Ever since Brick's arrival, four guards had stood shifts at the corners of his recruitment chamber, armed both with weapons and with paramedic training. You never knew which skills might be needed in breaking a particular recruit.

When the green light came on, indicating the breach of the final lock, the men moved to the edges of the pool and peered down, excited, expectant, fascinated.

The paralyzing needles, loosened already in preparation for the breach of the third lock, now sprang free from Brick's body and retreated into specially built housings. But the tubes and pumps remained, and Brick was making the most of the latter. Pink gel splashed around him as he churned the material into foam, shrieking, bucking, writhing like a man in torment...or a man having the greatest orgasm of his life.

The pool was shallow enough and the gel buoyant enough that there was little danger of Brick's drowning, but the guards crouched cautiously as more and more pink spattered across his face. Brick's mouth yawed open, releasing a grinding low groan that rose by stages to a series of mindless shrieks.

Ray, who'd joined Mr. Wylde's team entirely of his own free will, shot a nervous glance at the man on his left. "Damn, Cole, you sure that guy's all right in there?" he shouted.

His comrade smirked. "Trust me, Wirihana, I can tell you from personal experience that he's having the ride of his life."

Ray raised an eyebrow in skeptical acceptance. He'd attended upon several recruitments, but never any quite this...energetic. Gently he nudged Brick's flailing hand away from the wall. He didn't want to spoil the guy's orgasm with a broken knuckle.

Detmer grinned at him from the other side of the pool. "Didn't you know?" he shouted. "Brick Logan does everything to extremes." He gazed down at the spasming spy and, just for a moment, looked almost wistful. "Shit, and I thought my recruitment was a mind-blower."

Looking at the two of them, then again at Cole, Ray wondered if he shouldn't have gone the harder route, himself. He glanced over at Padilla, a fellow volunteer, and saw the same expression on his face that Ray felt upon his own.

His eyes returned to Brick, whose exertions had at last begun to slow. Lucky son of a bitch, he thought to himself. Then he remembered Diamandos. I hope.

It took nearly half an hour for Brick's body to still completely. Once it did, the guards straightened, muscles creaking, and watched as the final stage of the recruitment process geared up.

The spy's mind was an open safe now, defenseless and just begging to be plundered. The faint flashes of color that had always been visible through his visor now brightened, quickened. A thin, incomprehensible buzz leaked from beneath his padded headphones. The pumps continued their work, though at a reduced pace.

"Any idea how he's being programmed?" murmured Padilla, demonstrating just how new he was to the team in even asking. Ray thought this might actually be his first recruitment.

The Maori grinned and shrugged. "We're just peons, mate; Mr. Wylde doesn't let the likes of us in on his decisions. But pay attention now, and you'll catch a hint or two."

They watched as Brick floated, spent, light years beyond the point where he could have resisted the revisions being made to his brain. There was no need for subtlety any longer, no need for fantasy and symbolism to pierce his inner sanctum. His mind had become as pliant as his body, open to any new truth Mr. Wylde was inclined to impart.

For a long time the spy was motionless, his mouth slack and spattered with pink goo. At last his lips came together, pursed, parted, began to shape words: sporadic at first, and barely audible. But as the guards listened, the murmurs grew both in force and momentum: "Guy Wylde...Master...his slave...adore him....love him....kneel and kiss his beautiful feet...his all-powerful cock...Guy Wylde...Master...his slave...total submission...unquestioning loyalty...Guy Wylde...total submission...forever....my love...my Master...Guy Wylde...."

It went on like that for hours.

Gradually, the collection of thoughts and memories that had once made up the persona called "Brick Logan" knit together again, albeit in a somewhat different pattern. The man who lay in the recruitment pool first gained awareness of himself as a slave, Guy Wylde's slave. Master Wylde was the core around which the rest of his personality accreted.

First came the knowledge of how best to serve his master, how to address him, how to express his adoration, how to respond to his various commands. The slave's own name came later: Jonathan Logan, also known as "Brick." The slave accepted this name with neither surprise nor recognition; it was simply another bit of programming. But along with that name came memories of another Brick Logan, a Brick who had been dissolved into his component parts by the recruitment pool and then reassembled in the form of this slave. The memories seemed clear enough, though devoid of emotion and viewed now through a very different lens than the old Brick had possessed.

At last came raw data, some instantly accessible to the slave, much of it encrypted and available to his conscious mind only (if ever) at his master's command. He learned about Wylde's retreat and its people...but not about its purposes. He gained information about the criminal underworld that the old Brick would have given his left nut to uncover, but he did not learn how the information had been acquired, or why. He was not curious. He was a slave, and would be told only what he needed to know in order to serve.

The last few bytes of data spurted into the slave's mind; then his world grew dark and silent once more. He felt the pumps withdraw and sighed briefly.

Following his internal prompting, he spoke as loudly and clearly as his rusty voice would allow: "Recruitment is complete." Moving of his own (more or less) volition for the first time in almost two weeks, he raised shaky arms and lifted the headphones from his ears. An unseen hand took them from him. He waited a moment for the lights to be dimmed, again per internal prompting, then removed his visor and eyelid clamps.

Looking down at him was an earnest, slightly pudgy face that he recognized both from the old Brick's memories and the new slave's programming. "Hello, Dr. Mackenzie," he rasped. "Please forgive me for not bowing."

"Of course, Brick," the doctor smiled. "You're not even in any position to stand yet. But tell me: how do you feel? Any nervousness? Any anxiety? Any unexplained gaps in your memory?"

Now that his co-creator had used the appellation, the slave felt free to apply it to himself. Pleased, Brick performed a quick internal assessment, then shook his head. "I'm anxious to meet Master Wylde, but otherwise, I think I'm fine. I don't feel any gaps in my memory." He frowned. "Where is Master Wylde? I need to abase myself before him."

Dr. Mackenzie gave him a paternal pat. "You'll get your chance soon enough. First, though, we have to make you presentable. Guy doesn't like his slaves to start sloppy."

The doctor performed a few quick medical checks while Brick still lay in the pool, then allowed four strangers to help him upright, raising him slowly enough that he didn't lose consciousness. Once the dizziness passed, they assisted him to his surprisingly wobbly legs. Then they toweled him off and led him to a stretcher, where Dr. Mackenzie removed the feeding tube and expertly repaired the wound. At last they settled him into a wheelchair and rolled him, still nude, to another room with another sunken pool: this one huge, round, and filled with fragrant, steaming water.

Six new strangers, unclothed like Brick himself, stepped forward to help him out of the wheelchair and into the bath. He almost slipped on the steps going down, but their strong arms were wonderfully solid. He gazed around the circle in gratitude, taking in the beautiful variety of hair, skin tones, facial structures, body shapes...penises. He felt as if he'd never truly seen a cock before, never noticed what a remarkable organ it was. So proud, so delicate, so beautiful.

His hand reached unconsciously to stroke the nearest one, but its owner pushed him gently aside. "Uh uh, Brick. You're Mr. Wylde's toy, not mine. He gets first dibs."

Oh, of course. The master would be the one to receive Brick's first caresses, the one to take his newborn virginity. Until then, he must refrain even from touching himself for fear of impeding his later performance.

Unfortunately, the mere thought of that brought his cock even further erect. To take his mind off the matter, Brick looked around again at his attendants, enjoying their faces and bodies even more the second time...until he came at last to the man scrubbing his ass.

This attendant was different. He wasn't any smaller than the others, but somehow he seemed smaller. Perhaps it was the hunch of his shoulders, noticeable even aside from the crouch he'd assumed in order to reach Brick's nether regions. The man's head was bald, his face tight, his left eye twitching with an intermittent tic. Gazing lower, Brick saw a duplicate tic at the man's cock.

Realization dawned slowly. Oh, yes. The old Brick Logan knew this man well. He'd once called himself Doctor Diamandos, and he and the old Brick had been mortal enemies.

Of course, the new Brick knew that enemies were just a step away from lovers. He smiled tenderly at the ex-Diamandos, wondering how he'd come to be so...broken, wondering if there was any way he could help the poor man.

The attendant never once returned his gaze.

After the bath came the shaving, the haircut, the manicure and pedicure. Then, just when Brick thought he was ready to meet his master, the attendants took him to the gym and spent three days helping him regain a bit of the muscle tone he'd lost in the recruitment pool. His full strength wouldn't return for some time, but he didn't need all of it just yet.

At last they pronounced him ready to meet his owner. By this time, Brick was so excited, so needy, that he could hardly sit still for the final primping. When it came time for the enema, only his boundless desire to perform well for Master Wylde kept him from smearing himself across the tile.

Once he was dry, though still nude and now lightly scented with musk, the attendants led him to the door of his master's chambers and left him in the care of two guards. Their faces were blankly serious, but Brick was attuned now to the ways of men and knew that they enjoyed the view. He smiled shyly and ducked his head.

The two men turned to the doors and opened them together, the one on the left proclaiming, "Sir, your new recruit." Already half giddy with excitement, Brick stepped into the room, keeping his head properly bowed as he approached his long-awaited conqueror. His beloved.

The first he saw of Guy Wylde was a pair of silver-tipped black boots, heavily strapped from toe to top. "Master," he murmured, bowing even lower and losing sight of the man entirely.

"Slave," Wylde replied, the combination of word and tone tracing delicious spirals through the depths of Brick's belly. His cock began to rise and he thrust his hips forward, proud to demonstrate the pleasure he took in his new-found submission.

"Nice," commented his master. "You may look at me...for a moment."

Shyly Brick raised his head and took in the pale, perfect chest, every muscle exquisitely defined beneath crisscrossing black straps. He compared that body to his own blocky, scarred torso and realized that, in truth, he'd been designed for slave labor; whereas his master had been designed for rule.

Brick's eyes rose further to Wylde's magnificently smirking lips and chiseled cheekbones; his proud, predatory, black-rimmed eyes. The master's hair was slicked back tightly against his skull today, making him look, if it were possible, even more dominant than the first time they'd met.

Remembering that long-ago moment in the pool, Brick felt a pang of sweet nostalgia. His master-to-be had been so confident, so patient...and the old Brick had been so foolish. Why would anyone even think of defying such a wonderful, powerful, magnificent....Brick ran out of adjectives and simply stood there, slack-jawed in adoration.

Wylde had been seated upon Brick's arrival, lounging in a high-backed black chair that seemed to be molded from ancient ribs and skulls; but he rose as Brick's eyes met his and stalked toward him with the feral grace of a lion tracking prey.

Brick was prey, and easy prey at that. He quivered, deliriously helpless, as his master circled him, running one hand over the slave's jaw and chest and shoulders and waist and thighs and ass and--

Brick's cock bounded to new heights as Wylde's hand found it at last.

Smirking, the master ran a single finger under Brick's manhood from base to tip, then circled around its tiny opening.

This was even more of a challenge than the enema, but Brick knew he mustn't come before his master allowed it. He mustn't come before his master, period.

Wylde's finger wandered back along the top of Brick's cock to the root, then trailed diagonally upward across his belly to his waist. Brick squirmed deliciously at the attention paid to a spot below his navel that few of his female lovers had ever discovered.

Down around his back ran the finger, down to the base of his spine and...just...barely....into the crack between his ass cheeks. Brick's sphincter quivered, desperate. He moaned and fought to keep his hands at his sides. Only his master had the right to determine the course of play.

Master knew it, too. A pointed pink tongue tip grazed Wylde's upper lip, and he smiled. "Down, boy. All the way down."

Crushed, ecstatic, Brick tumbled to his knees and then forward onto his face. His mouth pursed toward the silver boot tips, anticipating the next command even before it left his master's lips. Given permission, he lavished the leather with licks and kisses, then began working at the straps with his teeth.

"That won't be necessary, slave," Wylde chuckled. "Back to your knees."

Brick bounced eagerly upright, unable to suppress a grin. He could guess what was coming next, couldn't wait for it. It seemed he'd been dreaming about this moment forever.

Sure enough, Wylde was unbuckling his belt; unzipping his skin-tight pants; revealing the blue-veined, glistening club with which he'd pounded the old Brick into submission.

His manhood was every bit as magnificent as Brick had imagined. It was a work of art, a weapon, a symbol of highest office. The slave's hands rose eagerly, then paused. He gazed up tentatively at his master. "May I?" he whispered. "Sir?"

Wylde chuckled and inclined his head.

Gratified, Brick took the precious member in his hands and caressed it gently, lovingly, reverently. It grew even larger and darker and began to throb like a second heart. Anticipating again, Brick licked his lips and gazed upward in wordless plea.

Wylde didn't respond aloud this time. He merely cupped the back of Brick's head in his hands and drew him forward.

Oh, sweet honeyed heaven! Brick's lips closed around the tip of the club, kissing delicately at first, then sucking it deeper into his mouth and reveling in the soft-hard firmness - and the taste! Pre-cum drizzled across his tongue, surprisingly sweet with just a tang of something else. A glimpse of something further down the path to ecstasy.

Brick swirled his tongue around his master's cock, seeking out each tender, throbbing vein and giving it its own special caress.

Above him, Wylde began to groan. He clenched his fingers in Brick's freshly shorn hair, then began to buck against him, smacking Brick's face against his bristly pubes again and again and again.

Brick was moaning too, now, yet still he held himself in check. Only his master's pleasure mattered, now and ever.

At last Wylde let out a roar of triumph, arching backward even as he pressed Brick's head even tighter against his dick. Something spattered across Brick's tongue, his cheeks, the back of his throat. Something salty and oddly metallic, with just a hint of...was that almonds?

Whatever it was, Brick loved it. He'd been made for it. He rolled the cum around in his mouth for several long seconds, then swallowed it and turned his eyes upwards. His master was smiling almost tenderly.

"You'll never know how long I've waited for you to do that," said Wylde.

Ecstatic, Brick pulled back and let one hand drop to his own throbbing cock.

The master's smile turned impish. "Down, boy," he teased, and Brick was amazed to feel his body obey entirely of its own accord. He'd thought he already knew how thoroughly his master owned him, but no, this was an entirely new depth of control. Brick wallowed in the dark, blissful waters of his submission, wondering just how much deeper they might go. Vast oceanic abysses yawned within his mind, and he shivered in anticipation of exploring them.

Wylde tousled the slave's hair. "We're not even half done yet," he purred. "Follow me."

He led Brick to his bedroom, to a bed framed in brushed steel with silken silver sheets. Next to it stood a table, and upon the table sat a silver bowl filled with a familiar pink gel. Wylde led him to the head of the bed, then commanded him to lean across it.

Once more Brick's sphincter was quivering, his cock throbbing almost painfully as it lay pressed between his abdomen and the mattress. Wylde's hands, now slick with gel, began kneading and caressing Brick's buttocks. Brick groaned helplessly, fighting to keep his legs from collapsing beneath him.

A single finger slid between his ass cheeks, teasing its way downward inch by inch before circling the spasming entrance to Brick's core. Brick pressed his face into the mattress, balling the sheets in his clenched fists and groaning harder than ever. The only intelligible word he could form was "please," and he formed it over and over.

Behind him, Wylde chuckled. "All those multitudes of lovers you've had over the years, and yet your ass is still completely virgin. Isn't that right, Brick?"

"Y-yes, Master," the slave managed, the last syllable turning into a squeak as Wylde slipped a single digit inside him. Holy fuck, he'd never felt anything this good in his entire life! Fragments of former encounters flickered through his mind, image after image, silent and faded as old film. None of them meant anything to him now. This was what he had made for. This, and this person.

Wylde's finger swirled inside him, magically widening the entrance. Then something much larger than a finger plunged past it, something that fit Brick as perfectly as if it had been tailor-made just for him. But really, of course, it was the other way around. Brick had been tailor-made for his master.

Wylde began to pump, and Brick screamed against the mattress as glands he'd never thought twice about suddenly revealed their worth. His entire being was centered around one small point inside his ass, but out from that point arced a thousand bolts of lightning. They whited out his mind almost entirely, but he retained enough sense of self to remember the cardinal rule: he must never come before his master. Fortunately, Brick knew now that his master could prevent him from coming, if necessary; but it was so much sweeter to spend his last few traces of will restraining himself.

Brick screamed and ground against the sheets, tears of joy mingling with the gel and pre-cum, turning the beautiful silk into a soggy mess. For a moment he wondered who would have to clean it up, and how. Maybe he--

A sudden explosion drove the last vague thoughts from Brick's mind. All he could do now was writhe and scream, reveling in his master's release and begging wordlessly for his own. Strong, long-fingered hands squeezed tight around his hips, achingly close to his groin, as the master unleashed his payload.

At long last Wylde collapsed on top of him, leather-bound skin against skin. He ran his tongue across the back of Brick's neck, then reached around his chest to tweak his nipples. Brick whined helplessly.

"Well done, slave," Wylde murmured, reaching lower. "Now you can have your turn."

Brick stood outside the conference room doors, nervously straightening his cuffs. The suit was new, Italian, and more rakishly cut than the old Brick would have preferred. The new Brick saw it as just one of the many improvements his master had made in him.

This was the first time he'd been in the public areas of the retreat - aside, possibly, from his unconscious arrival three weeks earlier. Still, he knew the area well enough from his programming; and he knew what was going on inside the room: they were talking about him.

The minutes ticked by, and he did his best not to fidget. At last a chime sounded and a small green light sprang to life above the door. That was Brick's cue. Clearing his throat, he turned the handle and stepped inside.

Brick knew every face around the table, even though he hadn't met many of their owners in the flesh; his programming had been quite thorough. Master Wylde sat at the head nearest Brick, with Dr. Mackenzie at his right hand and Jordan beside him (Brick still thought of Jordan as "Jordan"; there was simply no honorific appropriate for such a mutable personality). Ranged around them on both sides were the various doctors, scientists, and technicians who'd supervised his recruitment from behind the scenes. All of them wore suits today, even Jordan, though his was periwinkle blue and made of velvet. Wylde's was black with a silver tie.

Yes, Brick knew all the faces at the table, though the one at the far end, directly across from his master, still came as a shock. Physically, the gentleman wasn't terribly imposing: he was somewhere close to sixty but still clear-eyed and in good health. His suit was expensive but far from ostentatious, as was the man himself. Brick knew him well: this was Madison, the government operative who had given him his orders for the last two decades.

The slave felt a new but already familiar quiver in his belly. Madison, here? Then Master Guy must have subverted him just as he'd subverted Brick!

Brick's suit coat hid the sudden bulge behind his fly. I've been enslaved by the greatest criminal mastermind of all time, he told himself, the man who's single-handedly taken control of America's most powerful secret service agency. He fought the urge to fall prostrate at his master's feet, right here in front of everyone. He just felt so fucking proud.

So, apparently, did the men at the table. The slave's emotions were written large across his face, and each of them knew the role he'd played in writing them.

Madison looked proud, too, but in a different kind of way. His eyes had narrowed, not widened, and one corner of his lips was curled in subtle, sardonic approval. "Nice work, son," he said blandly. "You really have made an entirely new man of him."

"Thanks, Dad," said Wylde, affectionately squeezing Brick's ass.

Brick had a moment to close his eyes and sigh before the implication of the words caught up with him. His eyelids snapped back.

Wylde was looking up at him with a typically impish smirk. "Initiate program Logan 2.0," he said.

Brick's spine straightened and his face smoothed into a semblance of his former stoic confidence. He knew at his core that he was still Guy Wylde's slave; but he had a mask to wear now, a mask so convincing he could almost believe it himself. His thoughts cooled, narrowed, assessed the situation with practiced ease. He'd been double-crossed before, but never by anyone as close to him as Madison. Dad? he thought, frowning at his once-and-perhaps-future boss. Son? he thought, gazing at his once-and-always master.

"All right," he said blandly, refusing to acknowledge the molten quiver in his gut. He'd been topped yet again, and it felt almost as good the second time around. "Why?"

Madison nodded his approval of the question, then switched his attention to his son. "Well done, David," he murmured. "I didn't think you could retain so much of the original Logan persona in the changeover." He held up a hand as Wylde started to reply. "Yes, yes, you swore you could do it; but you know how I am. I never believe anything until I've seen it for myself."

Wylde acknowledged this with a wry tip of the head. Then he smiled. "I told you Sam and I were a good investment."

Brick folded his arms but kept his lips sealed out of respect for the two men who owned him in such different ways. They were treating him like an object, not like a real man with real questions that needed answering. But after all, he was a slave. They'd explain when they were ready, not when he was ready; and that was only just.

Wylde was the first to notice his slave's discomfiture. "Pull up a chair, Brick," he said easily. "We'll talk."

The only unoccupied chair in the room was a smaller, simpler model than the ones at the conference table. Brick dragged it from its corner and settled in behind his master, between him and Dr. Mackenzie. He was only slightly aggravated by the symbolism of it all. He deserved this station; and besides, the most important thing right now was getting answers.

"Brick," Madison began in his dry, emotionless voice, "you've been a first-rate agent for as long as I've known you: smart, loyal, and irresistible to one critical segment of our opposition. But let's face it: for the last decade, at least, you've been increasingly in need of an upgrade. Until you met my son, you were like a 1964 Mustang: classic, stylish, and with an undeniable cachet for a certain type of individual. But, Brick, a '64 Mustang just doesn't have the maneuverability or the power to compete in the twenty-first century." He laced his fingers and leaned forward. "I knew you were too stubborn to change on your own; so I had the one person I truly trust in this world, the one person I knew could actually do the job and do it well, force the change upon you."

Madison smiled. "You're not a '64 Mustang any longer, Brick; now you're a Jaguar XK Super V8. You can seduce men as easily as women, and you won't become so obsessed with any of them that you lose focus on your mission or sink into depression when they die or betray you or both." He snorted. "As they inevitably do. You will love only David--"

"Guy," Wylde interjected, and Madison acknowledged the correction with another tip of the head. Brick recognized the nod now as a family trait.

"You will love only Guy, trust only Guy; and both of you will work only for me...until I retire and name Guy as my successor. Then you'll be an invaluable part of the transition team: the bridge between the old world and the new."

The spy/slave took all this in with thoughtful solemnity, though behind his mask he was wallowing in the unexpected, spectacular ruthlessness of the man he'd trusted most in the world. He was glad to be seated, with his tented trousers safely out of sight. They must be visibly damp by this point.

Brick thought some more, and gradually he began to smile. A Jaguar, eh? He glanced at Wylde, who shot him a sly wink. Right. A jaguar was a fine, sleek, powerful beast; but the lion would always be king of the jungle. Yes, of course. It all fit perfectly.

He bowed his head to Madison. "Thank, you, sir." Then he bowed lower to Wylde. "And thank you, master."

The rush he got from naming Wylde "master" in public carried him through the rest of the meeting.

At last they were down to four: Wylde, Dr. Mackenzie, Jordan, and Brick. The rest of the team had either returned to their labs or flown off to the mainland, and Guy's inner circle (plus Brick) was strolling the balcony at sunset.

Wylde had left Brick in Logan 2.0 mode for the moment, though he'd made it clear that this was a rare exception to the rule. Brick would normally run in slave mode at the retreat; Logan 2.0 was a facade designed for operations and other public appearances. The real Brick was the slave Brick, but he could only be himself at home.

Logan 2.0 understood perfectly. He felt honored, being allowed to present himself as an equal among his betters for a few hours. Well, as a near-equal, anyway. Most of their conversation centered around in-jokes and remembrances he'd had no part in, leaving him to trail along humbly behind them as they walked. Free enough, for the moment, to do so, he let his mind wander.

Jordan glanced back over Sam's arm and noticed Brick's distant expression. "Honey, what are you thinking about?" she asked (Jordan had changed into a sundress, and Brick's programming told him that meant he should now think of her as female.).

The spy allowed himself a subtle smile. "Actually, Jordan, I was thinking about you."

The trio ahead of him turned as one, curious, bemused.

"Let me guess: our 'special moment' back in the hotel room?" Jordan smirked - but sweetly, as only Jordan could.

Brick cocked an eyebrow. "In a way, yes. I was thinking about your unusual...enhancement. You know, I've always been a man for high-tech weaponry, and--" he let the comment hang in the darkening air.

"Aww," cooed Jordan delightedly, "he wants my dick!"

Brick smiled, then shrugged. "Well, I am going to continue working for the agency. And if we have the capability to detect all the usual sorts of weapons, then who knows how many of our opponents can do the same? Shouldn't I be equipped with an extra bit of edge, just in case?"

Three pairs of eyes traded glances, while unspoken words passed beneath them. At last Wylde nodded at Jordan. "Your call, chickie. After all, it's your toy. Do you want to share it?"

Jordan put a lacquered finger to her lips in exaggerated thought. "Weeeeell," she teased, drawing the word out for several aching seconds. "I suppose...but just the boner. And only if he begs."

Brick grinned and dropped easily to his knees. "My pleasure," he murmured, using the bedroom voice he'd been honing since before Jordan was born. "Sweet lady, lovely lady--" here he took Jordan's willing hand-- "may I have the honor of sharing your dick?"

Jordan's peals of laughter almost completely drowned the huskier chuckles of the other two. "Oh, Sam," she sighed, fanning herself with her free hand, "you get an A+ on this assignment. And you--" she tapped Brick lightly on the nose-- "get your boner. Along with this." She leaned down and pressed her lips to Brick's.

Logan returned the kiss eagerly, inquisitively. Jordan's lips were much softer than Wylde's, almost as soft as any other woman's. He looked forward to discovering more varieties of kisses - not to mention more varieties of pleasure - down the road, but knew he'd always return to his one true love in the end.

Jordan withdrew, and Brick looked up to Master Guy, who was clearly enjoying the scene. He'd folded his arms and was shaking his head in amusement. "I suppose you think you've hit the limit now, eh, Brick? One mouthful of grass just beyond your usual fence, and now you're ready to be everyone's Casanova?"

Brick found himself blushing, but being in Logan 2.0 mode, he tried to charm his way out of it. "Not yet, Sir," he grinned, "but that's my ultimate goal."

Wylde pursed his fabulous lips. "Hmph," he smirked. "As if you have any goals of your own anymore. Your goals are my goals." He stalked forward to plant his crotch squarely before Brick's lips. "And not even my father knows all my goals."

Jordan and Dr. Mackenzie drew close on either side of him; and Brick, kneeling before them, felt himself on the brink of revelation. His pulse raced; he could feel it in his cock. He'd known there was more to the puzzle than what he'd learned in the conference room! Now he'd find out; and whatever outrageous plan - legal, illegal, or squarely in between - Master Guy had concocted, Brick would join in eagerly. In fact, the more illegal, the more eagerly he'd join. Brick reveled in the depths of his own degradation.

Wylde regarded him for several seconds, enjoying the subtle mix of emotions Brick couldn't hide from him, even behind the facade of Logan 2.0. At last he stretched out a single long finger.

Brick felt it connect with his forehead, just above and between his eyes. It was an illusion, he knew, but he could almost feel electricity pulsing from the tip of that digit. Power. Such power. Far beyond anything Brick could even imagine, much less wield himself.

Wylde's next words rang in Brick's head like a chime: "Initiate program BL-1000."

Static bloomed behind Brick's eyes, between his ears, drowning out everything that had made Brick Brick, or made him Logan 2.0, or even made him a nameless slave. He was nothing now; he wasn't even a "he."

A voice cut through the static, the only voice that could cut through it: "Activate external sensors."

Visuals clicked into place, then audio, and finally tactile sensation. The android rotated its lenses toward Controller Wylde and awaited its next command.

A second voice came from Wylde's right: "What are you thinking now, Brick?"

The android registered this input as background noise, worth neither analysis nor response. It continued to wait.

After a moment, its controller smiled. "What are you thinking now, BL-1000?" Wylde asked.

The question required no analysis. "This android is not sophisticated enough to possess artificial intelligence," it answered promptly. "It does not think; it merely responds."

"And responds well," said Wylde. "So far, at least. But I think we need to run more tests, to determine just how responsive this android can be. Don't you?" He looked left and right; but the android kept its lenses trained firmly on its controller. Until Wylde commanded otherwise, it would assess the other humans as extraneous, their responses unimportant.

"On your feet, BL-1000," Wylde commanded, and the android rose smoothly on oiled gears. "Erect," the controller snapped, and the android's member swung to attention. "Now follow me."

The android trailed behind Controller Wylde and the others as they crossed the balcony and entered the retreat through a pair of sliding glass doors. The doors were open wide, and gauzy curtains billowed through the gap, wrapping the android in their soft embrace and drawing it deeper into the unknown.