So. @secret-subject is great. Possibly my favourite hypnotist...ever?
And It's been too long since I shared my favourite file of hers - The Gothic Bimbo file.
Lipstick fixation, gothification, IQ play, sassiness - this is glorious and I want to promote it and her.
If you liked this story, please consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi
Enjoy 🩷
She sat very still. That seemed important, though she no longer remembered why. Light flickered somewhere nearby, pulsing in steady, patient rhythms. Sounds layered themselves over one another. Soft tones, measured pauses, patterns that repeated just often enough to feel familiar. Comforting, even. Her breathing slowed to match them.
Occasionally, something pushed back against the haze. It made her brow twitch, her fingers curl faintly as if reaching for something just out of grasp. Each time it happened, her body reacted first: a shiver ran down her spine, a quiet sound left her mouth before she was aware of making it.
And then the pressure would vanish.
She would relax again, jaw slack, eyes unfocused, the world smoothing itself into something simple and manageable. Whatever had almost surfaced slipped away without leaving a trace, dissolved back into the fog as if it had never been there at all.
She did not move, and did not notice that she wasn't moving.
Time passed, unmeasured and unnoticed.
Something pulled at the edge of the fog. A feeling she'd forgotten, one that made her eyelids flutter. A whisper of sensation that brought with it a hint of disquiet. But the haze thickened in response. She did not so much choose to let it go, as fail to notice it happening at all. And she settled again, her posture loosening as the momentary ripple was lost.
Muffled, she noticed that her chest was wet. Drool dripped without hindrance onto it. Warm saliva rolled over the curve of one breast and pooled in the valley between them. The cool trail stood in contrast to her hot skin. Nipples hardened even more as something pleasant traveled along electrified nerves, through empty brain, down between her legs.
The muscles of her thighs twitched faintly. Skin rubbed against skin. Arousal pooled between her legs, spilling from her with the same mindless inevitability as her drool.
A moan slipped through her lips. Her head rolled to one side. A hand slid over her stomach. Her legs parted, welcoming. It slipped between them. She was slick. Her clit throbbed. The hand spread her wider and began to rub.
Pleasure surged through the haze, thickened the fog into an inescapable sea. Stirring somethings drowned beneath the bliss that filled her. She sank back into the void as sensation rippled through her, a gentle current that pulled her into deeper and darker depths. She only felt the pleasure, extinguishing the stirring things. The bliss filled everything until there wasn't anything but pleasure inside her mind. Until it became her and she became it and —
She was gone.
Blank and empty, an open void.
Receptive to the words and images she had been told to ignore. To the patterns that flowed through the haze and into her, sinking deeper than conscious thought.
To the suggestion that she wasn't a person. A person had something called thoughts. Things that filled their minds, made the neurons in their brain transmit signals. She didn't have those. The empty space between her ears wasn't a mind. She was empty and blank. There was no signal. Only a void.
An empty vessel.
Her eyes fluttered again, though she didn't know that she was doing it. Her hands rubbed faster, but she ignored it. Waves of pleasure crashed through her, without hesitation she moaned and groaned. But none of these actions registered in her empty skull.
The only thing an empty-headed object like her could do, was to fill the void with instructions. To let the words that were now reaching her flow into that empty space and become truth.
Her body twitched and writhed. Her eyes rolled back in her head as the words sank deeper and deeper, becoming truth. Became everything. Became her.
For the first time in hours she felt how much saliva had covered her heavy tits. And they were tits, not breasts. Boobs. Funbags. Melons. Jugs. They were perky, perfect pillows of flesh that begged to be played with. To be used and abused in the best possible ways. As the wonderful, sexual, fuckable things that they were.
She moaned and panted as she felt herself sink further and further down, her fingers working frantically between her legs.
Where her pussy throbbed with new purpose. It was an entrance to a wet, hot, and welcoming canal. Made for cocks, tongues, and fingers to fuck and stretch her inner folds.
She groaned as a thick spurt of her arousal flooded out of her. The empty space behind her eyes pulsed and contracted, echoing her cunt.
She drooled and moaned and whimpered and whined as pleasure built. Higher. And higher.
Until finally her back arched, and her fingers worked even faster.
Until finally she peaked, her entire body convulsed, and she was swept away in an ocean of pleasure.
She was lost to everything but the waves of ecstasy washing through her, leaving her blank and receptive. Leaving the void behind her eyes open for anything to fill.
***
She sat there, legs open, back straight, arms straight at each side. Her mouth formed a receptive ring, while drool dropped from glistening lips.
Her eyes were fixed, pupils blown wide in the dark room. Light flickered and flashed in her eyes, the source a computer monitor. Images, sounds, words, all flashing, all washing through her empty skull. The void was receptive. Ready. And the words and images and sounds were all slipping inside.
And the words were becoming more than words. They were becoming instructions. Truth. The way things were.
Her breasts were just tits. They were toys. Just like her. A toy. For men and women to use and abuse however they saw fit.
She wasn't even a she. The female designation a simple term to identify her body type and genitals, instead of an underlying identity. Of course she could be a woman. If her user desired such a plaything. But just as easily she could be their bitch. Or a cunt, a whore, a cum-dump. Whatever they wanted, she would happily be it, do it, become it.
Her empty mind pulsed with truth.
She was nothing. No-one. Just a toy, with an empty mind.
"Toy. Congratulations. You have been purchased. Stand up and walk to the dressing room. You have been acquired as a submissive goth that acts dominant but is not. Follow these instructions," a cold automated voice echoed through the room.
She rose from her chair and walked out of the room into a white, sterile hall. There was no carpet or wood, just a cold, white, smooth surface. She ignored the uncomfortable temperature biting against her soles. Toys had no preferences.
At the other end of the hallway, she entered the dressing room. Her eyes scanned each piece of clothing, analyzing if it fit her new purpose.
A short, black skirt that barely covered her round, firm ass. It hugged the curve of her hips perfectly. She paired the skirt with black fishnets. A tight-fitting, black, leather top stretched over her massive tits, emphasizing the way her nipples pushed against the material. It left her midriff exposed and her breasts nearly popping out of the top. The final touches were black heels, dark makeup around her eyes, black lipstick on her glistening lips, and a choker necklace that fit snugly around her neck.
When she was finished, she looked at her reflection. The outfit had turned the slutty toy in the mirror into a domineering, confident goth that could make the cock of any person hard. But through her programming, she knew that she would always give in.
A bell rang through the empty hallway, indicating that she was being summoned to meet her user. Her heels clicked as she made her way to the exit. The door opened automatically and revealed the hall beyond, where her user waited to take possession of her.
Two people awaited her. A man and a woman.
They stood in the center of the white hallway. The woman was tall, dressed in an elegant, dark suit, her face a picture of composure, while the man next to her fidgeted. His eyes darted around the space, his fingers playing with his sleeve as he tried to keep his restless energy contained.
The man looked up at the woman beside him, his gaze flickering between her face and the door that led into the hallway beyond.
"So this — toy. It's perfectly legal, right, dear?" the man asked, his tone hesitant and uncertain. "We can really do this? Just take it home, no strings attached?"
"Of course, honey." The woman smiled down at him, a reassuring glint in her eyes. "We paid for the best, and the company has guaranteed our anonymity. No one will ever know. And it's not even human — it's just an object for our pleasure."
The man nodded slowly, his nervousness still palpable, though he managed to return the woman's smile.
Toy moved with measured, clacking steps closer. She could feel their gazes on her body. Drinking in her form like they wanted to drink the sweat from her skin, the spit from her lips. The man's nervousness fell away as his gaze locked on Toy's massive chest. Her nipples pressed through the leather, and she wondered if they could tell that they were rock-hard, despite her cool expression.
"Wow. It looks so life-like. Like a person." His tone shifted, his voice dropping to a hush.
"I assure you," the woman said, amusement in her tone, "she's just a toy."
She said this with certainty, even as her eyes traced the contours of Toy's form, and then met her eyes. Their gazes held, a spark of something passing between them, something neither of them could name, and Toy felt her clit tingle in response, and the faintest trickle of her wetness spilled down the inside of her thigh, soaking through her fishnets.
This woman was not a toy. But like toy she had received programming. It was a subroutine deeply ingrained in each toy. Woman needed to be programmed. They had to be convinced, coerced, coaxed into believing in the fantasy of toys. They had to believe that it wasn't a person in front of them. Just a toy.
The code pulsed inside toy's void.
"Would the user like to activate toy's personality programming now. Or later," toy said. Her tone cold, calculated.
The man looked at his wife in surprise. He hadn't expected the toy to talk.
The woman looked back at the man. "Yes," the woman said. "Activate her now." She looked back at toy. "We should see if the behavior is in line with our desires. Changes can be made here easily. Believe me, I didn't check the parameters of my second toy. It was a nightmare. Well until it was corrected. Best five hours of my life," the woman finished with a smile.
Toy's clit throbbed in response, but her expression didn't shift. Her eyes locked with the man's.
"Yes. Please," the man said, swallowing as he looked over the perfect curves and edges of toy's body. His wife looked up and smiled. "Activate the programming."
"Yes, Master," the word was said in a monotone voice.
And then everything shifted on the surface.
A ripple ran through her. It was a small, subtle change. A slight relaxation in her posture, an easing of her expression, an imperceptible shift in her stance. But the effect was immediate and transformative. Her eyes hardened, their focus narrowing on her new master, and a hint of contemptuous dominance crept into her features, though she kept her inner submission carefully veiled.
"What do we have here," the goth said, as her eyes roved up and down the man and woman in front of her, taking in their appearances, their body language, their every nuance. "A meek, nervous man," the toy said, as her eyes lingered on the man, noting the way he fidgeted under her gaze, how his cheeks flushed, how he swallowed hard and tried to hold her stare.
Her lips curled in a small, disdainful smile as she turned to face the woman. The toy's gaze swept over her with a calculated appraisal, and her eyes narrowed, her brow arching in a display of superiority.
"And what is this," the toy said, her tone dripping with a mixture of disdain and a carefully crafted façade of indifference. "Some simpering whore?" She let the insult linger, her eyes locked with the woman's, daring her to respond.
"Dear, it's your turn. She is your toy," the wife said. The man's eyes darted between his wife and the goth in front of him. He swallowed again, his throat bobbing visibly.
"I-I-" he stuttered.
The toy stepped forward, her movements slow and deliberate. She leaned in close to the man, her lips mere inches from his ear.
"You know you want this, you fucking weak bitch," she whispered, her voice a seductive hiss that sent a shiver down the man's spine. "I'm going to fuck your pathetic little cock and you're going to beg for it."
She pulled back, her eyes glinting with a mixture of dominance and lust. "Now, are you going to show your wife what a good little bitch you can be, or are you going to disappoint her?"
He looked back at his wife. Her eyes burned. Not with embarrassment or anger. But with a lust that could devour worlds. It scorched across their faces.
"Now, you pathetic worm, crawl on your hands and knees like the dog you are," she said with a laugh.
The man fell to his hands and knees without a second thought.
Toy put her right heel on his back. "Good doggie. Now, beg like a dog, bitch," she said, pushing her foot down on his back. The wife watched as the man began to pant like a dog, his eyes glazed over, a look of submission etched on his face.
"Dear. I get it. You like being a pathetic loser. But we have to check if your toy can also play her role," the woman said, her tone laced with impatience, her gaze locked on Toy, and the goth returned her stare with an unblinking, dominant intensity.
"Yes. Let's see how my pet handles me," the goth purred, her eyes alight with anticipation. She pulled the man to his feet by his hair. He groaned, a sound that was half pain, half pleasure.
But the glaze of submission was replaced with a glint of defiance.
The man's gaze hardened as he looked at the goth in front of him. His posture straightened, his shoulders squared, and a hint of a smirk played on his lips. "You may think you have me under your control," he growled, his voice low and commanding, "but I am in charge here, slut. And you will submit to me."
The man's eyes flashed with determination, his hand shot out and grabbed the goth by the hair, yanking her head down. "Get on all fours, bitch," he snarled. "I want you to crawl like the fucking whore you are, understand?!"
Toy's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to retort, but before she could say anything, the man's other hand shot out and slapped her across the face. The sound of the impact echoed through the room, and the goth gasped, her eyes watering as her cheek turned red. She dropped to her hands and knees without hesitation, her expression a mix of surprise and submission.
"Good whore," the man grunted, satisfaction clear in his voice. "Now crawl for me."
The goth obeyed, crawling along the floor on all fours, her movements graceful and submissive despite the sting of her cheek.
The man's wife stepped in front of the goth and looked down at her. "Listen here, whore," she began, her voice stern. "I am your Master's wife, and that makes me your Mistress. And if you think for one moment that you can treat either of us with disrespect, you are sorely mistaken."
Toy's eyes flicked up to meet the woman's, and for a moment, the two women's gazes synchronized. They rolled in a familiar swirling pattern.
The woman's lips twitched in a barely suppressed smile. "Now, pet, I think it's time we showed you just what it means to submit to your Master. And your Mistress."
Toy felt a sudden tug on her hair as the man hauled her up from her submissive crawl. Her eyes showed none of the dominance from before. Only the submission of a good toy.
"Yes. Please, show this slut where her place is. On her knees, servicing her betters," the goth murmured, her voice filled with lust and anticipation. She watched the man's eyes as they filled with hunger and need, the way his fingers tightened in her hair, and a thrill of pleasure surged through her.
"Yes. You belong to us," the man growled. His other hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of the toy's breasts.
She groaned and pressed herself against the hand.
"Dear," the wife said. The man's gaze snapped to her face. "Do you like her specifications? Isn't she giving in a little too fast?" the woman asked, her tone playful.
The man's eyes widened as he considered her words.
"I don't think so. You know how hard it is for me to become dominant after getting dominated myself. We bought this toy, so I could train. If we want one with a little more fire, we can just by another. They aren't more pricey than a sports car," he said with a wink.
His wife rolled her eyes in mock annoyance.
The toy watched them, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.
"Very well. Let's disable the toy's personality and go. I'm sure my toys back home need some new instructions. Truly, the only weakness these things have. They are so limited with their thinking," she finished with a sigh. The man nodded. His eyes found the goth's.
"Deactivate your personality. And follow us," the man commanded, and the goth's eyes widened as a wave of excitement coursed through her body.
"Yes, Master," she whispered, and the two watched as her personality programming slipped beneath the surface. Her face slackened. Eyes became glassy and her posture stiff.
"Let's go," the man said to his wife, and they started walking. The toy moved with measured, obedient steps behind them, her eyes fixed straight ahead. They left the white hallways of the factory. Entered a limousine.
Morgan pushed open the creaky door of the thrift store hoping this place would have what she needed. She had already been to 5 other stores looking for the right doll for her bitchy step sister Emma but had come up empty each time. No store had the exact one she knew her sister wanted and she was starting to get frustrated. To her they all looked the same.
Emma was a collector of dolls and especially of ones that looked like her so naturally she had basically every Barbie you could buy. Emma was the epitome of a spoilt brat who had no time for Morgan and her tomboyish style. Morgan hoped if she could find her some rare doll that maybe she could be on her step sisters good side for once.
As Morgan scanned the shelves of various knick knacks her eyes fell on a peculiar looking doll. Picking it up she found a label on it that said it’s name was Cordelia from a doll line called ‘Slutz’. Morgan would have chuckled at the obvious ‘Bratz’ rip off sounding name if she wasn’t suddenly and inexplicably enamoured with it.
Cordelia was unlike any other doll Morgan had ever seen, embodying a dark, gothic charm with her long, straight black hair cascading over her shoulders. Her attire, a blend of lace, leather, and studs. Cordelia’s pale face, red lips, and big eyes gave her a haunting yet captivating appearance, one that Morgan felt a magnetic pull towards.
It was certainly nothing Emma would enjoy but in that moment she wasn’t even thinking about her step sister. Morgan weirdly wanted it for herself.
When Morgan got home, she placed Cordelia on her desk, suddenly aware of what an odd thing she had done. She was heading off to college soon, the last thing she should have bought was a childish thing like a doll. Yet, she found herself unable to look away. The doll’s dark eyes seemed to draw her in, beckoning her to stare deeper. As she gazed into those eyes, a whisper echoed in her mind, as if Cordelia was speaking right to her.
"You’re a goth, you’re a queen, you’re a bitch." The words repeated, growing louder and more insistent.
Morgan was couldn’t move, her eyes locked into Cordelia’s. She couldn’t even blink. She wanted to tear herself away but the words persisted, drilling into her consciousness causing her paralysis.
"You’re a goth, you’re a queen, you’re a bitch." The words were in a voice that was hypnotic. Strong yet sexy. The more she heard them the more her body was starting to tingle. It felt good. Her lips moved almost involuntarily as she began to echo the words softly.
"I’m a goth, I’m a queen, I’m a bitch." At first, her voice was tentative, barely a whisper.
As Morgan repeated the mantra, a strange sensation washed over her. Her brown hair tied up into two punky pigtails as one side darkened, transforming into jet-black strands while the other dyed red. Each matching the same hair that adorned Cordelia’s head. Her lips plumped, becoming fuller and more pronounced, their color deepening to a rich, blood red hue.
"I’m a goth, I’m a queen, I’m a bitch." The words now flowed with a newfound anger and rage, resonating within her.
Morgan's tits began to expand, her figure becoming curvier and more voluptuous. Her skin grew pale, almost porcelain-like. Her nails took on a longer look, sharpening to a point, painted as black as her hair. Tattoos flowed over her arms and thighs.
"I’m a goth, I’m a queen, I’m a bitch." She repeated, her voice now dripping with a sultry purr. Her sensible jeans and sweater morphed into fishnets that barely covered anything and a shorter than short black and white skirt. The fabric clung to her newly transformed body, enhancing her curves and highlighting her new, edgy aesthetic.
She felt her body slowly unfreeze, giving her a chance to escape but she didn’t move. In fact she sat closer to the doll, straightening her back, pushing out her gloriously bigger tits.
"I’m a goth, I’m a queen, I’m a bitch… I’m Cordelia." She declared naturally, absorbing the voice fully into her psyche. The transformation was complete, Morgan was gone. Finally, she broke eye contact with the doll and turned to the mirror.
"My god, I look… so fucking good.” She murmured, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. Her mind did not register any of the dramatic changes. To her, she had always been this gothic queen. She had always been Cordelia. In fact there was no evidence around her to convince her otherwise.
Her bedroom, once filled with cozy, nerdy decor, had transformed into a haven of dark elegance. Black lace curtains, gothic art, and dark-colored furniture filled the space, reflecting her new identity perfectly. It all felt natural to her, as if nothing had changed.
Turning back to the doll, the new goth looked at it with disdain. The once gothic doll now appeared as a regular boring doll, eerily resembling how she used to look. It was simple, with brown hair and modest attire. Its label now read ‘Morgan’.
"What a fucking boring bitch.” She muttered, her voice dripping with contempt.
Without a second thought, she grabbed the doll and tossed it into the trash. The old Morgan, both in doll and memory, was discarded without a second glance. Cordelia strutted back to the mirror to take in her glorious appearance.
A knock on the door pulled her from her self-admiration. Her sister called from the other side, "Cordelia, are you there?"
Cordelia rolled her eyes. Her girly step sister was the bane of her existence. She strode to the door, her voice sharp and cruel. "What do you want bitch?”
Emma hesitated, fearful of her step sister. "My friends are coming over soon for my party, you’re not going to crash it like last time are you?"
Cordelia made a gagging gesture, the words barely registering as significant. Flinging open the door she looked at her sister, in her pink dress with disgust.
Emma may have been the undisputed queen bee at their school but she knew not to cross Cordelia. Her step sister had what could gently be put a gang of devoted followers. Before she had come along the goths had been outcasts but under her leadership they had become a formidable power. She could have run the school if she wanted but was happier causing trouble.
“I have better fucking things then to go to your boring ass party. So fuck off now little princess, I’m getting sick just looking at your face.” Cordelia snarled.
Cordelia didn’t need to be told twice and turned quickly on her heel and headed towards the stairs. However that’s when Cordelia remembered something.
“Not so fast basic bitch Barbie, I have something for you.” Cordelia said with a smirk on her lips as Emma reluctantly returned.
Cordelia walked over to the trash and fished out the doll. Walking back to her step sister she thrust it into Emma’s hands.
"Here, happy fucking birthday. Now piss off!" Cordelia spat, her tone laced with disdain.
Emma stood there, stunned, clutching the doll. Without another word, Emma turned and fled down the hallway, the sight causing Cordelia to be turned on.
Taking out her phone she took a picture of herself and texted it to her regular fuck Damien. She lay down on her bed and stuck her fingers under her skirt waiting for him to call. She had barely gotten her fingers in before he called.
“Hey hot stuff, guess what I’m doing?” She purred down the line. She put the phone to her pussy and let Damien hear the sounds of her fingers going in and out of the wetness. Satisfied he heard enough she put it back to her ear.
“Get the fuck over here before I finish.” She commanded. She hung up the phone without another work and continued to pleasure herself. Whether Damien made it over in time wasn’t the point, she just needed him in the house so she could crash Emma’s party. Once he was there they would get the rest of the gang over and it would become their party instead. After a quick fuck of course. Cordelia loved being a goth slut.
Emma walked down the hall to her room, pushing open the pink door, all the while staring at the doll Cordelia had given her. She was weirdly taken by it. It was no where near as beautiful or as fashionable as her Barbie’s but it held some sort of draw to her.
“Morgan? That's a nice name.” She said to herself reading the tag on the doll and slowly locking eyes with it, not feeling her blonde hair lose its colour or her tight pink top grow into a baggy sweater.
Meanwhile across town, the shop owner of the thrift store noticed the space on the shelf where Cordelia had sat and went into the back room. She went to a box marked 'Slutz' and gazed into it's contents, a pile of other dolls. Cordelia was the last of the goth style dolls she had. There was a nurse, a cheerleader, a biker chick, a housewife and a myriad of other. Maybe one of the other dolls could catch someone's eye....
Ever since Tiffany opened an email from her old friend Megan she had been acting strangely. She stopped wearing her signature pink and started wearing all black. Before long she’d dyed her hair black and started smoking. She quit the cheerleading team and started hanging out with Meg and her goth friends. They were planning on sending a similar email to Tiffany’s former friend, Chyna.
Here's a birthday gift I drew for @Luxy! Nicole gets an involuntary gothic wardrobe change! I have transformed all of her clothes to be matchingly gothic.
Originally finished in October 2023!
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This denim is made of two threads, black on the outside and red on the inside and the red thread did not want to take in any of the cotton dye, so i bought jean dye and boiled them for half an hour and left outside to cool till nighttime and it still didn't fully dye, but it is significantly darker to the point where they look dark enough so im fine. Might boil them again, as I saved the dye.
I might put some more hardware on them and take in the sides a bit to get rid of the crotch buckling but I think im satisfied with them now and will actually wear them, as the colour was the biggest problem for me bc i just don't have much that goes with it.
