There was an old saying, dating back to distant Terra itself before the First Exodus, that any man in possession of a fortune would soon be in want of a wife. Such was the case for Douglas Armstrong, heir of the massive Armstrong interstellar mining conglomerate. The man soon to inherit a multi-trillion credit corporation that provided jobs for half a million people and supplied resources to a dozen inhabited systems certainly did not lack for potential candidates engage to be his bride, from the daughters of business rivals seeking to lay the groundwork for mergers or simply hangers-on who thought jumping into his bed would be the ticket to an easy life. At twenty-five, Douglas was a man who insisted on having everything his way, without compromise, and the issue of marriage was no different. He would not settle for a decent bride.
He would have a perfect one made.
It was a task well-suited to the Mindweavers, for they’d been at the forefront of biological reprogramming for decades now. He visited their stronghold on Attaraxus VII, enduring the endless mumbled rituals and inane sycophancies, until at last he was permitted into the heart of their operations to see them firsthand. “And who are these women?” he demanded, looking through the glass separating the corridor from one of their indoctrination centres at the half-dozen young women thrashing fitfully on the reclining leather seats.
“Who they were does not matter,” the head Mindweaver dared to chide him, offering a patronizing glance from beneath his hood. Whatever his name actually was, Douglas hadn’t bothered to remember it, already bored to tears by the ceremony to greet his arrival. “Think of them as raw clay, to be moulded and shaped into whatever form you desire.”
Letting that comment go unremarked, Douglas instead focused his attentions on the nearest subject, a beautiful young Asian woman, the form-fitting black latex straitjacket she’d been bound in pleasingly emphasizing her more feminine dimensions, as did the dark nylon pantyhose hugging her long legs. Leather cuffs built into the frame of the chair held her fast at the ankles, throat and upper arms, while beneath the indoctrination visor strapped over her eyes, a leather muzzle gag silenced her moans. There’d be no escape for her, and if everything he’d heard about the Mindweavers was true, she wouldn’t even want to. “How extensive is your brainwashing?”
“Please, sir, ‘brainwashing’ is an offensive term. We prefer ‘intensive social reindoctrination.’”
“Just answer the damn question.”
“Quite thorough. Personal history, motivations, sexual orientation and preferences, attitude; we reconstruct the subject from the ground-up to suit the client’s needs. We can even implant command phrases into her mind for even greater control, should you desire. The process is rather laborious and time-consuming, but I can assure you the end product is well worth the expense.”
“And this one?” Douglas demanded, brown eyes fixated on the Asian woman.
“She’s been in conditioning for several weeks now. One of our clients requested a dancer to star in a new opera they’re putting together, so we’ve been programming her with the repertoire of moves and routines she’ll need to perform as well.” Suddenly, the subject arched her back, her cry of pleasure loud enough to be heard past the gag and out into the hallway. “And to be a very enthusiastic lover.”
“Most impressive,” Douglas permitted, giving the young woman one last lingering glance. It was a shame she was already spoken for, but there were others just as beautiful out there, and as the Mindweaver rambled on, he began contemplating as to who exactly he would brainwash into becoming his bride…