Selling the Neurocommand
Copyright© 2026 by rustbecci
Chapter 6: Meeting Two
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 6: Meeting Two - A disgruntled female scientist teams up with a slimy sales person and a kinky female sex-enthusiast to scam a former business contact for all he is worth by selling a device called the NeuroCommand. The Neurocommand gives the owner complete control over connected female subjects. It is all fake, but they will have to sell it.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual Mind Control NonConsensual Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction MaleDom Anal Sex Analingus Masturbation Oral Sex AI Generated
Jack arrives exactly on time, striding in like he owns the place—bespoke dark suit, his eyes already look predatory. He barely greets them, scanning the room hungrily.
Harry launches smoothly, all charm. “Jack, glad you made it. We’ve prepped the upgraded transmitter—guest mode calibrated so you can take the controls yourself today. Temporary full access and authority.”
He hands Jack the discreet hearing-aid-style transmitter. Jack slips it into his ear without hesitation, fingers brushing the activation button, a smirk spreading.
“Guest mode,” Harry says smoothly. “Full authority on Dana for now. Go ahead.”
Jack slips it in, smirks, and wastes no time.
“Dana—strip completely naked. Right now. Everything off, fold it, stand in the center.”
Dana’s eyes widen in rehearsed shock. “Please ... not again...” But her body obeys. Fingers unzip the emerald dress, letting it slide down her curves and pool at her feet. Bra unclasped—full D-cup breasts spilling free. Panties tugged down and kicked aside with her heels. Naked in seconds, she folds each item neatly, stacks them, and moves to the center of the room—hands at her sides, skin flushing under the lights, nipples hardening in the cool air. Jack has seen her bare before, but the immediate, casual command still lands; his gaze rakes over her like he owns her already.
Jack circles once, satisfied, then points to the chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon on the sideboard.
“Open that champagne. Pour a glass for me, one for Harry, one for Katelyn. Then drink whatever’s left straight from the bottle. Don’t stop until it’s empty.”
Dana walks to the sideboard—naked hips swaying, breasts bouncing slightly with each step. She unwraps the foil, twists the cage, and pops the cork with a loud bang—foam immediately bubbling over her hands. She tilts the bottle carefully, pouring three steady glasses, the fizz hissing as it fills each flute. She delivers them: first to Jack (who takes it without thanks, eyes never leaving her body), then Harry, then Katelyn.
Then she lifts the half-empty bottle to her lips. Head tilting back, throat working as she gulps—champagne spilling in rivulets down her chin, dripping onto her chest, tracing cold paths between her breasts and down her belly. She chokes slightly on the bubbles, coughing once, but keeps drinking—more spills, streaking her naked skin in shiny trails that pool at her navel and run lower. Bubbles fizz on her flesh; goosebumps rise. She drains it in long, desperate swallows, bottle gurgling until the last drops slide down her throat.
Finally empty, she lowers the bottle, gasping, champagne glistening across her breasts, stomach, and thighs. A final trickle escapes the corner of her mouth, sliding down her neck. She stands there, wet and exposed, breathing hard, the sticky liquid cooling on her skin.
Jack watches every second, glass untouched in his hand, arousal plain. He sets his flute down, voice thick. He gets up and stops in front of Dana, taking the empty bottle from her unresisting fingers. He turns it slowly, examining the thick glass base, then the long neck—his smirk deepening.
“Dana,” he says, voice low and deliberate, “get down on all fours, right here in the center. Ass toward me. Then take this empty bottle and sit on it—opening first. Lower yourself slowly until it’s as deep as you can take. Ride it. Show me how a controlled little slut uses whatever her master gives her.”
Dana’s body reacts instantly to the command. Her warm brown eyes flash with rehearsed horror, a choked “Please ... no...” escaping her lips, but her limbs betray her. She drops smoothly to hands and knees, breasts hanging heavy beneath her, then shifts to kneel upright. Facing away from Jack, she positions the thin top of the bottle on the floor beneath her—cold glass pressing against her slick, champagne-wet skin.
Her thighs tremble as she lowers herself—slowly, inexorably—spreading her knees wider for balance. The wide base stretches her visibly; a sharp gasp escapes as it breaches, her body sinking inch by inch. Champagne residue acts as makeshift lube, easing the way but adding a sticky, humiliating squelch with every movement. Her face contorts—mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, tears welling—as she forces herself down until the thickest part is seated deep inside, the thick base protruding obscenely between her legs.
Then she begins to ride—hips rolling in slow, mechanical circles, rising and falling just enough to slide the bottle in and out. Each motion draws a wet sound, her breasts bouncing with the rhythm, champagne streaks glistening under the spotlights. Her breathing turns ragged, body glistening with sweat and spilled drink.
Jack watches, transfixed, stepping closer to get a better view. “Faster,” he orders. “Tell me how it feels—how full you are, how much you hate it but can’t stop.”
Dana’s voice comes out strained, broken by the motion: “It’s ... too thick ... stretching me ... cold glass inside ... I hate it ... so humiliating ... but I can’t stop ... I have to keep riding...”
Harry lets it continue for a long minute—the obscene sounds echoing, Dana’s naked body impaled and moving in forced obedience—before casually interjecting, “That’s the unrestricted prototype for you, Jack. No depth limits. Whatever you command, she does. We even discovered it lowers the pain receptors, so subjects can go much further under control then they could do uncontrolled. It is like it unlocks super-powers.”
Jack steps closer to Dana, circling her once more, his blue eyes dark with escalating hunger. He stops in front of her, voice low and commanding, savoring the power.
“Dana—start pinching your nipples. Hard. Twist them until they’re red and throbbing. Don’t stop.”
Dana’s hands rise immediately against her will, fingers clamping down on her own nipples. She pinches—hard—twisting with visible force. A sharp gasp escapes her lips, body jerking slightly, but the “implant” locks her in place. Her brown eyes water, face contorting in pain as she works them relentlessly—pulling, rolling, squeezing until the sensitive flesh turns angry red, swelling under the abuse.
Jack watches, transfixed, breathing heavier. “Good. Now slap your tits—hard, alternating, until I say otherwise. Make them bounce.”
Dana’s hands release her nipples and swing—open palms cracking against her full breasts with sharp, echoing slaps. Left, right, left, right—each impact sending ripples through her flesh, skin blooming pink then red. She hits harder than necessary under the command, breasts jiggling violently, a choked whimper escaping with every strike. Tears spill now, mascara running anew, but her arms don’t slow.
Jack’s smirk widens, arousal plain. He steps even closer. “Harder. Use your nails now—dig them in and rake across your tits. Draw blood. Mark yourself up for me.”
Dana’s fingers curl, nails extending—sharp, manicured edges pressing into the soft, reddened flesh of her breasts. She drags them downward in long, deliberate scratches—first lightly, then deeper as the command intensifies. Skin breaks; thin lines of blood well up, trickling in crimson trails over her curves, mixing with lingering champagne residue. She rakes again and again—crisscrossing patterns, nails biting deep enough to leave welts and beads of blood pooling at her nipples.
A low, pained cry escapes her—body trembling, but arms relentless. Blood smears across her chest as she obeys, the metallic scent faint in the air.
Jack leans in, voice husky with triumph. “That’s it—mark yourself like the pain-slut you—”
Harry suddenly stands, voice cutting in sharp but casual. “Whoa, Jack—ease up. That’s hitting the pain threshold on this prototype, we don’t want to damage the volunteer and have her ask too many questions.”
He taps his own control override (theatrically), and Dana’s hands drop instantly to her sides—body freezing mid-motion, chest heaving, blood-streaked breasts marked with angry scratches and welts. She stands there, naked and shaking, tears streaming silently.
Jack straightens, frustrated but exhilarated, wiping sweat from his brow. “Damage? She took it fine. This thing is incredible—no limits.”
Harry chuckles, diffusing smoothly.
“Exactly why we built the newer model.” He gestures subtly to Katelyn’s open collar, where the fake implant glows steadily. “That one has safeguards—pain caps, self-harm blocks. This early version Dana’s on? Raw. No brakes.”
Jack’s gaze snaps to Katelyn—the glow catching his eye fully now. His expression shifts from frustrated to ravenous.
“Then let’s try the upgraded one. On her.”
Harry feigns reluctance. “Jack, that is not how it works. It is an implant. But Katelyn, “, now diverting her attention to her. “It should be ok to let Jack see the newer version as well. After all, that’s why we need the money. To develop the safer version before going to market.”
Katelyn appears to hesitate, but this was a scenario they prepared for. “Yes,” she says with fake hesitance and suddenly unsure, “That should be fine, the safeguards should hold. Not too long though, We still need to negotiate the final details of the contract and we are running out of time.”
The pivot lands perfectly—Jack’s obsession locking onto Katelyn. Harry pretends to activate Katelyn and just like Dana, she acts out being controlled by the device.
Jack turns his attention to Katelyn, transmitter active, eyes burning with five years of resentment and lust.
“Your turn, genius, stand up and undress. Strip down completely naked for me. Slowly. Let me see what I’ve been missing all these years.”
Katelyn rises from her chair, slim 5’10” frame tense. Her blue eyes flash genuine objection—this part hits closer to her real trauma—but she channels it into the act. “Jack, this is inappropriate ... I didn’t agree to—”
Her hands move anyway, the “implant” overriding. Fingers unbutton the silk blouse one by one, fabric parting to reveal her simple white bra and toned torso. She shrugs it off, folding it neatly. Slacks next—unzipped and slid down her long legs, exposing matching white panties. Blouse and slacks stacked precisely.
Harry looked at Katelyn. The acting was different than Dana’s but still convincing. As discussed, she would strip down to her underwear and stop, but to his surprise, Katelyn didn’t stop.
Katelyn reaches behind for her bra clasp—unhooks it, lets it fall, modest B-cup breasts free, nipples tightening in the cool air. Then her fingers hook the waistband of her panties, but before she can pull it down, her hands stop.
Katelyn stands there in just her panties—topless, skinny body on display, face flushing with a mix of acted “helplessness” and real discomfort. “I ... I can’t go further. It won’t let me.”
Jack’s face darkens instantly—frustration boiling over. “What the fuck? She’s almost there! Get rid of that bullshit safety crap!”
Harry stands smoothly, raising a placating hand. “That’s the newer model’s feature, Jack—ethical safeguards. It allows partial compliance but blocks full nudity, extreme exposure, things that cross consent lines. We built it that way on purpose. Dana’s older prototype? No such limits—that’s why she went all the way. We believe the newer model will be more socially acceptable.”
Jack paces, angry now, arousal denied. “This is teasing! I want the real thing—no brakes!”