PATREON REPOST: TAYLOR'S GAME I'm reposting my old Patreon content here during the month of June. It'll be in dribs and drabs so please exercise patience and, again, please don't send me 200 messages that effectively make me want to delete my account and retire to a nunnery in the Himalayas. Thanks.
FROM THE PATRON:I was thinking for next month, Taylor Swift forced to be a ballerina. She'd be under the control of some old pervert who forces her to wear slutty Tutus, and spanks her if she gets out of line or messes up. She's controlled by the threat of being his pooch if she screws up and even sucks him off albeit she cries at how she's fallen. With the hidden fact she will be a pooch after he's bored of her.
I enjoyed doing something a little different with Taylor, especially since we took things in a different (but not all that different) direction with the Where Are They Now series.
Enjoy!
STORY FOLLOWS
The nature of celebrity is to assume preferential treatment. Freebies by the truckload, the best seats at the theater, the best tables at restaurants, and, of course, exclusion from the laws that rule the lives of the petty peons whose millions support the celebrity lifestyle.
So when the Leash Laws were first ratified in the Empire during the early 21st century, few female celebrities bothered to pay them real mind. The gaggle of agents, assistants, producers, and sycophants surrounding most celebrities provided constant reassurance that the "backward, old-fashioned" laws certainly wouldn't apply to famous, rich, and powerful women.
A select few—who would later become bothersome and rather vocal opponents of the Empire from their presumably safe perches in other parts of the world—saw the writing on the wall and fled. The rest were either taken completely by surprise when they were claimed by some opportunistic fan or former employee, or, more rarely, gathered up by the local police who'd come to add them to the general pool of animals for their region.
A small number woke up to the shift in society too late, but still had time to flee. Or try to.
Taylor Swift was among these fucktoys-come-lately. Her entourage had largely abandoned her when she decided to flee the country on a private jet—one of the last still in use for the purpose. Her plan was to meet up with Katy Perry and Jennifer Lawrence and head for the group of allied provinces formerly known as Canada and now being called "The Free States" in the media.
But when she pulled up to the hanger and ran inside, she discovered the police were already there. Katy was crouched at the feet of a uniformed man holding the leash attached to Katy's collar. Taylor was shocked to see the busty brunette was otherwise nude. Strangely, Katy didn't seem to care. Her dull, lust-addled eyes stared up at the man holding the leash with total adoration.
That wasn't the only change. Her friend seemed...curvier. Well, that didn't exactly cover it. Katy looked like she'd gone to the plastic surgeon and asked for the bimbo special.
How can her tits be so big? Taylor wondered, even as she tried to figure out what was wrong with Katy's legs. They seemed too short, and ended in some kind of rubbery...paws? Her hands, too.
She realized something shiny was covering Katy's arms and legs. And a tail made of the same stuff jutted from the fallen pop star's expanded ass.
Oh, my God, Taylor thought. It's all real. The news reports, the takeover...I have to get out of here! She started backing toward the entrance, trying to avoid attracting attention.
But then Jennifer, who was on the ground, squirming and kicking as she tugged uselessly at the restraining pole on her neck, spotted her. She sat up, reaching toward her terrified friend. "TAYLOR! HELP ME! PLEASE!" She gagged and twitched as the man holding the pole gave it a yank and slammed her back to the asphalt.
As Taylor watched in horror, the man holding the pole laughed and gave the struggling blonde a kick to quiet her. "Quiet, mutt. You'll get your upgrades soon enough." Jennifer fell back, whimpering and dazed.
Taylor's keys fell from her nerveless fingers as she realized her predicament. She turned to run, but one of the men wearing the strange white uniforms was already behind her. She bounced off his muscular chest and stumbled back a step before he grabbed her arm, steadying her.
"Hey there, Taylor. Big fan." The man smiled and pushed a sparking, glittering bolt of some kind right into the tender flesh of her neck.
It didn't hurt, but Taylor tried to scream anyway. It was no use. The ManneQueen™ bolt did its work with ruthless efficiency, and her vocal cords were inches away from its transformative energies.
Less than a minute later, a blank-eyed, grinning fuckdoll stood where the former songstress had been. The bolt in its neck hummed, the glow dimming. "ENTERING MAINTENANCE MODE," chimed a voice. It sounded like Taylor's own.
"I don't know why you guys try to do direct conversions all the time," Taylor heard the man say. He moved out of her field of vision, which was steadily narrowing along with the sound of his voice. "You slap one of these babies in, you can just carry the dumb cunts to the processing center and let them do the work."
Taylor saw the world shift as the man picked her up, carrying her under one arm like a piece of luggage. The men across the hanger replied to his comment, but their voices, like the rest of the world, were fading fast.
Taylor had just enough time to wonder if she'd ever wake up again when the blackness took her.
***********
Awareness returned, and with it, confusion.
Taylor opened her eyes to find she was standing in an unfamiliar room. Her body didn't respond to her commands, but that terrible...flattening...of her thoughts was gone.
The room was the last thing she'd expected to see. The decor was strictly midwestern, and decidedly middle class. It didn't look all that different from the house she'd grown up in back in Pennsylvania.
She looked around, relieved to discover she had at least that much mobility. Her blue eyes scoured the room for some sign of where she might be. Across from the place she stood, a row of windows looked out onto snowy suburban streets. Snow was falling in wet, heavy flakes.
Somewhere cold, then. It had been sunny and cool in California. At the hanger.
Oh, Katy. Jen. I'm so sorry. She spared a moment to wonder if her friends had also awoken in strange houses. Maybe, if I can get out of here, somehow...maybe they'll try to do the same. There's got to be hope. Doesn't there?
Then the memory of Katy's empty eyes and radically altered body made her wonder if either woman would even remember who they were, let alone worry about escape.
The storm outside rattled the windows. Taylor shivered, even though she was warm. For all she knew, she was back home in PA. But why couldn't she move? What the hell was going on?
The doorknob rattled, and for a moment Taylor assumed the storm was getting worse. Then the door swung open, admitting a blast of bitter winter wind along with a middle-aged man carrying several grocery bags and wearing a heavy coat. Cursing the cold, the man dropped the bags on the sofa and hurriedly shut the door.
Taylor watched as he stomped and shook the snow from himself on the tiled entryway, then hung his jacked on a hook behind the door. He had an average build, and dark hair streaked with steel grey. His brown eyes were deep set beneath bushy eyebrows, and he had a strong Roman nose. He'd probably been considered handsome in his youth. Taylor supposed older women might still find him so.
To her, he looked like one of the countless middle-aged dudes who used to bring their daughters to her concerts.
"Blasted blizzard. Lucky I didn't freeze my damned balls off out there." The man unwound the scarf from around his neck and hung it next to the coat. "Jesus. Good thing I stocked up now, before it got really bad."
Taylor tried to catch the man's attention, and request...no, demand...an explanation. But she couldn't move at all, beyond scanning the room with her eyes.
She watched as the man carried his groceries into the kitchen. She could hear him mumbling to himself as he put the groceries away.
This is ridiculous, she thought. Is this a dream? A nightmare?
Eventually, the sounds from the kitchen ended, and the man returned. He stopped in front of Taylor, his eyes roaming over her body. He smiled and nodded. He looked in her eyes, and his smile widened.
"Oh, good! You're finally awake. I was worried the recovery routine would take a lot longer. Those idiots had you in storage for quite a while. But then again, that's probably why I got you so cheap." He patted her cheek and chuckled. "We've been having a lot of fun. I think this will be the most fun yet."
Taylor felt herself wanting to gag. This...this old creep had been having fun with her? For how long? And what did he mean, storage? Or cheap?!?
The man reached under Taylor's arms and picked her up, turning her slightly. A full-body mirror was mounted on the wall next to her, and as he turned her, she could finally see herself.
The bolt in her neck turned Taylor's horrified scream into a barely-heard whimper.
She was dressed as a ballerina. Tutu, tights, bodice, the whole nine yards. Her pale blonde hair was in an updo, secured by a hairpiece shaped like a swan. It was the outfit from the video for her hit song, Shake It Off.
Her long, lean body looked largely the same, except perhaps for a little more padding at the hips and chest. Her makeup was cheap and tawdry. She looked like a Kewpie doll, all seven-mile lashes and pink lipstick and rosy cheeks.
But the scariest thing was her actual form. Seams had formed at her shoulders, neck, and wrists. Her expression was set in a mindless, idiot grin, like a happy doll. The only part of her that looked even slightly alive were her big blue eyes, darting back and forth in helpless terror.
The man watched her for a moment. "There, there. It'll be okay, Tippy. The bolt is nearly finished recalibrating for removal. Then we can have some real fun."
Who the fuck is Tippy? Taylor thought, bewildered. Then she caught sight of the collar around her neck, and the pink dog bone dangling from it. It was engraved with the word "TIPPY," set between two diamond hearts.
Oh, my God, thought the pop star. This is...they sold me to this guy. And now he wants to call me Tippy, like some stupid dog? She paused, thinking. A dog? Oh, no. What if that's what he really wants? Like...like poor Katy. Oh, God, I have to get out of here!
The bolt in her neck chimed. "Restoration complete. Verbal Command protocols transferred. Custom Behavioral Modification Scheme transferred," said Taylor, her mouth jittering up and down like a marionette. Her eyes bulged in disbelief.
"Great," said the man. He reached out and put his thumb on the bolt, waited for it to chime, and then simply pulled it free.
Taylor expected a gaping hole, but the flesh knitted as he drew out the bolt, leaving a faint circle of pink on her flat mannequinnized skin. The circle began to grow, and as it did, Taylor felt life returning to her body.
Her skin softened, and the joint lines began to fade. As she watched, her body returned to normal. She thrilled as the flesh softened, relishing the feel of the warm nearby fire and the occasional cold draft from the storm pounding the house.
The man put the bolt in his pocket and watched as Taylor slowly returned to normal. Well, a slightly enhanced version of it, anyway.
For her part, Taylor was so busy luxuriating at the return of sensation and life that she forgot about her predicament entirely for a moment. She turned to the man and said, "I'm...I'm me again!"
The man smiled gently, like a teacher indulging a particularly dim child.
"Yes, very good, Tippy. You're finally ready to perform!"
"Perform? I...I'm not ready to sing. I don't have any of my gear, or…"
The man shook his head. "Tippy, that's nonsense. You're not a singer. You're a dancer. My perfect little dancing fuckdoll. You live to please me. And if you don't...well, we'll have to see what happens, won't we?"
Taylor scowled. "First off, my name is Taylor, not Tippy! Secondly, I don't know who you think you are, but…"
The man shook his head again, this time a little sadly. "Looks like we have to do things the hard way," he said. "Tippy's a dumb dolly."
Taylor jerked, the idiot grin returning to her face as her limbs stiffened and she stood erect, tits thrust out, eyes wide. "Tippy's a dumb dolly for Master!" she chimed in a singsong version of her own voice. "Tippy likes to dance!" She put action to words, doing a stilted version of a ballerina's spin and kick, jerking like a wind-up toy.
In her head, Taylor screamed for help, watching helplessly as her body went through the humiliating routine. After several minutes of gyrating and clumsy plies, she ground to a stop, freezing in place with her arms over her head and one leg balanced on the opposite knee, like a ballerina in a child's music box.
"Now, Tippy," the man said quietly. "I'm going to release you. But if you're naughty or disobedient, I'm afraid I'll have to escalate my discipline."
Taylor couldn't believe her ears. This guy was nuts. Worse, whatever that bolt had done to her seemed to give him total control over her body, if not her mind.
"In fact, if you can't be a good little dancer for me, I'm afraid I'll just have to find room for you in the kennel," said the man in a bored voice. "That's what happened to Jingles when she disappointed me. She makes a fine Irish Slurper. You look more like a California Melontit to me. Well, once we get you properly upgraded, anyway."
Taylor shuddered behind her vapid grin. A California what?
"Tippy's a good girl" the man said, smiling.
Taylor relaxed, her body under her own control once more. She backed away from the man, eyeing him nervously.
"Please," she said, tears springing into her eyes. "This has to be some kind of mistake."
"No mistake," said the man. "This is what you were meant to be." He walked over to the sofa and sat down, legs spread. "Now dance for me."
Taylor couldn't believe what she was hearing. The man stared at her for a long moment, eyeing her expectantly.
With a reluctant sigh, Taylor stepped into the middle of the room, keeping her distance from this strange man who'd usurped control of her body, and started dancing. She improvised as best she could, trying to watch the man's face for signs of approval or disappointment.
She was halfway through the sequence she remembered best from the Shake It Off video when he said, "No, no, no. This will never do. You're a ballerina, Tippy. Show me elegance. Style. Grace. Not that ridiculous flailing. That's the sort of thing that landed all of you silly cunts on the leash in the first place."
Taylor stopped dancing and stared at her captor, biting her lip. "Ballet?" she said after a moment. "I mean, I've taken some classes, but…"
The man stood up. Taylor shrank back, terrified he'd turn her into a jerking marionnette again, but he didn't say the hateful phrase. Instead, he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her onto the couch. "I've had just about enough of that lip, Tippy. If I'd known you were going to be such a little troublemaker, I'd have put you in Alpha and added you to my doll collection in the solarium."
Doll collection? Taylor thought as she struggled. This guy's insane!
"Let me go! What are you doing?!?!"
The man threw sat down and jerked Taylor's arm, hard, bending her over his knee. "If you can't learn to be obedient and pleasing, I'll have to teach you, Tippy!"
"MY NAME IS TAYLOR!" screamed the struggling woman.
"Bad girl!" the man said. He jerked down her leotard, exposing her pale ass, slightly larger than it had been before nanite enhancement.
WHAP! His calloused hand came down on her bare ass cheek, leaving an angry red handprint. Taylor stopped struggling for a moment, shocked.
"OW! What the fuck do you think you're do-"
WHAP!
"OW! Stop it!"
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
Taylor burst into tears, both at the pain and the humiliation of being spanked like a disobedient toddler.
"Owwwww!" she sobbed. "Stop it! Please!"
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
The man was relentless, working both of her tender ass cheeks, turning them cherry red in mere moments.
Caught in his strong arms, Taylor could only kick and squeal and sob, unable to believe this was really happening to her. She was a star, damnit. No. A superstar. And this...this...dumpy old guy was spanking her!
Finally, the blows came to an end. Taylor slumped over the man's knees, sobbing quietly, her body trembling.
"There, there," said the man, gentle now. He stroked Taylor's hair, a loving owner comforting a dog he'd had to discipline for piddling on the rug. "There's a good girl, Tippy. If you'd only learn to obey, I wouldn't have to do this. Be a good girl, and you'll be just fine."
Taylor sobbed harder, her face in her hands, trying desperately to think of some way to escape.
"Please," she mumbled. "Please."
"Shh, hush now," said the man, still stroking her head. "Come on, show me you can be my good girl." He pulled her upright, rising to stand with her. "I'd hate to have to get the hairbrush."
Taylor paled. Her ass was on fire as it was. If he beat it with a hairbrush…
"I...I can be good. I...I promise!" she said, trying to put a smile on her face. She hurried to the middle of the room, eager to avoid another spanking. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror as she took position. She'd expected her makeup to be a runny mess, but it was pristine. He...he tattooed this ridiculous makeup onto me? Her heart sank. She'd never look normal again.
Assuming she could even get out of this strange, terrible house of horrors.
The man on the sofa cleared his throat and looked at her, eyebrows raised.
Hurriedly, Taylor went through the ballet positions she'd learned in her classes. Prepare. First. Second. Plie. Jete. Grand Jete. Plie. Tandu. Close. Plie. Pirouette. Arabesque.
Over and over she repeated what she'd learned, letting the work distract her from the pain in her ass and the humiliation of dancing to entertain the old ass-beating perv on the couch.
As he watched, the man settled deeper into the sofa, running his hands over his thighs as the lithe blonde pranced and whirled. Taylor felt his dark eyes on her, heavy as hot stones.
After what seemed an eternity, he said "Stop."
Taylor stumbled to a halt, sweat beading on her forehead. She looked at the man warily, fanning herself.
"Not bad, Tippy. Much more enthusiastic than before. You might be acceptable." He licked his lips, his eyes hungry as they roamed over her body. "Perhaps."
Taylor tried to push down her revulsion. She had to keep this guy happy. It was getting late, and he had to sleep sometime. If she could keep him entertained until he went to bed, maybe she could slip out. She doubted it would be easy, but if she could just keep him from freezing her again…
"I...I hope you liked it, uh...sir," she said, trying to make her smile as genuine as possible. "I haven't danced ballet in a while."
"That's clear," said the man, unimpressed. "But you'll learn, Tippy. You'll have plenty of time. Unless, of course, you displease me."
Taylor paled. "Oh, no, sir, I've learned my lesson, honest. I'll...I'll do whatever you like."
The man smiled. "Whatever I like, you say? I wonder." He let his hands fall to the fork in his legs. The bulge in his pants was growing larger by the second.
"I think it's time you stop flapping those lips and put your mouth to more productive use," he growled. "Show me just how eager you are to please me, Tippy."
Taylor goggled. "I...you...you can't be serious. I'm not gonna…"
"Unless you'd like to take a look at the kennel? Mocha's been having lots of fun breaking in Jingles, but I'm sure she'd love to have a new beta bitch to mount."
Taylor groaned. Her mind raced as she desperately sought some way to talk her way out of sucking this stranger's dick.
"You don't seem quite so enthusiastic anymore, Tippy. I guess Tippy's a dumb dolly after all."
Taylor's squawk of protest was cut off as her face was yanked back into a mockery of good cheer, her arms bending at the elbows, her knees locking as she stiffened. "Tippy's a dumb dolly for Master!" she chirped, her eyes staring blankly ahead.
"Yes, you are," the man agreed. "Kneel."
Taylor felt herself drop stiffly to her knees, arms still extended like a dime-store Barbie doll.
Stop it! No! Stop! I'm sorry! Please, no!
Taylor's silent screams didn't ruffle on her grinning face as she knelt between her new Owner's spread legs.
"Show Master what else good dollys can do," he breathed, rubbing his bulge.
"Tippy loves to make Master happy!" giggled Taylor's mouth in a bubbly, bimboish voice.
The powerless celebrity bent forward at the waist, her back still straight, her expression unchanging as her hands mechanically unbuckled the man's belt, then undid his fly. She pulled down his underwear with a single strong motion, revealing his thick cock, surrounded by a nest of graying pubic hair.
"Yummy!" cried Tippy, as Taylor screamed and sobbed. She leaned forward with the same mechanical rigidity, her mouth forming a snug "o" as she began to suck the man's cock. Her head bobbed up and down, nose pressed to the thicket of pubes with every deep slurp. Drool ran from her mouth as the dead-eyed fucktoy performed its Master's bidding.
The man sighed contentedly and pushed the captive blonde's head down, letting her gag on his fat cock for a few seconds. Tippy obliged as best it could, its throat tightening around the head as its lips and tongue worked the base of his shaft.
After a moment, he let go, allowing his new toy some room to breathe as it resumed its robotic suckling.
While she blew him, the man ordered Tippy to pause every five strokes and lean back on her knees, rubbing at her cunt with her frozen hands and giggling "Master's cock makes Tippy SOOOO wet!"
Taylor could only watch, horrified, as he debased her. Her efforts to seize control of her body were utterly useless; she might as well have been trying to move the moon.
When he finally came, he didn't bother to warn her. He just pushed her drooling, grasping mouth off his cock and shoved her backward so her hands rested on her ankles, and shot his load all over her face and tits.
"Thank you for my yummy treat, Master!" said Tippy, while Taylor tried to will herself to unconsciousness. The cum that didn't end up in Tippy's giggling mouth soaked into her skin and clothes, vanishing as the nanites embedded in her body used it for nourishment and repairs.
Taylor felt like she'd hit rock bottom. There was no hope. She had to hope he would let her go again. It was her only chance to feel truly human. Whatever he wanted, whatever he demanded, she'd do it. She knew that, now.
But then the man said, "That was pretty good, Tippy. But I think we need to break in your asshole. Two weeks of fucking you as a doll gave me lots of practice, but I think it'll be even more fun when you're wriggling around."
NO! NO! PLEASE! I'LL DO ANYTHING! NOOOO!
"Mmm.Tippy loves making Master happy!"
That was the first day.
**********
After a week of not-so-gentle use by her captor, Taylor had almost given up hope of ever moving on her own again. When she wasn't debasing herself for the man's sexual gratification, she was cleaning the house, cooking his meals, or, worst of all, posed on the stand in the living room. He dressed her in a variety of tutus, each tighter and more revealing than the last, and demanded she walk around en pointe like a "real ballerina."
The spankings continued as well. Night and day. He bent her over, pointing her face at the mirror, making her watch as Tippy cooed and giggled and thanked her Master for "teaching Tippy how to be a good girl." With every spanking, Taylor's humiliation deepened. Her body's betrayal didn't help; she found herself growing wet whenever Marcus bent her over, her pussy dripping as her cheeks reddened.
Sometimes, Marcus fucked her from behind as he slapped her ass with the hair brush, mocking the tears that ran down her face even as her dim-witted expression of contentment never changed.
But then one day, the man—who she'd since discovered was called Marcus, but insisted on being called Master—came in from the large storage shed in the backyard and said without preamble, "Tippy's a good girl."
Taylor nearly dropped the lunch tray she was carrying, but managed to find her balance at the last moment. She burst into tears of relief at having control over herself again. Setting the tray on the kitchen counter, she ran to the man and threw herself at his feet, hands gripping his pants.
"I'm sorry for being bad. I promise, I'll be good. I'll do whatever you say. Just please, don't...don't turn me into that...that...thing again." She sobbed into the heavy denim of his jeans, desperate to convince him.
After a moment, the man began to stroke her head, as he had that first night. "There, there, Tippy. I knew you'd learn your lesson. But I hope you learned it well, because the next time, I won't bother with a gentle warning like this one."
"Yes, Master, of course, whatever you say," groveled the fallen pop star. She clawed at his pants, pulling them down with real eagerness, all too happy to take his sweaty, greasy dick in her hands and then, as it hardened, her mouth. She gazed up at him worshipfully, willing him to find her acceptable.
Marcus chuckled as he watched the broken fuckdoll that used to be one of America's most famous singers milk his cock, drooling and whimpering for even a crumb of approval. She'd broken fast, but then again he'd found the ones that had power before the Leash Laws—or thought they did—were the quickest to embrace their place.
He'd keep her around like this for awhile, he supposed. Her grinning, cringing servility was a nice change of pace from Tippy's usual wooden demeanor.
And if he got bored with her? Well, he'd finished the new cage in the kennel just that afternoon. The paint on the sign reading "Tippy" was still wet, but it would dry. And next week, or next month, or whenever, the bitch at his feet would discover what really made Master happy.
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PATREON REPOST: TAYLOR'S GAME
I'm reposting my old Patreon content here during the month of June. It'll be in dribs and drabs so please exercise patience and, again, please don't send me 200 messages that effectively make me want to delete my account and retire to a nunnery in the Himalayas. Thanks.
FROM THE PATRON: I was thinking for next month, Taylor Swift forced to be a ballerina. She'd be under the control of some old pervert who forces her to wear slutty Tutus, and spanks her if she gets out of line or messes up. She's controlled by the threat of being his pooch if she screws up and even sucks him off albeit she cries at how she's fallen. With the hidden fact she will be a pooch after he's bored of her.
I enjoyed doing something a little different with Taylor, especially since we took things in a different (but not all that different) direction with the Where Are They Now series.
Enjoy!
STORY FOLLOWS
The nature of celebrity is to assume preferential treatment. Freebies by the truckload, the best seats at the theater, the best tables at restaurants, and, of course, exclusion from the laws that rule the lives of the petty peons whose millions support the celebrity lifestyle.
So when the Leash Laws were first ratified in the Empire during the early 21st century, few female celebrities bothered to pay them real mind. The gaggle of agents, assistants, producers, and sycophants surrounding most celebrities provided constant reassurance that the "backward, old-fashioned" laws certainly wouldn't apply to famous, rich, and powerful women.
A select few—who would later become bothersome and rather vocal opponents of the Empire from their presumably safe perches in other parts of the world—saw the writing on the wall and fled. The rest were either taken completely by surprise when they were claimed by some opportunistic fan or former employee, or, more rarely, gathered up by the local police who'd come to add them to the general pool of animals for their region.
A small number woke up to the shift in society too late, but still had time to flee. Or try to.
Taylor Swift was among these fucktoys-come-lately. Her entourage had largely abandoned her when she decided to flee the country on a private jet—one of the last still in use for the purpose. Her plan was to meet up with Katy Perry and Jennifer Lawrence and head for the group of allied provinces formerly known as Canada and now being called "The Free States" in the media.
But when she pulled up to the hanger and ran inside, she discovered the police were already there. Katy was crouched at the feet of a uniformed man holding the leash attached to Katy's collar. Taylor was shocked to see the busty brunette was otherwise nude. Strangely, Katy didn't seem to care. Her dull, lust-addled eyes stared up at the man holding the leash with total adoration.
That wasn't the only change. Her friend seemed...curvier. Well, that didn't exactly cover it. Katy looked like she'd gone to the plastic surgeon and asked for the bimbo special.
How can her tits be so big? Taylor wondered, even as she tried to figure out what was wrong with Katy's legs. They seemed too short, and ended in some kind of rubbery...paws? Her hands, too.
She realized something shiny was covering Katy's arms and legs. And a tail made of the same stuff jutted from the fallen pop star's expanded ass.
Oh, my God, Taylor thought. It's all real. The news reports, the takeover...I have to get out of here! She started backing toward the entrance, trying to avoid attracting attention.
But then Jennifer, who was on the ground, squirming and kicking as she tugged uselessly at the restraining pole on her neck, spotted her. She sat up, reaching toward her terrified friend. "TAYLOR! HELP ME! PLEASE!" She gagged and twitched as the man holding the pole gave it a yank and slammed her back to the asphalt.
As Taylor watched in horror, the man holding the pole laughed and gave the struggling blonde a kick to quiet her. "Quiet, mutt. You'll get your upgrades soon enough." Jennifer fell back, whimpering and dazed.
Taylor's keys fell from her nerveless fingers as she realized her predicament. She turned to run, but one of the men wearing the strange white uniforms was already behind her. She bounced off his muscular chest and stumbled back a step before he grabbed her arm, steadying her.
"Hey there, Taylor. Big fan." The man smiled and pushed a sparking, glittering bolt of some kind right into the tender flesh of her neck.
It didn't hurt, but Taylor tried to scream anyway. It was no use. The ManneQueen™ bolt did its work with ruthless efficiency, and her vocal cords were inches away from its transformative energies.
Less than a minute later, a blank-eyed, grinning fuckdoll stood where the former songstress had been. The bolt in its neck hummed, the glow dimming. "ENTERING MAINTENANCE MODE," chimed a voice. It sounded like Taylor's own.
"I don't know why you guys try to do direct conversions all the time," Taylor heard the man say. He moved out of her field of vision, which was steadily narrowing along with the sound of his voice. "You slap one of these babies in, you can just carry the dumb cunts to the processing center and let them do the work."
Taylor saw the world shift as the man picked her up, carrying her under one arm like a piece of luggage. The men across the hanger replied to his comment, but their voices, like the rest of the world, were fading fast.
Taylor had just enough time to wonder if she'd ever wake up again when the blackness took her.
***********
Awareness returned, and with it, confusion.
Taylor opened her eyes to find she was standing in an unfamiliar room. Her body didn't respond to her commands, but that terrible...flattening...of her thoughts was gone.
The room was the last thing she'd expected to see. The decor was strictly midwestern, and decidedly middle class. It didn't look all that different from the house she'd grown up in back in Pennsylvania.
She looked around, relieved to discover she had at least that much mobility. Her blue eyes scoured the room for some sign of where she might be. Across from the place she stood, a row of windows looked out onto snowy suburban streets. Snow was falling in wet, heavy flakes.
Somewhere cold, then. It had been sunny and cool in California. At the hanger.
Oh, Katy. Jen. I'm so sorry. She spared a moment to wonder if her friends had also awoken in strange houses. Maybe, if I can get out of here, somehow...maybe they'll try to do the same. There's got to be hope. Doesn't there?
Then the memory of Katy's empty eyes and radically altered body made her wonder if either woman would even remember who they were, let alone worry about escape.
The storm outside rattled the windows. Taylor shivered, even though she was warm. For all she knew, she was back home in PA. But why couldn't she move? What the hell was going on?
The doorknob rattled, and for a moment Taylor assumed the storm was getting worse. Then the door swung open, admitting a blast of bitter winter wind along with a middle-aged man carrying several grocery bags and wearing a heavy coat. Cursing the cold, the man dropped the bags on the sofa and hurriedly shut the door.
Taylor watched as he stomped and shook the snow from himself on the tiled entryway, then hung his jacked on a hook behind the door. He had an average build, and dark hair streaked with steel grey. His brown eyes were deep set beneath bushy eyebrows, and he had a strong Roman nose. He'd probably been considered handsome in his youth. Taylor supposed older women might still find him so.
To her, he looked like one of the countless middle-aged dudes who used to bring their daughters to her concerts.
"Blasted blizzard. Lucky I didn't freeze my damned balls off out there." The man unwound the scarf from around his neck and hung it next to the coat. "Jesus. Good thing I stocked up now, before it got really bad."
Taylor tried to catch the man's attention, and request...no, demand...an explanation. But she couldn't move at all, beyond scanning the room with her eyes.
She watched as the man carried his groceries into the kitchen. She could hear him mumbling to himself as he put the groceries away.
This is ridiculous, she thought. Is this a dream? A nightmare?
Eventually, the sounds from the kitchen ended, and the man returned. He stopped in front of Taylor, his eyes roaming over her body. He smiled and nodded. He looked in her eyes, and his smile widened.
"Oh, good! You're finally awake. I was worried the recovery routine would take a lot longer. Those idiots had you in storage for quite a while. But then again, that's probably why I got you so cheap." He patted her cheek and chuckled. "We've been having a lot of fun. I think this will be the most fun yet."
Taylor felt herself wanting to gag. This...this old creep had been having fun with her? For how long? And what did he mean, storage? Or cheap?!?
The man reached under Taylor's arms and picked her up, turning her slightly. A full-body mirror was mounted on the wall next to her, and as he turned her, she could finally see herself.
The bolt in her neck turned Taylor's horrified scream into a barely-heard whimper.
She was dressed as a ballerina. Tutu, tights, bodice, the whole nine yards. Her pale blonde hair was in an updo, secured by a hairpiece shaped like a swan. It was the outfit from the video for her hit song, Shake It Off.
Her long, lean body looked largely the same, except perhaps for a little more padding at the hips and chest. Her makeup was cheap and tawdry. She looked like a Kewpie doll, all seven-mile lashes and pink lipstick and rosy cheeks.
But the scariest thing was her actual form. Seams had formed at her shoulders, neck, and wrists. Her expression was set in a mindless, idiot grin, like a happy doll. The only part of her that looked even slightly alive were her big blue eyes, darting back and forth in helpless terror.
The man watched her for a moment. "There, there. It'll be okay, Tippy. The bolt is nearly finished recalibrating for removal. Then we can have some real fun."
Who the fuck is Tippy? Taylor thought, bewildered. Then she caught sight of the collar around her neck, and the pink dog bone dangling from it. It was engraved with the word "TIPPY," set between two diamond hearts.
Oh, my God, thought the pop star. This is...they sold me to this guy. And now he wants to call me Tippy, like some stupid dog? She paused, thinking. A dog? Oh, no. What if that's what he really wants? Like...like poor Katy. Oh, God, I have to get out of here!
The bolt in her neck chimed. "Restoration complete. Verbal Command protocols transferred. Custom Behavioral Modification Scheme transferred," said Taylor, her mouth jittering up and down like a marionette. Her eyes bulged in disbelief.
"Great," said the man. He reached out and put his thumb on the bolt, waited for it to chime, and then simply pulled it free.
Taylor expected a gaping hole, but the flesh knitted as he drew out the bolt, leaving a faint circle of pink on her flat mannequinnized skin. The circle began to grow, and as it did, Taylor felt life returning to her body.
Her skin softened, and the joint lines began to fade. As she watched, her body returned to normal. She thrilled as the flesh softened, relishing the feel of the warm nearby fire and the occasional cold draft from the storm pounding the house.
The man put the bolt in his pocket and watched as Taylor slowly returned to normal. Well, a slightly enhanced version of it, anyway.
For her part, Taylor was so busy luxuriating at the return of sensation and life that she forgot about her predicament entirely for a moment. She turned to the man and said, "I'm...I'm me again!"
The man smiled gently, like a teacher indulging a particularly dim child.
"Yes, very good, Tippy. You're finally ready to perform!"
"Perform? I...I'm not ready to sing. I don't have any of my gear, or…"
The man shook his head. "Tippy, that's nonsense. You're not a singer. You're a dancer. My perfect little dancing fuckdoll. You live to please me. And if you don't...well, we'll have to see what happens, won't we?"
Taylor scowled. "First off, my name is Taylor, not Tippy! Secondly, I don't know who you think you are, but…"
The man shook his head again, this time a little sadly. "Looks like we have to do things the hard way," he said. "Tippy's a dumb dolly."
Taylor jerked, the idiot grin returning to her face as her limbs stiffened and she stood erect, tits thrust out, eyes wide. "Tippy's a dumb dolly for Master!" she chimed in a singsong version of her own voice. "Tippy likes to dance!" She put action to words, doing a stilted version of a ballerina's spin and kick, jerking like a wind-up toy.
In her head, Taylor screamed for help, watching helplessly as her body went through the humiliating routine. After several minutes of gyrating and clumsy plies, she ground to a stop, freezing in place with her arms over her head and one leg balanced on the opposite knee, like a ballerina in a child's music box.
"Now, Tippy," the man said quietly. "I'm going to release you. But if you're naughty or disobedient, I'm afraid I'll have to escalate my discipline."
Taylor couldn't believe her ears. This guy was nuts. Worse, whatever that bolt had done to her seemed to give him total control over her body, if not her mind.
"In fact, if you can't be a good little dancer for me, I'm afraid I'll just have to find room for you in the kennel," said the man in a bored voice. "That's what happened to Jingles when she disappointed me. She makes a fine Irish Slurper. You look more like a California Melontit to me. Well, once we get you properly upgraded, anyway."
Taylor shuddered behind her vapid grin. A California what?
"Tippy's a good girl" the man said, smiling.
Taylor relaxed, her body under her own control once more. She backed away from the man, eyeing him nervously.
"Please," she said, tears springing into her eyes. "This has to be some kind of mistake."
"No mistake," said the man. "This is what you were meant to be." He walked over to the sofa and sat down, legs spread. "Now dance for me."
Taylor couldn't believe what she was hearing. The man stared at her for a long moment, eyeing her expectantly.
With a reluctant sigh, Taylor stepped into the middle of the room, keeping her distance from this strange man who'd usurped control of her body, and started dancing. She improvised as best she could, trying to watch the man's face for signs of approval or disappointment.
She was halfway through the sequence she remembered best from the Shake It Off video when he said, "No, no, no. This will never do. You're a ballerina, Tippy. Show me elegance. Style. Grace. Not that ridiculous flailing. That's the sort of thing that landed all of you silly cunts on the leash in the first place."
Taylor stopped dancing and stared at her captor, biting her lip. "Ballet?" she said after a moment. "I mean, I've taken some classes, but…"
The man stood up. Taylor shrank back, terrified he'd turn her into a jerking marionnette again, but he didn't say the hateful phrase. Instead, he grabbed her by the arm and dragged her onto the couch. "I've had just about enough of that lip, Tippy. If I'd known you were going to be such a little troublemaker, I'd have put you in Alpha and added you to my doll collection in the solarium."
Doll collection? Taylor thought as she struggled. This guy's insane!
"Let me go! What are you doing?!?!"
The man threw sat down and jerked Taylor's arm, hard, bending her over his knee. "If you can't learn to be obedient and pleasing, I'll have to teach you, Tippy!"
"MY NAME IS TAYLOR!" screamed the struggling woman.
"Bad girl!" the man said. He jerked down her leotard, exposing her pale ass, slightly larger than it had been before nanite enhancement.
WHAP! His calloused hand came down on her bare ass cheek, leaving an angry red handprint. Taylor stopped struggling for a moment, shocked.
"OW! What the fuck do you think you're do-"
WHAP!
"OW! Stop it!"
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
Taylor burst into tears, both at the pain and the humiliation of being spanked like a disobedient toddler.
"Owwwww!" she sobbed. "Stop it! Please!"
WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
The man was relentless, working both of her tender ass cheeks, turning them cherry red in mere moments.
Caught in his strong arms, Taylor could only kick and squeal and sob, unable to believe this was really happening to her. She was a star, damnit. No. A superstar. And this...this...dumpy old guy was spanking her!
Finally, the blows came to an end. Taylor slumped over the man's knees, sobbing quietly, her body trembling.
"There, there," said the man, gentle now. He stroked Taylor's hair, a loving owner comforting a dog he'd had to discipline for piddling on the rug. "There's a good girl, Tippy. If you'd only learn to obey, I wouldn't have to do this. Be a good girl, and you'll be just fine."
Taylor sobbed harder, her face in her hands, trying desperately to think of some way to escape.
"Please," she mumbled. "Please."
"Shh, hush now," said the man, still stroking her head. "Come on, show me you can be my good girl." He pulled her upright, rising to stand with her. "I'd hate to have to get the hairbrush."
Taylor paled. Her ass was on fire as it was. If he beat it with a hairbrush…
"I...I can be good. I...I promise!" she said, trying to put a smile on her face. She hurried to the middle of the room, eager to avoid another spanking. She caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror as she took position. She'd expected her makeup to be a runny mess, but it was pristine. He...he tattooed this ridiculous makeup onto me? Her heart sank. She'd never look normal again.
Assuming she could even get out of this strange, terrible house of horrors.
The man on the sofa cleared his throat and looked at her, eyebrows raised.
Hurriedly, Taylor went through the ballet positions she'd learned in her classes. Prepare. First. Second. Plie. Jete. Grand Jete. Plie. Tandu. Close. Plie. Pirouette. Arabesque.
Over and over she repeated what she'd learned, letting the work distract her from the pain in her ass and the humiliation of dancing to entertain the old ass-beating perv on the couch.
As he watched, the man settled deeper into the sofa, running his hands over his thighs as the lithe blonde pranced and whirled. Taylor felt his dark eyes on her, heavy as hot stones.
After what seemed an eternity, he said "Stop."
Taylor stumbled to a halt, sweat beading on her forehead. She looked at the man warily, fanning herself.
"Not bad, Tippy. Much more enthusiastic than before. You might be acceptable." He licked his lips, his eyes hungry as they roamed over her body. "Perhaps."
Taylor tried to push down her revulsion. She had to keep this guy happy. It was getting late, and he had to sleep sometime. If she could keep him entertained until he went to bed, maybe she could slip out. She doubted it would be easy, but if she could just keep him from freezing her again…
"I...I hope you liked it, uh...sir," she said, trying to make her smile as genuine as possible. "I haven't danced ballet in a while."
"That's clear," said the man, unimpressed. "But you'll learn, Tippy. You'll have plenty of time. Unless, of course, you displease me."
Taylor paled. "Oh, no, sir, I've learned my lesson, honest. I'll...I'll do whatever you like."
The man smiled. "Whatever I like, you say? I wonder." He let his hands fall to the fork in his legs. The bulge in his pants was growing larger by the second.
"I think it's time you stop flapping those lips and put your mouth to more productive use," he growled. "Show me just how eager you are to please me, Tippy."
Taylor goggled. "I...you...you can't be serious. I'm not gonna…"
"Unless you'd like to take a look at the kennel? Mocha's been having lots of fun breaking in Jingles, but I'm sure she'd love to have a new beta bitch to mount."
Taylor groaned. Her mind raced as she desperately sought some way to talk her way out of sucking this stranger's dick.
"You don't seem quite so enthusiastic anymore, Tippy. I guess Tippy's a dumb dolly after all."
Taylor's squawk of protest was cut off as her face was yanked back into a mockery of good cheer, her arms bending at the elbows, her knees locking as she stiffened. "Tippy's a dumb dolly for Master!" she chirped, her eyes staring blankly ahead.
"Yes, you are," the man agreed. "Kneel."
Taylor felt herself drop stiffly to her knees, arms still extended like a dime-store Barbie doll.
Stop it! No! Stop! I'm sorry! Please, no!
Taylor's silent screams didn't ruffle on her grinning face as she knelt between her new Owner's spread legs.
"Show Master what else good dollys can do," he breathed, rubbing his bulge.
"Tippy loves to make Master happy!" giggled Taylor's mouth in a bubbly, bimboish voice.
The powerless celebrity bent forward at the waist, her back still straight, her expression unchanging as her hands mechanically unbuckled the man's belt, then undid his fly. She pulled down his underwear with a single strong motion, revealing his thick cock, surrounded by a nest of graying pubic hair.
"Yummy!" cried Tippy, as Taylor screamed and sobbed. She leaned forward with the same mechanical rigidity, her mouth forming a snug "o" as she began to suck the man's cock. Her head bobbed up and down, nose pressed to the thicket of pubes with every deep slurp. Drool ran from her mouth as the dead-eyed fucktoy performed its Master's bidding.
The man sighed contentedly and pushed the captive blonde's head down, letting her gag on his fat cock for a few seconds. Tippy obliged as best it could, its throat tightening around the head as its lips and tongue worked the base of his shaft.
After a moment, he let go, allowing his new toy some room to breathe as it resumed its robotic suckling.
While she blew him, the man ordered Tippy to pause every five strokes and lean back on her knees, rubbing at her cunt with her frozen hands and giggling "Master's cock makes Tippy SOOOO wet!"
Taylor could only watch, horrified, as he debased her. Her efforts to seize control of her body were utterly useless; she might as well have been trying to move the moon.
When he finally came, he didn't bother to warn her. He just pushed her drooling, grasping mouth off his cock and shoved her backward so her hands rested on her ankles, and shot his load all over her face and tits.
"Thank you for my yummy treat, Master!" said Tippy, while Taylor tried to will herself to unconsciousness. The cum that didn't end up in Tippy's giggling mouth soaked into her skin and clothes, vanishing as the nanites embedded in her body used it for nourishment and repairs.
Taylor felt like she'd hit rock bottom. There was no hope. She had to hope he would let her go again. It was her only chance to feel truly human. Whatever he wanted, whatever he demanded, she'd do it. She knew that, now.
But then the man said, "That was pretty good, Tippy. But I think we need to break in your asshole. Two weeks of fucking you as a doll gave me lots of practice, but I think it'll be even more fun when you're wriggling around."
NO! NO! PLEASE! I'LL DO ANYTHING! NOOOO!
"Mmm.Tippy loves making Master happy!"
That was the first day.
**********
After a week of not-so-gentle use by her captor, Taylor had almost given up hope of ever moving on her own again. When she wasn't debasing herself for the man's sexual gratification, she was cleaning the house, cooking his meals, or, worst of all, posed on the stand in the living room. He dressed her in a variety of tutus, each tighter and more revealing than the last, and demanded she walk around en pointe like a "real ballerina."
The spankings continued as well. Night and day. He bent her over, pointing her face at the mirror, making her watch as Tippy cooed and giggled and thanked her Master for "teaching Tippy how to be a good girl." With every spanking, Taylor's humiliation deepened. Her body's betrayal didn't help; she found herself growing wet whenever Marcus bent her over, her pussy dripping as her cheeks reddened.
Sometimes, Marcus fucked her from behind as he slapped her ass with the hair brush, mocking the tears that ran down her face even as her dim-witted expression of contentment never changed.
But then one day, the man—who she'd since discovered was called Marcus, but insisted on being called Master—came in from the large storage shed in the backyard and said without preamble, "Tippy's a good girl."
Taylor nearly dropped the lunch tray she was carrying, but managed to find her balance at the last moment. She burst into tears of relief at having control over herself again. Setting the tray on the kitchen counter, she ran to the man and threw herself at his feet, hands gripping his pants.
"I'm sorry for being bad. I promise, I'll be good. I'll do whatever you say. Just please, don't...don't turn me into that...that...thing again." She sobbed into the heavy denim of his jeans, desperate to convince him.
After a moment, the man began to stroke her head, as he had that first night. "There, there, Tippy. I knew you'd learn your lesson. But I hope you learned it well, because the next time, I won't bother with a gentle warning like this one."
"Yes, Master, of course, whatever you say," groveled the fallen pop star. She clawed at his pants, pulling them down with real eagerness, all too happy to take his sweaty, greasy dick in her hands and then, as it hardened, her mouth. She gazed up at him worshipfully, willing him to find her acceptable.
Marcus chuckled as he watched the broken fuckdoll that used to be one of America's most famous singers milk his cock, drooling and whimpering for even a crumb of approval. She'd broken fast, but then again he'd found the ones that had power before the Leash Laws—or thought they did—were the quickest to embrace their place.
He'd keep her around like this for awhile, he supposed. Her grinning, cringing servility was a nice change of pace from Tippy's usual wooden demeanor.
And if he got bored with her? Well, he'd finished the new cage in the kennel just that afternoon. The paint on the sign reading "Tippy" was still wet, but it would dry. And next week, or next month, or whenever, the bitch at his feet would discover what really made Master happy.