In all the ways that mattered, Emmy was gone. Her baby blue eyes gazed straight ahead, seeing a spiral that only existed in her mind–a spiral that captivated her so completely and totally that she didn’t even notice the world around her anymore. Her jaw hung slack and open, the muscles of her face so blank and expressionless that any observer might think her asleep if not for those wide, staring eyes. She didn’t speak. She didn’t even moan or whimper, despite the bullet vibrator nestled snugly against her clit and held in place by a pair of latex panties. Even when the proctor gently stroked her chin and parted her lips a little wider into a perfect cocksucking ‘O’, she didn’t react at all. She merely froze as she was posed, her mind blissfully empty. Perfectly ready for her next programming session.

“You’re a happy little cockslut now,” the proctor murmured, and even though Emmy gave absolutely no sign of even hearing the words, let alone understanding them, the woman in head-to-toe black latex knew that Emmy was absorbing her conditioning without resistance. “Every time you see a man, you can’t help thinking about what his cock would feel like in your mouth. You can’t help fantasizing about licking your lips and sliding your pretty head down that warm, stiff shaft until you’re kissing his balls, and you’re going to do everything you can to pleasure that penis until his hot, sticky cum is sliding down your throat. Isn’t that right, pretty girl?” Emmy couldn’t even nod for herself in her current state. The proctor moved her chin up and down for her.

“Nothing makes you happier than being down on your knees, giving a man an eager, sloppy blowjob,” the woman in black purred, and Emmy couldn’t disagree. All her disagreement had been used up months ago during that spa weekend when the spiral was first planted in her brain, and now all her owners needed to do was walk up to her and brush their fingers intimately against the hollow of her throat to put her back into that same compliant, empty state. She wouldn’t remember any of this when she woke. But her deep self would instinctually obey. “You want to service his cock, his balls, take his load wherever he wants to dump it,” the proctor continued, and Emmy felt her head rise and fall in another manipulated nod of agreement.

“Every man you meet–every single man you encounter from the moment you wake up in the morning to the moment you fall asleep at night–is a cock you need to service.” A trickle of drool spilled from the corner of Emmy’s mouth as she listened, the only visible sign of her desire to comply. “You’re going to flirt with them–subtly if you need to, openly if you can, but always with the intention of ending that conversation with their dick fucking your face. And once you’ve sucked them off, once you’ve used all those skills in the back of your brain to make them empty their balls into you, you’re going to make sure they know that they can have that again. Any time they want. Any time they feel like using you. And it’s going to make you feel so contented and happy and complete knowing that you pleased that man’s penis. Isn’t that right, pretty slave?” Another compelled nod. Emmy wasn’t even aware of it, but her subconscious instinctively associated the motion with agreement and that made it so much easier to accept her brainwashing.

“Good girl,” the proctor said, removing Emmy’s collar and striding briskly away as the hypnotized woman gradually came back to her senses. She had a lot of other women to get to that day, and no time to waste on Emmy now that her latest programming session was complete. And when she was finished, she knew she would strip off her latex outfit and forget just like Emmy did that she was nothing more than another of the brainwashed, obedient slaves who carried out Master’s will.

ROBERT PATTINSON as BATMAN: 

I don't care how clever you think you're going about it, I promise you that we know you do it, and it annoys the hell out of us to be treated so blatantly like sex objects you only go to when you want to get off.

Whether or not your dom is a sex worker or just posting on the side for fun, they're a person who deserves to be treated with respect, not as some kind of machine that dispenses scenes for you whenever you want them.

Let me reiterate for those of you who do this and think the person you're interacting with doesn't know: They do. I promise you, they do.

Let the doms in your life know you appreciate them and the work they do, hell just talk with them normally, try to get to know them, and don't assume they're going to be on 24/7, because they're not.

(What follows are not my words. They were written by Bimboz in response to an ask by Feminism91. I merely copy and pasted the text to make it re-bloggable.)

feminism91 asked: Hey, I’m curious about bimbofication and found your tumblr. Can you explain what you like about the bimbo lifestyle? Does it influence the way you yourself live, dress, behave and so on? Thanks!

Feminism91: “Can you explain what you like about the bimbo lifestyle? Does it affect how you live, dress, behave, etc.?“

Sure thing. I’ll tell you what I like. It reduces stress and increases pleasure. For background, I am a graduate of a prestigious university with a comp lit undergraduate degree and a law degree. So I wasn’t at one point an obvious candidate for bimboism. But I love it.

 I have had different conceptions of self over time which have provided very different degrees of happiness. When I was a competitive professional, working in litigation in Los Angeles, having traded my Derrida texts and literary quarterlies for — yikes — pantyhose and interrogatories, I was in competition with everyone, including men and women, to generate the most insightful analysis, the fastest retort, or even the most devastating, jaded, backhanded remark about a new a restaurant (or perhaps a new colleague). I enjoyed the independence and freedom but also felt the stress, the pressure and loneliness — ultimately, I was not fulfilled or happy. That competitive high powered life offers respect, maybe a little prestige, but also requires sacrifice of your individuality, personality, spontaneity, happiness…and usually sex life by the way. In that life, everything is formal, proscribed, allocated, rationalized and competitive. I think of it as very male by nature. And frankly most organizations are like this in some way. Even the academic world is full of conformity and pressure. You trade happiness and spontaneity for coffee, deadlines, hierarchy and annual reviews. Then you die. Sorry to be negative.

 I had been with some men of course and I came to realize that along with great literature, they were the highlight of my life. I have always been blessed with I guess a reasonably attractive appearance so lots of guys wanted to date. A few of those men truly loved me (as I loved them) and others really really appreciated me in an unmitigated, unreserved way. In bed and out we had some of the best times of our lives together, created moments that I will remember forever with unreserved happiness. And in contrast while there was some satisfaction, there were no moments of unreserved happiness in the organized, corporate world. I don’t want to dance around the sex part either. I like sex. I am sex positive! I want to enjoy it and I want the men to enjoy it as much as possible. I think to do it right you have to leave politics and even some of your self-conscious sense of personal dignity at the door. Great sex is not usually ultra-dignified. For whatever reason that’s just the way it is. “Self-esteem” is just guilt programmed by society. If having a man ejaculate on your face or if licking his asshole erodes your self-esteem and makes you feel guilty (even though it made him feel good and was exciting to you), then that is just society reaching out and controlling you. To have real self-esteem is to be able to say that you are going to do whatever you want, what makes you feel good, and you’re not going to conform to the soul-crushing conventions and strictures of a society that considers itself open-minded but is still very oriented around shaming and other psychological tools of mass manipulation. I don’t find feminist academia to be freeing or empowering at all by the way; I find it in fact to be just an extension of earlier anti-happiness mass control propaganda narratives, oddly hidden in the guise of a freedom movement.

 Becoming a bimbo means living for pleasure — beauty, sex, comedy, food, drink, art…pleasure of all kinds. You dedicate yourself to it entirely. Because you’re sexual, you care about your pleasure and the pleasure of a man or men. Therefore, you take care of yourself, you’re fit like a sexual athlete, and sometimes you exaggerate qualities that turn men on. Like big tits? I’ve got 32DD’s. Like bald pussy? Mine is permanently lasered bald. I deep throat. Yes please buttfuck me. This is all no different from developing a good backhand at tennis — you want to be great at what you love. And by the way I want great too. I love large cocks. I’d like one every single day. Why wouldn’t I?

 Some of the bimbo elements of appearance are also about announcing to the world in a public way that you’re a bimbo, bimboism is here, and if they don’t like it they can stick it. Fake boobs are the in-your-face nose ring of the bimbo movement. Historically we have seen that costume can be a precursor to revolution.

Bimboism of course therefore affects what you wear etc., depending on how you embrace it. You live for pleasure, yours and others. You are an anarchist hedonist. You are an American geisha. When a member of the corporate state reads Whitman, they inevitably must feel that while they can appreciate some of the language, they are themselves not being true to it, that their experience and lifestyle prevent them from being Whitman-esque or leading such a life (except in fantasy). They must read at arm’s length as an anthropologist in their own culture. But a bimbo is an impractical child of pleasure, a student of pleasure, an anarchist, a pervert, a hedonist, a slave only to freedom; living a modern saturnalia. As Whitman said, “After what you have exhausted what there is in business, politics, conviviality, and so on, — have found that none of these finally satisfy or permanently wear — what remains? Nature remains.“ I think pleasure and unselfconsciousness remain. How specifically that translates into your wardrobe will probably depend on you. But bimboism is not an outfit. It’s not a set of rules like the preppy handbook. It starts within and it celebrates beauty and lust. I would say it tends to, having a relationship to sexuality, exaggerate gender traits. So a male bimbo would be quite manly and fit. A female bimbo would tend to have longer hair, nails, boobs, legs, etc. Sometimes, I’m a toy. I’m a sex toy. If you see me you can probably guess that that’s sometimes what I am and I’m ok with that.

 I think the least happy people are those who try to do eight things, wind up being great at none, are not sure who or what they are, and who are unwittingly controlled by convention and society all their lives. The happiest people embrace one thing and set their own path.

Bimbos are hedonist revolutionaries.

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.

Programmed for pleasure.

Safe. Peaceful. Docile.

(Part 2)