Modemoiselle and the Show Stoppers: She's Tied Up At The Moment
This post is part 2 in a series of 2. The other post in this series is: Part 1
You know how it is being a busy executive. Buy, sell, buy, sell, shouting into the phones all day. Extracting excess capital from your workers, distributing it to your fellow rich assholes, and keeping a healthy portion for yourself. You're in the middle of gutting another beloved retailer who was doing just fine without you saddling them with debt and stripping them for parts when your intercom crackles to life. Funny, it's usually more of a buzz. And circuitry doesn't crawl out of the speaker. And your secretary doesn't usually sound like a supervillain saying “Good girls don't move~”. And your fancy mesh-backed office chair almost never turns into a tightly woven mass of ribbons, binding your arms and legs and covering your mouth in soft, shiny black velour. Big, shiny black bows dangle from your mouth, arms, and legs. And they're wrinkling your suit!
The intercom crackled and surged with electricity. A familiar face crawls out of the speaker. Followed by a familiar head of blonde hair, a familiar pink streak over one eye, a familiar black bow, a familiar parasol, and the familiar flowing black ball gown, wreathed with ribbons, cables, and circuitry that could only belong to Modemoiselle herself. She shakes her down cascade onto her shoulders. A few errant arcs of pink lightning arc between her locks. She sits atop the desk, one leg crossed over the other. Boot tapping against her captive's leg. “Well, well, well. If it isn't...” She plucks the unused ceramic coffee mug from its nest of takeout coffee cups. “Number one boss?” She shakes her head.
Her boot heel digs into her target's awfully vulnerable groin. D-did she always have a bulge down there? And did it always feel s-so good when a supervillain ground her heel against it, sending waves of circuitry pulsing across her exquisitely tailored suit?
Modemoiselle's finger swipes across the mug's surface. “Boss” vanishes to the left, and “pet” swoops in from the right. “Hmm, no, you're not really a pet, are you?” She smiles a devious smile and keeps swiping. “Slut?” She smiles at her captive. Watching her squirm and kick uselessly against her bonds. “What's wrong, dear? Can't break a few simple ribbons? I know you love how they feel against your skin. Too enchanted by my mere presence, perhaps, to even raise a finger against Miss Modemoiselle, The Grand Dame of the Grid?” She extends a black gloved finger and presses it against her quarry's chin. The ribbons tighten. Mmmph, they do feel good. Impossibly soft, even as they help Modemoiselle invade your mind and corrupt every thought of escape into 'fuck, I'm so horny for supervillains, like always.'” Modemoiselle's finger digs into her captive's chin and forces her to make eye contact.
“You're a smart girl. You went to...” Another ribbon lashes out from that fancy office chair. This time, it snatches the diploma off the wall. “Brown. Jeez, way to pick the hardest Ivy to tease you about.” She drops it and lets the glass shatter on the floor.
“But that was always your perogative, wasn't it? Always playing it safe. The safest school, the safest career, the easiest money.” She's back at the mug again. Swiping from “pet” to “harem dancer” to “onahole” to “sex doll”, making sure her victim gets an eyeful of each. “The meekest secretary who's too afraid of losing her job to turn down your advances. Maybe we should see how you like it.” She swishes the mug to say “Number One Secretary.”
The captive's breathing gets heavier.
“Now as for the nameplate, how long does it take to get a new one of these ordered?”
The ribbons get tighter.
“Sorry, two new ones ordered. One for me, one for my brainwashed little fuck typist.”
“Oh, look at me, fussing like some useless exec who doesn't know how to type, much less what the company actually does.”
The ribbons begin to tear.
“I'm sure I can issue some useless strategy memos that my underlings will use to bludgeon the real workers into compliance with their own petty goals.”
A blinding flash of light vaporizes the chair and the ribbons. New pink ones fly in from every corner of the room, twirling around what was once Modemoiselle's captive, and is now a spinning blob of girl-shaped transformation sequence summoning the powers of goodness, light, and ribbons to bear against her foe. Her plain brown hair explodes into chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry streaks, promptly tamed by a flowing pink ribbon tying itself into a neat little bow. Pretty standard magical girl stuff, you see a lot of it in the mid to high fantasy villainy business.
“In the name of all that is good and right, Ribbonmancer will never cease to fight, fight, fight!” The light fades. Instead, the same person stands. Her tailored suit transformed into pure light, and now into a tight white top with a big pink ribbon covering her breasts. A too-short black pleated skirt and a pair of panties are the only thing separating her new bulge from the world. She twirls her wand between her white gloved fingers and levels it at the dastardly supervillain who defaced her mug.
“I coulda sworn you had a better battle cry than that. It sounds like a high school fight song.”
“I didn't get to pick it, it's the Sacred Oath of the Seamstress's Sanctum.” She flicks her wrist, sending infinite lengths of pink ribbon flying out from every direction. Modemoiselle lept backwards off the desk, still holding the Number One Secretary mug.
“I thought you looked better in the suit.” Modemoiselle effortlessly twirls out of the way of every ribbon. She'll sidestep one, walk up another, then hook a third with the coffee mug handle and zipline down the length. “But, well, the slutty sailor scout cheerleader is a good look, too. Come on, say the thing again, but this time, stick a 'goooo team!' at the end.” A flick of her wrist twists a length of ribbon into a perfect pom-pom shape, knotted around one of Ribbonmancer's hands.
“We arrested you last night! You should be rotting in jail!”
“Finally, someone gets it. You should tell your bird friend about that so she doesn't make a fool of herself when a supervillain puts her into a brainwashing dream pod and turns her into a brainwashed little pony named... oh, I don't know...”
“Clop Star?” A third voice echoes from the other side of the intercom.
“Ravenna?” Ribbonmancer's attention snaps to the speaker on the desk. “What did she do to you? What did she do to us?”
“What do you think, Star? Does that count? Did she get it before you?”
“It doesn't count if you had to explain the whole plan to her before she got it. At least Bird Brain remembered the dream bomb.” The pony pouts from over the intercom.
“You're right. It was my fault for expecting more from an MBA.” Modemoiselle nods.
“Oh, I've been calling you a useless drain on society since I got here, but that's the last straw? Come on, dear, at least pick the right battle.” She shakes her head. “Tell you what. I'll forget all about it if we can hear that cheer. I know you have it in you- I wrote the program myself.” Modemoiselle swipes the text on the mug a few more times until it says “Number One Cheerleader”.
New thoughts pour in through the magical girl's ears. Intoxicating music piercing straight through her mind. Entire lobes of her brain light up for their singular purpose. Her hips swivel and shake back and forth, powered by the rhythms borrowing her body and twisting her to Modemoiselle's villainous whims. She twirls on her toe and summons another ribbon pom-pom to match the one currently imprisoning her hand.
“In the name of all that's good and right! Ribbonmancer will fight! fight! fight!”
The ribbons start to shift. Pink gives way to black and green. Circuitry starts to replace the veins in her eyes. The poor thing struggles against the music rending her thoughts to pieces. Fists clenching. Body twisting. Brand new cock leaking right into her extremely visible panties.
“Better do what it says, dear. It'll just get stronger and stronger until you give in~” Modemoiselle idly pretends to inspect her nails through her gloves. “I wrote more cheers for you, and it'd be awfully rude to refuse to recite them for the supervillain who's currently up to her elbows in your brain. You'd look cute with your brain melted into a singing, dancing puddle, but I have bigger plans for you.” The coffee mug dangles from her index finger while she leans forward onto her palms. All too happy to simply sit and watch the show.
“Miss Modemoiselle, please own my mind! This dumb cheerleader's in a bind! I can't think and I can't drive! My brain is ribbons, I'll be eaten alive! Take pity on this capitalist slut and let her show off her perfect butt!”
Every rhyming pair only feeds the music pulsing a circuit heart-shaped hole through her mind. But no hero would go down without one last-ditch effort to save herself. She had to be using that mug for something. It was her only weak point. Her body twirls, springs, and shakes from side to side, as is natural when being turned into a cheerleader by brainwashing music hooked directly up to your head through the dream pod being controlled by a supervillain. One of her wrists flicks outside of the prescribed routine. What a breach in protocol! What will Miss Modemoiselle say? The ribbon pom-pom on that hand unfurls, sending one lashing directly at the coffee mug.
“Ooh, I love the spunk, dear, but bad choice~” Modemoiselle lets the mug slip off her finger. The ribbon entangles her wrist, but it's too late. The mug tumbles down, down, down onto that fancy hardwood floor you insisted on, and it
The sound of breaking ceramic echoes to and from every direction. The office facade falls away to reveal... well, nothing, really. An endless void stretching in every direction. Empty, save for Modemoiselle and a naked Ribbonmancer. The music in her head has subsided, but so has everything else.
“You really thought that shattering the thing that represented your brain was going to help you in the dream world? Haven't you seen, like, any fiction? Or had someone explain the concept of a metaphor to you?”
“Fine.” Ribbonmancer crosses her arms, calling up a few winding ribbons- in Modemoiselle's colors instead of her usual pink, of course- to cover her breasts and new cock. Out of habit, really. And she only knows how to tie them in big, bouncy bows, so that's what's going on with the naked Ribbonmancer situation. “You win, what was I supposed to do?”
“Dear, look at you.” Modemoiselle snaps her gloved fingers. A sleek, human-sized, curved glass pod rises from the void. Inside is Ribbonmancer, still wearing her suit, headphones clamped to her ears, and staring at a hacked black ribbon over her eyes that's keeping her nice and under the supervillain's spell. “Did you really think you could think your way out of this one? You couldn't even think your way out of 'maybe my greedy, destructive business tactics are causing more harm than my heroing is doing good', much less 'capitalism is a prison'. Even if I did set up a puzzle box for you with some chance of escape, I don't think you'd get it. Why would I risk breaking up my matching set?”
“So all of us are...”
“In pods like this! Well, except for the one you already met. She's currently... hang on.” Modemoiselle vanishes for a moment as she jacks out of the dream pod. She reappears a moment later. “...Practicing a musical number. She pushed me out of her room with her hooves and said it was a surprise for me and that I can't listen until it's done.”
“She's also currently a horse.”
“That she is! So, how are you doing?”
“Cold, naked, and brainwashed, apparently.”
“Oh, don't worry, dear.” Modemoiselle smiles. White coffee mug shards zoom from all corners of the void. “You're going to get much more brainwashed than this.” The mug reassembles in her hand, still on 'cheerleader'. A few swipes of her finger set it back to 'secretary'. She sets it on top of the pod. The thick pink fog inside thickens. The music returns to the hero's head, even stronger than before. The hacked ribbon currently beaming thoughts into her brain kicks into overdrive.
Ribbonmancer can see the outlines of spirals drilling deeper and deeper into her brain, and she's starting to realize that it's good? That the machine wrapped around her cock and programmed to deliver perfect pleasure straight to her brain makes it hard to think about anything else? That Miss Modemoiselle was right all along? That her tongue is rolling out of her mouth, and her eyes want to roll up into her head? That Miss Modemoiselle's fingers are combing through her hair right now and a single tug would send her over the edge?
“You know, dear, I bet if you begged me, I'd tug your hair like the slut you are and shatter your mind into a trillion pieces.” Modemoiselle gingerly collects strands of Neapolitan hair into her hand. Putting just a little pressure on. Barely enough to get her toy's breath quivering. “But with how rude you've been, you're going to have to wow me.”
“Miss Modemoiselle.” A snap of Modemoiselle's fingers forces the words to catch in her throat. “Haven't you ever begged before? Make me want to assimilate you. Here, I'll even give you a hand, since we all know that capitalism and being a corporate stooge chokes out innovation.”
A simple stool rises from the depths and bumps against her butt.
Ribbonmancer looks down, then up. She sits down. It's cold. Modemoiselle smiles and nods. “Now what?”
She looks unsure. She calls another ribbon up and lets it tie her legs together. Nice and tight, with a big ol' bow. Black ribbons with Modemoiselle's circuitry pulsing down their length. Tingly against her skin. Perfectly packaged for Miss Modemoiselle. Bound up, at her mercy, presenting yourself to her for her to use for whatever evil scheme she dreams up...
She barely needs the encouragement to continue. She binds her hands behind her back. The ribbons around her breasts fall away and retie themselves into a figure-eight knot. She ties her cock up with a neat little bow, a touch of pressure so she's hard and ready for action whenever Miss wishes. One last ribbon snakes around her mouth and seals it off. She looks up at Modemoiselle expectantly.
“Much better. Was that so hard?” Her boot's pressing against that cute little gift-wrapped cock again. Ribbonmancer's eyes roll back into her head and her mouth ribbon muffles a moan.
Modemoiselle levels a loaded parasol at her bound bounty. “You know what this is full of, right?”
“And you want me to spray you with it, I bet.”
“Even though this much at this range will let me sculpt your brain however I wish?”
“And I'm going to take over your company, use its resources to help as many people as possible, all while you're my brainwashed secretary?”
Psssh~ Thick pink smoke envelops her face. Her eyes roll back into her head. Modemoiselle, as promised, gives her hair a mighty yank! and the poor thing moaned so hard, Clop Star could hear it from her room in the real world.
“Aww, hypnoslut's first orgasm.” Modemoiselle does not stop pulling, and the girl formerly known as Ribbonmancer does not stop coming. “Don't worry, dear. There's more where that came from during every step of your training.”
Poor thing was too busy having pleasure centers she didn't even know about turned all the way up to really process what Miss Modemoiselle was monologuing at her about. Too busy having her brain reduced to its base components. Too busy being smashed to pieces so it could be rebuilt. And far too horny to realize the dream world metaphor Modemoiselle was going for with the mug.
Soon, the vicious viral vixen vanished. The pod kicked into overdrive, stretching its captive's perception of time to run her through countless training exercises. Exactly how Miss Modemoiselle likes her coffee*. Where every file and record is kept** and how Miss Modemoiselle likes them presented to her***. And what happens when Miss Modemoiselle says “Showtime”****. All pulsed to the bedrock of her brain, where things like “kissing girls is good” and “water is wet, but not as wet as I am when Miss Modemoiselle looks me in the eyes” live.
“The report on my brainwashing and time in the pod, Miss Modemoiselle.” Her heels click and clack against the ground. Same expensive suit as before, but pulsing with circuitry, tastefully accented with corrupted ribbons, and adjusted to show off her new curves. The walls lined with computers and pulsing circuitry, dusted by three Murdermaids sitting on each other's shoulders and working in parallel. Modemoiselle herself has her boots kicked up on the table, allowing her secretary to sneak a peak up her skirt. She does, of course.
Three minidiscs clatter onto the desk. “Perfect as always, Miss Modemoiselle. You're far too brilliant to allow some ungrateful hero to ruin your plans.”
“Any time you want to kick your feet up on a different desk, the old office has been done up to your liking and awaiting your masterful direction.”
“Would you like to adjust my body and mind more to your liking? You did a perfect job the first time around, but I know how you love to tinker.”
“That I do, dear. Go check on the rest of the pods and practice your cheers with your pony friend. She said you were a little flat last time.”
Her heels clicked off, her hips swayed just like how Miss Modemoiselle liked, and the halls echoed with the beeping of pods, the knocking on glass, and, soon, the distant practicing of cheers with a pony.
Fuck, it's good to be a villain.
* She doesn't, she prefers soda ** In the computer *** You fanning out some disks on her desk, delivering a brief oral report, and asking if Miss would like to brainwash you into anything. A folder stuffed with papers if you need something that thuds on the table, but you don't have to print anything on them. **** [data missing]
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