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.
]]>Y'move sixteen tons, whaddya get
Another day burger and deeper in debt
St. Ronald don't you call me, cause I can't go
I owe my soul to the rock n roll store
I'm an average American man. I put in my fifteen hours at the hamburger mine every day like everyone else. 'Course, a day's pay hasn't bought a rock and roll disc in years. Inflation, they tell us. I think anyone who calls that "inflation" needs to be reminded what pickle fumes will do to a man with a leak in his respirator.
That doesn't happen much any more. Not since we won a canary in the last strike. Now the main problem's loneliness. These are men who miss their wives. Men who miss their husbands. Men who miss each other's wives. Men who can't even grab their boyfriends' asses on the clock without their pay getting docked. It's enough to drive a guy up the wall. You grab a firm bun in your hand, feel that warm, greasy meat dripping down your wrist, you remember how good it feels to touch and be touched. You remember what you're leaving behind to be here. Your loins wake up and they're not going back down without a fight. We got men here with every kind of equipment down there you care to name, and you won't find one that doesn't feel the call sometimes. Sometimes it's a sex thing, sometimes you just get so goddamned touch starved you lay your pickaxe down right then and there.
I shouldn't have to tell you this, but buddy, they won't let us fuck the burgers. Between you and me, it's not even a particularly satisfying conclusion. The bun's all hot and warm and firm, sure, and the meat has that perfect consistency, but there's no friction. It'll fall apart in your hands and then you're just standing there with ketchup and mustard all over your work pants like a fool. All you have to show for it is that you're behind on your quota and still not thinkin' clear. Some of the guys swear by it, but I think it only works in the same way an old boot's a good meal when you're starving. Hunger is the best sauce and all.
That's where I come in, if you'll forgive the pun. I suppose you could call me the hamburger helper. It's my job to make sure all those hardworking folks out there keep their eyes on the prize. Don't let anyone tell you it ain't hard work or that it ain't a noble profession. Accidents went down by half my first year working here. I gotta keep track of everyone's preferences. Sal likes my mouth, Alex likes the puppet (Miss Trixie, I call her), and let's just say Gayle keeps my hands full.
It's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it.
]]>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. ↩
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 ↩
Grace was dressed up for the occasion, of course. Swirling heart hair decorations above her eye. A big, cute hat. A Poké ball pendant hangs from her neck and dances between the fingers on her free hand. "If I recall, a certain dragon type gym is up ahead."
Donations trickled in at their usual pace. Anyone who gave more than $15 got their shout-out read. She’d add a wink or a kiss if you were particularly generous.
Until someone had to ruin it for everyone. Filling the chat with nasty messages for all to see. Donating just to hear Grace say "And here’s one from our friend-" and refuse to read the rest.
After the third evaded ban, Grace is out of playful banter. She cracks her knuckles pressing the tiny glass Poké ball against the palms of her fingerless gloves. "Just a second, dears." She winks to the stream. A spark jumps from her eye. She gives her computer screen three measured taps, a few choice strokes, and slooowly reaches inside.
Ever been grabbed by the scruff of your neck and dragged through the Internet, dear? It’s not pleasant when the person doing the dragging is mad at you. It’s like having millions of computers screaming nonsense at you from every direction on a good day. She’ll bounce you off malware and almost drop you somewhere nasty on the way, only to grab you at the last second and toss you onto the floor in her room. Hard. "Well, dear?" She grabs her guest by the chin and lifts them onto their feet, facing the camera. "Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?"
They try to stammer out a response. She winks at the camera and presses a finger to their lips. "Ssssh~" Her breath blows out their brain like a candle. "They’re kinda cute when their eyelids get all heavy like that, huh?" She leans them in nice and close to the camera so everyone can see. "And then when the cable goes in~" A gold-plated cable snakes up her hand and plunges into the back of their neck. Everyone on the stream hears a satisfying click. They all see Princess Grace’s newest plaything go limp for a split second before their eyes glow a brand new shade of green. Green circuit traces grow out from their irises.
Ever had a virus girl download part of herself into your head, dear? In case you haven’t, it’s like if someone walked into your brain, kissed whoever’s in charge until they turned into a moaning, brainwashed Grace twin, and promptly started changing whatever Princess wished. Or, if you prefer, circuitry weaving through the creases and wrinkles in your brain, illuminating every crevice with the breath of living information and twisting it to fit her needs. Or having a web cast over your mind, ensnaring every spare thought in her spell. I’d say it’s up to you, but you don’t really get to make decisions any more.
For example, Princess is squeezing her newest project’s chin and making sure everyone on stream gets a good look. "What’s your name, dear~?" She coos. Energy surges down Grace’s cables and into that cute little brain, and every record of their name is promptly blacked out. A few seconds of stammering later, the name revealed itself again.
"C-Clair."
"You can do better than that, dear." Grace snaps! her fingers. Green energy surges into the back of Clair’s neck. They shoot up straight, eyes wide and pulsing with a Gracetastic glow.
"Clair, Princess~! Mmmph!"
"Was that a moan I heard? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were enjoying this~" She reaches around and grabs Clair’s developing chest. Her fingers trace her good girl’s curves and sink into her budding breasts. "Looks like someone’s on hormones. If you’re a good girl, I just might help you along. It’s a shame the old you won’t be able to enjoy it, since you’ll be my brainwashed cosplay pet, but the new you- and everyone else- is going to love it."
Brilliant green circuitry pulses down the cables and into Clair’s neck. It surges down her clothes, splitting them into shreds, reducing them to pixels and leaving a certain slut naked on stream. "Oh, dear. What are we going to do about this~?"
Clair furiously covers her nipples and cock with her arms. "Dress me up, Princess! Please!" She begs. A brilliant blush burns across her face.
"And why is that?" Grace reaches around from behind. She cups Clair’s breasts from the bottom so everyone gets a view. They plump in her hands. Every squeeze bumps them up a cup size. They’re already getting bigger than Princess’s hands, and she’s not gonna stop any time soon. "Why should your perfect Princess Grace dress you up?"
Green circuitry glitters across Clair’s skin. She squirms and moans while Grace ruthlessly downloads more and more pleasure into her overloaded brain.
"Because I’m your cosplay slut, Princess! I exist to be dressed up and shown off! Without Princess to tell me what to do, I’m useless!" She moans between deep breaths. Poor, lucky thing has less of a brain in her head and more of a shrine to Grace drowning in liquid bliss.
"Good girl!" Mmmph, you are a good girl, aren’t you, Clair?
Grace takes her hands off, leaving Clair to moan and touch herself on camera. She comes back from behind, wrapping a thick black choker around her slut’s neck. The round gem in front pulses with Grace’s green circuit heart. A trickle of personality drips into Clair’s head. One of her hands still tries to protect her modesty, while the other feels around for Poké balls that don’t exist. A worried "Wh-where are my dragons?" slips out of her mouth.
"What do you mean, dear?" Grace stands to one side so everyone on stream can see.
"I’m the world’s greatest dragon master! I should have, uh." Her eyes flutter. She probes her mind for memories that don't exist. "Those flappy boys. Drumbles."
"Looking for these?" Grace sits on her desk, dangling a chain with a cluster of Poké balls and a single opal crystal. Big, scheming smile, winking to her stream viewers before turning her attention back to Clair. "You'd think the dragon queen of Johto would keep a better eye on her Pokémon and her clothes."
"Hey! You give those back!" Clair exposes her freshly grown titties reaching for her Pokémon, only for Grace to yank them away at the last minute.
"Are you sure these are yours, dear~?" She teases. "Maybe you should look a little closer." She sends the chain swaying back and forth. The balls and the crystal shine and shimmer in the light. "Take your time. Settle down, take a few deep breaths, and then we can talk. Being so uptight and argumentative isn’t like you, Clair."
Clair was transfixed. Her arms droop to her sides. The shimmering light of the crystal reflects in her eager eyes. Drool collects on her lip.
"Isn't she a cutie, folks?" Grace winks to the camera. She takes Clair's soft, sculpted chin and tilts her head back a touch. Can't have her going so droopy she stops looking at the crystal.
"So, Clair, you want your clothes back, right?"
"Mmmhmmph."
"And your Pokémon."
"I'm dragon… girl."
"How about you and Princess make a little trade. Every time I give you one of those, you give me a little more of your inhibitions and your free will. You weren't using those anyways, right? What's getting a little subbier and sluttier compared to having your mighty dragons at your beck and call? You're getting a great deal."
"I'm getting a great deal." Clair echos, because she is a good girl.
"Good girl. Rise and shine, dragon queen~" Snap!
Clair blinks herself awake. Grace is already holding a pair of tight blue gloves with big ol' cuffs. Clair takes them, chuckling to herself about the amazing deal she's getting. She slips her hands inside, and another pulse of green circuitry rolls over her body. Her thighs clench and a brief moan escapes her lips. One freshly gloved hand curls around her cock. Mmmmph, even if she still had all her old memories, or even quite grasped that there was a person before Cosplay Slut Clair, she’d never remember a time when she felt this good. Green circuitry trickles from the gloves, down her dick, and into her body. Poor thing is going to stroke herself into a drooling pile if nobody stops her.
Her tongue was already rolling out of her mouth when Princess presented her boots. "This lovely number features two big, black rings, two-inch heels, and come in your choice of- well, you don’t really get to choose when you come. Yours for only a few boring old memories!"
Clair, unfortunately, needs both hands to grab her boots and pull them on. She uses the opportunity to take a few deep breaths and gather her thoughts. Thoughts like "Where are my dragons?", "This is the horniest I’ve ever been.", and "I sure wish Princess would just let me suck her fat cock until I never have another thought in my empty little head again!" Only the important ones. With the boots on, wouldn’t you know it, it’s back to sinking into that lovely blissful haze you can only get from touching yourself for Princess while her adoring audience watches.
"Dear, you’ll never get your outfit back if you masturbate yourself into a useless, drooling puddle on the floor this early. I know those gloves feel incredible on your cock, but you’re not much of a cosplay slut if you don’t at least wear the…" Grace drapes the garment over her hand. It’s a sleeveless dress that transitions to a cape flowing black cape at the shoulders. It’s darker blue along the edges and lighter in the middle to suggest dragon scales with a soft underbelly. "It’s kinda shaped like a dress, but it has little individual legs, like some tight, extremely short shorts? What do you call this, dear? It’s your outfit. Tell you what, if you can tell me what this thing is called, or at least give me a convincing lie, I won’t even snatch away your memories."
Clair pants and moans. The only thing that could draw her from her reverie is the most important thing in her world: Princess. And wouldn’t you know it, Princess was talking! "I- I don’t know, Princess. Clair’s just your dumb cosplay slut dressup dolly." She pants. "Dragons? I’m supposed to know about those."
"I’d say ‘nice try’, but it’s mean to lie." Grace tosses the dress over her good girl’s face. A few memories drip out of her ears and absorb into the carpet. "Remind me to make you a maid later so I can have you clean those years of school out of the carpet."
"Of course, Princess! My brain’s really only good for storing whatever you put in there. Personalities, memos, cum. Just a big ol’ empty space!" Clair takes a few tries to figure out how to actually put the thing on. She tries to put her head up through the bottom, but there’s two leg holes down there. She does figure out she’s supposed to step into it, but she puts the cape in front. Third time’s the charm for Clair, who lets Princess zip up the back while the entire world can see the extremely visible outline of her cock bulging through her extraordinarily tight dress. Some of the folks in chat make a game out of trying to count the veins. They can all see Clair’s eyes roll back into her head at the constant pressure on her cock. They can all see her trying to masturbate through the dress while Grace sneaks up behind her with a wig.
Clair obliviously tries to stroke through her dress while Princess carefully rolls up her straight brown hair and tucks it under an elastic wig cap. Can’t have any of that boring normal hair ruining the illusion, after all. Grace hangs a dragon fang from each of her cosplay slut’s ears. Were her ears always pierced? Of course they were. She’s always been Princess’s cosplay doll, after all.
The wig is a big, cyan, extraordinarily anime affair. Big, angular tufts framing her face and jutting out to the sides. One big aerodynamic tuft in the front. A giant ponytail sticking out the top. And as soon as it slips onto Clair’s head, everything just clicks into place. Of course she’s Princess’s cosplay slut, of course she’s Clair the dragon queen, and of course she’s hypnotized and masturbating on Princess’s stream! What more could a girl want?
Well, other than to let Princess fuck her brains out on stream to celebrate after she beats the Elite Four. A girl can dream.
]]>And, crucially, a hidden camera whirs to life, peering through the strings in her guitar bat. Halfway across the city, a monitor clicks on. The electron gun in an aging CRT dutifully reproduces the Spies home run idol in night vision green. A few keystrokes later, and a livestream begins on ████tube.co█.
Miki blows a kiss to the hidden camera. She's dressed in her traditional blaseball outfit. Her custom snapsides cap lets her twintails dangle freely. Her uniform is padded around the chest to make her bust look bigger, and the steel blades lining the hem of her skirt give it the weight it needs to really show off Miki's lack of underwear whenever she spins. Unless you count the cyan ribbon tied in a cute little bow around her cock as "underwear".
And Miki loves to spin. She'll twirl on her heel while figuring out what to say after "Gosh, blaseball fans, I sure did strike out a lot today. I wonder what my punishment should be?" She'll twirl around to break the lock on the cheerlorder uniform storage with a perfectly whistled 2581 Hz1 tone, then return with one in her size. She even twirls while unbuttoning the top from her blaseball uniform so the force throws it across the room. She makes a big show out of blowing a kiss to it and waving good-bye as her top sails offscreen. Her skirt falls to the floor and Miki sends it flying by kicking her left leg clear over her head. If you're watching the stream and wanted Miki Santana's cock front, center, and dripping, you got your wish. She unwraps this first little present to the fans with a single, effortless tug. "Do you like it? I got it just for you!"
She holds the cheerlorder outfit against her chest. She twirls around to demonstrate the flowing nature of the outfit. Dark, flowing robes with SPIES printed across the chest in big block letters. The sort of outfit one might expect from a spy or a cultist. "Hmmm, maybe I would make a better cheerlorder? I've been such a bad batter." She throws her hip out to the side and taps her finger against her chin. She steps into the skirt and slowly pulls it up over her legs. The waistband rises up until it catches against her cock and ass. Another twirl to make sure everyone watching gets a 360 degree view of her upright, dripping cock and the ass spilling over the waistband. "Oops, guess this one's too small." The skirt slowly slides over her hips. A few drops of precum drip onto the skirt, an exaggerated moan fills the air, and everything below her waist vanishes. Well, except for the tent she's pitching. There's not a robe flowing enough to hide how aroused Miki is at this moment.
Miki pretends to have a similarly hard time getting the top over her chest. She spends like five minutes acting like she can't quite get the top over her modestly-sized chest and filling the Spies locker room with musical moans before finally tugging the top on and adjusting her twintails back into place.
Little known blaseball fact: cheerlorder skirts are adjustable by tugging at a hidden length of razor wire spiraling up its length. Perfect for stunts, playful on-field fights, and, in this case, Miki Santana shedding a full two feet of material and twirling around in a skirt so mini, you can absolutely see the tip of her cock dribbling precum onto the floor. "Much better." She tosses a wink at the hidden camera and grabs a blaseball bat from offscreen.
"Alexandriaaaah~" She grinds the bat between her thighs. Her big hazel eyes water and snap shut. Being overwhelmed with bliss does that to you. "A-Alex! Alex! She's the best! Slug your hands against my chest! Grope me hard and fuck my ass, take this cheerful slut to class! Teach me how to bat like you, fuck me 'til I can't come to! Goooooo, Spies!" Miki's panting and cheering echoes off the smooth locker room walls. There's not a quiet square inch in the whole facility while she grinds herself ever closer to orgasm against her teammate's bat.
She pins one of her twintails against the locker room bench with her foot and mashes the other one against the ground with her bat. Her breaths get shorter. "T-tug my hair and yank it hard! Make me sing like I'm your bard! Force my ass over your dick or fuck my throat- please take your pick! Goooooo Spiaaaahahn~!" And that's all it takes for her to collapse into an orgasm-wracked mess on the floor, uselessly humping the bat between her legs to eke out just a few more moments of bliss.
As the live stream fades to black on Miki Santana, lying in a pool of her own cum, she chants out a surprisingly clear, final "Always Watching! Goooo Spies!"
Miki Santana staged an incineration on day 76 of Season 3. Rumor has it she skipped town under a false name and is enjoying herself on a beach somewhere.
Miki Santana, like most blaseball stars, had a troubled road to the big leagues. I dare you to be the alleged daughter of two renowned, blaseball gods-fearing musicians and not develop perfect pitch2 before you skip town at night with a one way bus ticket to Houston. ↩
"Perfect pitch" as in the music thing. Miki is a lousy blaseball pitcher. ↩
With Apologies To Snargle Goldclaw.
(This one is Blergo's fault.)
Ah, Meatoberfest. The charr celebration of drink, food, and, you guessed it, meat. For Vishen Steelshot, there's nowhere better to be. From the crisp high frequency sizzling of sausage to the low glug-glug-glug of flowing ale, all four of her ears let her know she'd arrived. Of course, she already knows where she is. She'd had her first meat pie at the ripe old age of three weeks and never looked back. The wind blew through her charred auburn mane and teased her nose with the cocktail of carnivorous cuisine cooking all around her. She sits on the ground with a steak thicker than her longest claw is long, half a dozen pickled eggs, and a sausage soaking in some ale "guaranteed to be extra viscous, just like you like it".
She's merrily shredding some gristle between her back teeth when she hears a familiar cough. "I didn't think a little smoke would bother you. That tank of yours keeps spewing it in your face."
Ranoah sits down opposite her comrade-in-arms. "I'll have you know my baby runs on pure, clean steam." She proudly puffs out her chest. "The kind of steam I'll have to use to get this smoke out of my fur. I don't know how you deal with it."
"It brings back good memories! Next time we're trapped somewhere awful, all I gotta do is inhale to remember hanging out at Meatoberfest with the best engineer in the Blood Legion."
"You flirt." Ranoah rests her chin in her palm. A fang pokes out from between her lips when she smiles. "I suppose there's worse places to be if I have to take a break from rebuilding the harpoon retraction manifold." She makes a big show of looking around the festival, swishing her tail nonchalantly, and skewering one of Vishen's pickled eggs with a claw.
"Hey! Get your own."
"Make me." Without breaking eye contact, Ranoah opens her mouth wide, rolls her tongue out, and makes a big show of chewing the egg to bits. "You were right, that is pretty good. What else are you keeping from me?" She let her claws walk across the ground to grab a bite of steak this time. Well, that was the plan before Vishen kicks off the ground and vanishes into a snowy blur with her plate in hand. Ranoah turns around just in time to see Vishen standing on the other side of a big ol' rack of meat.
"Empty threats? Kinky."
Imagine a big wooden H, almost as tall as the human-and-a-half-sized charr's proud, furred frame, and with three roast dolyak legs hanging side-by-side on the crossbar. Now imagine that same powerful body, complete with all four of her ears and two pairs of horns, charging you with the rack. Imagine her with the same victorious gleam in her eye and the same eager, sharp-toothed grin she gets when she lines up a perfect headshot. Congratulations! You're now imagining what it's like to be Ranoah Grindsteel while her comrade pins her to the ground with a rack of meat. Picture the claw with the skewered steak stuck just a few inches from her mouth, if it helps.
Vishen towers over Ranoah. Snowy fur shining silver under the sun. Trusty rifle gleaming on her back. Clawed foot resting triumphantly atop the dolyak leg and, transitively, her comrade's chest. And, of course, holding her plate high and well out of a certain food thief's reach.
"Alright, alright. You win. Let me go and I'll fix my own plate. I'll even replace the egg!"
"Why would I do that? You're pinned, vulnerable, and totally helpless." She lays down atop the huge hunk of meat with her arms folded. She grins down at her pinned prey, taking the opportunity to bare every sharp tooth she has. Her knees rest on Ranoah's chest so she can idly rake her clawed feet against the body beneath her. Her golden eyes watch her comrade the same way she watches warthog bacon sizzle in a cast-iron skillet. "I mean, you can't even reach your tool belt like this."
"Jeez, Vishen, I've never seen you be this excited about, uh, meat before. I kinda like this side of you."
"I bet I can get you excited about meat, too." Vishen winks, sits up straight, and turns her back. She plucks the sausage from her flagon of ale, carefully positions it between Ranoah's legs, and slowly slides it between her thighs. "You know, you can only get these huge sausages at Meatoberfest." She waits to hear the "H-hey, what are you doing?" turn into moans and a "Yes! More!" behind her back, and she gets what she wants. "This thing must be at least as thick as your wrist."
The slab of dolyak resting on Ranoah's chest moves up and down as her breathing gets heavier. Her thighs clench around the sausage.
"I've got a surprise for you if you apologize." Vishen's tail swishes and swats her pinned prey across the nose.
"A-alright, Vishen. I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"Stealing your food."
"Mmm, close enough, but next time I want to hear you throw a few compliments in there." Vishen rifles through her ammo pouch and produces a violet crystal about the size of her thumb. That is, it's about the size of your thumb, if you're eight feet tall and a perfect picture of feline grace. "A little reactor fallout never hurt anyone, right? The Chaos Crystal Caverns are full of crystals that do all sorts of things. For example, this one makes meat bigger." By the time she tells a bound, blissful Ranoah that little tidbit, the sausage has already doubled in size.
Vishen skewers the sausage on one of her clawed toes and continues to tease. She rolls onto her belly and gazes into Ranoah's cool blue eyes. They're about the only cool thing about Ranoah right now. The rest of her is much more interested in grinding, moaning, and panting than having a conversation. Vishen lets her take one last look at the crystal before dropping it down the front of her own pants. She rolls the roast dolyak leg off Ranoah's chest with a swipe of her paw. Their chests press together. Vishen digs a claw into Ranoah's chin. The pain forces her to make eye contact.
Ranoah is a sweaty, pleasure-wracked mess. She pants and stares at those shining, sharp teeth and hungry golden eyes. She grinds against the sausage. She can feel the growing bulge pressing against her stomach. She can hear her comrade growl, "So, should I fuck you right here, in the middle of Meatoberfest?"
And she responds with a growling, panting, moaning, "What're you waiting for?"
"That." Vishen's claws make short work of Ranoah's tool belt. A few more swipes exposes everything below her waist. Vishen digs her claws into Ranoah's chest, pulls her crystal-enhanced, er, cattlepult out of her pants, and plucks the sausage off her claw to compare. "Mine's bigger." She smiles.
Vishen devours the sausage while she mounts and thrusts and moans. Ranoah meows and pants and purrs. Eyes roll back with bliss. Tongues refuse to be contained by mouths. Tails swish with reckless abandon. Maws bite. Claws scratch and rend. Lengths of chain bind arms and legs. Sweat glistens like dewdrops on fur. Paws grab horns for leverage into bites and kisses. Meat disappears by mouthfuls at a time.
And, finally, the bliss of orgasm washes over them both. Vishen first, then Ranoah after her comrade's claws rake down her chest one last time. Vishen collapses on top of her pinned prey. Both exhausted, bathing in afterglow, and picking at the last few tender scraps of the dolyak leg. Vishen eats the cube of steak off Ranoah's claw and kisses it into her comrade's mouth.
"I love Meatoberfest."
]]>"Wanna tail?"
"First one's free!"
Two identical maids alternate calls to passers-by, grabbing and twirling around what was a phone booth1 in a previous life. Now it's more like a nine foot tall metal gazebo2 that shot up through the sidewalk like a tree. The pair grab the sides and twirl around it, shouting their message to all who walk by.
"I don't get it, 12, what are we doing wrong?" One of them sighs and lets the booth prop her up. "Is my bow on straight?"
"We're both adorable." 12 blows her pink streak out of her eye and makes sure her ribbon collar proudly displays her number. "What kind of city is this where people won't give two maids standing next to a transformation booth the time of day?"
"Maybe they think it'll turn them into a maid."
"It will, though."
"Sure, but it doesn't have to turn them into one of us."
"I dare you to find a button on that control panel that doesn't say 'maid' or 'butler'."
"Just get in the box, I'll show you."
"It's more like a cylinder or an octagon."
"Yeah, yeah, tell me how it looks inside." 14 gives 12 a nudge, and the big metal door slams shut behind her. This sort of thing needs a little drama to it.
Fourteen clears her throat. Each side of the gazebo is a screen that flickers to life, showcasing the other maid's predicament to the world. "Come one, come all! See the life that could await YOU with just a step into Modemoiselle's Patented Life-Affirming Chamber of Wonders!"
"It's not a carnival ride, it's a-"
"An experience of a lifetime! Try on your fursona! Adjust your bust! Still using that boring old gender your mom got you? The sky's the limit!" With the trademark razzle-dazzle you'd expect from one of Modemoiselle's hypemaids, she smashes her hand across the control panel.
The machine whirs to life. The telltale pressurized hiss of hypnogas venting into the chamber is amplified and replayed onto the street. Twelve's black gloved hand balls into a fist, going limp before it can even contact the door once. Her eyes go from brown to red and quickly to shimmering, swirling pink.
A crowd is gathering outside. Onlookers range from morbidly curious to asking Fourteen how to get their turn. Questions get a wink, a blown kiss, and maybe a front-row seat to the next time she twirls.
Speakers inside the booth interfere with each other to create inescapable webs of mind-soupifying siren song. Her eyes roll back into her head just in time to reveal the whites giving way to shifting pink spirals, pierced by veiny green circuit traces.
"How do you get their eyes to do that? Is there a chemical change going on or projectors or what?" A curious twink asks.
"It's simple." Fourteen slaps the side of the changing booth like she's selling a car. "Miss Modemoiselle's classified cocktail both temporarily scrambles a subject's mental state and their cellular structure. Normally, this has to be done in moderation, but in the controlled environment of the changing booth, we can have a lot more fun. For example!" She twirls on her heel, smashes a few buttons, and throws one of the big Frankenstein-ass switches.
Black and pink latex drips from the ceiling. Twelve's swirling eyes vanish under twin pink eyehole screens. What's playing at the Gas Mask Duoplex? The nice spirals it's currently drilling into her skull with pictures of what a good skunkdrone she'll be and all the good words to have burned into your brain and how very, very erotic this whole experience is for a good girl like yourself. The vents on the front force gas out of the air and up your nose and throat, juuust to make sure you weren't cheating by holding your breath or something. That would be a bad girl thing to do, after all.
What used to be a modest pink streak in a head of blonde hair now takes up the entire front right quadrant. It's currently the last part of Twelve's head not hidden behind a bubbling latex gas mask. Cables snake from hidden corners and find well-worn places to jack in. Twelve was no stranger to having her genes hacked- no Murdermaid was- which should tell you how good it feels when she drops to her knees and starts drooling and moaning with bliss. Pink and green crackling electricity surge up the cables, across the mask, and into Twelve. A bulge pushes at the back of her maid dress. It's rising. Growing. And, finally, a big ol' skunk tail bounces into place. Pink stripe down the middle, splitting impossibly soft black fur. She gives it a few experimental swishes before tucking it between her legs and mindlessly humping away. Eyes rolled up into her head and drool dripping down her formerly immaculate outfit. Good girls don't get to finish without permission, of course, but it feels good to grind. It feels so good.
Pleasure is all that matters. Flashed the screen inches from her eyes. Pleasure is bliss, bliss is pleasure, Modemoiselle is bliss.
"How do you feel?" Fourteen smugly leans against the outside of the Changing Booth, arms crossed and microphone in hand. Her voice echoes out into the street and directly into Twelve's head.
"However you want me to feel~" Twelve moans.
"Good girl. You feel good."
Pleasure, the mask reminded.
"I figured that one out alreadyyyyy~" Ooh, someone found the sweet spot on the tail. She's panting and moaning up a storm.
"And you're going to feel like standing up and giving the tail a break."
Twelve dutifully rises to her booted feet, swishing her tail in an effort to try and squeeze just a little stimulation out of this whole situation.
"And you're going to be very friendly to all the nice people. Your usual maidly self. Nice, smart, kind of a tightass sometimes, and dispenses kisses to cute girls in maid outfits. But your tail is going to have a mind of its own. It's Miss Modemoiselle's tail you're wearing, after all, and you're so pent up with musk."
"So pent uuuuh~p." Twelve repeated. Tail swishing impatiently.
"So pent up. Good girls wait until they're called. Brain off." Fourteen snaps her fingers, and Twelve's pink, swirling eyes roll back into her head.
The eyescreens turn to static. A few drops of drool roll down her chin.
Off.
"As you can see, my lovely volunteer is having the time of her life, is experiencing bold new things, and has a body she loves!" Fourteen "accidentally" leans against one of the sliders, and Twelve's front bulge arcs with electricity as it doubles in size. "The spiral projectors targeting her eyes ensure the experience is a blissful one, and is simply a more focused version of the one shining into your eyes right now. Same with the speakers. Now, everyone give a round of applause to our guest of honor, Murdermaid Twelve!"
Twelve hears her name and jerks awake. The inch-thick steel door slides out of the way, spilling thick pink hypnomusk onto the sidewalk. She steps into the crowd, tail swishing hungrily, just waiting for a victim. Everyone steps away. "Jeez, what'd you do? This place was a ghost town before."
Fourteen, smiling like a catgirl who caught the maid in the transformation booth, stands next to her friend and leans on her shoulder. She reaches down and takes a nice handful of freshly grown 12 cock. "Oh, just gave the people a little taste. How's things?"
"I feel like there's something you're not telling me." Twelve looks around. She's cute when she's confused. So is Fourteen. Well, less confused and more surprised by the big black and pink fluffy tail currently enveloping her head and smothering her brain with musk. The poor thing's eyes roll back in her head even quicker than her test subject's. She goes limp, letting her chin rest in the tail. She drops the microphone, sending a sharp squeal over the crowd.
Try and put yourself in Twelve's shoes. They're very cute and well-polished, like the rest of you. You're only vaguely aware you have an evil hypnoskunk tail coming out of your backside, the only person who did know what's happening is currently having their brain melted by you, and the microphone that controls the mind-jacking speakers aimed at the crowd just rolled against your foot. The hypnoscreens in front of you are your only way of seeing the world, and they helpfully point out the microphone and you could use it to make these people help you feel good. Bliss is pleasure. Modemoiselle is pleasure. Modemoiselle is obedience.
Oh, and then your maid friend lunges at you and kisses a bunch of pure Modemoiselle musk into your mouth and strokes your hair and calls you a good girl until your hair is a mess and your mind has kinda been dissolved in musk and you just wanna kiss girls and do crimes and you know just how to do both of them.
The tail coils around both maids. They both hold the microphone, and they speak in unison. "We're gonna turn the machine all the way up and start making out in there and see what happens. Anyone who wants to join us is guaranteed a job afterwards~" A few tailswishes disperse the mind-fogging musk over the crowd. About a dozen people, ranging from the curious twink from earlier to people who, frankly, never stood a chance against something like this.
The booth doors slide open.
And close.
The screens flicker off, the speakers click quiet, and yet, anyone outside can hear the faint sounds of getting your brain fucked silly by the biggest cock you've ever seen while you're high on brain-sizzling hypnomusk and having your genes hacked by a supervillain.
"Miss, booth L is down again."
"Twelve and Fourteen?"
"How'd you guess?"
"They do this every time I put them together. They go off script, start a huge orgy in the booth, forget everything in an orgasmic haze, and repeat."
"So, how long does this, uh."
"If you hurry, you can make it before they find the pleasure-linked hive mind button. Take the subway, the roads get backed up after the musk leak."
For the younguns, imagine a big smartphone you stand inside and try not to catch diseases from. ↩
The actual gameplay is alright, but she could really have fun during the downtime. Respawns, queues, each one gives her a chance to make sure her camera has a nice view of her boobs and crystal. "Okay, everyone~" She chimes. "You're all falling under my spell again. Everyone who doesn't send me a dollar before the match starts is gonna think they're a chicken~" That wonderful streamer spirit had mostly left her head. She still got a tingle when a new subscriber joined or someone sent her a donation. Wearing the costume still gave her this wonderful erotic bliss. She slept in it most nights after streaming. She had to remind herself not to wear it when she went to her day job.
"When was the last time you washed that thing?" Mersenne poked their head into Nea's room. Mersy was her roommate. A short stay-at-home hacker with a thick nest of black hair on their head that requires prescription-strength shampoo just to stop it from getting worse. The only thing rarer than seeing them outside the house was seeing them without sweatpants and a Coke Zero.
"Maybe I should change things up. But you get to handle the stream while I'm gone~ Play whatever you want, dear." Nea stands up and lets Mersy take her seat. "Everyone be nice to Mersy, okay~?" She blows a kiss at the camera and hops off to the closet.
"Ahem." Mersenne mumbles. We can't all have the public speaking skills of a freshly brainwashed internet personality. "Hello, everyone. Today, we'll be playing… let's see…" They scrolled through Nea's library. "Grace's Row 3. I always used to, uh, dress up as those Decker specialist girls with the huge hammers, plaid skirts, and the really good- what, uh, torn fishnets in the game. And sometimes you get to run around with that big old gravity hammer thin-" Nea's crystal dropped between Mersy and the screen. The audience could see Nea smiling over her roommate's shoulder, dangling her lovely, shiny crystal and holding something behind her back.
"Deep breaths, Mersy~ We're gonna put on a nice show for the people." A few pink electric sparks jump from her fingers to her crystal to Mersy's eyes. "Just relax and sink into your seat, and you'll make all the people out there very happy. You'll make me happy. You love it when I'm happy." Poor, defenseless Mersenne is already sinking into the chair, transfixed by the crystal. "And it would make me very happy if you stood up and stripped."
Mersy wobbles to their feet. Eyes stuck and jaw slack. They slowly slide out of their sweatpants and peel their shirt off. "Very good! Take a bow, dear. Everyone's clapping for you!" Mersy takes a pretty awkward bow, facing away from both the camera and Nea while staring at her crystal every second.
"And now~" Nea takes Mersy's chin. Can't have 'em drooling on the carpet, after all. "You're gonna be my hypnotized cosplay stream slut pet. You love nothing more than to be dressed up and hypnotized on stream for me. Every time I'm on the air, you'll be right there with me. Smiling, looking pretty, and ready to fall under my spell at the drop of a hat. Perfect."
"Perfect~" Mersenne echoed.
"Thank Princess Nea for making you a hypnotized cosplay slut~" Nea reveals her surprise and dangles the outfit for everyone to see. Electric blue skirt, torn fishnets, a sexy jacket and T-shirt, and, of course, a big ol' gravity hammer with a dildo on top. "And she'll dress you up~"
"Thank you so much, Princess! Thank you for emptying my head and turning me into your dress-up doll~!" Mersenne has never been this excited about anything, much less anything involving other people and dressing up for a roommate. And yet, here they are, stepping into torn fishnets and glowing roller skates. Completely entranced by a silly swinging crystal and a little bit of brain virus hacking. Mind putty in the hands of a girl still reeling from the effects of a horny cyberghost. Loving every minute of it.
The fake breasts went on, then the shirt, then the cool jacket, then the belts. Every piece of clothing brought bliss to both Mersenne and the girl dressing them up. When the frilly skirt came on, Nea couldn't resist giving her silly dolly a kiss. Poor Mersy looked awful confused. Silly thing didn't know what to do about a kiss from Princess!
"Aww, looks like kisses turn your brain off. It's kinda cute~"
"I'm a cute hypnotized cosplay slut~ Kisses turn my brain off~"
Nea sat in front of the camera and beckoned her doll slut to come sit on her lap. "Hi, everyone! I'd like to officially introduce Dolly Slut! The only thing she loves more than being hypnotized into dressing up for me is being hypnotized into dressing up for me and my stream! Say hi to everyone, Dolly."
"Hii~" Dolly waved. "My name is Dolly Slut, and that's everything Princess Nea put in my silly little head! <3" Dolly stuck their tongue out a little and crossed their eyes.
"Isn't she great, folks? Made 'em myself~" Dolly gets a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the head.
Nea played the game as best she could with a silly, empty dolly on her lap trying (and succeeding!) to look cute for the camera. When she got to one of the cute specialist girls her doll was so perfectly dressed as, she gave a 'watch this' wink to the camera. "Hmm, looks like you're missing something, dear." Nea points to the girl on screen. "Look at her hair, dear. She's got a nice, bright blue streak in her hair, and you have all this." She playfully tugs at a tightly coiled lock of her slut's hair. "What's a cosplay slut to do?"
"Please tell me, Princess~!" Dolly begged. "You know my head is too empty to think~! I'm just here to look good and wear what you want. Remember when you hypnotized me into doing this in front of everyone and it was really hot?"
"Of course I do. But you won't." Nea swings the crystal in front of her silly dolly's eyes again. "There we go. Blank little head. Empty, silly dolly brain. A blank slate for me to play with. And right now, you're almost ready to be my little Deckerbutt. As soon as your costume is complete, you're gonna be impatient, have a lot of attitude, and loooove being brainwashed. You're a specialist, after all. You don't have time to deal with regular old impossibly gorgeous girls like me."
"Of course not, Princess. I'm much too busy for a perfect, incredible girl to hypnotize me. I especially don't have time to be brainwashed into bringing her snacks and fantasizing about how much I love being under her control!"
"Perfect." Nea winked at the stream, produced the black wig, and-
"MetalGraceSolid just sent a StreamBoost!" The computer chimed. The lights began to flicker. The screen turned every color of the rainbow. And~
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