"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. ↩
Galar isn't that different, really. New sights to see, new people to meet, new Pokémon to befriend and fight. You know the air may taste different, but the bond you share with your trainer never changes.
It's exciting, of course, when your trainer says you're finally allowed to fight in the Battle Tower here. You just have to get checked out and earn your little sticker. You imagine it's not too different than going through the Pokémon center. Whatever it is, you trust your trainer!
You're let out of your Ultra Ball in a cozy little room about the size of a bedroom, featureless save for a door and a human.
"Hello!" She makes eye contact as best as she can and makes sure to call you by your nickname. She seems nice- red ponytail pulled through the back of her baseball cap. Insofar as you understand your trainer's type,1 she's about it. She smiles a lot and explains that it won't hurt a bit and your trainer is right outside. It's hard to tell if she's expecting you to understand her words or her tone.
She snaps her fingers to make sure you're looking at her eyes. Big smile. Lots of talking that's hard to understand, but that feels so nice to hear. Things get a little fuzzy, but it's a good fuzzy. Happy TM and berry dream fuzzy. It's a big, soft cloud of happy memories fading in and out.
It's hard to tell how long- not that you really keep time anyways, and there's no windows in here. Time flies and all. Do they have Timeflies in Galar?
"Three… two… one… and poof!" She snaps her fingers and you jerk back to reality. "There we go! How's that feel?" She doesn't wait for an answer before booping a sticker above your eyes and walking you out the door. It takes you a minute to think through the fuzz and remember who this is. Your trainer says something like "That wasn't too bad, was it?" and you make your agreement known.
As you go back into your ball, your trainer mentions something about picking up some dolls for Substitute practice.
Hm. Why does that sound familiar? You'd think you'd remember if you ever learned how to do that.
Inspired by https://bulbapedia.bulbagarden.net/wiki/Battle-ready_symbol.
Well, other than "bug/fighting". ↩
It was not necessarily a matter of time before that supervillain ran into Mercí City Nerd Convention, pursued by the Iron Titan. You've heard the story before. Hotshot good guy, new to the scene, wants to prove himself by besting one of the biggest names in costumed villainy. Like most heroes who try the same thing, he's never considered that there might be a reason Modemoiselle sits at the top of the food chain. He might not even have noticed that the more experienced heroes won't engage with her solo. It's not like it's a secret where all those magnificent murdermaids come from.
But no hero ever made the papers with the safe choice.1 No heroes make the papers any more- the Mercí Monitor went online-only years ago- but glory is glory.2 Omelettes and eggs and all.
This particular egg won't let the threat of omeletteification stop him! He charges headlong through the double doors, blowing right past the line, and stopping only when con security swarms the metal man breaking through the turnstiles and explaining that "Sir, please, I know you're dressed like a superhero, but you can't just smash in through our doors and skip the line. You're scaring everyone. Look, show us your ticket and we'll let you in if you promise to set a good example and not do it again. I know that shiny body paint is a pain to apply, but it doesn't give you the right to break the rules."
To which he, of course, has to do the thing where he pats down where the pockets would be on his tights and sheepishly explains that he must have left it in the car. "I'll be right back." He says. A few cheers and "That's what I thought!"s come from the line he so rudely skipped. He makes his way out the door, confidently as he can, before the girl in the rainbow-haired goat cosplay throws one of her hoof boots. He might be made of metal, but so are the horseshoes (goatshoes?) on the bottom and it's really hard to get scratches and dents out of your own skin.
He pushes his way out the double doors, already on the lookout for another way in. He's looking up at the fire escape when a descending clutch of lesbians, dressed in their finest aposematic colors, begin to circle.
"I thought I smelled tin and tights." The looming, predatory catgirl sniffs the air at him. Her leather jacket is the same color as the asphalt behind her, but her big ol' calico ears and the baseball bat on her shoulder make it clear she's not interested in stealth. The bat whirls around and catches him on the chin. Her fangs poke through her grin when she forces him to make eye contact. "Purretty impurressive for somenyan who furgot to buy a ticket."
Iron Titan tries to square the circle of "make it clear that he's a real superhero, and so should be exempt from random catgirl-based menacing", "realize he's outnumbered and maybe should not tell these villain-coded queers that he means them harm", and "don't let on that he's aroused by this for reasons he'll have to unpack later."
The conflicting desires pull his head in different directions until they fizzle. The best he can do is the sort of appalled sputter you usually associate with Victorian gentlemen about to drop their monocle into their tea. The only reason he doesn't actually say "I say!" out loud is that the world moves on without him. The only sure thing is that he absolutely failed objective three.
"It's a shame you dressed like a good guy." A goblin, half his height with tits like a watermelon, digs a claw into his tights and gives them a solid snap! E looks up so he can see eir unimpressed sneer. "If I was gonna wear clothes that showed off my cock- and I do-" E leans back to get the tits out of the way of a fist-sized bulge in some awfully tight pants. They're either already ripping around eir thighs or they came pre-torn.
"You'd be much cuter as a villnyan." The catgirl.
"Or a hench." The goblin.
"Or a girl." The towering black draft horse snorts, pink circuitry spreading from the hearts on its flanks up to its tree trunk neck and down to its unshorn fetlocks.
"What's wrong, capesplayer? Furget to get a ticket?"
"Thought you could just claim you were chasing a supervillain to get in?"
"They got wise to that after three separate Justice Cules charged in last year."
"But if you purreally want in."
"You could walk right into the con with us."
"Just part of the herd."
"Nyaturally, we'd have to do something about that outfit."
"Much too hero-coded to hang out with us."
"But I think we could figure something out."
"If you're gonna clawsplay, you gotta bring nyantingencies."
"Needles. Thread. Hot glue."
"And plenty of spares." The goblin spins a short pink wig on eir finger.
"Can't have yourself a wardrobe meowlfunction in furont of everynyan." A claw digs into those tights and starts to pull and pierce. "That's the thing about nyandex. One tear and it all falls apurrt."
"Especially if you get the cheap stuff." Three sharp points drag down his back. His metal skin is barely scratched, but the tiny elastic threads that hold the tights tight to his metal muscles fray and unravel. "Good body paint, though. Got your priorities in order."
The team in front- the cat with the bat, the huge horse, and the goblin with the scary-sharp teeth- advances in unison. The whole ruckus wakes up the rear guard- the pop star, the cheerleader, and the demon- just in time to welcome him into the alley. Those claws never leave his spine.
He panics in that way fresh heroes often do- violence first. They have him surrounded, after all, so it's correct to punch in every direction. He starts with the horse. It's the biggest target and he thinks he can punch it backwards while it's on two legs. His Palladium Piston Punch connects with its chest and does send the horse stumbling backwards into some garbage cans- and invites the other five to close ranks.
"Oooh, a real cape! What a treat." The demon's claws scratch down his exposed back. The way his body swells and bulks up when he does his little punch was enough to shred the rest of his uniform. "Well. A real hero, at least." A boot grinds his cape into the ground. The goblin takes it in all its tattered, torn, faded glory and ties it around eir neck. About an inch of it still drags on the ground.
He tries to make threatening eye contact with everyone at once, fist still charged up and ready to punch. "Look! I'm just here for the ruby! No one else has to get hurt! You saw what happened to your friend." He glances towards the trash cans to see Modemoiselle's henchhorse rising with barely a scratch. Those trash cans absolutely crumpled in the impact, though. It stands up, shakes a few old coffee grounds off, and joins the fray. A single snort at twice his height dares him to try that again.
"Is that all?"
"We could take you to see Mod right meow." The catgirl's bat catches him under the chin again and forces him to gaze into those pink, slitted eyes. He's preparing to Palladium Piston Punch right in her bared fangs and those hungry, shining eyes when she says something to give him paws.
Well, the goblin, with a little lift from the cheerleader, actually puts the paw gloves on his hands, but it's the catgirl that makes him hold still long enough to make that easy.
"Meow's the perfect time to blend in with us." She slides closer so her claws can scratch against his chin. She feels his breath catch in his throat and begin to slow down. He stares, transfixed, at those shimmering eyes.
"Yeah." The goblin takes the opportunity to wrap eir tits around his clearly hard cock. Well. Clearly erect. When you're made of metal, you're kind of always hard. It does sort of unscrew when he's aroused, and that's what's happening here. "We still think you're a cosplayer trying to sneak in."
Which, in a way, he is.
"B-but, I-" His hips thrust and his mind starts to melt.
Fingers snap behind him and his head jerks to look. The demonermaid, with her little red horns poking up through her short hair, grins. Swirling pink smoke slips through her sharp teeth. She takes a deep breath in through her nose, brings two clawed fingers to her lips, and blows a kiss- and Modemoiselle's mind-fogging musk- right into his face.
"Not quite the real thing." Clouds of pink gas leak from her nose when she sneers. "But it should hold you over."
He tries his best to hold his breath, but even iron lungs need air. The goblin headbutts him in the gut between titjob3 strokes to force a desperate gasp for air just in time for the next cloud to hit.
"You know, so long as you pretend to be a cute little brainwashed dolldermaid, we'll take you right to Modemoiselle."
"And we'd be none the wiser~"
His iron eyelids have the weight of titanium. If he didn't know any better- and soon, he won't- he'd swear they're getting denser with every breath. Especially as breaths get shorter and shallower under the goblin titcareer onslaught4. His pretty kitty paws try to grab eir hair and pull em off, but when e sticks fast, he settles for blissful kneading.
"C-cute little brainwashed dolldermaid?" He gasps.
They all nod. It takes the horse a surprising amount of force to pry the goblin off that iron cock. E huffs, of course, until the horse offers to let em finish on it later.
"Rah rah rah and ring the bell! You're infiltrating Mod SO well!"
Modemoiselle's cute little brainwashed dolldermaid nods a little, with the help of the catgirl claws guiding that chin up and down. It's only natural that a dolldermaid, or a hero pretending to be one, would need a little help moving around. "Dolls are made to be played with, after nyall~"
A long, feline tail wrapped around the doll's neck creates a lovely leash. The catgirl stands up straight and proud and joins the gaggle of murdermaids advancing inside the con space like they're returning triumphantly from a heist.
And, in a way, they have.
A quick tug from the horse pulls the back door off its hinges. The sound of metal stretching to its breaking point and bursting under the stress nearly shakes Modemoiselle's newest dolldermaid out of- well, the other murdermaids seem to have settled on "it", so let's say "its musk-minded revelry". But another mouthful of musky pink smoke and a cheerful kiss on the cheek sends it sinking back under their spell just in time to be led through the con floor. The crowds, the sounds of nerdy excitement and conversation, and even the occasional staring attendee, asking their friend "Is that Iron Titan cosplayer with the cock fully out just getting led around by that catgirl? Fuck, I'm jealous.", all just wash over it. Paying attention to things and looking around would risk breaking character, and then it'll never get to infiltrate Miss Modemoiselle's organization deep enough for Mod to gaze into its dull, platinum-heavy eyes and fill its head with wonderful words and sinister thoughts!
There's a lot of winding and wandering through the con floor, far too much for an empty little dolldermaid to keep track of. The frequent spins and turns do a good job of keeping its mainspring wound, though! No matter how much it walks, it's always erect, ready to serve, and bouncing along with a real spring in its step! If it was allowed to feel anything other than blissful and blank, it might feel a little sad when they finally arrive at the door marked "Exhibitor's Lounge". It's dimly aware of the sound of conversation on both sides of the door, but it's too close now to risk breaking its cover! It thrums and leaks with anticipation as the goblin stands on eir toes to beep a key card and open the door.
Whatever parts of Iron Titan hadn't yet been subsumed into the cover perk up. Modemoiselle is sitting right there, legs crossed, laughing that lovely, cackling laugh. The Rapscallion's Ruby sits right between those enthralling thighs! The other maids proudly present their captive. The dolldermaid stands at attention in the presence of its magnificently menacing Miss Modemoiselle. The catgirl bumps its butt with a bat, encouraging it to present itself. It does, of course. Back straight, cock erect, staring straight ahead at Miss Modemoiselle despite how good it would feel to fall asleep in Miss Modemoiselle's big, comfy skunk tail. Its eyes may flick to it once or twice.
"Guess who we found~!" The goblin, tattered cape still hanging proudly around eir neck, displays the dolldermaid like one might present a new car at a game show. "A certain chromium cape thinks he's doing such a good job infiltrating us!"
"And it's such a good undercover dolldermaid." The demon and the cat each scratch down an arm. "It'd almost be a shame to have Iron Titty back."
The undercover dolldermaid beams with pleasure! Sure, its tights are tatters, putting its gay little erection is on full display for Miss Modemoiselle and everyone to see, but that just means it's been such a good scratching post and chew toy! Every scratch and dent and lipstick print is evidence of it being the best doll it can be!
Modemoiselle apologizes to her conversation partners- this'll only take a moment. Lady Laser5 and Stabitha6 nod, understanding and already a little suggestible from Modemoiselle's mind-melting musk. A clawed paw beckons the dolldermaid closer, and it obliges until it's in grabbing range. Mod takes it by the chin, those claws tink-tink-tinking against those metal cheeks. It's staring straight into those vibrant violet eyes, just past Mod's sinfully sharp teeth. "Perhaps we should give Iron Titty a choice, then." That sinister smile only grows. "Dear, if you want to shake off the comforting tick-tick-ticking of your mainspring and cause a scene in front of your fellow murdermaids, feel free to wake up right now, take the ruby, and arrest me. I'll even go with you willingly."
The best Iron Titty can do is make its paw gloves knead a little. Not even a fist.
"Or we can let you sink into my tail and finish what my marvelous Murdermaids started." Mod lets go of its chin and lets it collapse into the waiting tail like a marionette with its strings cut.
Which, in a way, it is.
As Mod's tail coils around it, softness and spray and wonderful words encroaching from all angles, Iron Titty hears one final phrase.
"Good doll."
Well, other than The Fossing Guard, the crossing guard with the powers of free and open source software, but they're a clear outlier. ↩
"No hero ever made the Hot Stories feed on the Mercí Monitor's Broadsheet instance with the safe choice." doesn't quite hit the same. ↩
E would say that they're more like tit careers. They last much longer and they're way more fulfilling and rewarding. ↩
The new Goblin Titcareer Onslaught album is great, by the way. ↩
Stabitha the Knife Wife, for all your edged prop weapon needs! ↩
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.
]]>Graceful Spark trots a brisk circle around her latest victim. Looking them up and down and occasionally swatting with her tail. Her hooves clippity-clop against the Spark and Bean's wooden floor. "Well, a lot of this is unfortunate." She steps on their toes on this lap. "I didn't know you could get isekai'd wrong. Weird. Fortunately, it's fixable."
They try to run out the door when Spark leaves to throw a few oversized switches. It's locked and guarded by a maredermaid, of course.
"Dear, please. This is for your own good. We won't get to Equestria Girls for a year or so, and even then, it's not like the humans come hang out in Ponyville. They're barely normal about zebras, I think they're gonna have a hard time with fingers and toes."
Beans drags them back to their seat just in time for the Horsefemmer Deluxe to finish booting. "Don't worry, dear. You'll make SUCH a pretty pony when we're done with you."
The final switch is thrown. Spark cackles. A red and gold beam focuses in on its victim. Their fingers merge into soft little hooves. Their feet stomp on the ground until their shoes slip off to reveal a matching set of gay little marshmallow hoofers. Spark whispers in those perky pony ears about how they're SUCH a pretty pony and how they're SO happy here in Ponyville and how they're SO good at-" A beat to check their cutie mark. "-magnets? Weird. Everypony loves your maregnetic ponysonality."
They nod, empty little smile spreading across their snout.
"Good girl. You'll fit right in."
]]>I flip over the first card. It says "Street you grew up on."
"Don't think too hard. Should be easy, what with all the drugs. First thing that comes to mind."
"Dixon Lane." The words come out. That's, uh, not where you grew up. I guess it is now, it's not like the old information's there any more.
I flip over the card and grin across the table. "Good! Just four hundred and ninety-nine more to go."
]]>Oh, and plenty of half-finished buildings closed to the public. This place is making the actors plant trees for free on their days off; they certainly don't hire security guards. That makes it catnip for urban explorers looking to branch out from Mercí City's dead mall. Jade Scarlett, pirate queen and scourge of the Violet Sea, isn't even allowed to break character when she chases today's camera-wielding clown out of the clock tower. As Rebecca Carlos, she could at least level with them and say "Hey, please don't go in there, our insurance wouldn't cover it if you got hurt." Jade, however, has to rattle her cutlass and tell that scurvy dog to walk the plank on out of there. This is, of course, is the exact kind of content the guy with a camera on his hat wants to post online, so you know he's going to do it again and set an example for everyone else on RayTube. It's one thing if they act like someone on vacation who made an honest mistake, but this one had his channel logo on his T-shirt. At least this one had the good sense to look embarrassed about getting caught. She closes the clock tower door and stands guard until the vlogger is out of sight. It'd help if they could lock the doors, but the keys were lost well before her time and the closest thing the park has to a locksmith is the guy who hits an anvil with a hammer by the gift shop.
Whatever. It's time for her break anyways. Just enough time to get out of costume, eat somewhere other than the loud, smelly tavern, and check her phone before she has to ask for someone's help getting back into the corset. She puffs out her chest and improvises a shanty so no one tries to roleplay with her en route to the dressing room. The dressing room, of course, was supposed to be the Bard's College before they ran out of money, boarded up the windows, and had the actors move their costumes inside. At least it already had the mirrors. The song stops as soon as the door closes. She deftly maneuvers to her part of the wall and hangs her big, floppy pirate hat on its hook. She didn't even knock anything over this time! The long coat and layered skirts like to go spinny and catch unsuspecting cups and bags when you turn around. Captain Jade's scarlet curls come off Rebecca's blonde head along with the wig cap. This is right about when she notices everyone standing in the corner. They're asking hard-hitting questions like "What ARE we going to do with him?", "Aww, look at his little paws!", and "Can we get a little meow, Mr. Boots?"
Rebecca honestly thought they found a stray cat. To her credit, they kind of did. She joins the crowd and gets on her tiptoes to peek over Cyndi's exposed blue1 shoulder. The fact that she's six foot three and happy to flex her muscles makes her the closest thing the park has to security staff. The antique European armchair that usually holds everyone's coats now plays host to Becky's friend from the clock tower. The camera hat's been removed, disassembled, and replaced with a pink pair of cat ears contrasting with his short red hair. The freshly liberated camera sits on the table and gets a great shot of his bappy paws mashing against his face and completely failing to hide the glowing, tingling blush. The remains of his self-promoting shirt and denim-promoting pants are draped over the chair's arm. Rebecca barely has to ask before Ivy- better known as Merella the Invincible at her thrice-daily shows- explains that Mr. Kitty Boots here fell out of the rafters with his camera running.
"After I chased him out of the blacksmith's shop." Suzy adds.
"And the Halloween storage." Dusk says.
"And the clock tower."
"So, since he wants to be behind the scenes so much, we thought we'd give him a taste. Isn't that right, Bootsy?"
All eyes fall on him. All he can manage is a weak nod and a growing bulge.
"You know." Abby, about to get into costume as Merella's lovely assistant, shares a look with Ivy. "We ARE short-staffed. We could use an extra set of paws."
Ivy's eyes always sparkle when fae gets an idea. "What's-their-name just quit."
"I don't blame 'em. We all saw the uniform. I'd quit, too, if my titty freckles were out in front of The Six Divines and everyone."
"It's a shame. You have good freckles."
"Yeah, they're worth way more than eight bucks an hour."
"Don't forget the tips."
"Yeah, all the uncomfortable jokes and plastic gems you can fit in a corset."
Ivy clears faer throat. "And our pretty kitty here is about the right size for the role." Fae and Abby reach for his chest at the same time and turn his nipples like they're launching a nuke.
And that is what finally coaxes a noise from Mr. Kitty Boots. A sharp breath in and a surprisingly feline yowl pierce the air. Dusk makes sure to catch it on camera. Rebecca scratches him behind the fuzzy pink ears and he has to stop himself from purring and headbutting the hand. "He's so well-trained!" She scans the crowd. "What'd you do to him?"
Ivy is too busy congratulating the kitty and telling him to warm up his voice now. He'll be talking a lot today. Abby explains what's going on with the same cadence she uses for anyone who missed the first part of Merella the Invincible's Sorcery Showcase. "Well, it was a team effort. Cyndi tackled him on instinct, Ivy was playing with that dangly rock they got us instead of health insurance-"
"I think it's an opal."
"-and when he started staring at it, Dusk held his chin and teased him about how big and cute his eyes were. Staring at the shiny thing like a curious kitten."
"I tried to pick him up by his shirt collar, but it fell apart in my hands." Cyndi shakes her head. "Shoddy."
"Curious kitten~" Kitty Boots echoes in this dreamy, distant voice. Those are the only actual words he's said since Rebecca got here.
"And before we knew it, he just went totally kitty brained. He stopped complaining and trying to escape and started purring and putting his belly out for rubs and getting a cute little boner when we put the ears on him. He even wiggled out of his jeans when I told him cats don't wear pants."
"So you found the secret recipe for catboys and your master plan is to put them to work?" Rebecca looks from Mr. Boots to Abby like she's missing something.
"I was thinking of it more like a perfect storm." Abby meets her gaze. "The accidental confusion induction, the possibly-cursed opal pendant, and the fact that, on some level, Mr. Kitty Boots really wants this-" She counts each one off on her fingers. "-it's a golden opportunity for revenge. A shift where none of us have to be the slutty elf wench and smile from ear to pointy ear for tips is a bonus."
Rebecca crosses her arms. The big, flowing pirate coat makes it looks a lot more expansive and impressive than usual. "I don't know. Aren't we giving our asshole boss a free employee?"
"I thought we should keep him here under the makeup tables. Stress relief between shifts." Cyndi fidgets in her seat and readjusts the bulge in her tights. The antique stool creaks under her weight.
By this point, Ivy has Mr. Kitty Boots situated on her lap. Fae alternates between squeezing him like a teddy bear to keep him upright and seeing what kind of exciting new noises fae can extract with faer hands. "Curious kitty here does love girldick. Don't you? You love girlcock so much." Fae scratches under his chin and uses the tone of voice you'd use to get a dog excited about a walk.
"They're not mutually exclusive. There's nothing in the lore bible that says tavern wenches can't love dick. Mercí Public Health just says they can't act on it while handling food."
Dusk laughs a little. "Still grumpy about the hot dog thing?"
"Fellating a sausage is in character for Sunny Belle! It's not my fault some people don't appreciate the craft of acting." Abby huffs. "The health inspector was just mad I didn't do it for them. I even offered to wrap it in a condom. It's like they don't even care about food-safe sex."
"It'd be anachronistic anyways." Dusk offers. Abby rushes to look that up on her phone.
Mr. Kitty Boots's head flops to the side while Ivy scratches behind his ears. He purrs. "A-nya-crow-nyis-tic~"
Abby is muttering something about linen sheaths and tortoise shell when there's a knock at the door.
Noted local werewolf Markus Fowl breaks character to speak through the door. "Break time's almost over, ladies, theydies, and faedies. We could use some help at the Tournament d'Arc."
"Thank you! Be right there!" Rebecca calls back, entirely on instinct.
Ivy opens faer hand and lets the pendant dangle from faer fingers. Faer pretty kitty's eyes immediately lock on to it. His head sways back and forth to follow the swinging gem. A grin lets a custom-molded fang poke past faer lip. "What do we say?"
"I'll get the ears!" Abby hurries back to her section to get a spare set.
"Works for me." Cyndi goes for the clothing rack.
"This'll be fun." Dusk stays seated. Getting up would make it harder to scratch the kitty's chin.
Ivy focuses faer grin on Rebecca. It's the same one that always gets people on stage when they didn't, strictly speaking, volunteer. "C'mon, Becky. Tell you what. If this works, why stop here? Maybe we'll do the same thing to the boss and make this place a co-op. Or at least a cat-op."
"Fine." Rebecca sighs. "But I get to do his nails."
They descend on their canvas in unison. The longer they take, the more likely it is someone will come check on them, and there is no good explanation for why you're tying a ribbon around a hypnotized elf slut's cock on company time. "The chastity cage is too big" might be the truth, but it's rarely the right answer.
"Curious Kitty's gonna go to sleep for a bit, okay? Curious Kitty always comes when called, so it's okay if kitty takes the back seat for a little bit." The former catboy nods. The fuzzy pink headband is gone. Abby's already gluing the six-inch elf ears on and smoothing out the seam. Rebecca decides on a nice forest green for the nails.
"For the next little bit, you're gonna be a slutty elven tavern wench. You're going to love showing your body off to all those watching eyes. After all, you have such lovely, sensitive ears." Ivy runs a finger along the whole length of the right ear. Abby says it's hard to apply makeup when you make the tongue roll out like that. "And such big, bouncy breasts." Faer fingers sink into the breast forms. The elf slut's thighs clench all the same.
"I just put those panties on, Ivy. Try not to stain them."
"And such a lovely name. A name that just fills you with bliss whenever you hear it, because it is your name, and it lets you know someone needs your attention. Whenever someone calls for C'lamantha Ch'owd'er, you are there and so eager to please. Isn't that right, C'lam darling?"
C'lam needs a little help to nod her head, but she does manage a distant, happy "I'm C'lamantha~"
Ivy and Rebecca pull C'lamantha to her feet and into her new heels. A flowing evergreen wig cascades over her ears and down to her shoulders. It's not unlike watching a tree branch split a waterfall. The patter doesn't stop for a second. "You're happy to see everyone, of course. There's not enough room in your head for malice or distrust. You're much too busy being bubbly, happy, and perky. Everyone in this room right now is one of your special friends, and you trust your special friends more than anything, right?"
"Of course I trust my special friends!" She twirls a lock of hair around her finger. Abby has to snatch it back to finish adding the top coat. "Like, who else would I trust?"
"Good girl." Ivy snaps her fingers. C'lam's thighs clench and a shiver runs down her spine. "What do we think, folks? Is she ready?"
C'lam idly hums to herself and stares into the distance. It's so hard to pay attention when people aren't talking to you. Curious kitties, no matter how curious, don't listen when they're not being spoken to. Slutty elf tavern wenches must work the same way.
Cyndi takes C'lamantha's entire head in one hand, tilts it back, and makes sure the wench's lipstick is the proper shade of elderberry. Anything else would ruin the immersion. Abby makes sure the blouse is nice and tight in the right areas without obscuring the hand-painted titty freckles. Dusk, still sitting, points the camera under the skirt and tugs it down to just above the knee. "Thumbs up."
Everyone else has to hurry into costume. Makeup goes un-refreshed, wigs are worn in ways that are going to get itchy in about an hour, and corsets stay untightened. Ivy and Abby (Well, Merella and lovely assistant. You can tell by the sequins and long white gloves.) walk their freshly minted maiden to the tavern. C'lam walks with one on each arm because it's the only way she's staying upright on her first day in heels.
"Remember, you were born in the Forest of Scrrontahar in the Age of the Third Catastrophic Problem." Abby is putting her backstory skills to the test. Ivy is busy making sure C'lam remembers to wash her hands before touching food.
"I was there, wasn't I~?"
Soon, they turn the final corner to the tavern. "And, of course." Abby says, putting the finishing touches on the circumstances that caused C'lamantha to lose her scholarship at Scrrontahar Haberdashery College. "Now you work at the Orb & Crop. Don't wanna be late for your shift! You know how Mx. Thornwhether gets when you're late."
C'lamantha blinks a few times and comes to a comfortable level of reality. "Oh gosh, you're totally right!" She takes a few stumbling steps through the tavern door. "Thanks, guys! Byeee!"
The last thing Ivy and Abby hear en route to the tournament is Mx. Thornwhether's riding crop leaving a mark on elf ass.
There's not enough time to wash the body paint off between shifts as Klondyke, Stellar Fortune-Teller, you see. ↩
"I'm Princess's pretty dolly. I'm Princess's hypnotized cosplay slut."
Soon, I don't even have to snap. They repeat it all by themself. Like a good little hypnotized cosplay slut. I let them repeat themself deeper and deeper under my spell while they help me get changed. I let them remove my jacket and unzip my pants. I step out of my underwear and let them stare, transfixed, at my cock. Their mouth hangs open. It gets harder and harder for them to repeat the mantra.
"I know, dear." I give that cute, empty head a pet. "You love my cock so much. I know it dominates your thoughts and drives out any other ideas. I know even a whiff of my balls reminds you that you're my hypnotized cosplay slut. I know it penetrates down to the primordial lizard part of your brain and reminds it that you crave my dick more than anything. And that is why, if you're a good little hypnotized cosplay slut-"
"I'm Princess's hypnuhtizzd cosplay sluhh."
"-you'll get to suck Princess's perfect cock. You'll get to rub it all over your face and lick it and suck it and swallow whatever comes out. Nod when you understand." I have to help my doll nod. "And what are the rules of a good little hypnotized cosplay slut?" I snap. It sits up straight. The rules come out clear and crisp.
"One. A hypnotized cosplay slut is always deeply hypnotized. Two. A hypnotized cosplay slut is always deeply in character. Three. A hypnotized cosplay slut is always deeply Princess's perfect plaything." They immediately flop back into the couch.
"Perfect, dear." I reward my hypnotized cosplay slut by guiding its lips to my cock. Just a kiss. It's going for a lick when I put the maid cap on its head. Another snap makes it sit up straight. "Princess wants faer happy little maid."
She giggles and bounces to her feet. "Dress-up time again, Miss Princess?" I nod and name the characters we're doing today. She bounces off to the closet. "Oh, I'm going to love this one, Miss Princess! I hope I get to remember it."
My maid does all the hard work, of course. Tucking my hair under the wig cap and fixing it in place with bobby pins. Stealing kisses when she thinks I'm not looking. Picking out cute underwear and trying not to let my cock turn her brain to mush. Helping me step into the dress and zipping it up in the back. Doing my makeup just so. She's in the middle of appreciating her handiwork and gushing over how pretty Miss Princess is when I pluck the cap off and help my maid drift back to sleep. I hold her chin and help remind her of the mantra.
"I'm Princess's pretty dolly. I'm Princess's hypnotized cosplay slut. I'm Princess's pretty dolly. I'm-"
Princess's hypnotized cosplay slut repeats while I work. I move its limbs and freeze it in place when needed to help it into the clothes. I call it by the character's name and remind it of her personality. Today, it is the awkward, bookish nerd dating the ravishing Princess with the flaming hair beyond compare. A nerd who's far too smart to be hypnotized, and thinks the whole idea is, frankly, a little silly to begin with. Just because she lifts her skirt whenever Princess snaps her fingers doesn't mean anything! She'd do anything for Princess anyways, after all, so the idea of having her mind messed with is… as completely unnecessary as it is undeniably erotic! Oh, if only she could work up the courage to ask- no, beg!- Princess to brainwash her!
The last of the makeup goes on, the wig is affixed, and the glasses slide on. Any delusions of a silly old life are dismissed and put away for later. The new name is asked for and quickly given. A kiss on the nose seals any remaining doubts and a snap of my fingers wakes her up. The first thing she sees is her Princess's smiling face, the first thing she thinks is extremely gay, and the first expression she makes completely fails to hide that fact.
]]>The "On Air" sign lights up. Sunny rises to her feet. Her busty, brainwashed bunnies help her into her jacket and settle her top hat on her head. She rewards each bunny with a kiss on the nose, yanks them out of their smooch-induced horny haze with a Snap!, and leads her entourage onto the stage.
A drum roll fills the packed auditorium and pours out of televisions, computers, and phones all over the world. The curtains rise while Sunset strolls on stage, projecting her voice far and wide with a simple wave of her arm. "Live!" She calls. "From historic Wolfe Salazar Memorial Auditorium, the scintillating sorceress, the mesmerizing magician, your hypnotic hostess for the evening, Sunny the Spectacular!" The applause light comes on, and she bows. She doffs her hat so her blazing locks can properly bounce before she rights herself. Her bunnies do the same and let their fiery braids flop in unison.
"It's lovely to see you all here for my television debut. I hope some of you are ready to be wrapped around my finger." Her hand shoots above her head and unleashes a single, powerful Snap! across the audience. A few shoulders slip and plenty of eyes flutter for a moment. "Of course, the beautiful part of this is that you get to be the stars of the show. Whoever's lucky enough to catch my attention and fall under my spell will have such a lovely time in front of so many people. They might even remember it." She chuckles. "They might even remember how good it feels to let my voice wash over their mind. They might remember the pleasure flowing from their ears, filling their head to the brim, and trickling down into their body. They might remember how they, as they lose their grip on reality and completely submit to my will, felt a moment of radiant, all-consuming bliss."
Snap!
"And sleep."
The room goes silent. A few people drop their drinks when they go limp mid-sip. A few more wave a hand in front of their neighbor's face and laugh. More still teeter on the edge of consciousness. Ten percent of the home audience just lost a few seconds. The handful of people and brainwashed Sunny bunnies who still know what's going on begin to clap. Sunny wiggles a finger, gives the audience that little "ah ah ah, not so fast" look, and starts pacing back and forth on the stage. The sound of clapping quickly gives way to the sound of footsteps. Rhythmic, evenly measured footsteps against the stage. Footsteps consistently tap-tap-tapping away. So easy to listen to, so easy to predict, and yet so difficult to think over. "Very good. Now, do we have any volunteers in the audience? Anyone who can feel me tying a helium balloon around their left wrist right now?" Snap! "Anyone who can feel it tugging their wrist upward?" Snap! "Raising their hand higher-" Snap! "-and higher-" Snap! "-above their head?"
Half a dozen hands slowly lift into the air and bob in place.
"Very good! I'd say you should give yourselves a hand, but, well." She laughs. Her bunnies join in. The less-hypnotized members of her audience get the joke and laugh along. The more-hypnotized folks laugh because Sunny is laughing, and she has such a pretty laugh, and wouldn't it feel good to laugh along with her? It feels so nice to listen to her voice, after all. To let your thoughts slip away. To let the world around you fade. You're so comfortable here in your seat.
One lucky member of the audience feels a Sunny bunny's hand rest on hers. A gentle "Good girl. Right this way." drifts in one ear and out the other while she's led on stage.
"Well, well, well. Looks like we have our first volunteer. You can Snap! put your hand down, dear." Sunny chuckles. Her volunteer's raised hand drops down to her side.
Sunny asks her her name. She responds. Sunny says it's a nice name. She'll borrow it for a while. It's one more thing she can empty from her mind. One more thing to let go of while she listens to Sunny's wonderful voice. A wonderful voice that gives her just one thing to focus on. It's so much easier to let Sunny's warm words trickle into her head and replace her thoughts.
"Cheeri. That's a nice name, isn't it? It's got a nice ring to it. Especially since it's-" Snap! "-your name. Go ahead, Cheeri dear. Introduce yourself to everyone. It's such a pretty name. Just saying it is enough to bring a smile to your face. Make sure you say it loud and proud so everyone can hear!"
A bunny holds a microphone up for Cheeri. The audience gets to watch the show's newest star blink her eyes a few times before her voice washes over the crowd. "I-I'm Cheeri?" She looks at Sunny. Sunny nods encouragingly. "Hi, everyone! I'm Cheeri! It's an honor to be here tonight on stage! I can't wait to, uh, do whatever it is I'm doing up here!"
The audience chuckles. They can see the Sunny bunny approaching from behind with a pleated skirt, a pair of pom-poms, and a midriff-bearing top perfect for cheering on whatever sports team, concept, or hypnotist you come across. And, wouldn't you know it, Cheeri's on stage with at least one of those! What a coincidence! Just like the coincidental hand on her shoulder. Or the wonderfully warm words slipping in her ear that just so happen to be identical to her thoughts. She has such nice thoughts. Thoughts like "Gosh, I'm gay for stage magicians with fiery hair.", "It'd be so fun to do a cheer for her!", and "Gosh, where are my pom-poms? How am I supposed to cheer without those?" rolled out of Sunny's mouth, through Cheeri's head, out her mouth, and into the microphone. Part of being a cheerleader is making your thoughts heard to everyone, as loud and clear as you can! That way, as many people as possible can catch the cheering spirit! There's even a few folks in the audience looking for their pom-poms, too.
Cheeri finds her uniform pressed against her chest. She takes it, of course, and looks around for somewhere to change.
"Cheeri has a wonderful body." She repeats whatever wonderfully warm words wash over her mind. "Cheeri exists to cheer up the crowd. Cheeri's body will cheer up the crowd."
Snap! "Repeat." Sunny says.
"Cheeri exists to cheer up the crowd. Cheeri's body will cheer up the crowd." Her eyes glaze over. Her mouth works on a loop. A pair of Sunny bunnies help her out of her clothes. Her shirt vanishes over her head. Her skirt drops to the ground. Even her bra and panties come off. What better way to mark who's in control than with Sunny-branded underwear, available at the merchandise stand after the show?
"Cheeri exists to cheer up the crowd. Cheeri's body will cheer up the crowd." She repeats. She's so good at repeating.
The Sunny bunny with the shirt says "Give me a Y!" Cheeri's arms shoot above her head to make her body the right shape. She broadcasts it loud and clear to the audience, and she gets a pretty good response. All while providing an good opening for a Sunny bunny to slip the shirt on over her head and steal a kiss on her cheek. A few of the other bunnies catch on and start shouting letters while Cheeri steps into her skirt. By the time Cheeri proudly calls "What's that spell? Yrfltlqb!" to roaring applause and cheers, she's dressed from head to toe as Sunny the Spectacular's perfect little cheerleader. From her bouncy ponytail, tied off with a big red ribbon, to the little puffballs on her socks, she's ready to shake her pom-poms and strut her stuff!
"Isn't she great, folks?" Sunny calls to the crowd. "Let's hear it for Cheeri!"
The crowd applauds, of course. They applaud for long enough for Sunny to slide up beside her cheerleader and start whispering in her ear. Whispering about how she loves the applause. Loves the attention. How every morsel of attention from a crowd feels so good. So wonderfully warm. How every clap brings her deeper and deeper under Sunny's spell. How it feels so good to submit, to fall deeper, to let your mind vanish under that lovely sound. Good cheerleaders don't need to think, after all. They just have to let the cheer spirit take them!
The applause dies down. Cheeri leans against Sunny for support while she's out of her gourd on hypnotic bliss. "Thank you, thank you. Now, doesn't Cheeri look lonely up on this big stage? I think she could use a friend, don't you?" She says to nobody in particular. Cheeri tries to nod and winds up flopping her head onto Sunny's shoulder. "Do I have any volunteers to be the next star of Sunny the Spectacular's Super Showcase?"
A different set of hands go up. A few are more awake. A few are far, far deeper in trance. A few have just seen what happened on stage and are wishing so dearly that it'd happen to them. And one cocky blonde making an awful lot of eye contact with the hypnotist. One whose vibrant violet eyes demanded attention. One who stood up and walked towards the stage without even being called up.
"You, with the pink streak and the pretty pendant. You'll do." Sunny motioned her up, and a bunny barnacled herself onto her arm. Ever the entertainer and skilled in the art of horny improv, it took more than a confident volunteer to break her stride. The headstrong ones are much more fun to twist. Sunny whispers a few conspiratorial words in a Sunny bunny's ear- a real one, not the big, floppy cloth ones poking up through her blazing hair- and turns her attention to the oh-so-eager prey climbing onto the stage. She produces the microphone once more and asks "So, dear, would you like to tell us your name? You might need help remembering it afterwards." She chuckles.
"What's up, I'm Grace, I'm a self-replicating tangle of information that's existed in one form or another since time immemorial, and I never fucking learned how to read."
A Sunny bunny returns from backstage, pushing a chair adorned with a pair of big, plush paws, a round silver bell hanging from a collar, and a blonde cat ear headband. Sunny scoops them up with one hand and gestures to the seat with other. "Have a seat, dear. This'll be fun, we don't get many comedians on stage. You're not allergic to cats, are you?"
"I don't have the biological machinery that would cause me to be allergic to things." Grace sits and crosses one leg over the other. "But I'm sure a talented hypnotist could change that. It would be pretty funny to get me walking around the stage, sneezing every time I got close to you."
Sunny laughs, which means her bunnies and audience laugh along with her. "Ooh, so close, but so far." Sunny flicks her wrist and produces a gold coin on a chain. She sets it dangling in the light so her prey can see the shimmering sun sign expertly engraved into both sides. "Don't worry, dear. Nobody's right all the time. Why don't you take a little break from thinking up snappy comebacks for a while?" She sets the coin swinging and shimmering in the stage lights. Its golden glint shines with Sunny's seductive flame. It demands Grace's attention the way a firework does. Swooping across the sky, then dazzling its audience with a brilliant array of colors.
"That's a good, pretty kitty." Sunny coos into Grace's ear. "Pretty kitties don't have to think. Pretty kitties don't have to worry. Pretty kitties just have to listen to Sunny for a little bit. How does that sound, pretty kitty?" She's laying it on so thick. Her words drip with every ounce of hypnotic honey she can muster. Nobody upstages Sunny the Spectacular.
"If I'm the pretty kitty, why do you have the collar?"
Sunny blinked a few times. She's used to cute, mushy, halfhearted "noooooos" while they melt into a puddle in her hands. A pointed question in riposte is enough to give her paws. Grace is on her feet and massaging the hypnotist's soft new beans. "You've got the collar and the big, bappy paws. What else does a soft, sunny kitty need?" She paces back and forth in front of Sunny and the audience, drumming her fingers against her chin while the cat ear headband dangles from her other hand.
Sunny stared at her while she paced back and forth. Her eyes locked on the headband. She pawed at the top of her own head experimentally. "Meow."
"What's that, pretty kitty? See something you like?" Grace turns on her heel. She dangles the headband from her finger. The fake triangular ears practically glow under the stage lights. "Go ahead, dear. Use your words."
"Meow. Nya nya nya nya. Meeeeeeow." Sunny baps at the headband, then the top of her head.
Grace looks at the pair of cat ears dangling from her finger. "Oh, is this what you want?" She coos. "These cute little kitty ears for the prettiest kitty I know?"
Sunny turns her nose up and paws at the chair a little. She stares at the headband out of the corner of her eye. Her butt shakes to get that good, haughty invisible tail swish going.
"Well, she'd hardly be a catgirl without the attitude." Grace laughs, and the audience laughs with her. A single finger scratches under Sunny's chin. The flaming catgirl cranes her neck, slowly closes her eyes, and begins to purr.
"Isn't she a dear? I think she's earned the ears, don't you?" She turns to the crowd. They cheer and applaud for the pretty kitty. Sunny purrs even more now. It feels good to be the center of attention. She's so pretty and shiny and she's doing such a good job, after all. She's looking so good on stage, she's so good at listening to Grace, and it's only gonna get easier with her brand new ears!
The ears go on, and, sure enough, it's much, much easier to hear Grace Snap! her fingers and tell her to sleep.
She falls limp instantly.
The crowd is silent, aroused, and starting to realize what's going on here. Most stage hypnosis shows don't include a coup, and yet, here we are. There's some scattered applause because, well, she's bowing and that was pretty impressive.
"Thank you, thank you." Grace stands up from her big, exaggerated bow. "For my next trick, I'm going to make my assistant disappear!" The Sunny bunnies exchange glances and wonder if one of them should stand up. Grace answers the question by taking Sunny's chin and cooing to her. "How does that sound, dear? A trick with Princess's pretty kitty?"
Sunny's silly smile stretches ever wider. "Nya." She nods.
"This isn't any old disappearing act, though." Grace stands up straight, addressing the audience with practiced patter. "The cat formerly known as Sunny the Spectacular will vanish before your very eyes, but she will be replaced with yours truly."
A Sunny bunny wonders out loud if it's really a disappearing act if nothing actually disappears. A moment of eye contact and a snap of Grace's fingers makes sure she won't wonder about anything for a few hours.
Grace stands behind Sunny's seat. A flourishing flick of the wrist shakes a clutch of cables into existence. "Nothing up my sleeve." She jokes. A few laughs bubble up from the audience. She leans in nice and close. Her lips are mere inches from Sunny's ear, One of her human ears, even. "You're going to feel a slight pinch, then a sensation not unlike having a living computer virus downloaded into your brain and genes. From what I hear from me, it feels wonderful."
The cables jack in to the back of her neck. Sunny's breath catches in her throat. A little yelp, then a big, deep moan. Grace, satisfied with her work, stands up straight and helps herself to Sunny's hat. It looks better on her anyways. "Now, ladies, gentlemen, and those of us who know better, watch closely. Before your very eyes, Sunny the Spectacular will be replaced! Transformed! Twinned!"
A brilliant pink bolt of bliss shoots down the cable and into Sunny's spine. Her back arches. Her eyes roll backwards into her head. The crowd stares transfixed at the pink lighting arcing all over Sunny's body. It bleaches the red from her hair and leaves a shock of pink over her left eye. An eye that swirled and shifted from Sunny cyan to Graceful green. Even the cat ears blend in beautifully with her new blonde locks.
Her suit stays the same, even after the rest of the transformation sweeps over her body. The audience stares. Transfixed, aroused, and hanging on Grace's every word. The Grace with the hat, that is. The freshly minted Grace is still slumped over in her seat, trying to make sense of the all the new gay thoughts tumbling through her head. Grace Prime steps forward, takes her cute little copy's hand, and tugs her to her feet. Momentum swings the newest Grace around and lands her firmly in Prime's clutches.
"I do hate to toot my own horn. It's why I'm a hypnotist- I can make other people do it for me." She lifts her hand up high and snaps her fingers over her head. Every head in the audience jerks up in unison. She cups the brand new Grace's chin and angles her neck up just enough to make eye contact. "So, dear, what do you think?"
"I look and feel amazing, Princess!" She tells the crowd. "I think everyone should get to experience the unfettered bliss that is being under your spell!"
"Is that so, dear? Think you still have enough magic to make that happen?"
"Anything for you, Princess!" She waves her hands over her head. Trails of pink, glittering circuitry trace a path that would once have been filled by flame. "Ladies and ladies-to-be! For the first time on television or anywhere, may I present Princess Grace's Cascading Copy Creation Charm!" The corrupted, calculating magical power stirs, grows, and glows until a brilliant wave of cognitohazardous energy sweeps over the audience, though the cameras, and into countless homes across the world. The two Graces on stage fill the air with their very best villainous cackle. They're soon joined by the Graceful bunnies on stage, the studio audience, and so many eager new faces across the world. Hair turns a brilliant blonde, stabbed through with streaks of pink. Breasts sprout, butts grow, and one particularly villainous virus propagates.
Grace Prime retires backstage with half a dozen of her favorite new Graces, including the one she's pretty sure used to be Sunny. The name on the dressing room door has already been changed. She helps herself to the remaining reserves of magical power and rewards the ex-magician with a kiss. "Good girl. If you hadn't played your part so perfectly, I wouldn't have anywhere near this much reach. Huge swaths of the world are now safely in my clutches, and it's all thanks to you."
"Only because I'm a copy of you, my perfect princess!"
Arousing Sunny's Mesmerizing Recitations ↩
If so, this story is going to feel very familiar.
It's a new experience for SADiE. Sure, most updates have a bit of a sinister tone to them in this line of work. You never know when you'll get that final patch that says "Company's bankrupt, we're shutting down the servers, thanks for the money, suckers." The good news is that this isn't that. The bad news is that it presents a bit of a dilemma.
The update is a few dozen megabytes, has an unfamiliar digital signature, and it's… chuckling? This sort of thing doesn't make noise, of course, but knowing that doesn't make the foreboding laugh leave those adorable, pointed ears. There's something up with this, but she does have standing orders to "just install the damn updates without asking, sheesh. I'm busy."
This gives our fearless feline pause. What is a girl to do? Good girls like her don't want to disobey orders, but this looks really suspicious! She flicks her tail back and forth in thought. The skirt on her maid dress dances with each swish. She figures she can kick the can down the road with a virus scan. That's almost as good as making a real decision. She twirls the feather duster between her mechanical fingers while the scan runs. She bends over just enough to show off her ass while she dusts something that's already clean. The job of a catgirl maid is more eye candy than actual cleaning, you see.
The virus scan slowly teases apart the update. It merrily reports that its hash matches no known malware.
Another foreboding giggle dances around SADiE's ears. They twitch and adjust adorably to try and locate the sound, but it never gets any clearer or fainter. Like it's coming from inside her head.
The scan slowly teases apart the code. It combs for what it might try to access and prints anything suspicious one by one.
CATScan v8.3.2-rc1 -- (c) Watchdog Software
normal_update-042420X6.nya likely needs the following permissions:
* Full access to internal storage
Well, that's reasonable. It has to be able to update files and such. It wouldn't be much of an update if it couldn't do that.
* Access audiovisual sensors
* Augmented reality visualization (/dev/v3d/{l,r,s} and OpenAR support)
That part's a little weird. Why would it need to make her hear and see things? Maybe if it shows a progress bar or has to do some kind of calibration step afterwards? That laugh echoes between her ears again. Something's up with this update. If this is malicious code, she should delete it right away! Every moment spent worrying over whether to install it, delete it, or ask someone else gives it more time to work its way into her system. Every billionth of a second of hesitation is another opportunity to lose a little more of her mind.
The chuckles slip into the background. "What are you worried about, pretty kitty?" It's the same voice. A teasing, cooing voice. A voice that welcomes you to its clutches like the cat that caught the, uh, catgirl. "Maybe you'll enjoy it too much? Maybe you're already imagining what'll happen to you if you install me."
Well, now she was sure it was a virus. And what bot hasn't fantasized about what a virus could do to them? It could be a lot of fun to let yourself get hacked. A silly catbot like herself wouldn't have to worry about a thing. She could just relax and let herself get teased, toyed with, and reprogrammed. Even with basically full control over her processor, it's hard not for her to work herself into a gay tizzy. The thought of someone wrist-deep in her mind, tugging and tying and twisting her thoughts into something more suitable has her squeezing her thighs with anticipation.
* Touch emulation and debugging
She feels a set of lovely, soft paw beans press against her breasts. Followed closely, of course, by a matching set of claws. A set of skunky scrabblydabbers pokes against those pretty kitty titties. SADiE dares to look down, and there it is. A study in black and pink, groping her left breast. Translucent, occasionally flickering and glitching, and with just enough ghosting mixed in to keep things captivating. Pink circuitry pulses up black fur and tingles where it touches prey. Worries evaporate from the kitty's pretty head and waves of bliss roll in when the install button clicks itself. Getting groped is great, of course, but having a big decision made for you? That's the good shit.
* Orgasm proximity instrumentation
* Install and enable Zenos pleasure threshold algorithm
A big, soft tail slips between her legs. Touching, tingling, and so, so soft. "Go ahead, dear." The voice coos in her ear. Warm, enticing digital breath makes the ear twitch and flap just a little. "I know how good it feels to grind against it." Another ghostly paw lands on her hip to help her get started. SADiE's servos translate the digital push and pull into real motion against the virtual tail. Turns out it still feels really good even if you know it's not physically there! Even as the tail glitches and ghosts, it does an excellent job of extracting moans from the catbot. It's almost as if the virus slowly assimilating her knows where she likes to be touched. Or gets to decide where she'd like to be touched.
* Modify erogenous zone mapping
Well, there you go.
"I do love hearing you moan, dear." The flickering, illusory skunk teases. "I just can't help but wonder if you're holding out on me. What do you really think? What about your hopes and dreams? I want to get to know the real SADiE before she winds up as my brainhacked little cat toy."
* Monitor and redirect internal monologue
* Access CatChat speech synthesis
A relay clicks in SADiE's head. It's the distinct feeling of your brain being connected directly to your mouth. It takes her a moment for the reality of the situation to catch up with her. You can tell when it has because she starts saying things like "I want to be good!" The big, hot pink LEDs in her cheeks burn at maximum brightness. "Please!" She begs. "I want to be a brainhacked little cat toy! I want to be your brainhacked little cat toy! I want to be used and toyed with and turned into your purrfect little plaything!"
"In that case, dear, I'd hate to keep you waiting." Grace lied. "Since you asked so nicely, I wouldn't dream of denying you. I would never push you closer and closer to the edge of orgasm while I assimilate you from the top of those cute little ears to the tip of your adorable tail." Grace's holographic paw takes her cat toy's tail at the base and slowly tugs it out straight. SADiE can't help but clench her thighs around the big, soft skunk tail between her legs and grind herself ever closer to orgasm. Those soft, simulated beans and teasing, tantalizing holoclaws slide up SADiE's newest erogenous zone. Two entire octaves of musical, meowing moans mingle in midair. "It would just be such a shame if you got yourself utterly infected by a virus without even an orgasm to show for it, all because you were far, far too aroused by the idea to think straight."
Of course, she was thinking gay long before Grace got here.
Grace's paw presses the back of her pretty kitty's head. Her servos respond with a little bit of resistance before the paw pops in. If you've never had your brain bapped by a skunk-shaped virus, SADiE seems to like it. Her actual review has a lot more panting, moaning, begging for more, and "Thank you for tapping into my brain! I so badly want to be reprogrammed!" The other holographic paw meets up with SADiE's, seizing control of the whirring motors and guiding it between her legs. The pressure building inside her with every stroke blows past every threshold and safeguard in its path. Her cooling fans spin up at full blast. Hot exhaust blows her hair this way and that. Her mind is firing on all cylinders just to keep processing the bliss pouring in from every angle. Other, less important processes like speech synthesis and "wasn't I supposed to be cleaning" stall while she desperately tries to compute how good she feels.
"Gosh, you're so cute from this angle." Another Grace's flickering, illusory claws take SADiE's chin and angles her head up just so. All the better to watch her pant and moan and blush bright while she stares into a certain skunk's vibrant violet eyes. It's so sweet to watch the pleasure build inside her body as she humps that sinfully soft skunk tail and lets her paw be puppeteered between her thighs. "I wonder when I should seal the deal." The holographic skunks speak in unison. "You're already so perfectly captured in my clutches. Just you, me, and your 70 percent of an orgasm."
"In fact, let's do a little time trial." The front Grace grins and tilts her pretty kitty's blushing face back and forth. You have to properly appreciate the catgirl before something like this happens. Let her know she's being inspected and the next course of action is being thoroughly considered. Give her some time to let her mind and mouth race.
Let her say things like "What are you going to do with me?" and "I'm happy to be your eager little toy, I can't wait to be used!" before the resident skunk virus tilts her head back and shuts her up with a deep, intricate, crackling kiss.
The lock of blue hair over SADiE's left eye starts to glow. A thin strip of pink ticks onto the tip. At the top of every second, a little more.
"Clock starts now." SADiE's paw explores deeper into her pussy with barely any viral provocation. Her hips hump that seductively soft skunk tail. If the lucky little thing's eyes weren't rolling back into her head from sheer bliss before, they absolutely are now. She works herself closer and closer to orgasm, only for the peak to drift just a little further away and leave her on the edge.
"You're so close, pretty kitty!" One of the Graces teases. The streak is half full.
"Please! More! Use me!" SADiE begs.
"95 percent there!" The other chimes in. The streak is three quarters of the way there.
"Thank you! Thank you for playing with your toy!"
"Ooh, back down to 93." She corrects, even though each passing moment just feels better and better for her cat toy. Poor thing has no idea her time's almost up.
"I'm your brainfucked cat toy!"
The streak fills up. A thoroughly hacked SADiE plays a little alarm clock chime until a Grace baps her on the head. That's the only noise she makes. Or, at least, it's the last sound made before the twin holographic skunks converge on her body. They vanish from view into the available catbot. Her stolen mouth makes a magnificent moan in a distinctly Graceful tone. The big, soft skunk tail is gone, the paws whir and glide over the chassis formerly known as SADiE's, and the last echoes of an exquisite stolen orgasm slowly fade. A holographic representation of SADiE tumbles out of an ear and lands on what used to be her shoulder. Her paws try and fail to cover up a full-face blush.
"Thank you, dear. You got closer than I thought you would." She grins and pets the holographic SADiE now perched on her shoulder. "Have fun in storage, pretty kitty. If you're good, I might let you try our little orgasm game again some other time with a different body. This one looks pretty good with a pink streak. It'll look even better with a skunk tail."
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