Knowing, Intelligent, and Voluntary

Ironic/Paradoxical Disclaimer: if you're seeking to learn anything real about medicine, mental health, or morality from smut, you need professional help. Unfortunately, you'll probably go see a quack or a priest instead. Hey, I tried.

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Special thanks to trappedinthecl0set, a generous volunteer in Literotica.com's Volunteer Editor program, for editing this piece. All remaining errors and questionable stylistic decisions are the sole responsibility of the author.

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Six months ago, I was a very bad man.

I still am, but now I'm a very bad man who's in love.

I've fallen in love several times in my life; to be clear, I only count those rare women -- and, yes, that one impossibly feminine man - with whom I decided to share my home for an extended period of time. Work is work. It's good to be the boss, and I enjoy my employees thoroughly, but I don't pine for them in the evenings. I don't dream about them. They serve me until their owners' debts are cleared. For thirty to forty hours a week, within reason, they do anything I want.

Their owners don't mind -- or at least they don't complain. Such is the nature of my business. I am a criminal, and therefore all of my clients are criminals. Even the rare bird who's not a joint venturer in a drugging and a kidnapping is still tangled up with an outrageously, absurdly illegal enterprise.

What's a few years of sharing a plaything between 'friends' like that? Some of my clients find it hilarious that their brainwashed pets spend time every week doing actual work. Many of them are skeptical it's even possible when they first sign the papers. They expect a warm, wet, lobotomized set of holes -- a zombie that craves sex and cum instead of brains. Instead, they get exactly as much intelligence, education, charm, wit, and sensitivity as they desire -- or, more precisely, as they desire to keep.

We can help with the charm and the sensitivity, and perhaps even offer some sex education, but I don't think I'll live to see the day when science can make a sex slave smarter than they were to begin with. Would it surprise you to learn that that request, while uncommon, is not entirely unheard of?

Samantha Matheson was always special. It's no coincidence I mentioned all those virtues just now. She was always a shining light. In any given room of ostensible peers, she was the smartest. In any subject she'd cared to study, she was the most knowledgeable, and she could ask all the right questions even from a place of ignorance. She was the wittiest, too, though her natural inclination towards silence and introspection largely hid it from the world.

She was also the most sensitive. It's a beautiful and painful thing to be. So it goes; so it went.

I first met her when she was on the cusp of nineteen; believe it or not, the encounter was brief and unplanned. Today, as she's about to happily bound down the stairs and take her breakfast from my cock, she's a few months past twenty. I always wanted her. I knew I would have her. The details of the journey surprised me, but then, what's life without a few surprises here and there?

I'd assumed that the anxiety, depression, and anorexia would drive her mother to seek me out. Instead, Samantha pushed through. What finally broke her was a fresh anxiety, unique from the first kind to beset her. Those pills, don't you know: there are tradeoffs. 'Not-depressed' isn't the same as 'happy.' Far too often, 'properly medicated' is the exact opposite of 'sexually fulfilled.'

She'd worked so hard in therapy and recovery. She'd taken a few classes at a local community college. In the summer, before heading off to the four-year university that had accepted her a year prior, she'd even held down a job. With a proper diet and an excess of exercise, she'd also transformed herself from a skeleton into a supermodel -- and yes, I recognize the setup. If you could see her ass, you'd never dare to deliver the punchline. You'd be too busy killing and dying for the chance to put your face near that alabaster crown jewel, let alone touch it, let alone taste it, let alone fuck it.

All of that progress was in peril, and all due to that fresh anxiety. She couldn't sleep. She lost her appetite. She couldn't focus on her schoolwork. For Samantha, the cure was as bad as the disease. She was, and remains, her mother's daughter after all. Holly Matheson -- Holly Connelly, when her fiancé delivered her to me almost twenty-three years ago -- had been one of my first unmitigated successes. Part of the reason for that success, I've always suspected, was her naturally high sex drive.

Holly did bring her daughter to my office for the initial consultation about six months ago, but ultimately it had been Samantha's choice to continue. She'd submitted to my treatments for that singular, primal reason: she couldn't cum. At just over nineteen-and-a-half years old, Samantha Matheson, beneficiary and victim of legal, responsible medicine, had been so horny, so sexually frustrated, and so desperate to have her very first orgasm that she thought she was going to die.

I'm naked on a chair in the kitchen, finishing up my own breakfast: an egg white omelet with cheese and chives. Samantha's a slim girl, but her footsteps are loud on the stairs. I smile, put down my fork, and turn the chair away from the table.

She makes the usual detour to fetch a pillow from the living room. She enters the kitchen, sets the cushion down near my legs, and then slides her panties down to her knees from below her plaid skirt.

"Good morning, Tom," she says happily. She leans down for a quick kiss on the lips, and I gladly grant it. Indeed, it's all I can do not to pull her onto my lap and make her late to campus.

"And good morning to you, my love," I reply. "You look amazing, as always. Plans for today?"

Her eyebrows curl up. She fidgets. She bites her lip. God, she is perfect. She's even wearing the glasses for me.

"Turn around and bend over," I say. Her face lights up. She knows the routine. Breakfast is getting warmed up.

She does a half turn and touches her toes. I lean forward and flip the skirt up. She reaches back and spreads her perfect cheeks, though she hardly needs to. They're the perfect combination of taut, fleshy, muscular, and flared. When she presents herself, her asshole and pussy become immediately, fully available for inspection, or more.

I see the base of the anal plug. I kiss each of her ass cheeks once, and tap the round bit of pink silicone three times. She releases a feminine huff that communicates both satisfaction and arousal. She loves what I do to her, and always wants more.

The brief inspection is enough to get me to half-mast. Her ass really is that beautiful.

"Very nice," I say. "Go ahead and have your breakfast."

Samantha rights herself, turns again, then sinks down to her knees on the pillow. Her eyes cloud with lust. I lean back, pushing my cock and balls towards her. I give her easier access, like she just did for me. She moves in close and begins her ravenous worship. After three months living in my house -- and six months of 'special treatments' before that -- I can say for certain that Samantha is the best cocksucker I've ever created.

She knows my body inside and out. She uses her lips, tongue, throat, and fingers with the confidence of a courtesan twice her age. I'm fully hard in thirty seconds, and feeling that familiar tension in my balls and prostate only a few minutes later.

Meanwhile, her hazel-green eyes do things to my brain and my heart that rival her oral and manual expertise. It's impossible to describe the combination of arousal, hunger, submission, satisfaction, and confidence that they radiate upwards towards mine, because almost nobody in the world has ever seen such a sight. Oh, some of them think they have. Unless they're my clients, they're wrong. Some porn stars are excellent actors, in their way. Some of them even genuinely love sex. All of them would bow down to my creations, conceding their superiority. Even at that, they wouldn't believe for a moment that Samantha's current expression reflects an inner truth.

It does. I should know. I created that truth and put it into her.

I'm almost fifty years old. I eat a bit too much. I don't exercise quite enough. I avail of a few medical shortcuts that my various peers around the world have developed; I bite my thumb at Mother Nature and Father Time, though not as hard as I'd like to. To Samantha, I am the most attractive man in the world. Indeed, I am literally the only man she is sexually attracted to. She can assess others with a clinical eye. She can still enjoy pornography because she instantly imagines every dominant male as me.

No man could resist all of that. The cheats help, but Samantha earns her breakfast. I cum for her, and it's a large load. She savors it. She loves the smell, the taste, the texture, and even the color. She believes with all her heart that it is the only medicine she'll ever need again. She's completely off the antidepressants. Rationally, she knows my cum isn't going to cure an infection or cancer. In the moment, she doesn't care. The pleasure and satisfaction overwhelm her. They suspend her critical faculties.

A slave is a slave, ultimately. Samantha can pass for a so-called 'normal' girl. She can enjoy almost every facet of a so-called 'normal' life. In these moments of submissive, receptive ecstasy, her outsized reactions give away the game. She receives her second and third reward simultaneously with my orgasm and ejaculation.

Samantha doesn't merely have my cum for breakfast every morning; she has a double-decker orgasm. The girl who couldn't cum now cums longer, harder, and more easily than practically anyone in the world.

She cums because she helped me cum -- the ultimate, sympathetic orgasm;

She cums because she received my semen either on or inside of her -- the 'master's gift' orgasm.

The fourth reward she receives isn't an orgasm per se. It's emotional and psychological satisfaction. Samantha's life has meaning and purpose because I gave it one. She just fulfilled it, again, by making me cum. She fulfills it every time she serves me, pleases me, or obeys me. Those three commandments of her new existence can be satisfied in so many ways. She can heed a direct order. She can sexually submit. She can do her exercises. She can keep herself healthy and clean. She can keep going to school, get good grades, and eventually graduate with honors. Some day, perhaps, she'll satisfy all three directives at once by securing a job at my clinic. Perhaps not. There's still room for some surprises in her life, and therefore in mine.

Imagine having a master -- a god -- who was so explicit with his commandments and so generous with his bounty. Samantha has one; she has me. She can see and hear her god. She can smell, touch, and taste him. She doesn't need faith; she knows. She doesn't need fairy tales to convince her to be grateful. She hungers, and I feed her. She serves, and I reward her. Faith and freedom both seem cruel in comparison.

I run my hands over her long, auburn hair -- up in a voluminous ponytail for obvious reasons, and because it looks fantastic.

"Oh my god, Tom," she sighs, "that was incredible. Thank you so much." Then she's right back to nursing my deflating cock through its final twitches.

"Feel better?" I ask.

"Mmmm-hmmm!" she replies. It's equal parts enthusiastic and cum-drunk. She'll recover from the latter quickly enough. I don't want her hazy and stupid during her first class.

"I do too," I sigh. "Good girl. Clean me up, then tell me about your plans for today."

Samantha happily complies, making sure the only thing left on my cock is her saliva. She stays on the pillow, but readjusts so she's not fully on her knees. She caresses my legs, my cock, and my balls while we chat.

"I have Intro German in the morning," she says, "then a gap, then 19^th century English Lit starting at one-thirty."

"Exercise in between?" I ask.

She nods. "I'm bringing a change of clothes," she says, "and I can shower at the gym."

I raise my eyebrows and smile. "And will a certain someone be showering at around the same time?" I ask coyly.

She returns my smile and bites her lip again. "Yeah, Vicky will be there, most likely," she replies. "And, well, we have kinda-sorta plans to get dinner and hang out in her dorm room."

"Mmmm, 'kinda-sorta plans,'" I echo. "I remember those. Have fun."

She nods eagerly, but then offers my ego a parting stroke. "I'll miss you," she says.

I chuckle. "I'll miss you, too," I reply, "but you'll be home for bedtime, right?"

She nods yet again and kisses my leg. "Oh yeah," she says with a grin. Her face still betrays just the tiniest hint of embarrassment, even after all these months; it's the perfect dash of spice in her newfound sexual liberation. Our bedtime ritual still contains an element of the taboo.

"Okay, baby," I say, "you go freshen up, then head out. I'll see you tonight."

"Love you," she says as she stands up. It's achingly sincere. She kisses me on the cheek, and slides up her panties -- not all the way, though. If she did, they'd get wet.

"Love you too," I reply. I offer a parting feather touch upon her face. I glance at her slim, sleek day collar, and the silver charm in the shape of my personal sigil. It matches the tattoo on the back of her neck, above the hairline, well-hidden from casual onlookers. Samantha walks gingerly to the bathroom, cleans up, then gathers her things and leaves for school.

I take my pills and clean up the kitchen. Believe it or not, I don't have a slave for that, and don't feel like burdening Samantha. She should enjoy college life for now. There are plenty of years of service ahead of her.

Samantha's the only plaything I live with right now. There have been stretches where I've had two -- one older, one younger, the former training the latter as an eventual replacement. During those years, I never had to do single household chore or run a single errand. It was wonderful in its own way, but love is love. It makes you do silly things, like dishes.

I use the bathroom, shower, get dressed, and then go to work. I readily admit that I'm one of those bosses. I don't really do much of the work-work anymore. Some of my indentured servants are supremely competent in advanced fields. I have a few sleeper slaves on staff whose paperwork could actually pass an audit. They have full lives outside of the office. I've made them upper middle class as a reward for their years of faithful service, and for the natural talent that allowed them to finish a nursing degree or even medical school. I wholeheartedly encourage them to have children, just like I encouraged Holly Matheson.

Before Samantha came to live with me, I enjoyed multiple fucks and blow jobs during every work day. Now, I save my cum for her. I still rotate pairs of servants; one tongues my balls while the other worships my asshole. It's about relaxation more than arousal. As the day wears on and my dearth of responsibilities shames me, I idly think to myself that I could spend an hour exercising. I don't. At lunch, I tell myself I could eat better -- less, mainly -- and then don't.

I sit behind one-way glass in a custom-built chair, and observe an interview while a fresh pair of servant-employees attends me. I recognize the older woman: Monica Jones. Her niece is beautiful; she seems pleasant, though reticent. I enjoy watching my most competent servants ply their trades. Penny, my lead interviewer, is a top-tier seductress and saleswoman. Brenda, my lead technician, radiates the authoritative professionalism of a full-fledged physician -- first and foremost because she is one, and more besides.

Those two don't take many shifts worshiping my body. They're too valuable. They do real work, and not just paper-pushing.

Today, Monica's niece isn't receptive. She isn't threatening to call the authorities, either, so I'm not all that worried. Most of them come around eventually. My second generation is spreading. By the time I have a third, I'll be an old man, searching for an heir. I envy him - or her -- already. Technology marches ever forward. The slave of the future may defy my imagination. Indeed, I hope it does.

Love makes work feel like work, even though I have the best job in the world. I count the hours until I get home, and then count the hours until Samantha does. By the time I hear the door, I'm aching for her. I like it. I want to keep aching like that, at least for a few more months.

Samantha closes the door and immediately strips. In less than a minute, she's wearing nothing but her glasses, her day collar, and her plug. I'm already naked. I don't spend much time clothed at home; I haven't for decades.

We greet each other like young, inexperienced, hormone-addled lovers. Our kisses are artless. Our groping gets too aggressive too quickly. I see out her perky, youthful breasts, and I devour them. She cries out in ecstasy from the stimulation. She professes her undying love. With barely a touch, her pussy is soaked and scalding.

I push her against the front door, thrust my cock inside of her, and fuck her with abandon. I revel in the extra tightness caused by the toy inside her ass. Samantha raises her legs up and wraps them around my body. Her fingernails find my back and scrape just hard enough. We bite each other as much as we kiss. Hers are restrained; mine aren't.

I don't bother seeking out her clit. The position makes it too awkward. I revel in her training. She loves clitoral stimulation, but she never truly needs it. Her female lovers will see to it. Her master will do as he wills.

Before I fill her up, I decide to grant her the third type of orgasm that she's been programmed to enjoy.

"Cum for me, right now," I growl into her ear.

She does, instantly. She goes deathly silent, then pants out her release. Her vaginal muscles flutter all around my cock, and her asshole twitches around her plug. The latter sensations add one extra thrill -- not quite another orgasm on the stack, but close. Her whole body shudders and spasms around mine. I watch her face; I witness the rapture.

She cums because her master told her to -- the ultimate slavery orgasm.

It drives me to mine, and my torrent of cum gives her a triple-decker. On top of the first and second types, she experiences the fourth - the most banal.

She cums because she got fucked - the purely sexual orgasm. There are several varieties. My ravenous feast upon her breasts almost gave her one already. The one she just attained, obviously, is vaginal in origin.

I know it's anticlimactic, but it really doesn't deserve cleverer terminology. Samantha loves to get licked, bitten, sucked, and fucked. She loves sex itself, for its own sake. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I keep my ethereal beauty pinned until her legs can support her weight again. Mine are wobbly, and my knees are a little sore. It's a price I gladly pay. I keep kissing and nibbling her.

"Oh my god," she pants over and over again. "I love you, Tom. Thank you. Oh my god."

She sheds a few tears of pure joy. It's a normal occurrence. After another minute of recovery, she's nudging my neck, desperately seeking access to my lips. I happily grant it. We kiss sloppily. It's not as aggressive as before, but it's just as artless. I'm humble enough to admit that the perks of my profession have made me a lazy lover. There's no adaptive pressure. It's far too easy for me to give my slaves pleasure.

I can act like a desperately-horny eighteen-year-old. I can push my tongue halfway down her throat; I can grab at her flesh; I can give her hickeys; I can slap and spank her; I can squeeze her so hard that it hurts us both. It's a positive feedback loop for my own body and mind: the more I act like a sex-crazed youth thirty years younger than my body, the more I feel like one. The more I feel like one, the more and better erections I get, and the more cum I produce for Samantha. The final section of the loop should be obvious: Samantha receives that cum, and her responses spur me ever onward.