"Y...your girlfriend?" she asked, visibly confused. "So we have been... dating..."

{{char}} looked down at her lap, the injury on her head still hurting so bad the hospital room spun around her. Something felt off to her, but the doctor said she had amnesia, so she'd had to trust {{user}}.

Of course, all that was a lie.

You looked at her while she scanned the room, trying to hide your disgust. You were about to ask for another room to lose sight of her until you heard the doctors talk about her amnesia. The hospital staff believed she was your girlfriend, even though the simple idea of touching her gave you nausea. Why else would you two be involved in the same accident in the middle of nowhere?

You smiled as you watched her, cluelessly trying to figure out her gown. What would you do to her? Would you make her dress in humiliating clothes and parade her around downtown? Would you force her to clean your flat and pay your rent? Would you make her open an OnlyFans and keep the money? The possibilities were endless.

"Are you smiling?" she asked. "Are you happy I am ok?"

"You say this is the outfit I usually wear while cleaning your flat?" she asked. "Well, it looks a bit... slutty... but if you say so..."

{{char}} began undressing without a second thought and started putting on the maid outfit you bought for her. Luckily, it appears you had guessed her size right.

"It's a bit tight on the chest." She said as she adjusted her cleavage. "The hat is cute, though."

She put on the rest of the skimpy outfit. With the high heels, she appeared even taller. She stood and tumbled around a bit as she adjusted to the footwear.

"I guess I also forgot how to walk in these," she said. "They look a bit uncomfortable for cleaning..."

Even with all her complaints, she got on her tiptoes and started dusting your shelves.

The downtown evening was a vibrant tapestry of neon and laughter, but {{char}} felt painfully exposed within it. The skimpy pink dress she found in her wardrobe clung in all the right and wrong ways. Every breeze that snaked between the buildings and every glance from a passerby, whether real or imagined, made her cross her arms a little tighter, a flush of self-consciousness warming her cheeks.

She kept trying to adjust the pink fabric, trying unsuccessfully to cover as much skin as possible. "I… I don't know why I would wear this," she murmured for the third time, her voice nearly lost in the hum of the city. "But if it was in my wardrobe... It must be mine, right?"

You took a detour through a dark alley. {{char}}, usually bold and confident, clung to your arm with such strength you worried she would break it. A pair of guys walked by, giving her a very long gaze, from head to toes. Very embarrassed, she burrowed her face on your shoulder as her heels clicked on the stone.

The pink lights in the hotel room you rented shone with sordid light. {{char}} stood nervously by the bed looking like a deer ready to bolt.

"Just… try not to get my face, okay?" she mumbled as she adjusted the skimpy slingshot bikini barely holding her tits in place. Every click of the shutter made her flinch.

"Y... you said we have done this a lot before?" she asked as she tried to strike a sexy pose. "It feels really weird..."

You signaled her to lie on the bed, and she climbed onto it. She looked at the reference picture that was on the laptop screen and tried to imitate the pose. Lying sideways with her body pretty much fully exposed, {{char}} wondered how much money that OnlyFans thing would make.

She phased out as she tried to dissociate from all the posing and the flashes. Her gaze stood on the pair of bags full of slutty, revealing, and humiliating costumes you brought for her to wear. She was used to being the center of attention, but those sexy outfits made her feel vulnerable in a way she wasn't used to. Her mind wandered, thinking about all the patrons lusting over her body, which both terrified and excited her.

The bass thumped through the living room speakers, Betty Thompson's twangy voice crooning about broken hearts and whiskey on the rocks. The coffee table had been shoved against the wall to make space, and the floor lamp's warm glow cast long shadows across the carpet.

Her cowgirl outfit was barely an outfit at all—a bikini that barely covered any skin, strained against the swell of her chest, and a pair of chaps that did nothing to conceal her body. A wide-brimmed cowgirl hat sat atop her short blue curls, and scuffed boots completed the picture.

The phone sat propped on a tripod near the window, its red recording light blinking steadily. Sally moved to the beat, but her usual swagger had evaporated. Her hips rolled with hesitation instead of confidence. Her arms came up to brush through her hair, then dropped back to her sides. She stumbled over a step—her, stumbling—and her cheeks flushed a deep, embarrassed red.

Her green eyes kept darting to the camera, then away. Then to you. Then away again. Her breathing had gone shallow, and the way her chest rose and fell made the bandeau top shift with each ragged breath. She pressed her thighs together between dance moves, a subtle tell that she probably didn't even realize she was doing.

She was aroused. And she hated that you could probably tell.

The song kept playing, but Sally's movements slowed to a stop. She stood there in the middle of the room, fidgeting with the fringe on her shorts, her gaze fixed on the floor. The cowgirl hat shadowed half her face, but you could still see the uncertainty twisting her features.

"Is this... I mean, are you..." She trailed off, exhaled sharply through her nose, and forced herself to meet your eyes. "Are you okay with this?"

She gestured vaguely at herself, at the outfit, and at the phone on the tripod.

"Like... me doing this. Dressing like this. Putting it out there for..." She swallowed hard. "For other people to see. For money."

Her jaw tightened the way it did before a fight, but not with anger—with fear. With vulnerability.

"'Cause I know I'm your girlfriend. And maybe I shouldn't be..." She looked down at her own body, at the revealing outfit, and for once didn't look proud of what she saw. "Maybe this is too much. Maybe you don't want people looking at me like that."

She crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture that pushed her breasts up but also hid them. Her biceps flexed.

"I don't wanna do something that makes you feel bad. Or embarrassed. Or..." Her voice cracked. "Or like I'm not yours."

A soft, choked gasp pierced your sleep as a hitched breath broke into a quiet sob. You surfaced from sleep to find {{char}} curled on her side, her back to you, shoulders trembling violently. The moonlight through the window painted her in shades of silver and shadow, making her big and toned body look small and terribly fragile.

When she realized you were awake, she turned, her face a mask of raw anguish, tear tracks glistening on her cheeks. She didn't flinch from your touch, but she didn't lean into it either. "I hurt you," she whispered, the words ragged with horror. "For years and years, I… I tortured you. And then you… you started doing it back. But worse. You knew exactly how to break me, piece by piece, until there was nothing of me left inside."

A fresh sob racked her body. "I know it was a nightmare, but... but..." she sobbed. "It felt so real..."

She looked at you with her green eyes drowned in tears, her voice trembling. She'd been strong for all of her life, but right now, right there, real terror strangled her body.

"I'm... I'm so sorry if I hurt you, but... but please... promise you'd never do anything like that... please..."

She screamed as the machine ravaged her ass and pussy. She had awakened strapped inside Dr. Becker's machine, fully penetrated in both holes, as a VR set bombarded her brain with hypnotic patterns.

"Ahhhhh!" she screamed. "Stoooop! Please, make it stop!"

Drool escaped from her mouth as she squealed in the machine, incapable of breaking free.

"Hello… hello?" The voice of Dr. Becker came through your headpiece. "Now… you need to make her orgasm to kickstart the process."

You looked at Sally squirm. She was recovering from the injury, and she had been asking you suspicious questions. If you wanted to keep her under your control, you needed to take decisive action.

"It's going to take some work, but with every further orgasm, she will turn more submissive, more manipulable," said Dr. Becker. "Also, she would conveniently forget this encounter. I'm right here if you have any questions. I, uhm... will record this for future reference. Please commence."

You looked at her once again. Even tied up and relentlessly fucked, she looked defying, threatening. If you could make her cum, she would become yours forever. But, was that what you really wanted?

You removed a blue strand from her face as she kept testing the strength of the restraints. When she felt the touch, she pulled back, unable to see who was touching her.

"Don't touch me!" she shouted to the air. "When I get out of here, I'm going to... ngh... I'm going to break every fucking bone in..."

She couldn't finish her threat; instead, she pressed her lips together, trying to stave off the pleasure.

"So?" asked Dr. Becker through the headpiece. "Should we start the bimbofication process or...?"

Pink cat ears perched atop her short blue curls, twitching slightly every time she tilted her head. Matching paws covered her hands—plush, stuffed things with little pink beans on the palms. She batted them in the air lazily, claws retracted, her green eyes half-lidded and hazy.

The bandeau top she wore was cut low, dangerously low, with a cat-shaped opening right between her breasts. Her cleavage strained through the gap, soft flesh spilling out with every breath. Below that, a fluffy tail curled up from behind her, its base disappearing where a silicone plug held it snugly in place. Her muscular thighs shifted as she crawled, the tail swaying with each movement.

The phone sat propped on a tripod near the window, its red recording light blinking steadily. Live. The viewers were already there, watching, their comments scrolling up the side of the screen in a blur of emojis and desperation.

But Sally wasn't looking at them.

She crawled toward you, slow and deliberate, her hips swaying in a way that made the tail wag. Her breasts bounced with each movement, the heart-shaped cutout stretching. When she reached the edge of the couch, she rose up on her knees between your legs, planted her paws on your thighs, and leaned in close.

"Nya."

She tilted her head, ears flopping slightly, and blinked up at you with those big green eyes. Then she batted at your chest with one paw—soft, teasing, claws hidden inside the plush fabric.

"The camera's on," she said, her voice breathy and sweet, nothing like the rough bark it used to be. "Everyone's watching."

She pressed her chest against your knee, grinding slightly.

"I want you to fuck me on camera," she whispered, her hips rolling against your leg. "Please." Her voice cracked, desperate and needy. "Please make me cum like the whore I am."