(This one kind of just happened. One detail differs from my other Imogen Heap caption that it's a sort of sequel to, feel free to ignore it or think of ways it still works if you notice.)
First there was Imogen Heap, brilliant singer-songwriter. Then there was Immi Heap, one of the nastiest, skankiest backup singers and dancers in the industry. Now...
"Immi! What did I say about staying up past your bedtime?"
There was Immi Grande-Swift, adopted daughter of two of the greatest pop stars in music.
She rolled her eyes. Pointing at her phone, streaming herself in PJs, she wished she could say this improved her lot. No more booty shorts, no more ass grinding, she had ceased her life as a sex object for the whims of a rapper for the comforts of domestic life.
The fantasy ended when Ariana Grande, 27, and Taylor Swift, 30, had laid out the rules they expected their forty year old kid to abide by in this jointly owned house. One of which became a stinging rebuke of any right to herself when she said it.
"Sorry mom."
She THOUGHT the duo would save her. With their clout and money, the two could have demanded respect for the woman they once claimed to cherish. Swift's songs, Grande's gloves, they had evidence from past collaborations to show how much Derulo's ownership by contract damaged what could be done with her talents.
They used it, too, to argue for her liberation from him... and into their much more lucrative hands. Derulo didn't need her sexy body for his act. Any woman had that. Where her value really laid was in the toys she could make for Grande, the songs she could write for Swift, and with a bang of the gavel they acquired her like so much property with a very clever extra special twist.
Yes, Immi did those things. Yes, before Derulo's contract, meaning full ownership as an adult. Until she wasn't one anymore. A bizarre quirk in the law meant that when freed, she was effectively a minor. Too young to drive, too young to drink, and certainly too young to own her own creative works. A responsible adult would have to take over. Who better than the women who knew her best?
Stripped of her status, Immi listened to her blonde mom's Hide and Seek while brunette mom stormed into her bedroom wearing her Grande branded Mi.Mu gloves.
"Do I HAVE to take your phone away?" Ariana said.
"No, no, I'm getting right off," Immi replied.
She didn't. Setting the phone sideways on her night stand, she hoped the stream would enlighten viewers to her plight as her home life unfolded on their screens.
"I swear, sometimes being your mom is a real drag."
'You could stop any time,' Immi thought, but she didn't dare say it out loud. These pajamas were bad enough without the shame of anything more girly. Every transgression was met with a dumbing down, until she found herself slipping into a pink bed, stuffed animals all around her. Her hand unconsciously slipped toward her crotch under the covers, until a flick of the finger from Grande's glove sent a shock through Immi's panties that forced her arm to retreat.
"Uh uh, no sex allowed, remember?" Grande chastised.
"But it's just"
"No buts," she insisted. "House rules, young lady."
Immi sighed. Her tiny nipples poked through her tight shirt. Every set of sleep wear had been chosen to emphasize her flat chest, which she abhorred now for adding to the story behind her status. But it was the only release allowed, so tweaking them in full view of the phone, she accepted a kiss on the forehead from her brunette mom and watched as Grande turned off the light and left.
The night lights came on. Stars glowed on her ceiling and walls. Biting her lower lip, she kept at her pathetic breasts, having forgotten her stream with the rising number of viewers and illicit recordings meant to capture the fallen songstress in her most natural element. She gasped, lipstick showing in the wide spot between her eyebrows and her girlishly styled hair. Her decorative flower headpiece used to be part of her professional look, but here it became an accoutrement to her childish life. Just when she felt she couldn't sink any lower, the next song came on through the speakers in her room.
The Happy Song. Unlike so many other of her songs, this one her mothers kept the original intact for the pure embarrassment of her old self singing her to sleep. It was a lullaby, scientifically proven, and here it droned on to do its duty on its maker.
If she could stop playing with her little tits.
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Imogen Heap's Two Moms
(This one kind of just happened. One detail differs from my other Imogen Heap caption that it's a sort of sequel to, feel free to ignore it or think of ways it still works if you notice.)
First there was Imogen Heap, brilliant singer-songwriter. Then there was Immi Heap, one of the nastiest, skankiest backup singers and dancers in the industry. Now...
"Immi! What did I say about staying up past your bedtime?"
There was Immi Grande-Swift, adopted daughter of two of the greatest pop stars in music.
She rolled her eyes. Pointing at her phone, streaming herself in PJs, she wished she could say this improved her lot. No more booty shorts, no more ass grinding, she had ceased her life as a sex object for the whims of a rapper for the comforts of domestic life.
The fantasy ended when Ariana Grande, 27, and Taylor Swift, 30, had laid out the rules they expected their forty year old kid to abide by in this jointly owned house. One of which became a stinging rebuke of any right to herself when she said it.
"Sorry mom."
She THOUGHT the duo would save her. With their clout and money, the two could have demanded respect for the woman they once claimed to cherish. Swift's songs, Grande's gloves, they had evidence from past collaborations to show how much Derulo's ownership by contract damaged what could be done with her talents.
They used it, too, to argue for her liberation from him... and into their much more lucrative hands. Derulo didn't need her sexy body for his act. Any woman had that. Where her value really laid was in the toys she could make for Grande, the songs she could write for Swift, and with a bang of the gavel they acquired her like so much property with a very clever extra special twist.
Yes, Immi did those things. Yes, before Derulo's contract, meaning full ownership as an adult. Until she wasn't one anymore. A bizarre quirk in the law meant that when freed, she was effectively a minor. Too young to drive, too young to drink, and certainly too young to own her own creative works. A responsible adult would have to take over. Who better than the women who knew her best?
Stripped of her status, Immi listened to her blonde mom's Hide and Seek while brunette mom stormed into her bedroom wearing her Grande branded Mi.Mu gloves.
"Do I HAVE to take your phone away?" Ariana said.
"No, no, I'm getting right off," Immi replied.
She didn't. Setting the phone sideways on her night stand, she hoped the stream would enlighten viewers to her plight as her home life unfolded on their screens.
"I swear, sometimes being your mom is a real drag."
'You could stop any time,' Immi thought, but she didn't dare say it out loud. These pajamas were bad enough without the shame of anything more girly. Every transgression was met with a dumbing down, until she found herself slipping into a pink bed, stuffed animals all around her. Her hand unconsciously slipped toward her crotch under the covers, until a flick of the finger from Grande's glove sent a shock through Immi's panties that forced her arm to retreat.
"Uh uh, no sex allowed, remember?" Grande chastised.
"But it's just"
"No buts," she insisted. "House rules, young lady."
Immi sighed. Her tiny nipples poked through her tight shirt. Every set of sleep wear had been chosen to emphasize her flat chest, which she abhorred now for adding to the story behind her status. But it was the only release allowed, so tweaking them in full view of the phone, she accepted a kiss on the forehead from her brunette mom and watched as Grande turned off the light and left.
The night lights came on. Stars glowed on her ceiling and walls. Biting her lower lip, she kept at her pathetic breasts, having forgotten her stream with the rising number of viewers and illicit recordings meant to capture the fallen songstress in her most natural element. She gasped, lipstick showing in the wide spot between her eyebrows and her girlishly styled hair. Her decorative flower headpiece used to be part of her professional look, but here it became an accoutrement to her childish life. Just when she felt she couldn't sink any lower, the next song came on through the speakers in her room.
The Happy Song. Unlike so many other of her songs, this one her mothers kept the original intact for the pure embarrassment of her old self singing her to sleep. It was a lullaby, scientifically proven, and here it droned on to do its duty on its maker.
If she could stop playing with her little tits.