Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 DISCLAIMER: Don't read if under the age of majority in your area.  No,
really.  It's naughty.  And you probably just want straight porn anyway. 
Go on, leave.  Go on.  Go on!  That's it.  No, don't wait there, I can
still see you.  Go... That's it.  Well done.

   CHALET GIRLS

   "Couldn't we have got six?" "Why - Oh.  Two each.  No, you've forgotten.
Eight rooms, three of us.  We wouldn't get any to bite at all if we did
that.  Tell you what, once we've got `em done, we'll pick one each, play
cards or something for the other two.  We can pick another up for the loser
when we're back in Geneva.  Deal?" "Deal." "Deal." *** The room she sat in
was small, perhaps three metres by three.  The chair in which she sat was
the only furniture.  Her clothes lay neatly folded in one corner, or
presumably they were her clothes.  Her fingers ceaselessly circled her
erect nipples.  It could be assumed that she derived some pleasure from
this, but an outsider could never be completely sure; her face remained
blank, almost determinedly so, though perhaps that impression merely
stemmed from the bone structure underlying her impeccably beautiful face. A
true ice maiden, were it not for the fact that the typical ice maiden very
seldom gets topless, let alone nude, and starts playing with her nipples.
One would think that the impassive archetype, too, would very seldom
develop hard nipples; somehow the concept doesn't gel with the traditional
image.  Princesses of the storybook stern mould do not pleasure themselves
or touch themselves in any way, as a rule; and it's highly likely they
never get pleasured in any way by others.  Either the handsome prince of
fairytales is part of a children's story and the tacit assumption is that
sex doesn't matter in the least, that some process of bacterial fission or
sculpting from clay got all the characters to the start line and that
they'll all live on forever, never multiplying or even performing
rudimentary addition, or the prince is the archetypal bastard and the
princess an object lesson dreamed up by insecure males in response to
female emancipation which serves to show, so they think, that secretly all
women dream of being ground into the floor, of having their very life
rendered nothing more than a possession of the prince's, for him to do with
as he wishes.  Most of the time said prince is the type of male who not
only couldn't find the clitoris if he tried but isn't going to waste his
time trying when he could be romping home.  Probably limp-dicked, too.  In
short, the woman's appearance and activity were utterly at odds with each
other, and there are far too many militant feminists round here for me not
to have been close to brainwashed.  Nothing else happened for perhaps a
full day; the woman sat, maintaining her position by dint of absolutely no
movement bar her hands, her eyes fixed on some point on the far wall -
where, our hypothetical observer would be utterly at a loss to say without
the very closest of examinations; the wall seemed utterly flat and without
features, perhaps a little glassy but nothing beyond that.  At the end of
that day she blinked.  Her fingers continued in their course at the same
speed, as if nothing had happened - and, of course, nothing spectacular had
- and her posture remained the same.  Her eyes still held fixed to the same
unobtrusive point on the wall; but now tears, a day's worth of cleansing
for her eyes, welled against her lower lids and flooded down her cheeks. 
Nothing more occurred for another twenty-four hours.  Then a door opened
behind her.  The sound did not disturb her; now she was back as she had
been forty-eight hours ago; the tear tracks had now dried into a state that
was effectively imperceptible.  The entrant walked up to the woman and
stood alongside her, casting a cursory glance at the wall which held the
woman's attention.  Thick blue sunglasses reflected the wall's sheen back
toward it.  The entrant carried a small plastic jug filled with a murky
orange liquid and a funnel.  "Open," he said.  The woman's legs swung open
immediately, exposing her labia to the air, hanging off the edge of the
chair on which she sat.  The entrant rolled his eyes.  "I had forgotten how
much of the process is hardwired to sex...  Open your mouth," he said,
impatiently.  Her mouth opened obediently, instantly.  The entrant placed
the end of the funnel inside her mouth, beyond the wall of her teeth, and
tilted the wider end upward slightly.  "Close your mouth." Teeth and lips
clamped down firmly on the plastic tube.  The entrant raised the jug, being
careful not to block or even partially obscure the woman's view of the
wall, and began to pour the orange liquid into the funnel.  At regular
intervals he told her to swallow.  And then he left.  She continued to gaze
at the same point on the wall, and blinked five minutes later.  Once her
eyes closed, however, they would not reopen.  Water nonetheless spilled out
from the confines of her lids, reopening the tear tracks of earlier.  She
sat there with her eyes closed now, legs splayed over the side edges of the
chair exposing her pussy to any who entered, fingers still working on her
nipples, which were now sore, heedless of all things, in effective sensory
deprivation - no content reached her dormant mind.  The smooth grey wall at
which she had stared for so long went black.  Somewhere, someone had turned
the wallscreen and it's subliminal messages off.  *** Her name had been
Natalie Allen.  Soon, it would be again.  At the moment, however, she had
no name.  She had no consciousness and no identity.  Academics of one sort
or another have isolated a number of points, of which these are the
principal three, and defined them as essentially specious; suggesting that
in fact the entire world, the entire universe, multiverse or indeed
whatever encompasses that and everything else - the whole of creation and
all the myriad other hypothetical creations that may exist somewhere,
somehow, somewhen - are all one hive mind, and that we are but relatively
independent parts of it.  Thus, we have been described as relatively
independent sub-totalities.  Such things as names, identities,
consciousness itself - these, the theory goes, are wholly false, specious
attempts to separate Self from Other, a distinction which, the theory goes,
is utterly meaningless.  Now, I've already vented at reactionary males and
at feminists, so I won't touch the academics this time around.  However...
The boundary between Self and Other, meaningless or not, is the only thing
that keeps the Self's will in charge of the Self's body.  Certain lessons
learned during your upbringing are, in these terms, the effect of Other
transgressing on the boundaries of your Self.  And these lessons then
inform Self's behaviour.  The whole aim of mind control, then, is to break,
twist, contract, fracture, drill through or in some other way impose Other
on Self in such a way that Self cannot override the control Other has
gained - in the case of lessons learned in childhood, the instinctive
actions can be overridden by conscious action.  The goal of total mind
control, clearly, must be to intermingle the suggestions of Other into
Self's consciousness so that Self naturally does what Other wishes.  So,
when Natalie and her university flatmates were abducted three days ago, the
chemicals used to crush their resistance were also geared toward the
induction of a hallucinogenic state in which Self and Other commingled.  A
lot of female students these days apply for work as chalet girls in the
Alps, drawn in by the somewhat over-romantic and almost fictionalised
accounts of those who have gone before.  Why those who have gone before do
this is something of a mystery, but is probably down to one of two possible
explanations.  The chalet girls want the next lot to go and experience the
same crushing boredom, hard work, and absence of skiing in close proximity
to snow as they were forced to experience, or they haven't got a choice in
the matter.  In either case, Natalie Allen, Kelly Johnson, Tina Smith,
Rachael Barrett and Sally Williams, the inhabitants of a small and rather
poky but much-beloved flat in Newcastle, where they study History of Art,
chose to spend their 2000 summer holiday in the Swiss Alps as chalet girls,
or as they put it, "Sun, ski and sex...  and you get paid for it!" Being
chalet girls for three chauvinistic and malicious students who normally
attended an expensive international university in Geneva was not quite what
they'd hoped for; Natalie alone got her butt slapped five times in the
first half hour, despite keeping a careful watch for it.  Kelly was
volunteered by Ulf, the German and probably the richest of the group, for a
hypnosis show.  No one told her it was going to be a risqué hypnosis show
until she was under, which would have been OK had she not proved to be so
deeply susceptible; once under she literally couldn't resist.  *** "...OK,
now sleep, but keep your eyes open..." Something seemed to switch off in
Kelly's eyes; some of her prior liveliness vanished.  The amused glint
which had characterised her even throughout the trials of the chalet in
that firs week was snuffed out.  "That's it, good girl," the hypnotist
said, sounding as if she was a five-year-old who kept wetting herself. 
"Now, do you see this?" he asked, holding a 12" vibrator up in front of
her. "Yes," she replied, her voice quiet and soft.  Natalie almost didn't
recognise her as the ebullient girl she shared a flat with in Newcastle,
and shuddered as she realised how much of a person is in the way they act.
"Good girl," the hypnotist said again, somehow contriving to make his voice
sound even more condescending.  "When you awaken you will believe, totally
and completely, that you are a man.  As far as you are concerned, you have
no breasts but you do have a nice big cock.  A cock, in fact, that is
exactly the same size and shape as this one." The audience laughed to a
man. Four of the women, however, merely raged silently in sympathy with
their friend.  How they could treat someone who only had only gone along
with this because she was forced to in this way was utterly beyond Natalie,
Tina, Rachael and Sally.  And just because Kelly had the bad luck to be
possibly the best hypnotic subject conceivable.  "And you will believe that
I have done cock voodoo; that I have obtained from somewhere a perfect
replica of your cock - this vibrator - and you will believe that you
experience whatever happens to this vibrator.  Is that clear?" "Yes," she
replied.  "Good dog," he said.  "Now-" And, as he'd expected, he was
overtaken by hilarity.  Natalie almost bit through her lip trying to keep
from screaming.  The hypnotist, like the dirty-minded showman he was, timed
his next comment perfectly, just as the laughter subsided enough for him to
be audible once more.  "One more thing - you'll be too scared of me to try
and retaliate and you'll know that walking away won't help." For a fleeting
moment, Natalie smiled with a sense of cosmic justice revealed.  Clearly
he'd got himself injured doing this at some time before, and badly enough
to prevent him from retaining the possibility as extra spice, which most
showmen would.  She wondered what the girl in question had done...  Kicked
him in the balls, possibly, or thrown him off the stage.  Was that a trace
of bruising she could see just below his hairline?

   Natalie had cause, not long after, to suspect that this was a private
buzz for the hypnotist and not an item included for it's positive effect on
the audience.  He had another of his female subjects give Kelly a thorough
voodoo blow job, and the audience found this hilarious; when he used a gay
male subject, most of the audience was subdued, with only the occasional
giggle and the more common disgusted muttering.  Ulf, Ringo (a Cantonese
youngster who bitterly resented his parents' choice of European first name)
and Benny (a fellow Brit) seemed to be among those disgusted, which Natalie
supposed was something in their favour, though not much.  She fiercely
hoped that Ulf regretted volunteering Kelly now.  It wouldn't change
anything, but it'd make her feel a little better.  Anyway, the two acts of
fellatio weren't too bad - though watching Kelly perk up and go into the
heights of ecstasy due to a woman's ministrations was unsettling, and the
squirming, male-homophobe reaction to being sucked off without being able
to prevent it sat oddly on her face.  What really upset the girls was the
hypnotist's next stage.  Under the guise of buying the vibrator in an
imaginary shop from a subject-cum-shopkeeper, he tested it for durability -
by smacking it around a chrome pole - and fireproofing - by cigarette
lighter.  None of the males in the audience laughed at that.  Only two of
the women found it even remotely funny.  The thought *that could have been
me* was running through everyone's mind, and no man likes the suggestion
that something might happen to his todger.  *** "Well, that was cool."
"Yeah.  Well..." "No, not that bit, obviously." "Given me an idea, though."
"I dread to think." "Now I know how to pay Tak back for the last week of
term." "You sick fuck." "Yup." "Time to start, do you think?" "Nah," two
voices replied in unison.  One of them continued.  "Give it another week.
The prelims won't be finished yet." *** Then, a week later, three days ago,
Natalie, Kelly, Rachael, Sally and Tina watched Benny, Ringo, and Ulf set
off for a day's skiing with about four thousand pounds' worth of equipment
each.  They watched them round the corner, then looked at each other and
sighed.  "Thank God they're gone," they chanted in unison, their mantra
over the fortnight in the chalet so far.  Then they sighed, and set about
clearing the place up.  Wondering how their employers could spend five
hours in the chalet each night, all of it asleep, and still create such an
astonishing mess that it took five girls the whole morning to clear up each
morning, Natalie turned the hi-fi on.  Now this was another piece of
ridiculously costly equipment, and hadn't been used by the annoying trio
all holiday; they just weren't inside enough.  And yet it looked so new it
could almost have been bought specifically for the trip.  There was a small
chunk missing at one corner, as if it had been dropped somewhere, but
beyond that...  Nothing.  She stood there for a moment, eyes closed,
already tired as a result of having had barely four hours' sleep the
previous night, and about the same for most of the nights of the holiday so
far, and let the Manics wash over her.  For a new system, it did have an
irritating background buzz.  Probably because it got dropped, but still
irritating.  On the other hand, it was still a better quality than anything
else they had to hand.  That was half-past nine.  At a quarter to ten a
timer attached to a small metal cylinder in the central heating vent
clicked off.  A gas began to hiss out, masked by the Manics singing *You're
Tender and You're Tired*.  By half-past ten Benny, Ringo and Ulf were
drinking coffee upslope and trying to decide when it'd be safe to go back.
By eleven, when they opened the chalet door with expensive and
double-purpose facemasks in place - the plastic mouthpiece being designed
the same way that gas masks were designed during WWII - the five chalet
girls were unconscious and dreaming, their minds a worrying mix of Self and
Other.  Other was about to do some serious design work on their psyches. 
And now we come full circle, with Natalie, Kelly, Rachael, Sally and Tina
standing inertly in a row, devoid of thought yet somehow uncertain, in
front of the three men they despise - or once despised.  To find someone
despicable is to make a value judgement; a value judgement is one of the
many things now beyond the scope of the five chalet girls.  They have been
freed of their confinement in the hidden basement level of the chalet -
which, they unfortunately did not know, was built by Ulf's family to
somewhat unusual specifications - now that their minds have been reduced to
plain, smooth warm wax.  It is time for the trio of obnoxious males to
leave their imprint, for Other to leave it's stamp indelibly on Self. 
Although, this time, that *is* specious; there is no Self.  There is
only... *slavery*.