Bimbo Unlocked (7/?)

Matt stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind him, exhaling slowly as he steadied himself against the counter. His hands trembled as he fumbled open the drawer, already knowing exactly where Misty kept everything—foundation, contour, gloss, mascara, liner—God, it was like second nature now. The longer he looked at those perfectly organized rows of cosmetics, the more his stomach twisted. He had to look perfect. He had to look just like Misty.

The foundation went on first, smoothing over his skin in even, airbrushed layers. A little contour under the cheekbones, a soft sweep of blush high across his cheeks—enough to look flushed, slightly breathless. Every brush stroke felt automatic now, like his hands had memorized Misty’s exact routine. He added a tiny highlight to the tip of his nose, then leaned in, narrowing his eyes as he blended the eyeshadow. A sultry, smoky brown, just a little darker at the crease, pulling the outer corners of his eyes into that lifted, teasing shape. The look was bold. Sexy. And terrifyingly familiar.

His lashes had to match. They needed to be soft. Full. Flirty enough to flutter with every blink, just like Misty’s always were. He could barely stand to watch himself do it, but his hand moved on its own, coating each lash in slow, even strokes. One coat. Two. Three. Then the curler—press, hold, release. His lashes sprang up, wide and innocent. A quick flick of liner at the corners gave them that sharp little cat-eye lift he somehow knew would make them pop. Big. Doll-like. Helpless. He stared at them for a moment, then looked away.

Finally, the lips. Matt hesitated, staring at the creamy lipstick in his hand. The shade was rich, feminine, unmistakably sultry. His fingers moved before he could stop them, dragging the color across his mouth in slow, practiced strokes. It went on thick, smoothing into a soft satin finish that made his lips look fuller, poutier. He pressed them together slowly—an instinctive little motion—then let them part with a soft, feminine pop that left his cheeks glowing with shame.

He stepped back from the mirror and turned to the closet, scanning the hangers one by one, trying to think like her. Misty would pick something flirty. Something Ethan wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off. His fingers hovered, then pulled out a tiny, ruffled white crop top that sat completely off the shoulders. A pleated black mini followed. Then the sheer thigh-high stockings. He grabbed the heels—black platforms with delicate ankle straps.

The outfit was shameless. The kind of thing Misty would bounce around in without a second thought. Matt stared at it in his hands, heat crawling up his neck—then slowly began to dress. He slid the sheer thigh-high stockings up his legs, adjusting the tops carefully so they sat just right. He pulled the skirt up over his hips, feeling the snug fabric settle high on his waist, then eased the crop top down over his chest, tugging at the edges until it clung in all the right places. Finally, the heels. The sharp click of them on the tile echoed through the bathroom as he straightened up, heart thudding as he caught his reflection.

For a moment, he froze—Misty staring back at him. The cinch of his waist, the soft line of his collarbones, the long legs rising out of the stockings. The makeup pulled everything together—eyes wide and lush, lips parted in a soft, sultry pout. A chill ran up his spine as he reached up to delicately touch his face, fingertips brushing over his cheek, just to make sure he was still in control.

Click. The sound of the front door unlocking sent a jolt through him. Okay… you can do this. Misty would be excited. Misty would run to him, all giggles and kisses. Just act like her. Just act like her. His face burned as he forced his lips into a perky little smile.

He minced out into the hall on trembling heels, each step delicate, hips swaying on muscle memory alone. “Baaabe!” he chirped in that breathy, high-pitched register Misty always used, slipping his arms around Ethan’s shoulders with a small, helpless giggle. “I missed you sooo much!”

He hesitated a moment, stomach twisting, then leaned in with his lips softly puckered.

The kiss was soft at first—slow, deliberate, almost delicate. His creamy lipstick smeared instantly, leaving a warm, velvety streak across Ethan’s mouth as their lips moved together. Matt let out a tiny, breathy whimper the second they connected, a sound he couldn’t hold back. He tilted his head slightly, letting Ethan lead, lips parting wider with each motion as the kiss deepened. It was wet, warm, and achingly intimate—the quiet little sounds he kept making without meaning to. Each one only made it worse. His face was on fire, cheeks glowing with shame as his lips clung to Ethan’s, moving in soft, practiced motions that felt far too natural.

It was exactly how Misty would kiss him. Same rhythm. Same pouty sounds. Same subtle grind of lips and tongue. Only this time, Matt wasn’t watching through a fog. He was the one kissing like that—leaning in close, making those soft little noises, moving his lips in perfect, humiliating sync. He was doing everything Misty would do with humiliating, aching precision.

Ethan pulled back with a grin, brushing a thumb over Matt’s smeared lipstick before kissing him again—just a quick peck this time, but still enough to make his stomach lurch.

The rest of the day was suffocating. He stayed curled against Ethan’s side, giggling when prompted, feeding him little bites of dinner off dainty fingers, kissing him softly whenever their eyes met. There wasn’t a moment to breathe. Every smile had to be perfect. Every word had to drip with sweetness. Even when they watched TV, Matt had to pretend to be captivated—head on Ethan’s chest, legs folded neatly beneath him, lips still tingling from the latest kiss. He hated how well he pulled it off.

The next morning brought more of the same—hair brushed out, heels strapped on, a flirty skirt hugging Matt’s hips as he bounced into the kitchen. Breakfast. Compliments. Laughter. Then one last kiss at the door, long and messy, their lips parting slowly before Ethan finally stepped outside.

Matt wiped off the makeup, changed back into his clothes, and headed straight to campus—hoping to find someone who might be able to help. Someone who might understand how to remove the trigger word.

And then he saw him. Just across the quad, near the fountain. One of Ethan’s classmates. Troy.

A flicker of hope sparked in Matt’s chest as he quickened his pace, heading straight toward him. Maybe this would all finally be over soon…