1 comments/ 32332 views/ 23 favorites Bimbo Pop Princess By: InLeaves Prologue - Candy Records The auditorium was filled to the brim. In the modest country town, high-profile entertainment was a rare occurrence. Knowing this, when the local high school got to host a sponsored singing competition, the locals didn't stop to ponder whether they really were interested in watching teenagers make fools of themselves. Indeed, most of the townsfolk had never heard of this "Candy Records" label, and generally expected nothing more from the event than an utterly tacky marketing ploy. Perhaps the company would show off one of their artists after a string of half-assed performances by the local kids. Perhaps they would be content with just selling merchandise. Not of it really mattered to the townspeople, as long as they got to do something with their evening other than going to the goddamn dart club or whatever. Of course, not all of the people present were just desperate to shake things up. Some were genuinely here to sing or listen to the aspiring artists. And since Candy Records allowed contestants until age 25, there was at least a reasonable chance that some of them actually knew their stuff. Rock bands, metal bands, some solo singers, the town had its share of competent, starry-eyed musicians seeing this as their opportunity to take off. But this story isn't about them. It is about the quiet, lanky brunette sitting in the back rows, fiddling away with her Smartphone as one of teenage rock bands take the scene. "Last ones before I'm up." She types to her bedridden best friend. "I really do hope you appreciate this." "Thx thx thx Brooke!" Comes the reply. "I swear Ill make it up 2 you!" "If your song really makes it, just make sure it's interpreted by someone who actually likes singing." "Oh, cmon gal! You know you have a great singing voice." "Whatever." Brooke Wendell doesn't really care for her voice, singing or otherwise. It was a bit nasal ; Nothing to be called a straight speech impediment, but enough to make her stand out. Sure, at least when she was singing she sounded less like a trumpet. Not enough of an incentive to start socializing, if you ask her. Calling Brooke a nerd would no doubt be excessive. She is reserved and technologically inclined, but also a very clean-cut and serious young woman. With a smooth, refined short hairstyle, plain androgynous clothes and utter lack of makeup, she was readily identifiable as an all-business kind of gal. And indeed, she was working freelance in graphic design. Always looking at a screen, she had neither the taste nor the patience for face to face interaction. Still, she had made a promise to her childhood friend Elisa, and she'll be damned if she ever gets back on her word. As soon as the rock band is done, Brooke sighs, gets up and walks to the stage. The townspeople are understandably surprised to see her there - she is known for her distant demeanor. She quickly moves to reassure them. "I'm just here to play the song Elisa Sloane wrote. She'd done it herself, but she came down with the flu just two days ago. Lisa loves this song and really wanted to get it out there. Please give her all the credit." Without further ado, Brooke takes the mic as Elisa's guitar tune recording plays in the background. The gaunt brunette closes her eyes to drown out the crowd as she begins to sing. She would really rather be somewhere else, but for her friend, she's ready to give it her all. She delivers the poetic, romantic verse with a rare heartfelt quality to her voice. It doesn't send the audience into incredulous awe. It isn't the accidental discovery of the world's best singer. But it is a surprisingly touching performance of a lovingly crafted song by a young, flat young woman known as icy around town. People nod in acknowledgment of miss Sloane's composer skills, and boys make the resolution to talk to that Brooke girl a bit more. But it doesn't light a fire under anyone's butt, and that's just how Brooke likes it. She finishes, and bow as the mandatory applause comes. The graphics designer walks off the stage and texts her friend. "There. All done. Crowd liked it okay." "Aw, thx Brookie, luv ya!" "No problem. I hope those Candy Records guys get interested." "I hope too!" "Get well soon, alright?" Uninteresting in staying there a moment longer, Brooke swings open the auditorium's doors and goes out. She has a freelance business to take care of. But just as she strides through the lobby, checking her professional email box, a man's voice calls her. "Miss Wendell? Could I have a moment, please?" Brooke raised her eyes and turned around, annoyed and ready to explain again she was just here to do her friend a solid. She was given pause, however, when he saw the thirty-something, handsome man in a sharp suit complete with a Candy Records badge. He was one of the sponsors...She had to at least try to get him to sign Elisa. "Sure." "Miss Wendell", the man began by saying, "My name is Ian Horne, Candy Records' head of A&R department. I realize you're acting as a proxy here, and I assure you I'd be excited to get in talks with your friend once she gets better. But your voice is exactly what Candy Records has been looking after for months." "What, really?" Drably replied Brooke, incredulous. "I'm not a singer and I'm not looking to be. It's Elisa you're looking f..." "Yes, yes, I understand!" He answered with the utmost diplomacy. "And I know this is a bit cavalier as far as business offers go, but before you cut me off, understand we are talking about an at least six-figure yearly salary here." The young graphics designer might have been cautious and in active dislike of all public affairs, but money could also make her nod her head at inappropriate times. Dollar signs would have popped out of her eyes right then and there had it been possible. "I'm listening." "Let's go into a more private location first. Coffee?" "Tea, thanks." ------- Fifteen minutes later, another Candy Records' executive walks back toward the high school auditorium, a bag of countryside fast food under his arms. He got bored of the pointless "contest" right about the time yet another inexperienced rock band showed up, and left his colleague Ian deal with the small town folk. Suddenly, his phone rings. It was Ian. "Yeah, what's up?" "Rick, my man, we got her! We friggin' got her!" "What? The mother of all boredom?" "No, you idiot, the Voice! Just when you left, this flat and boring girl comes in and sings some poetic stuff, and she sounds exactly -and I mean exactly- like her! Give her a cartoony redneck accent and she's fucking Trixie Smiles!" "You're kidding. We got sent across the country looking for a one in a million shot and we fucking hit it?! Where is she?" "Sleeping in the diner across the street. Sure glad we got this sleight of hand course...We have to get her to HQ, fast!" "Coming right away, Ian-o! Rick O'Neill cannot believe his and his colleague's luck. He was so convinced Candy Records' already loony bosses had finally gone the useless kind of crazy, and yet, after just a few months of searching, they found someone who sounded exactly like the completely fake Internet starlet the "record label" has created. Indeed, Candy Records had never dealt with actual artists - they were part of a shadowy consortium exploring the mechanics of popularity. They created real-sounding artificial voices, gave them some characterization, and threw them at YouTube to see what sticks. Their most successful fake singer by far was Trixie Smiles, a bubbly Southern cutie with a major case of the chatterboxes. She was a real airhead, but her down-to-earth, modest village gal image and her open-hearted rants had managed to melt the heart of many an internet cynic. She simply appeared too naive and earnest to be fake. The fact that she was too bashful to readily post pictures of herself apparently helped fuel the interest as well. Quickly, her popularity exploded. Candy Records Frankensteined together blurry photoshops of her as a modestly clothed, really busty redhead, but that soon proved insufficient. The fake label understood they had to make her real. They had the means to do so - the consortium they were a part of dabbled in body modification, nanotechnology and mind control. Taking one girl as turning her into Trixie Smiles was a piece of cake for them. The only problem was that the first thing people knew about her was her voice...And all their body mod technology couldn't manipulate something as complex as the human voice. Which was why they had taken to hunt down the one-in a million girl with the exact same voice as their fictional Southern bimbo. The only suitable candidate for transformation. And now, they had found her. The two nefarious record label employees discretely spirited the knocked-out Brooke Wendell away, driving her toward Candy Records' headquarters, and toward her new life. --------- Part 1 - Brooke Crumbles The young designer did not consider this as a good development. Sure, she probably should have been cautious about the handsome record label representative. But no matter how brutal your interpretation of karma, being drugged and held captive remains a pretty rough consequence for gullibility. Besides, being imprisoned was only the start of Brooke's worries. When she woke up, it wasn't the nausea that most freaked her out. Neither was it the tingling sensation all over her skin. No, it was the cold feeling on her head. With a touch, she realized her sleek black hair was gone. She had been shaved, and worse, she could feel a scar. In that moment, a horrible feeling of dread had squeezed her heart. She wasn't just a captive, but a guinea pig. Those bastards had done something to her brain. Determined to get the hell out of here, she then got off the bed and looked around. She was in a simple bedroom with a bed, a desk complete with a computer, and a wardrobe. Two doors promised the escape Brooke ardently desired, but the first one led to a small bathroom, and the second refused to budge. And so here she stood, fairly confident her life had taken one of the worst turns possible. And for what? No way that "voice" business Ian Horne fed her was the real reason. "Dammit." Even in such a crisis, the young woman remained taciturn. It didn't matter if she was alone or not ; it was simply her nature. Similarly, as her left hand nervously touched her shaved scalp, her right hand went to her smartphone in her pocket. It was only then that she realized she was naked. "Oh, God no." Brooke began to look around frantically. There was clothing in the wardrobe, but she could not care less about that. That smartphone was her life. She could lose her hair, freedom or clothes...but she couldn't lose that damn phone. She looked under the bed, in all the clothes' pockets, even behind the wardrobe...But there was nothing. She was disconnected. She turned to the computer. It was not her precious phone, but it was a start. It was probably a special computer, monitored by her captors...hell, there was no keyboard to be found, only a mouse and...a microphone? Weird. But it was all she had at the moment, so she booted it up and nervously waited for some sweet technology. But instead of a familiar desktop screen, she was treated to a still image. It was a drawing of some redheaded trollop with huge breasts. She seemed vaguely familiar to Brooke, but not enough for her to care. Probably just some celebrity chick floating around the web. The designer grabbed the mouse and clicked, hoping to bring up the real desktop. Instead, she was treated to a pop-up window that read thusly : "Hi Trixie! I know your pretty little head is bad with computers, but don't worry, this one is real simple and voice-activated. You'll be able to talk to me during the duration of your therapy. Say "yes" if you understand." Trixie? "The...hell?" There was a loud buzz. Wrong answer. "Oh, looks like your depression is a bit heavier than anticipated. I'll get back to you in an hour. You be a good girl now, Trixie. Signed, your manager." ---- Ian had fully expected Miss Wendell to respond this way. It didn't matter ; Her transformation was, he had been assured, all but certain. The folks in the other branches of Candy Record's mother company had pumped her full of nanites programmed to transform her body in a few days. Ian Horne himself was tasked with reshaping her mind, but they had laid the groundwork by implanting her with a very special microchip. He didn't know all the details, but basically, it was going to cloud her mind and weaken her resolve. With a large smile of his face, the lucky talent discoverer, now Trixie's manager, clicked on the playlist he had prepared for his charge. It was high time for phase one to begin. ---- And so, in the prison cell dressed up as a room, a friendly, folksy tune started playing. Not five seconds have passed that a cheerful, slightly nosy voice began blabbering. "Howdy y'all! Trixie here! Boy, maaan, it sure is amazing to have y'all list'ning to me over that Internet thiiing! I'm so exciiteeeed! Mah manager says I'll soon get ta meet y'all in person but oh well, listen to me running mah mouth all over the place again. Gawd I'm such a ditz! So, yeah, I best get to the singin'. Ahem..." Brooke cringed over this torrent of pure bubbliness, and would have dismissed the girl entirely as a floozy she'd never, ever listen to...if it wasn't for one supremely creepy element. "She...She's got my voice." No question about it. That Trixie chick had Brooke's voice, only with a flighty tone and southern accent. It's like she had just listened to herself play a idiot. It was, simply, freaky. "Bastards made me sing when I was out cold. Somehow." And with this, as her own voice engaged in a saccharine pop song, Brooke's indignation now had something to focus on. She still wasn't sure what exactly they had done to her brain, but she now had a solid grasp on Candy Record's goal. They wanted her to believe she was this "Trixie". But how? And more importantly, why? That ditz was nothing like her. If she was the one drawn in the computer's backdrop, and Brooke had no reason to doubt it, she was at least several letters bigger in cup size. Brooke didn't care if she had just the right voice, trying to turn her into this bimbo made no sense. There were plenty of hillbilly girls willing to sell out and adopt a fake personality just to have a shot at fame. So why her?! "We are happy folks in a happy world Problems are just here to make tha sun shine My sis always say yer a storm o'trouble But ya sure as heck make everything fine!" And how did they get her to sound so happy anyway? Maybe that was what the brain surgery was about. Playing her like a puppet, then showing the results to her in hopes of messing with her head. Brooke knew one thing, though - she didn't want to hear that song for one moment longer. She bolted off to the bathroom, and took a shower to drown out the music. ---- Sadly, the water stopped by itself after twenty minutes. Brooke felt refreshed, but her alter ego's singing was still worming its way inside her head. So, after quickly drying herself up, she walked to the computer and talked into the microphone. "Whoever you are, stop that damn music." Brooke didn't have to wait long before the answer came. "Trixie, you are sick. You're depressed. Listening to your own music is good for you, it will give you confidence for your first steps into stardom. The music will only stop playing when you talk to me, so I can make sure you're making progress." The young lanky woman stepped away from the computer screen and the microphone. Talking. This had to be a trap. The first thing about her character was quietness, and the first thing about Trixie's character was being an uncontrollable chatterbox. The plan was all too clear - listen to the music and let it drill its way into your head, or talk...and actively become more like Trixie. Brooke suddenly had the mental image of seeing her blabber away into the microphone, and felt sick. That's what they wanted her to be. A stranger to herself. So she opted for door number three - bury herself under the blanket, cover her ears, and try to remember her true self as best she could, locking out Candy Records' attempts to change it. --- Hours passed. Still hunkered down under the blanket, Brooke was trying to focus. Conjuring forth memories was easy enough in the beginning. She recalled promising Elisa she would help her out. Poor Elisa...Even now, Brooke couldn't bring herself to blame her. How could she have known, after all? The concert, then that Horne bastard tampering with her tea. She could also remember the week leading to that fateful day, but past that...nothing came. Mere flashes, stills from long hours she spent on Photoshop, naked in her studio. But nothing significant...Not even what she ate or listened to. Worse, trying to recall further memories was starting to hurt. The more she focused, the sharper the headache grew. The brain surgery. Candy Records, Brooke realized, had messed with her memory. Maybe put an inhibitor chip or whatever. She knew they had tampered with the very seat of her conscience, but now she felt the effect, the reality of it...And it was so, so much worse. She wanted to go to the computer and lash out at the assholes on the other side, monitoring her ordeal. Or even try to negotiate a release...But she knew it would be to no avail. They were trying to transform her into a country bumbpkin airhead, for God's sake. What good would talking to them do? Nothing. It would only serve to make her more like Trixie. Still, she had to distract herself from that damn music. Very much against her whole wishes, Brooke found out she started to despise her alter ego's singing less and less. It was catchy and cheery...And technically, she wasn't half bad a singer. She sure wasn't using any auto-tune. It was fair, but that didn't matter. She couldn't afford to let herself warm up to the identity they wanted her to adopt. And thanks to the damn headache, her first plan for a distraction wasn't working anymore. So she decided to get dressed, as little a diversion as this was. She regretted it pretty much immediately. While the clothes were fairly normal in style, if a bit low-budget and frayed, every single top she had been provided with were ill-fitting. Specifically, they were skintight...for someone with absurdly sexy mensurations. Someone exactly like Trixie. At first, she was simply disgusted. But soon, the realization hit. "Oh no. No. No. No." Brooke went back to the bathroom, this time to check herself in the mirror, and what she saw chilled her to the bone. On her shaved scalp, hair was just beginning to grow back...But it wasn't her natural raven color. It was fiery red. Light freckles had appeared across the bridge of her nose...And her almost non-existent breasts were now clearly noticeable, if still very modest. The designer panted heavily, her hands clawing at her face. Her captors were, God knew how, altering her body. She was becoming a busty redhead. SHE WAS PHYSICALLY BECOMING TRIXIE. That ghastly fact resonated in her head for a while, thunderous as an avalanche, echoing louder and louder each time. "Oh my gawd, no...EEEP!" Had she just said "gawd"? All pretense of self-control left poor Brooke. Her body was changing, her memories were locked away from her...And constantly hearing her own voice talking like a brain-dead bumpkin and singing like the happiest moron in the world was getting to her. She was only a few hours into the procedure, and she was already starting to take on the accent. Whatever was in her brain made her absorb her alter ego's voice like a sponge. And Brooke letting her hog all the available time sure as heck...sure as hell wasn't helping. Bimbo Pop Princess Worse, the young designer had pretty much stayed in her home town all her life, but she was nonetheless fairly confident Trixie's accent was worse than an actual living Southerner. She was, after all, a mockery of her voice dreamed up by Candy Records, and the only representative she saw screamed yuppie. Was she really to become a living caricature? She staggered back to the computer, drenched in cold sweat. She had to play their game. Becoming more talkative meant becoming more like Trixie, but remaining silent evidently did nothing to stop the transformation either. She had to, at least, try to take her fate back into her own hands. So she took the microphone, and, averting her gaze from the drawn figure of Pixie on the screen, began to talk more than the had ever talked. "I'm Brooke Wendell. I understand what you're trying to do, you bastards. I won't let you change me into that Trixie. Take away my body and my memories, but you'll never get my dang...damn identity!" The music stopped around "understand". Relieved, Brooke heaved a sigh. Sweet silence. For a few, precious seconds, she could feel herself, as she was back in her studio. No annoying noise...just her and her work. And then the music started playing again, less than five seconds after she had stopped talking. Brooke whimpered. "Okay, okay! Just stop that thing! Gawd...God! Grah! I...I...huh..." On the verge of panic, she massaged her temples. What could she possibly talk about? She never talked unless she knew exactly how a sentence would end. Improvising was a tall, unnatural task for the former brunette. But she had to do it. She had to talk, or Trixie would sing again and imprint her southern accent upon her even further. "My website is www.brookewendelldesign.com. I do image manipulation, pixel art, CGI and a few animations from time to time. I...Dammit, I don't know! What the hell do you want me to talk about, Candy Records?!" She joined her hands, praying the music would at least remain silent until they answered. Fortunately, it did...but the answer came rather quickly, offsetting that small victory. "Tell me about your body, Trixie." "I'm not TRIXIE! My hair is black, I have no freckles and I'm flat as a board but that's fine! You can go to hell for making my body change, by the... *cough* way! Dangit, I mean dammit. I'm not used to *cough, cough* talking this much, I..." "Oh, Trixie-poo, don't you go exert your voice too much. So many people love it, after all!" Wrote the manager. "You're making progress. You can rest for a while. See you tomorrow!" "What? No! NOOO!" But the dialog box closed...And the music started again. Brooke howled in impotent rage as Trixie once again assaulted her with her bubbly chatter. "Hoowdyyyy! Trixie Smiles here! Thanks a right bunch for listenin' to mah yappin' again. Through all these computer doohickeys and the like, I mean gee, y'all wizards to me, tee-hee! Anyways, this here song is about farmwork, for all mah kinfolk out there!" How was she supposed to sleep? Did she even want to? There was no telling how much her modified brain would absorb the redneck accent when asleep. Brooke crawled into a corner, covering her ears, doing vocalization exercises so that, when the time comes, she could keep the mind-altering music away as long she could. ------- "Tell me about your body, Trixie." Brooke hadn't slept a wink. Weakened, disoriented, she felt her mouth open and a stream-of-consciousness blather escape from her lips. "Y'all Candy Records bastards gave me C-cup breasts. How can ya be changing me so quickly, dangit?" She said, half relieved by the music stopping and half horrified at how much her speech patterns had changed overnight. "Mah hair's grown but I hate this red color, it aren't mine. Eye color too...I have green eyes now, but mah real eyes are brown, y'all hear?" She hung her head down. How could talking feel so...effortless? It was as if her mouth was in autopilot. Was that how being talkative was like? One thing was for sure, and certainly not for the best ; She was on the fast track to talking like a country bumpkin. Worse, it now happened so naturally she didn't even have the strength to fight it. Not as tired as she was. "Good...Your cute accent is slowly getting back to normal. Now tell me about your childhood, Trixie." "Mah childhood? Well..." Brooke was at least grateful to remember some things about her life, even if they were just the rough outlines, the major landmarks. Even trying to zero in on anything specific made her head split in pain. "I reckon wasn't the life of the party, but I was me and I helped mah folks with mah twin baby bros. Poor little ones had some kinda disease...Nothin' lethal but they a lil' slow on the uptake, yanno what I mean? Ma and Pa are decent folk, upper middle class but that kinda thing wears you up, bad...And Gawd, why am I even sayin' this to you bastards?! Why can't I just gosh darn shut up?!" She wanted to stop talking. Return to being her silent self. But she couldn't stop. It was like a switch had been flipped, like a dam had been breached. Every hour that passed made Brooke more and more distant, and every step she took on the road to being an airheaded chatterbox was set in stone, never to be reconsidered. Somewhere in her muddled, exhausted thoughts, she realized that whatever they had put in her brain was erasing the past, making her life a one-way track towards Trixie land. Already, she couldn't shut herself up. Even as she grimly reflected on her sorry state, she was blabbering about her design business. She couldn't correct her accent, or even take the time to try to talk normally. The words flowed and flowed, and though they spoke of Brooke's life, they were Trixie's. Her body, as well...During that sleepless night, her breasts grew to the size of oranges. Her new red hair was now at neck length. Even her features were cuter. "And there was this one time, Lisa and me went to a concert once and the music was right awful but then WHAM there was this earthquake thing and we were like "Dang" and...I...aaaugh, mah head!" She grabbed her head and squeezed, but to no avail. She couldn't even remember the earthquake without triggering the microchip now? "Tell me about your family, Trixie." Came the order, merciless. "Are you daft? I just told ya, I...AAAAAUGH!" "Tell me about your family, Trixie." The storm continued inside her head, causing Brooke to whine in pain. But in the middle of the agonizing stirring, a simple word shone. As soon as she said it, the headache receded. "S...Sis?" "Yes, you have sisters, Trixie. A lot of sisters. You're always singing about them."" "Aw, right...I do, don't I..." She started to say in doe-eyed acceptance, but she caught herself in time. "Wait! Heck naw! Trixie has sisters! I...I have..." Nothing. There were the verses about her sisters, and nothing else. The storm had swept her true family away. She felt the void, but no memories were left of what had been there. A single tear rolled down her cheek. No second one came. There was no family left to mourn. She still had the other memories, but her "manager" had made his point. He could erase whatever part of her he wanted. He owned her. "Please, I beg you, stop this...You hear me Candy Records? You won. You stole mah voice. You stole mah body. I'll be Trixie. Please, just don' erase me. I beg ya." Only dread and despair could be seen in her eyes as they stared at the computer screen, waiting for her new owner's mercy. "Erase who, Trixie? You're crying. Trixie doesn't cry. Trixie is a bundle of joy everyone loves." "Naw...naw..." Brooke pleaded, knowing this was the end. "Don't worry. You're just going to go to sleep, have some nice dreams, and you'll feel like yourself when you wake up." "Please. Please. Don't. I'll be a good country girl pop bimbo. I'll be obedient. I'll...gawd...save..." The knockout gas made short work of the crumbling Brooke Wendell. She went slack in her chair, finally granted the silence she had liked so much. --- When she woke up, there was no music. There was no pain. There was nothing. "Hmmm, nothing like a right good night o'sleep." She absent-mindedly commented to herself. "At least that dang music stopped...still dreamed I was singin' mah heart out. Ah, at least I'm mahself. Lesse how mah body has changed...Bathroom, bathroom...Oh. Well I'll be darned if I ain't like the bestest boobies around now. Like, E-cup at least? Freckles, red hair, green eyes...Yeah, reckon there ain't no stopping them. Hey! Candy Records guy! Ya hear me? Hmpf, reckon than voice computer whatchamacallit flipped off when I was sleepin'. No big deal, right? There, switched it on again. I still know how to work a computer, y'all bastards. Well, that's taking some time...Miss mah smartphone. I hope they...AAAUGH! Ah, gosh darn it, not again! Mmmh, What was I yappin' about? Miss something? Miss what? Aw Heck, another thing they made me forget. Shoulda kept quiet. Well that's nothing new under the sun..., like Big Sis woulda said. Mah big mouth always gets me in trouble. Ah, the computer's up." "Hello." "Hello to you. Mah body's all changed now, happy?" "What is your name?" "Well dang that's a smart question right in tha morning. Trixie. Huh...What? No. That's who ya want me to be. I'm not Trixie, I'm...I'm...I...Huh..." "..." "S...Sir? What's mah name?" "You are Trixie." "Nah, mah true name. Please, Sir, be sportin' here. Sir? Aw, heck no, please don't leave me like this! Please! I wanna know who I am!" ---- The answer never came. Ian was busy fist-pumping and running to the execs' office. "Phase 1 is done!" He proudly exclaimed. "Brooke Wendell is completely erased, memories and body alike, and she's been rendered extremely talkative." "Nice job, Ian. So I understand she's a blank canvas for now, is that it?" "Yes, Sir. She sounds like our Trixie and has no memories to get in the way anymore, but she doesn't have her personality yet. The whole team is ready for phase 2 on your order, Sir." "Well, let's not make her wait. She should be happy, whether she can control it or not. Phase 2 it is. Put the Smiles in our little Trixie!" ------- Part 2 - Trixie Smiles Two hours had passed since the last dialogue box appeared, and Trixie kept talking the entire time. Gone was the taciturn young woman. The busty redhead she had become could not remain silent for the life of her. Really, she was amazed. Her chatter never grew uncomfortable. Her big mouth never felt dry. The nanomachines that transformed her body also made sure she was biologically made to be a chatterbox. There was only one thing...She had nothing to say. She had been erased, turned into a blank slate, and she knew it. As much as she desired to remember who she truly was, her mindscape was an empty wasteland, scoured clean by the headaches. And still, she kept talking. She avoided the implanted memories for her alter ego's songs as best she could, but it meant she had to soliloquize on the furniture. "Dang, now I'm regrettin' having never taken shop class. Heck, maybe I did and they erased that too. And for that matter, is Trixie really still mah alter ego? Reckon I'm her, really, only, yanno, not stupid and bubbly. Not that I regret it. 'Cos let's face it, I..." The other thing that really bothered her was, well, her "freakin' huge boobies", as she had no choice but to put it. She couldn't remember her size before the transformation, but knew the weight of the two juicy melons felt very unfamiliar. Oh, she couldn't deny how sexy they made her feel, and how pleasurable to the touch they were. But she was grateful Candy Records had thought of leaving a fitting reinforced bra in the wardrobe. Without it, she felt as if she could lose her balance at any moment. Still, her new knockers felt sexy and right. Whoever she once was probably felt that nature owed up a better rack. Hell, for all the awful stuff they did to her, Candy Records did her a solid in that area at least. A contented smile painted her lips as she playfully made them jiggle. "They're right awesome, they are! With mah thinned waist, I reckon I look like a model! Hmmm? Aw, gee, is that the sound of a key I'm hearin'?" It was. "Ohmigawd! Someone's comin'!" She briefly entertained the idea of hiding and rushing through the door, but it opened before she even began coming up with the specifics of her plan. Worse, no less than four people showed up behind it. Two bouncer types, Ian Horne - not that poor Trixie could remember him- and a tall, lanky guy in a lab coat. No way the buxom redhead could make it through them. "If yer planning to pretend I'm an amnesiac Trixie or whatever, don'tcha bother!" She shouted, though it was more of a plea than an assertive declaration. "We won't." Laconically said the tall guy. "Your future manager enjoyed pretending that, but it wasn't necessary then and it isn't necessary now." "Damn ya and yer power!" Whined Trixie. "So what, are ya going to just flip a switch and turn me into that bimbo?" "No. We're just going to tell you the truth. Mister Horne?" The man who pulled poor Brooke into this trap stepped forward. "Thank you, Mister Chapman. You see, Trixie Smiles isn't real. She's a virtual singer. A perfect artificial voice...And the woman you once were just happened to match her close enough to fool the human ear." Somehow, Trixie couldn't retort. She couldn't accept the idea of a virtual voice real enough to sound like her, or that it could somehow lead to kidnapping and brainwashing. And though her voice had become an infinite ammo vocal gatling gun...Hearing people talk made her shut up. She would have celebrated this piece of freedom, but she caught on the fact that Candy Records had merely programmed her to listen dutifully to her interlocutors. "So Candy Records hired its sister company -which is to say, mine-" continued Mr. Chapman, "To make her real. To achieve that, we had to obtain a blank human first. And that's what you are now. A basis. Completely brainwashed, and rewired to be talkative. We did this to you, and there is no use pretending we didn't, because the rest of the process rests entirely in your hands." A pause. Trixie understood she could talk again. "Whaddya mean, in mah hands? There ain't no way in heck I'm gunna do yer biddin', y'all bastards! And..." "Yes you will." Drably said lab coat guy, instantly closing her yapper shut. "You are nothing. You have no memories but whatever you remembered from the pop songs. You are a blank sheet, and if you don't realize that your brain needs an identity to latch on, you soon will. You need to be someone, and the only identity we'll let you absorb is Trixie Smiles." The poor brainwashed girl hung her head down. She couldn't really argue with him. Only a few hours had passed, and this state of non-existence already felt intolerable. "The person you were is gone forever. You are nothing but raw materials for a real-life Trixie. Either you give in and start turning into her, or you remain a clean slate." "I...I see..." "This is why we're just going to step back and watch you transform yourself. Because we know you won't be able to resist the appeal of being someone, anyone, even a bubbly bimbo." Lab coat guy snapped his fingers, and one of the bouncers handed him a purse. In turn, he knelt down and left it on the floor. "Here is what you will need to rebuild yourself as that bimbo. Good day." He turned around and went out the door. The others followed suit, only the handsome thirty-something making a friendly wave of the hand as he left. The door closed shut, and was locked immediately after. Trixie was still crushed under the weight of the revelations, but she could feel the chatter coming back. She had only seconds of sweet silence to enjoy. "This is bullcrap, y'all." ------- Bullcrap as it was, Trixie had nothing but the hardest time resisting. Her struggle was lost before it even began. That cold asshole was right...She needed to be someone. Her mind kept wandering to whatever Trixie Smiles told about herself through her songs. And though she did not actually remember growing up with five sisters, the implanted memory of their existence felt genuine. The brainwashing victim had tried to distract herself, sure...But she had nothing but furniture and a sexy, sexy body to work with. She was content with covering her juicy melons under a greasemonkey t-shirt, but she soon felt the urge to fix her flowing red hair. With the aid of two accessories present in the medicine cabinet, she absent-mindedly tied her new mane into low-hanging pigtails. And when she commented on her utterly adorable, buxom self in front of the the mirror, she realized something was missing. A smile. She looked way too great to be wasted on a dour expression. Putting a smile on her face entailed accepting Candy Record's programming...But it felt natural. Inevitable. And so she opened the purse. There were pills, a helmet and a belt with an inward-facing strap on. The helmet was attached some manner of lockable collar. Clearly, once she put it on, there was no turning back. Trixie peered inside it, and saw little doohickeys, as she put it. It was too dark for her to identify them clearly though, but that was no ordinary headgear. "Trixie, ya in there?" She tentatively asked to the helmet's interior. "Heh, 'course yer not. That'd be crazy. But...well, looks like I'm gonna be the one to make ya real. Tell me, how's it like, being a dumb, sexy doll? I...I'm scared. I'm going to become ya. I just wanna know if ya can make me happy." She spent minutes babbling to Trixie, fiddling with the pills. Probably drugs, she thought. Her mind needed to be made soft and pliable if she was to change. She didn't want to take them. She was scared. But every second spent talking to Trixie made her heart ache a little more. "Yer not even real. Just a voice cooked by white ol' men in cubicles. You destroyed mah life just to get inside of me, and yer still the best friend I have. Ya sing pretty well, by the way. Wouldn't mind listenin' to more of yer music, but them bastards have no need blastin' it in here anymore. Next time you ever sing, it'll be through mah mouth. I wonder if I'll even realize I was sumbody else once? Maybe next time I woke up, I won't be rememberin' any o'this. Maybe I'll believe Candy Records. Maybe I'll feel good." The blank slate cried, still feeling the weight of her balloon tits. She couldn't bear this limbo. As frightening as the change was...it was better than oblivion. So she took both pills and went back to the corner, awaiting, trembling, for the effects to kick in. And not five minutes later, they did. Trixie felt warm and lightheaded. "Oh gawd, here I am. With them drugs and the thing in mah head, I'll...I'll..." She crawled to the strap-on, trembling, an unfamiliar heat in her crotch. She felt throbbing, wetness...And the overwhelming urge to get rid of her pants. She looked at her private area, knowing full well she had taken a powerful aphrodisiac but still confused by its potency. "Mah gawd, it...it feels so weeeiiird. I...Gawd aaaannh...Mah hand feels so good...But it ain't enough...I need sum'thing in...anythin'..." The purple vibrator did not slide in easily. Candy had decided Trixie needed to be something of a fuckbunny, but Brooke was a virgin. Not that it mattered. When the plastic cock was inside, stirring her insides made extremely sensitive by the nanites, the poor girl lost all self-control. The shock of her first sexual experience left her so disoriented, the staff had to activate the microchip in her brain to get her to fasten the strap-on's belt and put the mask on. Bimbo Pop Princess "W...What...Wait, no, don't...I changed mah mind, I wanna stay nuthin', don't make me...mmmpfh!" But her controlled hands put the mental restructuring device on, imprisoning her in darkness, with only an opening under her nostrils. She was forced to fasten the collar...And control was given back to her. "Mmmmpfh! Hlllph!" She wriggled on the floor, struggling against the strap-on and the helmet, but it was no use. They were secured in place. Still disoriented, Trixie began to panic when she felt the thick dildo begin to whir, agitated by a powerful motor. It felt good. Too good. So good it made her lose control. Her arms flailed around wildly, trying to get this otherworldly pleasure out of her. but before she could hurt herself, a screen lit up inside the mask, displaying a parade of soothing lights. "Relax, Trixie. Don't fight the pleasure. Breathe. Relax." Said a male voice. To her surprise, she found herself calming down. Not anything close to really relaxing, but calming down. "Good. You know what you need, Trixie? A good chat. You love talking, don't you doll? Well, in a few seconds, you'll feel yourself doing just that. Even under the helmet, you'll be able to talk as we finish melting your brain. Don't worry, all your troubles will be over soon. You'll be stupid and happy and free to talk to your heart's content. So babble away, my little chatterbox. Babble away." Suddenly, the screen flared up, showing a much more chaotic field of colors. It was dazzling, mesmerizing, and she found her gaze completely captivated. Her thoughts slowed down, and her body started to go limp, free to be ravished by the indicible pleasure. And then, she heard Trixie's voice. "Hooowdyyy! Yay yay yay, I finally get to be a real girl! Awesum!" And amazingly, she didn't just hear it. She felt herself saying it. In a single moment, a heartbeat between words, what was once Brooke Wendell understood. Candy Records was letting their fake starlet invade her mind through her voice. She would, literally, talk herself into becoming Trixie. "Boy, maaan! I luv Candy Records soooo much! They always here for me! Like when I told 'em I was no good at that brainy computer stuff, they understood! They's no use tryin' to teach me fancy stuff, I's just a honest country girl, yanno? 'puters don't do no singin' and lovin'! Only a real girlie can! And I'll be one now! Yeepeee!" She felt everything. The happy, bubbly tone, the impulse to say the words, everything. As far as her brain was concerned, she, and no one else, was saying those words. And with the pulsating colors slowing down her thoughts, her brain was free to misinterpret the chatter as its own, too busy being rocked by the sex hormones to question it. "Hmmm, I luv playin' with mah boobies! Just love it!" And rocked it was. Succumbing to the auto-suggestion, the clear slate began to fondle herself. She merely massaged her generous orbs at first, but soon talked herself into pinching and squeezing her nipples, sending her even further down the depths of mindless pleasure. The blank tried her best to think over the airheaded prattle, but each jolt of carnal bliss shed another layer of critical thought, like a good, simple and naïve country girl. "Gawd, a real pussy done feel so good! I's no two-cent hooker but nothin' wrong with havin' a big heart, right? Mah fans will luv knowin' I'm open! No hickory tower for me, no sir! I sing and live for mah fans! Don't even want that money stuff, that thing done corruptin' many good folk. Candy Record needs it more, I says! They done sooo much stuff for me! I'll give 'em everything, I just wanna sing and make luv' to mah wonderful fans! Plus Mistah Horne needs that money too! I luv mah manager so dang much! Heck, he's should be the first to make luvin' with me!" Soon, there was no resistance left. Trixie just kept reciting her hours-long soliloquy, imprinting it as a gospel in her influenced brain. She adored and trusted Candy Records. She was in love with her handsome manager. She wanted to be famous and meet her wonderful fans. She was Trixie Smiles. ----- And as Trixie, she talked. Talked and talked about herself and her hobbies and the nice men of Candy Records and how grateful to them she was. Her chatter had felt so natural and carefree that she didn't even feel the stupendously illegal drugs melting her brains to childhood levels. But she didn't need much of a brain - she was set for life. A great body, a great personality everybody loved, and a whole company just to take care of her. She truly was a lucky little songbird. So when she drifted off to sleep, nothing but the most pleasant dreams visited her. And the happiness didn't end on the threshold to the waking world. The helmet and dildo were gone, and she was in a big, fluffy bed with big, warm pillows. With a content smile, she reached for one and hugged it tight as her implanted memories slowly coalesced into her new persona. The soft fabric on her big, sensitive boobies felt great, and she wriggled a bit, enjoying every pleasurable shiver. The sound of a door opening flew well under her notice. "Good morning, Trixie. Wake up!" Upon hearing her one and true name, the transformed girl pushed the blanket away and got up. She covered her juicy tittays, not by prudeness but to satisfy her brand new habit of fondling them. With big, curious eyes, she looked to the man at her bedside. He had been with the nice man who gave her the Trixie-creating thingies. He was with Candy Records! That alone made her smile, but not as much as the realization he could even be... "Manager? Mistah Horne?" She asked, excited. "Yes, beautiful. I'm your manager." She gasped. Her brain had thoroughly assimilated the admiration for the authority figure Candy Records programmed into her. To the buxom redhead, Mistah Horne was a boss, a father and a lover rolled into one. He was sexy, smart, powerful, and represented her creators. She stammered, her head swimming, her breath shortening. She wanted to say so many things. So many words of meek, subservient love...But hadn't the first idea where to begin. "Ohmigawd...I...I..." "Shhh..." Ian gently put his finger on her lips before caressing her hair. Now, more than ever, he was impressed with how total the changes were. He could barely recognize the woman who once was the morose Brooke Wendell. Everything about her fidgeting , buxom form and her starry eyes indicated that she had completely accepted her new existence as Trixie...but how completely? "The deed is done. Candy Records and I erased everything you were. We cleaned the person you were born as and turned you into our soft-brained starlet. Everything you are now is a complete fabrication, and you inflicted the last step on yourself. You realize that, right?" His victim hung down her head, and nodded solemnly. "So, how does that make you feel?" Silence. The girl trembled. An outburst was clearly making its way to the surface. she closed her hands, raised them at head level, drew a deep breath, and... "It's AAAAAAWESOOOOOOOOME!" Trixie hopped, her mouth an ecstatic crescent. "I luv what ya turned me into sooo dang much! I gots mahself the right best boobies, an adorable face, awesum hair and all the like...heck, havin' a whole new personathingie feels soooo weird but I...I...I'M JUST SO EXCITEEED!" She shrieked with uncontrolled euphoria, waving her clenched hands around. "Everythin' feels so super now! Candy Records done be the best people EVER! I'm a true, honest-to-gawd real life Trixie Smiles and y'all my creators and Masters! I can't wait to meet mah fans so I can work hard n' repay y'all! Thank you soooo much, Mistah Manager Sir!" The completed Trixie threw herself into Ian Horne's arms, pressing her generous boobies against him, hugging him with wild abandon. "If you want mah pretty body, it's all yours, Sir! Gosh you's soooo hunky! How's a silly airhead like mahself supposed to be chaste when workin' for a stud like you?" Horne smiled wide, grabbing her huge boobies and massaging them, eliciting adorable little moans. "Don't worry your pretty little head about such big city girl concepts, Trixie. You're a simple soul, and if you want to be a fuckbunny, you can just be. You're straightforward and honest with your desires. That's a great thing for a girl to be. Men will want you. I want you." "Tee-hee!" She giggled, embarassed. "Then...You can just use me. Do whatever...Bein' transformed's the best thing done happened to me! I trust you with everythin', Mistah Manager! I luv ya..." "I know." --------- Trixie still felt a bit lightheaded from the afterglow when her beloved manager led her through Candy Records' clean hallways and into an office. She really wanted to ride his cock again, but he said this was really important. And as she told him in her endless chatter, horny or not, Trixie wouldn't be caught dead causing trouble for her creators. "Trixie honey, this is Candy Records' senior legal agent." Explained Ian to the confused bimbo. "What's a legal agent?" "Well, you know how we turned you into a real-life Trixie? This man is going to make your new self real in the eyes of the world. It will be as if you were born as the new you." "I sooo wish I was, Mistah Horne! I love who I am soooo much!" "Yes, we all know that, darling. Now be a good girl and go to the man. Do whatever he tells you." "Sure thing, Sir!" The helpless cutie skipped to the dour-looking man's desk. "Howdy! How can I help ya?" "Take this pen," Said the lawyer as he handed her said object and a binder full of documents, "And sign "Miss Trixie Smiles" wherever there is a X on the bottom of the pages." "Okiedokie!" Trixie began to sign the legal documents without a second thought. She did read the writing on them a bit, but it was full of big words she barely understood. "What's 'power of attorney', sir?" She candidly asked. "Izzit a thing where you shootin' lasers from the eyes and the like?" "No, sugar." Condescendingly smiled the specialist. "It just means Candy Records gets to take hard decisions for you." "Candy Records' amazin'!" She joyously squeaked as she signed her rights away. "Do I gots, like a real singin' contract in this here binder?" "Of course, Trixie. The record contract was the first thing you signed. You're an official Candy Records artist now." "Awesuuuum!" ---------- One week had passed, and Candy Records verified Trixie's loyalty at length. The sister company had done miracles. She was always psyched and ready for a singing rehearsal, and submitted to any employee like it was the most natural thing in the world. Trixie was as happy as she was at ease with her new self. The artificial personality had set so well, in fact, that the executives decided it was safe to reveal her true identity to her. They were right. That evening, Trixie came back from the head office, skipping and singing happily, her juicy boobies still buzzing a little from the titfucks she now loved doing. She was holding a file. On its cover was a picture of a young woman with short, sleek black hair. Trixie sat down in front of the computer, put down the file and played with her low-hanging pigtails for a bit. "Hmmm, how do you turn this thing on again? I just keeps forgettin'...Aw yeah, the button to the right! Ah, naw, the left! Here!" The computer whirred and turned on. Trixie was amazed at all that technology. It made recording her thoughts and talking to her fans all around the world possible. She was really grateful Candy Records had made a computhing easy enough for a silly girl like her, though she still largely preferred human contact. She followed the instructions, and soon, to Trixie's delight, the webcam lit up. She loved being recorded. "Howdyyy! I can't believe it's been days since I first showed mahself to y'all! Well, mah manager says it's a recordin' and Candy Records fixes it when mah mouth says somethin' it ain't supposed to...but still! I love you sooo much, fans! I'm so lucky to have y'all! I can't wait to perform on stage! Hmmm...Dang, I wanted to tell y'all about somethin'...What was it? Oh, right! Mah manager done give me this!" She showed the file to the camera, smiling from ear to ear. "I'm told this is me! Can y'all believe it? I was this gal once! Mah name was Brooke! Funny, I can't rememberin' a thing about it. Mistah Horne told me she's the true me but I just don't be feelin' it. I mean, I know I was created from a blank state thing, but I ain't fake! I'm me! Plus, Brooke don't have no boobies at all. It's sad, a girl without boobies...If I was this Brooke gal, I couldn't wait becomin' me! I mean I'm sooo happy! I can just sing and make love to the nice Candy Records folks all the t...Huuuh...Huh hoh." Trixie pushed her index fingers together, pouting like a scolded child. "Mah big mouth done talk about the forbiddin' thingies again. Mistah Horne told me it ain't no big deal, they can just fix it in post, whatever that means. Feel awful tho...Can't help talkin' about stuff but I don't want to hurt them Candy Records folks. I owe them everythin'..." Then, in a split second, she was back to smiling. "Aw heck, no matter! I have a concert comin' up! I'll sing to y'all in the flesh! I can't waaiiiiit! Lil' old me, finally on stage! Like, heeeeee! I'm soooo exciteeed!" And so she kept babbling to the camera, throwing her arms up and down and generally being the hyper, peppy yet humble bimbo the public loved. Upon rewieving the recording, Ian Horne knew he had to cut most of the beginning. But it was alright. He had the positive proof that Brooke had fully become his little Trixie. Even telling her the truth couldn't sway her bubbly little brain one bit. She was still an artificial person, but soon, she would begin to have real world experiences. Her new persona would grow and completely smother Brooke. Hell, Candy Records even planned on giving her a new, genuine country-folk family. After all, her first few videos had been hits. Making Brooke believe she was Trixie was only the beginning. Now, Candy Records had to convince the whole world their bimbo pop princess was the real deal. THE END.