"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.
]]>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."
]]>