2007

Doctor Alphonse Bimbeau travelled now, if he had to travel at all, under a French passport that proclaimed him to be Mr Jean Alphonse. This passport was, technically, fake - it was for a person who did not exist - but Lulu and Candace had been sent to acquire it using their best judgement, and they had elected to entrance someone working in the passport office, then compel him to produce a broad assortment of different fake passports so that when he recovered from their influence, he would be unable to recall all the possible identities used.

In this way they were confident that until and unless Mr Alphonse developed a criminal record of his own, his passport would not come under suspicion.

Even so, the Doctor spent most of his time on his island, and having lived there now for over a year, he was getting used to the climate. Given the presence, too, of a number of women whose minds and bodies had been resculpted to his precise specifications, it wasn’t often that he was willing to leave.

His flights today - a private craft from his island to Morocco; first class to Lisbon; and then lastly business class to Chicago, the longest leg - were officially an opportunity for him to visit the superteam known as the Symphony to update their programming and enjoy their willing bodies. Unofficially, they were also a test for a theory Bimbeau had been evaluating for months now.

The slave on whom he depended the most was Doctor Candace Kraft. Once, they’d been colleagues, occupying the same office and research rooms in a small Scottish university. They’d even been friends.

The Doctor tried not to remember those days, now. After losing his wife, he’d lost Candace’s friendship, too, burned bridges and spiralled into a dark place. The key to his recovery - to his life feeling and seeming better, at least - had come when he brainwashed Candace in their office, fucked her at her workstation, and begun a collaboration. Turning her knowledge to his service, the two of them had devised much better, more efficient systems for the control of others’ minds.

She’d stolen her husband’s wealth for him, then the two had faked their own deaths and fled. Since then they had developed ways of making more money - selling the rich and powerful the women or men they couldn’t have - they’d become parents together to young Alexander, and Candace had even, during a mission he’d sent her on, ended up taking control of a team of superheroines, freeing them from the military conspiracy who’d previously been pulling the strings in their subconscious minds.

That last act was at the centre of Bimbeau’s theory. Back when he first laid down the new rules that governed Candace’s mind, he had conditioned her to believe he was smarter than her. Following editing by the Tiara device they’d built together, a rule of her brain was to believe him smarter than her, and the conditioned love she had developed for him was augmented by the respect and the inferiority complex she’d developed.

To that point, it all hung together. But when she’d been out on assignment, when she’d faced off with the Symphony and General Walters, she’d showed a level of ingenuity, grit, and determination that was completely absent when she was in the Doctor’s presence.

Bimbeau had made so much use of Candace’s mind already. Once the idea that she might be limiting herself in his presence due to her programming had got in his mind, he felt the need to test it. Accordingly, he’d looked for an excuse to travel without her, before he realised one was staring him in the face. It came from the same incident that had made him start wondering.

Candace Kraft had turned five superheroines from brainwashed tools of a disgraced general planning a military coup into brainwashed playthings in the Doctor’s own empire. She’d taken their minds and twisted them, shaping the raw material into something that wanted, needed, to serve their Master, and told them that he was their Master. And into the bargain, she’d used the tools at her disposal to sculpt their bodies into his own personal fantasies, patterning them off what he’d done to her and his other slaves; what she knew he liked.

They couldn’t stay at his island. Their return to the public eye had necessitated careful handling, and in any case now they were out and operating again there was a lot of attention on them. If they kept leaving the States and heading to a small private island, there’d be journalists out there looking for the reason why.

The Doctor hadn’t had nearly enough time to play with his ‘gifts’ as Candace had called them, and therefore - why not kill two birds with one stone?

It was also more than a little pleasant to be out in public again. There was a lot to be said for being the undisputed ruler of your own private kingdom - and certainly he’d never wish to abandon his island= - but sitting at an outdoor table at one of Lisbon’s streetside cafes was a different kind of pleasure to sitting beside the pool you’d had built with the money stolen from your slave’s ex-husband while a brainwashed beauty brought you your coffee, pastry, and morning blowjob.

Sometimes the contrast was just satisfying on its own.

Flight 738, according to the most recent update, was just approaching the coast of the US now. The Doctor had been up now for entirely too long, but as he had a chauffeuse waiting to collect him from O’Hare, he was keen to experience the whole flight - and the stewardess had been very happy to keep the drinks coming.

Business class was not quite first class, but the last time the Doctor had been in America, he’d flown economy class to attend an academic conference in New York. The difference had kept him entertained for most of his flight in, though the salesman next to him who wanted to make small talk had reminded him he was completely out of practice. He’d forgotten how you talked to people you didn’t own, and pretending like he knew felt unnatural.

Then all the lights went out - everything that shed light. The cabin lights, the TVs, the phones, tablets, and laptops in use by various businessmen, and even the striplights along the central aisles all went dark at once.

Everyone seemed to speak at once, a babble of consternation in five languages and a selection of inarticulate noises. One of the stewardesses raised her voice over them all.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm! I’m sure our captain has this under control, and-”

Her words petered out as everyone in the cabin noticed the sudden absence of any other noise. The plane seemed to hang in the air, its forward motion vanished.

“The engines have gone,” someone exclaimed, and the spell of silence over the passenger cabin was broken. A panicked babble broke out, gradually focusing around the left side of the plane. Sitting on that side as he was, Bimbeau leaned forward from his aisle seat and glanced out of the window.

A young man was standing in midair. He wore dark green combat fatigues with a bright purple shoulder patch, something Bimbeau vaguely associated with one of the meta-militias occasionally in the news. Red circles continously pulsed from his outstretched hands, rapidly growing wider to encompass the plane as a whole.

That had to be what was happening, he was shutting down the power - but they weren’t falling.

Then the plane actually rose a couple of inches, and then tilted, dropping away sharply before levelling out on a different course and accelerating. The engines were still dead, and those of the passengers who’d worked out what was happening contemplated the image of another powerful superhuman flying beneath them, one with the power to brace and carry a fully loaded jet liner with their two hands.

“Oh, fuck it,” one man a row or two of him ahead said despondently. “We can’t exactly call for help. So unless someone’s in range to see this before we’re gone, we’re gone.”

“Does your firm insure travel against metahuman terrorism?” the salesman beside Bimbeau asked him. The Doctor looked at him silently, only now beginning to realise how serious the situation was.

He’d participated in the brainwashing of a heroine a year or two before, then released her when the auction fell through. Her name was Meridian; she apparently channeled more energy than most along a set of cod-scientific pathways through her body that acupuncturists called the Meridian. It let her turn aside bullets, fly, punch through walls…

She’d be excellent here. So would Samba, the leader of the Symphony, a woman who had been at the peak of metahuman power in the forties, left behind by the 1980s/90s power spike - the result, the Doctor and Candace privately theorised, of Cold War era metahuman experiments growing old enough to have powered children of their own.

Either one would rescue him with a word; Meridian had been released, but he still had a trigger phrase or two to reactivate her if needed. Keeping her without a buyer had just seemed like a high-profile high-risk gamble, so he’d released her, but he’d left enough in there to be sure she wouldn’t exact vengeance.

That was small comfort, given the Doctor couldn’t give them the word. He peered out of the window, looking at the ground below, but realised in moments that it was a stupid idea. He couldn’t tell where they were - he didn’t know America’s map more than the very basics, and in any case trying to match map to the view out of a tiny airplane window wasn’t going to help.

The Doctor turned in his seat and caught the eye of the stewardess. “Considering what’s coming,” he said gently, “I don’t think anyone would mind if you brought me another Scotch. And why not have something yourself?”

*

Now the plane had been landed - and, from the little they’d seen out of the windows, sealed in some kind of underground hangar - Bimbeau had just as little idea as he’d had before. The doors to the plane had been opened and four or five men in the same drab green fatigues stomped in, assault rifles held loosely in their arms, gas masks down over their faces.

Panic had already somewhat subsided in the passenger cabin, replaced with soft, silent fear, and the impersonal nature of the figures moving within didn’t help.

They spread out from the doors, two in either direction, one attending to the seats on the left, the other the right. The barrels of the guns swept over everyone in turn, held there until a low buzz was heard.

Something in the sights, then. Something computerised. Facial analysis? Scanning for some metahuman giveaway, like higher or lower heat signatures?

Up ahead, the Doctor watched them pick someone. Instead of a low buzz there had been a high pitched one - evidently the sensors had found what they were looking for. A large metal collar was produced from somewhere in the combat webbing. Placed around the man’s neck, it sealed with a loud click and a strange hiss.

Bimbeau watched the man ushered from his seat and directed to the plane’s open door, where he saw two more soldiers waiting.

The man was white, tall, running perhaps to seed a little, with dark hair that curled messily. Honestly, he looked a lot like Bimbeau himself, but seeing them identify their man let him relax. Whatever was going on, they’d go to the second stage now. And that might give him some opening for freedom.

He’d almost relaxed when it sank in that the soldiers hadn’t stopped searching. Which was odd - but maybe there was an explanation. Maybe they’d been looking for metahuman indicators. Or the aliases for a superteam.

The Doctor’s expression appeared calm when he looked down the scope of one of the guns when it was pointed at him. His mood wasn’t calm so much as he was abstractedly trying to work out a way out of his situation, but certainly when he heard the higher pitched noise as the barrel was pointed at him those thoughts derailed, and any calm he’d been feeling was gone.

He watched the collar appear and felt it snap around his neck. His eyes squeezed shut and he braced himself for any sensation of mental invasion - something he could picture all too easily after his own work.

But no such sensation came. The hiss of sealing sounded, but he felt no change.

He rose numbly as the soldier who’d found him bundled him toward the door. What had they found? What were they looking for? What had he done that could possibly make him stand out?

None of it made sense and that scared him.

*

Including the Doctor they brought out three men in the end. All of them were tall, all had short, curly dark hair. All were clean shaven. None of them ran to fat, none of them looked like active athletes. To a human eye, they weren’t exactly similar.

But to a portable facial recognition tool… well, it seemed plausible to Bimbeau that the three of them might all be within detection parameters off the same ID photo.

That worried him.

The three of them stood in a loose line, facing a much better drilled line of masked soldiers. The best that could be said was there were only about ten of them in the first place, but since he couldn’t see either of the metas who’d run the plane hijack (and since one trained soldier on its own was going to be an impossible task for him to defeat) it wasn’t exactly reassuring - but he’d expected a full-scale militia from what he’d seen.

The hangar was sealed, and the lighting came from four tall spotlight rigs, dotted around it. Lights were harsh with stark shadows.

All three of the captives were by now looking just as worried as they felt, and the loud whirr of a heavy metal door automatically moving out of the way didn’t help. They looked across to the door and saw the new arrival. And however scared they’d already been, they felt worse for seeing them.

The woman stood over six feet tall. She had the same drab green for her outfit, but hers was a tailored dress uniform, complete with a short trailing cape over one shoulder. Her olive skin was flawless, her lips painted black, and a decorative jewel patch ornamented her forehead, just above the bridge of her nose; three brilliant pieces of amber, glinting in the harsh light, held in place by red bands of some material. Long black hair was gathered atop her head to cascade down one side of her head, over her left shoulder and (they had to assume) down her back.

All three men recognised Overshadow immediately.

She’d made headlines on her first big public act across the world - surprising enough for any villain, but as she’d confined herself at the time to trying to take over India and Pakistan, it was impressive that she’d drawn so much attention elsewhere. She’d had control, but hadn’t been able to cement her hold before a global response - and then she’d done something virtually nobody could. She didn’t just fight Ms Triumph to a standstill - she beat her down and took her out of the fight.

She’d been solo then. Afterwards she’d gradually added to a team, dominating them through force of will and threat of violence. A single ally, then two or three. Now she had more.

“Which of you is Bimbeau?” she asked shortly. The other two captives shifted uncomfortably. The Doctor blanched, and Overshadow smirked. “That was simple.” She pointed her finger at him. “You, stay. Men, take the other two back to their seats.”

The soldiers followed her orders without speaking, and the scientist and the superhuman were stood facing each other.

“You will work for me, Doctor,” Overshadow said. “And in return, I may give you back your life.”

He swallowed. “What do you want?”

Overshadow swept on with her remarks and he belatedly realised she’d only been pausing for the threat to sink in. Hadn’t meant him to speak. “The collar you wear inhibits your metahuman control faculty. I will permit you the use of your powers, outside my presence, so long as it is demonstrated that you will be converting those affected into my devoted servants.”

Bimbeau blinked slowly. Rather than risk speaking again when she intended to dictate the conversation, he slowly raised a hand.

The villainess glowered at him. “If you are not willing to comply, you have no further use to me. Rather than risk you speaking of my group to others, you will be killed,” she said. And then, “What?”

The Doctor was suddenly very conscious that this woman could kill him with less effort than he’d use to open a drinks can. Only her interest in what he could do for her could keep him alive. Which meant he had to be very careful when telling her she’d misunderstood something crucial.

“What I do is done with technology, not innate power,” he said slowly, choosing each word with care. His eyes were on her face, watching for the slightest shift in her expression that might say she was angrier than before. “But I will happily work for you if we can solve that,” he said, and that came out in a rush. He was in no hurry for death.

Overshadow considered for a moment. “You will show my men where your technology can be found,” she said, “and instruct them in its use-”

But Bimbeau had raised his hand again. “Many apologies,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid my technology is quite… bulky. I don’t travel with it.”

She snorted, and it was either suspicion or a growing certainty that he was not worth her time. The Doctor forged on before she could decide to have him done away with. “Your men seem to be resourceful. Perhaps we can build a new system. It would take thefts as well as money, and calibration would be hard. But it can be done.” His brain was racing ahead, trying to chart a solution that kept him alive. He’d have to figure out how to get free later.

“Hm.” She tilted her head, frowned; her foot tapped against the ground, her hand on her hip. To the Doctor, her body language was clear in a way he hadn’t expected: Convince me.

“I know a little rudimentary hypnosis,” he said. “I had to, to design my device. If you wanted some proof of concept, perhaps, then choose someone from your force, and give me a goal to focus them on.” His understanding of hypnosis was, theoretically, complete; however, he’d never actually used any of the techniques himself, instead developing computerised alternatives that systematised the theories he’d found.

But he felt he could do quite a lot, if it would keep him alive.

“From my force?” She smirked and shook her head. “Wait here.”

She floated from the ground, past him, up to the open door into the passenger cabin. It was effortless on her part, but it clearly showed off both her power and confidence, firmly underlining that both were beyond anything Bimbeau could muster.

There was nobody holding guns. Nobody watching him. Not that he could see.

Nonetheless he stayed quiet and waited.

She floated back out of the door, moving a little faster now, but still the flying equivalent of a cocky strut. No need for speed; Overshadow knew exactly the impression she was creating. And she was holding a woman by the arm, a redhead in white shirt, blue tie, dark blue epaulets and dark blue trousers. The captain? Or the co-pilot. Bimbeau had no idea how to read the rank insignia stitched out in gold.

“Here,” Overshadow said, dropping the woman from a height of about three feet. She landed awkwardly, stumbling, but stayed upright. Instinctively, the Doctor moved forward to steady her. “Deliver her to me with her skills intact and a readiness to lay them at my feet,” Overshadow instructed. “My men will find you room to work.” And indeed, a couple of the armed, masked soldiers were descending from the plane toward them.

Bimbeau nodded assent - what else could he do? But he was beginning already to wonder if he could be successful with someone who’d been warned in that way. He had to hope she didn’t understand exactly what Overshadow meant. The villainess was already leaving, at the same measured flying pace she’d returned to him.

The door opened before she reached it, and the soldiers flanked him and the pilot before she was gone from sight. “What’s going on?” the woman asked him, and he shook his head marginally. “We have to follow these people,” he said. “I’ll explain when we get some peace.” He had kept an arm around her, steadying her, and in their mutual fear she clung to him, looking nervously from one soldier to another.

*

The room they were in, Bimbeau had to imagine, had been designed as a cell. There was a flimsy bed at one side, two chairs, and some pipes in one wall which probably had had plumbing before now.

There was also a security camera, and the Doctor was almost certain it was fitted with a microphone.

“Are you okay?” he asked her. The name badge had MURPHY on it, but it didn’t include her rank. Calling her just Murphy seemed rude. “I’m Al,” he said, which was true, although shortening his name like that was something he’d always hated. “What’s your name?”

“Sinead,” she said. Irish name and deep red hair but her accent was watered-down American Neutral; she could be from anywhere and Bimbeau at least would be none the wiser. East coast, maybe? “That was Overshadow…”

It came out as almost a whisper, but there was a clear quaver in her voice. “I know, I can’t believe it either,”Bimbeau said, and it was true.

“What did she mean?” Sinead asked him again. “Is it you she’s looking for?”

“I’m afraid so,” he told her. His mind was racing - how did he get ahead of this? How did he get Sinead into a trance when she was so nervous and so scared? “She, ah - well, she heard about me somewhere. I suppose the thinks I can be useful to her.”

“So why am I here?”

Because she’s done her research and she knows I’m partial to redheads. He managed to stop himself from saying it, but the moment Sinead asked why she’d been chosen, he realised that Overshadow’s research wasn’t as bad as he’d thought.

Wasn’t there someone in fairy tales, forced to perform under threat of death, having to succeed and succeed night after night, winning only a day of life at a time? He’d never been much for fiction reading - his fantasies had come to him much later, after his wife was done, and they were of a very different sort. All the same he was sure there’d been some such story.

“She wants to test me. She’s using you as the test. I want you to know - I want nothing to do with this.” Although the fear she had in her, somehow, made the prospect of twisting her mind more exciting. Bimbeau brushed that thought away before he had to deal with the consequences of it.

“What… what kind of test?”

Seize the opening, he thought. Speak up before you second-guess yourself. “It’s going to be easier to show you, I think,” he said. “But before I do, I’m going to need you to be calm. Do you need help with that?”

If she thought this was a prelude to what Overshadow wanted, she might not be as worried about it. “I… what do you mean?”

“Well, here,” he said. He cast his eye around the former cell before realising the best option he had was one he’d already been looking at. “See that security camera there?”

Sinead followed his pointing finger, and the Doctor pressed on while she was more easily led. “Just look at that red dot under the lens, okay? Really stare at it, like it’s the letter chart on an eye test. Pilots have to do those, right?”

She was looking at the light and she smiled. “Right. Our vision needs to be perfect.”

“Lucky you,” he said with gentle envy. “But even with perfect vision, you have difficulty with the really small letters, right?”

Sinead shrugged, but the smile stayed in place. “Sure, I know what you mean.”

“And when you’re staring at those blobs they could almost be any letter. Sinead, I want you to try and see the letter S in that red light. Do you think you can do that?”

She was silent for a few moments, squinting at the red light. “I… kinda. Wait… Actually, yeah! If I look at it just like this it kinda looks like an S.”

“That’s great,” Bimbeau said warmly. “You’re doing so well.” He was glad she was still looking at it. When it was this important that she go under first time and drop deep, he’d take any extra indication of susceptibility he could get. “Now just let that S sit in the back of your mind for a moment. Now I want you to find the L. Can you find the L in that light?”

She looked puzzled at that, but she didn’t stop looking or trying. As she nodded slightly - “Yes, I can see it” - he could see her furrowed brow relax, and some of the tension around her eyes was gone too. Even her smile was less taut, somehow. Looser.

“That’s good, that’s really good,” he said again. “So we have an S and an L lingering in the back of your mind. But now, I want you to see if you can see an E.”

He didn’t give her any further encouragement that time; he calculated she’d be looking ahead and carrying herself along the trail now. When she nodded the next time, her smile was wider as well as looser. She hadn’t turned her head at all - her gaze was still riveted to the red light - but her gaze still seemed unfocused.

“An S, an L, and an E,” the Doctor said softly. “Something different this time, Sinead. I want you to look at the light and not see a letter.” There was again the furrow of a confused brow, but not for long - and then she nodded again. The motion set her head bobbing, but the eyes never wavered, still locked on. “You’re doing incredibly well. Nice and calm, nice and peaceful, and doing so good,” he promised her. “Now see if you can find the E again.”

And it took her almost no time before she was nodding again, though this time there was less movement, a much smaller nod. Her eyes had almost crossed, and the only thing preventing that was the focus she held on the image ahead.

“S, L, E, E,” Bimbeau said. “You’ll find you know what letter is waiting for you, Sinead, what letter you’ll see next, even if you haven’t realised.” She paused to let that sink in, though the vacant earnestness of the pilot’s stare gave no clues. “It spells a word, Sinead. Do you understand?” The same fractional head-bob that counted as a nod.

“What’s the word, Sinead?” he asked again.

“Sleep,” she whispered, and her eyes rolled back up into her head, her jaw dropping slackly - then a moment later her head flopped forward as her neck relaxed. A contented sigh issued from her lips.

He turned his head to look at the eye of the camera, and he smiled. Then he took a deep breath and turned back to Sinead. There was still plenty of work to be done. “Alright, Sinead,” he said softly. “Do you want me to help you stop being scared of Overshadow?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice barely louder than her soft breathing.

“Overshadow isn’t dangerous to anyone loyal to her,” the Doctor said. “But she knows you aren’t. Yet. But you want to be safe, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“We put you in this trance, Sinead, so we could teach you to be safe. Overshadow would know if you pretended. To be safe, you have to be loyal to her. And in this trance, we can make you loyal. Do you understand?”

“…ye-es…”

“Repeat after me, Sinead: You are loyal to Overshadow.”

She was silent for long enough that he began to worry he’d lost her. Then, “I am loyal to Overshadow.” It sounded almost tentative, unsure, but it came out in one burst. Less like she was breaking from trance, more like she was trying the suggestion on for size.

“Again.”

“I am loyal to Overshadow.” Firmer now. More decided.

“You want Overshadow to be happy.”

“I want Overshadow to be happy.” This time the response was firm from the start. Accepting the first idea had made it easier for her to accept the second.

“Your job is to make Overshadow happy.”

“My job is to make Overshadow happy.” Her open mouth was slowly settling into something of a smile.

“Very good, Sinead. You’re doing very well.”

“I am doing very well.”

He chuckled. “You’ll do anything Overshadow wants,” he said, pressing the advantage.

“I’ll do anything Overshadow wants.”

“Obedience makes you happy.” He felt himself warming to his theme now. Making someone pledge allegiance to someone else wasn’t his thing. But when it came to simply programming someone for obedience? That he knew. That he liked.

“Obedience makes me happy.”

“You will obey Overshadow.”

“I will obey Overshadow.” She said it immediately, and with a broad, happy, accepting smile on her lips.

He was determined to be thorough. To make absolutely sure Overshadow would find no flaws in his work. “You will obey Overshadow’s people.”

“I will obey Overshadow’s people.”

An idea struck him. A temptation he shouldn’t give into. A boundary he probably shouldn’t test.

He was in the middle of deciding not to say it when he found himself saying it. “You need to prove your submission.”

“I need to prove my submission.” Her head was still slumped forward and her eyes were probably closed, but Bimbeau could imagine how glassy the eyes were beneath the lids. The slow, murmured speech, the eerie precision of her pronunciation in trance, it told him so much about where her head was.

It excited him.

Bimbeau cleared his throat, and as he did, he moved his chair around so he was between the camera and Sinead.

It was a stupid idea. He knew it was likely to get challenged. But he was gambling that if he presented Overshadow with what she wanted, there’d be a certain amount he could push his luck.

And if he was ever to escape this situation, he’d need Overshadow to give him some leeway.

“Get on your knees, Sinead.”

The redhead sat for a moment and he saw her lips moving as she tried out repeating the order. She didn’t make a sound, and she clearly decided that it wasn’t meant to be repeated. Instead, slowly, somehow heavily, she slid forward, buckling at the knees as her hips pushed her forward off the chair.

The impact of knees on floor was somehow loud and muffled all at once.

“Look at me,” he instructed. Her head rose as slowly as if on puppet strings, tilting back from her posture on her knees. Eyelids fluttered open revealing a glazed expression that was everything he’d wanted to see.

He realised he was growling quietly at the back of his throat, and stopped out of embarrassment. “Undo your shirt,” he said, and his voice was now a soft whisper as he held back his emotions. Hard not to be swept up in euphoria though - it was always delightful when you realised things were working the way they should be.

He watched her hands rise gingerly, fumbling at the buttons of the crisp white shirt, then tugging the two sides apart once they were free. Her soft, pale skin was set off beautifully against the white bra beneath, and he could see, across the shoulder where it would normally be hidden by the shirt and epaulette together, a tattoo; some ornate leafwork with petals just visible where the shirt began to hide them; a flower of some kind in heavy, well-shaded crisp black inks.

“Overshadow could ask you to do anything, Sinead,” he said, his voice still pitched quietly. He wasn’t sure if he handed what he was saying to be unclear to anyone manning the camera or if he wanted them to know exactly what he was up to. “Whatever order you receive, you must obey. Yes?”

“Yes,” Sinead agreed, and though her eyes were glassy they still looked directly at him with an implicit trust he in no way deserved. She spoke with a calmness that was almost an absence of personality.

“It’s time I tested that. You don’t want to fail your first test, do you?”

“No.”

“Pull down the cups of your bra,” he instructed. Eyes still on his, expression so empty you could read whatever you wanted into it, she complied, silent but obedient.

The bra had been doing a lot of work to hold her chest in, and her tits spilled free once released. Bimbeau had to smile at the soft, welcoming flesh now on display; her body wasn’t as good as the sculpted physiques he’d given his slaves, but it was certainly something to see.

If he’d been tempted enough to act on impulse before, it would take Overshadow’s guards actually kicking down the door for him to stop now.

He reached down, shifting in his chair, and unbuckled his belt, opened his pants. “Take my cock out,” he told her, and Sinead obeyed again. In silence.

That was what was missing.

“You should acknowledge your orders, Sinead. Overshadow will want to be addressed as Mistress.” He chewed on his lower lip for a moment, deciding. “You may address me as Doctor.”

He watched that news filter in for the glassy-eyed woman on her knees before him, her tits spilling out over her bra, his cock in one of her hands. “Yes, Doctor,” she agreed, and he nearly punched the air in triumph.

“Do you know what a titfuck is, Sinead?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Have you given one?”

“No, Doctor.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like the idea, Doctor.”

“Yes you do,” he said, and he said it quickly and confidently. Sinead was silent for a second, then,

“Yes I do, Doctor.”

“Are you ready to give your first?” he asked. “To prove your loyalty and obedience to Overshadow’s organisation?”

“Yes, Doctor,” she agreed.

“Then begin.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

She leaned forward from her hips, arching her back, and her tits slid along his bare thighs until they reached his boxers. Sinead lowered her head but, in accordance with his orders, never broke eye contact. Her mouth opened and enveloped him briefly, her tongue washing around him eagerly. As she broke the connection, lifting her head up, her lower lip stayed open and she let herself drool, lubricating him with her saliva.

Then her hands cupped her breasts and pressed them firmly against him, wrapping him warmly in her soft tits. She began to pump, slowly at first, experimenting with more and less pressure, quicker and slower strokes. Her eyes never left his, and she was clearly a quick study; the adjustments she made were based on twitches of his eyes, the angle of his smirk, the sudden intakes of breath.

Sinead really, really wanted Overshadow to know she was loyal. She’d do anything to prove it, and anything for the Doctor. Although he rather suspected he couldn’t make her move against Overshadow - but what would be the point? Neither of them has the power needed to take her down.

He let out his delight in a groan as Sinead continued to tease and coax his cock to greater heights, and he could see her own efforts become more enthusiastic in response. She’d been programmed to enjoy obedience, and it was clear now that she did.

“Well,” an amused voice came from behind him, “I’ll give you an A for effort, but your timing could use a little work.”

Bimbeau would tell himself forever afterward that it wasn’t the sheer amused confidence in Overshadow’s voice but the shock that pushed him over the edge. Whatever the case, he came, shocked and galvanised into it, and Sinead was spattered across the chest and blank, unthinking face with his seed.

Overshadow moved into the room and Sinead settled back, hands falling to her side. Without being told to, she looked up to the villainess, away from Bimbeau’s gaze.

“Are you ready for me to evaluate your work?” Overshadow asked.