Princess Grace's Castle

bondage

#Bondage #Furry #Grace #Hypnosis #Ponygirl #Skunkgirl #Transformation #You

“So, how are we doing today?” The blonde skunkgirl politely knocks on the door threshold before letting herself in. The eight inch metaluminum door slams resolutely shut behind her. She plucks your chart from the foot of the operating table, flips through it, and tucks it a lab coat pocket.

“Ah, for the pilot program! Of course.” Her tail swishes. The pink tron lines flanking her stripe do this cool ghosting effect. So you can distract yourself with that while she checks your restraints. She hums to herself and starts flicking some nice, clicky mechanical switches outside your field of view. The machinery lining the walls clicks and pops and hums ominously. She hums along with it. She scampers around the edges of the room, occasionally dragging her tail across your face. It's soft and warm and like finding the sweet spot on the bed, except just kinda dropped on you while its owner makes sure the antiquantized rehelicasation engine is putting out about 32 mφ/s.

“Sorry about that! I wanted to make sure everything was warming up while I explained the procedure.” That would explain the ominous whirring. “So! In a traditional Cooley–Tukey fast Fourier transform, we can recursively descend onto a signal, dividing, conquering, and reassembling smaller chunks to translate it into the frequency domain.” She pulls down a chart with a bunch of sine waves on it. “In our new process, the fast furrier transform-” She pulls down another one with a bunch of anthropomorphic skunks in horny poses on it. “-we can do the same with a human, eventually projecting them into a cuter, fuzzier space. You can learn more about fast Fourier transforms at your local library. You know, after I turn you into a pony.” She laughs at her own joke, then it's more of a general maniacal laugh as she throws the giant Frankenstein-ass switch on the wall. She fastens something cold and metal over your head. Electricity surges. Motors whir. Generators buzz and crack. Flywheels spin up, then stop cold. She says something about twiddle factors and the chirp-z algorithm.

Your mind breaks clean in half.

Then the halves break in half.

Then the quarters break in half.

Then the eighths break in half.

Then the sixteenths break in half.

And so on until the 8192nds break in half.

And each break is accompanied by a searing bliss right down the middle. Growing more numerous and powerful every time. A shock that makes it hard to reckon with the thin layer of fur growing on your body. Or the snout. Or the majestic mane. Or any of the other 16384 parts of you currently being twisted into something newer, cuter, and with a taste for skunkgirl cock.

As fun as it is having your mind diced into easily-washed chunks, the machine surges once more. Patches of fur merge into a big, soft coat. Fingers blur together into adorable, useless hooves. And you are making quite the adorable pony, what with your golden coat, strawberry mane, and butt tattoo that indicates you're suited for lab work. Disjointed memories and fragments of personality rejoin into a new whole. A new, helpful whole! Based on the person you used to be, yes, but projected into a new domain. Your hooves easily slip out of the cuffs and onto the floor.

“So, how do you feel?” The skunk asks, swishing her tail eagerly with pen poised over page.

“Like a brainwashed lesbian horse.”

“And?”

The part of your brain that used to be called head_slice[5246] tells you to say “I love it, Miss Grace!”, and you do. And then head_slices [453] and [6222] really like it when she scratches you behind those perky ears. You trot alongside her, listening to all 16384 parts of you that just love to help pretty girls do experiments.

You fucking love science.


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#Bondage #Dark #DrHelveticaScenario #Drone #IdentityErasure #MemoryPlay #OfficeOfConsensusMaintenance #You

(Warning: This story has some non-consensual, identity loss, and horror elements that are different from and darker than my usual work. Please, only continue if you're comfortable with that.)

“Thank you for being so cooperative.” The nice redheaded lady behind the desk smiles, checks a few boxes on the form in front of her, and closes her notebook. Her pen clips neatly into the pocket on her lab coat. She stands up and leads you down the hall. “Just one more thing and you'll be on your way.” She walks briskly, her sneakers occasionally squeaking against the linoleum when she turns a corner. She turns a lot of corners. Left, right, right, left, left, left, left, shouldn't that have put you back where you started, right, U-turn, and into an elevator.

It's a long elevator ride. She doesn't say anything, and neither do you. Instead of buttons or displaying a floor number, the elevator itself moves up and down apparently at random and the door simply opens and closes when it pleases. She sticks an arm out and shakes her head no when you look like you're going to get off. This happens about five times with no other people in sight before she steps off and motions for you to follow.

Another left, right, right, and left down the hallway, and she holds the third door on the left open for you so you can't see the sign on the other side. You enter, she follows, and about five distinct latches click, whir, and thud shut. “Have a seat.” She smiles. Were her teeth always that... sharp? The chair is a big old metal thing, welded and bolted together and to the ground. You sit and notice the cuffs on the arms and legs. All four legs. And around the neck.

On your left is a big, beige microfiche-esque machine about the size of a refrigerator. Giant incandescent bulb pointing right at your ear. On your right is like if they made disco balls in the same way they make Erlenmeyer flasks, propped up on a stand by your other ear.

The lights turn off. The restraints snap across your arms, legs, and neck. They're cold. The machine whirs to life. “Give it a minute.” She says. “This old thing takes a while to come on.” You hear belts turning, gears churning, fans spinning up, and you can see, in the corner of your eye, the giant bulb slowly gaining strength. She gives the flask a little spin, and you can hear it occasionally tinking against the stand. As the light gains in strength, every surface in the room lights up with yellow incandescent light behind off-center black type. Like a sloppily photocopied transparency on an overhead projector, except there's hundreds of them overlapping, spread all over the room, and slowly scrolling along the walls.

She walks behind the machine and takes something out of a pencil cup on top. She walks in front of you, holding what looks like a big, black permanent marker. “I had time booked on the newer model for you, but Mx. ███████'s session ran long.” She says, dragging the marker across a choice part of the projection.

“Oh, where are my manners?” She notices your shock and laughs. “See, you saw some stuff you're not supposed to. Like the issue of ████████ Quarterly on the desk, or your encounter with ███████.” She takes slow, measured steps to keep pace with the panning pages. As soon as she says the words, they appear in the page by her pen and she expertly blacks them out from your brain. When one fills up, it takes her a second to spot the new one, stride across the room to it, and continue her work. “So, as soon as we're done here, you'll be back home and absolutely no threat to ██ ███ security. Just get comfy and we'll done soon.”

You struggle against your restraints, as anyone would do. She's in the middle of redacting a sentence about the North American █████████ when she notices. Long strides, lots of eye contact, and a marker against your chin. She cranes your neck upwards, forcing your neck to press against the cool iron collar. “Careful.” She smiles from ear to ear. Her teeth look even sharper in this light. “I've been awfully restrained so far. I was going to leave you a few interesting stories to tell your friends. Nothing anyone would believe, of course. But if you keep this up, well, there's no telling what a slip of the pen might do.” She slowly drags the wide chisel tip up and off your chin. The cool ink absorbs into your skin as a reminder. She returns to where she left off, redacting a few choice names and locations.

You shout every awful thing you can think to say, throwing your entire weight back and forth against the restraints. Some of the older joints creak against your weight, but the seat doesn't budge. She sighs and stops in place. “Don't waste your energy. That chair has held beings twice your size, four times your weight, eight times your number of limbs, and sixteen times your ███████ potential.” She didn't even have to look to black that one out.

A projection comes around that looks like your photocopied driver's license, birth certificate, and a handful of doctor's reports. She stifles your next outburst with a simple line across your mouth. Your lips vanish. Just a smooth lower half of your face, just like the ink she drew on your chin earlier. “Much better. If you let me work in peace, I might even give it back after.”

“MMmmMmMmmmph! MmMMMMmmMMmm!” You... don't really say it, but that is the noise that comes from your former mouth area. You find out that if you throw your weight at a 45 degree angle to the chair, you can get a pretty obnoxious clanging going.

She sighs. “You don't know when to stop, do you? You didn't at the ████ ████, and you sure haven't learned since. Don't say I didn't warn you.” She laughs to herself. “I'm kidding. We both know you can't say anything. And soon, you won't do much else.”

She takes the marker to your driver's license and birth certificate and scribbles out your name. You can feel the ink dripping through the creases and folds in your brain. “Whoops! Guess we'll just have to call you HBR-87224 now.” She writes that over the line in big, block letters to destroy as much extra information as possible. “You didn't think you were the first one to try something like this, were you?” She chuckles, obliterating your birthday in two expert strokes.

She makes eye contact, lets you get one last look at her, and blanks out your eyes with a practiced black line. You're blind. Same cool ink soaking into your face. There goes your nose with the same squeak of a marker one would use to make a yard sale sign. A few more seconds and she's scribbled out your whole face. One ear vanishes. And right before the other goes, you hear:

“Good night.”


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#Ahegao #Bondage #Bulge #Cheerleaders #Crime #FrillyOutfits #Genitals #Hacking #Hypnogas #Hypnosis #Maids #Modemoiselle #Murdermaids #RealityPlay #ShowStoppers #Supervillainy #Transformation

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.”

Too tight.

“Oh, look at me, fussing like some useless exec who doesn't know how to type, much less what the company actually does.”

The ribbons begin to tear.

“I'm sure I can issue some useless strategy memos that my underlings will use to bludgeon the real workers into compliance with their own petty goals.”


A blinding flash of light vaporizes the chair and the ribbons. New pink ones fly in from every corner of the room, twirling around what was once Modemoiselle's captive, and is now a spinning blob of girl-shaped transformation sequence summoning the powers of goodness, light, and ribbons to bear against her foe. Her plain brown hair explodes into chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry streaks, promptly tamed by a flowing pink ribbon tying itself into a neat little bow. Pretty standard magical girl stuff, you see a lot of it in the mid to high fantasy villainy business.

“In the name of all that is good and right, Ribbonmancer will never cease to fight, fight, fight!” The light fades. Instead, the same person stands. Her tailored suit transformed into pure light, and now into a tight white top with a big pink ribbon covering her breasts. A too-short black pleated skirt and a pair of panties are the only thing separating her new bulge from the world. She twirls her wand between her white gloved fingers and levels it at the dastardly supervillain who defaced her mug.

“I coulda sworn you had a better battle cry than that. It sounds like a high school fight song.”

“I didn't get to pick it, it's the Sacred Oath of the Seamstress's Sanctum.” She flicks her wrist, sending infinite lengths of pink ribbon flying out from every direction. Modemoiselle lept backwards off the desk, still holding the Number One Secretary mug.

“I thought you looked better in the suit.” Modemoiselle effortlessly twirls out of the way of every ribbon. She'll sidestep one, walk up another, then hook a third with the coffee mug handle and zipline down the length. “But, well, the slutty sailor scout cheerleader is a good look, too. Come on, say the thing again, but this time, stick a 'goooo team!' at the end.” A flick of her wrist twists a length of ribbon into a perfect pom-pom shape, knotted around one of Ribbonmancer's hands.

“We arrested you last night! You should be rotting in jail!”

“Finally, someone gets it. You should tell your bird friend about that so she doesn't make a fool of herself when a supervillain puts her into a brainwashing dream pod and turns her into a brainwashed little pony named... oh, I don't know...”

“Clop Star?” A third voice echoes from the other side of the intercom.

“Ravenna?” Ribbonmancer's attention snaps to the speaker on the desk. “What did she do to you? What did she do to us?”

“What do you think, Star? Does that count? Did she get it before you?”

“It doesn't count if you had to explain the whole plan to her before she got it. At least Bird Brain remembered the dream bomb.” The pony pouts from over the intercom.

“You're right. It was my fault for expecting more from an MBA.” Modemoiselle nods.

“Hey!”

“Oh, I've been calling you a useless drain on society since I got here, but that's the last straw? Come on, dear, at least pick the right battle.” She shakes her head. “Tell you what. I'll forget all about it if we can hear that cheer. I know you have it in you- I wrote the program myself.” Modemoiselle swipes the text on the mug a few more times until it says “Number One Cheerleader”.

New thoughts pour in through the magical girl's ears. Intoxicating music piercing straight through her mind. Entire lobes of her brain light up for their singular purpose. Her hips swivel and shake back and forth, powered by the rhythms borrowing her body and twisting her to Modemoiselle's villainous whims. She twirls on her toe and summons another ribbon pom-pom to match the one currently imprisoning her hand.

“In the name of all that's good and right! Ribbonmancer will fight! fight! fight!”

The ribbons start to shift. Pink gives way to black and green. Circuitry starts to replace the veins in her eyes. The poor thing struggles against the music rending her thoughts to pieces. Fists clenching. Body twisting. Brand new cock leaking right into her extremely visible panties.

“Better do what it says, dear. It'll just get stronger and stronger until you give in~” Modemoiselle idly pretends to inspect her nails through her gloves. “I wrote more cheers for you, and it'd be awfully rude to refuse to recite them for the supervillain who's currently up to her elbows in your brain. You'd look cute with your brain melted into a singing, dancing puddle, but I have bigger plans for you.” The coffee mug dangles from her index finger while she leans forward onto her palms. All too happy to simply sit and watch the show.

“Miss Modemoiselle, please own my mind! This dumb cheerleader's in a bind! I can't think and I can't drive! My brain is ribbons, I'll be eaten alive! Take pity on this capitalist slut and let her show off her perfect butt!”

Every rhyming pair only feeds the music pulsing a circuit heart-shaped hole through her mind. But no hero would go down without one last-ditch effort to save herself. She had to be using that mug for something. It was her only weak point. Her body twirls, springs, and shakes from side to side, as is natural when being turned into a cheerleader by brainwashing music hooked directly up to your head through the dream pod being controlled by a supervillain. One of her wrists flicks outside of the prescribed routine. What a breach in protocol! What will Miss Modemoiselle say? The ribbon pom-pom on that hand unfurls, sending one lashing directly at the coffee mug.

“Ooh, I love the spunk, dear, but bad choice~” Modemoiselle lets the mug slip off her finger. The ribbon entangles her wrist, but it's too late. The mug tumbles down, down, down onto that fancy hardwood floor you insisted on, and it

shatters.


The sound of breaking ceramic echoes to and from every direction. The office facade falls away to reveal... well, nothing, really. An endless void stretching in every direction. Empty, save for Modemoiselle and a naked Ribbonmancer. The music in her head has subsided, but so has everything else.

“You really thought that shattering the thing that represented your brain was going to help you in the dream world? Haven't you seen, like, any fiction? Or had someone explain the concept of a metaphor to you?”

“Fine.” Ribbonmancer crosses her arms, calling up a few winding ribbons- in Modemoiselle's colors instead of her usual pink, of course- to cover her breasts and new cock. Out of habit, really. And she only knows how to tie them in big, bouncy bows, so that's what's going on with the naked Ribbonmancer situation. “You win, what was I supposed to do?”

“Dear, look at you.” Modemoiselle snaps her gloved fingers. A sleek, human-sized, curved glass pod rises from the void. Inside is Ribbonmancer, still wearing her suit, headphones clamped to her ears, and staring at a hacked black ribbon over her eyes that's keeping her nice and under the supervillain's spell. “Did you really think you could think your way out of this one? You couldn't even think your way out of 'maybe my greedy, destructive business tactics are causing more harm than my heroing is doing good', much less 'capitalism is a prison'. Even if I did set up a puzzle box for you with some chance of escape, I don't think you'd get it. Why would I risk breaking up my matching set?”

“So all of us are...”

“In pods like this! Well, except for the one you already met. She's currently... hang on.” Modemoiselle vanishes for a moment as she jacks out of the dream pod. She reappears a moment later. “...Practicing a musical number. She pushed me out of her room with her hooves and said it was a surprise for me and that I can't listen until it's done.”

“She's also currently a horse.”

“That she is! So, how are you doing?”

“Cold, naked, and brainwashed, apparently.”

“Oh, don't worry, dear.” Modemoiselle smiles. White coffee mug shards zoom from all corners of the void. “You're going to get much more brainwashed than this.” The mug reassembles in her hand, still on 'cheerleader'. A few swipes of her finger set it back to 'secretary'. She sets it on top of the pod. The thick pink fog inside thickens. The music returns to the hero's head, even stronger than before. The hacked ribbon currently beaming thoughts into her brain kicks into overdrive.

Ribbonmancer can see the outlines of spirals drilling deeper and deeper into her brain, and she's starting to realize that it's good? That the machine wrapped around her cock and programmed to deliver perfect pleasure straight to her brain makes it hard to think about anything else? That Miss Modemoiselle was right all along? That her tongue is rolling out of her mouth, and her eyes want to roll up into her head? That Miss Modemoiselle's fingers are combing through her hair right now and a single tug would send her over the edge?

“You know, dear, I bet if you begged me, I'd tug your hair like the slut you are and shatter your mind into a trillion pieces.” Modemoiselle gingerly collects strands of Neapolitan hair into her hand. Putting just a little pressure on. Barely enough to get her toy's breath quivering. “But with how rude you've been, you're going to have to wow me.”

“P-please, Mode-”

“Miss Modemoiselle.” A snap of Modemoiselle's fingers forces the words to catch in her throat. “Haven't you ever begged before? Make me want to assimilate you. Here, I'll even give you a hand, since we all know that capitalism and being a corporate stooge chokes out innovation.”

A simple stool rises from the depths and bumps against her butt.

Ribbonmancer looks down, then up. She sits down. It's cold. Modemoiselle smiles and nods. “Now what?”

She looks unsure. She calls another ribbon up and lets it tie her legs together. Nice and tight, with a big ol' bow. Black ribbons with Modemoiselle's circuitry pulsing down their length. Tingly against her skin. Perfectly packaged for Miss Modemoiselle. Bound up, at her mercy, presenting yourself to her for her to use for whatever evil scheme she dreams up...

She barely needs the encouragement to continue. She binds her hands behind her back. The ribbons around her breasts fall away and retie themselves into a figure-eight knot. She ties her cock up with a neat little bow, a touch of pressure so she's hard and ready for action whenever Miss wishes. One last ribbon snakes around her mouth and seals it off. She looks up at Modemoiselle expectantly.

“Much better. Was that so hard?” Her boot's pressing against that cute little gift-wrapped cock again. Ribbonmancer's eyes roll back into her head and her mouth ribbon muffles a moan.

Modemoiselle levels a loaded parasol at her bound bounty. “You know what this is full of, right?”

She nods.

“And you want me to spray you with it, I bet.”

She nods.

“Even though this much at this range will let me sculpt your brain however I wish?”

She nodnodnods.

“And I'm going to take over your company, use its resources to help as many people as possible, all while you're my brainwashed secretary?”

Nodnodnodnodnodnodnodnod.


Psssh~ Thick pink smoke envelops her face. Her eyes roll back into her head. Modemoiselle, as promised, gives her hair a mighty yank! and the poor thing moaned so hard, Clop Star could hear it from her room in the real world.

Modemoiselle spraying a dressed-up Ribbonmancer with pink hypnosmoke


“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.

“And~?”

Three minidiscs clatter onto the desk. “Perfect as always, Miss Modemoiselle. You're far too brilliant to allow some ungrateful hero to ruin your plans.”

“And~?”

“Any time you want to kick your feet up on a different desk, the old office has been done up to your liking and awaiting your masterful direction.”

“And~?”

“Would you like to adjust my body and mind more to your liking? You did a perfect job the first time around, but I know how you love to tinker.”

“That I do, dear. Go check on the rest of the pods and practice your cheers with your pony friend. She said you were a little flat last time.”

Her heels clicked off, her hips swayed just like how Miss Modemoiselle liked, and the halls echoed with the beeping of pods, the knocking on glass, and, soon, the distant practicing of cheers with a pony.

Fuck, it's good to be a villain.


* She doesn't, she prefers soda ** In the computer *** You fanning out some disks on her desk, delivering a brief oral report, and asking if Miss would like to brainwash you into anything. A folder stuffed with papers if you need something that thuds on the table, but you don't have to print anything on them. **** [data missing]


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All of my posts have some tags at the beginning. Click on one to see all the posts with that tag.

Long stories

#HappyCamper – A camping trip, a hypnovirus, and a dream. #StreamersLittleHelper – Fame, fortune, and more from a slutty ghost. #MissModemoiselle – Finally, someone who can fight City Hall. #ConStitution – Cosplayers hypnotized at a convention. #ShowStoppers – Superheroes are out. Pop stars are in.

Characters

#Grace – Yours truly. #Modemoiselle – A supervillain Grace, in a supervillain place. #Murdermaids – What's a supervillain without her henchmaids? #DrHelveticaScenario – Weird Shit Researcher, OCM. #OfficeOfConsensusMaintenance – Secret government agency. #HalfAdder – Brain-hacking electric lamia extraordinaire. #QuarterViper – Reality-bending arcade proprietrix. #Lily – Lily Pinataki, deal-making demoness. At your service. #Cassandra – The seamstress with the hypnotic clothes. #SallySilvestra – Sally Silvestra, richer than God. #SunnyTheSpectacular – Beloved blazing stage magician. #Gina – Gina Applegate, witch to the stars.

All Tags

#Ahegao (1) #AttributeTheft (1) – A dom stealing a sub's intelligence, free will, etc. #AvengersEndgame (1) #BabaIsYou (1) #Bondage (3) #Bulge (4) #Bullying (1) #Bunnygirl (1) #CapeKink (2) – Non-erotic, non-pornographic stories about queer heroes and villains. #Catgirl (2) #Cheerleaders (5) #Clothing (5) #ClothingTF (1) – Getting turned into clothes. #Cock (1) #Commission (1) – Stories I was hired to write. #Corruption (2) #Costumes (19) #Crime (2) #Cult (1) #Cum (2) #Dark (1) – Stories I feel are darker than my usual fare. #Demons (2) #Ditzification (3) – You might call it “bimbo”. #Doll (4) – Getting turned into a doll, thinking you're a doll, the works. #Dragons (1) #Drone (3) #Educational (1) #Exhibitionism (8) #Fire (1) #Food (2) #FrillyOutfits (4) – Who doesn't love a frilly outfit? #FTL (1) – Based on the video game FTL: Faster Than Light. #Furry (3) #GasMask (1) #Genitals (4) #Hacking (9) #Housewife (2) #HumanPet (1) – People thinking they're animals. #Humiliation (2) #Hypnogas (2) #Hypnosis (42) #HypnoticCum (1) #IdentityErasure (2) #Kigurumi (1) #Kissing (2) #Latex (2) #Lightnoncon (1) #Lovestruck (1) #MagicalGirls (2) #Maids (4) #Mantra (2) #Masks (1) #MassHypnosis (3) #Masturbation (2) #Masturbaton (1) #MemoryPlay (2) #Music (1) #Musk (3) – Mind-fogging genital smell. No other musks. #NotHorny (4) – Stories that aren't horny, erotic, or pornographic. #Oral (2) #Orgasm (1) #OrientationPlay (1) – Usually, someone getting hypnotized into being gay. #Ponygirl (2) #Ponyplay (1) #Possession (10) – Another intelligence, usually Grace, entering a body. #Potions (2) #Puppy (1) #Rave (1) #RealityPlay (4) – Altering a sub's reality. #Shapeshifting (1) #Skunkgirl (4) #Snake (2) #StageHypnosis (5) #Suiting (4) #Superheroes (3) #Supervillainy (7) – This is the supervillain porn. #Syringes (2) #Transformation (16) #Triggers (3) – The hypnotic kind. #Twinning (10) – You get to be me! #Videogames (3) #Visor (2) – Colorful hypnoscreens, inches from your eyes. #Vore (1) #Whip (1) #Wig (2) #Witch (1) #You (10) – Story featuring “you”, the reader, as the sub.