December 22nd
So I’m in my usual bar, right. And then work butts in. Fucking cell phones, I swear.
“Noelle MacHenry. What do you want?”
“Hi boss, it’s Leland.”
“So it is. What. Do you. Want?”
“Well, it’s about the Candy Records thing...Should I write an editorial about it or keep on doing the general Christmas stuff? I mean, it is pretty damn heavy...shouldn’t we stay neutral on this?”
I sigh. How can a newspaper’s editor-in-chief be so damn chickenshit? Dad really knew how to pick them.
“Our readers aren’t a bunch of shrieking mimsys, dude. Our web coverage has killed. Fuck neutral standpoint, I want that editorial, and I want it burning with the righteous fury of a thousand suns. Bring out the daily rape if you need to. Who cares if grandma faints, the people want to see their outrage validated, and by God we’re going to satisfy.”
Silence.
“Alright, boss, I understand.”
“Good work, Leland. Bye.”
I hang up—or do you say tap off now?—and throw the noisy rectangle over my shoulder. I have plenty of work at home as it is. Winnie, the bar’s boorish owner, grunts.
“I thought you couldn’t be fucked to care about that Candy Records fiasco, chief.”
“Can’t.” I answer drably before taking another sip of my cosmo. Fuck you, Dad, I’m a girl, I can drink candy. “Not everyone here has a niece who lives for the next Trixie Smiles song.”
“Well, I’m not the owner of a major newspaper either. ‘Popular singing tart turns out to be a brainwashed sex slave’, I mean, don’t you live for this shit?”
Sigh.
“I don’t know, Winnie. That’s just about the biggest goddamn scandal we’ve seen in recent memory for sure, but there’s something about the whole shebang, makes me just want to drop everything, like.”
“Can’t put your finger on it?” He inquires, taking another clean glass to wash. It’s not like there’s many customers at three in the morning in our remote town.
“Maybe it’s the FBI cracking this whole ‘Candy Records is a cartoon supervillain’ thing wide open before we media even suspected anything. This thing was over well before they deigned to give us a press conference. And maybe I’ve been spoiled with the various leaks this decade, but the Fourth Estate’s supposed to be the first on the scene, you know?”
“Yeah, I get ya.”
“Plus, I dunno, the whole pointlessness of it.”
I get up and turn around, making an impersonation of a cartoonishly villainous old crone, hands rubbing each other and all.
“Heeeee-hee-hee! We’ve got DARPA-levels technology shit, nanotech and the like, we could turn your local bullied kid into LeBron James, but I think we’d rather make a fuck useless starlet and her tabloid-trivia family because we suck diiiiick!”
Then I become Noelle MacHenry, “highly respectable”, “empowered” executive daddy’s girl, all over again.
“I mean fuck me, I’m not asking they find the universal cure for cancer or some soapy shit like that, but at the very least try to take over the world instead of stopping at being the creepiest motherfuckers on Earth.”
“True that.”
“So yeah, I’m giving my paper orders to push the shit out of this thing, if only to honor my own hype when I got to take over Daddy’s business, but I’ll be fucked if I care about it. This whole thing can bugger off.”
Shit, empty glass.
“Aight, Winnie, give us another cosmo and I’ll be on my way.”
“Sure, chief.”
A shitty one, this Candy Records affair. Yanked the country right off the Christmas cheer. Every disclosed detail makes you despair in humanity more efficiently than any clickbait article we run. Truly, when your brand of corporate dickery can dishearten a young and upstart media mogul, you’ve carved yourself a whole special corner of Hell.
Yep, I ain’t a model either. Wealthy and powerful, sure, but little to no achievements besides “being born” and “from a guy whose morals stopped evolving around the 1400’s”. I may look like a respectable business woman on the outside, with average looks, prim and proper suits and smart-looking glasses. But the shit I’ve done just to tell myself I would become the next boss in the family with my own strength instead of just being daddy’s little girl...Not worth it.
So, even with Christmas around the corner, I’ve got little interest in celebrating with family or, god forbid, the goddamn jet-set. I’d much rather be driving back to my estate under customary influence. I’m glad Dad chose this town in the ass-end of Colorado for the family mansion. How are you supposed to enjoy Christmas season in New York City? It’s annoyingly colorful, it’s crowded, you see goddamn mall santas, radio is crap, and you can’t even enjoy the snow.
“Yep, you gotta have the countryside for Christmas.” I say absent-mindedly, cruising along the small town, my headlights illuminating the diffuse snowfall. “There’s the true peace on Earth.”
Just past the town sign, some redhead is standing beside a white van. She’s wearing a sexy santa costume—a version that actually functions as a winter outfit, thank God—and waves at me enthusiastically. Sorry love, I’m afraid I’m too drunk to be a good hitch. Best of l...
...Waaaaaait.
I brake and turn back. No way. No fucking way. I readjust my glasses, open the window and squint.
“Hoooowdy! I’m sooo happy someone stopped!” Squeals the pretty santette. “The otto-pilot thingie done broke down, it did. You look sooo smart, lady, can ya help lil’ old me?”
It’s fucking Trixie Smiles. Shit, maybe I’m going to care about this clusterfuck after all.
I’m not a fan of bubblegum pop by any means, but I saw her mug often enough lately. Cute button nose, fiery red hair with low-hanging pigtails, big, hypnotic green eyes and soft freckles across the bridge of her nose. That’s our vic alright. Only problem is...she’s supposed to be under FBI custody as we speak. Is that girl a look-alike? No, no way. A twin? Or...a clone? We are talking about total body transformation here. Whatever the case, this could be huge. No way I’m giving her to the feds.
“Hi there.” I reply, getting out of the car. “Don’t worry, I’ll help. What’s your name?”
“Tr...Huh...Dixie...Horne?” She hesitates, before smiling awkwardly. “Heee heee...” Oh boy.
“Alright, Trixie.” Not gonna play with such an inept lie, not that she seems to mind. “I’ve got a big mansion nearby, I’ll guide you there.”
“Thank you thank you! But, huh...mah owners never taught me the drivin’ thing. Without Otto Pilot I can’t go anywhere...”
“Owners?” Fuck. That ain’t a lookalike.
“Yeah! Candy Records! I owe them everythin’!” She squeals, nothing but pure gratitude and happiness in her voice. “I been practicin’ for mah next concert alone, you know, ’cos I don’ get anythin’ done when foolin’ around with mah sisters, then someone from s’curity, I forgot his name but he luuuvs my boobies, tells me to git in the van that’s drivin’ all by its lonesome and go, like, super away.” Then her expression turns pouty. “But now the van won’ self drivin’ anymore...”
I suppose that’s about as believable an explanation for escaping the feds as any. Still...
“But the enemies of Candy Records caught you!”
“Whaaat? Naw they didn’t! I’m right here!”
“No, I mean...” This is going to be troublesome, isn’t it? “Did Candy Records make you a twin or something like that?”
“Oh, yeah, ’fcourse I have a twin!” She yelps, striking her palm. “Angel!”
“Alright, well I guess that explains that...Lucky for you I’ve got a tow cable. Hang on.”
“Thank yoouuuu! Is your house beautiful?”
“You bet your ass it is, cottonbrain.” I answer snidely while preparing the tow. “I’m the richest bitch in the county.”
“Heeee, I can’t waiiit!”
Talk about a crazy coincidence. I’d doubt her story, but completely self-driving vans aren’t exactly general public fare. Plus, I went through the reports on my on-board computer, and it checks out—the “official” Trixie they’ve caught pretends to go by Angel. The feds have dismissed this because there’s no record whatsoever on an Angel in CR’s database. If she’s a clone, she’s been created on the irregular...whatever regular means to these monsters.
Anyway, let’s go with her being the genuine article, dropped off the escape shuttle at the last moment. Well, I don’t like this. She could be tailed by the feds, which deprives me of the scoop of the decade, or worse, she could be followed by some Candy Records black ops team or such shit. The feds did say CR was only one part of a broader operation. I mean, those guys could definitely want to lay their hands on a media mogul. And to this, I say Hell no.
Trixie is in the towed van, and I’m about five minutes from the estate. Time to make a call. Smartphone’s wrecked, but this onboard system is pretty damn practical.
“Hello, Damocles Private Security, what can I do for you?” Greets a familiar voice.
“Hi, Rick. Noelle here. I’m going to need a full security perimeter around my Colorado estate, stat. You know where to send the bill.”
“Certainly, Miss MacHenry. First responder team ETA is...twenty minutes.”
“That’ll do. Bye.”
I get my gun from the glove box, ready to deal with any monkey business until then. Why, yes, I am a paranoid bitch on a good day.
First hurdle cleared. The Damocles team arrived before the hypothetical villains did. The remainder of the squadron of professional bodyguards are surrounding my mansion as I speak. Now to figure out what the hell I am supposed to do with my own personal Trixie Smiles.
Her story gets more likely by the minute. They checked her van when I drove it into the garage, and it contains some ominous dentist chair with a lot of machinery around it. Booting the computers up brings up fuckery like “memory imprint” or “nanite template”. Candy Records wouldn’t let such sensitive tech leave in the company of an absolute airhead if they had any other choice.
So...yes, she’s the real deal. And she’s running around my living room like a little kid on Christmas day. Neither Dad nor I have ever been big on home decoration, so we pretty much stand in a generic picture for a catalog. Nice furniture, nice mantelpiece, and that’s about it. Nevertheless, it’s big, bigger than Trixie’s used to, having lived all her “life” between an office building and various venues. In that respect, it’s no surprise that her favorite part of the place are the windows and the forest beyond.
“Ohmigaaaawd the mountains are so prettyyyyy! And, and the snow, like, it makes everything so super, yanno, calm and the like...It’s all so new to lil’ old me! I never got to visit other folks when I’s tourin’! It’s all so big and sparkly and all the like, I’m sooo glad I met you! Like, yer so cooool!”
“Thanks, I guess.”
And now I’m pouring myself a good hard glass of Bushmills. I mean, does she EVER shut up? This is not a human being, this is a Duracell rabbit. She has porn star tits but the innocence and bubbliness of a little girl at her birthday party. And I’d like to think that flush in my cheeks is the whiskey talking, but...she’s making me hot and bothered, the little strumpet.
And I’m sorry, but why the fuck is that? She’s quite literally an aberration, the product of the very sickest mankind has to offer. She should be repulsive, and yet part of me wants to feel her embrace. Why? Maybe that’s because I’m best described as dildosexual. Can’t get feelings in my line of work. And everything that makes her an insult to my remaining morals makes her even more of a living sex toy. Wrong in context, but...so sweet, you know?
So yes, she’s sexy, but not so much I can’t think business. Back to the big story. Let’s poke around a bit, see if I can get a little inside info on the horrors of Candy Records.
“Say, Trixie, does Brooke Wendell ring any bells?”
“Sure does, ma’am! It’s old me! Mistah Horne told me aaall ’bout her he did! She was so serious and quiet, like gruuuuh! And now I’m me and I luv it! I’ve got boobies and sistahs and I make everyone smile all the time! I luv Candy Records sooo dang much! I wish they hadn’t been caught...I wants to be singin’ to mah fans forever!”
It doesn’t burst her bubbles in any way. She’s just plain happy being a glorified slave. I think...scratch that, I know that if I was to declare myself her new Mistress, she’d only feel relief. Candy Records have turned her into a hopeless, dependent doll. One that doesn’t give a single thought to her past of pride and freedom. The perfect, total bimbo slave. I mean, yeeesh.
The worst thing though? She’s hopping around me like a lost puppy, babbling about how pretty the snow is, again, and I’m thinking about how I can turn her into a big story. Take back the ownership of the affair from the FBI’s hands. Business as usual I’m afraid...But this time I think it could be mutually beneficial. I mean, as disquieting as her unconditional loyalty to Candy Records is, her confession isn’t going to jerk many tears out, is it? I need to spin this up big time if I don’t want to make the big story basically just a freakshow.
I try to have an idea, but they fly past my focus. Come on, an idea...An idea...An idea about what? Fuck I’m drunk. Might as well down the glass.
“Haaaaa...” I sigh, the sweet burning flowing down my throat.
“Wha’s wrong, ma’am?”
“Nothing, I just need you a bit more, I don’t know, human for the newspap...”
Oh. Oh shit. That’s it! Mouth, you’ve done it again. I’ve got a Trixie Smiles, FBI’s got a clone, there’s intel on Wendell on my computer, and a Candy Records brainwashing fuckerhickey in my garage. I just need to cure her, and forget the audience revenue, I’ll be America’s fucking hero. Hmmm, I like the sound of that. I just need to make sure the bunny stays here while I fuck off to drunken sleep. And get a piece of this world-famous little sexpot, why not.
“Hey, Trixie.” I say with a wicked smile.
“Yes, ma’am?” She smiles, as always.
“Candy Records is gone. I bet your submissive little bubble butt had only one idea when I stepped off that car, didn’t ya?”
“Aw, heck, how did ya know? I mean, you’s car done be so cool and...”
Who knows what she’s really thinking. Point is, she’s alone, and ripe for the taking.
“Trixie. You’re not alone any more. I’ll be your Mistress. Your Candy Records. Everything you did for them, you’ll do for me.”
“Ooooh!” She squeals, hopping. “So all that awesum stuff is mah home now?”
“Yes. You can play here all you want as long as you’re obedient.
“I’m hella good at obedient, ma’am! Thankyouthankyouthankyouuuuu!”
She completely flips out and rushes to hug me. My hands gravitate to her huge breasts, much to her delight. They’re soft, round, warm...pure products of Candy Record’s tampering, yet feel as genuine as Trixie’s smile. She’s a product of dark, dark instincts...but by herself, she’s innocence and trust made flesh. Her smile is wide, childish even. Her breath is calm, her gaze serene. She totally did want me to claim her. Even though I only want her for her sob story, and maaybe her sweet little bod, she needs me.
“I’ll be a good girl, I promise!” She squeals, showing her teeth.
And I want her. Her warmth, her friendliness, her innocence...Her helplessness, too. She’s truly everything I’m not. I have to save her, if only to use her, but right now, as we lay together on the sofa...Part of me’s glad to have her as is. What holiday present do you give to a girl who has everything but deserves nothing? I don’t believe in a loving God, but Trixie’s adorable coos sound a lot like a Christmas carol.
...What the fuck kind of sappy thought was that? I need some shut eye.
December 23rd
“Ma’am! Ma’am! I done the tree! Jus’ for you! Isn’t it soo pretty? I luv it! Specially the blinking whatchamacallits and the...”
Okay, who the fuck brought a fashion store chatterbox into my house? I’m hungover and won’t abide this b...oh. That’s right. I caught myself a sex slave pop star.
She’s prattling away in front of the pine tree. The one I put in the living room in an half-assed effort to appease the holiday spirit. Didn’t even try to decorate the damn thing. I’d say I was overworked, and for some days that’d be true, but truth is I don’t give much of a toss. Good thing Trixie does. She found my box of decorations and went to town, crafting a perfectly good red and white themed Christmas Tree. Garlands and shiny baubles, snow foam carefully applied to match the snowy landscape just outside my window. At least she’s good with her hands.
Still in her Santa costume, the redheaded bunny girl looks at me with a radiant smile. What does she want, a cookie?
“I’s soo happy you, like, adopted me! I really ain’t good at all that decisin’ stuff, n’ I really wondered what I would do without mah owners...and then you come along, it’s a Christmas miracle!”
“Yeah, huh, you’re still kind of a slave, Tr...”
“Aw, heck, and so what?” She earnestly asks. “I jus’ wanna make people happy yanno? I know I’m just a creation, but I make everyone smile! It’s the best!”
Good grief, she’s really serious about it, is she? An obedient doll, engineer to love her fate, no matter what. A present made flesh...Those CR guys are fucking scary. I walk to the window and check my security perimeter. The Damocles guys are still there, in all their black-clad glory. The very bloodthirtiest money can buy, with the very cleanest reputation media can craft. Birds of a feather, we are. As far as I’m concerned, the fact that snowflakes even deign to land on us is proof that God is one apathetic motherfucker.
“Your former, huh, ‘owners’, as you put it, they really let you go by yourself?”
“Well, huh, Mistah guard sure done tell me I was free...”
“A compassionate soul, huh?”
I don’t know...seems a bit easy to me, but then again, paranoid bitch. Still...
“There is one thing you can do for me, Trixie.”
“Hee What is it? What is it?!”
“I run a big newspaper, and I want to publish your story. But the government thinks your twin is you.”
“Well, gee, we do look a lot alike, don’ we? Hee hee!”
“Problem is, they’re trying to turn her back into Brooke, which we both know she isn’t.”
“Yes ma’am! I’m Brookie!”
“So I need to cure you. Turn you back. Prove you’re the real, original victim.”
And one hell of a cash cow...maybe with a loyalty conditioning to make sure she stays with me. Thing is...Trixie looks less than thrilled?
“But...I like being me...I like mah boobies and mah fans and the singin’ and the cummin’ too...Can I lick your pussy instead, ma’am? I’m really good!”
Oh, goddamit. I shouldn’t be surprised, but...yeesh.
“Trixie, Candy Records are hated now. All your fans now think they’ve hurt you when going to your concerts.” Her eyes swell up with tears. “You’re innocent. They love you...but they can’t love you like this. You need to be free again.”
“B-b-but I can still be me after, right? You’ll still be mah owner?”
“...Yeah, sure, I’ll turn you back once this is over.”
Assuming I can even reverse Candy Record’s conditioning with only a van’s load of equipment...If I can’t, I’m stuck with Trixie.
...Stuck with a loyal, dependent and impossibly sexy slave. Sound the end of the fucking world, right?
I open the van’s doors, Trixie in tow, and the tacky sci-fi props are still here. I’d make a clever reference to Star Trek or some shit, but I didn’t really have time for culture growing up.
I boot the computers up, look around to see if there’s anything resembling an instruction manual. I open a drawer, only to be confronted to two big-ass syringes and a flyer identifying them as nanite shots. “Don’t inject yourself unless you wish to be Candy Records property, whether female or male.” I think I already have my day’s share of fucked-up stuff...and then Trixie starts stripping.
“Huh...What the hell are you doing?”
“Well, the doohickeys only work if they make me cum, ma’am!”
“Oh. Great. Awesome.”
I let her get in her birthday suit and look at the desktop. It’s Spartan, with a solid blue background adorned only with Candy Record’s pink logo. And, wow, I’ve caught shit for approving the lockdown of user rights on my company’s computers, but our policies are straight up libertarian compared to this shit. There’s a program on the desktop. One.
“Well, at least I know where to click.”
DominusvP215.exe it is. The screen turns black, the dentist chair thing beeps and whirrs, and Trixie coos in anticipation. I don’t wanna know why, I don’t wanna know why, I don’t...
...The damn thing has sprouted a big metal dildo and some kind of wet rotating brushes at chest level. Why the fuck did I look? Anyway, just as the starlet lowers herself in the chair, a male synthetized voice comes out.
“Applicable unit Trixie detected. Slave, get into programming position.”
“Yes mistah Comb Peter!”
The chair’s schematics show up on the screen, as well as Trixie’s outline. Shackles lock her into the chair, and one final piece comes out. A half-circle slides over her head and beeps into life.
“Establishing nanite communication. Established. Eight days since last maintenance. Running maintenance program.”
“Yay, I luv being maintenanced! I always feel so obedient and happy and the like and heeee I can’t wait! Can’t...oooooh...”
The dildo and brushes have started, and given Trixie’s slack-jawed, wide-eyed expression, the half-circle thing must be screwing with her soft brain too. And indeed, the screen shows some technobabble lines like “Oxytocin boosters at maximum” and " Some guy’s voice starts coming out of the chair. It sounds synthesized too, if less so.
“You feel really good, Trixie. You love being brainwashed. You are Trixie Smiles, Candy Record’s brainwashed slave, just like you want to be. There’s no better life.”
“Yes mistah Horne...” She answers softly.
“Any bad thoughts you have are irrelevant. You know you are Brooke but you want to be Trixie. Trixie is nice, Brooke is scary. It’s much better to be obedient and silly and slutty. Every time you doubt your owners, you think of how wonderful they are. Resisting only makes you wetter and more docile. You’re not a person. You’re just Trixie.”
Trixie is now being fucked proper, and she smiles wide, punctuating every thrust and every degrading suggestion with a lewd “Aah!” Her body language isn’t showing any kind of revulsion. The machine owns her mind. She thinks what it wants her to think.
And it runs counter to my agenda! I try to abort, but the computer beeps disapprovingly.
“Maintenance cannot be interrupted. Do not attempt again or administration will be notified.”
“Oh, come on!”
“Aaah! Aaah! I obey Mistah Horne! Aaahm Trixie! I’m bimbo Trixie!”
Soo...now I know that even pure evil is hindered by its friggin’ technicians. Oh well. I let the gobbledifuck do its thing, and when the machine stops mindfucking my golden egg laying goose a few minutes later, I’m left with more Trixie than I started with.
“Huff...huff... Whooowhee! Huff... I feels like practicin’! I’m gunna make mah owners tons of money! Where’s Mistah Horne, ma’am?“
“Just around the corner, Trixie. I have to make some other, huh, adjustments first and...And you’re restrained, why the fuck am I trying to justify anything?”
“I dun’t get it but okay! La-la-laaa-la-laaaa~”
Okay, now to undo that damage. Let’s see what the menu can give me. There’s lot of options, most of them apparently dedicated to set up a new objective for the nanomachines flowing in her system. Hair or eye color, boob and ass size, freckle density, that kind of shit. I don’t care, give me the mind customization. Ah, here it is. It brings up a pop-up window, on top of which is a combobox. I click it, and out rolls a number of “.crsp” files.
The top one isn’t Trixie. In fact, she’s not even in the top five. There are two “test” files, followed by “Shirley”, “Coco” and “AleXandra.” Shit, I know those names. They are missing Candy Records starlets. We have the songs, but no trace of the singers...Well, here they are. Personalities waiting to be implanted into innocent victims. Maybe they already consumed some poor souls, or maybe they went unused. Who knows.
I browse the entire list after that. Trixie, Heaven, Angel, Gracie, Lili, Candy. No sign of Brooke. Shit. Oh well, let’s load Trixie.
Okay, I am treated to a drawn artwork of our favorite cyborg starlet surrounded by shitload of data in the form of “Response to authority—Enthusiast”, “Sexuality—Bisexual” or “D/M—M” . So that’s how they prepare the “target form” for their victims, heh? Looks simple.
“Too simple...” I think out loud. “It can’t have turned this quiet businessgirl into...”
“Into lil’ old me?”
What the fuck? I look behind me. Trixie’s still idly singing. That...that came from the...
“I’m in there, silly!” Came Trixie’s voice through the speakers. “Yeah, there! Howdy, I’m Trixie! Who are ya? A new intern?”
“A...A fucking AI? The feds said nothing about that...”
“I’m an AI but I can’t fuck, ’cos I have no body, silly!
Wait wait wait. An AI version of Trixie?
“Are you...some kind of backup persona or something?”
“Naw, I’m the original! I was created by Candy Records to sing and make people happy. And, like, when I got lots and lotsa fans, they decided to make me real! So they found a girl with mah voice, erased her memories and values and the like, and then she was all ready to accept bein’ me! So I guess we’re two Trixies now, hee hee!”
“Oh, hey!” Reacts the real Trixie. “It’s mah teach! Howdy! I’s been making lots of fans happy!”
“Yay! Did ya thank them for supportin’ us?”
“You betcha! Like this time there were like two guys from something suuuper far away and...”
Two Trixies...Fuck me. But at least that explains why the data set was effective—it was never meant to go by itself. They wiped Brooke, burned into her mind that she was submissive and happy to be bossed around, and let her absorb the AI’s persona.
Problem is, I can’t wipe Trixie. I need her memories. So how do I heal her? Please, please tell me they got some kind of backup on Brooke. Let’s see...okay, there’s a “memory implantation” menu. Lots of Smiles files there...No fucking wonder. Ah! “Meatpuppet1backup.crsm”. Seriously? I’ve done some shady shit in my time but these guys are rape personified. Anyway, I click on it, and am treated to a long-ass charging time...only get this message shoved into my face.
“Sensitive Candy Records Data. Log in as an accredited administrator.”
...Of course. Brooke knew better than anyone how dangerous her captors were. No way they would leave such decisive evidence unprotected. There’s a good chance the FBI has that file too and can crack it, though. They could restore Brooke in Angel’s body any day now. And what do I have to beat them to it?
...An AI, for starters.
“Hey!” I interject as the two Trixies grate the metal off the walls with their chattering. “AI Trixie, this is an order: decrypt the meatpuppet1backup.crsm file.”
“Oh, huh...I’ll try!” Chirps the artificial dumbness, clearly as obedient as I need her to be. “There’s no mean mainframe here, I can obey alll I want, tee-hee!”
“NOOO!”
I turn around. Trixie’s freaking out, helplessly tugging against the restraints.
“She wanna turn me back into mean Brookie! I don’t want to be her!”
Oh shit..I forgot, she’s freshly brainwashed. There goes the “ma’am”. Nothing matters to her but her programming now.
“Oh...you’re right!” Agrees the AI. “Brookie’s poopie!”
“For fuck’s sake, DO IT!” I scream in my best Big Boss voice.
“Noo waaay! Me’s right! I ain’t betrayin me!”
“Yay! I knew I could count on me!” Cheers real Trixie.
Oh my God this is so ANNOYING! I feel my fist clenching, the urge to deck that bimbo in the face rising. I’m HELPING YOU, you goddamn retard! You’re a slave, ACT like it!
And then it hits me. She’s restrained to a brainwashing chair, for fuck’s sake. I might not be able to cure her outright, but I can get rid of her resistance.
“Alright, young lady.” I say to the rebellious bimbo. “I get it, you still love your owners. Well, I own you now, you dunce. And, as everyone in the business learned, if negotiations fail...A MacHenry always gets your part of the deal.”
I turn to the computer once again, browsing all the menus it has to offer. Soon enough, I stumble upon a “handler” option. And, sure enough, clicking on it shows dear old “Mistah Horne”. Sorry, you sick fuck, I’ll be handling your living doll now.
“Registering new handler.” Declares the Microsoft Sam voice. “Please stand still and read the words on the screen.”
I oblige, and a loading bar shows up. I hear whining behind me. Gone is the cute, happy bunny. Trixie understands what’s happening, and tries to free herself. What’s going through her dim little mind? Does she see her life flashing before her eyes? Why is she afraid of becoming someone else when she’s barely anyone? Is it just the maintenance talking, or did Brooke Wendell completely, earnestly surrendered to the life of a slave, leaving no nostalgia behind?
Is Trixie Smiles a real person I am going to destroy for Wendell’s sake?
“No, nooo, you can’t be Mistah Horne,” She cries. “Mistah Horne wanna keep me sexy ’n happy, you just wanna make me borin’ and the like, I don’t like ya...”
“Old Ian is busy getting assfucked by terrorists in gitmo, girl.” Best part is I’m not kidding, they really sent the fuckers there. “I’m your Mistress now. And if I’m not taking shit from the people I pay, I sure as shit ain’t going to take shit from you.”
“Noooo...You don’t even have a delish dick...I want Candy Records, I want my owneeeers...”
The computer beeps. I am officially a Candy Records handler now, hooray. I go back to the psych profile, change “handler” to me. I hold my cursor on the “launch conditioning” button, and take a moment to say...
“Long live the Queen.”
“NOOO NO PLEASE D..dooon’t...huuuuh...”
“Imprinting in progress.”
Trixie’s breath slows down. Her jaw goes slack. The dildo comes to life again, and her pelvis starts grinding against it. She whimpers a bit, still deathly afraid of me getting rid of the nice cloud of obedience. But it’s my voice coming out of the speakers now. A simulacrum, granted, but my ward’s mind has been drained, and the nanomachines ruling her existence are pumping her full of love hormones again. Her body language is steadily softening, accepting of the words massaging her thoughts.
“Trixie...” I can hear myself sing. “Ditzy and cute little Trixie. I love you, I love your voice, I want to help you reach all your wonderful fans. You’re the best pop princess in the world! You’re so selfless, you’re the best...I’ll do everything to help you. Just trust me...”
She’s blushing like a tomato. The compliments go straight to her big heart. She babbles, embarrassed, and starts smiling again. She is open...and the machine goes in for the kill. Trixie arches her back, her head pinned down under the half-circle device, but I can see her mouth agape, her tongue outstretched. The computer screen goes apeshit, showing scene after scene of me manhandling Trixie. Scenes no doubt broadcast directly into her mind’s eye. I fondle her, kiss her, 69 her, cover her eyes...and just generally making myself familiar to her senses. Becoming part of her personal space. Meanwhile, my fake voice is booming, dripping with power and authority.
“You trust me no matter what, little bimbo, because I am everything to you! I am your Mistress! I am your Lover! I am your Mother! I decide what is right! You believe everything I say! I OWN you!”
Shit, that’s a pretty good impression of me taking on the “oooh but you’re just a Daddy’s girl, you can’t be the boss” types. Almost makes me wet. Then the mantra repeats, only now “I” speak in a soft, caring, motherly voice. And a third time in the passionate tone of a beloved spouse. Trixie gasps, giggles and moans, too far gone to even question the new truth forced upon her, to even start rejecting the new most important person in her life. The whole show goes on for a good five minutes before the chair is satisfied and lets the poor little bimbo relax.
“Imprinting complete.” States the cold mechanical voice.
Sorry, Brooke. I’ll free you now, you probably deserve a break. I just became the center of your world after all...I press the “Release subject” on the computer and go to her. She’s breathing heavily, her bouncy chest heaving up and down. Two glistening orbs of pure sex, encouraging me to just give up an become a lesbian already. I pull the redheaded thrall into my arms and feel her quiver under my touch. She looks up to me and gasps, her green eyes dilating in the visceral excitement of seeing her Mistress in all her glory.
“M...ma’am Noelle...” Trixie whispers, awestruck. “I luv ya...”
“Thank you, cutie. Can you ask computer-you to decipher Brooke’s file now?”
“Of course, Ma’am Noelle! Hey, me! Reckon I was mistaking! If Ma’am Noelle says Brookie’s good, like, huh, it’s good!”
“Okiedokie!” Cheers the AI.
“Good girl...” I purr.
I take my bimbo for a spin, testing how well the treatment has conditioned her to accept my touch. I slide my fingers inside her well-used pussy. She giggles and smiles. Her eyes sparkle. She is happy. I bring my juice-coated fingers to her lips, and she reaches for them, suckling and licking with a soft, utterly contented moan. She is well and truly mine.
“Now, Trixie...how about we get back to the living room and do a sales pitch for saphism, eh?”
“Huh? Whazzat mean, Ma’am Noelle?”
“It means fuck me ’till I like it, you airhead.”
She makes the brightest smile I’ve seen on her face yet. All is right in her dim, controlled inner world. She is properly owned again. And I get the Christmas present of a lifetime.
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