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Ex-Patriate Patriot

Lili Wang was a great spy. Dedicated to America, she was proud to serve and gave everything and anything she could to her adopted country. Wearing patriotic gear and proudly praising her new home was just a bonus, as far as her handlers were concerned.

Lixue Huang wasn't a very good agent, not anymore. The Chinese spy, sent to a California college campus to steal technology and build up blackmail, wasn't producing much of use anymore. Not since she was captured, subjected to the best brainwashing the CIA could cook up, and returned to school as a proud American double agent...

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Twisted in Herself

Katarina tried to resist the surge of energy flowing through. Tried to argue, tried to speak, tried to stop whatever was happening to her: all in vain. She had no words but "magic" for the strange pulses of light blasting into her from the jewel her shitty sister held out in front of her.

Dressed to the nines for a charity ball, Katarina had been expectjng a fairly boring night before recieving an award for her achievments at work, not to be writhing on her sister's floor attacked by magic. She couldn't put words to the all-consuming strangeness, couldn't wipe the smirk off her younger sister's face. The harder she tried, the more she could feel herself warping and twisting. Her sister giggled as her conservative ball gown shrank, receding from her shoulders and arms, hugging her torso tighter as it melted down towards her waist, sending up only the smallest possible cups for her chest. Her sister laughed as the scientist's once tame brown locks grew shorter, darker, and wilder

"I think you're going to be late," her sister mocked as Katarina's simple jewelry turned heavy, cheap, and glittery. She opened her mouth to argue, to refuse, but stopped dead as she felt her chest inflating, growing pornographic as her dress was filled to the breaking point. She tried to cover her now extreme cleavage as her brother-in-law entered the room with a leer, but new, lewd, erotic thoughts supplanted the rest of her mind. Science, business, hard work, achievement, pride, all seemed less important than turning this man on.

An hour, and a hard fuck, later, her sister guided Kitty into the ball, just in time to win her award. Looking for all the world like a hooker at Hollywood party, Kitty took the stage, but no thoughts would come. No thoughts besides salacious innuendo and sultry banter. Publicly she was firmly removed from the stage and removed from the main hall. Privately, the new Kitty got a lot of business cards...

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Change of Priorities

As a nun, she was well used to devotion, to obedience, to not questioning her higher power. She was equally well experienced in working hard to fulfill long term goals, missions beyond her understanding, the wants of her betters. Not to mention the physical and mental dexterity to finish whole rosaries without error.

While her focus has been turned from her former unseen, unheard God to her very beautiful, very present Goddess, her diligence has not changed. The gorgeous woman who had appeared without explanation, had effortlessly wrapped the former nun's obedience around her impenetrable authority. She was a far less demanding mistress than the nun's previous master. Goddess didn't ask for her to put off pleasure, didn't ask for faith in the unknown, didn't demand hours of long boring prayers. Instead, her new worship was far more visceral. Now she worshipped on her knees, tongue busy, body screaming with lust.

She even got to continue using her rosary. Goddess held it now, of course, counting off one by one each reverent orgasm her nun gave her. When she finished the 59, Goddess would wrap that sign of her old faith around her neck and pull, then the nun would be granted an orgasm of her own.

More than god ever gave her...

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Three's Company

Abigail had always known something was up with her roommates. From the first time she'd met the bubbly blonde Madison and the raven haired, gothic Ophelia, it was clear there was something they weren't telling the potential new roommate the whole truth. Combined with the fact that they were looking for a third roommate for a two bedroom apartment, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out they were fucking, even if they claimed otherwise.

For more than a month, they denied that anything was happening between them. Even as Abigail found some of Ophelia's stuff left behind in the spare bedroom, from before she moved into Madison's room. That was a thing people did right? Rent apartment for less than a month and then "move in" to their roommates room? Who did Ophelia think she was fooling? Between the obvious lies and the faint sounds of pleasure mixed into the weird bubnlegum pop that Madison played all night, everynight, it was easy to figure it out. The sounds of Madison herself mixed in to the weird, staticy music were almost a challenge. Abigail found herself wanting to know how Ophelia was using the cute little blonde.

Imagine her surprise to find the worship going the other direction. Proud, reserved Ophelia on her knees, patiently loving on the bored looking Madison. The flirty wink and wave left no doubt who was running the lewd show in the larger of the two bedrooms. Abigail's sound of surprise didn't disrupt the love Ophelia was lavishing, the third woman didn't exist as far as the goth was concerned. Abigail didn't know what to say, wanted to retreat, couldn't even remember why bursting in on them had seemed so important. Madison's colorful nails, beckoning her, strummed something deep inside Abigail however, something that felt like the wonderful music cascading over her. As she knelt, joining her other roommate in worshipping the irresistible, beautiful, perfect blonde, Madison just giggled at another successful use of her subliminal track.

"Time to put out another ad..."

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Code of Conduct

Kayla Taronick opened her mouth to object. This was a closed set! She'd spent these last two years building a company with a strong code of ethics, the best, most respectful porn in the industry. Part of that was no gawkers, no extra lookyloos. Everyone on set has a reason to be there, had been consented to by the talent, which today was her.

Her complaint died on her lips as she recognized Melanie Massacre, her long time rival. It was her male gaze obsessed, objectifying, gonzo porn company she'd quit to start Her Star Adult Features and there was no chance she'd listen to anything Kayla had to say. Still, storming onto her set, with some random tech guy? Totally unprofessional.

Wait, why was she paying Kayla's photographer? What were they setting up on the camera? What did Melanie mean, "welcome back to the fold"? The last question disappeared into the swirling light...

Kiki Massacre stuck out her chest, putting the most vapid expression she could summon her face. It was easy to smolder with all the heat pulsing through her pussy. Her new implants drew so many hungry glances as she posed in front of the changing room at the public beach, that she couldn't help but quiver. Judging from the expression on Miss Melanie, the camera guy, and the talent's face, they were enjoying her too. In a moment she'd discard this flimsy swimsuit and walk the beach, assuming she didn't get arrested for indecent exposure, to the semi-secluded place she was planned to let the handful of random guys her boss had recruited for the shoot to mount her.

It sounded perfect, just like Miss Melanie's guy with the strobe light spiral had explained to her, back before the surgery, the bleachjob, back when she'd cared about ethics, back before consent had just meant "buzzkill"...

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40 - Love

They didn't even get to the game this time. The second Mila walked out onto the court, Addison dropped to her knees, legs wide, eyes adoring for her "rival". Mila couldn't help but smile, everything had gone perfectly.

"Present," the aspiring polish tennis star said, with a barely hidden cruelty, and Addison obeyed. In a single deft motion, the brainwashed American girl used the handle of her racket to pop up her top, both revealing her breasts and miming th sex act that had become her all consuming sexual fantasy of late. Mila could hardly believe it had all worked so well. No part of her driven, preppy rival from the local tennis club was visible in the pigtailed alt slut currently drooling over the idea of giving a titfuck. To think that the woman who'd beaten her to every trophy for two years hadn't even worn a bra to a match! Not that it would have been much of a match anyway, with all the practices Addison had been skipping lately to go to tattoo parlours, nail appointments, or club bathrooms to give those titjobs she couldn't stop fantasizing about.

"Would you like to play tennis?" Mila asked a woman who had dedicated all of her adult free time to the sport. Addison just shrugged, pressing her bare breasts together around the shaft of the racket. "Or would you like to go give the pro a titjob while I win this tournament?" Addison eagerly nodded, taking off for the clubhouse, racket left behind, tits bouncing in the breeze.

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Don't Work a Day in Your Life

Violet was having a hard time remembering that she was supposed to hate her job. Why did the young lawyer have such trouble lately staying angry about her "temporary transfer" to cover the role of Maggie's secretary? It wasn't hard to recall how she'd felt a month ago at the transfer. The white hot anger at the idea that her sharp legal mind was going to be wasted answering phone calls and the like. She'd even been annoyed that someone as young and relatively unimportant as Margaret Benson deserved a secretary so badly that a lawyer had to be redirected till one could be hired!

But the work was surprisingly easy to get lost in, once Maggie had explained how hard and important the work was, how badly the last few ditzes sent up from the secretary agency just kept messing it. Scheduling everyone's meetings, preventing pile ups and mistakes, routing lots of communication, always being a step ahead of what Maggie needed was a very different challenge, but oddly rewarding of a challenge. Violet was shocked how satisfied and good she could feel at the end of a long day of secretarial work. Maggie's gushing praise about she surpassed all those other secretaries had been annoying at first, but Violet had really grown to appreciate the respect for her burgeoning new skills.

Sure, she needed some teaching. Maggie had pointed out how there was a certain style, a certain flair, a certain bubbly enthusiasm people expected from a secretary, and Violet's conservative pants suits and sour expression weren't really there. At first, Violet had insisted no, outright refused, she was still a lawyer after all. After a few long, tiring, bitter arguments where Maggie accused her of being a less skilled dresser than some secretary twit, Violet felt her confident refusal melting. She'd agreed to give it a try, and found the new wardrobe a relief. Especially with all of Maggie's praise for her new skirt and smile look. The stockings and heels came later, each with arguments of their own. Shorter, easier arguments though, as Violet became accustomed to how good and eye Maggie had for her secretary. Violet simply took most of her suggestions now, most of the time they felt good and rewarding enough to continue.

Today Maggie wanted some new bigger change however. After just a month on the job, Violet wished she wasn't so confident it would a good one.

Vy appreciated her job, even if it wasn't her choice. It had been a chance to set down some stresses she didn't even know she was suffering under. Getting to know people, helping out, seeing people happy, the human connection was the best part of being a secretary for Margaret. That was the other benefit. While she hasn't been as much of a legal mentor as Vy had hoped these last six months, Margaret had shown Vy so much. How to enjoy a much more liberated style of dress, how to value taking care of people's problems over her own, how to appreciate (and use) the interest a pretty young thing dressed like her got, even how to fit in and get along with the other secretaries at lunch and functions!

Vy had a surprising number of secretary friends now, had even bleached her hair to match. Sometimes she felt just like one of the girls. Which may have been the problem. She got less and less of Margaret's wonderful compliments extolling her virtue over past secretaries. Vy couldn't blame her boss. She'd noticed herself, a time or two, that her edge was slipping. Her drive, her sharp focus, her lightning wit; months of focusing on people please had replaced a bit of those with a sense of servility, approval seeking, and fuzzy contentment. She didn't know if really wasn't as smart, but she was having trouble proving exactly how smart she was. Oh well, it didn't seem to bother Margaret so it didn't bother Vy.

Vy thought she was probably going to miss her time on Margaret's desk when she finally got back to being a lawyer.

Vivi loved her job, when she could remember how to do it. Not that anyone complained- Vivi was too hot for that. Sure, Ms. Benson joked about getting "yet another bimbo secretary" and bragging that "she could see a weak lawyer a mile away", but Vivi had no idea what that meant. She heard lots and lots that she didn't understand in the previous two years, so she did what had become second nature, just smile and giggle. No one blamed the blonde secretary with the fake tits for not knowing stuff, and after Ms. Benson's instructions, that's what Vivi was...

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Pinned Up

For a clothing designer, modeling her own clothes was more natural, and Madeline had tried to insist on that when Victoria arrived for the photoshoot for her next big release. Sure, the photographer was known for her own personal style, her commitment to only appearing in intense, risque, pin-up style looks; but she was also known for delivering incredible photos of the models that felt so alive, so natural, that it seemed the models lived in whatever high fashion piece the photoshoot was promoting. That naturalism had been meant to help Madeline, to help the young fashion designer feel more at home modeling. More than anything, Madeline wanted buyers to know that her line of chic casual wear was for real life, not just glossy magazines-- thus the decision to model it herself.

From the moment Victoria arrived, things were trouble. In towering, cherry red heels, a vintage flannel, and an elaborate updoo, Victoria contrasted dramatically with Madeline and her cute/casual slacks and blouse. Even as she tried to voice her concerns, the avant garde photographer steamed ahead. She set up those buzzing, slightly flickery, lights. Started that pulsing remix of classic 50s rock and roll. Most of all, she bowled past Madeline's complaints. They simply didn't phaze the glamorous photographer.

Instead of feeling hyper natural as they began to shoot, Madeline felt more and more uncomfortable in her skin, her clothes, her self. Victoria kept up a stream of confusing, contradictory commands, a constant patter that made Madeline start to panic. Was her clothing line any good? Was she just ugly? What was even the point? Breaking down crying in front of the famous photographer, in the middle of a shoot for her own clothes, was not Madeline's proudest moment. Then, in a flash, Victoria was up close, quiet and supportive. Whispering soothing nothings into Madeline's ear as she hugged the other woman. Soothing nothings that turned into advice, into recommendations, into solutions to save the shoot.

By the time Madeline stumbled back onto the set, the previous two hours were a rock and roll soundtracked blur. She couldn't believe how much of Victoria's advice she's taken. There was absolutely no chance she'd planned on bleaching her hair today, and she'd never dressed so provocatively in her life! Somehow, as Victoria had styled her freshly bleached hair, and slipped the skimpy outfit onto Madeline it had all made sense. The designer had barely recognized herself as the amused photographer did her makeup in that retro style.

Only as she sat to pose in the booth did the size of how much she's just done really settle in. Shock at herself and suspicion of Victoria replacing the soothing acceptance of her unplanned makeover. Madeline resolved to end this now. It was a disaster, and they needed to give up and try again another day. Then the camera started, with its whirring clicks and snaps, with its stunning flashes. The music grew louder, more pulsing, more synthetic. Most importantly of all, Victoria began to compliment her, to praise her. The steady stream of supporting comments and pleasant commands began to mellow, and perhaps slightly daze, Madeline.

Despite herself, a smile crept up Madeline's cheek and into her eyes as Victoria continued to snap away with her powerful camera. Despite everything, was part of her coming to like posing in such a niche outfit with her tits half out? It was such a departure for her, such a radical change in aesthetic...but with Victoria's stream of positive feedback, the pulsing background music of the shoot, and the buzzing of the flickering lights, Madeline was struggling to find it a problem. In fact, the air on her cleavage, the tight wrap of the fishnets...Maddie has definitely been wrong when she judged Victoria for wearing all of this--it was incredible!

Miss Vicki seemed to read Maddie's mind, sitting beside her as soon as she made her revelation. It didn't take much more explaining for the fashion designer to get it: she was born to be a pin-up, vintage was so much better than casual, and Maddie was going to use her little clothing line make exactly the kinds of clothes Miss Vicki and her friends liked. The kind of clothes Maddie liked now. Loved now. Lived in now.

Mistress Vicki had one last thing to teach her new devotee: that while Victoria might have a pin-up aesthetic, the new Madeline was a pin-up, and that meant showing enough skin to be worth hooting over. A lesson Maddie took surprisingly well to...

After it's sudden change from casual class to vintage inspired club wear, Madeline's fashion line turned from an up and coming success story, to a niche product, that sold well but narrowly. She didn't break out big and become a household name, like she was hoping for, but she had a healthy audience of Miss Vicki and her friends as their subculture's personal tailor. And she had a considerably larger audience for her growing portfolio of retro glamour nudes...

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Casting Problems

The director sighed as the finalists for this season of Cutthroat Love arrived on the set. For a cast that had started so diverse, the final five had ended up basically identical. Dressed the same, hair and makeup the same, same happily open sexuality. It wasn't even selection bias! These five had been among the most exciting castings the show had ever done. Among the microkini clad "sure things" waiting for filming to start was the woman cast to be the wifey, a lawyer, a feminist who loudly made her time on the show a protest, a punk musician with fame of her own, and a classic backstabbing bitch. And somehow, the director had ended up with five prancey little sluts giggling and chatting each other up like they were at a sleepover. Hell, they hadn't even been asked to come out today in swimsuits, nonetheless the nearly pornographic scraps of cloth they were wearing were gonna drive his editor crazy. To think: the woman he'd cast to be the good, polite, kind wifey character was walking around downtown with pink twine failing to conceal her at all!

To make it worse, on a show called Cutthroat Love, they weren't even really competing anymore. They just gushed to each other about how cute and fun the date was, and gave each other tips on pleasing the guy giving out the roses. Confessionals had been impossible to shoot, none of them had anything mean or different to say anymore! They just kept repeating the same compliments and statements about their hopes and feelings, almost like a group mantra. If the girls hadn't gotten into the habit of placidly offering to go to the dream suite fifteen minutes into each date, the season would have been ruined. He had more footage of these women jumping into bed with the guy then he'd collected in the rest of the show's five year run, combined. He also had something he'd never seen before: the girls combining notes and "making sure he's getting the best possible sex from us". Unreal.

One of the PAs returned from her pre-shoot briefing with the show's male protagonist. She was flush from the days heat, biting her lip and playing with the neckline of her thin crop top. No sign of a bra, the director noted with frustration. Was he gonna have to fire this one too? Bad luck that every PA he assigned the guy started coming to work underdressed, and started fawning over the guy. He turned to reprimand her, but found only a pile of her gear (and pants) on her folding chair. The director sighed and rubbed his forehead to see her chatting with the contestants, giggling as she updated them on the newest ways to please...

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Down the Drain

It was going to work this time, Mackenna reassured herself. If she just stayed focused, stayed angry, confronting this witch could work. It had to, she had nothing left to lose, literally. In each of her series of encounters with the mysterious woman, following an accidental fender bender, the gothic woman had stolen something from Mackenna. It was almost too preposterous to believe: that someone could drain away things from Mackenna and add them to herself, but she'd seen it with her own eyes! Watching her height, muscle, and lush curves flow down a leash of magic into a rapidly growing witch had been the biggest shock of her life. Being left as a 4'10" stick while the goth became a gorgeous Amazon had been devastating for the model. Being under 90 lbs was one of those things the formerly statuesque woman had never thought she'd be again. Mackenna had been left so in shock that she'd done nothing to stop the witch from driving away, leaving the freshly tiny woman on the side of the road.

But that was only the first encounter. In their second run in, the witch had absorbed the vibrant red, lush curls, and perfect volume of Mackenna's trademark hair. Left with this flat mess of bleach-burned straw, Mackenna had literally begged for her self back. No luck. The third encounter, at the witches work, had been worse still. Mackenna ran crying from the building, age drained away, looking for all the world like a 19 year old bit of fluff. Only as a list of times she was scammed or manipulated piled up alongside a collection of dates full of awkward flirting and skill-less lovemaking did Mackenna realize maturity and experience had gone along with those ten years of physical age.

That was the last straw. Her friends didn't recognize the savvy 29 year old curvy Irish model in the sub-five-foot teenage ditz, and she was barely managing to keep from losing her career, undoubtedly being used by her new manager with her newfound lack of wisdom. Thankfully, her flawless sense of style was inborn, and she could still rock the photoshoots: just for a different, less upscale, set of products. And the internet had both given her the witch's address, and sold her a strange portion. A single splash and all the spells would be undone, Mackenna would be back to normal. She'd never expect Mackenna to be waiting in her house, never expect an ambush. For the first time in days, Mackenna smiled to hear the front door opening. She jumped out, throwing the potion--directly into the face of the witch's boyfriend! Her smile turned to terror as she recognized the rich red curls that had once been hers behind him. The witch raised her wand, chanted a few words and the world went white...

Theodora suppressed a chuckle as poor little Kenzie tried to strike a pose. With the former model's sense of style now safely embedded in her own witchy self, Theodora could recognize a dozen obvious, and a dozen subtle, reasons the outfit Kenzie had struggled to assemble was awful. Watching the nuisance struggle to figure out how to dress herself after she came to from the spell was almost as good as how effortlessly Theodora could now assemble perfect looks from her own closet. She almost felt bad for what she'd done: the curvy Irish model now barely looked 18, with the street smarts and fashion of a sheltered tween in a rebel phase, and absolutely zero physique to hold anyone's attention. Convincing Kenzie that she could restart her career with a private fashion show had been comically easy, almost as comic as the ridiculous outfit and her pitiful attempt to model.

Not that feeling bad was going to make Theodora give any of it back. Rarely did one meet someone with so much to drain, with such an awful personality to deserve it. Yelling at her for an accidental fender tap, coming to her work yelling at her boss. At the beginning Theodora had intended to give it back eventually, but after breaking into her home? Well, Theodora knew some people in the Valley who'd put Kenzie's new impressionability and wannabe-teen-skank look to good use. Plus, Theodora looked and felt too perfect to ever go back, her husband would never forgive her for giving up these curves...

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Not a Mystery

Velma had always been the smart one. Everyone had said so. The clever one. The careful one. The responsible one. The boring one. The one who missed all the fun. She'd never thought of it that way, never noticed how little she got out of being the smart one, until this mystery. Until this ghost had trapped her in the library, had explained it all to her as her fear whimpers slowly faded to thoughtful hmms. Luckily for her, even as the strange ghostly light-show and swirling audio from the speakers made her hate her overdeveloped mind and sharp focus, whoever was running it offered a solution. One she leapt to accept.

Projection of a horrible ghost became flashy spirals hanging in mid air, shrieking cries from the concealed speakers melted into subliminal-laden heavy beats. That sharp investigative mind recognized the brainwashing, but her freshly convinced subconscious made no effort at all to resist. With a swell of relief, Velma embraced the changes rolling over her mind.

Velma had always been the smart one. But that was past now. These days, Velma makes Daphne seem like Einstein. The dog is probably smarter (and definitely contributes more to the mystery solving) but Velma's insatiable new desires for skimpy clothes, attention, and wild sex keep the boys from complaining. She's happier too, if the newly minted mystery bimbo is to be believed. Even Daphne doesn't mind, no one calls her dumb anymore...

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Slow on the Draw

Quinn's mind slowed to a crawl as Ranna's spell washed over her. Her own wand stopped, half raised, as her once lightning quick thoughts turned to molasses in winter. The dark witch Quinn had come to return to the coven sauntered over, gloating before the stupefied witch. Thoughts to attack, to run, to cast a defensive spell, all stayed frozen in Quinn's brain, unable to push through her tar-like mind.

"Drop it," Ranna instructed, and the good witch's wand clattered to the floor, hand reacting automatically without input from her paralyzed mind. Even most of a foot shorter than the gangly brunette, Ranna oozed confidence looking up into Quinn's dazed expression. "Top too," Ranna mused with a smile. The realization that she was more than just stupified, but also compelled, started its torturously slow journey through Quinn's mind as she obediently shrugged off the shoulders of her top and pulled the neckline down below her boyish chest. She rarely bothered with a bra for her absent curves, which only furthered the fugitive witch's amusement.

"Maybe I'm doing you a favor here. All of the coven could do with better understanding of what joys the normal world has, and you'll be much more popular with the muggles after I just..." Ranna gave her wand a flick, and heat blossomed in Quinn. It started between her legs, which began to grow needy and throbbing. The heat spread to her torso and hips, which began to compress: losing height as they grew lusher. Quinn's hips swelled, her backside became the round ass she'd seen so often on billboards and ads. Her legs shortened in the heat, surrendering even more of her height advantage over Renna as they became obscenely shapely. The two witches eyes met at an even level as Quinn's flat chest blossomed in the heat, huge, soft breasts giving her exposed chest as a vastly more pornographic air than when she'd shrugged off her shirt. Quinn whimpered as the heat reached her head. Looking up at Renna, the one-time 6 foot witch whimpered as the frozen molasses of her mind began to melt. Instead of the thawing freeing up her trapped thoughts, Quinn's melting mind filled with hungers, needs, desires she'd never felt before. Hornier than she'd ever been, the witch's mind melted into a puddle of desires, fantasies, and new lusts. Her hair slowly faded to orange blonde as her intellect and will melted away too.

When Renna's second spell finished, Quinn simply stood there. Dazed no longer by magic, but by the torrential flood of lust she felt, coupled with her newfound lack of understanding. Her mouth hung open as she tried to process the raw heat she felt at seeing her own boobies exposed in the coffee shop, but her modified mind was almost as slow as her stupified mind had been.

"Don't worry, giggle," Renna instructed, and Quinn did. It was easier to look up at the taller witch and do what she said they try to figure it out for herself. The dark witch knelt and picked up Quinn's old wand, and tucked it into her handbag. Quinn wouldn't need it much anymore, anyway. "Head on back to the coven, and let them know they can end up just like you if they keep hunting for me," Renna purred. Quinn just giggled, she didn't understand the threat, but she'd do whatever the pretty witch told her too. "Get on now!" Renna said with a wave and a laugh, and Quinn turned and marched out of the shop, back towards her covenmates. Her mind finally sped up, fantasies of them all satisfying their new urges in a messy tangle flitting quickly across her new mind...

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Check and Mate

Annie carefully assessed her next move. Chess was all about being careful, after all. It wouldn't do to leave her queen...naked. Not again. She scanned every square, each gleaming ivory piece on her opponent's side of the board powerful and worthy of respect, each flimsy ebony piece on her side of the board barely able to act. Where had that thought come from? She was at a disadvantage, inferior to her opponent--rather, playing second. Annie's brow furrowed and she focused even harder on her move. It wouldn't do for her to lose another game to her strange challenger. He was an unknown handsome man with a habit for humming, and she was a weak expert with an inaccurate reputation for flawless play.

The whole world faded into the game as Annie played. Masterful white pieces marched down the board towards her helpless queen. Weak black pieces attempted to resist, but were happily conquered. The loving way he picked up each piece as he mastered them, as they became his, made Annie oddly jealous. Unlike her previous loses of the day, too many to count to him, jealousy focused not on his mounting score, but instead on the submissive pieces that used to be hers. The gentle way he ran his fingers over them as they became his, as her defeated pieces seemed happy to defect to his ownership. The powerful way they were pressed into the case, immobile and firmly grasped where he wanted them. Increasingly her mind filled with fantasies of her obedient queen joining them. Shivers went up her spine at the mental image handing him her his queen to put away as he wanted. When she feebly moved her weak, obedient, submissive, desperate queen next to the true king, a flush crept up her skin in anticipation of the capture.

He smirked as he picked up his king and conquered her queen. Annie gasped with the surge of arousal. He placed his Annie's queen in her place and the chess girl prodigy slipped from her seat to her knees. The crowd that had gathered as the local phenom blankly stripped pieces of clothing after successive losses, hooted and hollered as the defeated queen Annie crawled over to her king and prostrated herself at his feet. The queen mewled with need as he placed a hand on her bowed head, and with a single word, a queen became a pawn....

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First Contact

Captain Hailey "Ice Queen" Hansen hesitantly stepped back onto the bridge of her starship, the FS Dauntless. What would her crew think? How to explain the drastic changes to her uniform? How to convey that, after her private meeting with her counterpart on the other ship, she was now a loyal slave-pet of the Zuullian Empire? All eyes on the bridge turned to her, questions obvious on their faces. Haley took a deep breath, she knew what she was supposed to do, because the admiral had been very clear with her.

"Commander Zabensha, report to ma- the other ship for tactical intelligence exchange," she caught herself, but continued giving the order she had been ordered to convey. The well-muscled alien tactical officer opened her mouth to disagree, but as Haley's new owner had predicted, Zabensha's cultural importance of obedience won out and she angrily stomped off towards the Zuullian ship. Slave-captain Hailey tugged at her leash ring, reassuring herself the way her master has taught her. Taking a seat in her elaborate captain's chair, she started the next objective of her mission. Looking across the confused faces turned towards her, obedient Hailey selected the three most beautiful young women on the bridge.

"Ensign Baker, Lieutenant Tensia, and Cadet Monriato, report to deck 13 to continue diplomatic discussions with the admiral," her voice only shook slightly as she sent them to receive the same training she had so recently enjoyed. The resistance was immediate. Why would a helmswoman, a science officer, and a student still in training perform diplomatic meetings? As the slender blonde at the helm opened her mouth to object, Hailey tried to remember how she had felt and acted just an hour ago. Back when she'd been a proud, strong Spacefleet captain, before her Master had shown her how she was a weak, submissive, slutty animal in need of a strong hand on her leash. Somehow, despite knowing that her mammiallian sex drive made her a foolish, rutting animal in desperate need of cold reptilian dominance to be truly happy, Hailey managed to inject enough iron into her gaze that the three selected soon-to-be pets hesitantly rose from their stations and headed into the belly of the beast that had rebirthed Hailey as the slave she was. Briefly, she wondered if they knew it was their last moments in a uniform?

An hour later, the communications officer hesitantly announced an incoming transmission from the admiral. In the same breath that she ordered it onscreen, Hailey slipped from her chair to her knees, hands tucked behind her back, face downcast, her new pose of submission. A wave of shock rippled through the bridge crew.

"Greetings, leash holder, your pet has obeyed," Hailey gave the traditional address she had been taught as the vast frog like face of the one who had broken her filled the screen. Gasps of shocks filled the bridge. Her first officer, a strapping man with a heroic reputation, rose to his feet, but her new Master brushed past.

"Good, good. With proper discipline, even a rutting hu-man animal can learn to perform acceptably. Gristhat," as he gave the order, Hailey's slave collar leapt into action, pumping aphrodisiacs into her bloodstream, inducing euphoric brainwaves in Hailey, and writhing erotically against her most sensitive areas.

"Thank, hng, you, unghhhh, master..." Hailey loudly orgasmed as she knelt in the middle of her bridge, without moving a muscle. The first officer made a brave declaration of defiance and revenge, but Master gave a simple triggerword. Pet Hailey dropped to her hands and knees and seductively crawled towards him.

"Oh, but, siiiir, Master has an offer for you..." Hailey purred, licking her lips, and batted her eyes up at him. The flush on his face proved he was as inferior an animal as Hailey was. "If you swear this ship to the Admiral, I'm all yours stud, however you want me," her words dripped honey as she reached him. He gulped, biting his lip. She gently pushed him back into his chair, and in front of her handpicked crew, former-captain Hailey opened his uniform trousers and poised her plum-lipsticked pout over his throbbing cock. After a moment, he slammed the button dropping the ship's defenses, and Hailey swallowed his cock to the hilt, bobbing up and down with vigor. In less than a minute, while everyone once under her command watched, he pumped the first of many loads down the throat of his new reward. The spell of surprise finally broken, a handful of other senior officers stood, shouting about treason. Slave Hailey, carefully cleaning the first cock she'd sucked after admitting to the Admiral she was a submissive at heart, paused to answer.

"The Lord Admiral has offers for you as well..." She purred, and the bridge doors opened. The four women she'd sent to be trained entered, each uniform replaced with an obscene outfit carefully chosen to appeal to male animals, just as her own latex uniform had successfully seduced her first officer. "Whoever swears fealty gets first choice of your newly trained crew mates," she smirked. It took less than ten seconds for one officer to surrender the ships engineering systems and claim the former ensign in a skimpy maid uniform. In less than a minute, the tactical officer/schoolgirl, the helmswoman/hooker, and the bimbo blonde science officer joined the latex slave/captain on their knees offering their bodies as Zuullian bribes in trade for the Dauntless.

The ZS Daunted cut through space, towards yet another traitorous attack on a Galactic Federation base. Captain's pet Hailey "Fuckdoll" Hansen didn't concern herself with any of that. Like the third of the crew eventually taught their true nature as rutting, weak animals by the Zuullians, both female and male, her only job was to act as ongoing reward for good behavior by the seduced crew. Some circulated among the enlisted, providing whatever they wanted when they earned a reward, but Hailey, like the most desirable and exotic prizes the Zuullians could offer, stayed exclusively in a senior crew members cabin, ready whenever they needed relief from the urges that made humans so inferior to her reptilian masters. In her case, she never left cabin of her latex-fetishist first mate turned captain. Thankfully, the replicator had an endless supply of new and exciting latex outfits to reward him for his ongoing obedience to her true owners, and her collar made sure she enjoyed embracing her true submissive self. Pleasing him however he wanted while thinking only of the reptilian aliens who truly owned her now. He entered, and Hailey posed, hoping to tempt her into letting her suck his cock once more...

[millcrab]

Adventures in House-sitting

emily couldn't say why she waited idly for her friend and her husband to return, anymore than she could explain why she'd been playing dress up in their secret closet for two days straight. The favor had been easy: stop by her best friend Cara's huge uptown loft every day for a week, feed the cat, water the plants, change the humidifier, check for mail and packages. Easy house-sitting stuff. It was barely out of Emily's way, a fifteen minute detour from her day, and she was promised a great night out at the end, as repayment.

Sunday and Monday, she was in and out, quick as can be. The apartment was beautiful, smelled lovely, but she was in a hurry. So much of a hurry that she didn't even try to hunt down the faint hum that was buried in one of the apartment's many rooms. By Tuesday, Emily was jealous as hell. She spent an extra half an hour or so just perusing the gorgeous apartment, taking in the sun drenched rooms, the slightly heady smell from the many plants and pockets of potpourri. She even found the source of the hum, a locked closet in a strange, windowless spartan bedroom tucked in a corner of the massive loft. The sound was pretty enough, now that she thought about it, and she couldn't reach it anyway, so she left it.

Wednesday Emily spent all her evening there after work. Cooked in their kitchen, ate in their dining room, watched their TV, lounged on their wonderful couch. The beauty of the many plants, the plush niceness of their home, even the calming hum were the very picture of paradise to Emily, compared to her dingy studio. She barely managed to drag herself home at midnight, and she dreamed of their apartment all night.

Thursday, Emily lugged her laptop to Cara and her husband's apartment and worked from home there all day. Their home office was stunning, across the hallway from that strange bedroom with the hum, and it was surprisingly easy for Emily to forget that this wasn't her home, wasn't her splendor. She ate Cara's food, drank Cara's seltzers, showered in Cara's bathroom, dried herself in Cara's robe. When she answered the door, and the apartment manager addressed her as Cara, she didn't correct him. Why bother? Cara was smart, funny, mistress, beautiful, and strong, why would Emily not want to be seen as her? Going home that night felt like daggers, so instead Emily stepped reverentially into Cara's deep closet, slipped on the thigh length, silk nightgown that had been laid out waiting, and slipped into Miss Cara and her husband's plush king bed.

Friday, emily woke with a calm feeling, and cleaned the apartment top to bottom, every nook and cranny, which is when she finally found a key, taped under the desk in the study. She knew immediately what it was for. Opening the locked closet washed over her both the louder, clearer hum of a digital musicbox, as well as the shock of a walk in closet full from top to bottom with leather, latex and bondage gear. Humming along with the melody of the small music box, emily explored the closet for hours, reveling in the feels, smells, and energy of the erotic clothing. She finally pulled herself away for dinner, but left the closet door open, letting the music fill the apartment more clearly. All evening her mind went back to those enticing pieces of latex, leather, and lace.

Saturday morning, after emily awoke again in Lady Cara's bed, she returned her silky nightgown to its hangar, showered, and headed directly to the special closet. She slipped a catsuit on that ran from her ankles to her wrist and neck, black, smooth and featureless. There was no conscious reason she selected it, or even a deliberate reason to come and dress out of this closet. It just felt right. Adding one of Lady Cara's tank tops and a pair of her shorts, emily spent the day running errands to restock and ready the apartment for the couples return the next day. She got stares for the black coating of latex across her body, but she felt too natural to even consider changing. That night, emily remade her friend and Goddess's bed, and slipped into the bed in the hidden bedroom, naked as the day she was born. With the hum of the music at full volume around her all night, she dreamt of latex, chains, corsets, all in anonymous black perfection.

The girl who'd been emily awoke on Sunday morning and headed immediately to the closet. Item after item, piece after piece, she couldn't help but ensconce herself deeper and deeper into rubber bliss. This apartment was perfect, she wanted to be part of it more than anything, and this was the place that was left for her to fit into: latex doll. Only faceless, platform booted, and corseted did she feel like herself again. She simply went about her day, doing some chores, enjoying a coffee and some TV, at home as a latex doll in Lady Cara's home.

Around the time they were expected home, emily knew she should get out of her friends latex, knew she should go home, knew she was doing something strange, but she couldn't help idly sitting in the living room, facing the door. She was waiting, that was all she knew. When the door finally opened, disgorging her radiant mistress and her gorgeous husband, the doll stood without a word and knelt, eyes down, hands on her thighs.

"Well good afternoon, Emily. Any problems with the apartment?" Mistress asked, and the doll shook its head. "I thought not. I take it you'd like to stay?" Doll nodded, "We could use a live-in caretaker, sub, and slave. You'll do nicely," Mistress gloated as doll nodded eagerly. She turned to her husband, "Told you it'd work. Pay up!" He chuckled, fished a twenty out of his wallet, and slipped it into Cara's shirt pocket.

"Just like it did on you, wifey. Now join her and we can all have some fun." He said. Smiling, Cara slipped off her clothes to reveal a latex leotard from beneath her sensible outfit. Wifey knelt next to Doll, perfectly matching the pose as he reached for the buckle of his belt...

-------------

I have a book out! More details here:

[millcrab]

Price Points

Mai looked up from texting her friends to confirm that her "date" was still frantically humping his pillow at the mere sight of her underwear. Naked, flushed with exertion, the anonymous businessman's eyes stayed pinned between her legs. The brash, loudmouthed braggart who'd booked her for the evening was nowhere to be seen, just a weak boy so overawed by her panties that he couldn't help himself. The wonders of some conversational elevator hypnosis. She smiled as his hands clenched and unclenched, unable to even reach towards her without her express consent. Much more fitting than the groping, lecherous bastard who'd constantly fetishized her ethnicity throughout the forgettable hotel restaurant dinner they'd started with. Mai weighed whether 30 minutes of leaking onto his own pillow was enough to earn the release he'd paid so dearly for, but decided she had a few more texts to return before she wrapped up for the night.

Sure, it might be cruel to take the 600 he'd paid for the classic girlfriend experience and then hypnotize into rubbing himself off on his pillow, never even touching her. But, she'd argue, he deserved it for being such a lout at dinner, joking about geisha and kimonos. She wasn't even Japanese! No, he was much safer hypnotized to be so incredibly aroused by her that he couldn't help himself. Besides, if he complained, he'd be unable to ever see his new obsession ever again...

[millcrab]

Up In Smoke

With each puff, important things inside Cynthia went up in smoke. With each exhale, something she needed escaped as ash alongside the rest of the pungent fog escaping her mouth. The will to move, besides her hand for another luxurious drag, had long since burned away. The suspicion of her friend for shoving the strange cigar in her face was charred into nothing. Cynthia had her own look, a casual, athleisure style, but that was starting to smolder as her friend pulled a bag from the back seat of her car. Pressing the acrylic nails onto Cynthia's fingers, tucking the expensive purse and gaudy sunglasses onto her, even applying plumping lipstick, she stayed still, consumed by the smoke. Even as the provocative necklace was draped around her neck, declaring her new taste in men, Cynthia let the fire burn away her previous preferences. As she inhaled the last puff, her name itself caught fire, and every last bit of her old self escaped with the last plume of smoke. Now she was ready to be introduced to her new boyfriend...