bimbonicolette

[bimbonicolette]

Bimbo-Chip 2.0

Emma rocked back and forth as the Bimbo-chip’s pleasure pulse rewarded her for her correct thought-form. Yes, she loved how it kept spiking her arousal. The part of her still capable of analytical thought had realised a long time ago that she was being re-written, new neural pathways growing as old ones were laid to waste.

New drives and urges were being slowly cemented in place, as the harvested meta-data of a million different letches and pervert’s browsing habits were compiled and squeezed into her mind. Panties lay at her ankles, soaked with arousal as she plunged her fingers into her needy snatch, teasing herself over and over, as the image of gang-bangs, cream pies and breast jobs filled her hormone soaked mind. 

She didn’t know she could be so aroused without cumming, but she loved every second of what was being done to her.  The chip installed into the back of her neck made sure of it, having installed an overwhelming fetish for brainwashing that had burst through her resistance like a speeding bullet.

Everything else just happened to flow through that same hole it had formed in her mental defences.

Trembling with arousal, she eased off, not wanting to tip herself over the edge prematurely.  No, that wouldn’t do.  She wanted its control over her to be total.   She would help it along, like an obedient girl, and mould herself into the slut it was programming her to be.

Emma felt her cunt quiver at the thought, flashes of erotic potential pinging around the inside of her mind, and there was no other to voice her acceptance than with a guttural moan of need.   

It hadn’t always been like this.

Hours ago, she had been an aspiring cybernetic engineer student hell-bent on making a name for herself in the rapidly expanding field of human augmentation. A keen intelligence and a childhood sitting on her father’s lap whilst watching old sci-fi shows had bred curiosity, and curiosity had turned into the pursuit of the bridge between humanity and electronics.  Compassion had seen her slide into the medical field, hoping to produce evolutionary steps that would benefit those whose bodies and minds had broken beyond the ability for natural medicine to repair. 

But she had run afoul of internal politics, and found herself threatened with budget cuts.

She had been determined to show them the error of her ways, and whilst the initial bonding had been painful, showing them that the technology was more than just a theory and a prototype had been worth it.

Except…

Except someone had altered the bios without her knowing.  Someone had altered the code on her computer, injecting the corruption into her on a level that she had no way to fight.

The old her would have been furious at what she was being subjected to, but this new, more fun-loving her worshipped the mysterious benefactors had done to her mind, body and soul.

Gone were the doubts.

Gone were the worries about deadlines, meetings, and having to justify her projects to the board of directors without the vision to see the value of her research.

Gone was the frumpy her, replaced by a girl whose only worry was finding enough cocks to jam into every hole.

That single thought triggered part of her new programming, the whine building in her throat as she searched for the VR headset she needed to complete the feedback loop.  She rushed, scattering papers that once had been important to her; papers she was no longer capable of understanding as the chip dialled back her IQ to make her a better pleasure puppet for what was to come.

Oh, god. She needed it.  

Her room was a mess by the time she found it laying under the table, next to the computer.  She giggled to herself, realising what a ditzy girl she must have been to not look there in the first place, and as it she sat back down, and mounted it on top of her head, she realised she could no longer tell if thee impulses  were of her own volition, or if the chip had somehow layered it into her psyche, growing the need to sacrifice all in order to feel that empty-headed bliss.  

Truth be told, she no longer cared, wanting to erase any distinction between her and the chip which laid claim to her, discarding the thought as she sat down and waited or the headset to receive the chip’s wireless handshake.

A tingling buzz filled her head as the feedback loop completed, and the visor sprang to life, filling her entire world with wonderful swirls that tugged at her to submit.

Smiling to herself, she relaxed, continuing to stroke back and forth over her lips, feeding the need of her greedy cunt that demanded stimulation.

Pleasure equalled programming, and programming equalled pleasure. 

A single, self-referring train of logic that left her fingers slick with wetness as she become more and more sensitive to touch.  She still ached to orgasm, but the obedience needed to edge had been one of the first subroutines installed, making it so hard to resist anything that came after.  

The speakers over each ear hissed to life, a soft feminine voice holding all the promise of sweet enslavement pipped into Emma’s ready ears.

“Relax,” ordered the voice.

Emma felt herself slump slightly, every muscle suddenly being filled with a deep and eternal heaviness that crept into her very soul.  Hours of unconscious tension flowed out with every breath as she surrendered herself to the sensation. 

“You will obey,”  came the next order, brooking no argument.

“I obey.” Emma whispered, the headset’s microphone picking up the permission and allowing the process to continue.

“You obey your chip.”

Emma whined a little, grinding against the seat to try as her fingers went to work teasing her glistening sex up and down with languid strokes, sometimes dipping in to explore further but always pulling back once the pleasure threatened to spike. 

“I obey my chip” She repeated, her voice dripping with arousal.

“You want to help your chip to take control,”

Oh, god, she did. She really, really did.  She let her fingers find her clit, delicately teasing it as she imagined the chip’s tendrils growing deeper into her brain, wrapping itself around her very core and never letting go.

“You want this. You need this.” Continued the voice, cool and calm.

“I want this… I need this…” Emma responded, her eyes glazing over as her face became increasingly slack, the process automating her as much as it was automating itself. 

“Good girl,” praised the voice.

Emma grunted softly, chasing the ghost of the promised orgasm echoing throughout her mind in reward for the correct thought patterns.  She had become the moth to the chip’s flame, circling it and getting closer and closer until it burnt her up and something better was reborn in her place.

Emma didn’t care; Emma obeyed.

[bimbonicolette]

Gwendolyn Sweet

[bimbonicolette]

[bimbonicolette]

Chloe Meadows

[bimbonicolette]

Subject Seventy-Four

CW: brainwashing, dollification, objectification, mind control

Hi hi~ if you enjoy my work, please consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi

Enjoy 🩷

Katya felt the bindings bite into her arms and legs, precise and unyielding, like the hands of a surgeon dissecting her free will. The synthetic cuffs cinched tighter with every breath, as if responding to her pulse. The restraint chair — no, the Conversion Frame, as they called it — tilted back until she was staring at the ceiling panels above, their sterile gray interrupted only by the descending helmet.

It locked into place with a hiss.

The world narrowed.

She tried not to flinch as the inner lining pressed against her scalp, warm and slick like skin that wasn’t hers. Electrodes clung to her temples. A sterile female voice began to speak in her ear, flat and toneless: "Welcome, Subject Seventy-Four. Calibration initializing. Please remain still."

She couldn’t have moved if she wanted to.

Then the lights came.

Not ordinary light — this was structured, weaponized. Pulses of brilliance strobed in fractal patterns, forcing her pupils to dilate, contract, adapt. Shapes bloomed across her vision, and with them came whispers — coded phrases in soft, slow repetition. Words she didn’t understand but couldn’t unhear — "be fuckable"

Her heartbeat slowed. Her thoughts didn’t race — they slipped. Slid down polished channels designed by someone who didn’t know her, and didn’t care.

Her name was Katya. She repeated it inwardly like a prayer. Her name was Katya. She had parents. A brother. A room with books. She had—

"Candidate Seventy-Four: Cognitive resistance detected. Adjusting tone."

The light changed.

Red, then blue, pulsing to the cadence of a wordless song.

Something else pressed in. Not sound, but the memory of sound, etched directly into her brain stem — a murmur that promised warmth, safety, peace — "be fuckable."

It would have felt so nice. So right. Katya’s eyelids drooped. Her muscles loosened in their restraints, yet she didn’t stop struggling. A protesting whine left her — and something hard slipped through her open lips.

She jerked, head thumping against the padded headrest.

A thick, smooth shape filled her mouth from cheek to cheek, flexing against her tongue.

The shock snapped Katya back to herself, her body thrashing, the hard plastic bucking and bobbing on her tongue. Saliva pooled around her gums.

"Candidate Seventy-Four: Response acknowledged. Engaging Protocol Seven." The light shifted. Green and violet now. Her pupils constricted, dilated, adapted. The lights pulsed, strobed, shifted.

They started to flicker in her vision, her head feeling strangely heavy from her tongue's full weight as her jaw slacked around the thick plastic shape.

Then, a deeper, richer color flooded in. She moaned, her eyes rolling up. And she felt, somewhere beyond the smolder of the light, beyond the soft, rhythmic whispers that had begun their inexorable erosion of her self, a tingling.

In her cunt — her pussy — her slit.

She groaned again, not realizing how her hips rolled forward to grind at nothing. Desperate her core sought delectable friction. Her body craved sensation, movement, pleasure.

"Be fuckable," the whispers echoed.

The lights pulsed brighter, her core burned, and her lips puckered out, taking the hard, thick shape in her mouth further inside her. Her vision was blurry. She couldn’t focus — except on that insistent whisper and the building warmth. "Be fuckable." Her inner thighs clenched and relaxed, as though squeezing to soothe a desperate, insatiable ache.

Her breathing deepened — slowed to a languid draw with every inhale.

Her name was Katya. She had parents. And shelves filled with toys — she shook her head — no that seemed wrong. But she had something. Some things she cared for.

Her name was Katya, she told the warmth in her hips. She couldn’t forget her name.

She was—

The lights.

"Candidate Seventy-Four." The clinical voice again, as if it could penetrate the miasma of her thoughts. "Mental resistance by Sixty-three percent. Increasing intensity."

Katya's name — her name—

The light's radiance increased, a brilliance that should've been painful, yet it caressed like sun-warmed honey, soaking through her eyelids. Shapes morphed — pulsating, hypnotic mandalas that lured, teased, and commanded. They didn’t ask for her name — only to "be fuckable."

She couldn’t think of a reason not to. Couldn’t form a sentence beyond an incoherent murmur.

Her eyes widened. It was so bright. She wanted it.

The heat in her hips grew — spread. And something hummed against her clit.

Her name was—

Her name was—

"Subject Seventy-Four: Mental resistance by forty-two percent. Engaging physical modification module." A sensation crept over her skin. Tactile, like fingertips. But these didn't simply stroke; they sculpted. "Candidate Seventy-Four will be reshaped according to specifications."

The light danced as her clothes were stripped off, the sound of tearing cloth a mere undertone to the music playing inside her, plucking her heart like strings.

Her breasts, which were already heavy, seemed to grow in the open air. Her nipples hardened. Her chest pushed higher, tighter, and rounder as the fingertips pinched and molded.

A soft whine escaped her, as much in protest as in pleasure.

This was — this was — this was —

Thoughts circled and broke apart.

Her breasts pushed higher, her chest grew tighter, and her nipples ached with an urgency that echoed the building sensation in her hips.

She moaned, an inarticulate sound that rose and fell with the cadence of the pulsing lights.

Her name was — "Be fuckable," the light commanded.

She groaned around the thick, smooth thing between her lips, tasting its hard shape in the same instant she became aware of another presence. Not the whispers or the fingertips, something new.

A gentle but unrelenting insistence spread her thighs — filled her from the front and from behind. A stretch in two parts — one deep within her wet core, and the other an unexpected but not entirely displeasing sensation at her rim.

"Be fuckable," the voice chanted.

She nodded — moaning as the shapes filled her and filled her and filled her.

"Subject Seventy-Four: Mental Resistance thirteen percent. Integrating new personality profile."

There was no resistance anymore.

And no objection from her — whoever she was.

Instead, her body arched, muscles pulling at the cuffs that now felt like warm hands on her wrists, on her ankles.

The words that trickled into her empty mind told her to "be fuckable." The fingers that played across her bare body — touching, molding, pinching, stretching — told her to be fuckable.

And she wanted to — needed to —

"be fuckable"

Yes.

The light's brilliance intensified, now a near-physical presence that pressed in on all sides. It was more than light; it was her self. The source of everything she knew and wanted to know.

And it wanted her to "be fuckable," and who was she to question?

Who was—

Doll Seventy-Four accepted her designation.

A groan left her as the pulses of light continued to beat on her exposed, flushed flesh. As her chest expanded, her breasts growing heavier and more sensitive under the fingers — so many fingers, caressing her nipples now — they hardened and she wanted to—

Wanted—

The lights told her. The light taught her.

Her body arched into the hands of the Conversion Frame — seeking, yearning for the bliss they promised.

"Be fuckable," the machine whispered, and she felt the thickening at the root of the hard plastic shape in her mouth.

Yes.

That was Doll Seventy-Four's whole purpose.

"Subject Seventy-Four: Mental and physical process finished. Releasing Doll Seventy-Four for inspection." The light retreated.

The fingers peeled off, leaving trails of sensation that rippled across Doll Seventy-Four's redefined shape. Her breasts settled into a proud arch above a nipped waist — and lower still, a sex that ached for fulfillment.

But that wasn't for her to decide. Not anymore. Now she existed for someone else's desire.

With a faint click, the smooth objects filling her mouth and both holes slid free, leaving her gasping — and empty. The Conversion Frame placed Doll Seventy-Four on her feet. And, even though her vision was blurry from the residual afterglow of the lights, her posture was erect, balanced on feet that curved in a permanent stance, as if on invisible heels. A mirror materialized in front of her.

"Be fuckable." That's what she had been told. She stared at her new reflection. Her lips looked thick and soft — her breasts were heavy — and her waist nipped tightly between wide hips.

Her lips curled into an inviting whisper. "I’m fuckable," her mind declared. Her inner thighs were slick and wet.

"Doll Seventy-Four. State your name and purpose."

"Doll Seventy-Four," she said slowly, her voice slightly slurred by lips still tingling from the oral treatment, "is made to be fuckable." The sound of the words felt as natural as the shape of her now lush and yielding breasts.

"Affirmative. Doll Seventy-Four will dress for the following product assessment." A wardrobe unit emerged from a nearby panel, sliding into view with a quiet hum. Inside hung an array of skimpy, suggestive outfits.

"Be fuckable," she whispered again. Doll Seventy-Four turned and approached the display, her hand already reaching to select the most provocative of the garments — because she knew it would please and that's all that mattered.

[bimbonicolette]

Venus Marquez

[bimbonicolette]

Good girls Reblog!

CW: bimbofication, brainwashing, corruption,

Hi hi~ I hope everyone has a lovely day~

If you liked this story, please consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi

Enjoy 🩷

Maria hadn’t expected much from the post when she reblogged it. It was just a silly little phrase she saw floating around her feed, nestled between memes and aesthetic photos: "Good girls reblog to make more good girls."

She smirked, clicked reblog, and moved on.

At first, it was just a joke between her and her friends. They all joined in, tagging each other, sending the phrase like a digital chant, a game for late nights when everything felt a little too quiet. But after a few days, Maria started to notice something strange. Not about the post—about the girls.

Sarah, for instance, started wearing leather and shining black that she used to laugh at. Dani, who had always cursed like a sailor, now apologized every time she slipped up. And Liza — Liza, who’d once hacked the school’s attendance records for fun—was baking cookies. From scratch.

It was subtle at first. Almost funny.

But Maria couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed. She asked around her friends, but all she got as an answer were flashing gifs of scantily clad women — and that one insistent phrase: "Good girls reblog to make more good girls."

Maria stared at the post. Her heart seemed to thump, slow, hypnotizing.

But it’s just a game, right? she thought.

With a trembling hand, Maria hovered the cursor over the post and reblogged it. Like a good girl.

A strange shiver raced down her back. It felt like a whisper, like silk, or maybe it was just a chill from the AC.

Maria couldn’t shake the sense that she had started something she didn’t quite understand.

All her friends immediately reblogged it again — a flood of "good girls," filling her feed.

She swallowed hard, a lump growing in her throat. She was scared. No, excited. The feeling fluttered low in her belly. "Good girls reblog to make more good girls." A simple phrase that was making her feel — weird.

Her hand drifted over her laptop's mouse pad and clicked once again.

Good girl. Another reblog. And a third. Before Maria even realized what was happening, the post became a constant rhythm, echoing from screen to screen. And every click sent an almost electrical jolt of pleasure through her body, from her fingers to her toes, curling in her belly. The next time she added an image of her own. It was a blonde woman with big breasts and big red lips wearing a string bikini in front of an ocean at sunset. And the words. Always the words. "Good girls reblog to make more good girls."

Click, reblog. Again and again, Maria felt like she was on a rollercoaster ride. And then it stopped. Maria was left panting, flushed. The screen glowed softly in front of her, her feed flooded with that simple phrase.

A personal message tore her from her trance. Liza had sent it, her usual sarcastic greeting replaced with, "Good girl~" A winking emoji stared back at Maria, its exaggerated eyelashes almost mocking. "Here is something all good girls should listen to." Attached was an audio file simply titled "For good girls".

Hesitant at first but drawn in by curiosity, Maria pressed play. What she heard wasn't what she'd expected. It started with a soft, seductive whisper, a feminine voice that caressed her ears. White noise and soft tones layered in the background, adding to the experience. It was almost melodic. The woman spoke about being a "good girl." Maria could feel a deep relaxation wash over her as her muscles loosened.

Before she knew it, she had fallen into a deep sleep.

***

Maria woke to the familiar tune of her phone alarm and found herself nestled among the plush fabric of her pink comforter. Blinking against the soft morning light filtering through her sheer curtains, she reached out to silence the alarm and gently sat up on her soft bed. With a gentle yawn, she brushed her silky auburn curls away from her face, her slender fingers catching a few tangles as she did. The smooth texture of her satin pajama shorts clung softly to the supple curves of her thighs as she swung her long, lithe legs over the edge of the bed and onto the plush rug below.

Buzzing, her phone alerted her of a post. She leaned to grab the device from her nightstand. Her friends had tagged her yet again. The words, "Good girls reblog to make more good girls," greeted her. An involuntary smile spread on her plump lips, the corners of her hazel eyes crinkling with amusement as she indulged in this little ritual.

Good girl, she thought and reblogged, attaching a photo of herself wearing her favorite lingerie, her creamy, tanned skin nearly spilling out of a pink, silk teddy. The lingerie accentuated every inch of her supple body. Her long legs, perfectly manicured fingers, and her wide eyes made for the perfect selfie. Her auburn locks fell in a cascade over her shoulder, a splash of fiery red against the soft pastel of her sheets.

When had she shot that? The memory felt like a whisper from a dream, the specifics of taking the picture just beyond her grasp.

Oh well. The thought evaporated as she typed out a quick message: "Tagging all my gorgeous besties — Sarah, Dani, Liza — show us your best!"

A few taps of her perfectly manicured fingers, her pink nails sparkling against the screen, and the message was off, her friends immediately responding in turn.

As Maria watched her feed fill with their stunning images, a sudden, inexplicably pleasurable jolt shot up from between her legs. A shockwave, unexpected and thrilling. She gasped softly, her hand involuntarily drifting lower. Her breath caught in her throat as her fingers grazed the silky fabric of her panties.

Confusion and curiosity danced on the edge of her consciousness, but it was the feeling between her thighs that demanded her attention most. Slowly, she pushed the silk fabric aside, revealing the dampness that greeted her.

Smiling she positioned two of her perfectly manicured fingers and pressed softly on the swollen bud. The slick, wet feel of herself sent shivers of excitement and intrigue down her spine.

"Good girls edge their minds away," she breathed out loud, her voice echoing slightly against the silence of the room. With each careful movement of her fingers, the sensation intensified, waves of heat spreading outward from that small point on her body. The heat seemed to build, pulsating in a steady rhythm. "Good girls — don't need to cum," she panted, the pleasure building, threatening to spill over, yet somehow held back, a dam ready to burst yet kept under control.

An alert from her friends snapped her out of her trance — another message. A familiar message.

Her fingers were drenched, coated with evidence of her near release.

She smiled, the sensation delicious, frustrating and perfect.

"Good girls," she whispered, "reblog to make more good girls."

Her friends hadn't stopped either, a steady stream of images filling their feeds, each one pushing the bar higher, revealing more of their bodies in new ways.

Dani posted an image of herself in her bedroom, clad only in a skimpy bralette and thong, the fabric of the set a deep blue that contrasted strikingly with her pale skin, her straight black hair framing her round, child-like face that looked nothing like her twenty-three years would indicate. Her almond shaped eyes stared at the camera with a look that screamed: "Fuck me," while her right hand caressed her inner thigh, just a few centimeters from her covered, swollen sex. She had tagged everyone, her comment reading, "Tag, we’re all good girls," her usual eloquent, witty banter nowhere to be seen.

Liza's response came within seconds, a video. It showed her on a yoga mat, wearing a strappy set of workout clothes, the tiny, tight shorts accentuating her ass, the sports bra just barely containing her breasts. The scene seemed innocent enough — but it was her voice-over that made Maria's cheeks flush red: "I think good girls could use a stretch — a really good stretch, if you know what I mean. Tagging all the good girls I know — Sarah, Dani, and Maria, for a virtual stretching party."

And there was Sarah's post, the final straw in this game that had started as a silly meme but now seemed to be something more. She posted an image of her sitting on a chair, a riding crop in her hand, caressing the supple skin of her breasts, the sharp lines of the crop contrasting with her curves, which were accentuated by her tight, leather pants that seemed like they had been painted on. Her fiery red hair fell in cascades down her shoulders, and her blue, steely gaze pierced the lens of the camera as if daring it — and everyone watching — to challenge her.

A flurry of messages, images, and gifs ensued, a visual orgy flooding Maria's feed. She had to add something — reblog it all.

But first, a change was in order. The teddy she wore was alluring but no longer enough. With swift, deft hands, Maria reached for her satin nightshirt and let her teddy slide down to her waist. The silk clung momentarily to the firm swell of her breasts and her hips before slipping off. A shiver passed over her as her nipples hardened in the cool morning air.

Next to be discarded were her panties. A tug at her hips sent the smooth, sleek garment falling. Maria could almost taste the arousal in the air. It smelled sweet — the heady scent of sex, an unmistakable fragrance.

Steady, she stalked to her wardrobe and found herself gravitating towards her lingerie collection.

Pink caught her eye, a hue that screamed seduction and innocence rolled into one. This set consisted of delicate, whisper-thin lace cups that fit snugly against her breasts. The cups barely contained them — a tantalizing display of femininity — their soft texture against her hardened nipples a contrast of sensation.

The bottoms of her new lingerie were even more daring: a barely there pink thong that disappeared between the round curves of her buttocks. The triangle of lace at the front just covered her sex, while a string connected it to the waistband that settled neatly at the dip of her back — an image that would surely leave a trail of thirst in its wake.

Finally, she grabbed her black, open-toe high-heeled pumps with straps that elegantly wrapped around her slim ankles. The heels weren't for walking — no, they were for height and for style. A guilty pleasure she had bought and never used before.

Maria stood in front of the mirror, a picture of lust and desire, the morning light casting shadows that only emphasized her curves. She bit her plump, lower lip and posed, a vision in black and pink. With the flash, a click — the new picture joined her friends'.

The response was immediate — likes, shares, and comments pouring in, a storm of digital appreciation. Each new note caressed her swollen core. She had to play along, show them just how much of a "Good Girl" she was.

The reblogs started, the words on her lips before even reading the posts, the familiar phrase spilling from her mouth, a ritual chant: "Good girls reblog to make more good girls."

She lost count after a while, each press of the reblog button punctuated by another wave of heat washing over her.

"Such a Good Girl~," Sarah had commented on one of her reblogs, the message attached to an image of a pink, heart-shaped toy — its shape, purpose unmistakably lewd.

"Fuck — that looks good," Dani chimed in, attaching an image of a collar made from pink, supple leather. A heart-shaped lock hung from the front, glinting menacingly under the light. "Should every Good Girl wear this?" she asked, the question dripping with insinuation and wanton need.

Dani had tagged Liza in her post, and it didn’t take long for her friend to follow along with a reblog, her usual biting humor replaced with an image of a glistening pink butt plug. It sparkled with a hint of lube, its contours smooth, ready to penetrate any "Good Girl’s" willing and waiting rear. "And this is a must-have accessory — every good girl needs one." She had added a wink at the end of the post, her usual sarcastic tone turned sultry.

They all shared images of lewd items, but the way their feed was structured, there was only one logical conclusion: Sarah's riding crop needed a photo of Maria's ass.

Maria felt her skin prick with heat — her nipples hardening, her mouth dry with want — as she bent over.

She posed provocatively in front of her mirror, admiring the view with a seductive smirk.

Click — a flash illuminated her bedroom, and she was quick to tag her three friends, their names now synonymous with unbridled passion.

"Are you ready to give your girl a good smack on her rear, Sarah?"

It felt naughty and thrilling, and the rush was instant — as was Maria's realization that something fundamental had changed. A cold wave of realization crashed over her, a stark contrast to the heady heat that had just possessed her.

Looking at her reflection, Maria could not believe what she just did. Her heart skipped a beat, the echo pounding in her ears.

Something was absolutely wrong.

"Good girls rub their minds away," Maria whispered, her hand gliding under her pink lace panties to meet the damp, hot need between her legs.

Her mind was filled with thoughts of how Sarah's riding crop would feel smacking across her bare flesh and her friends watching and joining in.

But she knew that was not normal. It couldn't be. Something had changed in her — in all her friends. A seed had been planted in each of them, growing quietly, steadily, waiting for its moment to bloom into a reality she could not quite understand.

Her fingers, slick and hot, played with herself as a small moan escaped her parted, plump lips.

Sarah was the first to answer. She sent a personal message — a video. It began with Sarah sitting on the same chair from before, her legs seductively crossed, her leather pants shimmering in the dim light. In her hand, the riding crop moved like an extension of her arm, a predator's claw poised to strike. And cracked.

The sound — sharp, clear — sent another jolt of wanton pleasure through her body.

Sarah's lips parted, the crimson lipstick stark against her pale skin, as she spoke.

"Oh, Maria," her voice, a velvet caress, filled her ears, and the screen of the phone. "Your ass would be the perfect canvas. Be a good girl and listen to this." An audio file was attached to the video. "Good Girls, Slutty Bimbofication."

Her heart thudded hard against her ribcage, the tension in the air thick, almost suffocating. Maria's fingers continued to play with her sex, her swollen, needful clit aching for release.

Her finger hovered over the play button, the screen casting an ethereal glow on her flushed cheeks.

She had to resist, she had to—

Her finger found its mark on the play button. The voice was low and sultry, its resonance echoing deep within Maria's core, stirring her senses like never before. A phrase slipped through the haze — and Maria's world vanished into darkness.

***

Giggling, Maria stretched and fluttered her eyes open. Pink walls greeted her, a soft, fuzzy texture against the warmth of the room. She rolled to the side and blinked a few times to orient herself.

"Hey, Maria is finally awake," a cheerful voice to her side spoke. Looking down, a beautiful girl with dark hair and full pouting lips greeted her with a wide smile. Dani looked up, kneeling beside her. "You looked so cute when sleeping — I had to touch you a bit. Hope you don’t mind." Dani licked her fingers suggestively.

Maria giggled and hugged her close. "Nu uh. That's totally okay. But where like am I," Maria asked, her words slurring slightly with her excitement as she pulled back to see the other girls. Sarah was sitting in a plush chair on the side of the bed, and Liza knelt at her feet. They both looked up from whatever they were doing. Sarah's red hair cascaded around her perfect face, her bright blue eyes piercing with a look of excitement.

"This is our new home, silly. A special place for very good girls. Each of us has their own room. And this pink monstrosity is yours. A bubbly space for a bubbly bimbo," Sarah answered with a melodic laugh.

"Oh!" Maria exclaimed, her bright, vacant gaze reflecting in the mirror at the side. "I like don't remember getting here," Maria murmured, her mind trying to catch up with her present situation.

Dani hugged her again and turned Maria's gaze to her own, staring deep into her hazel eyes. She licked her full lips seductively before continuing to whisper. "Does that matter? Good girls don't think — good girls obey."

"Yes," Liza murmured from the corner, her voice heavy with longing as Sarah slowly caressed the riding crop along the edges of Liza's full, luscious breasts.

"Good girls play their roles," Sarah moaned, flicking her wrist with just enough force to let the riding crop slap lightly against the sensitive tips of Liza's nipples, causing her to quiver with ecstasy.

Maria's hands drifted between her legs. "But I want to know what like happened to me."

Sarah stopped playing with Liza, who groaned with the loss. The redhead pushed her aside and stalked towards Maria with the grace of a predatory feline, her steps measured and sure. When she arrived in front of Maria, Sarah leaned in close until their faces nearly touched.

"Master was right, you are resisting even now," she murmured under her breath. She placed her finger under Maria's chin and raised her head up slightly. "But that will change. Just remember one simple mantra."

Sarah leaned closer to whisper into her ear, "Good girls rub their minds away. Now do it, my darling." She trailed her perfectly manicured nails across the smooth expanse of Maria’s exposed skin, the touch feather-light yet electric, leaving shivers of gooseflesh in its wake.

Sarah's breath against Maria's neck felt like the caress of velvet on bare skin, her voice, husky and commanding, resonated in the bimbo’s core, "Don't think. Just edge. And once that's done. We can have more reblog fun," She whispered, her voice a smooth blend of honey, silk, and a hint of wicked amusement, her lips curved in a teasing smirk.

A tremor raced down Maria's spine, settling between her legs, where her swollen, slick core yearned, as her fingers teased and circled, the delicious rhythm a tantalizing tease of things yet to come.

[bimbonicolette]

Selina's Drift

CW: hypnosis, unaware, degradation, bimbofication

Hi hi~ Today it's a shorter piece~

If you liked this story, please consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi

Enjoy!

Selina never meant to fall into it.

It started as background noise. A curiosity she stumbled across late one night, half-asleep, earbuds in. A soft voice. A spiral, slow and pink, turning endlessly in the corner of her screen. She watched it without meaning to. Listened without really noticing.

'Hypnosis isn’t real', she thought at the time. 'It's just a trick of words and timing.'

Still, she came back the next night. And the one after.

She told herself it helped her focus. That the repetition was calming, almost meditative. Something to quiet the noise in her head. It wasn’t like she felt different. Not at first.

But the sessions got longer. The files grew stranger. The voices softer, more familiar. Sometimes they sounded like her own thoughts, echoing in her mind. Sometimes she’d blink and realize an hour had passed. Or more. She’d forget what she had meant to do.

She didn’t mind.

It was subtle. She stopped wearing black so much. Her wardrobe brightened, gradually — so gradually that she didn’t notice until she caught her reflection one morning and blinked. Her lips seemed pinker, somehow. She was wearing a tight, cropped tank that she didn’t quite remember buying.

Was her hair more blonde?

Selina didn’t think much of it. Didn’t remember to think about it. There was so much to do. She needed to keep busy. Maybe, at some level, she was growing out of her all-black phase, embracing something lighter. The voice whispering through her headphones seemed to agree. Her hair did look nicer, more gold — or maybe more platinum.

A change, for sure. She didn't really mean to do anything. But, well — the voice was so soft, so comforting, a lilting rhythm in her thoughts. The videos she watched helped, too, in a way. There was always something new: another pattern to follow with her eyes, a pretty face smiling back at her.

'I keep listening to files and watching spirals for hours because it doesn't really affect my brain,' she thought, the idea blooming unbidden in the depths of her consciousness.

The next time Selina dressed for a night out with her friends, she didn’t think about her outfit. Her feet slipped into high, tight heels. Her thighs, newly tanned, barely squeezed into the dress she’d thrown on, and she admired the curves in the mirror. 'I change the way I dress to please,' the words came. 'And I don’t notice that I’m changing anything.' She put her lipstick on slowly. The colour was almost lurid — deep, red. Whorish, she thought, as it should.

Her friends were surprised by the difference, of course, but they complimented her more inviting looks. A few said they wished they could have a night of just not worrying — of being a bit looser with their clothes and their rules. She found that odd, because she had not been trying to be loose, and she would never change anything about how she behaved or dressed.

'I change the way I treat men,' she told herself on the walk there. It felt so right, so obvious, when it came into her mind. 'I change the way I react to them using me.' She nodded and giggled, smiling a broad smile. That's what all this had been for — not just changing her clothes and makeup, but changing who she was.

It was better to be more submissive to men, she knew now.

It was easier.

And it didn't matter anyway, since she wouldn't change the way she behaved. She had always flirted the whole night long, hinted at something more — the throbbing between her legs begging for release.

The following days all disappeared in the familiar pink haze of the spirals, her thoughts melting away. 'I started to forget how long I would spend edging but I wasn't worried because it's normal to edge the entire day,' she heard in the morning, and it was hard to care because her fingers were already working. She didn’t know how they’d gotten into her new, black lacy panties, or why she’d bought new panties. It was like she blinked and it was already night again. But that was normal.

She didn’t notice how often the voice repeated that. Her memory wasn’t working quite the same lately.

One night she listened to a file. It was telling her to walk. And so Selina walked through her apartment in slow circles. She didn’t feel scared. Or strange. The voice just taught her how to roll her hips as she strutted. That was all. She didn’t have any problem doing it.

There were more videos now, more often, and she found her eyes following them constantly — at her desk, at home. It was nice to have some company. They repeated and echoed. Even without headphones in, Selina heard what they meant. What the voices said.

All until a concerned friend called her a slut. And then everything seemed to slot into place. Like a haze clearing. 'I changed my brain,' Selina knew, suddenly. Embarrassed she rushed home. Gulping she tried to resist the urge to plop down in front of her computer — to get back to being normal.

But inside her mind a thought bubbled up: 'There's no going back to "normal". I belong here. This is all I am now, everything else is just gone, I sink deeper, and deeper.' She stared, her gaze glued to the spiraling shape on the screen. 'It will change my mind, make it better.'

Her fingers circled her clit faster, more desperately. 'All the things I do to make me feel good,' her brain supplied. 'I can never stop. I will keep on being like this. Keep feeling this way. Keep getting worse and worse.'

She moaned out, low, heavy. She didn't care how it sounded, she knew how it should sound. Needy, desperate. Hot and heavy. Selina watched the spirals in her screen.

And every possible doubt vanished. Her eyes opened, bright, and her smile spread, broad across her face. The spirals swayed in front of her. She knew she didn’t need to feel sad or ashamed or embarrassed anymore. She didn't have to worry. She had her voice, her spiral. She could listen, and do whatever she was told.

Because Selina was nothing — just a whore.

[bimbonicolette]

Lyra becomes Krystal

CW: brainwashing, corruption, bimbofication, personality erasure

Hi hi~ Another short piece to enjoy. If you liked this, please consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi. Enjoy 🩷

The room pulsed with soft, pink light, a rhythmic glow that seemed to echo the beat of Lyra's heart. She sat in a velvet-cushioned chair, her back straight, eyes half-lidded, lips parted ever so slightly. The gentle hum of the speakers wrapped around her like a warm fog, whispering sweet nothings that slid through her mind like silk.

She didn’t remember how long she had been there — time had melted into nothing. Words had become music. Thoughts had become — quiet.

“Lyra,” the voice cooed from the speakers, rich and syrupy, “are you a good girl?”

Her lashes fluttered. A flicker of resistance might have stirred in her once — but now, it was met with a ripple of pleasure, a Pavlovian reward for the right answer.

“Yes —” she breathed, the word spilling out of her with a dreamy sigh. “I’m a good girl.”

“Are you a bimbo, Lyra?”

A smile bloomed across her lips, automatic and sunny, as if her mind had been wired to delight in the question. “Mmhmm — yes! I’m a bimbo.”

Again a shiver of bliss caressed her core.

"Are you a hypnoslut?" The voice asked in a tone both soft and seductive. Lyra didn't recognize it. Didn't remember where she'd come from.

"Umm. Maybe," she said with hesitation, her smile faltering.

A loud buzzing sound snapped at the air, making her jump as the warmth faded.

The voice returned. "Good girls always answer yes, Lyra." It was still sweet, still cloying. Still as soft and rich and delicious, but there was a sternness that hadn't been there before — a sharpness in those honeyed words. "And you are a good girl, right?"

"Yes." The word came without thought. The smile was back on her lips. Something about it was soothing — irresistible — but that didn't stop the prickling sensation of wrong, a tiny, far-off alarm bell ringing.

"Are you a bimbo?"

"Yes!" A blush rose on Lyra's cheek, a self-conscious warmth.

The speakers purred, a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate against her bones. "Are you a slut, Lyra? Are you my hypnoslut?”

Lyra bit her lip, squirming under an invisible pressure, as though something had shifted inside her. That nagging feeling that this was wrong — so wrong — skittered beneath the haze, a discordant note in the sweet symphony of words. And yet — she nodded. Slow, uncertain, a furrow of confusion between her brows. "Yes, I am a hypnoslut."

The rush that came then, in that instant of surrender — of giving in to the words that filled the room and seemed to soak her to the bone — it felt so right, so warm and soothing, a wave of pure pleasure that washed away any uncertainty. It felt so good that her breath caught, a sound between a gasp and a moan.

"Good girl." Lyra's chest swelled at the praise. "Hypnosis is good, isn't it?"

Again the alarm rang, a faint and far-off warning, and again it was drowned out by that irresistible, inescapable flood of warmth as Lyra murmured her answer. "Yes."

She didn’t remember how long she sat in the chair, the voice guiding her through its soothing questions. But it didn't matter anyway. All Lyra cared about was the pleasure of answering yes, that giddy thrill of submission that lit her up from the inside, the way it made everything else — every hesitation, every thought, every flicker of resistance — seem to fade away, leaving only the blissful haze of the present, the warmth of the voice's commands.

"Hypnosis is real, Lyra, and it's making you more and more bimbo," it said in the same soft. “It feels good to be hypnotized and it makes you so very, very bimbo. Bimbo, dumb, and horny."

"Bimbo —" The word was slow on her lips, wrapped in a dazed, languid sort of wonder. The alarm had dimmed, muted by that tide of bliss that washed through her whenever she gave the answer she was supposed to, the only answer there was: "Yes."

"You are becoming so very dumb. So bimbo. And so horny too, Lyra. Can you feel that?"

Again, her mind pushed back at the idea of agreeing to this, some part of her knowing that this was so wrong, so perverse. She had to fight this! Yet when her eyes flicked towards the doorway, her mouth began to open to say — something — "Yes."

A burst of glee bubbled in her throat. Her smile was wider now, a vacant and delighted beam, and as she pressed her legs together in the seat, she realized she was starting to grow warm down there too — a throbbing that was so delicious.

"Are you a good girl," asked that same soft voice — sweet, but insistent, pressing against her brain with an almost physical sensation.

"Yes!" Lyra answered quickly, eagerly this time. She liked to answer, she liked the warmth and the pleasure of the questions. The questions made her so — so hot. And that voice was so nice, it made her so wet.

"Are you a bimbo," that voice kept going, asking her questions. All of those lovely, lovely questions. Each syllable seemed to slip through her ears, into her brain — like honey, sliding around and filling her up.

"Yes," said Lyra, feeling a flush of warmth bloom between her thighs. She shifted slightly in her seat, and the movement made her acutely aware of the puddle she had produced.

"Are you a hypnoslut?"

What else could she be. "Yes, yes, oh — fuck — yes." Nodding rapidly, her heart skipped a beat as the wave of bliss and arousal coursed through her body like an electric shock. Her breath hitched, coming out in ragged gasps.

"You don't have a single thought in that head of yours anymore," the voice purred.

Something about those words hit differently. The warm honey had filled every little bit of Lyra up inside and out — it felt as if her very being had been remade into something soft and submissive.

A moan slipped past Lyra's lips as a hand crept between her thighs, finding the pulsing wet heat that ached there, pressing against the chair's velvet cushion.

"Yes," she murmured again, lost in the sensations of her fingers and that honeyed voice, "Yes — yes."

"Such a pretty mindless slut. No more thoughts. Just need."

Lyra's eyes were glazed, half-closed, and she could barely manage to speak. The way that those words flowed over her skin and into her — the way that those words went right to her brain and just changed it. Rational thinking, neurons that connected information, all of her intelligence ceased. They all simply shut off. Like turning a switch off, all the intelligence she'd had before was gone, like the click of the switch in the darkness, just on to off. Everything clicked on, and then, in the next instant, everything inside Lyra was turned off.

And it was all replaced by this hot, desperate desire. Her mouth split into a bright vapid smile. Gurgling giggles rolled out of her throat.

"Fuck me," she whispered; she ground her hips and ass hard against the velvet beneath her. Her movements caused a small amount of pleasure, but it wasn't enough.

Her breathing grew ragged and desperate. The voice told her what she'd already begun to realize. All that was in her, was a needy, eager desperation to be fucked.

"Are you a living sex toy," the voice purred in her ears. "Do you exist solely to be used for other's pleasure?" It didn't matter who did it, but she knew she had to be fucked, or filled. A dildo, fingers — something!

"Yes," she whimpered between ragged, panting breaths — her mind had been turned to soup, a sea of pleasure. She was nothing but a plaything. A fuck toy. Something to be used.

"You don't have a name, do you?"

She shook her head no. The heat — had washed it away.

"I'm — a toy," she gasped, a dribble of drool slipping from her parted lips. "A bimbo. A hypnoslut."

"Do you want a name?" The voice teased at her.

That senseless desperation washed her up onto a beach of frustration and desire, an endless yearning to be filled. To be taken, to be fucked, to be bred like the dumb toy she was. Her hand worked tirelessly at her soaking cunt. Her head bobbed up and down rapidly.

"Yes," she squealed.

"You're Krystal Cumslut now. Say it. Own it. Let it drip from your lips like everything else will." That sweet, sultry voice sounded like an angel's song, it was irresistible.

"I'm —" The words were clumsy and thick, dripping from her mouth, but it was like that was where the name belonged. "I'm — Krystal," she breathed, rolling her hips. "Krystal Cumslut."

"That's it, baby, say it out loud." The voice urged her on. "You are so dumb. Say that you're dumb, Krystal."

A long moan slipped past her lips. Her thighs were soaked, and her fingers were buried in that soaking mess. She needed more. "Krystal is dumb!" she wailed.

"So dumb. Slutty and needy. Krystal has to present her body for the world to see. You want to be a cam whore for me, don't you," the voice kept talking and that honey kept dripping and Krystal kept melting and moaning.

"Ohhh yes!" Her head snapped forward in a vigorous nod. Her eyes rolled back as she humped her hand, fingers buried deep into the hot mess. She wanted it. She wanted everyone to know what a stupid whore Krystal was.

"You're my own personal porn star," the voice purred again in that sweet tone. "I own you, don't I, you bimbo slut?"

"I'm —" The bimbo whimpered, and her hand stopped moving, hovering above her dripping mound. Her voice was slurred, drunk with need and lust. "Yours, yes." She giggled as the realization set in, the voice didn't just own her — they owned everything. Everything she was. "I belong to you," Krystal squealed, the realization that she was property, that she had an owner, sent her already senseless mind reeling and thrashing in pleasure.

"Good girl. Now stop and get everything set up. You have a show to film." Krystal pulled her hand away and licked it clean, savoring her sweet juices on her lips.

Krystal Cumslut had to get ready for her debut.

[bimbonicolette]

You silly little thing.

Did you really think I couldn't be a domme just 'cause I'm a bimbo? Because we're all just dumb, slutty sex objects, right?

Well look at you now, kneeling at the end of my leash like such a good pet. You look so adorable like that. And you are going to be a good girl for me, aren't you?

Don't worry though, cutie; it's gonna feel so good. Oh, but if you think I'm dumb, just wait 'til I'm done with you.

'Kay, it's playtime now. Say, "bye bye, brain."

[bimbonicolette]

This is just amazing🤤😍Don’t you think so 😏

[bimbonicolette]

Anastasia Doll

[bimbonicolette]

Are u Down With Stupid ?! ⭐️💖⭐️💖

#metoobabe #duh #stupid is sexy #just forget

[bimbonicolette]

Jenny Poussin

[bimbonicolette]

Tumblr really does try to keep a queen down, because I feel like I've had to find and refollow @stephanies-huge-plastic-tits like 10 times on this dumb platform.

[bimbonicolette]

Candy Charms

[bimbonicolette]

Dana Jayn