Bimbo Unlocked (6/?)

The next few days blurred together in a haze of glossy lips, high-pitched giggles, and Ethan’s hands constantly glued to Misty’s hips. Matt could do nothing but watch—somewhere buried deep beneath the pink fog—as Misty draped herself across Ethan’s lap like a needy little puppy. She was always clinging to him, always laughing at everything he said, always leaning in for another kiss. Morning pecks, lazy snuggles, little smooches between words—each one made Matt sink a little deeper into the back of his own mind.

Ethan certainly didn’t seem to mind all the attention either. He spent most of his time lounging on the couch, arms around Misty, not a notebook or laptop in sight. Matt hadn’t seen him collect any data in days—unless tracking how many times Misty could kiss him before lunch counted somehow.

It was another morning; the sun filtered softly through the curtains as Misty stirred beneath the sheets, letting out a sleepy little coo as she stretched. Matt could feel the routine beginning even before it started—like muscle memory. She padded into the bathroom, pulling off her nightie and humming as she lathered up her legs. The razor glided down her thighs in slow, careful strokes, each pass leaving behind nothing but smooth skin.

After drying off, she swayed to the vanity. Foundation, blush, then a sweep of soft beige across her lids, blended just enough to deepen the crease and make her eyes pop. Misty leaned in close, lashes fluttering as she drew the mascara wand upward in slow, defining strokes—darkening, lengthening, separating until they looked long and flirty. She blinked at her reflection, pleased. The lips were next. She uncapped the tube and smoothed on a creamy pink gloss, the thick formula catching the light as it coated her mouth in a wet, candy-like shine—plump, polished, and ready for kissing.

And then came the outfit selection—Misty stood in front of the open closet, biting her lip, fingers tapping the hangers as she debated which one Ethan would like most. She finally settled on a clingy bodycon dress, tight and ribbed and low enough to tease, then tugged it over her curves with practiced little motions. Stockings came next, then the shoes.

Stilettos. Towering black patent pumps with a glossy finish and a brutal, needle-thin heel.

Matt practically groaned inside. Really? She’s not even going anywhere.

But Misty didn’t care. She stepped into them with a dainty little wobble, adjusting her balance before mincing her way out into the living room, each step teetering and deliberate, heart fluttering fast in her chest. Ethan was already on the couch. She lit up, cheeks flushing, and picked up the pace—heels clicking eagerly as she hurried over and lowered herself delicately into his arms.

“Mmm… morning, babe,” she whispered, already leaning in for a kiss. Matt groaned internally. Come on... Kissing this early?

Breakfast was more of the same. Misty perched prettily on a stool at the counter while Ethan made pancakes, practically purring as she fluttered her lashes and toyed with her hair. Every stupid compliment made her beam. Every brush of Ethan’s hand made her giggle. It was gross.

But then Ethan glanced at the clock. “Crap. I’ve got class.” He grabbed his bag and stood up.

Misty pouted, her bottom lip jutting out as she trailed after him in her stilettos. “Alreadyyy?” she whined, rising up on her toes to give him one last sugary kiss before he walked out the door. Matt burned with shame the whole time.

Once he was gone, Misty flopped dramatically onto the couch, legs curled under her, still in full glam. The TV buzzed in the background, but her attention was on her phone—scrolling through makeup tutorials, cute crop tops, things she thought Ethan might find hot. Matt wanted to throw the phone across the room. Instead, he sat quietly inside, seething.

And then it happened; an IHOP commercial flashed on screen. Some bubbly blonde sipping a milkshake the size of her head. The announcer’s voice rang out:

“Try our new limited-time Cupcake Milkshake—sweet, creamy, and irresistible!”

His body froze—then, in a blink, the fog thinned, his mind clearing as he jolted upright with a gasp. “Ugh... finally” he muttered.

He stood and turned toward the bathroom, heels clicking beneath him—sharp, steady, automatic. Matt blinked. Wait… how am I walking in these? He glanced down at the glossy stilettos on his feet. He wasn’t wobbling. Not even thinking about it. His frown deepened as it sank in—his body had gotten so used to them, walking like this was just muscle memory now.

He kicked off the heels, frustrated, and continued to the bathroom, the tile cool beneath his stockinged feet. Leaning over the sink, he started wiping the makeup off—foundation, blush, lashes, all of it. He slipped out of the dress, peeled down the stockings, and pulled on his own clothes. The comfort was immediate. But the problem wasn’t gone. The trigger word was still in his head.

He sat down and pulled up search after search on his phone—how to resist a trigger word, how to undo behavioral implants—but nothing came close. Ethan was on the cutting edge of this stuff. He’d need to find someone who might actually be able to help—maybe one of Ethan’s classmates? But before he could think about it any longer, he glanced at the time—and felt panic tighten in his chest. Ethan would be back soon.

Shit—if Ethan realized he was out of the trance, it’d only take one word and Misty would be back, giggling in his lap like nothing happened. Matt’s stomach turned. His cheeks burned with shame as the awful truth settled in.

He’d have to play along. Fool Ethan completely. Make him believe Misty never left.