The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Yumi Yoshihiro was enjoying her life. Especially, she was enjoying the freedom and self-determination she’d had over it. It had felt like it had taken forever, getting to the point where she was independent and could say what she wanted to have happen to her. But now that she was there, she was so glad that she was.

Yumi was a college student— and for now, college was her complete purpose in life. Once she’d passed through what was directly in front of her to enter into her medium-term future, she knew that work would become the major focus of her life.

But she hadn’t gotten to that life stage yet. For now, she was still just in college, and college got the benefit of having her one hundred percent focused attention at all times.

She might have found it harder to focus, and harder to work, if she hadn’t loved her major as much as she did. But Yumi was studying psychology, a subject which had held a longtime fascination for her. Only psychology would have made her so motivated.

And she was motivated. All her reading, all her reading for every class was usually done almost the first night that it was assigned— although, unlike others who might have done differently in a similar position, others who would have finished their reading as soon as it was assigned, and then spent the rest of their week on free time, Yumi constantly went back and reviewed her reading, she memorized sections of it, she quizzed herself on it.

Often, professors told her how impressed they were with her grasp of their course materials— it was because she spent so much time— not reading it, but instead rereading it, time and again.

This meant that when it came time for assignments and essays and projects, her grades were usually boosted by the wealth of her knowledge on each subject, thanks to all the extra rereading time. And because her grades were so impressive, semester after semester, her name always appeared on the dean’s list, and usually appeared fairly highly ranked, too. That always felt like a vindication of her hardwork and skill.

She’d been going to her college for a few years, now, so she was starting to get used to things like happening. Now, every semester, she expected herself to be on the dean’s list— and she played a little game with herself every new semester long, just to see if she could slightly come up the list’s rank this semester compare to last.

She was usually in the top five names, sometimes in the top three, but she’d never quite been number one yet. So she always thought about that— pushed herself towards a goal, for the sake of pursuing it, even if she was never actually going to achieve it.

But it was nice to be used to things, for all her habits to be worn into her. She was twenty-one years old, and so far she’d had three years of college to ingrain all her habits. But even in first semester, at eighteen, she’d performed well. She hadn’t had everything figured out, then, but she’d made up for it with zeal for what she was doing, and done well.

Now she felt much more settled. She had her routines, she knew what to expect, she knew that everything she did would receive end of semester recognition. And she knew who she was in relation to what she was doing— she knew how it affected and informed her identity.

When she did her work, she really felt like Yumi Yoshihiro. So just as every day when she practiced a little more, ingrained repetitive pattern a little more, she also seemed to be learning what to expect from herself.

Just as she knew that every week when she got home from whichever class, and checked the syllabus for the next week’s readings, she’d then sit down to do them all right then, she knew what she would see when she looked in the mirror: a woman who stood at four feet and ten inches— just as she knew that the more she learned about psychology, the more everything within her person changed, opening up to knowledge, assimilating it, widening her world view, responding. She loved that constant process of transformation and growing.

But she liked, just as much, that she could rely on her appearance staying the same, even while so much in her mind changed. It was a safe harbor to come back to— she went on so many mental journeys, and tiring, and taxing they all were— she was in constant flux, shifting a little more with everything learned, every new perspective on the world. She was glad that she always looked the same on the outside, when she came back to herself.

And sometimes, after putting together an understanding of things very difficult, the way that she grounded herself in the world again was to get up and go look at her reflection, then take relief in seeing what she’d expected to. The four foot ten inch woman looking back at her, that woman, with a curving body; that woman with a well-endowed bosom— a waist that curved from those prominent breasts down to prominent hips, her whole shape seeming to insinuate a curving line down along herself.

That was what she always looked like. Seeing expectation met relaxed her.

She also always expected to see the same things when she looked into her face— and as with her body, she found those expected things.

Her hair was always shoulderlength, and dark.

Occasionally, there was some distress for her, because she would look up at herself, from looking at her body, and find that her hair had grown and it was too long for her usual style. Usually after that she’d make a hairdressing appointment as soon as possible. Then the next time she would be back to shoulderlength again, feeling relieved, and breathing easier.

Shoulderlength. It was what she preferred— it stayed out of her way, and she never had to style it beyond pulling a brush through it— yet if she ever did want to do something, just for the sake of treating herself, then there was still enough substance there that she could pull it up onto her head or twist or tie it off, or do something with it.

Mostly she preferred not spending too much time styling, though. Less time styling meant more time thinking, learning.

And when she sought the familiarity of her own likeness, as well as finding the figure of form she expected, and the hair, she found, too, the eyes she was accustomed to seeing look back at her. They were both a rich, full brown, with nuances of hue in their color.

They were fully brown, but a brown that contained flecks and gradients of other browns, going along the spectrum of the shade. They were a bit fascinating to look at, when she was the observer looking at them.

They would be surely be fascinating to look at, too, if someone else were considering her deeply into the depths of them, but she’d rarely let anyone get close enough to her for a consideration such as that, for such an intimate observance. She was mostly the only one who ever looked into them— friends, the few romantic experiences she had— she’d kept them all somewhat at armslength, always putting other things ahead of them— never allowing herself to be so closely seen as to have someone observe all the nuances of her eyes.

Yes, she might have spent more time on styling her hair— she might have spent on styling herself, overall. She might have spent time styling herself, by styling her hair— or she might have spent time styling herself by styling her wardrobe.

But even in her sense of fashion, she rarely did more than what she needed to. Yumi preferred dressing classically— and so she often looked a little overdressed, everywhere that she went. She was just happier in a more formal style, dressed more conservatively. In cold weather, she wore chic turtlenecks under sharpcut blazers, with beautiful skirts, which always went to her knee. In warmer weather, she wore dresses with sleeves to her elbows, but made with fine fabrics, neatly tailored to her body, but never showing off much of it— and always, the dresses would have tasteful necklines that made her look sweet— she always looked like she belonged somewhere more fancy— in a highclass restaurant, attending the symphony, at an art gallery— in an important boardmeeting— she always exuded class, no matter where she was.

Despite her restrained manner of dressing herself, and despite the fact that what she wore only ever primly presented her physical assets, Yumi was in no way prudish. She’d had sex a handful of times, when she was serious about a partner. But she’d been in a long stretch of singledom, and she didn’t mind that either. A person had to be really special for Yumi to decide she was willing to change her life for him— at least, change it enough to accommodate his presence in it. And there had been no one quite that special for some time.

So Yumi got along fine without partnered sex— she did still have something of a solo sexlife on her own, though. Every now and then, she would masturbate. But she never discussed it with anyone— anytime her friends discussed their sexlives, she remained mute and uncontributing. And considering those facts, she might have been mistaken for a prude. But she wasn’t. She just didn’t like sharing something so private about herself with other people. She wasn’t open. That didn’t mean prudish.

The way that Yumi approached everything— the way that she thought about most things which were practical, was in a manner completely stubborn and set in her words.

In the realm of knowledge, in the realm of study, she constantly sought correction and criticism. But in the realm of mundane things, pursuits not intellectual, Yumi had developed an opinion on most things. And in all those mundane, practical cases, she considered herself to be completely in the right. She wouldn’t entertain other perspectives— she dismissed them all offhand.

She was downright prideful about her beliefs, when it came to this. She could not be budged from them. So she viewed her style of dress as superior to everyone else’s— viewed the manner in which she styled her as superior in the same way— she also thought her habits of study, and learning, and retention were superior. In pursuing knowledge, she searched for places inside herself where she could tear her presumptions apart— but everywhere outside of that, she was as set as stone on them— and she would never be moved.

She did prioritize her studies above all other things in her life— above her friends, above dating, which was why she was currently single, and above even her solo sexlife— but that didn’t mean all she ever did was study. Yumi had things she liked to do for fun— and she had things, which she did, and that she considered to be self-care.

For her, a big one was the act of jogging. Running made her feel fresh— it made her brain feel sharp. It also sometimes seemed to help her process her learning. She would often have flashes of insight, as she came around a waterfollowing trail, to find a leafy bushy, her sneakers hitting against trail pavement with her footfalls— jogging gave her a real sense of calm, and she always did better work after the fact.

She also knew it helped her health, and she was responsible for her health, so she tried to care for it.

She also enjoyed binging television shows on streaming services— and gardening plants in little potters she could fit around her livingspace.

Today, though, Yumi was feeling a bit restless. She had nothing left to do, college-wise; her readings longsince done, and already reviewed; and there were no pending assignment today. She’d already gone through her steaming service of the month— she tended to rotate between them, retaining one each month but always switching up which one it was she’d engaged, this way giving herself the greatest breadth of available content to view. And she’d gone through, and found nothing, today, that she’d wanted to watch.

She’d also already gone jogging twice, and had tended to her potted plants. She’d exhausted her hobbies, it was still the middle of the afternoon, and she’d had no classes today— what was she supposed to be doing with this free time?

She thought back to the day before. That night, before falling asleep and waking up to today’s morning, she’d tried to masturbate.

She did it every so often— maybe a few times in a month. Usually she could get to release fairly quickly, but last night nothing had worked. She’d had to face it. She was bored of her usual sexual habits— her usual sexual tricks. They weren’t doing anything anymore, and she needed something new if she wanted to keep things spicy, and entertaining.

Yumi considered her options. Vaguely, she remembered also jogging past a store she’d taken notice of. Either it had only recently opened, or she had only just discovered a jogging route which had taken her past it— but it had been noteworthy.

It was a sexshop, and now as Yumi sat in her home, thinking about last night’s predicament, an impulse arose in her. Why not walk back over to that shop, and take a look around it?

Maybe she could find the spark that had been missing for her.

It was as good a way as any to kill the endless time which seemed to stretch before her.

So she got herself readied, and then headed out to walk through the warm and sunny day.

It took her longer to get there than the previous time, because she was walking, and not running over.

She got there soon enough, entering inside.

There were plenty of sextoys around the store, and a counter with a door behind it she assumed could summon her forth a staffmember if she really wanted one— but none of that was particularly novel.

What caught her eye was a large booth, sitting in the center of the store’s salesfloor— it looked like at other time, other large items might similarly be showcased in the vicinity, but for now, there was only that booth, and a sign beside it, sitting on an easel, announcing what it was: BIMBO BOOTH.

That jostled a few things loose in her memory. She’d heard her friends talking about a sexshop, one which had a special booth inside that could turn anyone into a full-fledged bimbo— completely draining their intelligence away forever.

That was this shop. She’d jogged right by it without knowing what it was, or that she’d even heard of it before.

Those rumors seemed ridiculous to her now that she was standing in front of the booth. How could any object, let alone some random booth, take a person and wipe away everything that was unique about them? That just couldn’t happen in the real world.

So the booth had to be phoney, and a fake. That would be fun to prove, though— and she was curious. She wanted to see just kind of trickery had fooled the town population. She was certain that she would be able to see through it, once she’d made a thorough investigation.

She opened the door which led into the booth, and stepped inside, then shut herself in, and sat down on the provided seat.

Inside, the booth was very inconspicuous. She shook her head to herself. There was just no way that anything about it could be real.

Directly at chestlevel, there was a dial— the furthest rightpoint was the highest setting at which the booth could apparently do whatever it was supposed to.

But Yumi didn’t really believe the booth could do as it claimed, and was keen to catch out a lie, and so she turned the dial all the way rightwards, until it was at the highest possible setting.

She felt very clever.

But only for a moment.

The entire booth made a whirring sound, bringing itself to life. The fear that Yumi felt was sudden, and primal. She told herself there was no way this booth could do to her what it had claimed— that she was safe.

But she was just nervous enough to reach over for the handle to the door. And when she pulled on it, found it had suddenly locked.

She was sealed in.

She forced herself to exhale evenly. It would be fine, it had to be fine.

Then there was a whirring noise, as the booth seemed to kick itself up into higher gear.

Something brushed her wrists. Something else brushed her ankles.

She couldn’t speak for them, but when she glanced down at her wrists, she saw they had been bound; forcing her to be held still in her seat.

For the first time, she started to worry. What if this really was a bimbofication booth— what if it could really do what it had claimed? She didn’t want to be a bimbo. If she saw evidence that it was actually, actively happening to her, she would probably burst into tears. Her mind was her most treasured possession. She didn’t want it to be erased and overwritten with the personality of a generic bimbo.

Nor did she want to be forced to submit herself sexually to any proposed use— and she also didn’t want to be degraded, or humiliated. That was what happened to bimbos all the time— she didn’t want it happening to her.

She pulled against the restraints— they were as tight around her ankles as around her wrists— neither set had any give to them.

Even if this booth couldn’t do anything to her— and she repeatedly reminded herself that it couldn’t— it was still embarrassing to have gotten herself locked in this booth. She was blushing, and though she couldn’t shift far, her body was still squirming around, expressing her embarrassment for her. At least no one else could see her right now. She’d gotten herself into such a shameful situation, and had gotten herself there through her own foolishness.

She took her eyes off of the point that was directly ahead of her, and instead looked around her immediate surroundings.

As it had been on the outside, the inside of the bimbo booth was all black, and though it was cramped within, Yumi remembered looking at the booth from without and thinking that it looked so large.

It seemed like the interior had been built inwards— the booth occupied a large amount of physical space, but for whatever reason, it needed to have a lot of room in its walls, so the majority of the space was taken up by whatever was in there, leaving only a seat that was basically as wide as a person’s body— with walls on either side. If Yumi shifted too far, she brushed them.

It was a little like sitting in some kind of small— only maybe even a little more crowded than that.

As on the outside, the booth was lined in velvet— so when Yumi did happen to brush the walls, it was a positive feeling for her.

She remembered the easel that had announced “Bimbo Booth.” But she remembered, too, that there had also been a sign above the booth itself. The easel probably having been placed where it was to catch the eye of passing shoppers who were looking directly around them and not up, the other sign had nevertheless been there, though it was indistinct in Yumi’s memory, since she had only seen it peripherally and had never allowed her eyes to focus on it.

There was a flash of light. Yumi’s eyes struggled to focus.

Above the dial she had turned, which was really more at chestlevel, something had come to life. It was a screen— and while there was just indistinct visual noise on it for a second, it was only for just that second, and then the image became clear.

But it was only that solid yellow again! How could a solid yellow do anything to her?

She laughed, feeling suddenly lighter. It was all a fakery after all. She only needed to wait two hours for her release, and then she could walk out and prove how false this booth’s claims were.

But— wait. It had been solid yellow she was looking at before, hadn’t it? Now it was changing— like the edges were fraying, and a different tint was seeping in from around the sides— the yellow turning to a green.

But it changed as slowly as fabric frayed— or waves lapped— the central color being eaten at from the outside. Yumi watched, inexplicably fascinated. She felt her eyes widen, to take in the transformation more completely.

Once the yellow was gone, and had shifted green, then the edges were fraying blue. It felt like a crawl, but each time the color shifted to a different variation, it felt like it had happened a little faster than the previous time.

Yumi couldn’t think— she couldn’t do anything that would distract her from the constant shifting of color. There was a word for something like this… what was happening to her… but she couldn’t think, and didn’t care— wanted to see the next color coming in.

Her mind seemed to be doing something in response to those colors. They shifted, and things in her shifted mentally— an image was arising in her imagination— its lines and forms seemed to become bolder with every undulation of color, as if it were the colors themselves which she viewed that made the vision in her mind appear.

It was her up there, only naked— and yet, though she could recognize the form of herself, the woman she saw was somehow also a stranger to her. Her eyes were blank, showing no intelligence— and her mouth was spread in a doped looking smile.

She wasn’t alone. There was a man with her there, and he threw her roughly down on the floor, and the Yumi which wasn’t her smiled up at him, barely reacting to being treated so roughly.

He’d done nothing so far which seemed like it was benefitting Yumi— but once she was lying backdown on the ground, her only response was to cant her hips up, and angle them towards him, making thrusts in the air, clearly attempting to invite his entry and invite his attentions.

That was all the man seemed to need— he was naked too, so he easily pushed himself between Yumi’s legs, and Yumi let out a series of excited noises as she allowed her body to be plundered.

Her breasts bounced with the thrusts of the man— at once Yumi’s eyes drank in color, and simultaneously her imagination drank in perversity— it made Yumi shudder to see the images unfolding in her head.

The man didn’t go any gentler on her— in fact, he took handfuls of her breasts and began twisting them— more like wrenching them, truly— and that should have hurt her imaginary figureself, but the Yumi that Yumi saw kept smiling in delight, looking back at the man with eyes that clearly lacked comprehension— Yumi hated it.

Seeing herself treated this was— there was no way to refer to it as other than base use. She was being treated like a fucktoy— no human decency entered into it at all— she was being treated as less than human, even— just something for a man to masturbate into, and what was worse, the vision of herself she saw seemed to know this, to understand it, and not only accept it, but welcome it— crave it, even.

What had been done to her, what was so wrong with this her, that she would tolerate treatment like this? That she would enjoy it? She had a wonderful mind— and she always expected people to treat her decently— like she was human, at least, certainly. So where had these qualities, which were present in the real Yumi, gone?

It was just an imaginary image though, she tried to comfort herself. That wasn’t doing much to ease her emotions. The visceral disgust, mixed with the fear— the tinge of the outrage. Those feelings were all sharp, but her eyes were still taking in the colors , and they seemed to blunt those edges slightly.

She couldn’t deny that the woman she was being shown was going along with what happened. Clearly, she would offer herself up to anyone— offer herself up to anything— she only seemed to want submission. As the man fucked her, she never tried to change positions, or touch herself, or touch him, or do anything unless he had guided or encouraged her in someway to do it.

Since he’d made it clear that he wanted to fuck deeply in her pussy, and wrench her breasts around on her chest, she helped him with this desire— she arched her back off the floor to make her breasts fuller handfuls, and she arched her hips off the floor to take his dick in further.

Yumi was seeing the colors in two places, now— still with her eyes, but now they had also invaded her imaginings— they were the background behind the shapeless space, behind the two figures which moved with each other. She was seeing the colors twice— in her head, behind the action, and in front of her eyes, in reality— so they seemed to have a doubled effect.

All her intense negative feelings seemed to smooth out to an even greater degree, and… the other effect which she didn’t want to admit… it had her squirming in the booth’s seat… shifting uncomfortably, she was uncomfortable in two ways. Emotionally uncomfortable with her own reaction, and physically uncomfortable because she was in need of relief.

It was undeniable now. She was getting horny. As she watched the colors slowly flow, twice over, her arousal was something in her that seemed to surge in time with them— and as she watched a facsimile of herself be fucked in some of the most degrading ways she’d ever seen… it made that surge of arousal in her feel even more immense. She wished she could cross her legs to squeeze down on that arousal, hold it in. But she couldn’t.

As she watched her imaginary copy slam her hips up as the man fucking her slammed his hips down, Yumi considered the face of her false self. So lit in joy, but looking so completely beyond knowledge, and beyond language.

When she wondered this time what could have made this version of herself like this— when she wondered what could have made her give up her treasured intelligence, and give up her expectations of decent treatment, she knew the answer.

And in knowing it understood she’d known it before, but had just not wanted to consider it.

This version of her was a bimbo, simply put. And she was currently sitting in a bimbo booth. Whether this showed her the future, or whether it was just encouraging in her its desired thought patterns, this was a version of herself that had been bimbofied, and a version of herself which loved her new state of being.

That was a sinking a feeling in her stomach. Maybe it was more like nausea— it was the feeling of blood rushing into her cheeks.

This was who this booth wanted her to be— what this booth wanted to make her— and while Yumi could swear all day that it would never succeed, the facts were simple. It was clearly having some kind of positive effect— recouping some kind of success, because whether she wanted to admit it or not, her feelings of opposition were dulling— and those colors, which swam in her vision and swam behind fantasy in her head, only seemed to speed this process.

And seemed to speak directly to her pleasure centers— encouraging them to release more. So she could deny all she liked that this booth would succeed— it was clearly getting somewhere, was making some progress to its goal, even if it hadn’t entirely achieved it yet.

She watched the other her vacantly smile, and it made her heart twist. To be that thoughtless! Her mind was a carefully cultivated space— everything she knew, everything she had arranged for herself mentally— she had arranged it all so carefully— all her knowledge had been earned through so much effort— she’d prided herself on her mind, on the way she constantly expanded it, on how much more she knew than she’d known even last year. It was the most important aspect of her identity— developing had so far been the work of her life.

And in this image of herself bimboishly fucking this random man, Yumi can see that it was gone— or that if she allowed herself to become a bimbo, it would be gone— all that work— all that effort— the quintessential that made her herself— gone— she gasped out something that was nearly a sob.

She wanted the booth to stop. She wanted it to turn off. How long had it been going? How much longer would it go on?

She pulled against her wristrestraints— then pulled at her anklerestraints. She could see the mental visuals, could see the color visuals, no matter how she pulled. And none of the restraints loosened no matter what she did to them.

Internally she was crying out. She wanted to curl up and hide. This was all her fault— this was such a stupid situation to have gotten trapped in, and she had only herself to blame. There was no one here to see her, but she was as embarrassed as if she’d just made a fool of herself in front of a room full of people. Her whole body felt hot, like she was blushing with every inch of her skin.

Stupid, stupid! She’d been so cocky and prideful, assuming this booth was a fake. She never should have risked herself! She never should have sat down in here! She never should have turned the dial to the highest setting. Curling up and hiding wasn’t enough. She was so lit on fire by shame now she just wanted to curl up and die. Or go crawl into a hole, and die there. She had no one to blame but herself— she’d acted foolishly, and now she was stuck here, turning into a bimbo at least partly. She hoped the transformation wouldn’t advance.

The images of what she was doing, the ways she was submitting sexually, they changed within her mind— now she was on her knees, taking a cock into her mouth. She swallowed it so far down the bulge of it was visible in her throat.

Or she did this as a second man fucked her pussy— or fucked her ass— while she sucked on the cock of the first— or she was on her back, with a man kneeling over her, and his cock jammed all the way down her throat, his weight immobilizing her.

The colors in her mind swallowed the imaginary images. Then she just watched the screen.

Everything was moving very fast now— the colors still swallowed inwards, but now it was a quick pulling from outside to center in one snatch, and as soon as one color was snatched different, the next color snatched it up. Yumi’s eyes kept moving, never stopping, having to constantly keep tracking the motion of the color.

If her eyes had been able to stop following— if she’d been able to just look directly at something for a moment— maybe her mind could have settled and formed a thought, but one color was snatched by the next a little quicker each time, until it was basically like each color was a quick blink— and then the next color was there— and the next— for her mind, which was still foolishly trying to track this progression, and catalogue each color she had seen. The sheer burden of speed dragged it down— making it tired— silencing it.

And there was a hissing tone playing into the booth now— there were speakers at the height of each of Yumi’s ears, playing what sounded like people murmuring, like people in another room speaking, their voices carrying through very thick walls, unintelligible.

But every so often, one word would pop out— then Yumi would forget it again immediately.

Self-entrancing, she heard— then forgot— filled with lust, some minutes later. Time was turning into white noise, just like the hissing inaudible speech— the moving colors were pulsepoints— they were throbs— so each word that stood out seemed to erase all the time between it and the next, and suddenly it was like Yumi was hearing many words in consecutive sequence— though really, it was only for those words that Yumi’s mind partially awoke— and between them, it shut off.

So Yumi heard, Self-entrancing, filled with lust, stupid bimbo, anyone’s toy, desperate to submit, whore for anyone, ruled by sex, wanting to be used… as if the words were being shot into her brain at rapid fire.

Horny all the time, wanting degradation, wanting stupidity, silly bimbo, losing intelligence… the colors seemed to throb in agreement with the words that were streaming in.

Yumi couldn’t know anything beyond her current experience.

She could feel what the booth was doing to her, even if she could barely understand it. Her mind had been a series of stacking blocks, and systematically, one block was slid out, and the entire structure seemed threatening to collapse— but then a new block was slotted in— Yumi was becoming like her, that version of herself she had watching inside her imagination— the one that’d disgusted her— mindless, without identity, without intelligence, one more bimbo… she felt each block in her mind slide out in sequence like a physical sensation— when each one gave way, it felt like her pussy opening up— and when each new block slid in— it felt like the best dildo in the world sliding in and filling her— and her pussy clenched hard around each entry, even though nothing was really arriving between her legs.

Then, with each new block, more of the words that had been put to her were inside of her too. She thought… self-entrancing, filled with lust, ready to submit, completely without a mind, bimbofied and horny, bimbofied and happy… there were few blocks from her mind before that remained.

Too much new programming had been slipped into her head, replacing what was old, each one like a complete filling, plumbing vaginal thrust. Yumi was pouring out pussyjuice where she sat, her mouth gaping.

She could only understand what was being put into her head. And there were more blocks coming in now— two and three of the old were being slid out at a time, and two and three of the new were plunging in to replace them— as if she could know what it felt like to have three pussies at once, and have them all simultaneously filled— Yumi gasped where she sat, not even aware of what was happening.

The colors throbbed at her, washing through her sight. The blocks slid in her head. The speakers hissed out to her.

She heard it and it was inside her head.

Bimbos have no minds, and her mind was blank. Bimbos have no thoughts, and she had none.

You are a bimbo, and she was a bimbo— and she let out a lighthearted laugh as she felt more being taken out of her mind and more being plunged into it.