARF! ARF!"


The sound of barking broke the morning silence, followed by the skidding thud of Living Latex paws trotting across the linoleum toward a bowl full of BitchBites™.

Kitten raised her head from her perch on the sofa and yawned. She was used to Blonde Doggy interrupting her morning nap—it was a noisy, yappy beast, always hogging Master's cock along with His attention—but it was still a minor irritation. Kitten yawned again and hopped down from the sofa, landing on the padded Living Latex paws she kept so meticulously groomed with her talented tongue. 

She strolled toward the kitchen, tail twitching. She was, as usual, on the edge of heat. It seemed that her sex dripped at the slightest stimulation, and both Master and Blonde Doggy were all too happy to oblige. 

Sometimes, Kitten had disturbing dreams. In them, Master was a cruel and vicious man, so unlike the paragon of lust and adoration she knew him to be. And Kitten was...not Kitten. It was hard to process, especially with her limited mental powers, although she was a Rhodes Scholar compared to Blonde Doggy, who Master insisted on calling "Dimwit."

The dreams disturbed her, even more than the stupid dog did. So she did what any self-respecting cat would do, and ignored them.

Master was at the table, eating some of his People Food and rubbing Blonde Doggy's head while it nosed at his crotch, tail thumping against the underside of the table.

Kitten sniffed at the pathetic display and padded over to her own bowl, taking a few delicate bites of her Felicity™-brand food nuggets before washing them down with some milk from her saucer.

One appetite satisfied, she slunk toward the table, and rubbed against Master's leg, making sure her long Living Latex tail poked Blonde Doggy in the eye as she did. She flushed with satisfaction as Blonde Doggy snapped and yipped, whining, and backed away from Master's cock.

Kitten looked over her shoulder as she rounded the table, meowing softly, her round ass raised in subtle invitation. She made sure to make every curve jiggle as she made her way back to the sofa and climbed up, lying on her back. 

She heard Master's chair push back, and then His strong voice saying, "Not now, you stupid mutt." He walked into the room and smiled at the sight of her on the sofa, waiting. 

"Such a naughty Kitten. But then, I always knew you were. Even when you didn't. Sometimes, I wonder if there's anything left of Masako in there. Part of me hopes there is. Curious, isn't it?" 

As usual, Master's words made little sense if they weren't a command. But watching Him pull down his fly as he walked toward her, she found she didn't care.

After all, it was her cunt, and not her curiosity, that needed satisfying.




PATREON REPOST: WHERE ARE THEY NOW? T-SWIFT

I'm reposting my old Patreon content here during the month of June. It'll be in dribs and drabs so please exercise patience and, again, please don't send me 200 messages that effectively make me want to delete my account and retire to a nunnery in the Himalayas. Thanks.

After my recent poll asking you what kind of content you'd like to see more of, as well as a few messages asking about celebrity content, I thought I'd create something I could update regularly that incorporated your feedback.

The result is a series I'm calling "Where Are They Now?", which will be manips and stories showing what happened to various celebrities after the Leash Laws went into effect. The first subject is the Tawny Cauc formerly known as Taylor Swift, a domestic animal whose howling and yapping was formerly deemed worthy of recording but is now reserved for begging for treats or chasing barn rats.

As with many other former "celebrity" acquisitions, the animal was given a few special modifications with its nanite installation to both enhance its behavior and to prevent any misguided attempts at rescue. If anyone tampers with the animal or attempts to remove it from its designated living and work areas without authorization, its self-defense mechanisms will activate, physically incapacitating any male assailants and aggressively converting any female ones.

The animal was also left in Beta, with enhanced suppression to ensure compliance without having to resort to Gamma. Because the animal's original personality is intact and observing, it was also given a Humiliation Arousal Enhancement to ensure it becomes physically aroused, and eager to serve, whenever it is subjected to behavior "Taylor Swift" would have found degrading. Consequently, it spends much of its time in a state of extreme arousal and is always eager to please, as its orgasm is directly tied to those using it.

Stripped of its delusions of importance, this particular cunt was converted to a FuckMutt and sold to a pair of lesbian farmers in the Lakelands. 

No more concerts or photoshoots for this mutt; it now spends its days padding alongside its Mistresses, herding CowSluts back into the barn and providing sexual gratification on demand. 

While programmed for Sapphic service and preferences, the animal will of course happily serve any male Customer-Citizens™. Several of the men who work the farm as part of their role in the local Societal Enhancement Unit (SEU) are more than happy to provide the animal with supplemental nutrition during their morning and afternoon breaks.




PATREON REPOST: OLD DOG, NEW TRICKS

I'm reposting my old Patreon content here during the month of June. It'll be in dribs and drabs so please exercise patience and, again, please don't send me 200 messages that effectively make me want to delete my account and retire to a nunnery in the Himalayas. Thanks.


FROM THE PATRON: 

I’d like to request a stuck up woman in her early 20s to be forcibly transformed into a Trailer Trash Milf in her mid 40s using a machine whilst she’s strapped into a chair. Can she be aware of the physical changes until the last moments of her transformation when the mental changes will corrupt and change her mind. 

This was a lot of fun to write, and it's quite long (but I write the story that fits the narrative, not to word count). Big thanks to the patron for the inspiration, and I hope you all enjoy it!

STORY FOLLOWS

Summer was on its way out, but the digital thermometer projected above the Dominion Mall was still flashing "92°F/33°C" as the sun sank behind the mountains. Charlie hadn't wanted to leave the resort—a chilled pool and comped drinks were more his speed during the dog days of summer—but Lucy had insisted they get dressed and head out to the outlets.

What Lucy wanted, Lucy got. So here they were, walking from the complimentary shuttle along the paved path to the Mall. Across the street, a dogwalker hurried through the park, dragged by a pack of fuckmutts of assorted breeds, barking and drooling and jiggling enticingly. In the distance behind them, he could see the local Imperial Historical Society building. In front of the towering Federal-revival edifice, rows of Whorse-drawn carriages glinted in the sun, ready to carry tourists along the charming byways of the Historical Landmarks of Old Mount Vernon tour. 

Maybe he and Lucy could take the tour later, maybe get a little culture along with their Imperial knick-knacks. Hmm...

A ruckus from the trees across the street drew Charlie's eye back to the park. The fuckmutts had treed someone's KittenSlut—a Cheshire Cocklapper, he thought, although it was hard to tell with the sun in his eyes. The Fuckmutts were circling the tree, barking up at the hissing KittenSlut, baying and tangling their leashes while the dogwalker cursed them and tried to regain control. 

Looking closer at the dogsluts, Charlie thought the Cinnamon Cauc leading the pack might've been a minor HoloNet star back home once. It had a much curvier frame, of course, and those floppy ear mods certainly weren't original, but something about its face and voice spoke to him. It happened, sometimes, he knew. An open secret, really. Where it couldn't get official sanction, the Empire made...arrangements to integrate its message and culture with other nations. Do what must be done with the help of the Empire, said the whispers.

So yes, the Ginger Cauc might've been a star back home, before it found itself on a leash in the Empire. Contract negotiations were a little more cutthroat since the Empire rose to power, and today's starlet could so easily find herself "accidentally" stranded, arrested, and quickly converted if she got too greedy or demanding.

Greedy. Demanding. Two words with which Charlie was well acquainted.

"Babe, I'm not sure this is such a good idea," he said, turning his attention back to his girlfriend. "We're not exactly in the borderlands here. This is Kentuckessee Territory. Heart of the Empire, and all that."

Twenty-two and full of the unearned confidence only possessed by attractive young women raised in the fifth-wave feminism of the Free States, Lucy sniffed dismissively and tossed her head. Her long raven hair, slightly frizzy in the August humidity, cascaded down her back in shimmering waves. "I already told you, Charlie—I want to see the real Empire. Not just the stuff they trot out for tourists at the Armstice resorts. Besides, the outlets down here are totally awesome. Tons of stuff we can't get back home." 

Charlie sighed. He certainly hadn't had any real objections to a visit to the Empire; he came down for business on the regular, and Lucy was both open to other cultures and blessedly free from sexual hangups. Of course, the gods knew she had enough other...challenges lurking inside her personal baggage. Number one was her headstrong and demanding nature, which went over like a dead baboon at a BBQ down here in "Doc's Country."

"Just be careful, okay? Stick with me. And don't try anything unless I'm there to give it a look. I've been here before, and I know how tricky it can be to…"

His slender girlfriend stomped her feet, pale blue eyes glittering like ice. "UGH. Enough of the lectures, okay? You're not my Dad, you're my BOYFRIEND, Charlie. And if you want to stay that way, you won't ruin this trip for me! GAWD! You're so LAME sometimes!" She hurried ahead of him, heels clicking on the asphalt. She stomped through the Nani-Sanz™ purifier at the door and stood in the foyer, glowering at the holo-map of the Mall. 

Charlie hurried after her. It wouldn't do for a passing Imperial Policeman to find Lucy unattended. She had her Exemption Ring around the bicep of her left arm, but 30 seconds of conversation with law enforcement would probably end with her leashed and a hefty fine. 

Or worse.

Charlie's concern for her safety was genuine, but underneath it he felt a familiar sense of growing frustration. Lucy thought the rules didn't apply to her. One day, it was gonna get her into trouble.

He dashed through the Nani-Sanz and into the blessed coolness of the Mall, expecting to find Lucy waiting at the map. 

Charlie saw a Handy Helper operating a sunglass kiosk. He saw a pair of LifeWife™ Bimbos, each wearing the sigil of its Owner's house on its abbreviated skirt, shopping with kids in tow. All around him, the Customer-Citizens of Doctor Hundehersteller's ever-expanding Empire were browsing and selling and buying.

But of Lucy, there was no sign.


*******

The doors of the clinic whispered shut, sealing out the noise and light of the Mall. Lucy smiled and hurried toward the service counter, paying little attention to the pop-up holo adverts pushing assorted temporary nanite products on her. Charlie thought he was so smart. She wasn't one of those poor women trapped in the Empire. She'd had a proper education. Grown up with real freedom. By the time he found her, she'd have what she came for and he'd realize she wasn't a helpless child.

To her surprise, the counter help wasn't a pneumatic, simpering BimboSlut, but an older woman. Well, older than Lucy, anyway. It was clear the woman was Exempt, like she was, and a heavy user of OptiMaxx™. With the nanites in her system, she could be 30, 70, or even 130, and Lucy wouldn't know the difference without some very personal inspection.

There was more to it, of course. Instead of the styles popular back home, this woman was dressed entirely in Living Latex, head to toe. Her dress clung to her ripe body as closely as her skin, the ShimmerMist color profile shifting the fabric from green to purple to indigo and back again. The dress was nanoprinted with a holographic sigil depicting a rearing cat of some kind, and a slender sheath hanging at the woman's waist held a crop capped by a snarling panther head of pave-studded silver.

A Registered Mistress, then. Lucy had read her advisories in the tourist packet. She knew to be on her guard.

The woman looked Lucy over and smiled. She had large, very green eyes, and Lucy was suddenly reminded of a cat spotting a wounded canary. She refused to be daunted, however. "Bright days and exciting nights," she said, to show the woman she wasn't just another dumb tourist. "I'm here to try your services."

The woman nodded to acknowledge her greeting but said nothing. Instead, she ran a hand through her coffee-colored hair, gathering it into a bun and securing it with a tie from around her wrist, taking a deep breath that arched her back as she futzed with her hair. 

Lucy did her best not to stare, but her eyes were drawn to the older woman's chest by the virtual name tag flickered into existence once Lucy's NeuroConn was in range. It was more elaborate than the others she'd read in the her quick jog through the mall toward the clinic. The woman's name—"Carolina," accompanied by the symbol Lucy recognized as indicating a Registered Mistress—was picked out on the pseudo-plastic in tiny, sparkling, virtual diamonds. 

Not that the name tag held her attention for long. Carolina's breasts, while not nearly as massive as most of the BimboSluts Lucy had seen in the past few days, were still large and perky. And, if the Living Latex wasn't lying, they were also pierced with delicate rings shaped like a capital "D." 

She tore her eyes away to find the other woman smirking at her across the counter. Lucy blushed, then cleared her throat and tried again. "Excuse me, but I need some service." 

Nothing. Lucy frowned. Clearly this snooty woman thought she didn't need to acknowledge a mere tourist. Lucy Hannigan was not going to let some kinky freako ruin her vacation, however.

"Hey! Fat-tits! I said I need some service. Are you deaf, or just stupid?"

Faster than Lucy would've believed, Carolina darted forward and grabbed her by the arm. Lucy let out a little shriek as fingers strong as steel bands held her in place. Carolina tugged at Lucy's Exemption band. "Typical manners, for a stray. And service? And what services should I be expected to provide a jumped-up stray from the Barbarian States?" 

"HEY!" yelled Lucy. "Leggo! You can't just...manhandle me! I'm a guest!"

Carolina jerked her closer by the Exemption band and pointed to the glittering nanite-infused disc at its center. "A guest. Please." She spat on the floor, sneering. "Let me guess. Another spoiled little cunt wants to try the good life without having to adhere to the Natural Order. That about right?" 

Her face was inches from Lucy's; this close, the younger woman could see Carolina's eyes were actually glowing dimly with nanite infusion. She clawed at the strong arm holding her band, trying to regain her balance. Carolina sneered and released Lucy, who stumbled back, nearly toppling a display of temporary nanites. 

"You….you can't do that, you know. Treat me like that," she managed as she straightened. "I have rights. My boyfriend and I paid good money to come down here. My friend Amy said she got an amazing deal from this place on some temporary upgrades. Bobby proposed to her when they got back from that trip. PROPOSED." She was shaking with anger now, unable to believe anyone would treat her with such callous disdain. 

"I was going to spend a TON of credits here," Lucy continued, ignoring the other woman's startled expression. "I was gonna surprise Charlie, show him I know the ins and outs of this place as well as he does. And yeah, maybe sex it up a little, too. But you called me that horrible word! Physically attacked me! I guess I'll spend my credits elsewhere!" She turned to leave.

"Hold on there, uh, miss," the woman behind the counter said, hurrying after her. "Maybe we got off on the wrong foot." 

Lucy whirled to face Carolina, blue eyes burning with an anger Charlie would've recognized at one. "The wrong foot?!? How DARE you! I wanted to do something special for my boyfriend, convince him to marry me. Do you know how much fucking money he has? Amy would have to marry five of stupid old Darren to get even halfway to my new bank balance." 

Carolina shrugged. "I don't know, actually. Because you just came stomping in here five minutes ago."

Lucy scowled. "Whatever. Now Charlie's out there, probably trying to track me down this very minute, and you're wasting my fucking time, you….you cunt!" Uncertainty tinged her voice as she spat the woman's own insult back at her. 

Carolina pursed her lips. For a moment, Lucy thought the other woman might laugh—in that case, she wasn't just leaving, she was going to the fucking Imperial Police—but instead Carolina said, "Track you…." Then she smiled brightly and said, "Of course. I do apologize. For everything. Flights of Fancy is, like all Imperial business concerns, focused first and foremost on customer service." She stuck out her hand and said, "Let's start over, shall we? Welcome to Flights of Fancy. I'm Carolina Delgado. What can I do for you today?"  

Lucy looked down at Carolina's smooth, manicured hand, the anger slowly dissipating from her flushed face. After an extended pause, she took the other woman's hand and shook it. 

"Hey. My name's Lucy Harrington. I heard some good things about this place from a friend. Y'know, the one I mentioned?"

"Amy?"

"Yeah. She said you guys hooked her up with some temporary transformation nanites. Darren barely recognized her." She blushed again and said quietly, "She said he got so turned on when he saw she was bimbo-ed out that he would've given her half his money even without marrying her." She smiled, no doubt imagining Charlie doing the same.

"I've seen Charlie's HoloNet history. He's just like any other man. All he wants is a submissive idiot with a killer body and no opinions. At least, that's what he thinks he wants. But I'm gonna get the body, then show him that what he really wants is me." 

Carolina nodded. "I see. So this, uh, Amy purchased a Temporary Transformation Booster from us, I'm guessing?"

"That sounds right. But I want the best. Whatever you did for her, do it double for me. I want the authentic Imperial experience." 

"Well, I'm afraid I don't have a record available on demand of every customer at my fingertips," Carolina laughed. "I'll need to…"

"Look, are you gonna do what I said, or not? I don't need lip, I need satisfaction." Lucy's hands were on her hips, now. Having come out on the wrong end of their first interaction, she was determined not to let the Registered Mistress—who was apparently little more than a shop girl, if she was working in a joint like this—throw her weight around. After all, it wasn't like Lucy was one of the woman's helpless pets.

"Excuse me, but—" Carolina began.

"But nothing. You already fucked up once. Don't make me get the Imperial Police in here," Lucy glowered. "I know my rights." She didn't, actually. Not completely. But she knew how to handle shop staff. You had to be firm, no matter who they were, or they'd run all over you. "You wouldn't want them to hear about how you attacked an innocent tourist, would you?"

Carolina's eyes narrowed. Lucy thought she was going to be murdered in broad daylight. Then Carolina relaxed, smoothing her expression. 

"Of course not. As you say, it would be a shame if the Imperial Police had to get involved. You want our best, you say? Follow me." She turned on her heel and walked toward a pair of double doors at the back of the clinic. 

Lucy's smile was triumphant as she followed Carolina toward the doors. She was finally going to have a real Imperial experience, even if it was only for a short time. By the time she was done with Charlie, he'd probably propose to her in the town square, regardless of Imperial regulations on marriage. 

Carolina was already through the doors. Lucy hurried to catch her, noticing too late the telltale shimmer of a SecuriScan barrier on the doors. "UNAUTHORIZED STRAY DETECTED," roared an angry male voice. Lightning filled the world, and Lucy blacked out.

******

"Ohh....my head," Lucy said. She must've been out for awhile. Her voice sounded strange to her ears. She coughed, trying to clear the frog in her throat. 

Then she opened her eyes and stood up. Or tried to. 

"What the fuck?" she gasped. She was in some kind of chair, strapped to the cold metal at her wrists, ankles, thighs, waist, and neck. And her body...her body!

She was...taller, somehow. Her legs longer. Her arms bonier. And her tits! Two massive orbs, as fake and plastic-looking as the cheapest strippers, jutted from a chest she didn't recognize, freckled by the sun. The areola and nipples were slightly cockeyed, too. 

Her skin, once fair and pink as fresh peaches, was deeply tanned, and slack at her underarms and inner thighs. She could actually see her skin changing, the freckles and wrinkles creeping up her arms toward her shoulders. 

"What the fucking fuck is going on?!?" she screamed. She turned her head as best she could, catching sight of a mirror on the far wall. Her own face, blurry and shifting, stared back at her from atop an older, and much sluttier body. A pair of syringes, dripping bright blue and pink fluids, jutted from armatures over her head. As she watched in horror, her dark hair began to lighten, not to a true blonde, but to a trashy dishwater hue with exposed roots. 

"Oh, my GOD!" she screamed. Her voice sounded like it belonged to a lifelong two-pack-a-day smoker. Her face shifted in the mirror, age flowing into it like water into a bucket.

"Awake, are we?" Carolina stepped into the room, pulling the door leading back toward the clinic closed behind her. "Scream all you like. The room's soundproofed." She smiled. "Necessity, I'm afraid. You see, we do quite a lot of, ah, relocation work for the Empire, as well as select private clients. And much like your formerly sweet and innocent self, most She-Wolf operatives and other troublemakers tend to get a bit noisy when we're putting them in their proper place."

Lucy stared at her captor, shocked into silence. "How….why?" she managed, after a beat. "What have you done to me?" She jerked against her bonds, trying to break free of the hateful chair.

"You asked for our best. I gave it to you. You see, sometimes, a standard conversion isn't quite enough. Oh, it's all well and good to turn your run-of-the-mill collaborator or low-level She-Wolf agent into a drooling FuckMutt or oinking PigSlut. Makes a great educational tool and discourages any other cunts from trying to disrupt the Natural Order." She walked around the chair, making sure Lucy's straps were still firmly fastened. 

Satisfied, she walked around to face her captive once more and said, "But we don't care for martyrs. Or truly dangerous insurgents. Why, what if their capture inspires misguided but potentially damaging rescue efforts? What if their continued existence, no matter how downgraded and debased, threatens the harmony and health of the Empire?" She tapped a few keys on the console next to the chair holding Lucy, making minor adjustments.

"Are you...are you going to kill me?" Lucy whispered. "But why change me if you're just going to…" Carolina's crop cracked across Lucy's ridiculous fake tits, leaving an angry red weal. "OWWW!" she screamed, thrashing. 

"Oh, do shut up, you stupid stray," Carolina sighed. "That was a love tap compared to what you deserve." She slid her crop back into the sheath and said, "And no, we're not going to kill you. What would be the point? Why waste a perfectly good animal?"

Lucy was still trembling, the agony in her tits replaced by a dull throb. "Fuck...you!" she gasped. "I'm not an animal! And I never said you could do this! It's illegal! I have rights!"

Another crack of the crop, quick as a flash. This time, the dark leather came down on Lucy's thighs, leaving another stripe. She sobbed and quivered, struggling uselessly in the chair, hands clenched into fists.

"Spoken like a truly ignorant stray," Carolina sighed. "And don't you know by now, we can do whatever we like? Imperial law is quite clear. You came in and asked for our best procedure. I gave it to you. I think you'll find it's quite a doozy. Total conversion. We've aged you up a good fifteen or twenty years, I should think. And added a few touches based on my own, ah, special experiences in the past." She smiled and ran her hands over Lucy's swollen, smarting tits. "You're what my dear Butterscotch probably would've become, if I hadn't collared and converted her on our Eligibility Day all those years ago." 

Lucy shied away, but it was no use. Carolina's hands roamed over her transformed body, and Lucy was horrified to find she was becoming wet. "What...what's happening to me?"

"Feeling a little hot under the collar? I'm not surprised. Cunts at your age...well, your new age…are insatiable. Back in the old days they called them cougars, of all things." She shrugged, fingering the cap on her crop. "As if those ignorant cunts knew anything about being true apex predators." 

She patted Lucy's cheek, ignoring her flinch, and said, "Just one of the many changes you'll notice. Well, at least until the last one. You see, ordinarily, a Temporary Transformation Booster is exactly that. A little pre-configured BimboMaxx™ here, a little modified BitchMaker™ there, and all you sad little tourists, chasing something you don't even know you need, get to play pretend for a few days and then go back to your miserable lives." She spat on the floor again, unable to contain her disgust. "Usually, fucking their significant other, or hearing a code word, or taking a shot will disable the nanites and restore them to their regular old misguided, hopelessly lost selves." 

"But for special cases like you, well, we simply install a trigger that's never going to be activated. Take you, for example. This package is pretty elaborate, but it can all be undone with a simple fuck from your precious boyfriend. I found him while you were out. Not exactly a Sherlock Holmes mystery to track down some Free State freelancer screaming about his missing girlfriend to Mall Security." 

"Ch...Charlie?" Lucy said. "Where is he? He has to come get me, now!"

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! The crop traveled up and down Lucy's body, making her writhe in white-hot agony. Her screams were wordless, now; the helpless squeals of a tortured animal with its leg in a trap. 

After a time, the pain stopped. Lucy whimpered, her entire body striped with weals. "These aren't permanent, by the way," continued Carolina. "I just like to discipline my pets. Especially stupid ones who keep interrupting."  She slid the crop back into its sheath and put a hand on Lucy's forehead. "Almost finished. Don't cry."

"Here's what's going to happen," she said. "You'll wake up in a bar, or a club, or wherever we decide to leave you. Lucy will be a distant and fuzzy dream floating in your head. Much more real will be Betty Ann, a local girl who wasted her lifetime Exemption boozing and whoring and now has to compete with optimized pets and fucktoys for her husband's attention." Carolina smiled. "Like it? I wrote the routine myself." 

Lucy only whimpered. 

"The thing is, Betty Ann doesn't have a husband. Not really. And the tourist Exemption I transferred to the tattoo in your skin is only good for about another week. But oh, what a week! I reckon you'll have a whale of a time. Even old dogs can still pick up a few tricks, if you know what I mean."

Lucy willed herself to speak. "I never asked for this. People will know I'm missing! You can't do this, damn you!"

"Of course we can, dear. And we just did. As I told you, consent is a posteriori under Imperial Law. If you've undergone a procedure as a stray or Exempt Visitor, then you must've agreed to it. How could it be, otherwise? It's just logic. In the eyes of the law, at least."

Lucy glared at the woman. "You change me back this instant! When my boyfriend gets here, he's going to sue you for everything you're worth! He's got connections!"

The other woman smiled. "Your boyfriend? You mean, the one who doesn't know you came in here? Or the one who won't know what he's looking for when he finds you?"

Lucy stilled in the chair. The weals were fading, but the memory of pain remained. Still, she had to try. A trickle of sweat ran down her new face as tears sprang into her eyes. "You...you can't do this! I'm sorry, okay? Just let me out of here, change me back, and I'll be polite, I promise." 

Carolina waggled her finger in Lucy's face. "Tsk-tsk. The customer's always right, remember? And you did ask for an authentic Imperial experience." She maneuvered the armature holding the final syringe into place, just below Lucy's right ear, brushing aside the helpless woman's rapidly changing hair. Lucy stared at her transformed reflection. At least my eyes are still blue, she thought irrationally.

Carolina ignored her tears. "As I said, we didn't break any laws. This isn't technically permanent. All little Charlie has to do is somehow realize it's you, take you home, and give you a good fucking. He might have to get in line, though. Betty Ann's a horny old girl, and she's not too bright."

"I'll fight it! You can't DO this!" 

"You keep saying that. And yet here we are. No wonder you cunts have to be leashed. You're too stupid for anything resembling real conversation. You go ahead and fight, though...Betty Ann." 

Lucy burst into fresh tears. Carolina patted her cheek, the other hand squeezing one of Lucy's bimbofied tits, hard. 

Lucy gasped, an orgasm ripping through her. She was so shocked, she barely heard Carolina whisper, "Don't worry. Even if your precious boyfriend doesn't find you, there will be plenty to occupy you during your extended visit to our little corner of the world. Especially once your exemption tattoo expires next week."

"Please," Lucy whimpered. Another squeeze. Another orgasm. Lucy felt her eyes roll back in her head.

"Older strays who didn't start their OptiMaxx regimen early enough generally wind up blowjob dispensers or ServiceDrones or, if they're really lucky, EduCunts. But who knows? Maybe some nice Owner or Mistress will give you a good home." She grabbed the syringe, leaning close. "But I wouldn't count on it. Enjoy your authentic experience, cunt." The dark-haired woman drove the plunger home. 

Liquid fire filled Lucy's veins. Wave after wave of blackness washed over her mind, even as her hips bucked and she came again and again and again. Trapped between pleasure and agony, she could only whimper as her world, and any real chance of escape, faded away. 

*******

Ignoring the bartender's query about a drink, Charlie sank onto a bench, defeated. After more than two days of searching, he knew Lucy was probably already beyond rescue or recovery. He hated the idea of leaving without her, but with no leads, all he could do was fill out the missing person report, although here it was known as a Misplaced Asset Notification. He doubted the local yokels were going to knock down doors chasing a woman who was probably already collared and on her way to a kennel. At least the travel insurance would reimburse him for the trip, and for the cost of dealing with Lucy's estate when he got back to the Free States...

"Hey, sexy. Yew wanna hook up? Mah hubby doan get back from hiz bizness trip fer two days'!" 

Charlie glanced over and stifled a laugh. A bottle-blonde bimbo, her exemption tattoo glittering off and on under the club lights, was sitting with her legs akimbo, staring at him with a mix of lust and desperation.

What a fucking idiot. A club full of hot, nubile fucktoys and pets ready to please, and this tired old Exempt cunt thought he was going to waste his time with her? She had a certain trashy allure, he had to admit. And it was clear she'd been hitting the OptiMaxx nanites pretty hard, trying to keep up with the curves and stamina of the domestic animals she probably thought she was better than. But without optimization and conversion, time still took its toll. 

Pathetic. No wonder the Empire converted them all at 18. They clearly didn't grow wiser with age, and preserving their beauty sure beat having to deal with sad reminders of ignoring the Natural Order. Reminders like the forty-something wreck across from him.

"Uh, no. Sorry," he said, still thinking about Lucy. "I've got better things to do right now."

The bottle-blonde shrugged and stood up, pushing her fake tits together in her skimpy top and adjusting her skirt to show the top of her mons. "Suit yerself, handsome. Ah needz sum cock, an ah's gonna getz it. Yew cum finde me iff'n yew change yer mind...ah's gonna go inna terlet and see if ah ken suck off some stud afore the cleanin' sluts get to him." She staggered off toward the bathroom, one hand down the front of her skirt, the other rubbing her tits.

Charlie shook his head. It was a shame, really. That old slut was just the kind of thing Lucy should've seen, to help her understand what life in the Empire was really like. He wondered if he'd ever see her again—and if he did, whether he'd even recognize her.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him out of his reverie. A Handy Hostess was standing behind him, bimbofied body trembling with barely suppressed desire. It had long black hair, and its eyes were as pale as ice. "Howdy. Is there anything ah ken dew to enhance yer visit to the club?" it breathed, licking its crimson lips with a pearly pink tongue. "Customer service iz our number one pr'ority."

Charlie searched its gorgeous face and empty eyes for some sign of familiarity. The hair, the eyes...he shook his head. No. He'd be seeing Lucy everywhere he looked, at least for awhile. And really, what better way to remember the good times, then to celebrate their time together? The Hostess wasn't Lucy, but it would do. He sat back on the bench and spread his legs, snapping his fingers as he pointed to his swelling cock. 

The Hostess squealed in delight and dropped to its knees, enhanced tits bouncing almost to its chin. Its hands, manicured with gleaming crimson nails bearing the club's logo, worked Charlie's belt and fly, pushing aside his underwear to reveal his cock. Without further preamble, the Hostess grabbed Charlie's thick rod and began to work it, cooing and giggling while it grew harder and harder. 

"Take out your tits," he commanded. The Hostess obeyed, freeing its heavy tits from their Living Latex constraints with a mere thought. Or what passed for a thought in that pretty, empty head. The Living Latex melted into its host's creamy skin, revealing a pair of massive melons that were nearly bigger than the Hostess' head. Charlie's new friend pushed its tits together and thrust his cock between them, pumping, the flesh forming a snug channel of jiggling warmth. The eager little fuckpuppet opened its mouth and drooled onto its chest, letting the saliva lubricate its cleavage as Charlie fucked its tits.

He let it milk his cock with its tits for awhile, leaning back, taking in the club's vibe. Around the room, various men, and Mistresses, were putting the Hostesses to work. Some, like Charlie, were taking advantage of their generous natures. Others were content to let the bimbofied cunts attend to more prosaic needs like fetching drinks. 

Near the bar, a younger man with a goatee was playing a game of Euchre with his mates, all of them laughing and joking as they tossed cards on the table and tossed back beer with equal enthusiasm. Beneath the table, Charlie could see a pair of familiar paws and a wagging Ginger tail in the fork of the man's legs. 

Good to know the dog walker was well rewarded for his hard work, Charlie supposed.

The Hostess in front of him cooed and whimpered, its dull eyes glancing up at his face constantly, searching for instruction and feedback. "Nice," Charlie assured it, pushing his hips forward. "Now put that pretty mouth to work." The Hostess released Charlie's cock from between its drool-soaked globes and gobbled it hungrily, thick lips wrapping tightly around the shaft as the nanite-enhanced fucktoy began to suck.

Charlie leaned back and let it work its magic. He could feel his balls beginning to boil, but willed himself to calm with thoughts of baseball. A flurry of movement and noise from the hallway past the bar caught his attention. 

The old Exempt slut who'd tried to pick him up staggered into the room, face and tits gleaming with cum. A pair of men—one Black, one Latino, both laughing—followed, pushing her toward the exit. The dumb whore smiled eagerly, licking her lips, one hand creeping down her skirt as she led them toward the parking lot. 

Well, well. The tired old mutt was finally going to get its bone, it appeared. Looks like things were working out for everyone.

The Empire might have its faults, but from where Charlie was sitting, it didn't seem too bad. He hoped Lucy was happy, wherever she ended up. He patted the slurping Hostess on its dark head, thinking again how much she looked like his missing girlfriend. 

"Hey," he said after a minute. The Hostess stopped sucking and sat up. "Yes, sir? How ken ah help yew?"

"Are you...y'know. Available? For purchase, I mean?" 

The Hostess blinked, processing his question. Its NeuroConn flashed, then it said in a different voice, one stripped of the down-home accent and bubbly lust: 

"Hello! Thanks for accessing our Personal Choice™ expanded menu. Unfortunately, all Handy Hostess units are owned by the club and are not available for direct purchase. Rentals are available for hourly, daily, and weekly rates, as displayed on your NeuroConn now." Charlie blinked as a price sheet appeared, floating above the Hostess' empty-eyed face. The rates were reasonable; he'd paid more for a good meal at the Founder's Grille.

"During the rental period," continued the Hostess, "feel free to configure and optimize the animal in any way you like with Hundehersteller-approved nanite products. Its nanite protocols will restore the animal to its standard configuration at the end of the rental period. We do ask that you refrain from using third-party nanite products on the animal, and of course, use it strictly in compliance with all applicable Imperial Laws." 

Another pause. "I see you have an existing Imperial Express Account and are staying at the MOUNT...VERNON….ARMISTICE….RESORT.  If you'd like to rent this unit, simply say "Rent," followed by the amount of time you'd like to rent it. We'll add the charge to your bill for your convenience." 

Charlie thought about it, but not for long. No sense in wasting his remaining vacation, was there?

"Rent," he said. "One week." There was a Chienne Obeissante just down the block from the club. At the Mall, in fact. They'd have everything he needed.

"Approved," said the Handy Hostess. It blinked again, then resumed working his cock as though it had never stopped. Charlie grabbed a fistful of raven hair and smiled as those pale blue eyes gazed at him in adoration. 

Not Lucy, no. 

But close enough.