December 24th
“Aaaah...Mmmmmh...Deeper...Mmmhaah...”
“Hum...Mrs. MacHenry?”
I look behind me. My trusty lawyer, Jonah Breitmann, stands under the doorframe opposite the Christmas tree, his sharp suit peppered with melting snow.
“Ah, here you...hmm...Here you are, Mr. Breitmann.” I reply, trying to sound professional. “You brought the bureaucratic malarkey, I trust?”
“Yes.” Drably answers the 60-something man. “Dare I ask if the woman I went to great pains, on Christmas Eve no less, to legally falsify as your long lost sister the selfsame as the one sexually favouring you right now?”
“You know it, Jon. If I can’t revert her to her old identity, I...ooooh...I’ll be damned if I can’t show up my slave in public. Damn AI takes its sweet time to unlock her true memories and I’m becoming more of a dyke by the hour. Mmmh, yeess...Put all your paperwork on my desk. There’s a blank check, write yourself enough money to forget everything about this affair.”
“If I may, Mrs. MacHenry, your late father would surely disapprove of you exploring homosexuality.”
“Yeah, because making this little bunny here sprout a manhood would be less of an affront to morals? I like you, dude, but in this house, we save the bullshit family values for the audience. Besides, why the hell would I want a kid of all people?”
“You’re afraid your offspring would be as harmful to you as you were to your father, I understand.”
“Good. Now...aaaaah...fuck off and give yourself a Christmas present.”
He obliges, and I’m alone again to enjoy the ever-increasingly orgasmic tongue of my private sex bunny. Her slurps and coos are so much better than her cartoony redneck logorrhea. At first, I was just bored. Having my pussy serviced by a puny wet tongue rather than the turgid dildos I’m used to. But eventually, something about Trixie’s adoring eyes meeting my gaze as she licks my juices got my heart beating. She’s mine. Totally and utterly mine...And she’s the happiest one of us two about it.
So I started putting myself in her shoes. Daydreamed about being the one abducted by Candy Records and pumped full of nanomachines rapidly transforming into a subservient bimbo. It revulsed me, but for every action there is an opposite reaction, and shocking goes with sex as censorship goes with stupidity. I had my first girl on girl orgasm imagining myself being remade by the brainwashing chair, cleaning all the darkness and guilt to make way for bumpkin simplicity.
I got back to my senses, but I guess I saw Trixie less as an object and a means to an end and more like a poor woman thrown back into childhood with her sex drive intact. Pathetic, but distinctly alive. I phoned my lawyer without thinking much at all. Trixie was something to me now...so I wanted her to be someone, in and on herself. Brooke was still the real person somewhere in my mind, I guess, but in the heat of the moment, I really did want Trixie to have an existence by my side.
What the hell was I thinking making her my sister, though? That’s way too close to Candy Record’s idea for comfort. But couldn’t very well make her my wife, what with my newspaper shitting all over gay marriage because that’s what the chucklefucks want to read. If Brooke doesn’t pan out, I’ll modify Trixie to look more like me and think of herself as Lynn MacHenry. Get it? Brooke? Lynn? Fuck you.
So now I’m watching lesbian porn, getting more and more into it in some sort of ill-planned mad dash to get the most out of my sister before the AI cracks the vault. I guess being the day before Christmas really gets you into overindulgence, but still, what the fuck, Noelle? What’s next, wondering how amazing it would be to be in the chair, to feel my identity shatter under a wave of pleasure and emotion? To stare at the ceiling when the brainwashing ends, awash in the epiphany of who I truly am, unable to understand how I could have ever believed otherwise?
I feel an orgasm building, seizing my body and pushing away my thoughts. Sis’ tongue is so much better than any dildo...My little Trixie is the best thing that ever happened to me...She makes me feel so loved, so important...I can afford anything, but only her devotion feels like it has any value...Yes, I should stop being such a shithead, be more like her...So I can finally deserve to be named after Christmas...
So I can be more like Christmas...aaah, so good, I’m cumming...So I can...So I can be Christmas! A good, happy woman...aaaah...my name would be....nyaah! Would be...
“CHRISTMAS SMIIIIILES!”
“Hmm? What are ya sayin’, Ma’am Noelle?” Inquires Trixie. “I don’t got me a sistah like that...”
“Holy fucking Christ what WAS that?”
I push Trixie away, gently enough for her to merely yelp in surprise while I am left in the sofa, sweaty and flabbergasted. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. I feel like waking from a dream, only I can still hear myself think of Trixie as Sis. That’s not attachment. That’s not anything normal. She’s doing something to me. Seducing me in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Something’s wrong. She did something to me. I need her out of my hair, fast.
“Are you any good in the kitchen?”
“Yes ma’am Noelle!” She squeals, grinning from ear to ear.
“You make food for Ian Horne often?”
“All the time, but you’re the one I love now, Ma’am No...”
“Good. Make a Christmas feast or whatever.”
I stand, grab the closest thing at hand—a newspaper—to cover my groin and rush to the garage.
“Hey, CyberTrixie!” I bark. “You almost done with the Brooke file?!”
“Reckon so, ma’am!”
“How much longer?”
“Hmm...’bout half a concert? Hee hee!”
“Alright, keep going.”
While -I hope- she does her thing, I bring up Trixie’s nanomachine profile. Everything about her should be in there. I browse past the appearance specifications and into the “automated tasks” menu. Automated maintenance program, some things about musical memory boost...until finally, I get my answer.
About a few months ago, they installed a new set of nanites in her saliva glands. A drug dispenser. I quote:
“Special request from the top. Some chairman’s trophy wife likes goofing around with Trixie. This module activates when our lil’ bunny swaps juices with another woman, and secretes a proprietary chemical agent from our sister company. It is harmless in small doses, but any prolonged oral sex and kissing leaves the subject admiring Trixie. It’s ostensibly meant to awaken the inner bimbo present in any woman, but could end up a great recruitment tool as well.”
Motherfucker.
“I let a nano-augmented sex slave lick me for hours on end and she’s the bimbo? The info was right here, goddamn. For shame, Noelle, for shame.”
At least it’s just drugs...Had this “ability” been any less covert, I could very well have been infected with some sort of cloning agent. Still, “Just drugs”? Girl, you know for a fact that “under influence” is a bloody understatement. And that’s even if this description tells the whole story...Even now I shiver at the mere thought of Trixie’s perfect sextoy body.
She’s cooking Christmas stuff right now, but I wonder...Is she cooking naked? I’m pretty sure she can still lick my wet pussy while the turkey’s cooking...Sure, getting another dose would be a bad idea, but I’ll soon be able to turn her back anyway, and why should she be the only one free of any worries? I rescued her, I ought to have it as easy as her...
Gah! See what I mean? Hard to resist when the drugs tell you how awesome they are. I need an icy shower, stat.
On the other hand, a hot one feels soo much nicer. It’s not like hypothermia’s going to purge my system anyway...I locked the bathroom’s door, Trixie isn’t getting in...Might as well enjoy myself at the horniest I’ve ever been in months.
Shower head against my boobies, two fingers inside me, I think of Trixie. My cute little sister...legally anyway. We wouldn’t be able to have sex if were linked by blood instead of Candy Records...I mean fake birth certificates. Trixie...Trixietrixietrixie. I love that name. A shame she can’t be herself anymore. Bah, indoors, she’ll always be Trixie.
Wait, she’s Brooke...she’ll be herself once more in a few hours. Bah...I’m sure Brookie will want to be Trixie again. Who wouldn’t? Well, independent business woman like we are wouldn’t. But if she does want to, well, I’ll grant her wish! Yes...Then she can be with me forever and teach me everything about happiness...
“Shit. Shit shit shit, get a grip, Noelle!”
I’m so wasted on this thing...and water ain’t helping. That drug is friggin’ dangerous! I’ll have to remove the aug when I turn Trixie back into Brooke. I wouldn’t want to give up having sex with my little bunny...she’s so sexy after all, no way I’m reverting her body b...Okay, stop right there, Noelle.
I can’t trust myself right now. I have to call the Damocles guys, maybe...maybe get one of them to pin me against the wall and fuck my brains out. Yeah, maybe I’ll stop freaking out so much once my tongue’s sticking out! I’m so horny...I wonder if Sis is even hornier? Maybe she’s so cute because she fucked her owners all the time...
...Jesus. Maybe work will do the trick. I bolt out of the bathroom, plug my ears as soon as I hear Trixie singing her bubblegum pop downstairs, and lock myself in the family study. I boot my computer, open a text file to prepare Brooke’s interview, and...get hit by a fuckton of emails notifications.
I hate this as much as the next girl, but this time...my heart sinks like a dead body on planet Jupiter. Yes, I stand in the middle of a major information network, and I’ve been out for more than a day saving and using a futuristic bimbo. Still, I feel all my spirit shrivel and my voice weaken under the sheer pointlessness of it all.
“I-it’s Christmas Eve, you wankeeers...Can’t you cut that rat race shit out a FUCKING MOMENT?!”
I can’t even begin to take it. Even skimming through one hundred and eighty seven e-mails sounds intolerable right now. This is the real world. This is what a powerful and rich woman does. That’s my reward for not being Daddy’s girl: Endless loads of lobbying, financial affairs, spin doctors unable to believe how much they own the masses and other self-serious bullshit.
Meanwhile, Trixie is lovingly cooking me a Christmas dinner. I...I know I still have to resist this Candy Records nightmare, but...But...This is my life. Jerking off in a secret room together with all the pampered and isolated fucks deluded enough to think they manage the world. I’m just a petty little office manager pouring all her energy into thinking she matters.
When I could be just like my baby Sis. Bubbly, sizzling with life, frolicking around a right amazin’ mansion and stop bein’ so bored about everything. I could learn to sing with her, rebuild a band so we can make people happy n’ stuff! Yeah, like, maybe hire a Master so I can enjoy bein’ owned like my Sistah and...
...Fuck’s sake, nooo...Is this even a drug? Or...oh shit I’ve got nanites in me, haven’t I? She’s infected me. Her happiness is so bright I’m melting. Being remade into another oblivious heartland airhead. In one minute I’m going to daydream about being a bimbo again...Stop it...STOP IIIT!
I drag my feet to the kitchen. When did I leave the study? Am I still drugged? Sis is past the counter, hopping and babbling.
“Hi Ma’am Noelle! Reckon the big chicken thingie’s coming along nicely, I do! Smells sooo good, jus’ like when me and mah sisters make a feast for all our owners! I made some wee cakes too! Can’t beat good ol’ country cookin’, right?!”
It does smell like good times, a nice, cozy, hearty dinner with my family while the snow erases this despicable world around us. I mean...I know Trixie isn’t family...That I have to be myself, the serious chief of a serious paper, and cut it out with this accent...but dangit, it’s Christmas, can’t I stop worryin’ and have fun? Just looking at my sexy redheaded ward makes me smile.
“Yeah...It’s a heck of a lot better than hiring a curator for a solo evening, I can tell you that. Well, I mean, it’s just the two of us and a bunch of bodyguards who’re just getting rich standing in the snow, but...”
Trixie rushes to me and gives me a big hug. What? Why? Do I look so miserable...?
“Enough family to talk is all the family we need, Ma’am Noelle!” She chirps, rubbing her cheek against mine like a kitty cat. “Sides, I luv ya sooo much more that Mistah Otto Pilot! He was all like ‘child safety engaged’ and whatnot!”
“Musta been pretty borin’, huh?”
“Yeah, totally!” She backs off a bit and looks into my eyes, a finger on her lips. “And why are ya talking like me, Ma’am Noelle?”
Shit, she noticed...well, she was bound to, right? If I’m to become her big sister. It’s great...maybe she can help me be like her...rhaaah, what am I saying. Focus...focus...
“I...I don’t...know...”
She smells so good. Did she find my perfume box? My lips open, my knees tremble. So beautiful...what’s happening...did I get caught again...?
“Oooh, maybe it’s like that one time Mistah Horne let me with sum girl a whooole weekend, told me to be nice and licky and the like, and she was like a total bore but after a while she was beggin’ mah owners to transform her? She looked sooo happy! It’d be so aawesum if you’s be happy like that, Ma’am! Ya deserve it, you do!”
Yeah...As I thought, that thing inside her is more than just a drug, I picked a ticking time bomb, goddamit...I feel my cheeks flushing, relaxing, tempting thoughts burrow out of my subconscious. Trixie’s meant to be owned by a man. To a woman, she’s nothing but a snare.
“I mean, yer mah owner, I ain’t doing it if ya don’t wanna! But I want you’s happiness, and if ya don’t mindin’ be like lil’ old me, I’ll help ya! I’m a pro at being me, I am! Tee-hee!”
“I...I’m not sure...” I reply with a dry throat.
“Well, it’s like that, right? Mah brain gets washed and I feel super all the time! It’s really great, and folks around you have biiiig smiles! Whaddya say, huh? Whaddya say?”
Come on, say no, walk out of this, I can still resist if I don’t get another dose. Come on, say it! Don’t open your lips like that, Noelle, Sis is gunna think I want her to...to...
“Aw heck, you don’t need sayin’ it!”
Oh shit, oh no. Her adorable little mug is closing in, lips open. She’s going to kiss me and I can’t...She’s kissing me. I feel her tongue inviting mine to play as she starts pouring her bimbofying drug inside me. My heart’s pumping, I feel so warm. I hear Trixie’s unique voice coming from...the garage. How...? I must be hal...
“Heeeeey hooooo! I done cracked the Brookie fiiiiiile! Does anyone hear meeeee?”
A jolt cracks through my muddy consciousness, whipping me back into reality. I shove Trixie away and rush to the sink, spitting out her saliva and washing my mouth. Then anger sets in. No, white hot fucking fury is more like it. Noelle McHenry, shark extraordinaire, is back with a vengeance and is going to teach bimbo who’s the fucking boss here. Trixie looks confused and apologetic. A fat load of good this does her.
“You’re fucking lucky I need you, you traitorous little bitch.” I snarl. “Now get your ass into the brainwashing chair.”
“Y-y-yes Ma’am Noelle...S-s-sorry...”
She whimpers as she walks through the door leading to the garage. Good thing it’s adjacent from the kitchen, or I’d have never heard the wake-up call. Once in the van, I strip Trixie naked then push her down on the chair. She doesn’t put up a fight, or say anything at all. Getting yelled at by her Mistress must have been quite a shock.
“I want each and every one of Wendell’s memories back where they belong.” I instruct the virtual Trixie. “But don’t erase Trixie’s. Just get rid or whatever programming is keeping her happy to be a bimbo sex slave. Oh, and deactivate the nanites in her saliva glands.”
“Sure thing, Ma’am Handler! Reckon that’ll be takin’ a few hours! Do I keeps the imprinting on?”
“Yes. Interviewing someone who’s compelled to please me should be good. Free her when she’s done. I’ll be in the living room.”
“...I...I’m sorry Ma’am Noelle...” Whines Trixie. “I’ll be a good Brookie, I swear...”
“I’m sure you will.”
I step off the van and close the doors. I’m still pissed off, but mostly excited now that my interview of the decade is on the way. Plus a nice roasted turkey and a few appetizers. I check the clock. 8PM. Looks like I’ll have a pleasant Christmas for once.
Three hours later, I’m chilling in my living room. The drug’s effects are mostly gone, as are my hopes of steering clear of the Holiday pounds. I don’t know what Trixie put in that broth, but I haven’t tasted a turkey this awesome outside of a restaurant. Matrix-style programming sure rocks.
I managed to get some work done, too. Write a hefty list of questions for Brooke, reply to concerned sponsors, edit some of the most sensible Candy Records stuff...Business as usual. Comforting, really. How the hell could I freak out at the sight of my inbox like that? Fucking drug. At least alcohol doesn’t fuck up with your personality that much.
Still, I can’t say I’m one hundred percent. Part of me is simply too excited to get anything done. What is Brooke Wendell like? Candy Records made sure to expunge her from public memory with hacking, corruption and straight-up wiping the memories of everyone in her small hometown with their nanites. I suppose they had to, since her voice was to become one of the most famous in America.
All we have left is scraps of a graphics designer’s life. Outlines, really. Archives of her website show a tasteful, crisp and sober style. Pictures show a lanky, androgynous brunette with a dour expression. I shudder at the idea of her being mercilessly turned into a country hick bimbo. What did she think as her brain dimmed down and thoughts of obedience took hold? What will she think once she’s back in her killer’s body?
Two things are for sure. One, the FBI has failed. Their last ETA on transforming Angel was around December 27th. Looks like I have the only computer Candy Records didn’t manage to wipe clean. Ludicrous luck, I know, but I nearly got bimbofied for it. Two, this interview is going to rock the world. Hell, I might even replace good old Pullitzer for the big prize! Heeeh heh heh...
But as I’m busy thinking like a cartoon character, the door to the kitchen opens. Oooh yeah. Trixie stands there, back in her Mrs. Santa outfit, as sexy as ever...only nobody could mistake her for Trixie. She’s not babbling sweet nonsense, and she looks more like an IRS inspector than a bubbly cutie. I’d say her expression doesn’t match her features, but I think we have to call a poet to fully describe it. I know the woman before me isn’t big on words, so I smile and welcome her to her second life.
“Merry Christmas, Miss Wendell.”
“...Yeah..”
Christmas Day
We are late in the night, and I’m downing yet another whiskey. The ninth? The tenth? Who the fuck’s counting? Certainly not Brooke. She’s out of her sexy outfit, wrapped up in a comfy blanket, gazing at the fireplace. A fake one, sadly for the mood. I’m twitching for a proper interview, but she’s obviously going through some heavy shit right now. I’m happy enough to follow up on whatever she thinks out loud. Like...
“The worst thing about it, the absolute worst.” She declares with a voice that would be right at home in a bloody graveyard. “The maintenance. Fuckers had my entire being under tight control. I was still there, but I only existed on command. Happiness, thoughts of gratitude, urge to sing...everything was programmed. If I wasn’t supposed to do a thing, I didn’t do it. Except right before the maintenance.”
She still has Trixie’s face, and obviously she has still her voice, but the spark is gone. It’s slow, exhausted dreary...and so bereft of any accent, it’s actually kind of spooky.
“They didn’t have to do it. I was always a good Trixie. Always. Every passing day I was finding more reasons to love this hell. I was enslaving myself better than their machines could hope to. But they loved to see us in the chair, surrendering all we were to them, over and over again. But all it did was reminding us we weren’t really the perfect Smiles sisters. That we didn’t love our owners enough. That we needed to be corrected. And for good little mindless dolls like us...that’s the closest you get to despair.”
“Not that the fuckers ever noticed, if they even cared.”
“Right. They just assumed we were robots, with nothing left underneath our programming. We weren’t. We couldn’t...what’s the word again...resist. Obedience was everything to us. We were just a tiny bit of awareness in a flow of wonderful feelings, and we wanted more. My Creators...you can’t even imagine how I loved them. I did everything I could just for one more glitter in their eyes.”
My trusty dictaphone records everything, ready to be put together come morning. I’m getting everything I wanted. A visceral account, the truth about being a brainwashed bimbo slave...but still, I can’t shake the feeling I’m not doing what I ought to here. Brooke looks so...fuck, there’s no way I have the words. Plus I’m fucking drunk...which ain’t even enough. As Brooke goes through another long period of silence, I down another glass.
“Trixie was everything to me.” She ends up confessing. “She was all I knew how to be...but also something like a purpose. My Owners wanted me to be Trixie. So I wanted to be her as best I could. Can...can you imagine being desperate to act the most like yourself? In a sense, we were robots. And orgasms were the only way out of the programming...”
“...Yeah...bet you’re having a blast telling this to an asshole in front of a fake fire on fucking Christmas, right? Best host of the century, I am...Wonder if I can publish that...”
“...You’re drunk.”
“Aaah don’t worry, I’ll be super tomorrow morning. I’ll blow this thing wiiiide open, even harder than you’ve blown that Horne fucker...heeeh heh heh...sorry, bad taste, izzit...”
“We clearly both need to sleep.”
“Yeah, true that!”
I stretch my arms and fall to my side on the sofa. Mmmh, sleep...Brooke sighs, as people witnessing me piss drunk are wont to do.
“I’ll be fine here, find yourself a nice bed if ya want...Got more than a few dildos too...”
“...Thanks...”
Still wrapped up in the blanket, Trix...I mean Brooke fucks off to the bedrooms, and I complete my bedding with a pillow over my head. Being knock-out drunk really simplifies things like that. Hmmmm...My dictaphone is full of juicy bits. More than enough to blow the fuck out of the Christmas malarkey. Heh heh, I just had the best Eve ever and I didn’t unwrap a single gaudy present. I gotta send some kind of fruit basket to those CR guys at gitmo...
Hmm? Brooke goes to the kitchen, naked. Great, I drink and the others get drunk. Looks pretty conflicted, too. It’s alright, girl, you can eat your heart’s content, there’s no Master to measure your waistline with a microscope. ’sides, you hardly touched the damn turkey. Mmmmh, damn that was good.
Anyway, I’ll get a special dossier ready with Trixie’s picture, five or six seconds of her voice—no more, that way the idiots scramble left and right to look for a bigger sample and gets me more clicks—and some bullshit sob story about how she was led to me by an apologetic guard. People love whistleblowers. I’m gonna own the entire Internet, he he he...
Full of disjointed thoughts, my brain slowly sinks into slumber. I feel my body become weightless and peace washing over me...
And then, all of a sudden, a sharp pain flares up in my arm. I scream and look around, confused, only to see Brooke looming over me...and a syringe in my right forearm.
“Wh...What the...”
I don’t have any syringes...I think? Oh, right, there were some in the Cunty Records van...Is...is she shooting me up with nanites?
The searing pain turns into extreme discomfort, like my body is being pinched from inside. I switch to panic mode, try to gather my strength, but something washes over me. Peace? Relaxation? No. Submission. I look at Brooke’s face, and my eyes flutter. What feeling does she express? Sadness? Regret? Love? I dunno...can’t get a grasp on a solid thought. He he, it’s like I’m double drunk...Feels good...comfy...
“Sorry, Noelle...But I don’t want freedom.”
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