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Mr.M's Legacy
by James S Cole
James S Cole -- all rights reserved

No one knows who I once was, even I can't recall what my name was, how old I was or even what my real gender is. The doctors say it's because of what was done to me and how it was done. It was more than simple brainwashing, that can be reversed, what was done to me, it's for good. It's like my mind simply stopped existing, as if it was wiped out completely. Then what, and who, I am now was put into that empty mind. Who ever I was, I am now Xerina, dominatrix vixen.

I was owned, created by a man known only as Mr. M, no first name, no last name. They tell me once I probably knew him, what the relationship was Mr. M still won't say. He did a lot of bad things, for years. Assassination, Kidnapping, Drugs, nothing was below him. Then there are my kind, people who he "erased" and remade how he saw fit. We are, were, his harem, all females. This doesn't confirm my former gender, no Mr. M remade us all in mind and body. Or more specifically his associates did.

One man apparently can reform anyone's body how ever he likes, the other was a brilliant psychologist. I still get flashes from the process, the programming they call it. I was made to be the head of the harem, a dominatrix who enjoyed inflicting pain on worthless subs. I get flashes of the imagery used to make me that way. I can remember how good it felt it whip someone, to kick them in the gut hard, I remember it all and the feeling of power it gave me.

Mr. M also made me wear rubber, lots of rubber. Combine that with the exaggerated female body he gave me and I am like some fan boy's wet dream. I don't know anything else, the time I spent with Mr. M is the only memory I have of a past. The government eventually busted Mr. M, after chasing him for nearly 50 years. Then they had to deal with us, his harem. Three years it took them, 3 long painful years before I was deemed deprogrammed. Of course they really only took away parts of it, had everything been removed I'd be a vegetable. I had to learn everything from scratch after that, what the world was like, how to hold a job, all of it.

Now I know that I am a SCAB, that much I can be sure of, I have the condition which makes humans become all manner of things, animals, inanimate objects, anything almost. Holding a job is tough, I still can't quite adjust to taking orders rather than giving them.

This bar, The Blind Pig Gin Mill. It seemed for so long to be only a fable. A place where SCABS where welcomed with open arms, in the heart of one of the most run down cities in America. I'm standing in the rain an umbrella healed over my head to keep me mostly dry. As I walk towards the door, I am painfully aware of my heels clicking on the wet pavement. Mr. M made me so I can't even stand in anything less than 4 inch heels, I physically can't bend my foot much, and mentally I am uncomfortable in less than 5 inch heels. Yea I know what kind of woman thinks that way? Well my mind seems to be like a bizarre caricature of a woman sometimes, but slowly real experiences are changing that. I'm wearing boots with 4 1/2 inch heels now, boots that reach to my thighs and are made from black rubber. Combined with the itty bitty black rubber dress, fishnet hose, elbow length rubber gloves and the rubber over the shoulder caplet (short cape) I look like a hooker. Walking from my car a block away I was propositioned by several men, and it took a lot of will power on my part to not accept.

If I'm not careful I could fall into "character" as my shrink dubs it. It took me nearly 2 years before I could even understand that I didn't have to be how Mr. M made me. Heck I even carry a bullwhip fasted to my belt, and yes I have a special permit for it. Hopefully this bar, this haven for SCABS will be the kind of place that lets me be my self, not the pretty dolly Mr.M wanted. I carefully shine the blue crystal broach I am wearing on a collar around my neck. For a year I lived with an old woman who had helped other "deprogrammee's" get over their brainwashing, a sort of halfway house, she gave me the broach as a good luck charm, I always wear it now.

As I enter the door, which creeks, I can hear the banter and conversations die down as I enter the room. I can't help but think my bizarre attire has to do with that. Most people would be embarrassed, but my humility is not very high. The silence last for a few moments but soon everyone returns to what they where doing. Only a few eyes linger on me, probably trying to figure out what someone dressed like me is doing here.

"Excuse me honey." someone says taping me on the shoulder. "But you can't do... ahem... what you do here."

"I'm not a hooker." I say, I've gotten used to saying it, to what looks like a black she wolf on two legs. "I just dress like one."

"That's a good way to get raped or worse." she says sternly.

"I know, but it's something I really can't help." I say. "I have to dress this way."

"No you don't." she says. "You don't need to dress this way."

"I do, it's not something that's easy to explain." I say.

"Try me." She says, I know she's expecting some stupid answer.

"I was brainwashed to psychologically need to dress this way." I explain, again I've had to say it a lot. "My shrink hasn't gotten to undoing that part yet."

She looks at me like I am crazy, a reaction I get a lot.

"Believe me or not." I say finally. "But don't expect a different explanation."

"But still.." she begins.

"I have this.." I say flashing my bullwhip. "I know how to use it, and even have a special permit to carry it."

Oh I could go into great detail on exactly HOW I got such a permit, but I don't want to bore her. She seems to be satisfied for now and goes back to what ever she was doing.

The bar tender is a minotaur man, and can't speak with out a voder. I order a Shirley Temple, getting drunk even a small bit makes me slip into "character" and I become dangerous. As I sit at the bar, I notice many stares, mostly from men ogling me with their eyes, and a few women doing the same. But one pair of eyes seems to be staring right though me. The owner of the eyes is an arctic fox. I myself am not an arctic but my fur is white like one. It seems odd to me that he's not shed his winter coat this late in spring. When I look at him I see a pair of eyes staring is disbelief. He's probably a fan boy I figure, they always like to look at me. He does eventually get up the courage to move from his seat and take up the stool next to mine.

"Hi there." I say. "What's your name?"

"Depends..." he says slowly. "Sometimes it's James... other times, like now, it's Xander."

"Nice to met you Xander." I say with a smile. "Odd to have two names.. speaking of I'm.."

"Xerina?" he cuts me off. "That's not your name is it?"

"Well yes, yes it is." I reply, wonder how he guess, my name isn't common.

"Oh geez.." he says looking mortified. "I don't want to put up with him.. Again.."

"Put up with whom?" I ask, concerned now.

"Mr.M." he says nearly whispering.

"He's in jail... how do you know him?" I ask.

"I... don't think.." he begins.

"Tell me." I encourage.

What he tells me does not settle well. I wasn't Mr.M's first fox dominatrix, he was, Mr.M had turned this guy into, well me, before he made me. I'm not sure how that should effect me, after all how does one react to learning your just the recreation of someone's alter ego? What should I consider this person? Is he my brother? Or my father perhaps? Or maybe even in some odd way my mother? My shrink will have a field day with this one. I sit with him for a while and we compare notes, he gives me insight into what I might have been like. When he was, me, he was down on his luck, desperate. Perhaps I was too, so poor and fearful that giving myself over to Mr. M was my only recourse. Of course I can never know if that is true. Xander eventually leaves, someone tries to ask him something but he waves them off. I become aware of the eyes upon me again, still I'm not embarrassed, I still get an odd sense of comfort from being stared at.

As I leave the bar I can literally smell a human, following me. He likely has something sick on his mind, maybe rape, maybe murder, maybe a quickie. Again I have to draw up my will power and common sense to not simply turn around and proposition him. Finally at my car he catches up with me.

"Where ya headed ya SCAB slut?" He asks, his alcoholic stink very powerful now.

"Away from you..." I say, evenly.

"What you think your too good for me bitch?" he slurs. "You think your too good for me you stinking animal?"

"I don't think, I know..." I say as I open the door of my car.

I hear the click of a switch blade being opened. In a smooth motion I turn, uncoil my whip, and knock the blade from his hand. A loud crack filling the alley. Then his cries of pain, I could have quite easily have taken his head off with my whip, but I've likely only broken his hand or wrist.

"You stinking SCAB bitch!!!!" He screams.

I walk over and smack him hard across the face, the sound reverberates though the alley. I have to then mentally grab myself. This guy isn't a submissive to discipline, he's just some drunk scum, it would be so easy to just let my instincts take over, but I'm better than that. I decide then and their that next time, I park in the bar's parking lot. Walking the block back to my car at night was both dangerous and too tempting to my "programmed" instincts.

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