Bimbo Pop Princess

Worse, the young designer had pretty much stayed in her home town all her life, but she was nonetheless fairly confident Trixie's accent was worse than an actual living Southerner. She was, after all, a mockery of her voice dreamed up by Candy Records, and the only representative she saw screamed yuppie. Was she really to become a living caricature?

She staggered back to the computer, drenched in cold sweat. She had to play their game. Becoming more talkative meant becoming more like Trixie, but remaining silent evidently did nothing to stop the transformation either. She had to, at least, try to take her fate back into her own hands. So she took the microphone, and, averting her gaze from the drawn figure of Pixie on the screen, began to talk more than the had ever talked.

"I'm Brooke Wendell. I understand what you're trying to do, you bastards. I won't let you change me into that Trixie. Take away my body and my memories, but you'll never get my dang...damn identity!"

The music stopped around "understand". Relieved, Brooke heaved a sigh. Sweet silence. For a few, precious seconds, she could feel herself, as she was back in her studio. No annoying noise...just her and her work.

And then the music started playing again, less than five seconds after she had stopped talking. Brooke whimpered.

"Okay, okay! Just stop that thing! Gawd...God! Grah! I...I...huh..."

On the verge of panic, she massaged her temples. What could she possibly talk about? She never talked unless she knew exactly how a sentence would end. Improvising was a tall, unnatural task for the former brunette. But she had to do it. She had to talk, or Trixie would sing again and imprint her southern accent upon her even further.

"My website is www.brookewendelldesign.com. I do image manipulation, pixel art, CGI and a few animations from time to time. I...Dammit, I don't know! What the hell do you want me to talk about, Candy Records?!"

She joined her hands, praying the music would at least remain silent until they answered. Fortunately, it did...but the answer came rather quickly, offsetting that small victory.

"Tell me about your body, Trixie."

"I'm not TRIXIE! My hair is black, I have no freckles and I'm flat as a board but that's fine! You can go to hell for making my body change, by the... *cough* way! Dangit, I mean dammit. I'm not used to *cough, cough* talking this much, I..."

"Oh, Trixie-poo, don't you go exert your voice too much. So many people love it, after all!" Wrote the manager. "You're making progress. You can rest for a while. See you tomorrow!"

"What? No! NOOO!"

But the dialog box closed...And the music started again. Brooke howled in impotent rage as Trixie once again assaulted her with her bubbly chatter.

"Hoowdyyyy! Trixie Smiles here! Thanks a right bunch for listenin' to mah yappin' again. Through all these computer doohickeys and the like, I mean gee, y'all wizards to me, tee-hee! Anyways, this here song is about farmwork, for all mah kinfolk out there!"

How was she supposed to sleep? Did she even want to? There was no telling how much her modified brain would absorb the redneck accent when asleep. Brooke crawled into a corner, covering her ears, doing vocalization exercises so that, when the time comes, she could keep the mind-altering music away as long she could.

-------

"Tell me about your body, Trixie."

Brooke hadn't slept a wink. Weakened, disoriented, she felt her mouth open and a stream-of-consciousness blather escape from her lips.

"Y'all Candy Records bastards gave me C-cup breasts. How can ya be changing me so quickly, dangit?" She said, half relieved by the music stopping and half horrified at how much her speech patterns had changed overnight. "Mah hair's grown but I hate this red color, it aren't mine. Eye color too...I have green eyes now, but mah real eyes are brown, y'all hear?"

She hung her head down. How could talking feel so...effortless? It was as if her mouth was in autopilot. Was that how being talkative was like? One thing was for sure, and certainly not for the best ; She was on the fast track to talking like a country bumpkin. Worse, it now happened so naturally she didn't even have the strength to fight it. Not as tired as she was.

"Good...Your cute accent is slowly getting back to normal. Now tell me about your childhood, Trixie."

"Mah childhood? Well..."

Brooke was at least grateful to remember some things about her life, even if they were just the rough outlines, the major landmarks. Even trying to zero in on anything specific made her head split in pain.

"I reckon wasn't the life of the party, but I was me and I helped mah folks with mah twin baby bros. Poor little ones had some kinda disease...Nothin' lethal but they a lil' slow on the uptake, yanno what I mean? Ma and Pa are decent folk, upper middle class but that kinda thing wears you up, bad...And Gawd, why am I even sayin' this to you bastards?! Why can't I just gosh darn shut up?!"

She wanted to stop talking. Return to being her silent self. But she couldn't stop. It was like a switch had been flipped, like a dam had been breached. Every hour that passed made Brooke more and more distant, and every step she took on the road to being an airheaded chatterbox was set in stone, never to be reconsidered. Somewhere in her muddled, exhausted thoughts, she realized that whatever they had put in her brain was erasing the past, making her life a one-way track towards Trixie land.

Already, she couldn't shut herself up. Even as she grimly reflected on her sorry state, she was blabbering about her design business. She couldn't correct her accent, or even take the time to try to talk normally. The words flowed and flowed, and though they spoke of Brooke's life, they were Trixie's. Her body, as well...During that sleepless night, her breasts grew to the size of oranges. Her new red hair was now at neck length. Even her features were cuter.

"And there was this one time, Lisa and me went to a concert once and the music was right awful but then WHAM there was this earthquake thing and we were like "Dang" and...I...aaaugh, mah head!"

She grabbed her head and squeezed, but to no avail. She couldn't even remember the earthquake without triggering the microchip now?

"Tell me about your family, Trixie." Came the order, merciless.

"Are you daft? I just told ya, I...AAAAAUGH!"

"Tell me about your family, Trixie."

The storm continued inside her head, causing Brooke to whine in pain. But in the middle of the agonizing stirring, a simple word shone. As soon as she said it, the headache receded.

"S...Sis?"

"Yes, you have sisters, Trixie. A lot of sisters. You're always singing about them.""

"Aw, right...I do, don't I..." She started to say in doe-eyed acceptance, but she caught herself in time. "Wait! Heck naw! Trixie has sisters! I...I have..."

Nothing. There were the verses about her sisters, and nothing else. The storm had swept her true family away. She felt the void, but no memories were left of what had been there. A single tear rolled down her cheek. No second one came. There was no family left to mourn. She still had the other memories, but her "manager" had made his point. He could erase whatever part of her he wanted. He owned her.

"Please, I beg you, stop this...You hear me Candy Records? You won. You stole mah voice. You stole mah body. I'll be Trixie. Please, just don' erase me. I beg ya."

Only dread and despair could be seen in her eyes as they stared at the computer screen, waiting for her new owner's mercy.

"Erase who, Trixie? You're crying. Trixie doesn't cry. Trixie is a bundle of joy everyone loves."

"Naw...naw..." Brooke pleaded, knowing this was the end.

"Don't worry. You're just going to go to sleep, have some nice dreams, and you'll feel like yourself when you wake up."

"Please. Please. Don't. I'll be a good country girl pop bimbo. I'll be obedient. I'll...gawd...save..."

The knockout gas made short work of the crumbling Brooke Wendell. She went slack in her chair, finally granted the silence she had liked so much.

---

When she woke up, there was no music. There was no pain. There was nothing.

"Hmmm, nothing like a right good night o'sleep." She absent-mindedly commented to herself. "At least that dang music stopped...still dreamed I was singin' mah heart out. Ah, at least I'm mahself. Lesse how mah body has changed...Bathroom, bathroom...Oh. Well I'll be darned if I ain't like the bestest boobies around now. Like, E-cup at least? Freckles, red hair, green eyes...Yeah, reckon there ain't no stopping them. Hey! Candy Records guy! Ya hear me? Hmpf, reckon than voice computer whatchamacallit flipped off when I was sleepin'. No big deal, right? There, switched it on again. I still know how to work a computer, y'all bastards. Well, that's taking some time...Miss mah smartphone. I hope they...AAAUGH! Ah, gosh darn it, not again! Mmmh, What was I yappin' about? Miss something? Miss what? Aw Heck, another thing they made me forget. Shoulda kept quiet. Well that's nothing new under the sun..., like Big Sis woulda said. Mah big mouth always gets me in trouble. Ah, the computer's up."

"Hello."

"Hello to you. Mah body's all changed now, happy?"

"What is your name?"

"Well dang that's a smart question right in tha morning. Trixie. Huh...What? No. That's who ya want me to be. I'm not Trixie, I'm...I'm...I...Huh..."

"..."

"S...Sir? What's mah name?"

"You are Trixie."

"Nah, mah true name. Please, Sir, be sportin' here. Sir? Aw, heck no, please don't leave me like this! Please! I wanna know who I am!"

----

The answer never came. Ian was busy fist-pumping and running to the execs' office.

"Phase 1 is done!" He proudly exclaimed. "Brooke Wendell is completely erased, memories and body alike, and she's been rendered extremely talkative."

"Nice job, Ian. So I understand she's a blank canvas for now, is that it?"

"Yes, Sir. She sounds like our Trixie and has no memories to get in the way anymore, but she doesn't have her personality yet. The whole team is ready for phase 2 on your order, Sir."

"Well, let's not make her wait. She should be happy, whether she can control it or not. Phase 2 it is. Put the Smiles in our little Trixie!"

-------

Part 2 - Trixie Smiles

Two hours had passed since the last dialogue box appeared, and Trixie kept talking the entire time. Gone was the taciturn young woman. The busty redhead she had become could not remain silent for the life of her. Really, she was amazed. Her chatter never grew uncomfortable. Her big mouth never felt dry. The nanomachines that transformed her body also made sure she was biologically made to be a chatterbox.

There was only one thing...She had nothing to say. She had been erased, turned into a blank slate, and she knew it. As much as she desired to remember who she truly was, her mindscape was an empty wasteland, scoured clean by the headaches. And still, she kept talking. She avoided the implanted memories for her alter ego's songs as best she could, but it meant she had to soliloquize on the furniture.

"Dang, now I'm regrettin' having never taken shop class. Heck, maybe I did and they erased that too. And for that matter, is Trixie really still mah alter ego? Reckon I'm her, really, only, yanno, not stupid and bubbly. Not that I regret it. 'Cos let's face it, I..."

The other thing that really bothered her was, well, her "freakin' huge boobies", as she had no choice but to put it. She couldn't remember her size before the transformation, but knew the weight of the two juicy melons felt very unfamiliar. Oh, she couldn't deny how sexy they made her feel, and how pleasurable to the touch they were. But she was grateful Candy Records had thought of leaving a fitting reinforced bra in the wardrobe. Without it, she felt as if she could lose her balance at any moment.

Still, her new knockers felt sexy and right. Whoever she once was probably felt that nature owed up a better rack. Hell, for all the awful stuff they did to her, Candy Records did her a solid in that area at least. A contented smile painted her lips as she playfully made them jiggle.

"They're right awesome, they are! With mah thinned waist, I reckon I look like a model! Hmmm? Aw, gee, is that the sound of a key I'm hearin'?"

It was.

"Ohmigawd! Someone's comin'!"

She briefly entertained the idea of hiding and rushing through the door, but it opened before she even began coming up with the specifics of her plan. Worse, no less than four people showed up behind it. Two bouncer types, Ian Horne - not that poor Trixie could remember him- and a tall, lanky guy in a lab coat. No way the buxom redhead could make it through them.

"If yer planning to pretend I'm an amnesiac Trixie or whatever, don'tcha bother!" She shouted, though it was more of a plea than an assertive declaration.

"We won't." Laconically said the tall guy. "Your future manager enjoyed pretending that, but it wasn't necessary then and it isn't necessary now."

"Damn ya and yer power!" Whined Trixie. "So what, are ya going to just flip a switch and turn me into that bimbo?"

"No. We're just going to tell you the truth. Mister Horne?"

The man who pulled poor Brooke into this trap stepped forward.

"Thank you, Mister Chapman. You see, Trixie Smiles isn't real. She's a virtual singer. A perfect artificial voice...And the woman you once were just happened to match her close enough to fool the human ear."

Somehow, Trixie couldn't retort. She couldn't accept the idea of a virtual voice real enough to sound like her, or that it could somehow lead to kidnapping and brainwashing. And though her voice had become an infinite ammo vocal gatling gun...Hearing people talk made her shut up. She would have celebrated this piece of freedom, but she caught on the fact that Candy Records had merely programmed her to listen dutifully to her interlocutors.

"So Candy Records hired its sister company -which is to say, mine-" continued Mr. Chapman, "To make her real. To achieve that, we had to obtain a blank human first. And that's what you are now. A basis. Completely brainwashed, and rewired to be talkative. We did this to you, and there is no use pretending we didn't, because the rest of the process rests entirely in your hands."

A pause. Trixie understood she could talk again.

"Whaddya mean, in mah hands? There ain't no way in heck I'm gunna do yer biddin', y'all bastards! And..."

"Yes you will." Drably said lab coat guy, instantly closing her yapper shut. "You are nothing. You have no memories but whatever you remembered from the pop songs. You are a blank sheet, and if you don't realize that your brain needs an identity to latch on, you soon will. You need to be someone, and the only identity we'll let you absorb is Trixie Smiles."

The poor brainwashed girl hung her head down. She couldn't really argue with him. Only a few hours had passed, and this state of non-existence already felt intolerable.

"The person you were is gone forever. You are nothing but raw materials for a real-life Trixie. Either you give in and start turning into her, or you remain a clean slate."

"I...I see..."

"This is why we're just going to step back and watch you transform yourself. Because we know you won't be able to resist the appeal of being someone, anyone, even a bubbly bimbo."

Lab coat guy snapped his fingers, and one of the bouncers handed him a purse. In turn, he knelt down and left it on the floor.

"Here is what you will need to rebuild yourself as that bimbo. Good day."

He turned around and went out the door. The others followed suit, only the handsome thirty-something making a friendly wave of the hand as he left. The door closed shut, and was locked immediately after. Trixie was still crushed under the weight of the revelations, but she could feel the chatter coming back. She had only seconds of sweet silence to enjoy.

"This is bullcrap, y'all."

-------

Bullcrap as it was, Trixie had nothing but the hardest time resisting. Her struggle was lost before it even began. That cold asshole was right...She needed to be someone. Her mind kept wandering to whatever Trixie Smiles told about herself through her songs. And though she did not actually remember growing up with five sisters, the implanted memory of their existence felt genuine.

The brainwashing victim had tried to distract herself, sure...But she had nothing but furniture and a sexy, sexy body to work with. She was content with covering her juicy melons under a greasemonkey t-shirt, but she soon felt the urge to fix her flowing red hair. With the aid of two accessories present in the medicine cabinet, she absent-mindedly tied her new mane into low-hanging pigtails.

And when she commented on her utterly adorable, buxom self in front of the the mirror, she realized something was missing. A smile. She looked way too great to be wasted on a dour expression. Putting a smile on her face entailed accepting Candy Record's programming...But it felt natural. Inevitable.

And so she opened the purse. There were pills, a helmet and a belt with an inward-facing strap on. The helmet was attached some manner of lockable collar. Clearly, once she put it on, there was no turning back. Trixie peered inside it, and saw little doohickeys, as she put it. It was too dark for her to identify them clearly though, but that was no ordinary headgear.

"Trixie, ya in there?" She tentatively asked to the helmet's interior. "Heh, 'course yer not. That'd be crazy. But...well, looks like I'm gonna be the one to make ya real. Tell me, how's it like, being a dumb, sexy doll? I...I'm scared. I'm going to become ya. I just wanna know if ya can make me happy."

She spent minutes babbling to Trixie, fiddling with the pills. Probably drugs, she thought. Her mind needed to be made soft and pliable if she was to change. She didn't want to take them. She was scared. But every second spent talking to Trixie made her heart ache a little more.

"Yer not even real. Just a voice cooked by white ol' men in cubicles. You destroyed mah life just to get inside of me, and yer still the best friend I have. Ya sing pretty well, by the way. Wouldn't mind listenin' to more of yer music, but them bastards have no need blastin' it in here anymore. Next time you ever sing, it'll be through mah mouth. I wonder if I'll even realize I was sumbody else once? Maybe next time I woke up, I won't be rememberin' any o'this. Maybe I'll believe Candy Records. Maybe I'll feel good."

The blank slate cried, still feeling the weight of her balloon tits. She couldn't bear this limbo. As frightening as the change was...it was better than oblivion.

So she took both pills and went back to the corner, awaiting, trembling, for the effects to kick in. And not five minutes later, they did. Trixie felt warm and lightheaded.

"Oh gawd, here I am. With them drugs and the thing in mah head, I'll...I'll..."

She crawled to the strap-on, trembling, an unfamiliar heat in her crotch. She felt throbbing, wetness...And the overwhelming urge to get rid of her pants. She looked at her private area, knowing full well she had taken a powerful aphrodisiac but still confused by its potency.

"Mah gawd, it...it feels so weeeiiird. I...Gawd aaaannh...Mah hand feels so good...But it ain't enough...I need sum'thing in...anythin'..."

The purple vibrator did not slide in easily. Candy had decided Trixie needed to be something of a fuckbunny, but Brooke was a virgin. Not that it mattered. When the plastic cock was inside, stirring her insides made extremely sensitive by the nanites, the poor girl lost all self-control. The shock of her first sexual experience left her so disoriented, the staff had to activate the microchip in her brain to get her to fasten the strap-on's belt and put the mask on.