I tried not to move as the girl painted my lips. As usual, she tittered away about something or another. I tried to just sit still, watching the other girls coming and going, trying to get a sense of a pattern, see if I could figure out a way to sneak out.
The girl pulled her hands back, looking at me expectantly. Shit. Had she been saying something I was supposed to be responding to?
I giggled, nodding a little. “Oh,” I said, “um, totally!”
She beamed, and went back to touch up more of my makeup. The nice thing about having to pretend to be a brainwashed bimbo is that it’s not a bad thing to get distracted. Everybody treats it like it’s expected.
Frankly, I’m no positive why I’m not a brainwashed bimbo. I’ve seen dozens of girls enter the chamber they put me in. They go in kicking and screaming, fighting, furious. They come out giggling and demure and eager to please. I don’t understand how it works. I just know it didn’t work on me.
I stood in line with the other girls, shackled in place, watching every girl in front of me go in defiant and resistant and come out stupid and obedient. They shoved me in and shut the door. I pounded on it, enraged, terrified. Then the lights started. Dozens of them, flashing and blinking, various colors, all around me. I felt dazed, overwhelmed. I fell to the floor, staring up at them. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t shut my eyes. I could feel something happening to me, pushing on my brain, trying to change me, adjust me, making me-
I blinked a few times, recovering. I felt my conscious self returning. It… didn’t work. I was still me. Somehow, I had resisted it!
I heard the door on the other side unlock. “C’mon out, sweetie!” I heard the guard-bimbo by the exit call. And my stomach dropped.
It hadn’t worked, but it had been working. What if they put me in again? What if they did that over and over? It’d break me. I could feel it. I had to…
I had to pretend.
I put a big, vapid smile on my face, remembering how the other girls looked. I took a deep breath, tried to quell my pounding heart, and opened the door.
They were all going to know. They’d be able to tell. I wasn’t one of them. I was faking. It must be so obvious.
But nobody reacted. They guided me around to where I needed to go. I was stripped, showered, shaved and waxed, pampered and primped and dolled up. My hair was cut and dyed, my makeup gets done over and over each day. I’m sent to the gym, the cafeteria, the salon. We watch porn for hours each day, playing with ourselves, learning new positions.
And I do all of it, smiling, unquestioning. And I watch.
There’s got to be a weakness somewhere, I tell myself. There’s a way out. A soft spot. I just have to spot it. They’re training us - some get sold off to ‘buyers’, whoever they might be. Others end up as personal servants to the small cadre of men who run this facility. That’s what scares me most - if I’m sold, the chances of escape must be better, right? That’s what I’m hoping for. I’ll get to my buyer’s home and escape from there.
But tonight… I’m worried. One of The Men - that’s all we know them as - has expressed an interest in me. I’m getting dolled up for him. Tonight, I’m being sent to his in-facility residence. I’m sure I’ll have to fuck him. Blow him. Whatever other depravities he has in mind - they’ve got a reputation, The Men. Of course, the girls here titter and coo about how wonderful they are, so it’s a good reputation, in their minds. But for me… I’m scared. I’m going to go through all that, and I’ll have to smile and giggle and make like it makes me happier than anything else ever has. Because if he sees through me… well, they’ll put me in the chamber again. And again and again and again, until I’m changed. I can’t let that happen.
So I’ll be the obedient bimbo they want me to be. I’ll be dumb and slutty and pretty and horny and completely compliant. And just maybe, I’ll spot my way out of here soon.
(Thanks for this awesome suggestion! I hope you like what I did with the idea!)