Robot Ponygirls
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Focus Girl free porn video
FOCUS GIRL
By Bridgette
Quite truly, dear reader, the place offended my
sensibilities. Of course it did, really -- any young man
carrying a college degree in philosophy is unlikely to
enjoy the overbearing feminine silliness that characterizes
such a place as Claire's, the beastly store in the shopping
mall, which I had been forced to enter. Though my charmless
cousin is a putrid teenybopper, easily washed over by
trends and fads, she is nonetheless my cousin, and was
nonetheless turning 13 on the weekend. Not really the best
cousin am I, but I'd be willing to suffer a tad of such
indignity to mark her turning a year older. Of course,
we're not so close I'd go to a clothing store and pick
something out for her there -- we're not that close.
Hence I find myself staring at the bewildering array of
colorful and useless knickknacks, and jewelry, and what
have you. I was utterly lost, and wasn't thrilled with the
assault of cookie-cutter, meaningless music that blared
over the speakers of the store. You can imagine, then, that
I did not object when an employee came to offer my services
with a simple "Can I help you find something?"
Now, I assure you, I quite knew the answer to such a
question. But I was taken aback by my questioner. I suppose
I'd always figured a store such as this would hire
similarly vapid girls, maybe a bit older to ensure they
could do basic math, as employees. In other words, someone
who could reason why bracelet #64 would be a better choice
than bracelet #65. Instead, I am face-to-face with a cross
between Willy Loman and a turtle -- in front of me stands a
tall, gaunt man, a comb-over not in the least covering the
bald spot, and a face etched with such worry that he
projects the air of a man who will ensure Pepto-Bismol
never goes out of business.
Mind you, this all occurred to me in a flash -- in my 24
years, I've learned to hide away my less that pleasant
opinion of the plebeians who clog up so much of this world.
So I quickly explained my situation in bite-size pieces:
cousin turning 13, no idea what her tastes are, something
less expensive yet not obviously so. And my good man here
instantly responded: "Well, we have a new style of jewelry
which is going to be all the rage for girls like your
cousin. We don't have it up front yet, but if you'd follow
me out back, we can give you, shall we say, an advance
copy."
Well, corking, what? Not only would I end up giving little
Kaylee a gift, she'd actually get something good and before
anyone else, all courteous of dear cousin Isaac! I
willingly followed Harris (as his nametag labeled him) to
the crowded back. Sadly there were none of this little
accessories but salvation! A truck had just arrived in the
employee parking lot. So we redirected ourselves out back
to the garishly painted Claire's truck. I was following him
past a large black van (how I should have suspected! All
owners of black vans are incipient criminals!) with the
door open.
Educated to the heavens I am, a fighter I am not. So when
two burly gentlemen jumped me and hustled me in the van, I
had no time to react. I was rather in shock as Harris
jumped into the driver's seat, and the van took off. By the
time I start to struggle, the strapping lads who pulled me
into the van had thoughtfully buckled me down in the middle
seat, far from any window. I couldn't move an arm and had
to content myself with shouting insults.
"What in blazes is going on here? What kind of sales tactic
is this, you knavish Philistines? Let me out!" I commanded.
This was not turning out to be a good day for anything but
my vocabulary.
Turns out my erstwhile salesman did have a rudimentary
sense of humor. Talking to the man in the passenger seat,
he remarked. "Hear that, Paul? He wants out. Maybe you
should help." By all appearances, Paul is a doctor. I knew
that because, first of all, he was wearing a lab coat, and,
second, he immediately pulled out a needle whose contents
plunged into one of my immobile arms. And sure enough, I
was soon out.
***
I have no idea if I was out a week, a day, an hour. But in
retrospect, I must come to believe it was a week at least.
Regardless, I awoke to... well, nothing really. The room I
was lying in was pitch black... and I remained lying down
thanks to some sort of straps, which secured my wrists,
waits, ankles, and head to the bed. My body felt sore, my
head felt sore, and I still wanted out. But there was no
chance of that happening. I stared groggily up, trying to
wake up and orient myself, and I became aware of the
faintest soundtrack, just tickling the range of my healing.
The voice was a lot like my cousin Kaylee's --
remorselessly perky and young, high-pitched and clipped. I
could only make out some the words, but the cadence and the
content seemed to remain the same, almost hypnotic. As best
I could make out when I concentrated, the room was filled
with this soft voice declaring "I can never have too much
lip gloss... pigtails are so cute... I love shopping...
math is way too hard... cheerleaders rule... I am so boy
crazy... boys don't like smart girls..." and so forth. I
say, I didn't listen to it all, so hard it was to track.
Besides, I'd the vague feeling I'd had already listened to
it for quite some time.
Somebody clearly noticed that I had awoken, as images were
suddenly projected on the screen in rapid order as above
me. I couldn't help but look -- my head was fixed in that
direction by the restraint, and my eyes seemed to tear up
quite easily if I closed them for more than a split second.
A strange series of images they were too, and stranger
still was the feeling they endeavored. Half the images
seemed like the thoughts of the vapid girl whose voice
whispered in my ear -- interchangeable pop stars, make-up
products, magazines like 'Teen and Cosmo Girl, beanie
babies... These images led to a frankly enjoyable feeling
that spread from my right arm, as far as I could tell. The
remainder of the set was made of images that typically
bring joy to me -- symphonies, hockey games, advanced
technology, Lucy Liu -- only now they brought waves of
intense nausea and discomfort. I never though seeing Lucy
Liu would turn my stomach. Someone was obviously messing
with my head.
More days like this... how many I don't know. I phased in
and out, probably according to drugs they were pumping into
me. I never felt the need to eat, or to relieve myself, as
I lay on this bed. Eventually, I had grown accustomed to
this routine. So imagine my surprise when I awoke in a
bright room joined by two people I'd never seen before, and
two I had.
***
I was one of the people I'd never seen before. Blinking
aware the whitish glare, I noticed that I was shorter as
always -- about 5-6, but everything about me had changed...
for the worse. My inspection was short and perfunctory, and
I was wearing a hazy lavender robe that covered most of my
body. I did notice, however, that my hair had now grown to
below my shoulder blades, and was a flaxen yellow. My
nails, on my feet and hands, were longer, and my body hair
had disappeared. And I had an unpleasant notion that my
chest was protruded a bit more than I remembered. So
understandably, I squealed in surprise: "What is going on?"
I was rather quiet after that, stunned that I would even
squeal, never mind that it would come in a high-pitched,
feathery voice. I was on the verge of fainting, I think,
when Harris put a hand on my shoulder and handed me a glass
of water. I gratefully drunk it down, which settled my
nerves and oncoming nausea nicely. Harris then proceeded to
address me.
"I should think you'd be glad, dear. We've just made your
fantasy come true! We know the type of young man who skulks
around stores like that place I found you, buying trinkets
for their 'cousin' or 'neighbor.'" He actually formed
quotation marks with his hands. "Now you'll be able to go
in without anyone looking twice! Which you are definitely
encouraged to do."
"You see," he said, kneeling down next to me. "I represent
a consortium of companies who market their products to
young teens: Limited Too, Abercrombie and Fitch, Claire's,
what have you. To keep up with them, we could spend
millions of focus groups, asking questions that probably
won't get satisfactory answers, trying to dumb our
inquiries down so they can be understood. Do you realize
how hard it is to get a girl to tell us not what she thinks
would be cool, but what she'd actually buy?? And those
privacy and consent forms could drive a man crazy. So,
alternatively, we have you!"
"You're going to be a one-person focus group... a 'focus
girl', if you will. All your purchases are going to be
tracked, and your ideas carefully surveyed. Unobtrusively,
of course -- it's essential that you have a typical life of
a typical one of our customers. We're working hard to make
sure it's as normal as we can make it."
I was so furious I hardly noticed how pathetic my voice
sounded. "I'm a focus group? You kidnapped me for your
product research?! How dumb a move is that! There is no
way... I'm going to make your lives a living hell! When I
go to the cops and explain what's going on, you are gonna
be so screwed! You can't watch me all the time... let down
your guard once and bam!" Not bad for some rage, but not as
impressive when it sounds like pathetic mewling.
Harris looked at me for a moment, then leaned over to
murmur to Doctor Paul, who started making notes on his
clipboard. I caught only scraps of his conversation
"...diction still too... needs to be less aggressive..."
Finally he turned to me. "Really now. We wouldn't make it
that easy. Chloe -- that's your name now, by the way, has
all the requisite records, from birth to last summer's
camp. You have an easily traceable documentation that says
you are who you are. And naturally your dental imprint has
changed, as have your fingerprints. Your DNA is the same,
but should respond to typical tests a little differently.
If you go to a cop with a crazy story about being a man,
all he will see is a young girl who is fighting with her
mom and dad." At this, he gestured to Paul and a woman
who'd been silently watching -- a woman so nondescript that
after six months in her home I still have trouble telling
anyone what she looks like.
This struck me as a blow, but I was still determined to be
angry. "Maybe I'm stuck as a girl, but I'm still me on the
inside! And I'm not buying a damn thing for your research!
One pair of short, one T-shirt, all the time will be me!"
Paul cleared his throat before speaking. For such a
horrible guy, he has a nice voice. "Well, no, that's not
really true. We've done some remarkable things to your body
chemistry, as you'll soon find out. That water you had was
a complex mix of compounds that your body is frankly
addicted to, at this point. That nausea you felt upon
awakening is going to strike anytime you don't keep up with
that consumption. This once, we gave it to you in a glass
of water. In the future, you'll need to absorb them from
several places... consumption, through the skin, etc., all
at regular intervals. Here's a list of what your body's
improved neurology requires..."
I held the sheets of paper he gave me, peering at the tiny
print. Here I learned that I required 20 grams of
fluronitrocine per week in combination with trace amount of
red dye #15. In other words, useless information. Paul
watched me try to decipher the papers, before kindly
producing a second series of sheets, which put the
situation in clear, horrible language. "Think of these,
Chloe, as a translation of what you just saw. We've
sketched it all out for you."
"Required daily: 3 cubes of gum (bubblegum only), 1 ounce
of lip gloss, 2 grams of mascara, 2 ounces perfume, 1ounce
Noxzema..." The weekly sheet read in part. "1 pound cotton
candy, 3 ounces tan lotion, 5 ounces nail polish, 2 ounces
glitter..." I ruffled through the sheets, learning in
addition that I could no longer consume meat -- I was to be
a righteous Vegan -- and that the skin on my thighs had
limited tolerance for fabrics, meaning that I would be
spending most of my time in skirts or dresses.
At this point, I was defeated. Ordinarily, being consigned
to painting my fingernails semi-daily, eating large
quantities of bubblegum and cotton candy (both disgusting
for me) would have sent me over the edge. But instead, I
meekly followed Paul and Mamie -- Dad and Mom, I imagine,
into the next room to get dressed. I hesitated surely, but
one steady gaze from Paul, and I disrobed and pulled on the
entirety of what laid on the chair: a baby blue miniskirt,
and white peasant top with a lace-up collar, matching
platform heels, and a series of friendship bracelets and
beaded necklaces. I picked up my new megaphone-shaped purse
and walked out, cringing at the load clip-clop from my
shoes echoing down the hall, counterpointed from the
jangling caused by all my jewelry.
Sure enough, just as I got in the car, I started feeling
ill, and started to dig into my purse. I found a piece of
Bubble Yum and popped it into my mouth, ignoring the sickly
taste. I lined my lips with the only lip gloss I saw
(Strawberry Angel), and felt much better, physically.
Mentally, this demonstration only worried me. During the
long drive, I played with the bracelets on my wrist,
staring at the window at suburbia. Eventually, we pulled
into a pleasantly large house -- fit for a doctor, even a
corrupt one -- and I entered my new home.
I was rather quiet on entering the house, quite naturally.
I was less than thrilled, however, when Paul announced he
had a gift for me. Thankfully, it wasn't some twisted
sexual advance -- they all seem normal enough in that
respect -- but rather, a necklace with my name spelt out in
cursive, cast in gold. I gulped out a delicate thank you
while Paul fiddled with the catch behind me. Finally
satisfied, he invited to the living room for a chat. The
room was tastefully decorated, save for an inflatable,
garish chair with the words "princess" emblazoned on it. I
sat on the couch.
My "parents" glanced at each other, and much to my
surprise, "Mom" spoke for the first time. "Chloe, you're
probably wondering what I'm doing here. Paul, I imagine
you've figured out, is going to make sure you're body
behaves they way we want it to. Me, I'm a behavioral
scientist. My job is to make sure that you behave the way
we want you to."
"The folks at Harris' group offered me too much money to
turn this experiment down. They wanted me because I have
multiple doctorates and a reputation for knowing what makes
teenaged girls tick. And I'm here to make sure you tick the
same way. You'll be allowed to make many of your choices,
as restricted by your body, but as long as you live here,
I'll be helping you act and talk like a 13-year old girl --
the 13-year old girl we want in this house, understand?"
I nodded slowly, amazed that this shrinking violet had
seemed to transform into something fierce... mother-hen
syndrome I suppose. She continued, "Now, if you co-operate,
your life will be pleasant. If not, well..."
I don't know if she said anymore, as I leapt up at the
unpleasant tingling, a shock really, which seemed to
radiate through my body from my necklace. Mamie... Mom...
had produced a control and was watching me intensely. Ten
seconds into it, the feeling subsided, but her finger
remained poised above the control. "Can I be assured of
your cooperation?"
I gasped, nodding. I was catching my breath as she
continued "Now, that necklace will help you understand the
reality around here, as well as tell us where you are at
all times. If you try to remove it, you... well, you'll be
incredibly sorry. Now, can you think of anything you can do
to demonstrate your willingness to accept your situation?"
Looking down, I silently padded over, and lowered myself
into the inflatable chair. "My" chair. Both my parents
smiled as Mamie produced a sheet. "You don't have to do
this all alone. I'll be helping you learn what you will
need to understand. Here's a schedule of the classes I'll
be teaching you to get you to where you need to be."
And thus I learned how I'll spend my day. Seven hours a day
of courses in gossip, make-up, dance, hair, boys
(socializing with, evaluating, comparing, flirting with,
etc.), and all other manner of things. Soon enough, Mamie
spoke again. She seemed determined not to allow me to spend
too much time thinking. "Of course, you'll be dressed
appropriately for these classes. Now you'll find a stack of
magazines and some tins of house paint in the first room on
the right upstairs. I want you to decorate that room as you
think is proper for a girl like you."
What defiance I had left in me faded as my stomach started
to turn. Accepting defeat, I spritzed some floral perfume
on myself to quell some rolling discomfort as I went
upstairs.
At least the room is big, I thought, upon opening the door.
And sure enough, there appeared to be a few years' worth of
Cosmo Girl issues to complement the tins of brightly
colored paint and decorating supplies arranged in the
center of the room. The though of defiantly coloring the
whole thing plain white were quickly quashed by the feel of
the necklace on my collarbone -- and the camera looking
down at me from the corner of the room. Opening the topmost
issue of the magazine, I proceeded to cut out a poster.
***
"Chloe! Get down here!" That is SO typical. I'm almost
finished with this article for my homework and Mom needs me
again. How am I gonna be ready for my Celebrity class
tomorrow if I can't even finish?? And why are the articles
in this magazine so long! She knows if I can't finish the
article, I need to start all over from the beginning.
School is so hard!
But when Mom says come, I come. As always, I check myself
in the mirror before going down. Last week, I had changed
my top without redoing my nails and caught heck for not
having everything coordinate. And it was my fault... a red
top and dark blue nails, imagine! Not this time, though. I
looked pretty normal for a Thursday night: short
sandblasted denim skirt, with a pink rugby shirt up top...
my pink sequined bracelet on one hand that I made in class
two weeks ago, and my cherry necklace. Nails a matching
pink. I redid my lipgloss and pushed the hair out of my
eyes -- the tiara looks SO cute on me, but screws up my
hair, and came downstairs.
Harris... Mr. Tyler... was there. That meant bad news.
After every time Dad and Mr. Tyler talk to me, and give me
something to drink, something changes. Like, all I know is
I look at my old diary entries and they're filled with
words I don't understand. So I wasn't all sunshine as I
plopped down on my throne.
Most of it was the usual... what did I think of this store
or that thing. I told him how nasty those new headbands
were they were selling down at the mall, and how much I
loved my cotton candy perfume, and he took a couple notes
as always. But this wasn't about that... I could tell.
"Chloe, what's the one major difference between you and
other girls your age?"
I knew that saying I was really a boy, or used to be a boy,
is a big no-no. So I went with the obvious one.
"Well, I go to school here and don't really go out that
much. I don't even really have classmates."
Mr. Tyler nodded. "And do you have a yen to attend school?"
I didn't get it, and asked him why I would want to go to
school in China. I guess this was really funny... I didn't
get it, but smiled anyway like Mamie tells me to when I
don't understand.
"No, I meant do you want to go to school with all the other
girls, and er, boys?"
Well, duh, the only answer is yes. I told him so, and he
was all thrilled. He told me I'd be starting at East
Ashdown Junior High (go Tigercats!) starting next week in
eighth grade. To celebrate, we all toasted to the occasion.
I go another one of those nasty drinks I have to drink when
they want to mess with me. I could've faked it, but I avoid
being "tickled" by my necklace whenever I can. It's been a
week now since they had to do that.
Usually I only find out long after what the drink made me
do... sometime I can't even tell. But Mr. Tyler must've
been in a good mood. He looked and nodded, so Mamie asks me
"What do you think about boys, Chloe?"
That was weird, since like a third of my classes are about
boys. But I guess Mr. Tyler wanted to hear about it. So I
giggled like I always do and talked about how I though boys
were awesome and I was a little obsessed. I told him about
my favorite singers and everything.
"Well, that's great Chloe. We've been talking, and we've
agreed when you start school it will be time to start
dating," he said with a big grin on his face. I wasn't
totally thrilled, as that corner of the old me still causes
trouble. And the old me hated that idea. I guess it showed,
because Mr. Tyler turned all serious.
"Chloe, you don't have much of a choice. Your latest
cocktail is making two changes to you right now. In about a
month, you're going to have a new need to match what you
need from your lotions and make-up and all that. In a
month, you'll need, every two or three days, a certain
combination of enzymes, er, stuff, only available in one
place: the saliva of boys your age."
I must have still been red when Mom joined in. "You must be
so excited! I think the best way to show Mr. Tyler your
appreciation would be to recite that little poem you
learned last week, you know, about plums?"
Mom has always taught me that I should love to perform, so
putting a big smile on my face, I told Mr. Tyler that "A
peach is a peach, a plum is a plum, but a kiss ain't a kiss
without any tongue, so open your mouth, close your eyes and
give your tongue some exercise."
Mr. Tyler clapped which made me feel good, and then he told
me something else. And the second big thing is that your
legs are going to get real itchy and painful unless they
are brushed with some special chemical, and he said "Chloe,
there's only one place where that cloth exists. The
cheerleading uniforms my company is donating to the junior
high. So I hope you've been practicing."
So of course I HAD to show off a couple cheers Mom had me
write up. I was so excited anyway -- I had seen those new
uniforms and they're so cute. Two pieces in red and gold
with a big growling tiger on the top with EAJS in big
letters... they're like made for me! They were so happy,
and sent me up to my room while they talked about grown-up
stuff. Who cares, anyway? I had much more important things
to think about... what am I going to wear on the first day?
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