Pavlov's Bimbo

"Hello," she said with rehearsed enthusiasm. "You've reached Faedyn Customer Support. This is Clara speaking. How may I help you today?"

Silence answered her. Not the awkward sort while someone gathered their thoughts. This silence felt deliberate.

Clara glanced at the call timer. The seconds ticked away. She resisted the urge to sigh. People who began calls like this were rarely calling about forgotten passwords. They wanted to complain. Annoyance simmered beneath her carefully professional tone.

"Hello?"

At last, someone answered.

"Hello, darling."

The voice was low and melodic, every word delivered with effortless confidence. It wasn't quite flirtatious, it felt more enchanting. Like listening to someone tell a story beside a fireplace on a winter evening. Every word designed to catch the listeners attention.

"I couldn't help but notice something."

Clara frowned.

"That interesting little part in your company's name. Faedyn."

A pause.

"'Fae.'"

The speaker lingered over the word.

"Is that not a little arrogant? To claim such familiarity with the fair folk."

Clara blinked. For a heartbeat, she simply listened. The irritation she'd felt only moments earlier drifted away, replaced by an odd uncertainty.

"I'm sorry?"

"I asked," the caller repeated gently, "whether your employers understand the implication of the name they chose."

Clara opened her mouth. Closed it again. The question was absurd. Faedyn was a software company. As far as she knew, the founders had chosen the name because it sounded modern and memorable.

Hadn't they?

She frowned.

Why couldn't she remember?

Usually she could recite the company's branding history without thinking. New employees spent nearly an entire afternoon learning the official story by watching the most boring and mind-numbing orientation video ever produced.

However, now just a vague certainty that she ought to know it filled her mind.

"You seem uncertain." The observation wasn't mocking. If anything, it sounded amused.

"No," Clara replied quickly. "I just. I'm not part of the marketing department."

"Of course not." The caller laughed softly. The sound sent an inexplicable shiver across the back of Clara's neck.

It wasn't unpleasant.

Quite the opposite. It felt comforting, almost as familiar as her mother's praise.

She adjusted her headset.

"May I ask what this call is regarding?"

"Oh, certainly."

Another brief silence filled the conversation.

"I'm calling because someone is using a name that doesn't belong to them. And I need your help, darling, to claim restitution. And since you work in customer support, I'm certain that those folds between your thighs are already wet and eager," the speaker paused. Clara heard a soft hum of satisfaction before the speaker continued. "And so I need your help. To teach your company what it means to name oneself 'fae'."

Clara shifted in her chair, pressing her thighs tightly together. Heat flooded her cheeks.

"Yes, Ma'am," Clara responded.

"Good girl," the caller cooed.

The sound sent an unexpected wave of warmth through Clara. A flush of pleasure washed across her skin, and she squirmed in her seat.

"Now I want my employees to be the best. In looks and personality. And we both know that a little calling drone doesn't need much of a personality," the speaker mused. Clara heard the click of fingernails tapping against a hard surface. "So, why don't you tell me a few things about yourself."

"Yes, Ma'am," Clara said obediently, her mind still reeling from the sudden change. Her voice came out breathless, and the caller chuckled.

"Good. Start with how much of a whore you really are."

Clara bit her lip.

"I've had some experiences. In the past. When I was in college," she admitted softly.

"Darling, don't you mean, you've got lots of experience after dropping out of school?" The speaker asked.

Clara felt her blush darken. The only person she'd told about that had been her last girlfriend.

"Who told you?" She whispered. Her words carried the faint edge of fear.

The caller clicked their tongue. Clara could picture them wagging a perfectly manicured fingernail at her. A tiny, silent warning not to repeat the offense again.

"Now, now, darling." The speaker said gently, "I'm going to ask the questions, not you. So, why don't you tell me about your experiences."

Clara shifted in her chair.

"Well, I've had a few boyfriends," she began hesitantly, "And I experimented a bit with some girlfriends. I like sex, and I used to watch some porn. And I don't know, I've just tried some different things, that's all." Clara's cheeks burned, but as she spoke her arousal only grew. She found herself remembering some of those past experiences. She pressed her thighs even more tightly together and arched her back slightly.

"Don't be shy, darling. We both know you had some hard core experiences. After all, you don't get fake, plastic tits like those delicious globes on your chest, if you are a prude vanilla girl," the caller said, their voice a seductive whisper.

Clara couldn't stop her hand from drifting upwards, brushing against the swell of her breast.

"I'm a whore," Clara breathed.

"I know," the caller purred.

The voice, the way the woman spoke, sent another shudder of arousal through her. She could almost feel those words sliding over her skin.

"I like fucked around, a lot. Sucked dicks. Let cocks pound into my snatch and ass. Sometimes I got multiple holes filled at the same time." Her hand crept higher, until she brushed her thumb over a hardened nipple.

"Oh, my good little cock-sucking whore," the woman laughed softly. "That's exactly right. Instead of smarts and a brain, you are dumb and have tits. It's so much better. Isn't it, darling?"

"Uh-huh." Clara bit back a moan. Her entire body tingled.

"Very nice," the woman purred, "But, let's see what we can do to make you a better cocksucker, alright darling?"

"Alright."

"What are you wearing right now?"

Clara's voice came out husky, her breathing quickening. She felt dizzy, almost feverish. The office around her faded, leaving only the caller's sultry voice in her ears. Her surroundings didn't seem to exist anymore.

"I'm wearing a white button up top, a pencil skirt and heels." She shifted her shoulders, feeling the clothing against her skin.

"Are you sure? That doesn't sound like my companies uniform. Faedyn Incorporated isn't known for its unappealing attire."

Clara frowned, the haze in her mind clearing slightly. The caller sounded so certain, so authoritative, as if they knew everything about her and her workplace. And yet, their words held the weight of truth, a truth she couldn't quite grasp.

"No, I suppose not," Clara agreed slowly. She glanced down at herself.

Instead of her usual, bland outfit, she saw something far more daring. A short, pleated skirt rode high on her thighs. The fabric appeared glossy, like black latex. She wore matching thigh high stockings. A white, collared shirt covered her torso. A red, satin tie completed the outfit. Her hair fell loosely over her shoulders, framing a face made-up with bold, dark eyeshadow and lipstick.

Her hands trembled.

"Where did this come from?"

"Don't be ridiculous, darling." The caller's voice sharpened. "That's your work uniform. You've worn it every day. Do you think you're here for your brains? You're just a cock-sucking slut who needs a cock pounding into your pussy and asshole to fill her up. You're so much more attractive like this." The speaker's words sounded almost like an admonishment.

Clara bit her lip.

"Of course. I'm sorry. It's just," she paused. Her thoughts swam, and her mind struggled to focus on anything other than the ache between her legs. The clothes felt tight and restrictive.

"Don't apologize. Faedyn Incorporated Sluts only apologize when they aren't pleasing customers or superiors. And, darling, you are very pleasing. Pliable, submissive and slutty. Isn't that right, my bimbo whore?" The speaker asked, their words a soft caress.

"Like, totes, Mistress," Clara responded in a bubbly, bimbo voice. Her tongue ran over her glossy lips.

The speaker chuckled again, a rich, musical sound that filled her ears.

"Good girl." They cooed.

Clara squirmed, rubbing her thighs together. She felt an undeniable need building inside her.

"I'm glad to hear it," the speaker continued, their voice still soft. "And you know what that means, don't you, my bimbo whore? It means that I own you. You're mine, darling. Your tits, your pussy, your mouth," the caller's words turned into a sultry purr. "And you love it. You crave being owned. Faedyn employees are all owned by the Fae. It's in the name after all." There was no doubt or uncertainty in the speaker's voice. Their confidence was absolute.

"Uh-huh," Clara agreed eagerly, nodding. "Yes, Mistress, I'm your slut. Your bimbo. I belong to you. I love being owned, and being your property, Mistress. It's the best, most amazing feeling in the entire world!" She giggled, the sound light and carefree.

"And what do we say when we get owned, my darling little cumslut?"

The speaker's voice turned teasing. Clara bit her lip, feeling her arousal surge.

"Thank you, Mistress."

She could almost see the woman's smile on the other end of the phone.

"You are so welcome." The caller sounded delighted. "And what do we do when we are your Mistress's bimbo slut? We follow orders and we do as we're told. We're perfect, obedient, little cunts who just live and breathe to obey."

Clara shivered.

"Yes, Mistress."

"Such a good girl." The speaker purred. "Now, that our little company is back on track, it's time you get those holes some good use."

The line clicked, leaving Clara in silence. She stood up. Her heels clacked on the tile floor. Her bubble butt bounced in time with each step. Her tits swayed heavily.

The caller was right, of course.