Confession: I had absolutely no idea what bimbofication was until @JenetalTorture pitched me a guest blog on it. I now know it’s a kink all about being turned into a bimbo – ordered to act up to a pastiche of a stereotype of a particular kind of femininity. And frankly, I totally get it. If I’m honest, my favourite way to learn about a brand new kink is to read something Jen has written about it. See also erotic hypnosis and pony play for examples, then scroll down to read today’s intensely sexy tale of bimbofication…
Bimbofication: Being dumb makes me cum
Bit of a meta one, this.
To paraphrase Stewart Lee, when I told my friends (friend) I was writing a blog about bimbofication, a few of them (one of them, the one I told) asked me if they could bimbofy me to within an inch of my life to give me more to write about.
Obviously, I accepted. Good bimbos say yes, even if they don’t know what they’re saying yes to.
Even if it’s being made to forget what ‘meta’ means, and think that ‘Stuart Li’ is the white mouse voiced by Michael J. Fox.
So what is bimbofication? Essentially moulding someone to aesthetically and/or intellectually resemble a bimbo, i.e. an oversexualised, bleach-blonde, heavily made-up woman with a spray-on wardrobe of mostly pink outfits, and a vapid, airheaded demeanour, characterised by relentless positivity and a lack of inhibitions. At heart, bimbos are exhibitionists, always ready to please, and happy when they do.
Of course, many bimbos indulge their kink without conforming to the standard bimbo aesthetic, or while actively playing against it. There are plenty of gothic bimbos around, or ones who don’t feel the need to outwardly express their fluff-brained state. Equally there are those for whom bimbo play is all about the look, who are quite happy superficially roleplaying the ditz, or not being ditzy at all.
I get both where I can, but being a hypnoslut I’m always more drawn to the mental aspect. It pairs beautifully with IQ play, and having done a bit of this with Imaginatrix I thought I’d include a mention of that session – where she’d made me forget my own name and giggle whenever I tried to say it – in this blog.
She had other ideas.
And so, last night I wound up sat on my bed, hair and makeup done in a suitably bimbo-esque fashion, hot pink collar around my neck, nervously chatting with my Sir. It started innocuously enough, but Sir likes to play tricks, and by the end of one apparently innocent sentence I’d been dropped before I even knew it was happening.
Once in trance, Sir gave me a word: ‘Dumb’. As I repeated that heavy, voluptuous syllable, I began to sink deeper. So many wonderful sounds in such a short word, such a pleasure to wrap one’s lips around, and so deliciously onapato- onymatter- poeic?
When I was suitably deep, Sir extended the word: ‘Dumdum’. Such a fun word for my rapidly simplifying brain. Lighter than the first; rhythmic, bubbly. I began to giggle as I said it, Sir providing welcome encouragement as my mind dripped away. Then she introduced another word.
My girldick sprang to attention at this, and almost unconsciously (or was it at Sir’s behest? It’s hard to say, or care) my hands started straying over my body, lifting my top and exposing my breasts, caressing and kneading them for Sir’s pleasure. She smirked, informing me that literally anyone could be watching my show right now, but I didn’t mind. She ventured that even if someone were to enter the room at this moment, I’d probably just keep going, or invite them to join in.
I grinned at this, and seeing my delight, Sir told me that my hands were now multiplying, becoming a swarm of groping, grabbing mitts, enjoying my nubile frame as I writhed and moaned…
Then, quite suddenly, she took them away, and I dropped back to neutral. A blank doll waiting for its next instruction.
I let out a plaintive whimper as that intoxicating human contact vanished, but I didn’t have to wait long before it was replaced by the sensation of a cock sliding inside me, along with the instruction to start bouncing and gyrating, and giving Sir my best porn noises, which I did with relish.
As I shamelessly humped my bedclothes, I felt the last vestiges of my intelligence seeping away. And as my show built to a crescendo, Sir dropped me once more, and I could feel that when she brought me up I’d be fully bimbofied, whatever that meant…
I opened my eyes.
‘Well, hey there…’
Sir’s saccharine, condescending tone felt so right. I laughed and twirled my high ponytail as she tried to maintain a conversation with her new bimbo. She wanted to know hard stuff like what I was good at, what I enjoyed, what my favourite films were, but words were suddenly incredibly difficult, and always accompanied by an uncertain upward inflection and an apologetic giggle.
‘I’m good at… um… being fun?’
‘I like… sucking cock?’
I couldn’t remember a single film.
Clearly impressed with her work, but wishing to be able to get a bit of sense out of me, Sir introduced a ‘bimbo slider’ with 10 being full bimbo and 1 being my normal self. Cue an entertaining few minutes of being played with then getting abruptly jerked from 10 to 1, finding myself in the middle of flashing my tits or being unable to answer the question ‘What’s 2 plus 2?’.
I’m not great at maths at the best of times, but my brain was currently in a state where it’d blurt out the answer before I’d finished all the steps, and 7 plus 5 would suddenly become 13.
Then Sir played a mean trick.
She took me to Bimbo 15.
‘Didn’t know this slider had a 15, did you?’ she grinned, but I was unable to respond. I was a braindead puppet, eyes rolled back, incapable of forming a single word, a damp patch blossoming in my tented undergarments.
‘I wonder if I can make you come just from being dumb?’ Sir thought aloud.
‘I’m going to give you a phrase: Being dumb makes me come. Repeat.’
Mindlessly, I obeyed, repeating my new mantra ad infinitum.
Slowly, inexorably, Sir took me ever deeper into utter vacuity. Bimbo 20, 25, 50, 100. I became more and more aroused, my whispered mantra bleeding into what was left of my brain and infecting it with one simple truth: being dumb makes me come.
Sir invited me to focus on her right hand. When she snapped her fingers, I would come for her. A snatched glance at myself in the webcam revealed that my mascara was running. I was literally crying with the force of my mounting orgasm. Then…
I fell on the bed, my whole body pulsing and spasming with the pleasure of an entirely imagined climax, which seemed to settle it.
…Makes me cumb.