"Can we please start slow this time? We don't even know what's in these." Abby cranes her neck over the back of the couch to look at her roommate's fistful of pills. "If I have to take you to the ER, I'd be the one telling them you OD'd on princess pills." "First of all, it says right on the label. Nothing in here but—" Fae turns the pill bottle over in faer hand to read the label. "—noblissamine obligate and some quick-release sovereignolactone. Second, no you won't. If anything happened, you'd tell them I took maid pills, because what good is a princess without a silly little maid to dote on her?" A demure smile tugs at the corners of Ivy's mouth like it's being pulled taut. "S-Someone to put her hair up and make sure she's all taken care of!"
"Ooh, I don't think I've heard you make that sound before." Abby looks over her shoulder, impressed. "Finally putting in the work with voice training—" She turns all the way around just in time to watch Ivy's purple ponytail turn black at the roots. Dark tendrils spread out from faer scalp, through the star-spangled bow fae ties faer hair up with, and all the way down to the tip. It even springs back up into an unassuming little curl that wasn't there before.
"How are you doing, Ivy? What's your color?" Good kink communication pays dividends. Abby's heart skips a beat. "Fuckfuckfuck this is hot," she thinks. "Please be okay so I can find this hot."
"Oh, I'm green, of course! I'm feeling wonderfully maidly and I just can't wait to serve! I'm simply ever so embarrassed that you've caught me out of uniform. Might I ask you to help me get changed before my princess arrives? She gets so delightfully devilish when her maids aren't prepared!"
Abby releases a shaky sigh. Relieved and aroused. "I think that could be arranged." The freshly minted maid hustles over with all demure speed to help Abby to her feet. She even bows her head.
"Thank you." She clears her throat. "Shall we?"
Ivy does the best curtsy fae can in tights and scurries off to faer room. The elastic mostly just slaps right back against faer legs, but it's the curtsy in your heart that counts.
Ivy's room is… it's not a mess. It's not the kind of thing you necessarily need a maid to clean up, but you don't take Dr. S's Maid Pills For Sex because you have a lot of cleaning to get through.1 There's clothes that haven't been put away, sex toys left within easy reach, and a bed whose sheets could use a wash. The path to the closet is clear enough for the maid to elegantly, confidently step between discarded prescription bottles and pirouette around an old laptop left so carelessly on the floor. Someone really should put that away.
Fae's in the middle of reaching down to pick it up when Abby pointedly clears her throat. "Right! Of course! Outfit first! I'm such a silly little maid sometimes, I don't know what I'd do without someone in charge!" The smile gets bigger and tighter with every passing word. Fae leans foward into the closet, showing off far more ass than really necessary. Not that Abby's complaining. She's about to work up the nerve to grab a handful of maid butt when fae turns back around.
Calling it "a maid outfit" is generous. It's just enough black fabric to cover the tits without providing any real support and the least effective apron known to man, woman, or anyone who knows better. The headdress is serviceable in that it's hard to mess up some white lace too bad. The apron couldn't even keep an indecent exposure charge off of you. An unmaidicated Ivy would have said "it was half off". An Abby that wasn't taking deep breaths just to keep her screaming gay impulses under control would have replied "more like eighty percent".
Back in the real world,2 Ivy pouts, holds the outfit against faer chest, and hits Abby with the big ol' puppymaid eyes. "Oh, miss, you've been ever so helpful to this silly little maid—" Fae shudders when the words leave faer mouth. They come out like a moan and a blissful sigh all at once. It feels so good to be a silly little maid. "—But it simply wouldn't be right for me to disrobe in front of anyone other than my perfect princess!" Fae minces closer and lets faer tongue roll out of faer mouth. A pair of princess pills sit right there on the tip. Abby's played magician's assistant often enough to be familiar with Ivy's sleight-of-hand, but she's never seen sleight-of-mouth like this.3 "But if you would be my perfect princess, I would be honored."
Abby looks at the pills. She looks into Ivy's eyes, clouded in that horny way you can only get through erotic pharmaceuticals. She runs a hand up the bulge in her sweatpants. Ivy's soft, firm hand cups Abby's and guides it up and down. A good maid must demonstrate the proper speed and pressure for bulge fondling, after all! Fae takes her chin in the other hand and tilts her head up to bring their mouths close. "Pucker up, Princess."
Abby enthusiastically completes the kiss. Her tongue probes into Ivy's mouth and scoops up the pills— though not without a playful fight from the maid, of course. As the pills vanish down her gullet, the maid goes for one last mischief. "Mischief", in this case, is the name of Abby's left boob, prized for its heft and jiggle and rivaled only by its twin.4 Faer fingers sink in deep. Deep enough that fae knows fae'll get a very cute noise out of it.
And that moan does come. Abby's thighs clench.
An uncharacteristically firm hand grabs the maid's wrist and wrenches it away. "Did your Princess give her maid permission to touch the royal bosom? A maid that is out of uniform, no less." A stern smile tugs at Her Regal Highness, Princess Abigail's (may she reign eternal) lips.
"N-no, Princess. Of course not, Princess." Now it's Ivy's heart's turn to flutter. Faer eyes stare, transfixed, down the barrel of a loaded princess. Faer heart skips a beat and faer breath catches in the way it only does when, for example, your really cute coworker/magician's assistant/roommate/friend-who-is-a-girl/kink partner lets her domme side out to play for once. The fact that the pills are making her short red bob explode out into regal crimson tresses just makes it hotter. The cascading locks fall over her shoulders and slow down only once it piles up against the ground.
A loud, resolute Snap! makes Ivy stand up even straighter than before. The hair on the back of faer neck stands up with sheer erotic anticipation. "Maid." Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) stands up straight. Ivy was always the taller of the two. This just means the princess has to project a little more dominant energy, and project she does.
"Silly Little Maid Ivy, ready to serve, your highness!" Faer shoulders are back, faer chin is out, and faer chest is as puffed out as it will go. It's a state you only see Ivy in under the influence of either femdom or stage performance.5 "I was just about to get dressed, if her highness would like to ensure it is done to her liking!"
Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) cocks her head as if she cannot believe what she's hearing. "A maid." She says, twisting the wrist until her maid moans from the crossed wires of pleasure and pain. "Does not have a name." Her eyes, piercing and gold, bore directly into the maid's soul.
The maid struggles for a split second, as if a maid would ever dream of betraying faer perfect princess. "A- a maid does not have a name, my perfect Princess!" The cloudy swirls in faer eyes shift and thicken. Faer eyelids flutter while any suggestion that this particular maid might have ever had a name is dusted, tidied up, and promptly thrown out. "Thank you for relieving me of the burden of my name, Princess!"
"A maid." Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) continues. "Is a thing. A maid is an extension of the princess's will. A maid has precisely what a maid needs to complete the princess's task."
Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) turns around and tilts her nose up. "Hair up." A princess has to have long, lovely hair, but having it all loose is really only appropriate for the short time after waking in the morning. It really should be done into something more presentable before anyone sees.
Maids, of course, do not count. Even maids that are shamefully out of uniform. Maids are the anonymous hands pressed into service to braid the princess's hair and make sure it is appropriate for the day's schedule. The demands of keeping court weigh on the royal head in a much different shape than a parade. A maid is expected to know this and do it without a first thought, because thinking is for princesses. Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) looks around for the scheduling maid and, failing to find one, makes her frustration known with an angry snort and recounts today's agenda herself. "Since, clearly, nobody bothered to train this new maid, I'll have to do it myself. Honestly, an untrained maid is worse than no maid at all." She scoffs and snaps her fingers above her head. The maid's chest puffs out and shoulders fold back, pulled taut with pharmaceutically-enforced attention. "Hair bun and braid. Tight."
The maid nods enthusiastically! That maidly heart flutters! Princess's first proper order! What more could a maid want? Those hands get to work, even as they really should be gloved in silk when handling Princess's hair. The pills help, chemically nudging the nerves and neurons the right way to ensure the task is done to Princess's exacting standards. An un-maidpilled Ivy could have gotten 90 percent of the way there off theme park experience alone. When you work for a place that has to ask its actors to do landscaping, you have to help each other with hair and makeup, too. Lengthy locks of shiny red hair coil around nimble fingers and entwine into elegant braids. The princess lets herself be led to the vanity where she can sit and monitor her maid's progress. Hairpins are pinned, elastic snaps into place, and Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) barely has any feedback. Merely a preference for a clockwise bun winding and that the first braid was "far too loose, like that ambassador we fed to the tigers."
When the maid steps back, Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) rises to her feet and inspects her hair. She cracks the slightest smile known to science, and her maid's heart sings. "They picked a fast learner. A shame they didn't bother to communicate the dress code." The princess sneers at the so-called maid outfit laid out on the bed. "Easily fixed." She takes her maid by the ponytail, since trusting an untrained maid with a decision, even a simple one, is simply irresponsible. A properly trained maid would never make a decision— the following or staying would be automatic and based solely on Princess's wishes. Princess Abigail (may she reign eternal) leads her maid out the door, plowing through the debris that is both clearly beneath her notice and that is someone else's problem. Her darling maid's breaths get less and less regular as the sheer erotic bliss of servitude runs up against the need to be Princess's well-behaved servant. This mighty struggle manifests as a gay little shudder that runs all the way up the body and down the ponytail leash into Princess Abigail's (may she reign eternal) arm.
"Ensure the rapture of mindless service to your princess doesn't interfere with your work, maid." Princess says, and that trembling turns inward. If maids were allowed to think, this one's inner monologue would be an endless loop of "Yes, Princess!" and "Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck this is hot fuckfuckfuckfuck". Those would-be thoughts might pause when the princess deposits her maid in front of the royal closet (may it clothe eternal) and extracts a proper maid's uniform. The skirt goes past the knees, there are plenty of ribbons and bows, and the apron is lovingly decorated with a network of embroidered hearts. When Abby goes maid mode, she does it right.
"There is a pernicious rumor among my maids regarding what happens to those I catch out of uniform. I trust I do not need to repeat it." The uniform dangles from its hanger off Princess Abigail's (may she reign eternal) index finger until her maid takes it. "What is it? Delightfully devilish?"
The maid dutifully sheds those princess-disappointing street clothes, letting those breasts heave free and those curves slip out of those tights. It is not until the apron is tied on that Princess Abigail's (may she reign eternal) maid notices what the princess is doing. The telltale rattle of a prescription6 pill bottle is hard to ignore. The maid watches Princess swallow a few pills. The rest sit on the royal desk (may it stand eternal) where the maid's mess-sensitive eyes notice a few loose red capsules, coiled shut with a spaded tail. Princess's maid barely has time to secure the lace cap before being tackled to the bed.
A maid can really only stare down the loaded barrel of a wonderfully imperious princess, watching as her red hair pokes and points into short twin horns on either side of her head, just above the braid. She grins a scheming grin with fresh fangs trying to peek past her lips. Her hands, complete with fingernails already sharpening into suitably infernal claws, dig deep into a maid's chest. The maid that is currently short-circuiting with gay thoughts, trying to determine if it'd be appropriate to moan or to simply thank Princess for using her maid as she wishes, mind you.
"Let it never be said that Devil Princess Abigail (may she reign infernal) does not give her subjects what they want."
DEVIL PRINCESS ABIGAIL WILL RETURN IN PRINCESS PILLS 2: CROSSFADED
She sells different pills for that. ↩
Okay, yes, the story is fictional, but the world that's real in the fiction. ↩
Partially, but not exclusively, because it's hard to see what the inside of someone's mouth is doing while they suck your dick. ↩
Named "Trouble". ↩
But not both— that overflows the Ivy and makes fear collapse into a heap. ↩
You could say that Dr. S prescribes things, but it's not really a prescription if she just gives you the pills and doesn't write anything down. I guess that means they're just scribed. ↩
The plush pads are, each, the size of a cantaloupe. She swears the royal tailor laughed when she ordered them made. Extraordinarily soft sand within provides realistic heft, a few expertly-placed freckles sit just inside the left boob, and producing a dye that matches her skin took months. It is why she insists on a parasol when the sun is out. The bra itself boasts a fine netting to hold the forms in place and squish them into proper cleavage. It comes on unassisted- a skill learned quickly and recently, born from necessity- and she is immediately reminded of how sensitive her nipples are as soon as the forms go in. A sharp breath shoots in through her nostrils. Her eyes snap shut. Her shoulders tense up and her teeth sink into her lower lip.
When she trusts herself to move again, the gown goes on over her head. It was not made with her current chest in mind- it's far too tight. If she were capable of worries beyond the most pressing and immediate, she would worry that the slightest touch would make something pop.
Though, that is the goal.
There is precious little time to look in the mirror. She notices that her violet locks have lost some of their shape. The dress sliding over her head introduced some frizz to her big, bouncy curls. A rapidly fading part of her wants to call the staff to have her hair fixed. A princess must present her best face to the public. The sound of toy impacting flesh in the ballroom makes her cock throb and forces her hand. She is off through the halls.
She practices her voice to herself. Her vocal coach is exacting and the lessons are long. A few short, quick breaths help soften and femme her voice. "Hello." She says to herself, ensuring the vibrations are in the correct small, tight space in her throat. The prince's voice would be a dead giveaway. Her painted, manicured fingers wrap around her throat to double-check, only to rip her hand away when she catches herself squeezing and fantasizing.
The ballroom's siren song grows louder and louder until she arrives at the open door. The laughs, cries, and moans spill forth in equal measure. A deep breath steels her nerves long enough for her to cross the threshold.
A partygoer, more interested in their drink and the princess's breasts to look at her face, offers her a mask from the rack. "Can't have a masquerade without a mask." They explain. The princess puts it on with a regal, practiced "thank you".
It takes a moment of fiddling before she realizes that the mask is more of a hood- she is reminded of the royal falconer's tools, not the court jester. Her vision is limited to what she can see through the pinprick holes before her eyes. The helpful partygoer pulls her hair through the hole in the back, ties it tight, and sends the princess on her way with a slap on the butt. She attempts to bite her finger to quiet the moan, but her hand meets only the unmistakable curve of a leather beak. Her thighs clench and her practiced musical moan joins the sounds of the party.
Just one night, she tells herself. One night free of responsibility and obligation. No worrying about whispers and rumors.
[The four of wands.]
The princess is vaguely aware of the knotted leather strap atop her hood. It occasionally bounces off the back of her head while she walks. She quickly becomes very aware of it when it is grabbed and yanked straight up. The hood's collar tightens around her throat first. Her back shoots up straight and her thighs clench to keep it together.
[Two coins. One head.]
She recognizes the royal falconer's voice. Right down to the tone she uses with the birds- loving, but stern and uncompromising. Honestly, better than what most people get from her. She attempts to look up at the voice above her head, but the hand on the strap insists she look forward. "Ah ah ah, pretty bird. I thought I trained you better than that." A hand, wrapped in a thick leather glove, caresses the bottom of the beak.
"Caw!" Her voice threatens to crack. Her cock strains against her panties. Hot exhales collect inside the hood far faster than they can stream out through the seams and eye holes. "C-caw?"
"My birds speak on command and only on command. And they do not wander off. Do not make me clip your wings." That same leather glove strokes down her arms. It is as thick as it has to be, but the leather has softened from years of use and care. "It would be a shame to deny them the opportunity to serve."
The pretty bird princess nods eagerly.
"A quick learner, at least. Not like some birdbrains I could name." The falconer glares at another of her birds. She digs a heel between its legs. The telltale jingle of a lock against a cage vanishes under its urgent, pleading moans. Its hood only has the top half of the beak, providing easy access to a mouth held open with a metal ring. "You might still be useful." The falconer wraps the princess's soft violet hair around her fist into a makeshift leash. "You even come with a handle." She begins to walk with the princess in tow, a sharp smile splitting her beak-yellow lips.
[The Wheel of Fortune.]
The princess's hair stands on end. The way you get before a thunderstorm or when magic hangs in the air. Memories of her fateful night with the witch echo off the insides of her head. Each unbidden thought makes her pubic hair tingle and her cock leak. Voices fall on her ears, but pretty birds don't listen when people are talking. She is more focused on the hands stroking her beak and petting her feathers. She leans into the touch and lets her eyes flutter shut. A silly smile spreads across her beak as she drifts towards empty, birdy bliss.
[Two coins. Two heads.]
A voice comes through, clear as a bell. Dripping with honey and impossible to resist. "You are a pretty bird, aren't you?"
She puffs her chest out and stands up straight. "Caw!" Proudly and with absolutely no thought to the timbre of her voice.
Soon, there will be no thoughts at all.
A rapidly disappearing part of herself recognizes the work of a sinister enchantrix. That part wastes the last of her energy attempting to thrash away from that wonderful touch before falling blissfully blank. The rest simply hangs on those wonderful words. Pretty birds don't have to worry or think. They're so well-trained.
"Such beautiful plumage." The honeyed voice remarks. A clawed hand traces over the pretty bird's breast and down the belly. A bird with more of its wits about it would notice the sound of tearing fabric, spilling sand, and suppressed laughter. But pretty birds only know what they are told to know. "I wonder what is underneath. Shall we find out?"
The falconer nods. "Feathers up, pretty bird." Its wings lift the front of its autumnal feathers with a minimum of fumbling. Its thighs clench close around its birdy bulge.
More conversation goes in one ear and out the other. The pretty bird stands, awaiting orders, for as long as is needed. The pleasure of servitude is all it requires. A heavy glove caresses the bird's bulge with surprising dexterity. It is tempted to caw, but pretty birds speak only on command. Instead, it simply puffs its bulge out for inspection, content with knowing it is doing the right thing.
The night is a blur. The pretty bird is paraded around, shown off, and told to help with this or that. It whips, it spanks, it presents its holes for shafts and plugs. Its beak is ridden for pleasure and used as a handle with hardly a break in between. What was once its underwear is thoroughly soaked through and discarded, and its outer plumage is soon to follow. Pretty birds need only their hood. Her fluffy chest is moved to another partygoer so it can slide its cock between the plush breasts.
And that is when the curse breaks.
Thick white cum spatters on her partner, on her falconer, and on her body. The fog begins to clear and thoughts begin to dribble in. When her eyes can focus through the pinholes again, she gets the sense that the whole party is looking at her. A voice hangs in the air. Hers. And not the one she'd like to be hers.
The princess runs. She gets halfway to the window before a familiar hand grabs her hair and she has to fight the urge to let the pretty bird back in.
"Excuse me, Princess. You didn't even say 'thank you'."
The princess's party presence became an open secret among the castle's staff. For once, she's happy to hear the rumors- it's the only way she's going to remember anything that happened. She does, mostly, manage to keep the chatter to a dull roar with a simple question- how would you know if you weren't also there? Her new reputation has its bright spots and its downbeats- she has to pretend not to notice the bird puns for years to come, but her partners that night have nothing but praise for the pretty bird.
When she finally takes the throne, she rules with a just and even hand- that is what her most trusted falconer tells her, after all.
Pretty birds believe what they are told.
]]>And, crucially, a hidden camera whirs to life, peering through the strings in her guitar bat. Halfway across the city, a monitor clicks on. The electron gun in an aging CRT dutifully reproduces the Spies home run idol in night vision green. A few keystrokes later, and a livestream begins on ████tube.co█.
Miki blows a kiss to the hidden camera. She's dressed in her traditional blaseball outfit. Her custom snapsides cap lets her twintails dangle freely. Her uniform is padded around the chest to make her bust look bigger, and the steel blades lining the hem of her skirt give it the weight it needs to really show off Miki's lack of underwear whenever she spins. Unless you count the cyan ribbon tied in a cute little bow around her cock as "underwear".
And Miki loves to spin. She'll twirl on her heel while figuring out what to say after "Gosh, blaseball fans, I sure did strike out a lot today. I wonder what my punishment should be?" She'll twirl around to break the lock on the cheerlorder uniform storage with a perfectly whistled 2581 Hz1 tone, then return with one in her size. She even twirls while unbuttoning the top from her blaseball uniform so the force throws it across the room. She makes a big show out of blowing a kiss to it and waving good-bye as her top sails offscreen. Her skirt falls to the floor and Miki sends it flying by kicking her left leg clear over her head. If you're watching the stream and wanted Miki Santana's cock front, center, and dripping, you got your wish. She unwraps this first little present to the fans with a single, effortless tug. "Do you like it? I got it just for you!"
She holds the cheerlorder outfit against her chest. She twirls around to demonstrate the flowing nature of the outfit. Dark, flowing robes with SPIES printed across the chest in big block letters. The sort of outfit one might expect from a spy or a cultist. "Hmmm, maybe I would make a better cheerlorder? I've been such a bad batter." She throws her hip out to the side and taps her finger against her chin. She steps into the skirt and slowly pulls it up over her legs. The waistband rises up until it catches against her cock and ass. Another twirl to make sure everyone watching gets a 360 degree view of her upright, dripping cock and the ass spilling over the waistband. "Oops, guess this one's too small." The skirt slowly slides over her hips. A few drops of precum drip onto the skirt, an exaggerated moan fills the air, and everything below her waist vanishes. Well, except for the tent she's pitching. There's not a robe flowing enough to hide how aroused Miki is at this moment.
Miki pretends to have a similarly hard time getting the top over her chest. She spends like five minutes acting like she can't quite get the top over her modestly-sized chest and filling the Spies locker room with musical moans before finally tugging the top on and adjusting her twintails back into place.
Little known blaseball fact: cheerlorder skirts are adjustable by tugging at a hidden length of razor wire spiraling up its length. Perfect for stunts, playful on-field fights, and, in this case, Miki Santana shedding a full two feet of material and twirling around in a skirt so mini, you can absolutely see the tip of her cock dribbling precum onto the floor. "Much better." She tosses a wink at the hidden camera and grabs a blaseball bat from offscreen.
"Alexandriaaaah~" She grinds the bat between her thighs. Her big hazel eyes water and snap shut. Being overwhelmed with bliss does that to you. "A-Alex! Alex! She's the best! Slug your hands against my chest! Grope me hard and fuck my ass, take this cheerful slut to class! Teach me how to bat like you, fuck me 'til I can't come to! Goooooo, Spies!" Miki's panting and cheering echoes off the smooth locker room walls. There's not a quiet square inch in the whole facility while she grinds herself ever closer to orgasm against her teammate's bat.
She pins one of her twintails against the locker room bench with her foot and mashes the other one against the ground with her bat. Her breaths get shorter. "T-tug my hair and yank it hard! Make me sing like I'm your bard! Force my ass over your dick or fuck my throat- please take your pick! Goooooo Spiaaaahahn~!" And that's all it takes for her to collapse into an orgasm-wracked mess on the floor, uselessly humping the bat between her legs to eke out just a few more moments of bliss.
As the live stream fades to black on Miki Santana, lying in a pool of her own cum, she chants out a surprisingly clear, final "Always Watching! Goooo Spies!"
Miki Santana staged an incineration on day 76 of Season 3. Rumor has it she skipped town under a false name and is enjoying herself on a beach somewhere.
Miki Santana, like most blaseball stars, had a troubled road to the big leagues. I dare you to be the alleged daughter of two renowned, blaseball gods-fearing musicians and not develop perfect pitch2 before you skip town at night with a one way bus ticket to Houston. ↩
"Perfect pitch" as in the music thing. Miki is a lousy blaseball pitcher. ↩
The intercom crackled and surged with electricity. A familiar face crawls out of the speaker. Followed by a familiar head of blonde hair, a familiar pink streak over one eye, a familiar black bow, a familiar parasol, and the familiar flowing black ball gown, wreathed with ribbons, cables, and circuitry that could only belong to Modemoiselle herself. She shakes her down cascade onto her shoulders. A few errant arcs of pink lightning arc between her locks. She sits atop the desk, one leg crossed over the other. Boot tapping against her captive's leg. "Well, well, well. If it isn't…" She plucks the unused ceramic coffee mug from its nest of takeout coffee cups. "Number one boss?" She shakes her head.
Her boot heel digs into her target's awfully vulnerable groin. D-did she always have a bulge down there? And did it always feel s-so good when a supervillain ground her heel against it, sending waves of circuitry pulsing across her exquisitely tailored suit?
Modemoiselle's finger swipes across the mug's surface. "Boss" vanishes to the left, and "pet" swoops in from the right. "Hmm, no, you're not really a pet, are you?" She smiles a devious smile and keeps swiping. "Slut?" She smiles at her captive. Watching her squirm and kick uselessly against her bonds. "What's wrong, dear? Can't break a few simple ribbons? I know you love how they feel against your skin. Too enchanted by my mere presence, perhaps, to even raise a finger against Miss Modemoiselle, The Grand Dame of the Grid?" She extends a black gloved finger and presses it against her quarry's chin. The ribbons tighten. Mmmph, they do feel good. Impossibly soft, even as they help Modemoiselle invade your mind and corrupt every thought of escape into 'fuck, I'm so horny for supervillains, like always.'" Modemoiselle's finger digs into her captive's chin and forces her to make eye contact.
"You're a smart girl. You went to…" Another ribbon lashes out from that fancy office chair. This time, it snatches the diploma off the wall. "Brown. Jeez, way to pick the hardest Ivy to tease you about." She drops it and lets the glass shatter on the floor.
"But that was always your perogative, wasn't it? Always playing it safe. The safest school, the safest career, the easiest money." She's back at the mug again. Swiping from "pet" to "harem dancer" to "onahole" to "sex doll", making sure her victim gets an eyeful of each. "The meekest secretary who's too afraid of losing her job to turn down your advances. Maybe we should see how you like it." She swishes the mug to say "Number One Secretary."
The captive's breathing gets heavier.
"Now as for the nameplate, how long does it take to get a new one of these ordered?"
The ribbons get tighter.
"Sorry, two new ones ordered. One for me, one for my brainwashed little fuck typist."
Too tight.
"Oh, look at me, fussing like some useless exec who doesn't know how to type, much less what the company actually does."
The ribbons begin to tear.
"I'm sure I can issue some useless strategy memos that my underlings will use to bludgeon the real workers into compliance with their own petty goals."
A blinding flash of light vaporizes the chair and the ribbons. New pink ones fly in from every corner of the room, twirling around what was once Modemoiselle's captive, and is now a spinning blob of girl-shaped transformation sequence summoning the powers of goodness, light, and ribbons to bear against her foe. Her plain brown hair explodes into chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry streaks, promptly tamed by a flowing pink ribbon tying itself into a neat little bow. Pretty standard magical girl stuff, you see a lot of it in the mid to high fantasy villainy business.
"In the name of all that is good and right, Ribbonmancer will never cease to fight, fight, fight!" The light fades. Instead, the same person stands. Her tailored suit transformed into pure light, and now into a tight white top with a big pink ribbon covering her breasts. A too-short black pleated skirt and a pair of panties are the only thing separating her new bulge from the world. She twirls her wand between her white gloved fingers and levels it at the dastardly supervillain who defaced her mug.
"I coulda sworn you had a better battle cry than that. It sounds like a high school fight song."
"I didn't get to pick it, it's the Sacred Oath of the Seamstress's Sanctum." She flicks her wrist, sending infinite lengths of pink ribbon flying out from every direction. Modemoiselle lept backwards off the desk, still holding the Number One Secretary mug.
"I thought you looked better in the suit." Modemoiselle effortlessly twirls out of the way of every ribbon. She'll sidestep one, walk up another, then hook a third with the coffee mug handle and zipline down the length. "But, well, the slutty sailor scout cheerleader is a good look, too. Come on, say the thing again, but this time, stick a 'goooo team!' at the end." A flick of her wrist twists a length of ribbon into a perfect pom-pom shape, knotted around one of Ribbonmancer's hands.
"We arrested you last night! You should be rotting in jail!"
"Finally, someone gets it. You should tell your bird friend about that so she doesn't make a fool of herself when a supervillain puts her into a brainwashing dream pod and turns her into a brainwashed little pony named… oh, I don't know…"
"Clop Star?" A third voice echoes from the other side of the intercom.
"Ravenna?" Ribbonmancer's attention snaps to the speaker on the desk. "What did she do to you? What did she do to us?"
"What do you think, Star? Does that count? Did she get it before you?"
"It doesn't count if you had to explain the whole plan to her before she got it. At least Bird Brain remembered the dream bomb." The pony pouts from over the intercom.
"You're right. It was my fault for expecting more from an MBA." Modemoiselle nods.
"Hey!"
"Oh, I've been calling you a useless drain on society since I got here, but that's the last straw? Come on, dear, at least pick the right battle." She shakes her head. "Tell you what. I'll forget all about it if we can hear that cheer. I know you have it in you- I wrote the program myself." Modemoiselle swipes the text on the mug a few more times until it says "Number One Cheerleader".
New thoughts pour in through the magical girl's ears. Intoxicating music piercing straight through her mind. Entire lobes of her brain light up for their singular purpose. Her hips swivel and shake back and forth, powered by the rhythms borrowing her body and twisting her to Modemoiselle's villainous whims. She twirls on her toe and summons another ribbon pom-pom to match the one currently imprisoning her hand.
"In the name of all that's good and right! Ribbonmancer will fight! fight! fight!"
The ribbons start to shift. Pink gives way to black and green. Circuitry starts to replace the veins in her eyes. The poor thing struggles against the music rending her thoughts to pieces. Fists clenching. Body twisting. Brand new cock leaking right into her extremely visible panties.
"Better do what it says, dear. It'll just get stronger and stronger until you give in~" Modemoiselle idly pretends to inspect her nails through her gloves. "I wrote more cheers for you, and it'd be awfully rude to refuse to recite them for the supervillain who's currently up to her elbows in your brain. You'd look cute with your brain melted into a singing, dancing puddle, but I have bigger plans for you." The coffee mug dangles from her index finger while she leans forward onto her palms. All too happy to simply sit and watch the show.
"Miss Modemoiselle, please own my mind! This dumb cheerleader's in a bind! I can't think and I can't drive! My brain is ribbons, I'll be eaten alive! Take pity on this capitalist slut and let her show off her perfect butt!"
Every rhyming pair only feeds the music pulsing a circuit heart-shaped hole through her mind. But no hero would go down without one last-ditch effort to save herself. She had to be using that mug for something. It was her only weak point. Her body twirls, springs, and shakes from side to side, as is natural when being turned into a cheerleader by brainwashing music hooked directly up to your head through the dream pod being controlled by a supervillain. One of her wrists flicks outside of the prescribed routine. What a breach in protocol! What will Miss Modemoiselle say? The ribbon pom-pom on that hand unfurls, sending one lashing directly at the coffee mug.
"Ooh, I love the spunk, dear, but bad choice~" Modemoiselle lets the mug slip off her finger. The ribbon entangles her wrist, but it's too late. The mug tumbles down, down, down onto that fancy hardwood floor you insisted on, and it
shatters.
The sound of breaking ceramic echoes to and from every direction. The office facade falls away to reveal… well, nothing, really. An endless void stretching in every direction. Empty, save for Modemoiselle and a naked Ribbonmancer. The music in her head has subsided, but so has everything else.
"You really thought that shattering the thing that represented your brain was going to help you in the dream world? Haven't you seen, like, any fiction? Or had someone explain the concept of a metaphor to you?"
"Fine." Ribbonmancer crosses her arms, calling up a few winding ribbons- in Modemoiselle's colors instead of her usual pink, of course- to cover her breasts and new cock. Out of habit, really. And she only knows how to tie them in big, bouncy bows, so that's what's going on with the naked Ribbonmancer situation. "You win, what was I supposed to do?"
"Dear, look at you." Modemoiselle snaps her gloved fingers. A sleek, human-sized, curved glass pod rises from the void. Inside is Ribbonmancer, still wearing her suit, headphones clamped to her ears, and staring at a hacked black ribbon over her eyes that's keeping her nice and under the supervillain's spell. "Did you really think you could think your way out of this one? You couldn't even think your way out of 'maybe my greedy, destructive business tactics are causing more harm than my heroing is doing good', much less 'capitalism is a prison'. Even if I did set up a puzzle box for you with some chance of escape, I don't think you'd get it. Why would I risk breaking up my matching set?"
"So all of us are…"
"In pods like this! Well, except for the one you already met. She's currently… hang on." Modemoiselle vanishes for a moment as she jacks out of the dream pod. She reappears a moment later. "…Practicing a musical number. She pushed me out of her room with her hooves and said it was a surprise for me and that I can't listen until it's done."
"She's also currently a horse."
"That she is! So, how are you doing?"
"Cold, naked, and brainwashed, apparently."
"Oh, don't worry, dear." Modemoiselle smiles. White coffee mug shards zoom from all corners of the void. "You're going to get much more brainwashed than this." The mug reassembles in her hand, still on 'cheerleader'. A few swipes of her finger set it back to 'secretary'. She sets it on top of the pod. The thick pink fog inside thickens. The music returns to the hero's head, even stronger than before. The hacked ribbon currently beaming thoughts into her brain kicks into overdrive.
Ribbonmancer can see the outlines of spirals drilling deeper and deeper into her brain, and she's starting to realize that it's good? That the machine wrapped around her cock and programmed to deliver perfect pleasure straight to her brain makes it hard to think about anything else? That Miss Modemoiselle was right all along? That her tongue is rolling out of her mouth, and her eyes want to roll up into her head? That Miss Modemoiselle's fingers are combing through her hair right now and a single tug would send her over the edge?
"You know, dear, I bet if you begged me, I'd tug your hair like the slut you are and shatter your mind into a trillion pieces." Modemoiselle gingerly collects strands of Neapolitan hair into her hand. Putting just a little pressure on. Barely enough to get her toy's breath quivering. "But with how rude you've been, you're going to have to wow me."
"P-please, Mode-"
"Miss Modemoiselle." A snap of Modemoiselle's fingers forces the words to catch in her throat. "Haven't you ever begged before? Make me want to assimilate you. Here, I'll even give you a hand, since we all know that capitalism and being a corporate stooge chokes out innovation."
A simple stool rises from the depths and bumps against her butt.
Ribbonmancer looks down, then up. She sits down. It's cold. Modemoiselle smiles and nods. "Now what?"
She looks unsure. She calls another ribbon up and lets it tie her legs together. Nice and tight, with a big ol' bow. Black ribbons with Modemoiselle's circuitry pulsing down their length. Tingly against her skin. Perfectly packaged for Miss Modemoiselle. Bound up, at her mercy, presenting yourself to her for her to use for whatever evil scheme she dreams up…
She barely needs the encouragement to continue. She binds her hands behind her back. The ribbons around her breasts fall away and retie themselves into a figure-eight knot. She ties her cock up with a neat little bow, a touch of pressure so she's hard and ready for action whenever Miss wishes. One last ribbon snakes around her mouth and seals it off. She looks up at Modemoiselle expectantly.
"Much better. Was that so hard?" Her boot's pressing against that cute little gift-wrapped cock again. Ribbonmancer's eyes roll back into her head and her mouth ribbon muffles a moan.
Modemoiselle levels a loaded parasol at her bound bounty. "You know what this is full of, right?"
She nods.
"And you want me to spray you with it, I bet."
She nods.
"Even though this much at this range will let me sculpt your brain however I wish?"
She nodnodnods.
"And I'm going to take over your company, use its resources to help as many people as possible, all while you're my brainwashed secretary?"
Nodnodnodnodnodnodnodnod.
Psssh~ Thick pink smoke envelops her face. Her eyes roll back into her head. Modemoiselle, as promised, gives her hair a mighty yank! and the poor thing moaned so hard, Clop Star could hear it from her room in the real world.
"Aww, hypnoslut's first orgasm." Modemoiselle does not stop pulling, and the girl formerly known as Ribbonmancer does not stop coming. "Don't worry, dear. There's more where that came from during every step of your training."
Poor thing was too busy having pleasure centers she didn't even know about turned all the way up to really process what Miss Modemoiselle was monologuing at her about. Too busy having her brain reduced to its base components. Too busy being smashed to pieces so it could be rebuilt. And far too horny to realize the dream world metaphor Modemoiselle was going for with the mug.
Soon, the vicious viral vixen vanished. The pod kicked into overdrive, stretching its captive's perception of time to run her through countless training exercises. Exactly how Miss Modemoiselle likes her coffee1. Where every file and record is kept2 and how Miss Modemoiselle likes them presented to her3. And what happens when Miss Modemoiselle says "Showtime"4. All pulsed to the bedrock of her brain, where things like "kissing girls is good" and "water is wet, but not as wet as I am when Miss Modemoiselle looks me in the eyes" live.
"The report on my brainwashing and time in the pod, Miss Modemoiselle." Her heels click and clack against the ground. Same expensive suit as before, but pulsing with circuitry, tastefully accented with corrupted ribbons, and adjusted to show off her new curves. The walls lined with computers and pulsing circuitry, dusted by three Murdermaids sitting on each other's shoulders and working in parallel. Modemoiselle herself has her boots kicked up on the table, allowing her secretary to sneak a peak up her skirt. She does, of course.
"And~?"
Three minidiscs clatter onto the desk. "Perfect as always, Miss Modemoiselle. You're far too brilliant to allow some ungrateful hero to ruin your plans."
"And~?"
"Any time you want to kick your feet up on a different desk, the old office has been done up to your liking and awaiting your masterful direction."
"And~?"
"Would you like to adjust my body and mind more to your liking? You did a perfect job the first time around, but I know how you love to tinker."
"That I do, dear. Go check on the rest of the pods and practice your cheers with your pony friend. She said you were a little flat last time."
Her heels clicked off, her hips swayed just like how Miss Modemoiselle liked, and the halls echoed with the beeping of pods, the knocking on glass, and, soon, the distant practicing of cheers with a pony.
Fuck, it's good to be a villain.
She doesn't, she prefers soda. ↩
In the computer. ↩
You fanning out some disks on her desk, delivering a brief oral report, and asking if Miss would like to brainwash you into anything. A folder stuffed with papers if you need something that thuds on the table, but you don't have to print anything on them. ↩
[data missing] ↩