The best puppet on Proxima Centauri
Application (Day –7)
by sentientscribble
Tags:
#body_control
#D/s
#pov:top
#scifi
#training
#transgender_characters
#begging
#conditioning
#dom:nb
#free_use
#hypnosis
#posthypnotic_suggestion
#slow_burn
#sub:female
I'm at the climbing gym with Joe. We do this together every week: My mind, his body. I take him down to zero — get him good and blank and mindless, totally unguarded. And then I sit down at my desk, plug a cable into the base of my skull, and... step into his body. Or that's how it feels, with our brains connected electrically. His empty mind turns the slightest suggestion into movement. His unguarded senses convey every perception back to me. He's my puppet. His body is mine to use.
And then I take my new 6'2" gym-rat body and go climbing.
It's a hell of a lot of fun. If you've never been an ex-Marine in flawless shape, I highly recommend it: it feels a bit like having superpowers. But it's not just fun, and it's not just exercise either — Joe can do that on his own.
It's about his progress as my submissive. When I rent him out as a puppet, the clients need him to stay blank through anything: pain, noise, confusion, exhaustion, surprise. If he comes up too soon, it's bad for everyone. So now in Joe's body I am sore, exhausted, forty feet up a wall, with chaotic garbage blaring in my headphones. If his mind can stay down now, maybe it'll do it when lives depend on it.
My pager buzzes. Okay, fine, we were almost done anyway.
I head for the showers. This isn't just fun, though hot water on sore muscles feels amazing. And it isn't just sex either, though most of the dirty jokes they tell about us around the station are true. I tap in the combination to unlock the chastity cage between my legs, and I'll admit I enjoy the way my cock is optimistically half-hard as soon as it gets free of the metal, and though I'm sorely tempted — if you've never had that first orgasm after a few months of chastity in a high-testosterone body, I highly recommend that too — all I have time to do today is wash it and lock it back up.
It's about Joe's submission again. Some puppets drop faster, harder, and longer if they're securely owned in their day-to-day life. So the only time the cage comes off is when the body is mine.
Pager buzzes again. Joe can finish his own shower. It's good for him to get used to waking up in weird situations, just in case.
I unplug
—*—weird sideways sensation, recalibrating, wrong wrong everything's different, cool dry office, smaller frame, gentle yearning void where the cock was, different eyes, different nerves for fuck's sake, everything different—*—
and as the jolt wears off and my eyes refocus on you (oh shit, it's you) the impersonal hunger of Joe's hormones and Joe's half-hard cock turns into something different. Attraction. By the time my mind is fully back in my body, I'm blushing and kinda-half-grinning because it's you.
You're grinning back. Fuck.
I've known you from around the base for a long time. You were cute as hell, and I'd wondered if I'd ever get to put you under, or even if you were the right kind of gay. Hell, we might have been flirting for years, or we might just have been a dyke and a straight chick with the same life philosophy and warped sense of humor. You know how it is.
And then one night we both got drunk, and you made a pass. I tried to be gentle, but I had to let you down. "I don't actually date. There's... rules."
"Rules?" you said. "You're telling me about rules?" That "warped sense of humor" we shared included a certain amount of anarchism.
"No, look, this isn't... The rules matter. All the energy I have goes to my puppets. If I screwed that up and someone died..." I was ruining the flirty energy, but it's not like it was going anywhere.
"So do it."
I blinked.
You grinned and spun towards me on your barstool. "Do it to me. Show me how it works."
I scoffed and went home, fantasizing angrily about a world where I'd done it after all — taken your hands in mine, counted down, turned your drunken flirty grin into a vacant stare. I wondered if you'd even meant it or just wanted to push my buttons.
And now you're in my office standing in front of my desk with the same damn grin.
"Ms. King."
"Yes, Cassie."
Maybe we're pretending nothing happened.
"I have a question to ask."
You wait for a reply, and I let you wait, half out of irritation at whatever game of one-upsmanship I'm afraid this is, and half for the joy of watching you. We got close enough in that bar that I know a whole lot more about your curves than I used to, and it makes the sight of you in a baggy uniform even more enjoyable. There's a shape in your clothes that keeps catching my eye, that I find myself hoping is an erection pushing at the fabric.
"Then ask."
Your eyes flutter, and a blush follows just after, like a small wave washing over you. You look uncharacteristically vulnerable. (I want vulnerable. I want to pin you down and turn your fucking brain off.)
"I would like to kneel while I ask it."
Nope. We're not pretending.
"Then kneel." It's out of my mouth before I'm done thinking, and it's a fucking mistake. But I'm still regretting not making a bigger mistake last night.
You get to your knees gracefully, your erection becoming unmistakeable.
Admittedly, if you are here to apply, you're doing better than most. Most applicants drop to their knees uninvited, as soon as they get through the door, and they beg and whine and grovel and call us ridiculous names. In the deadpan words of the Puppet Lab Handbook, we should "provide them with advice on professionalism and invite them to reapply." Most tops include a lot of slow sexy looks in that advice — turn it into something more like what porn sites call "training" — and more power to them, I guess, as long as they look but don't touch. I just tell the whiner to fuck off and come back when they're serious.
Except now I don't. I let you see me looking — at your face, your breasts, your cock. The hunger is clear on your face, as I'm sure it is on mine, but you hold your pose. I stay behind my desk. Something tells me you want me closer, and something in me desperately wants to make you wait.
"Comfortable?" I ask.
You hesitate.
"Cassandra," I say, finally getting up and walking towards you. I'm aware of your eyes on me too, and I walk slowly, savoring it. "I believe from your... condition" — you grin bashfully and looked down, then regain your composure — "that you are here to ask me for a job?"
You hesitate still. A guess about why occurs to me. "If you want, you may address me as sir when you answer."
"Yes sir. I'm here for a job, sir." You say it so eagerly — any faster and you would have interrupted me — and with such a look of joy, that I almost laugh.
"Cassandra, what were you thinking about when you knocked on my door?" I don't spell out what kind of thoughts I had in mind. But I do still have my eyes on your cock.
I'm not supposed to asking about your fantasy life. Not now. It's the sort of thing I'd say in a scene with a bottom who needed it, but not in an interview. Sure, some applicants show up hard, or wet. It doesn't affect their qualifications, and I make a point of leaving it — and the reasons for it — out of the interview process.
Except now I don't. You think for a long moment. And then, walking a fine line between eagerness and hesitation, you say "I was... imagining that I would... come through door and you would put your hand around my throat..."
I give a little involuntary chuckle of satisfaction that I hope you can't hear.
"...and um, push me back against the. Wall."
I do want to do that. Very much so.
"..and," you say. I let the pause stretch out, and so do you. Finally: "Use me."
I force my voice to steady itself. "Wouldn't that have been unprofessional?"
You pause again. My mind is an endless scroll. What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck do I want to be doing? What the fuck should I want to be doing?
"Yes," you say, interrupting my thoughts. "But I think we both want some unprofessional things." And then, after a brief hesitation, "Sir."
I schedule you for an admission test.
Then I page Joe, who can't have gone far. Ownership has its perks.
What I want is your body. I want to be inside it. I want you slack-jawed and hollow-eyed on your knees in front of me, and then I want to plug in and feel myself inside you, as you, running my hands over myself, cupping those breasts that were inches from me at the bar last night, unzipping my uniform to stroke that cock whose shape I've been memorizing. I want to use your body so hard that it's still sore when you get it back, and when the sore wears off I want you to call me drunk and beg me to do it again.
I can't have your body, not while you're still a civilian. There are fucking rules. But the rules do say I can have Joe's.
I shut the blinds. He knows why he's here — there's only one reason I call him in the evening — and his body language is already a little subbier in anticipation. Now nobody has to be professional. Because he belongs to me, he kneels right away. Because he belongs to me, he stands and undresses as soon as I snap my fingers. His cock's trying to stiffen now, not just optimistic but straining, its head pushing purple against the bars of the cage, and he smiles bashfully when I look at it.
"Not going to let me remember this one, are you?"
When we first started working together, I'd have slapped his face for that. Now I flip him the bird and we laugh.
"Knees."
"Yes, sir." He kneels.
"Whose body is this?"
"Yours, sir." He looks blissful.
"Whose brain is this?"
"Yours, sir."
"Whose cock is this?"
"Yours, sir." He giggles, like always.
I don't even savor the countdown, just use a keyword I've given him that drops him instantly. And then I plug in
—*—wrong wrong sideways wrong lurching, everything different, knees bent head bowed balls ache, short hair, wide chest, different everything—*—
and before I'm even fully oriented in my new body I'm fumbling between my legs for the cage, twisting my balls around in my impatience to enter the passcode. It comes open and clatters across the floor and I'm already stroking, barely able to hold back. I've got two months worth of chastity stored up in this body, two months when my cock has only been out of its cage for a weekly shower, and I force myself to slow down like I'm wrestling with myself to keep the orgasm from tearing itself out of me right away.
What I want is you. Your cock. Your orgasm. The way your nerves and hormones and muscle memories feel. The taste of your cum on my hand afterward.
I can't have it, but the thought of it tips me over the edge. Slowing down is useless so I don't. I cum so hard it hurts, months of frustration shooting up hot across my chest.
Even this is good for Joe's submission. A few times a year he returns to his body knowing an orgasm was just stolen from him because his owner got to feel it instead. Keeps his focus sharp.
I snap the cage back on my softening cock, and unplug —*—leaning lurching skewing different fuck everything different—*— and suddenly I'm standing over his body again instead of in it.
"Good boy," I say, and kiss him on the forehead. "Clean yourself up."
I shut the door behind me. He's still groggy, coming up from hypnosis, but it's good practice for him.
And I walk home, under a dark sky, mind still buzzing from the orgasm, still thinking about you.