mikeTheFable's Journal

Just the latest from my imagination, involving MC and bimboization. Not as explicit as my other stories, except at the very end, but certainly still PORN, so use your discretion.

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My first new story in some time, and a bit of an odd one. I certainly really like where this story has gone though. I just sort of started, somewhere, and then came full circle in the end. I didn't try to explain everything--I didn't want to--so I hope it works out. It's held together by the character of Belle, the MC'er, of sorts, but also an MC'ed character as well. I've never been one for simple good bad dynamics... c'est la vie. When I think of her image, I think of her looking much like the picture of the girl on this post: glamorous, polished, enhanced, almost inhuman. Anyway, here she is, my first new story in just over 6 months.

I hope it was worth the wait.


As usual, this is PORN. Read only what you need to survive, or only if you are old enough. Exercise restraint if PORN isn't for you. If you aren't sure, ask your doctor.

 

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Probably the best story I ever wrote... some of the best characters I ever wrote about, too... chapters 1 & 5 are particularly good. That's all there is to say...




( Chapters 1, 2 and 3... )

And now the continuation...




( Chapters 4 and 5... )</div>

A Pretty Colour; A Pretty Girl

I was browsing a recently revitalized bimbo community on Yahoo today, and I got thinking of a certain particular period in my writing, one that extended from just after Alone With Myselves, though some very difficult times, to the Summer of 2006. Of most note about this time were three stories of mine: "Scrambled Eggs", "A Pretty Colour; A Pretty Girl", and "Behold! The Smartest Bimbo Story Ever Told!". Probably some of my more flowery writing, really, or most intellectually creative. "Scrambled Eggs" needs no explanation, as it is what it is. It's a story, and it will be posted in due time. And "Behold!..." was a kind of shot at Colossal Corporations and a friendly jab at the occasionally somewhat annoying 'pro-smarts' vocality within the mind-control genre. "A Pretty Colour; A Pretty Girl", was not very grand, or ambitious, compared to the last two, although the title of the story was a friendly jab at semi-colon haters. It was, however, a very honest look at the state of my fantasies at the time. And, uncharacteristically, my fantasies at the time seemed to have included a kind of direct, telepathic post-transformation mind-control. A rare thing for me.

Typical warnings apply. Rampant lesbianism, intimate shaving and girl-girl oral sex, all strung together in a rather prurient fashion. Read only what you need to survive, or only if you are old enough.



( Read It Here )

for Candle

A Pretty Colour; A Pretty Girl



Pink. She finished her training at the end of the day.

“I love you.” she grinned sweetly.

“I know.”

Pink is such a lovely colour. And such a lovely girl.

A hot colour.

A paradoxical colour.

A lovely girl.

Innocently dirty; maturely immature; virginally sexy; hot and sweet.

I rub the pink frothy lace with my fingers, adjusting it just right. She stares down at me and giggles. I’m so close to her, down here on my knees, with my lips and fingers on her skin, breathing lightly on her as I work. I tickle her, it seems. No surprise; she is so temptingly exposed down there. It’s a sensitive place.

Pink is a colour that should be used sparingly, I imagine... I know. When I knowingly imagine my vision I can make any colour come to life. And the Colour that wears it, she comes to life, too.

All that Pink requires is a shade of pink, a suggestion, a subtle, tickling tease. My breath tickles her as I use my fingers to adjust her skirt, to place it just right and set it gently upon her hips. I adjust her skirt for the third time. Perfection should be dressed perfectly.

A skirt should be a little loose, to convey that tempting, ready-to-fall invitation. Something pleated, too, to say ‘I’m wild and I'm young and I’m not very good at hiding it.”

Pink wears a frilly, lacy, pink kind of negligee that wouldn’t have ever been long enough to conceal her panties, let alone close around her hips or her belly. It’s sole clasp strains against her breasts, the rest of it falls like a gown at her sides, exposing her tender belly and leaving her hips bare.

Pink doesn’t remember panties. She doesn't wear any.

Presentation is key.

My protégé Colour, Pink, looks down at me. I’ve dressed her in beautiful pinks. Her negligee is silky smooth and frothy around the edges, sheer like a sunset. The clasped bust tackles her fluidly moving breasts – straining and constraining – and it’s tail fringe tickles the defined cheeks of her hyper-sexualized, beautifully pillowy ass.

I have dressed Pink in monochrome stockings – stripes of black and white – to give her appearance some ground; something dark with something bright. It draws the eye across her infinite legs, to her black buckle shoes, then back up to that tender, sensitive place I work lovingly to frame. I kiss her mons. She groans. I run a finger through the modest garnish of pubic fur that adorns it. And she waits out my touch, breathless.

Moving on, I slip my index fingers under her garter straps to make sure they are tight. I run my fingers up from where they clip to her stockings to up under her skirt, until the tightly fastened garter stops my ascent. I wanted to continue the climb, until my hands had reached up to cup the undersides of her breasts, but I had been told to work, not play. The frills and clasps were all to be fastened, not undone.

Letting go, the garter straps spring back against her skin, gently, like tiny spankings, eliciting a tittering giggle from my precious protégé Colour. I squeeze her thighs, to check her softness, and she moans. She’s well done. A pretty, pink Bimbo. The confirmation makes me smile.

She took a lot of work, after all.

I stare at her fragile pussy, her rosy, moistened petals. The hem of her scant, pleated skirt, the taut garter straps, the tops of her stockings at mid-thigh; each article of clothing—of decoration—is a piece of the frame. I frame it her with clothing, frame her Sex with shades of pink. I love my Colours, and I dress them with loving care. There is no better canvas to paint, no better geography to shape, than a woman’s body; I treat her tender folds tenderly.

I lean in and lick her. She giggles cutely. Her fur tickles my nose. Then she is paralysed, mouth agape, as my tongue runs strongly across her clit.

“It’s grooming time.” I tell her, finishing my strafe.

She holds her breath. Pink’s never been shaved before – she was not twenty years old when we took her in and made her a bimbo, filled her head with so many pretty colours, made her part of the Rainbow.

On the floor to my side, next to my stocking-clad knee – in smooth nylon black – stands the shaving lubricant with the razor. I pick up the cooled canister and give it a shake, then point the nozzle at Pink’s unshaven mound. Pink’s grooming should go quickly, I think. She’s mostly bare to begin with; just a wisp of delicate blond fur to deal with and some stray fuzz around the thighs, that’s all. And she’s been hot-showered too, to open the pours in her skin.

I had been the one to shower with her. I had run my hand along her nethers with a hot sponge myself.

I squeeze, letting the clear lube foam out sparingly. Pink jumps onto her tippy-toes, tickled by the cold, running her beautiful hands, with her beautifully painted pink nails, down the front of her thighs in frustration. It’s so cold and tingly, but I don’t let her touch, and she's been told not to move. She obeys the order, as much as I tease her.

“Stand still, now.” I tell her.

“Stand still.” she repeats.

I pick up the razor and run it over her sensitive skin. Pink giggles. I start at the top of her cleft, taking care to be light and subtle. The blade slides smoothly across her, until there is little but a slick strip of hairless beauty left behind in the razor’s wake. I do it again, a little off the side, to catch the fringes of what hair might have remained. Shaving Pink goes quickly; she has a very discrete pussy. Her inner lips behave with a natural reticence and remain protected within, for the most part – for the duration of her shave.

Still, it never hurts to take care.

It is good to take pride in what you do. I pull tantalizingly on Pink’s labials to stretch them and shave the last of her hair with short, precise strokes, taking painstaking care to glide lightly around her cleft and into the nooks of her thighs. The stimulating sensations seep into Pink’s sex, and she gets lost in a perpetual smile. Her hand finds the top of my head and strokes my scalp. She runs her fingers through my hair.

There is a pale of cold water beside me. I retrieve a cold, waterlogged cloth and dab Pink’s tender nethers with care. Chilled water drips on the floor and trickles down her thighs, making her gasp. When her soft, supple, outer-labials are clean, the result is a beautifully smooth, glistening, hot-for-me pussy not four inches from my face.

I am tempted to take another lick, and almost do, when a voice erupts from within.

I hear Him in my head, from the ghostly shadows.

“Hurry up, now.” He tells me. My skull vibrates and I begin to feel very detached. My fingers go numb and my knees fuzzy. I drop the razor and the can of shaving cream; it rolls away into the darkness across the stark warehouse floor.

In a moment Orange wakes up, refreshed.

“Hurry up.” Orange(I...) repeats.

“She must have the syringe before she can sleep.” He tells her.

“She must have the syringe.” Orange repeats.

Orange picks up the syringe. It had been waiting quietly by Orange’s knee – her leg in nylon black – and was filled with a dark cloud, something not unlike smoke. Nanites. She removes the guard and aims the tip.

Orange obeys her order. Orange remembers...

I remember the day I arrived – the day I became Orange – when Blue stuck me with a syringe as she dressed me. I remember the feeling – the transformation that followed – and I prepared to hold Pink steady in anticipation.

Now I dress the dolls, much like I remember doing as a little girl with my figurines. I carry out this duty as His number one girl. Blue was a sad story; she got very, very sick and had to be frozen. No Colour can die; colours are forever. Blue; Pink; Orange; love and service are eternal. Blue will wake again, hopefully soon. I loved Blue.

I love Blue.

Pink’s body yields to the tip of the needle, accepting it inside. The prick makes her jump and her eyes sparkle. For the first time, I see her teeth. I drop the syringe. It vanishes in a puff of smoke as it strikes the floor. Safety first.

I hold Pink tightly by the hips, with her hands clasped firmly under mine. She starts to shift from one leg to another and then begins to clench her thighs. She whimpers, but not in a painful way. I remember it tingling and itching strongly. Pink feels the same now that I did then. I remember the unbearable want to touch, the ceaseless need to rub. The addiction is overpowering at first, but the incessant heat only clings for the first ten years. Give or take.

I’ve been a beautiful Colour for a very long time. There are so many colours to choose from, and so many Colours still yet to create. Creating the Rainbow takes more than a decade – more than a century, even. I think I’ve lived through two.

“Stand still.” I tell her.

“Stand still.” Pink repeats.

Her thighs flush and turn hot to the touch; her pussy starts to sweat. I remember the feeling, and I remember the sound of transforming flesh sounding off with a weak, itching, rice-krispy’s chorus.

Snap Crackle, Pop! Her budding clit bursts through the crease of her flowering folds as her inner labials emerged in full bloom like the petals of a beautifully fragrant flower. Pink’s scent tickles my nose.

I close my eyes and breath it in, smiling as Pink’s manufactured wetness encourages a rush and sweating in my loins. Pink’s pink pussy-lips sparkle with musky beads of human moistness, the condensation on her nethers reminiscent of the early morning dew collecting on flowers after a good rain. She begins to drip, her hungry cunt drooling uncontrollably, super-accelerated by the nanites, leaving little breadcrumbs of spunky memories on the hard warehouse floor between her feet. Her fluids are fine, silken, sexy, better than the usual variety. Like water.

Drip.

Splash.

Moan.

Touch!

Her hands struggle under mine, yearning to fight my strength, fighting the order to stand still. She was programmed strongly – I saw to it myself – and her orders are absolute. The trembling in her hands is nothing more than the after-effect of her masturbatory addiction. I know how badly she wants to touch. I felt that way, too.

“Pink is a good girl.” I hear Him say.

“Pink is a good girl.” Orange(I...) repeats, aloud.

“Pink is a good girl.” Pink repeats.

A tease. Pink’s tight pussy constricts around the girth of her blushing, wet clit.

Orange relieves her. Rewards Pink by...

I lean forward and lock my lips around Pink’s throbbing, enlarged clit, the bulb in her flower. Her wetness coats my lips and drips from my chin. The pleasure is two-fold; I can feel my own pussy responding to the intimate touch. Whimpering sexily through sealed lips, I squint and groan as my pulsating nub, locked in the boa’s grip of my engorged labials, releases one, then two, then three rippling orgasms. My knees almost fall out from under me.

I push my face into Pink’s crotch and dig in with my lower lip, thrusting my tongue up inside her.

Pink bites her lip and shakes. She comes, hard, I can tell. I can’t see her face; two massive tits block my view, now, but I know. Her negligee creaks as her growth stretches the fabric. I know how it feels. I lived this myself, long ago, when I too became bimbo-perfection.

Pink’s silky, frothy, lace-fringed negligee strains to constrain her, more so now than even before. Her top is shrink-wrappingly tight around her bosom, the clasp and silk of her nightie stretching heroically across the cleavage between her compressed breasts. Pink’s cleavage is so deep, and her dainty pink nightie dangles sweetly from her breasts like a curtain, a good ways in front of her belly. Her spectacular tits pull the nightie’s lace trim tightly around the back of her waist, tight to her back. Not even hot pink can conceal the dark shadows of her nipples.

My hands, letting go of hers, slide around her hips to cup the firm cheeks of her ass, the lower lobes of which fall well under the concealing reach of her accompanying skirt.

She thrusts her mound against me; the silk skirt caresses my forehead. I pull on her ass and hold her close, scoring her ripe rear-end with my lovely, long, manicured nails.

Nails painted black.

I nuzzle against her and smear Pink’s wetness across my cheek, feeling her incredible hotness seeping into my skin and into my tongue.

“It is Pink’s bed time.” He tells me.

“It is Pink’s bed time.” Orange(I...) repeats, her voice muffled, her mouth full of pussy. The vibrations of her husky voice move up Pink's body, enhancing the experience.

“It is Pink’s bed time.” Pink repeats.

“Orange is a good girl.” He tells Orange.

“Orange is a good girl-l.” Orange repeats, stuttering on her last syllable as a phantom digit inserts itself into her anus, curling and teasing, leaving the ghost of a most intimate kiss behind. Orange shivers.

“Orange is a good girl.” Pink repeats.

Orange stands up and grabs hold of Pink’s beautiful arm. Orange takes Pink to a chair by the wall, where all of the Colours of the Rainbow are sleeping on their Jacks. There is an empty chair for Pink – a brand new chair for a brand new Colour – a black chair bolted to the wall with silver arm rests and a plush seat for Pink’s firmed bum. Orange has pink stand in front of the chair.

“Sit down, Pink.” Orange commands.

Pink turns around and sits on the chair, the bulbous head of the chair’s Jack climbing rigidly up into Pink’s tight, newly remodelled pussy. Pink envelopes the twenty-inch connection – her body now completely able and accepting of the instrument – until she is completely filled, stretched from thigh to thigh, and settles into the seat with a quiet ‘click’. She gasps, twists her hips slightly to heighten the sensation, then sighs amid pure contentment, her jaw slack and her eyes glazed as the orgasm fills her, sprayed up from the bulbous tip of the contraption buried deep inside her.

“Go to Sleep, Pink.” Orange commands.

“Sleep...” Pink slurs.

Pink leans forward, slightly, with her arms limp at her sides, and her tremoring expression of lust dissipating into a blank stare. Her head dips, her neck becomes lax, and she closes her eyes. Red and Purple sleep silently on their Jacks to either side of Pink. Pink looks lovely among the Colours of the Rainbow.

“Orange is a good girl.” He tells her.

“Orange is a good girl.” Orange repeats.

Orange had done a brilliant job with Pink. Pink’s liquorice-red hair was pulled to each side and tied off with hot-pink ribbons into short, sporty, pigtails. Pink’s pigtails almost touched her shoulders, but her ribbons fell back against her shoulder blades. On Pink’s cheeks, Orange had painted cutesy freckles, and Orange had glossed Pink’s lips to a glimmering glassy shine. Delicately crafted, thick, raven-wing lashes accented Pink’s eyes. Orange was proud of her work, and of herself.

He was proud of Orange, too.

Orange shivered sweetly. Sweat rolled off her brow, a sudden rush coming over her...

The austere warehouse was quiet. An echo – the sliding of a handle – sounded off among in the steel rafters, followed by the systematic extinction of all light, save for one long row of bulbs. The Colours slept in their chairs, arms limp at their sides, waiting to be awakened come morning. I stood alone, now at the end of the night, feeling rather proud of myself. Pink could no longer be seen in the darkness, but in the last remaining light, against the grey metal wall, slept Yellow on the left and Green on the right, to either side of one last empty chair.

My chair.

I stretch my legs, take a light walk, and with absent-mindedness adjust my pretty neon-orange skirt. The bright pleated fabric clings loosely to my hips and I smile, feeling ever so delicious to be His pretty, sexy cheerleader – the leader of the pack. I spin in circles, fanning my skirt, enjoying the vast openness of the warehouse around me and the crisp, coursing, tickling draft that slithers against my exposed sex. I take a deep breath and exhale, like a sexy girl, enjoying the brisk night air.

I tread lightly with a bounce, then spin, twirl and dance – I work out all the kinks before being put to sleep, or before whatever He wishes me to do instead.

I expect sleep... expect to ride that hard, thick, chair-cock into dreamland.

Occasionally He surprises...

“Orange is a good girl.” He tells me.

“Orange is a good girl.” Orange(I...) repeats, stopping and standing straight.

“Orange is also a naughty girl.” He tells Orange.

“Very naughty.” Orange smiles, shivering, one finger dithering around a hard, pointed nipple through her orange varsity top.

Another echo – the sliding of a handle – sounds off among the steel rafters. Some of the warehouse lights go nova, illuminating themselves in a line from where Orange stands to a door on the far wall. It’s a good walk; Orange has plenty of time to prepare herself for the night.

“Orange will sleep with ‘him’, tonight.”

“Orange will sleep with Him, tonight.” Orange giggles.

Orange skips off towards the door, an excited look on her face and an insatiable appetite taking root between her thighs. Her long, straight, raven hair lashes at the night behind her.

Orange goes to bed.

The End