Abstract: The brainwashing only works on four out of five women. The others have to stay at the Bimbo Asylum.
*
A new patient's screams from a padded cell next door woke Abigail. She sat-up in her white lacy bra and panties, turned her long legs out of the bed, and let her toes touch the cold floor. It was chilly and the Asylum didn't splurge on heat. She grabbed a pair of white stockings from a bedside table along with a garter belt with several dangling straps that tangled like her muddled mind, so desperate to think clearly. She reminded herself that she wasn't a real patient, that this wasn't a real insane asylum; and above all, before her mind eroded away, that she needed to stay focused and try her best to be a person determined to find a way out. Her weak but strengthening bimbo thoughts fought her constantly.
As her hands pushed down into the stockings, she thought how a person, desperate to keep a deadly secret that could kill thousands, might consider using the silk to end it all. She stretched them. They could easily hold her weight, but contemplating such things touched an anxiety deep inside her, not because she feared death, but because it violated Asylum rules. Her messed-up priorities continued to battle inside her mind.
"I have to focus on being the person I want to be and not a bimbo," she murmured. But oh, how she yearned to listen to the sexual thoughts and urges.
She pulled the stockings up her legs, stood, tugged the garter belt over her wide hips and began the annoying task of securing each of six tiny garters to her stocking tops. She retold herself that she was a person who didn't want to wear such things, and that she only did so to lull her captors into complacency so she could escape.
The notion that several failed bimbo treatments would leave anyone with even a tiny bit of independence amazed her. Surely the treatments would leave lingering damage to the mind. But here she was and she knew the role she so desperately needed to play today, assuming she could remember anything even an hour later.
She tried to make herself angry. "Those fuckers!" she grunted. Did she feel it this time? No, it felt fake and forced. Instinctively, she wanted to give in and be clueless and happy. She resisted and vowed, "I'll escape before they try anymore bimbo treatments on me."
That is what they did at the Asylum. They made women into bimbos, for a fee.
She resisted her bimbo desires, and decided to play the part assigned her. It would be best to appear to be caving-in and weakening -- just a bit. The other women craved naughty clothes and were eager to prance around in high heels. She too would crave and prance, but still hold some hesitation in her heart.
"Escape is the main goal."
She covered her mouth afraid she might have said it too loudly. She thought herself smart before the treatments and, now, it was a struggle.
"Yes," she said softly to herself. "I am a person resistant to treatment who wants to escape. Is that so hard to remember even for a day or two? Am I that stupid now?"
She looked down at her subtle skin, so wonderful to stroke and touch.
"Shit," she said imitating a frustrated exclamation that seemed appropriate. It was still a forced sounding cuss. She was now so screwed-up in the head and everyday she felt closer to being a lesbian slut just like all the others manufactured monthly at the Asylum.
As she felt the silky cloth shift over her wonderfully smooth long legs, she almost lost a bit more of herself.
"No, think: escape."
Actresses in Hollywood negotiated deals against some of the most chauvinistic men in the world. Abigail at the Asylum would require mental acuity to emulate such women against scientists trying to erase her. She would act out her role and play it well.
As she worked the garter clips, her feet fumbled about searching for a pair of white high-heeled pumps. She didn't bother to visually look for the shoes, they were down there somewhere. As she fixed her stockings, she swiped her stocking covered feet around probing for them.
"Damn these clips," she mumbled. Her toes finally found the shoes. Her feet kicked them about and righted them, then pushed their way into the tight fitting pumps. She felt so much taller in the shoes. She straightened a garter strap and checked her flat tummy. She had lost a little weight. Hospital food always sucked.
She stumbled over to where a white jacket sat discarded on the floor. The thick cloth had felt so coarse and rough, but kept her warm.
More screams came from down the hallway. Another new patient, she thought, probably a newbie realizing that someone trusted, maybe loved, had paid for a mental wipe of memories or personality.
But not everyone made it through the process quickly. Some could resist indefinitely. Abigail remembered many days spent in her cell tied down sometimes wearing a crushing a corset with padlocks. So many things were done to women here at the Asylum. Pleading with the staff never helped. They performed their duties with no issues turning women into bimbos, submissives, or walking-talking mental vegetable simpletons.
Ignoring the loud cries for help, of which many more would follow on a typical day, Abigail pulled the long white sleeves of the jacket over her arms. She was cold and though the jacket was cut short leaving her midriff exposed, it was thick and added some protection.
She felt the abrasive cotton material against her skin and noticed the iciness it held inside from sitting on the floor all night. Sleeping in it used to give her nightmares and she used those faded memories to be the person she needed to be. She pretended to still remember how she hated the way it only opened in the back and not the front like a normal jacket. For several nights now, she even flung it at the wall before sleeping -- still she didn't feel the real anger she should. It was absent. Right now though, she needed its warmth and hugged herself inside it. She stopped and let her arms drop to her sides when she realized the cross-armed posture was a pose she would be forced to hold most of the day. Why do it now when she could do something else?
But it was so cold and what else in this empty room could she do? She returned to a warm self-hug. The action pulled the sleeves taunt forcing her arms in further and her hands down into their endlessness. There were no openings to shove her hands through. The ends were sewn closed. Straps dangled from her imprisoned fingertips. Like it or not, she was now ready and waiting for an attendant to open her padded cell door, enter, and secure her by pulling her arms across her chest and the sleeves behind her back. It would be any moment now and a fiend would grab her, afraid she would fight her brainwashing and try again to feel anger. She decided to give-up fighting this morning. The attendant would be surprised to see her just stand passively as he tied her straight jacket tight using several knots through several D-rings in the back. Then she would be left that way till dusk.
She looked through the bars of her window into an empty courtyard four stories below.
They promised to let her join the common population -- if she behaved, if she convinced them that she was ready to play along. It had been a month of solitary confinement spent fighting her bimbo side and struggling so hard to remember what she needed to do. It was so hard to resist their programming. What should she remember? What should she forget? What thoughts were hers? She knew they were waiting for her to become submissive. It would be a sign to them that she was ready. So passive is what they'll get and, hopefully, they'll let her out.
At least then she could finally talk with fellow inmates and put what seemed to be a logical plan into motion. The idea of socializing with fellow bimbettes, so many pretty gorgeous inmates, brought back the distractions. Everyone was so beautiful and sexy. She sobbed and wiped her eyes against a straightjacket sleeve. The real instinctive desires to escape were gone, but, if she focused, she could still want and conspire and achieve. So maybe she couldn't truly feel the role required to escape, but she could fake-it and silently pretend to desire freedom.
Inmates flooded the courtyard. Abigail knew that after a month of isolation, they would be suspicious and shun her. They would wonder what she told the guards. So many had little secrets and hidden stashes to make life bearable. She would be a loner for a while, which could help her cause. Loners got things done and related to each other.
She saw the women inmates below. They looked so delicious and fuckable.
"Fight it."
*****
"Abie!" yelled Madison, a fellow inmate, running across the courtyard free of any straightjacket and social inhibitions. "They let you out. Did they answer all those questions you had? Wow, you really cursed up a storm when they dragged you off. It took three of them, especially when you started kicking. George, still doesn't walk straight. Watch-out for him. I think he's still angry. But all that was so long ago. I really, really missed you. None of the other inmates here will even talk to me. They think I'm crazy, like I ramble on or something, like I won't take a breath. See, I breathe. In. Out. Oh my, I'm feeling a little dizzy. But you, you were so friendly to me. I could always talk with you. How are you? Tell me everything. Let's catch-up. Wait! I could guess. Do you want me to guess? Oh goodie! Let's see..."
During all this endless gregariousness, Abigail sat on a picnic table with her toes resting on an attached bench, the inside soles of her high heels locked against the bench's side. She had to remember her goals. She had to remember to be defiant. Maybe do small disrespectful things as reminders not to loose herself in the wonderful sexy clothing and the sultry looking bimbos around her. Yes, she'd wear the damn shoes -- she liked how she added the word 'damn' -- very authentic. Punishment from kicking them off would only waist time, but she didn't care if she scratched up their glossy white patent leather surfaces. She tugged at her straight jacket hating herself. Scratching her shoes had to be the lamest idea yet on how to be defiant. She noticed how her arms were pulled tight under her breasts, how her hands stayed glued to the sides of her rib cage, and how she couldn't even move her fingers inside the taunt sleeves.
