Bambi or Bust Pt. 02

I awoke on Monday morning feeling deeply sated and refreshed. My time in the box had eroded all the worries I'd had about money and my landlord's threats. There wasn't a rational explanation for this change in attitude; I hadn't come up with a plan to pay off my debts or move into different accommodation. I had simply reached a state of blissful apathy. Whatever will be, will be.

This nonchalant feeling evaporated as I roused myself a little more and began to notice the changes. I had been out of it since early Saturday, letting my body's other inhabitant take the reins. Bambi and I had an understanding -- I'd set clear boundaries, and they hadn't yet been violated (regrettably, I hadn't thought to extend this to my finances when I'd started down this path, otherwise perhaps things wouldn't have got this far). But I could tell something was wrong. The confinement around my clit and the dull ache from my lower back were enough of a clue.

I shot up out of bed, pausing only to reflexively slip on a pair of platform heels. A dense weight shifted between my legs as I moved, and I knew what it was even before I could get to the mirror, lift up the hem of my chemise and pull my thong to one side. Glinting back at me was a tiny steel chastity cage, confining my clit to a dome-shaped nub and barring any access for direct stimulation. Even trying to keep it clean would be difficult with this thing shielding it. Frantically, I looked for a lock -- I knew from my own research that these units usually came with a garbage core that can be forced with a paperclip. Instead what I found was a carefully peened steel rivet and a phone number hand-engraved on the side of the cage. It confirmed my fears. I didn't have the tools to take this off, and I definitely didn't have the tools to have fitted it in the first place. That could mean only one thing: Bambi had been out on her own.

A pit formed in my stomach as I considered the implications of this new development. What if we were seen? A neighbour, a colleague, my friends or family: any of these had the potential to expose my secret and ruin my life. Up to now, I had been so careful to keep this other side of me hidden away indoors, and now she had exposed herself of her own volition. I had to know what damage had been done. I scooped up my phone, hand shaking a little, dreading what messages might be waiting for me.

The lock screen that greeted me held a mixture of good and bad news. Firstly, there were no frantic texts or missed calls from anyone I knew. The only message was from the same number carved into my new cage -- it simply said, 'Call me when you're ready'. I left it marked unread and rapidly scrolled through the rest of the notifications which were mostly about sales going on at some of the online fashion retailers Bambi liked to frequent.

Dismissing the last of these, I was finally left staring at the background image, which had changed since the last time I'd seen it. A chill ran down my spine as I recognised myself on hands and knees and tilting my head back to look up into the camera. I was decked out like a two-bit whore: make-up smeared, runs in my stockings, my thong pulled to one side and cum splattering my face and back. The source of the jism was still crammed into my mouth: a chocolate brown shaft, slick with my saliva and pulsing with veins. My eyes in the photo were clouded with lust and subservience as I sucked on it for all I was worth.

My physical reaction to seeing this image was dictated purely by hypnotic reflex. Once again, my mouth shot open and my tongue lolled out, as if begging a cock to be placed inside. Mentally though, I was reeling. Not only had Bambi gone out, but she had hooked up with someone! There was an unpleasant churning sensation in my stomach as I took in the fact that my body had been used without my consent. This was tantamount to rape, I thought indignantly. Of course, had I paused to think a few layers deeper, I would have realised that I gave my consent to all this happening long ago, when I read the warnings about Bambi Sleep and decided to try the programme anyway. This was nothing but buyer's remorse.

Feeling ashamed and disgusted with myself, I was about to close the phone when my eyes caught on something in the image: a fuzzy mark on my lower back. I remembered the dull ache I'd felt there when I'd first woken up, and my thoughts came out in a jumble as I hurried to undo my corset and take a look. She didn't! She wouldn't! She couldn't! But my denials were pointless as I stared wide-eyed at the evidence in front of me.

Scribed into the blank space just above my butt cheeks was an intricate design with Bambi's name featured prominently. The 'B' had a princess tiara resting jauntily upon it, while the 'i' had a Queen of Spades in place of the usual dot. Scattered in the background was a collection of feminine and sexual icons: Hello Kitty, angel wings, hand cuffs, several dildos (some of them spraying cum at the name in the centre), and all tied together by a large flowing ribbon. All of it had been outlined and shaded in various hues of pink.

I started to hyperventilate as my manicured hand stretched back to try to rub it away. But it was futile. I felt a stinging sensation as my long nails raked against the damaged skin above the ink, succeeding only at scraping off some of the gel that had been rubbed over it to make sure it healed properly. In my increasing anxiety, I didn't even notice the sheet of plastic film that had fallen away when I removed my corset, which was presumably supposed to keep the gel in place.

That's when the icy grip of panic finally took hold. The room started to spin and my chest tightened as if someone had clamped a belt across it. Breaths were coming in short little puffs, starving me of oxygen, making me dizzy. I stretched out a hand to steady myself and felt the fingers tingle from lack of blood flow. The edges of my vision darkened and I swooned, the floor rushing up to embrace me. My head hit the carpet with a thump and everything went black.

***

I don't know how long I lay there. After some time, I became aware of an inner voice calling me back to the box. I managed to ignore it. The shock of what Bambi had done was just fading and I really didn't need her causing any more damage.

It was a buzz from my phone that roused me in the end. I sat up and winced from the fresh bump on my head. There was a message waiting for me on that damn lock screen, from the same number as before. "Good morning Princess," it said. "You're probably getting ready for work right now but don't forget to call me when you get time. Bambi did warn me that you have a hard time remembering things -- if you want to know what happened this weekend, I'd be happy to fill in the gaps. I think we can help each other out if you're interested. Speak soon. ~Master M. xxx"

I left the message as unread again. Putting two and two together, I guessed that Master M was the owner of the chocolate dong I had been servicing in that photo, and his handiwork was behind my clit's current confinement. It was likely that my shiny new tramp stamp was also thanks to him, but I couldn't know for sure until I'd called him to 'fill in the gaps'. I cringed inwardly. It was disquieting to say the least when a stranger knew more about the things you'd done than you yourself did.

When I stepped out of the shower half an hour later, I was in a much better headspace. Unbeknownst to me, my subconscious had been bombarding me with trigger phrases to calm me down; to get me to accept these new changes as positives. So by the time I figured out that Bambi had hidden my boy clothes again, I barely even registered it. This wasn't the first time she'd done it. I just sighed, thinking about the evening I would now have to spend searching all her known hiding places around the apartment.

But that could wait -- it was almost 9 o'clock and I needed to log in for work. I quickly finished my hair and makeup and slipped into an outfit worthy of a secretary in a porn film. A tiny white satin blouse that was two sizes too small stretched lasciviously across my breast forms, tugging at the few buttons I'd bothered to do up. My legs were encased in black seamed nylon stockings, crossed at the knee and letting one red-bottomed stiletto dangle flirtily from my pink-painted toes. A leatherette miniskirt bridged the gap between the two halves, so tight it was almost painted on. It didn't quite cover the tabs of my garter belt where they hooked on to my stockings. I gave a couple of futile tugs at the hem anyway, before swivelling the chair over to my desk and firing up my work computer.

In cadence with the screen turning on, I felt my brain switch off. My job was boring. Lots of people say that, but mine really was. It was a simple admin role, managing a database and emailing reports. It was the sort of job the movie Office Space was inspired by. In my early days when I still had to attend the office regularly, I used to fantasize about recreating some of those scenes. Especially the one with the printer, and the baseball bat, and three angry colleagues having at it for all they were worth. I didn't have colleagues, not close ones anyway. Mine was a one-person team. But what I lacked in numbers I more than made up for in shear frustration at the job.

Covid went a long way to making my job bearable though. I'd enjoyed many long months working from home, having very infrequent Zoom calls with my manager, who seemed to take her role even less seriously than I did. With access to my own equipment, I was soon able to automate large parts of my day-to-day. Most days I'd be finished by 11 am, and just have to keep an eye out for infrequent emails until 5 o'clock. This left me with lots of time on my hands, and I didn't struggle to fill it.

I'd been watching porn since I was at school. I remember the first time I stumbled across two girls kissing each other sensually on YouTube -- it opened my eyes to a whole new world of filth. Pretty soon I was jacking off constantly to one of a dozen different porn sites I'd saved as favourites. The content was pretty varied. I was fourteen and hormonal, and at that age anything goes.

Over the years my tastes became more refined. Some childhood experiences of playing dress-up in my mom's things had left me with crossdressing tendencies and a satin fetish, so of course I gravitated towards sissy content. I satisfied this craving through my teens by stealing lingerie from my sister and mother, and when I finally moved out I purchased a modest collection of my own. The anonymity of online shopping was a shield I could hide behind as my early twenties became a cycle of purge and purchase, purge and purchase. No matter how many times I delved in, I always reached a tipping point where the disgust outweighed the pleasure, and I'd have to get rid of it all only to start again a few months later.

I was looking for ways to end this cycle once and for all. Either I would quit entirely, give up the clothes, the toys, the porn, the pleasure; start living like a monk. Or I would embrace it, go whole hog. I knew which one sounded more tempting. In a final, sober moment, I remember distinctly googling the words 'how to get rid of a porn addiction' and finding the advice utterly unhelpful. "Get therapy", I was told. I was 24 and barely scraping by. How could I afford that?

I suppose that was the final nail in the coffin for me. I'd tried the righteous path and found it blocked, so now I'd follow the road to depravity. I was mentally committed. I just needed something to lock it in, to hold me to the line the next time I got cold feet and decided to purge. In my hour of need, I turned to erotic hypnosis.

It was not a rational decision. 'Sissy hypno' has been around so long it's become a meme. It doesn't work. At least, not very well. Surprisingly, lightning-fast strobing gifs of porn interspliced with generic 'subliminal' messages and overlayed with pink spirals doesn't encode your mind to think in a different way. Simply being told to obey doesn't actually compel you to do so, you still have the free will to overrule it. I'd become a bit of an expert in sissy hypnosis by now, having watched at least a couple hundred hours of it. But I still felt like me. I needed something stronger.

I'd heard insidious whispers about the Bambi Sleep programme before. Some of my favourite videos had sampled the files, and I'd always reacted to the way the slightly mechanical voice had cut through the rest of the noise, as if it had been speaking directly to me. I started to read into it and found every warning to be a check box for my needs. I liked the idea of being made to dress up in slutty outfits. I liked the idea of developing a new personality. I wanted to give up some control, not have to think and make decisions all the time. I wanted an escape from my boring work and boring life. I'd often felt too smart for my job, with every menial task I was assigned pushing me closer to depression, so perhaps getting dumber would make me happier. Most of all, I liked the permanence. I'd read about one file that effectively conditions you to become Bambi full time, to forget your old life and embrace being a total bimbo. When I started, I wondered if I'd ever take it that far.

It took a bit of time for the files to take effect. For the first few weeks, I had to put in conscious effort to follow all the instructions and remind myself of the conditioning. It felt no different than ordinary sissy hypno, in that I was only engaging in this behaviour of my own free will. I felt like I could give up at any time. So that's what I did. Cold turkey. After all, it obviously wasn't working for me.

Two weeks later, I was back and trancing deeper than ever. It had me hooked. I shouldn't have been surprised -- there's a file literally called 'Bimbo Addiction' after all. It makes you crave it like a drug. That spaced-out, blissful happiness as the binaural rhythms wash your mind clean and install a new person inside. It was compulsive. I'd entered as a volunteer, a willing participant. Now I was a slave to the process.

The effects made themselves known gradually. It was like I was trapped in a ball being rolled around a snowy field, picking up layer after layer until I was buried in the centre of an enormous sphere of numbing cold, suffocated and powerless. It began with the purchase of a proper 'uniform' -- some cheap slutty lingerie that would be enough to manifest Bambi when I put it on. At first, I'd only wear it during the sessions. I'd jerk off afterwards and remove it, remembering to suck something phallic as I stripped, as per the voice's instructions. After a while, I found myself sleeping in my uniform, progressing to wearing it around the apartment, and finally hiding it under my clothes when I went out.

Around this time, I began to experience periods of fuzziness in my day, instances where I'd just zone out for a moment. These were hypnosis-induced 'blonde moments', and I still haven't worked out all the things that trigger them. Complicated tasks became impossible -- I had to give up online gaming when I found I couldn't remember what half of the buttons did. Reading took me twice as long now, so I stopped doing that too. Strangely, my work was unaffected; I was completing my tasks to the same standard I had ever done, but I had developed an odd sort of mechanical detachment to my job. Sitting at my desk, it was like staring through the vision sensors of a robot, an automaton programmed only to perform a select number of things. Ask it to do anything outside of its parameters and it would be as helpless as a child without someone to hold its hand.

Little did I know that the hypnosis was simply stripping away barriers to me becoming Bambi. I was now incapable of engaging in any other hobby than total bimbofication. And with all that freed-up hard drive space in my brain, I suddenly had so many things to learn. Makeup, fashion, sex, celeb gossip; I had no trouble at all getting to grips with those. And with them came the purchases. The outfits became tighter, shinier, pinker, sluttier. My bedroom gained a large vanity that was strewn with brushes and sponges and powders and bottles of gloop to put on my face. Where I used to spend my evenings gaming, watching TV or masturbating, I now spent them shopping, doing beauty treatments, or masturbating. That one part of my routine had stayed the same at least, except now I rarely came without something jammed down my throat or up my ass. I was in feminine heaven, discovering the delights of heels and bags and hair styles and jewellery for the first time. Bambi had manifested in me a fervent passion to learn about these things, and I gleefully scoured the internet for anything targeted at teenage girls.

At the time, I remember thinking that this was it, everything I wanted. I was sure that I had reached a sort of equilibrium with Bambi, that we had an understanding. But then the blackouts started -- I'd climb into my box and come out several hours later with no clue what had been happening. The first time was scary, after that it seemed innocuous, kind of fun in its way, puzzling through what we'd been up to from the clues left lying about. But now, thinking back, this is where Bambi and I began to separate, where she began to develop a strong will of her own. The balance was tipping in her favour, and I was too blind and conditioned to see.