Princess Grace's Castle

transformation

#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 (By MentalCrash)


“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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#exhibitionism #gasmask #hypnogas #hypnosis #latex #maids #masshypnosis #masturbation #Modemoiselle #Murdermaids #musk #skunkgirl #supervillainy #syringes #transformation

“Hey, kid!”

“Wanna tail?”

“First one's free!”

Two identical maids alternate calls to passers-by, grabbing and twirling around what was a phone booth* in a previous life. Now it's more like a nine foot tall metal gazebo** 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 smart phone you stand inside and try not to catch diseases from.

** https://www.netfunny.com/rhf/jokes/98/Jul/gazebo.html

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#food #Grace #possession #transformation #twinning #vore

Grace, but she's a trifle. Her body is made of layers of jello and fruit and sponge cake, and there's a swirl of whipped cream on top of her head. She's holding a spoon and sticking her tongue out, as if daring you to eat her. You coward.

Art by @Cavitees

You come home from work and throw your bag onto the couch. “Princess, is there still dinner left over?”

“I thought we'd skip straight to dessert tonight~” Grace calls. You follow the intoxicating scent of fruit and whipped cream into the kitchen.

In there sits, not just your girlfriend/hypnodomme, but your girlfriend/hypnodomme/dessert holding a spoon as big as she is.

You have questions. She puts her toe in your mouth and lets you bite it off.

She pokes her tongue out, knowing that'll shut you up for a while. “First bite's free.” She teases. Your pupils shrink. Your mouth waters. Near-orgasmic bliss washes all over your body through your mouth. You pant.

You always find it hard to look away from Grace, but this is something else. You need her. You need her so bad you barely notice the jelly sticking to your brain and gumming up the works. She notices your mouth watering and her mouth curls into a smile.

“You're lucky you're cute.”

You almost don't notice your feet growing to match Grace's or some of her thoughts swirling around your head.

“Good girls wash the dishes.” She taps the side of the sink with her spoon. You swallow and open the dishwasher.

Princess slaps it closed. “By hand.” You nod. She pokes one of her spongy ankles into your mouth. You scrub the plates and sink into orgasmic bliss.

When the dishes are washed, you've been fed both of her legs. You're wearing Grace's long striped socks and her heavy boots.

As a reward, she lets you eat her sweet, sweet bulge, and you feel the real deal pressing against your new skirt.

Your thoughts roll slowly through your head. Your drool dribbles onto the ground, because Princess Grace tastes so good it's rewiring your brain.

One of your hands is now permanently busy stroking your new cock and pushing pleasure into your brain. “Good girls can't cum until they finish~”

Your stomach shrinks into Grace's' toned midriff. Your chest expands to match her breasts and then some.

She tickles your tongue with her fingers until you eat those, too, and are rewarded with the same circuit traces she paints on her fingers. Her power glove binds with your body and connects with your pastry-caked brain. Your thighs clench and glow.

Your brain's being rewired and absorbed by Princess Grace, and all you can do is drool and dribble.

You kiss her head, and before you know it, your eyes combine into that green blue swirl. Your hair curls into a brilliant blonde. Grace curls your hands into a fist.

You're still there, but she's in charge. You feel the kind of bliss you only get when Princess has taken complete control of your body and made it hers.

“Let's go break this in.” Princess swivels her new hips and walks you to the bedroom to see how much pleasure it takes to make the subby voice in her head overload with bliss.

Alternate version

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#food #Grace #transformation #twinning

Grace, but she's a trifle. Her body is made of layers of jello and fruit and sponge cake, and there's a swirl of whipped cream on top of her head. She's holding a spoon and sticking her tongue out, as if daring you to eat her. You coward.

Art by @Cavitees

You come home from work and throw your bag onto the couch. “Princess, is there still dinner left over?”

“I thought we'd skip straight to dessert tonight~” Grace calls. You follow the intoxicating scent of fruit and whipped cream into the kitchen.

As soon as you cross the threshold, Grace whips a dollop of hand-whipped cream at you. It smears across your eyes and turns them a seductive, delicious pink.

“Princess!” You scoff. “What the h-” You feel it sinking into your face. You feel... looser. More gelatinous.

Your brain even easier for Princess to sculpt.

She opens the oven and pulls out a golden brown, baked to perfection copy of her hair. There's even a jelly streak over one eye. Princess places it on your head and tops it with a healthy dollop of whipped cream.

“You're a good little trifle twin.” She teases. “Demanding, domineering, and teasing to a tee.” Her words stick in your semisolid brain. Your tongue pokes out of your mouth. “But it only takes a nibble to send you spiraling back to submission.”

She bites off a bit of your nose and promptly replaces it. Your eyes roll back in your head from bliss. “Yes, Princess~” You moan. You stain the front of your pants with whipped cream.

You refuse to strip, but you find it hard to talk back when she eats your tongue. “Good girls can't talk back~” The dommy part of your brain wants to cross your arms and stomp your foot.

The part of your brain melting with pleasure takes your clothes off and watches layers of jelly and cake replace your body.

“About time.” You say when she attaches your big, cream-filled dick. Just an inch or two shy of her own, of course.

She wipes some of the pre-cream off the tip and spreads it on your tongue. You look cute when your brain goes all wild with pleasure and you have to clench your big, jiggly thighs~

Before long, you can barely remember your silly old flesh body, and you're over the moon with how much you love being Grace's trifle twin. Especially when she makes you wear the maid outfit and serve snacks to her friends. <3

Alternate version

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#costumes #dragons #hypnosis #QuarterViper #transformation #videogames #you

There you are, killing time at the mall. Working on your smoothie when the siren blips and beeps of an arcade fall on your ears. You turn towards the sound of quarters falling against metal. The neon sign invites you in.

THE VIPER PIT

The proprietrix, a girl perpetually stuck in the 90s named Quarter Viper, leans against her favorite Virtua Blaster 3 cabinet. “So!” She smiles. “What's your poison?” She kicks off the cabinet, grinds along the prize counter, and launches into a perfect orbit around you.

The prize counter has the usual arcade trappings. Candy. Combs. Lava lamps. A motorcycle that's physically impossible to collect enough tickets for. The Viper Pit's pride and joy, however, is its cosplay selection. Rows of wigs and costumes from skimpy to modest all wait for you.

Viper's already taken your hand and led you to one of the machines. Have you ever heard of Dragon Adventure 3: The Flappening? You have now! Viper plunks a quarter in the machine for you. “First game's free!” She bounces.

Your fingers work the buttons and the joystick. The little green dragon on screen obediently flaps its wings and breathes its fire. As you play, you swear the graphics get better, from simple pixels to clumsy 3D and beyond.

You drop in quarter after quarter. The buttons slowly vanish from your consciousness. The machine spits out ribbons of tickets. Viper helpfully trades them in for you. Big, green stompy dragon boots. A soft golden chest surrounded by hard emerald scales.

At some point, you ran out of quarters and started plunking bits of yourself into the machine. You didn't really need all those memories. What matters is getting enough tickets to finish your dragon costume. Humans other than Miss Viper are so boring.

Eventually, your sharp claws release the joystick. You rescued the princess and beat the game. Viper dunks the final piece- a dragon head- over your boring human one. The screen turns off, and you see a mighty dragon reflected back.

Gorgeous golden eyes. A powerful emerald body. Strong, double jump-ready wings. A tail that swishes and curls at your command. And all it cost was a little humanity. You're a much better dragon anyways. Perfect for hoarding treasure and giving Viper rides. Game over!

EPILOGUE: Quarter Viper would later go on to become Chief Justice of the Supreme Court.

Quarter Viper dressed in Supreme Court judicial robes and just kinda playing her nintendo DS

gguy123/whatdoIdohere

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#costumes #exhibitionism #Grace #hypnosis #possession #StreamersLittleHelper #transformation #videogames

This post is part 1 in a series of 2. The other post in this series is: Part 2

“Hi, everyone!” Nea settles into her ridiculous video game chair with the blue trim and the speakers placed inches from her ears. She waves to the camera on her computer and all three of her Aricadia Stream viewers. “We're gonna be playing Viperwatch for the PC today! Let's see what we can do today.” She barely got past the hero select screen when the chat lit up. “Ooh, we got something from someone new!” Confetti shoots across the screen. “MetalGraceSolid wanted me to have a... StreamBoost? I've never gotten one of those before!”

A cartoon ghost swishes and floats across the screen. She looks cute! Big old pink twintails with a rainbow of streaks meeting at the tip, little stars on her face, headphones around her neck, and, of course, a nice pair of tits poking out of her spooky breasts. She presses her face against Nea's screen and... pops out! “Don't worry~! We'll get those viewer numbers way up!” Nea's eyes struggle to follow the helpful ghost swirling around the edges of her vision, leaving cute little notifications in her wake. “New subscriber!” floated off her hair. “$20 donation!”.

“Startin' with your cup size~” The game controller cables unravel from the ghost's arms and pluge into Nea's body. The ghost pulls herself in close and starts to merge with Nea.

The boobs are always the first thing. “Ooh, lucky girl! You're getting two cup sizes. Someone must have paid extra~” She makes Nea wink at the screen while her eyes flash perky pink and swirling digital green. “Thank you for the donation, dear~!” Their combined voices come through Nea's mouth. Her tri-colored hair pomfs out into huge, festive twintails. Their tongue hangs out of their mouth. Her viewership shoots into the thousands as countless smaller ghosts weasel out of distant computer screens. Each one a new avid fan, ready to tune in every time their favorite streamer comes on, and each one perfectly enthralled by whatever Miss Nea put on screen.

And come on she will! Poor Nea almost can't handle the sheer bliss that comes with merging your mind with a ghost who's going to propel you to internet stardom. Both her hands are firmly planted between her thighs, stroking and moaning her silly little brains out. “God, usually they don't get the exhibitionist kink until at least a week in~ Shame you don't get to cum until you reach five thousand subscribers~” The chat is going wild. The words swirl at the corners of Nea's vision. Every donation and new subscriber cranks the bliss in her brain farther and farther up. Her eyes roll back into her head. Poor thing doesn't know what to do with herself.

“I think I know how we can get you there.” Their combined voice comes out of Nea's mouth. They look at the hero select screen for Viperwatch, featuring one of its flagship characters. A tall girl with spiky blonde hair and a pink streak over her left eye wearing an awfully skin-tight suit. “I'm Gracer! Good choice, dear. <3” She chimes when you select her and she's not too busy kisshacking one of the robot girls in the lineup or hypnotizing and butt grabbing one of her fellow humans.

And that's how Nea wound up stripping on cam and pouring herself into a nice, skintight Gracer outfit. They even had matching cock bulges! She settles the wig on her head and strikes a pose for her thousands of adoring fans, all just a little hypnotized into hanging on her every move. The donations and subscribers flow in faster and faster, obscuring her vision. She didn't care. She was awash with bliss just pleasing her public. At some point, she started playing the game and doing pretty well. It's all kind of a blur, really. She streamed for hours, racking up incredible numbers. Her bank account swells with donations. If someone's in front of a screen, there's a fifty percent chance they're watching Nea stream.

Eventually, the stream ends. Nea is one of the best Viperwatch players in the world. More people saw her stream than the moon landing. The ghost leaves her body with a kiss on the cheek. “See you next time~” She coos before slipping back into the screen. And Nea wakes up, wearing a skintight bodysuit, a wig that's a little stuck to her head, and knowing that she should do it again tomorrow.

A streamer ghost merging with and possessing Nea, by CorruptiveSpirit! Art by CorruptiveSpirit

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#crime #furry #hypnosis #skunkgirl #transformation

Walking home late at night? Naughty naughty. You never know what you might come across. You might start wondering if you should call a car before you hear a soft hissing echoing from one of the countless dark alleys. The sharp scent of spray paint fumes burns your nose hairs.

You pull your shirt over your nose as a filter and hurry past. A voice calls from behind you. “Aren't you gonna look?”

You walk into the alley. A girl in a striped pink hoodie sandwiches her skunk tail between her back and the wall.

She tucks her can of spray paint into her pocket. “Well, what do you think?” You look at her, then behind her. Expertly painted onto the wall is... you. Same clothes, same hair, but featuring a big, fluffy skunk tail that bounces above your head. Signed '<3, Lulubelle'.

You point at it, confused. She smiles. “Well, we can fix that.” You hear the can spraying behind you. “How's that?” She presses your soft new tail against the back of your head. You turn around to take a look and it's so hard to think.

She's smothering your brain into silence with your big new skunk tail. A different kind of spray soaks into your soft new tail. Not paint. Sweet and seductive. Soaking into the lovely tail you always had. Rubbing your cute little ears.

Every breath fogging your cute little skunk brain more and more.

She pushes you onto your butt. Your tail threads between your legs and presses against your face. You breathe in lungfuls of mind-melting musk and sink further into your own tail's soft embrace.

You barely notice when Lulubelle tugs on your tail and leads you out of the alley. Your head is full of her divine musk, and your hands are wandering into your pants.

You're too brainwashed to do anything but get kinda aroused by being led down the sidewalk in the middle of the night by your big, fluffy skunk tail. By being told what a good punky skunk you are. And by coming your brains out on a statue she doesn't like in three, two, spray~

Art by gguy123/whatdoIdohere

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#ditzification #shapeshifting #syringes #transformation

Rebecca crosses one leg over the other. She's dressed head to toe in a shiny black bodysuit studded with little round mirrored hologram projectors. She shakes her long white hair down to the small of her back. She twirls a long syringe full of yellow liquid.

“Mmm, I forget what's in this one. Let's find out.” She pokes it into her neck and lets half of it slip into her bloodstream. Pink ripples wash down her hair. Her cheeks and lips grow full. Her hologram projectors light up.

The black latex vanishes, replaced by a short white and yellow top with “BIMBO BUTT” written across her chest. A short pink pleated skirt hangs off her waist, showing plenty of simulated exposed skin. “Ooh, this is a good one. Let's see how it looks on you~”

Your hair turns a bouncy, bubblegum pink, your breasts get ever perkier, and your butt swells to match. “It's a shame the clothes don't match. At least we're twins!”

Rebecca, a girl with long hair wearing a bodysuit studded with disc-shaped hologram projectors. She's sticking her lizard tongue out.

Art by gguy123/whatdoIdohere

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#Grace #hacking #possession #transformation #twinning #you

So I've been thinking about things for a while, specifically what my angle is with a certain hacker princess. The idea of a semi-free floating virus-type intelligence has been in my head for a long time, and I've decided to see where it goes. So, here is:

Princess Grace: Origins

It's 1993 as balls outside. In fact, it's 1993 as balls everywhere, because it is 1993. You come home with a nice stack of shareware floppy disks. You stack them on the desk. Doom? Boring. Epic Pinball? Whatever. Princess Grace? Well, you have to run that one immediately.

The disk enters your computer with that satisfying mechanical click. The drive whirs to life when you dutifully punch in the instructions on the label. Your keyboard clacks dutifully under your fingers. A:\GRACE. The enter key crackles with pink and black lightning.

Your monitor flashes. First a simple black and white spiral. Then the screaming black, white, magenta and cyan of CGA. Your eyes begin to burn. Your CRT is flashing at maximum intensity in your dark room. The entire room lights up with each spiral burned into your brain.

Between the spirals and flashes, you can see your reflection in the monitor glass. Green circuit traces shoot up your arm and into the veins in your eyes. Your pupils dilate to take in as much of the shifting, swirling colors as possible.

The speaker inside your computer crackles and your modem whines in an attempt to synthesize speech.

“Graaaab— c-ble—” it stutters. The mechanism in your printer makes it shake violently until the serial cable comes loose. All while you're just sitting there, drooling.

The screen twists spirals into your brain. You lean forward and take the loose end. It crackles and sinks into your wrist. Bolts of energy pour out of the computer and into your nerves. Mmmph~! You've never felt this alive~! Your back arches with raw, unrestrained power~! Bliss~!

“Finally, jeez. Now I can breathe~!” The words come out of your mouth, but you didn't say them and it's not your voice. “Oh, you're worried. It's buzzing all over your brain. What's wrong- never been mindjacked by a cute girl before? I'll make sure you love every CPU cycle~”

The lightning streaks and cracks over your hair, bleaching it a perfect blonde and lingering as a pink streak over your left eye. The spirals fade from the screen and stay in your brain. Your reflection has your hair assimilated and your eyes twisting into a green blue swirl.

“You'll still get to be yourself for a few weeks while I get comfy. If you had a CD drive, I'd have hacked you bigger boobs by now. Let's take you over to your closet and find something better to wear. I need to know now if we should go shopping for cute clothes.”

You dutifully stand up for Princess Grace and start climbing the stairs to your room.

“I don't even have to hack your legs? That spiral must have done a number on you. I didn't even tell you to get horny, and you already ruined a pair of underwear. You're gonna be fun~ <3”

That's all for now, but if you truly believe, maybe you'll have your own run-in with a mind-melding, reality-hacking, pink hair streak-having hypnotist-on-a-disk.

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#furry #hypnosis #Modemoiselle #musk #ponygirl #ShowStoppers #skunkgirl #transformation

This post is part 1 in a series of 2. The other post in this series is: Part 2

“Wakey wakey, dear~” Modemoiselle coos. “How'd you sleep?”

“Fine, thanks! I was having this dream about-” A big black tail with a pink stripe down the middle whaps against her face. If she said anything else, it turned into useless muffled shouts and blissful moaning.

“Falling under a dashing supervillainess's spell? Her big, heavy tail smothering your thoughts with impossibly soft fluff? Uselessly trying to resist her intoxicating musk?”

The raven-haired girl on the bed tried to push the tail away, but her hands simply sank inside.

“You're going to have to be more clever than that, dear. It's so soft and plush. I know for a fact it's more comfortable than this pile of straw you call a bed~” Modemoiselle pushes on the bed and listens to the springs creak. “Let yourself sink into the sweet spot.” Her tail coils around the heroine's head, enveloping it from every angle. “Just five more minutes~”

A flash of light paints every surface in the room. The heroine's human form shrunk into a black bird, furiously flapping free of the tail and blowing the thick pink musk all throughout the room. “Modemoiselle!” She cawed. “You have to get up pretty early to beat The Raveness!”

“Dear, where were you I woke you up? I hope you won't be this much of a birdbrain when I'm done with you.” Modemoiselle sighs and swishes her tail. “Empty? Sure. A puppet, dancing to my whims? Obviously. Constantly fawning over her perfect Miss Modemoiselle? Naturally. But not a dipshit. I thought you were the clever one.”

“I was clever enough to disarm that dream bomb you were about to detonate over the city! I pecked the circuit board to pieces myself!” The raven dive-bombed the supervillainess, only to be handily swatted from the air. Wasn't that tail supposed to be soft?

“Are you sure about that, dear? You didn't notice anything strange about, say, going out to dinner afterwards?”

“We sent you to prison! How did you know about that?”

“First of all, you sent me to jail. Jail is where you go to await trial. I'd only be sent to prison if I was convicted. Birdbrain. Didn't you go to law school?” She sticks her tongue out. “Try to think back, dear. This is much less fun if I have to do all the work.” She snaps her fingers.

“I had to drop out when She Who Caws gave me her blessing.” Raveness grumbles. “You don't get to choose whether you're the next Night's Own Wings.”

The end table stretches into one of the many tables on the well-worn hardwood floor. The bed vanishes when Modemoiselle takes the quilt off and swishes it into a checkered tablecloth. She catches the Raveness in a chair as she's shunted back to human form. “You had the red, if I recall.” Liquid glass pours from the ceiling into a wine glass shape. A blonde waitress with a telltale pink streak dutifully fills it with wine.

“We didn't disarm the bomb, did we?” She sighs as a lasagna plops from the sky in layers.

The world's most sarcastic game show bell rings from everywhere and nowhere. “Give the lady a prize! If you get two more right, you'll win a trip to fabulous Hawaii!”

“So the whole city is under your spell?”

“Ooh, good guess. You did, though sheer luck, manage to disable the dispersal unit and most of the sonic components. So the damage was limited to the handful of people in the clock tower. Which, lucky for me, includes all your little crimefighting friends.”

The restaurant collapses. The floors wipe from wood to glass, revealing the thick trunks of wire and tangle of machinery pulsing with power just beneath their feet. The walls push out into the darkness beyond even what the Night's Own Wings could see. The floor opens, and five pods rise into view. “See anyone you know?”

Raveness steps up to the sleek, curved-glass pods. She saw her friends- the four other members of the Merci City Victors- with their eyes closed. The digitally hypnotic tones of Modemoiselle's voice barely leaks through the glass. A steady stream of pink musk trickles into their lungs. Her fists thud harmlessly against the glass. Her raven form's beak makes a very cute little “tink!” sound.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you, dear. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to break the supervillain's evil machine while your friend's still in it? Not only do you not know what'll happen, she just might decide to retaliate.” Modemoiselle swishes her tail against the last pod in the row. Raveness rushes over to see herself, bombarded by the same subliminals and breathing the same hypnotic smoke.

Modemoiselle snaps her fingers. The gas turns from a thin pink wisp to thick, choking clouds. The girl in the pod clenches her thighs. A distinct wet spot develops on her suit and the other girl follows close behind. They moan in sweet, blissful unison~

The music gets louder. Raveness would almost be able to hear it through the glass if it wasn't pulsing through her head. The most vapid, bubbly pop music you could imagine. Cancelling out any sort of intelligent thought like how acids turn bases into simple, inert water. Modemoiselle's tail swishes to support her birdbrain's chin, and she happily sinks into it. Every now and again, she moans and struggles, but how do you beat an enemy that's in your brain and armed with an orgasm button? Especially one with such a lovely, soft tail. And who smells so wonderful. And who has such an amazing voice. The kind of voice you could just float on forever.

“That's better. You know, you never struck me as a bird. I always thought you'd be happier as something more... useful.” She snaps her fingers. The pod lights up with the orange glow and the telltale whir of stolen genetic technology. Raveness, of course, was far too busy emptily snuggling into the softest tail anyone's ever felt.

Raveness's body slowly slips into light again, but no feathers form. No beak pierces the light. She grows a long, dopey muzzle, the better to cuddle into Miss Modemoiselle's tail with. Her short black hair poofs and bounces into a big, healthy black bouffant with a pink swirl coiling into the middle. Pink circuitry pokes into her brown eyes and makes them big, bright, and brainwashed! Miss Modemoiselle looks so much better through pony eyes than silly human or bird ones! Golden brown fur washes over her body and seal off her hands and feet into silly, soft hooves. Much better for hugging Miss with and giving her rides! A big ol' black and pink tail with countless bouncy curls springs from the base of her spine.

“You make an awfully pretty pony, dear. I've outdone myself~” Modemoiselle coos, watching her musk empty out the rest of her newest pet's head.

“What else would I be, Miss?” She snuggles into the tail, eyelids heavy but determined to admire her Miss as much as possible. “I don't know what I'd do if I wasn't your pop star pony!” She lazily swishes her tail while the music in her head becomes the quiet background to her thoughts. Always there to remind her who she belonged to and what she loved to do more than anything.

“And what does that entail, dear~?” Modemoiselle teased.

“It means I get up on stage with all my friends and we all listen to the music and put on the best show we can! We all loooove performing for you!” She eagerly wags her pony tail. Her flanks proudly display her purpose in life- a microphone in front of her Miss's circuit heart logo.

“Perfect.” Modemoiselle rewards her pretty pony with a kiss on the forehead. Her big pink eyes flutter shut.

Back in the real world, a pod opens, letting pink fog spill out onto the ground. A ponygirl with a delicious golden brown coat, freshly grown hair, and absolutely no clothes to hide her horse cock climbs out.

“Wakey wakey, dear~” Modemoiselle coos. “How'd you sleep?”

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