The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Julia feared she was blind when she opened her eyes. She was lying on a rough carpet, in the dark, with her hands and feet bound and a gag in her mouth. She tried to stretch her legs, but that pulled painfully on her wrists. She winced, realizing the bonds around her hands and feet were connected to each other. She lied calmly, feeling out the dark boundaries of her prison, recognizing the fabric, the metal, the plastic—the wheel wells taking up two of the corners. She lay in the trunk of a car.

She turned herself over, onto her stomach, so that her feet were pressed against the door of the trunk. She kicked with them, in what little way she could in such limited space. When it was clear that she wouldn’t make much noise with tied, cramped and powerless legs, she flipped back over, seeing her body move as a shadow against shadows.

The details of her confining space were nothing but vague variations of black. She could barely see an inch in front, but she knew that the steel and plastic walls of the car were only inches from her face. They hovered fixed around her, unyielding and pressing in, ready to collapse and swallow every last bit of her personal space. She started to sweat. The coldness of the void made her heart race; the hardness of the metal made her flesh ache; the roughness of the trunk’s matting chafed her skin. The world spun, or seemed to rock from side to side. She was on drugs, and in the darkness there was nothing on which to focus that would tell her addled mind she wasn’t spinning in a drum. She prayed not to throw up into the gag.

She shifted onto her side, her bare hip tender from rubbing the carpet. In motion her nude body touched every wall; she was teased by chilled steel and tormented by clawing fabric, no matter how she lay. In time she learned to be helpless, to lay on her back, her knees hard against the roof of the trunk, her bound feet shoved into a corner, her hands clasped and stowed between her legs. She lay on junk.

The junk lay around her, uninvited, seemingly put there to take up precious space or get stuck under her body in uncomfortable ways. Only her rasping breaths kept her company as she, in her gathering panic, exhaled heavily into the smothering void. As the seconds ticked away, with the stupor only getting thicker, Julia knew that time was short.

Her eyes spun in their sockets, rolling chaotically against the blackness. The darkness of the trunk became a screen on which her running mind projected bizarre dreams, her thoughts leaking out of her head, let loose by the drug. There were lurid, hot, wet lips; a lock of red hair, curled and dangling over a pale cheek; a voluptuous woman undoing a button on her cream blouse, revealing the tender crescents of her bosom; envy, then, as Julia took in the woman’s beauty, and desired it for herself.

There was a woman’s hand with long red nails, holding a pink pill in her palm, offered as a gift. Then Julia imagined her mouth opened wide, her tongue extended and the pill placed in the middle. Then, after swallowing, she saw nothing but a rainbow of colours. She watched the kaleidoscopic vision, embroiled in the most intense trip of her life. She felt the pill on her tongue and in her head, still fizzing.

She turned over-she seemed only to turn and turn-and her breasts slid across the floor of the trunk, the fibres clawing at her nipples, making them stand. Heavier, they seemed, and more voluminous, as they rocked and swayed when she flipped onto her back. She was more aware of them than ever before, her tits taking up more of her thoughts. Her hot, sweaty hands, tied between her thighs, rubbed against her mons; she shivered and shifted in the claustrophobic space, but she could not move.

She smeared wetness onto her inner thighs, the scent thick and humid, filling her nostrils. More space ran out, she felt her body ballooning, distorted, expanding, it seemed, as her prison collapsed around her. She was heavy, awkward in movement, as though her flesh belonged to someone else, or shaped by another hand. She could no longer turn, her hips felt too wide, her breasts heavier and larger than she thought they should feel. Softer, smoother, her sensitive skin betrayed her, making her feel pleasure in such tight, intimate surroundings so full of touching. Shadowed, dreamt-up bodies pressed in around her, making empty, cold, evil, beguiling, warping sweet hot beautiful promises. They blew on her needy flesh, tongues poised above her nipples-so she imagined, to her dismay, with a tinge of excitement.

Her concentration began to shrink as pleasure picked away at her integrity. She found herself unable to think of anything outside her body, only of her breasts and how they felt fat and huge, and seem to grow bigger in her mind, more sensitive and prominent in her thoughts, resting upon her arms and weighing them down, pushing against her biceps, filling her armpits when she lay on her back. Without her eyes to confirm what she was feeling, she hoped it was a trick of the mind. She bucked against the inside of the trunk, fucked by the unfurling tendrils of night. They penetrated her space, coiled around her; she could feel them around her neck and her thighs, probing softly, ready to spring and thrust, caressing her body, kneading her breasts, spreading her sweat soaked thighs, rising like soft gel against her seeping pussy. The trunk seemed to come alive and tie her down; she struggled against the binds, but not for long.

Euphoric, her mind made shadows come alive and take obscene forms; pussies, cunts, cum, wet, tingly, need cock fill now; she thought of nothing else, and the thoughts seem to come of their own accord. She trembled, trying to close her eyes on them, but it was useless.

Her foot knocked something; something cylindrical, like a handle, and she recognized what it must be. She clawed at it with her toes; how fortunate she had been, to find such a thing among the junk in the car. Maybe she could end things now, instead of prolonging her torture. She could end it now, be done with the darkness, and get out.

She kicked the object and felt it roll against her butt; it was cold and hard, like steel. She reached between her legs to the floor, too aware of the way her wrists rubbed her mons; her pubic fur sloughing off at the intimate passage of her arm. She grabbed at the object, grabbed it by the handle and brought it through her legs. She penetrated herself with it, over and over and over again, crying passionately through the gag. It filled her and the emptiness was gone.

The lid on the trunk opened, and Julia was free.

Julia jumped up and raised her arms, smiling, silver-blond hair swishing over her shoulders, cascading down her back and over one breast. She was a Jane in the box. She let out a noise, sighing and giggling all at once, to celebrate her naked emergence.

She twisted around to display herself, her decorative blue skirt fanning, her audience admiring the sight of her mostly naked body. The room was dressed in black curtains and red silk; it was quite an important room, for the kind of man who paid handsomely for hot flesh. On the wall opposite the door hung a large piece of art, a macro shot of a toy doll’s face, with hot wet lips, big glassy eyes and a little button nose. A real bimbo.

Belle watched the scene through that picture, which was one of many one sided portals through which she could view the rooms unseen. She loved to watch. She laid back in her chair, legs spread far apart, and fed a chattering vibe into her pussy.

This was her palace; this was The Dollhouse, Belle’s company hidden by the water in an old warehouse. Cheap property, secluded—just the sort of place for Belle and her studio. People paid generously to see one of Belle’s shows. This was her art: specially designed wonder-sluts; cutting edge bio-engineering; a melding of Barbie and glam-porno; dreams brought to life.

Julia stepped out of her box. and stepped forward, stopping to place a hand on her hip and smile, her bare melons jutting forth as she pushed out her chest; she was just within arms reach of her customer.

He reached out to her and touched her; Julia held his hand and pulled it up the slope of her breast, helping him feel the smoothness and roundness of it. She sank into his lap, straddling him, her chest firmly against his. Then she leaned back, arching herself, to show him just how firm and perky her tits were.

Dr. Chandra was the middle-aged man sitting with Julia, wearing a fine black suit. He was her physician. During her appointments, when Chandra would reach up Julia’s shirt and put the stethoscope to her back, she would giggle dumbly, make her tits bounce in her shirt, and then make mention of the her tantalizingly hard nipples and the way they poked through her revealing tube top. It seemed Chandra was tired of simply looking and examining. Now he had come to the Dollhouse to play.

Belle, lifting a breast to her mouth and sucking on the nipple, still remembered the follow-up after Julia’s first physical. Julia had been fine, in perfect health, and Chandra had desperately wanted to know where he could see her again—in a more intimate locale. One knew what Julia was, just by looking at her. Her new purpose in life was indisputable. Belle smiled, sighing as her vibe hit just the right spot. She was proud of her naughty little bimbo slut. So very proud.

Belle suspected, though, that Chandra’s curiosity was driven by secrets deeper than those he could reveal by having Julia shed all her clothes. Sometimes, while sitting in on Julia’s appointments, she would notice Chandra squinting or raising an eyebrow, or shaking his head at his clipboard, on which was a read-out of Julia’s perfect physical condition. Unreal health for an unreal body, Belle thought to herself. Normally not a problem, but Belle suspected Chandra to be a man of traditional values. It was impossible for him to believe that a woman’s body could be so completely healthy, or without flaw—without need of medical intervention.

Belle watched from her place behind the wall as Chandra handed Julia a thick wad of cash. As per usual, Julia flicked through the money, for Belle’s benefit more than her own. Julia lacked the care and attention for math, or even reading. She came off to some as having a severe case of ADHD. Only fucking could consistently hold her undivided attention, for she had been made by Belle to relish being fucked. It didn’t much matter, though, for Julia was what she was: one of Belle’s fantasy wonder-sluts, seemingly pulled right from the pages of a glamorous porno magazine, digital editing and perfection built in. And if she was more than a bit ditzy, all the better. Men found that hot.

After ensuring the wad of cash was thick enough, Julia unfolded the bills and slipped them under her garter. Her mistress continued to watch lasciviously, masturbating. Belle closed her eyes and chewed on her nails, an urgent whimper escaping her lips as she pushed the vibe deeper, twisting it. For a moment while she refocused her eyes, Belle caught sight of herself in the glass and knew love; lurid, hot, wet lips; black latex gloves and boots—and nothing else; a lock of red hair, curled and resting against her pale cheek; a slick yellow vibe, thrust easily into her affluently wet pussy—then pumped in and out. Belle loved herself.

After a pause, Belle looked back through the portal. Julia was pulling Chandra’s hands from his lap and placing them on her hips, giving him a good feel of her soft, flawless skin. A short dance later and she was straddling his lap, leaning back against his chest, his erection lodged deeply within her wet cunt, her little skirt pulled up. She pistoned exuberantly on his cock, giving Chandra his money’s worth, and getting the wanton enjoyment from being fucked she was programmed to get. He kept one of his hands on her jawline, so that her face was turned towards his; that way he could see her panting, moaning and gritting her teeth lasciviously. He loved the way his cock’s very presence could affect her so fully and expressively; he loved having power over her, where the rules of the doctor’s office did not apply. His other hand held one of her tits, his index finger snapping back and forth across a pierced, erect nipple. The jeweled nipple ring tinkled.

Julia massaged her smooth mound, occasionally reaching down to either side of Chandra’s pumping cock to stroke the folds of her stretched pussy. Her other hand was pressed back against the couch, keeping her steady. Her thighs, which were doing all the work, flinched and tensed under the strain.

Belle loved to see enthusiasm in her art. Belle was the artist, the conductor. And Belle’s chair, on which she stroked and licked her own breasts, and filled herself with a vibe, lay at the centre of her art room: a room of eight walls, seven of them portals and one a door. And through each portal, disguised to her patrons as a work of art, Belle could enjoy the result of her labours. There was nothing quite like an expressive picture, and true to that the windows on Belle’s side of the wall were set in frames. Her pictures moved and came alive. Many were alive tonight.

Things weren’t likely to evolve between Julia and Chandra any more than they had, so Belle turned her head towards another frame, wherein one of the girls was reclined on a couch with her legs propped up on a table, fingering herself for the pleasure of two men seated opposite. Another of Belle’s bimbos knelt over the girl, sucking on one of her gargantuan tits, rolling the masturbating slut’s stiff nipple across her tongue.

Belle still thought of Dr. Chandra, though. She suspected he was becoming much too attached to Julia, and thus too willing to know more about what made her what she was. She did not believe that was good business practice. Anything more than sexual infatuation—raw lust and objectification—was more than what her bimbos were for. They were there to be used, and to be paid so that Belle could be paid. Belle had crafted her sluts for a specific purpose: business.

And while Belle did derive a perverse enjoyment out of making her bimbos fuck as many different people as they could, it was also safer in the end. Maybe, Belle wondered, Chandra had met Julia during her previous life and was recognizing something, through the tits and the make-up and dumbness. Maybe...

Belle made a mental note to have Julia fuck someone else, when Chandra next dropped by.

The door to Belle’s art room opened, and a tall, wasp waisted black girl minced in on yellow platform sandals. It was Lulu, emerging from the violet-lit lounge beyond the door. Lulu’s skin glistened, her bright yellow micro-bikini glowed. She was flashy, sensational and pornographic, even when opening a door. Something glowed in her hand and Belle recognized it as one of the main phones. The bimbo clacked over and held it out, looking hot in the red light of Belle’s private chamber.

“It’s for you Mistress.” she squeaked, in her high voice. Belle let go of herself and propped her cheek on a fist. Her other hand, she pulled reluctantly from the humming vibe and reached out to the phone. With the phone grasped in three fingers, she pointed with the fourth to her unsatisfied pussy and mouthed to the girl; “Pretty please.”

The bimbo responded immediately, rounding Belle’s chair and falling to her knees, her inflated tits bumping Belle’s thighs wider apart as she lowered her mouth to the pink, swollen folds of her maker. Her quickening breath caressed Belle’s sizzling cunt. The girl plucked at the vibe with her manicured fingers, her glossy acrylic nails clicking on the chattering, plastic phallus. Belle sighed as the vibe was withdrawn, her pussy momentarily neglected, but was well again when the bimbo’s warm bee-stung lips kissed her, deeply and eagerly.

“Yes—uh—hello?” She said into the phone.

She bit her lip as Lulu’s tongue assaulted her, moving around her outer labials, circling her creamy cunt before moving towards the centre.

Bell listened to the voice on the other end. “Yes,” Belle said, “A bit. You’ve caught me in the middle of—Nnn!—some work, I’m afraid.”

The bimbo’s tongue skillfully nudged Belle’s clit.

“No, it’s-s quite alright... Yes, tomorrow would be fine.” Belle continued, struggling.

Lulu slid two fingers into Belle’s hole, along with her tongue, and started to pump feverishly. Belle bucked and lifted from her seat, her body fraught with tension, and then settled back onto Lulu’s face, who lapped more eagerly than ever, fingers swimming deeply. All the time Belle clenched her jaw, lest she moan hoarsely into the phone.

“Well, you see, Kay, Dollhouse operates during the evening. So early to mid-afternoon—um—before... before we go to work—“

Belle shivered, pulling the phone away from her mouth as she swallowed and squeaked, ever so quietly, with Lulu’s tongue whipping furiously at her folds.

“—how does three thirty in the afternoon sound?”

The tension started to build. The rushing of her pulse almost drowned out the voice on the phone. She could feel herself tipping over the edge, and at any moment she would be ready to cum, whether it was appropriate or not.

“Great!” she huffed, regaining some composure. Then she continued, “No need for that. I have your resume on file. I quite liked it, but I must go now, unfortunately. I’m—!!—a bit occupied at the moment...

“My pleasure, really. See you tomorrow—bah-bye, Kay.”

She snapped the phone shut and seethed, hissing, putting her hand over her mouth. Her kegels clenched and she orgasmed, a small reward gushing from her cleft onto Lulu’s tongue, who swallowed and savoured the release.

“Well!” Belle exhaled, “that was inconvenient. Delayed gratification was never one of my strengths. Thank you Lulu, I feel much bet—oh, you pearl.”

Lulu was oblivious to Belle’s words; she lapped at her Mistress’ folds, mons and inner thighs like the good pet she was, ensuring that Belle’s crotch was adequately cleaned and pampered.

Kay knocked on Belle’s office door, on the second floor of a warehouse near the water; an odd place for a business, Kay thought, but then the only answers lay within. The person inside seemed to delay before calling to her, as though they’d been disturbed. Kay turned the brass knob on the door and entered the room, the wooden boards creaking under her feet.

“Hello?” she said, entering the room. It was dark. She feared that Belle might have been asleep; a shadow rose up from a couch in the far left corner.

“Hold on a moment.” the figure said. She moved over to the curtains and forced them apart. Light flooded the room, and for a moment Kay was blind. Her eyes adjusting, the blurred figure before the large window became less like a dream and more real.

In a manner of speaking...

“Yes, hello.” Belle said, welcoming the petite, casually dressed girl into her office. Kay rubbed her eyes.

There before the window was an extremely busty red-head, her hair in a bun, clad in a bright pink bodysuit. Her gloves, her high-heels—and everything else from toe to collar—was part of that bright pink latex suit. Her body was encased by it and yet, in a way, still naked, the telltale mark of her cleft seemingly etched into the plastic. The scent of red licorice swirled around her, radiating from her body; it was sweet and pleasant, and made her more welcoming. Erotic, but very pleasant, and perhaps even glamorous, an appearance accented by a curl of shimmering red hair springing from her hair line, resting against her flawless, porcelain cheek.

“Kay Kastner?” Belle asked.

“That would be me.”

“I liked your resume.”

“Thank you...” Kay replied, anticipating more.

“Welcome to my office.” Belle finally said.

“It’s a bit out of the way.”

“I like things quiet. I don’t like downtown.”

“I feel slightly out of place.” Kay said, all too aware of Belle’s pink fetish outfit, contrasted against her own green khakis and red tank top combo.

“You just caught me at a strange moment.” Belle said. “I slept in, I’m afraid. In this case it would seem the interviewer is the late party. Please, sit over here, at my desk.”

Kay came in and shut the door, sitting in a comfy chair in front of Belle’s desk. The desk was quite large, made entirely of glass, and very uncluttered. There were only three items on it: a closed, chrome laptop, a glass bowl of pink jelly beans, and a plastic bird, tipping it’s beak into a glass of water.

Belle calmly took her place opposite Kay. Sitting behind the desk, she appeared to Kay to be standing waist deep in water, her legs and hips distorted.

“That’s an unusual looking bird.” Kay said.

“Yes.” Belle answered, “It’s modelled after a Puffin. I don’t like stick birds.”

Belle leaned back into her chair, a grin curling to one side. She looked at Kay for a few moments, admiring her face.

“What is it?”

“I like your features, your eyes. What’s your ancestry?”

“Korean.”

“You have a swan’s neck.” Belle complimented.

Belle found the girl’s soft, exotic face quite fetching. She’d make an excellent slut—after the right modifications and de-education. Belle didn’t like her girls to be recognized as their former selves—indeed the lip enhancements, make-up, lashes and humongous tits helped prevent that, but Kay’s face was something worth treasuring; her eyes were definitely something worth keeping. Perhaps enhanced only a little. That’s how it was for Belle when she was Kay’s age. A girl’s body could always stand to be improved... Belle found her thoughts drifting. She twisted her neck until she heard it crack.

Then, placing her hand on the chrome laptop, she spoke. “Professor Dawson wrote a very stirring recommendation for you; you graduated with top marks, she said. I saw that you wrote a thesis, on Effort Justification and Sorority Initiations. It sounded very interesting.”

“Thanks.” Kay said, blushing.

“Could you talk about it?” Belle asked.

“Uh-sure. I guess.” Kay seemed to take a while to gather her thoughts. “Well... basically, I interviewed Sorority girls at my school, and I found a strong connection between extreme hazings-often those involving humiliation or sexual themes-and a strong self-identification with one’s sorority sisters. In a nutshell, they found greater reasons to like the sorority, and this in turn created a stronger bond. Women who hadn’t, um, endured tough hazings didn’t seem to touch on themes of group identification and sisterhood in their discourse as often as the other aforementioned women, and they didn’t come off as being as invested in the Sorority identity.”

“Sounds like mind control.” Belle grinned.

“Ya, you could say that.” Kay chuckled.

“So, then, would getting spanked with a paddle in a sort of lesbian, sado-masochistic fashion fall under the realm of Effort Justification leading to an increase in one’s identification with one’s sorority sisters?”

“Uh...” Kay scratched the back of her head, “in a manner of speaking, yes. The trial has got to be worth it, after all, or at least one has to convince themselves it was worth it. Though what you just said doesn’t really do justice to the complicated nature of the process. There are other things involved: expectations, tolerances, one’s tendency for goal focused behaviour. I would also suppose it would depend if the spankee knew the spanker, in some way.”

“Of course,” Belle grinned, “and you cannot possibly tell me everything in a single conversation.”

“Basically...” Kay said, apologetically.

“I understand. Not to worry. You didn’t come here to talk about pyschology, so I won’t bore you—I saw from your resume that you’ve danced before, most recently as part of your university’s theatre troupe. That’s good; Dollhouse is a stage operation. It’s all live performances.”

“I know many forms of dance.” Kay helpfully added.

“That’s good,” Belle replied, “your body must know how to move, then. I like that. The dances in my productions are somewhat unique, though, so you will still need to be trained.”

“Of course. I can’t wait—I love theatre.” Kay grinned.

“Good, good.” Belle smiled, “Um—I wanted to ask you about something, before I take you on. It says here that you did a lot of theatre work at your school. I recognize you, I think. Have we met?”

“I-I don’t think so.” Kay said.

“You look very familiar. That’s all. When I was researching your school file, I came across your picture. You have a very pretty face, and though I suppose there might be many girls in the world who look like you, I could not help but think that I’d seen you before.”

Kay shrugged obliquely. “I moved out here from the east, so I doubt we’ve met in person.”

“I think I saw you on television. Did you do any commercials?”

Kay looked down at her hands, which were fidgeting in her lap, and then brought one up to her mouth. She sat chewing on her nails, and then very blankly stated: “Nope. I’ve never been on television.”

She turned her head to the side and looked at one of the walls, perhaps hoping to find a distraction. Belle watched her for a second, then she recognized Kay’s jawline, her nose, her face in profile.

“Oh my... that’s it!” Belle gasped.

Kay’s head whipped around. “What?”

“I have seen you before. You were in-well, the name of the film is quite vulgar.”

“I think you must be mistaken.”

“No, I’m quite sure.” Belle insisted.

“Ya... Um... look,” Kay said, twisting her hands together, “I was eighteen, and the director came up to me on the street-on campus-and he offered me three hundred dollars an hour. And I’ve had sex, like, four times in my life. And that was two of them.” she said, waving her hand in the air, trying, despite the nervous twitching in her voice, to speak casually.

“Well, you don’t need to justify yourself, or explain anything to me. I won’t judge you. I Promise.”

Kay smiled for a moment, then pulled a few strands of loose, black hair into her mouth and started to chew. A moment later, becoming a bit more self-conscious, she spit her hair out and brushed it away from her cheek.

“To be honest,” Kay continued, “You’re the first person to know me from that film. But who knows; what if the next person is one of my friends, or my brother? It’s bad juju. I don’t like it to come up. I was young, it was a stupid decision.”

“Might that also fall under Over-Justification of Rewards, though?” Belle asked, helpfully, trying to catch Kay as she fell.

“What do you mean?” Kay asked.

“Well...” Belle hypothesized, “technically I wouldn’t think three hundred dollars would be much a choice, frankly. So I’m thinking an eighteen year old student, faced with a three hundred dollar an hour proposal—not a bad decision, seeing as one’s freedom of decision was seriously undermined by the director to begin with. It’s debatable as to whether the fault lies with the performer, or more with the director. His proposal was, in a very real sense, a form of passive coercion.”

Kay seemed to ponder that little tidbit of psychological technobabble; she giggle very softly, realizing that Belle was reaching out to her, playing a game that she knew.

“Alright then.” Kay said, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” Belle said pleasantly, nodding, “I won’t bring it up in the future.”

“Thanks. Let’s just say I’m trying to leave the porn industry behind me.”

Kay’s last statement sank in rather quickly. Belle paused and seemed to stare at her laptop, thinking, her hands placed flat on it’s placid surface. She thought of the computer’s contents, about what they could do, about how they would help her turn Kay into a work of art. She looked at her hand, at her fine, delicate fingers, her arm encased in latex. She sat thinking, uncharacteristically unsure. There was a fluttering inside her, a moment of doubt, a question: should she lie?

Should she? Her eyes flitted from left to right, and then focused on Kay, who had looked down and was assessing the condition of her nails.

“Well, Kay, when I saw your picture on the school website next to the list of your many academic awards, I couldn’t help remembering just how hot I thought you’re performance in Far East Fucktoys was. I thought it very fortuitous that you happened to respond to my ad for an young, unattached female dancer and stage performer. By ‘dancing’, of course, I mean pole dancing, and by ‘performer’, I mean stripping and being a professional fucktoy. Judging from what I remember about Far East Fucktoys, I know that you can take a double-teaming with the best of them, and I’ve watched tons of porn so I should know. You’re suited to the art of pornography, Kay, and I’ll help you see that. We’ll do some work on your body, too. Like mounting a big pair of round G cups on that tiny little chest of yours.”

But what Belle actually said was; “Consider it behind you.”

“Thanks.” Kay said, sheepishly. “So... now you know where you’ve seen me.”

Belle grinned. .

“I know you must be embarrassed-you certainly look it-but consider this; you’ve caught me wearing my specia pyjamas, and you know what kind of porn I watch.”

Kay smiled and looked down at herself; Belle reached across her desk and tapped the far edge, to get her attention.

“Mutual embarrassment; we’ve both gone through a hazing of sorts, wouldn’t you think?”

“Quite possibly.” Kay smiled. “Shall I consider myself initiated?”

“I think you should. Here,” Belle insisted, pushing a bowl in Kay’s direction, “have some candy.”

Kay reached into the bowl and grabbed a small handful of pink pills. She put them all in her mouth at once.

Mmm, very sugary.” she said, a hand screening her mouth. “And... those pyjamas aren’t too bad.”

Belle opened the wooden garage door and descended into the darkness. The air was cool and drafty. Her feet landed sharply upon the stairs. A few steps down she reached out to the left and found a switch on the wall; with a gloved hand she turned on the lights.

She took the stairs to the bottom, where at once she began to hear muffled sounds, and some banging. There was a car in the garage at the bottom of the steps, a black luxury model, and it was rocking almost imperceptibly. Belle moved around to the trunk and placed her hand upon the car’s smooth, glossy, black finish.

She listened for sounds from the car’s belly, hoping to gauge how digested its contents might be. The voice from within the trunk was strained, loud even through the metal, and calling out with a rhythmic tempo; it was hardly panicked or random. Belle smiled; a swell of accomplishment and satisfaction rose up inside her; she felt it in the lips of her pussy, in her nipples, in her gut and in her racing heart. The anticipation made her shiver; despite resisting the urge, she giggled gleefully, clasping her hands together, like a little girl about to take a doll out of its package and see it for the first time.

She opened up her glossy pink bodysuit, reached between her breasts with two fingers, and pulled out a stainless steel key.

She popped the key into the lock and turned it.

Belle’s pink latex suit was getting very tight, and it creaked when she walked. It had become hard, as of late, to fit her tits into it as well. Belle lifted her hands from the laptop and looked down at herself; she admired the way her hips flared, and the firm swells of her tits, dressed in tight latex, contrasted by her small waist.

Her outfit had been tailored to a slighter frame, some time ago, and Belle was still developing, growing out of her old skin. It was perhaps time to remeasure herself, and order a new suit, one wider about the bust and thinner at the waist, something for women bigger than EE. She pondered blue.

Reaching to the neckline, she pulled the zipper down past her breasts, releasing much of the pressure, uncovering her cleavage and near-half of each breast. Her tits swelled out into view, finding new freedom, the pale half-moons of her areola revealed by the split breast of her suit. She plucked a rice paper fan from her desk and cooled herself.

Belle heard clicking from out in the hallway; it approached her door. There was a soft knocking.

“Come in.” Belle said.

The door opened, the floorboards creaked, a woman with slender feet in four inch stilettos stepped over the threshold. She walked in, swaying her hips, then turned around and closed the door. Belle watched the girl’s tight ass move when she stepped, watched how the bimbo’s teeny white skirt left much of her firm round butt in plain view, the ity-bity flourescant thong pulled tight up her ass.

“Back again, Kay?” Belle said.

“Hee!” Kay giggled, always excited to see her Mistress. Her big tits bobbed when she laughed, tenuously controlled by a hot orange string bikini top; had the six year old foreign kid who made her top been around to see Kay’s marvelous chest, he would have been very proud to see his work holding up against such an indomitable, voluminous bosom.

“You, like, wanted to see me, Miss?” Kay, Belle’s new, smiling Korean bimbo, curtseyed.

Belle put her elbow on the table and leaned into her hand.

“It’s five AM, Kay: end of the day.”

“Day... Kay... Day...” the bimbo murmured, absorbed with some amusing game inside her head. She tilted her head from side to side and rocked her hips, dancing to a silent beat.

Belle snapped her fingers, quite amused. But now was not the time for play.

“The money.” she said.

“Oh!” Kay gasped, “Like, ya. I forgot.” She clicked on over to Belle’s desk. She looked so fragile walking on those platform heels of hers. The way she stroked her blond pigtail while lost in thought, she reminded Belle of a toy doll. She was modeled after one, in any case.

And yet, at the same time, Kay wasn’t fragile at all; she was the kind of slut who yearned for double, even triple, penetration. She looked cute and girl and prissy, but she was an energizer fuckbunny. The sex industry was in her past, and now Belle had woven it into the core of her being. More than just a memory of a poor decision, fucking was now Kay’s life. She would be doing it for a long time still. Many times. Many, many many times.

Kay, smiling with pride, pulled several bills from a frilly lace garter on her right leg, and collected a thick wad of cash in her hand.

“I think that’s, like, twenty five hundred, or something. One of the bouncers helped me count it ‘cuz, like, math is really hard.” Kay winced, as if the very thought of math made her silly little head ache, “Anyway... I just remember it added up pretty good.”

Belle took the cash from the girl, and Kay turned around and strode out, her heels clacking on the wood floor as she travelled down the hall.

“Kay...” Belle called, calmly. After a few moments, the little, big-titted Korean girl bounced back through the door, wearing a big grin as always, as if locked in a perpetual state of awe-struckness.

“Ya?” she said, utterly clueless.

Belle pulled a hundred dollar bill from the cash Kay had given her. “You’re a hundred dollars over; someone left you a tip.”

“Oh, cool!” Kay clapped, jumping up and down. “I hope it was, like, Mr. Vacarro. I love him. His cock is like totally huge, or something, which is kinda why my jaw hurts and I’m totally stretched out right now, and that’s sort of a bummer, but then again it’s okay cuz’ that comes after he finishes fucking me, and , like, let me tell you, when he fucks me it blows my mind. I could totally ride him for days; he’s like the only guy who can wear me out.”

Kay stopped and sighed dreamily.

“You enjoyed yourself, I get it.” Belle said, “Just don’t forget your money.”

“Yep!” the girl chirped, plucking the bill from Belle’s hand.

“You make me so happy, Kay.” Belle cooed.

Kay giggled, her hand to her mouth and a very coy look in her eye. Then, blushing, she stood fiddling with her skirt, perhaps fishing for further compliments. Though now was not the time for play, Belle reached under her chair.

“Turn around, Kay.” she said. “Perhaps a moment of play, but then you must go.” Kay did as she was asked, biting her lip, trying not to bounce too excitedly. Belle pulled a small spanking paddle out from under her chair and struck Kay squarely in the buttocks. The paddle landed with a harsh slap and Kay yelped. The yelp peetered out into a relieved sigh, and then flourished again with a giggle. She trotted out the door, satisfied and blushing deeply. At the door she wiggled her ass for her Mistress, grinning at just how clever she was.

After Kay had gone, Belle leaned back in her chair and looked pensive; she admired Kay’s simplicity, in a way. She put her feet up on the desk, and she thought.

Belle would be like that, like Kay, eventually. She would be entirely transformed, possessed of the same caricatured physique and silly absent-mindedness as the bimbos in her employ. Belle was the original. Belle was Mk1. Her transition from everygirl to wonder-slut, however, was slow driven unlike the others.

Belle reach out to the desk top, where beside the closed, chrome laptop lay a black compact. She opened it up and pouted her lips, they pouted and curved, like the petals of a poppy. How beautifully round her mouth had become... she smiled and giggled. What things she would look forward to doing!

The framed picture reflected the lamp in it’s glass. Behind it, Belle knew, lay her chair in the art room. She ran her fingers over the red silk sofa—still warm from the last tryst—and admired the lush opulence of the VIP room—dedicated, as it was, to a basic instinct. Low in thought, high in fantasy.

She revisited her pictures from time to time; they provided cover for the portals through which Belle could survey the rooms. They comprised some of Belle’s earliest and most important creative accomplishments, though they had since been eclipsed by her pink pills, and the art she could create out of those who swallowed them.

This picture in particular she was soft for, though, and she visited it every day, almost religiously—it was the only picture that had been allowed to show at the art gallery in her graduating year. The others, it was said, were too lewd. And this particular portrait had, more than any other work of art, really decided the direction that Belle had taken herself in life. She stared into the glassy, vacant eyes of the portrait; the face shot of a toy doll, button-nosed with huge slanted eyes and lips like folded poppy petals, stared back into her.

She was Doll Face. Belle’s favourite picture. Belle’s first work of art. Belle’s teen-angst comment on the distortion of female beauty. She had put her heart and soul, her deepest of dreams, into that picture, it’s elements so carefully presented. At first she didn’t realize just how much of her self had gone into it, but over time, as she looked at it more and more, Doll Face had grown on her.

Oh, her vanity. Belle had initially wanted to create a different image: the glamorous fox in the vodka ad, or the busty beauty on the poster at the underwear store—the kind of woman, it seemed, that didn’t exist in real life but many a girl wanted to be, Belle included. But in hindsight, Belle had decided, she was quite smitten with the image she had created instead, which, unknown to her at its inception, turned out to foreshadow her future. That was the lot of the artist, it seemed. What one had in mind didn’t always translate into the final product, exactly as intended. Things happen, minds change, the art sometimes takes on a life of it’s own—as Belle’s certainly had.

Life imitated art, in this case, for Belle found herself, since then, developing into Doll Face’s idealic beauty, and giving that to the women around her. She framed the source of her inspiration in memories: finding her father’s porno mags when she was eleven; admiring the matching mini-skirts on the dolls she was sold as a child; watching her best friend’s—Julia’s—little brother play with a barbie, and peeling off all it’s clothes. Doll face reminded her of these things, and helped her to see how profound those moments truly were. If she ever wanted to remember who she was, she had only to look into Doll Face’s eyes. And while taking the pills herself would be unwise, Belle felt herself drawing ever closer to being one with her creation. There was still more to do, but good things come to those who wait.

Belle locked the door and sat on the couch, putting her feet up on the round, wooden table. She reached for her zipper and pulled it down, past her belly, past her mons, between her legs, until she was fully unzipped and exposed. She spread her feet to the ends of the table. Carefully, savouring the first touch, she brought her fingers to her pinkish cleft and rubbed, slowly at first, but then more quickly to draw out the moisture.

Doll Face seemed to watch, as if to evaluate Belle’s technique. The image spoke to Belle on so many levels. The portrait’s old title came to mind, the mantra that had embodied it’s original point: Belle’s comment, now Doll Face’s. She thought of it loudly, so that Doll Face might hear and be pleased.

“Welcome to the new you.”

Not yet, she knew. But she was progressing—a fine apostle for her art.. Her giggle fits were becoming more frequent. Her laughter was a timer counting the days to when she would wake up not as Belle, but as a girl like Lulu, Julia or Kay. She figured it might happen in her sleep, as things often did. She wondered, then, when her mind would do most of its dulling. She wondered if it would be quick, or drawn out.

She preferred quick; if there was not so much money to be made—and work to do—to secure herself an independent future, Belle would take one of her pink pills now and be the bimbo she so desperately craved to be. It was the torturous but necessary virtue of patience that was leaving her in a half-finished state: a flower waiting in bloom; an incomplete toy; an untended painting.

Belle expected that by the time she had fully become a fuck-focused, ageless bimbo—and conquered the gap between herself and her art—she would be independently wealthy, retired and surrounded by girl friends just like her—girlfriends who could appreciate the image she tried so hard to craft. Her preparations would be worth the effort, and her life as a bimbo all the sweeter, if she delayed a little longer. Then she would enjoy herself to the very fullest. The touch she felt now was but a pale shadow of what it would be.

A soft chiming sounded three times, quickly, and then paused. “Shit!” Belle hissed, “Again!” She withdrew her fingers and put them in her mouth, sucking them clean, while she looked around with her other for the phone. It was on the floor; she wondered how she’d lost track of it.

She answered the call.

“Hello?... Three thirty... I can’t wait to meet you... Great, I’ll see you then... Bah-bye.”

Belle opened the wooden garage door and descended into darkness. The air was cool and drafty. Her feet landed sharply upon the stairs. A few steps down she reached out to the left and found a switch on the wall; with a gloved hand she turned on the lights. Her near-white, blond hair shined brightly in the glow, paired well with her skin’s creamy, alabaster finish.

She took the stairs to the bottom, where then she huffed and lowered a large bag to the ground. There was a car in the garage at the bottom of the steps, a black luxury model. It was silent and empty. Belle moved around to the trunk and placed her hand upon the car’s smooth, glossy, black finish.

She opened up her latex suit and pulled a key from her bosom; then she popped it into the lock and gave it a turn, pouting her lips and ‘oohing’, as the key slid into the lock and made love to the metal. Belle smiled; anticipation swelled within her; she felt it in the lips of her pussy and in her nipples; butterflies fluttered in her gut. She shivered, and despite herself, giggled with glee. She loved this part.

Belle went back to the bag and lifted it over her shoulder, carefully placing it in the trunk. She pulled on the zipper, then pulled the bag out from under the woman who had been laying inside. The new girl moaned and moved about, sleepily, for she was high as a kite. Belle had stripped her down to her panties and she lay, covered in a sheen of sweat, as though she were laying in her own bed: peacefully. Belle gave the girl a cute, white toothed smile and waved. “Bah-bye!”

The trunk closed with a thud. Belle turned and walked away, hips swaying, twirling the key on her finger. She hummed one of her favourite childhood songs:

Dance your cares away,

worry’s for another day.

let the music play,

down at Fraggle Rock!