Brain Stuff. You're hunched over your desk, the glow of your laptop screen casting shadows across your cluttered apartment. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to type the next paragraph of your dissertation. Something about neural plasticity in machine learning models. It's brilliant stuff, the kind of work that's gotten you whispers of "genius" from your PhD advisors. You're in the zone, brain firing on all cylinders, when the front door clicks open.
"Hey, babe," comes his voice, low and casual, like he doesn't know what it does to you. Your boyfriend steps inside, shedding his jacket. He's got that easy grin, the one that makes your stomach tighten. You glance up, meaning to say something sharp and witty, but he's already peeling off his shirt, revealing the lean muscle underneath. Your mouth goes dry. The words you were about to type slip away before you can catch them.
"Missed you today," he says, crossing the room. He's close now, close enough that you can smell the faint spice of his cologne. Your pulse kicks up, and you try to focus on the screen. You're a goddamn scholar, you can handle this. But then he leans over your shoulder, his breath brushing your ear, and says, "What's my smart girl working on?"
Your brain stutters. "Uh… it's, um…" You squint at the screen, but the words lose their meaning. Neural what? Plasticity? Fuck, you know this. You wrote fifteen pages on it yesterday. His hand slides onto your shoulder, thumb brushing your neck, and you feel your IQ drop in real time. "It's… brain stuff," you manage, voice small. You hate how stupid you sound, how you can feel your own brilliance leaking out as he toys with you.
He chuckles, soft and loving, and that sound alone makes your thighs clench. "Brain stuff, huh? Tell me more." His fingers dip lower, tracing the edge of your tank top, and you try to string a sentence together. "It's about… how brains… change?" Your voice lilts up like a question, and you want to scream. You're not some ditzy undergrad; you're a fucking PhD candidate. But his hands are on your chest now, cupping you through your shirt, and your thoughts scatter.
"C'mon, babe," he teases, turning your chair to face him. "You're usually so quick." He's smirking, and you hate how much you love it. You open your mouth to snap back, to prove you've still got it, but then he's kissing you, hard and messy, all tongue and heat, and your mind goes blank. Not fuzzy. Just empty. You kiss him back, hands fumbling at his waist, and all you can think is cock. One word, looping, again and again.
He pulls you up, backing you toward the couch, and you trip over your own feet. Normally you'd curse yourself for being clumsy, but right now you just giggle. High pitched. Brainless. "You're so hot," you blurt, and it's the most coherent thing you've said since he got home. He grins, shoving his jeans down, and when you see him hard and thick your knees buckle. You drop to the cushions, staring up at him, mouth slack. You should be analyzing data right now, not drooling like some horny idiot.
"Fuck, look at you," he mutters, climbing over you. His hands yank your shorts off. You're already so wet. You try to focus, one last chance to claw back a shred of intellect. "Wait, I… I need to finish…" you start, but then he's pushing inside you, slow and deliberate, and the rest of the sentence evaporates. Your head lolls back, a moan spilling out instead. You feel him stretch you, fill you, and your brain shuts down completely. "Oh… oh God," you whimper, legs wrapping around him on instinct.
He starts moving, thrusting deep, and you're gone. No more dissertation. No more research. Just his cock, slamming into you, turning you into a panting, writhing mess. "Tell me something smart," he pants against your neck, mocking you now, and you want to, you need to prove you're not just this dumb slut he's turning you into. "Th-the brain… it… f-fuck, it d—" You can't finish. Every thrust scrambles your thoughts more, until you're babbling nonsense, hips bucking to meet him.
You're frustrated, somewhere deep down, because you know this isn't you. You've presented at conferences. Dismantled arguments from tenured professors. But right now you can't even remember your own name. "More," you gasp. That's all you've got. One syllable. You used to know so many words, but now you're reduced to this. But then he grabs your hips, angles himself deeper, and you stop caring. "Sho… haaard…" you slur, drooling over the syllables, "sho… deeeep…"
He laughs, a low rumble. "That's my girl. Let the real you out." And you do, you can't hold on anymore. He fucks you harder and you're nothing but heat and need, whimpering every time he bottoms out. Your nails dig into his back, and you're close, and then he groans, loud and guttural, and you feel his hot cum flooding you. You climax together.
It's instant. The second his cum hits you, your vision clears, your breathing steadies, and your brain kicks back into gear. Synaptic pruning. Neural plasticity. You blink up at him, still slick with sweat, and push him off with a shaky hand. "Rude," you say, voice strong again. He flops beside you, grinning, while you stagger to your desk, naked, his cum dripping down your thigh. You sit down, pull up your dissertation, and start typing like nothing happened. Sentences crisp. Ideas flowing.
"Welcome back, genius," he calls from the couch, annoyingly smug. You don't look at him, but your lips twitch. Just ignore him. You're back, and you've got work to finish.
You had never really been in shape, it was only natural that you avoided certain places around here, then. Places like the gym and most notably... the park. It was especially bad in late fall, that was when your local college started up track. So... what did you do? Same thing you always did, avoid it to the best of your ability.
Unfortunately for you, your abilities weren't quite good enough to stop fate from intervening. As usual you began your morning commute. It was simple and you liked the nice cool morning air, especially in the fall. Unfortunately... there was construction. You didn't know about it and now you would be late. This was going to be awful...
Your job wasn't amazing but it paid well enough. One other thing... you had been late quite a bit before... you were on one of your last strikes. So what would you do now? You called your boss, telling them you would be late due to construction... just hoping they would understand. Of course, they did not. They told you to go right to their office when you came in. Nothing good about that. So frustrated, you began walking absentmindedly to your better route... You hadn't thought this through.
When getting to the park you realized it too late, especially with the help of some dumb guy walking up to you. Right at the entrance. He wore a pair of athletic shorts that showed off his physique. He looked a bit upset but hard to tell through his shades. "What? Are you one of the people trying out for track? You're late." He looked you up and down. You looked angry, he looked annoyed... nothing good would come out of this.
You sighed and looked at him, "Look, I'm late for-"
He nodded. "Alright alright, I can tell you're late. What's your name? Gavin? Okay, Gavin we're running through the park and nature trail. If you can make it through that in... thirty minutes or less you're on the team."
"What? No you didn-" Again you didn't get to finish before he blew the whistle in your face. Instinctively and oddly you began running. Maybe it was to get out of the situation or maybe something else... Either way you ran. It was tough, you were huffing and puffing as your arms swayed side to side. Your chest was heaving with every labored movement. Your shoes were definitely not cut out for this.
As you kept going you started cussing, it helped you through the pain. Just a bit further and you could get out of the park... You kept running and running. Cussing out your boss, cussing out your co-workers, cussing out your job. "Fuck this" and "Fuck that" everywhere. With every step, every stride your mouth felt sore, your lips felt numb, your chest burnt. You felt like you were dying... but it also felt relieving. Your chest started to pump out, any fat or saggy man tits getting firm if not a bit jiggly. You were burning fat. Fat turned to muscle. Your chin? Yeah it felt like it was burning but really it was reshaping. You needed better air flow as you ran. Your lips were much softer, your chin was much more manly.
You ran your hands through your hair, unaware of the changes going on in your body. You grew hair on your chest, not much but notable. Your hair, nicely styled for your shitty office job, blew in the wind, shaping to a more... simple and trendy style. Helped and had a little bounce. Your head reshaped a bit too... What was going on?
As you neared the turn to get out you just tossed your jacket off and kept running, right passed it! You tried to stop but your legs wouldn't It was like they needed to run... They were growing more muscular. You were getting more muscular. It was easier to breathe and run now. The movements you were making were better, more fitting of a runner who did this often. But your clothes were so restricting... You took off your shitty shirt and belt... but that still wasn't enough. You went down to your underwear... odd... it was now compression boxer briefs.
Your bulge bounced with every step, it grew in size and smell. You were starting to stink quite a bit... Must be the sweat. The scent was intoxicating. You were having trouble thinking of your job. What was it again? Fuck who cared running felt so good. You had passed like three guys so far! Shows them! And you were late!
Getting past a few more you heard some bros... or... guys? No bros felt way better on the brainage. Well either way they were laughing. By now you had caught up to them. "What's so funny?" Odd... you could hold conversation while laughing. One explained that you were doing better than expected. The other made fun of you for being new. He did mention you were doing well with hazing. Hazing? But you weren't even on the team. But before you knew it one sprinted off.
"Oh fuck no you don't!" You laughed and started to sprint after him. Your body was changing and mind solidifying.... and just as you got to the finish marker. You weren't yourself anymore but who cares. You beat that guy. He even shook your hand.
"Name's Hunter, what's yours rookie?"
He laughed as the coach came up to you. "God damn, Gavin. For someone so late I didn't think you had the grit." He patted your back and handed you a shirt. It was yours yeah? Yeah it had to be.
"Gavin, huh? Yeah I think you'll fit in well on varsity." Hunter smiled and started to walk off. "Think you can take the cooldown?" He smirked, smug of course.
You paused to try and think for a second before laughing and blurting out; "Cool down? I'm hardly done yet, dude!" With that Hunter nodded and you two ran again... Racing... Hunter had found a rival, you found purpose, not if only you could find where you left your pants...
I've been thinking a lot about IQ loss recently. There's something delicious and thrilling about falling from being a smart, eloquent person to being the dumbest person in any room I'm in. I'm desperate for people to start seeing me as genuinely stupid.
My current fantasy: A 30-part series of hypnosis files designed to be listened to over a month that gradually leaves you severely intellectually disabled.
Each file introduces new ideas and behaviours for you to incorporate into how you act, as well as reinforcing suggestions from previous files and foreshadowing suggestions that will be given to you later in the series.
The early files will start gently, with suggestions to slow your speech, reduce your vocabulary, and start adopting a blank, slack-jawed expression. Next, more complex behavioural suggestions are introduced, making you more gullible, more easily-distracted, and more literal-minded.
It would also start introducing changes to your physical behaviours, making you less coordinated. As the month goes on, your decline increases. You lose the ability to read and write. You don't know how to cook or use money. You lose muscle control. You lose bladder control.
You can barely speak and what you do say is increasingly hard for anyone to understand. You struggle to understand anything being said to you, except for what the hypnotist says.
Each file ends with a suggestion that makes you desire with all your being to come back tomorrow to listen to the next file, drawing you inexorably down the path of mental and physical decline.
Except for the 30th and final file, in which the hypnotist summarises the journey you have taken and the behaviours you should now be exhibiting, making it clear to you that you are now severely intellectually disabled.
The hypnotist then gives you the suggestion to make all of these new behaviours permanently part of who you are and that these will be the last words you ever understand. Once that file ends, there's no going back. This is who you are. Forever. And it was all your own choice.
A build-your-own version of 2048, the addictive tile-matching game.
This is HypDom-IQ-Drop. A fun new way to try to play 2048 while your mind is steadily emptied of thoughts. Try playing this with your favorite hypnosis files in the background and see how much deeper you go!
In a previous post, you said being able to shapeshifter would be nice as a genderfluid person. But what about the silly consequences someone like you would face. You’re so eager to lose your mind and follow commands that your brain shifts with your transformation. After all, turning someone like you into a himbo would be such a treat. Then maybe give you happy, dumb bimbo time. Then return you back to your regular state as storm. But would you still be the same? I bet if I kept switching you between himbo, bimbo, and regular you, you’d probably lose track. Where does your bimbo personality start, and where does it end? Where does your himbo personality start and end? When you turn back to storm, is she really still there? Are is one of the two dummy brains still in control? Fractionating yourself with your own transformations, you’d be so confused about your true identity. But that’s alright, all you really needed was someone to think for you
Uh... yeah... uh... being fractionated via transformation until my identity became a soup I couldn't recover from without someone sorting me out themselves to be exactly the way they want me is uh... definitely a thing that uh... yeah... uh...
I’m tired of being the smart one, I’m tired of my brain working so fast, I’m tired of being the one who knows all the little facts. I feel so cluttered. I can’t stop thinking, I can’t stop word association and I can’t stop doing bits.
I don’t want that anymore.
Somebody should take it all from me
Change me from being ‘the smart girl’ to ‘the poor, brainless, sweet little doll who can only barely remember the name given to her when she’s asked, and otherwise just sits there blankly.’
Let me be empty, let me be free. A blank slate, a husk, a clean whiteboard, whatever you want. I need it. Please.
I have an IQ of 134 and im really really interested in dropping it at least for a lik.. i see a lot of bimbofication stuff and its just so hot but idk if its normal or not ;-;
