Hypno Clinic Catastrophe: Part One

Clara sighed with satisfaction. If she was going to destroy a man's life, she would need to know how. “With precise control,” she muttered. It was why she wouldn’t wait. It was why the clinic was empty and her desk was full. Reports, binders, graphs, a computer, recording devices, even more graphs. Clara pushed aside a stack of them, organized in color-coded folders, to make space for her coffee mug.

Her green eyes and single-minded drive blazed sharp and bright, matching the glow from the minimalist desk lamp. Everything else in the room was a silhouette in black, including Clara, pencil-skirted and well-bloused, an immaculate, focused shadow in the night. There were less careful ways to get it done, but Clara was not careless, especially with herself. Ellison had told her as much when he warned her about testing the audio.

“It’s too dangerous alone,” he said, the caution almost sincere.

Clara knew better. She clicked the mouse and slipped on the headphones. Her fingers drummed a fast, arrhythmic beat on the desk as she listened. Pulsing, throbbing tones filled her ears. Her head moved with them, a slow, unconscious sway.

“With precise control,” she repeated, though she didn’t remember why she was saying it.

Clara pushed the words from her mouth with the same effort it took to hold them in her mind. Then she stopped. She wasn’t sure what she was holding. The desk, her thoughts, the shape of her own body, everything blurred and swirled together. Clara stopped because she wasn’t sure of anything at all. She blinked, and it was like discovering a new world: it all seemed different, it all seemed wrong, and she was a stranger in it.

She took a breath. She closed her eyes, but they kept on opening. The room spun, the sounds hummed. The notes she wrote slipped away from her, until there was no pen, no paper, no her. It felt vacant. It felt funny. “What’s... happening?” she said, and the words didn’t mean what she thought they should mean.

Clara’s body moved without her mind. She stood up, and a smile bent itself on her lips. It stayed there as her thoughts blurred. It stayed there as her blouse tightened. She tried to shake her head, tried to clear it, but that only confused her more. The only thing she could concentrate on was how impossible it was to concentrate. Clara stumbled back, knocking a pile of journals from her desk.

“No, that’s not, that’s not, that’s... fun.” Fun, she thought.

That wasn’t what she was supposed to think. That wasn’t it at all. Her focus scattered. Her face flushed. The words wouldn’t hold still, not on the pages, not in her mind. They wouldn’t stay what they were meant to be. They got simple and sticky. She grabbed the side of the desk. It was hard. Everything else felt soft. Clara closed her eyes again, and it all swam together, blurry and indistinct. All of it. All of her.

Then the pulses and hums seemed louder. Clara gasped, unprepared for the rush of heat that swept her body and her mind. “Ohhh,” she moaned, softer than she knew how to. Her voice didn’t sound right. It didn’t sound like her voice at all.

She stood still, swaying to the rhythm of the tones and the throbs, a glazed and vacant look on her face.

“I’m not, I’m not,” she said, but she didn’t know what she wasn’t.

It was difficult to speak, more difficult to think. She squeezed her eyes tight. When she opened them again, they were bright and lost and on the edge of rolling back in her head. The sound buzzed. The sound throbbed. The sound shook her whole body with a beat that matched her pulse. Her thoughts swelled in time, then collapsed back into the growing fog. The heat spread faster than the words or the sounds, consuming her intellect, spreading through her body and transforming everything it touched.

Her vision blurred. Her pulse quickened. Her breasts surged against the tight fabric of her blouse.

“What’s...” she said, her words stretching longer than they should. “...like, happening?” The tight, white shirt pulled itself open, buttons straining, exposing her soft skin. She giggled. That wasn’t her at all. Clara was sure of it, even if she wasn’t sure of anything else.

Her posture shifted. Her expression shifted. Her thoughts shifted. It happened at the same time and all at once. Clara gasped again, with effort and need. The heat burned her focus and set fire to a new, aching desire.

Her shoulders rolled back, pulling her blouse even tighter and making her stand out and unbalanced. She had to hold on to the desk, even though holding on to anything seemed impossible. Her perfect control melted. Her sharp intellect blurred. She put her hand on her hip. That felt nice. She forgot what else was supposed to.

The weight of it was too much. The weight of everything was too much.

“Oh, fuck,” she said, voice high, breathy.

She giggled again, then froze, shocked by the sound and the strange new person who was making it. The old Clara would have cared. The old Clara would have stopped the process. The old Clara was gone.

“Like, I feel funny!” she laughed, completely bimbo and beyond repair. It was a long time before she put words together again.

***

She danced. Clara didn’t know the steps, didn’t know if they were real steps at all, but she moved. It wasn’t precise. It wasn’t on her notes or on her charts. It wasn’t smart or intellectual or careful. It was clumsy at first, it was awkward and stumbling, then it was an exaggerated sway of hips and tits and fuck-me energy.

Clara danced, or tried to, each step a failed seduction of the empty room. The beats and pulses filled her, making her wobble on her heels and pushing her even deeper into the new self that had replaced her old one. She looked down at her huge tits, then out at the open air. She laughed, girly and airheaded, tugging at the fabric that kept them from bouncing. The pressure distracted her from her dancing.

The pressure, the desire, the sound, and all the new things that her new body and new mind needed. The old blouse went first. The old life went next. The neat, professional Clara dissolved into a different person. She fished through her gym bag and found something small and tight to put on instead. Her hair fell around her shoulders in a cascade of soft curls, no longer neat, no longer sharp. She twirled it through her fingers. She twirled her fingers through it.

The office door swung open. Clara didn’t notice or care. She kept on dancing, kept on transforming, kept on dissolving, a pink and plastic figurine with no brain to hold it still. Ellison stood frozen in the doorway.

“Clara, you’re not yourself,” he said, torn between shock and lust.

“Like, I feel so funny!” Clara said, twirling, giggling, changing, leaving the old her behind, leaving nothing in its place.

Clara turned in loose, airy circles, the beats and pulses the only music she heard, the only music she cared about. Her tight tank top did nothing to hide the bounce of her big new tits. She giggled with each step, each step awkward and unsure, until she wasn’t unsure of anything except her own name.

“Ohmygod!” she squealed, spotting Ellison as if for the first time, her voice impossibly high and her movements impossibly girly.

She didn’t stop. She didn’t slow. She didn’t care. Clara moved through the empty room like a dream with no substance, like a dream with no plot or characters, like a dream where her neat bun had dissolved into a mess of loose brunette curls. It was a dream that Ellison thought he’d never wake from, a dream where Clara had transformed completely into a bimbo, a dream that was real and not a dream at all.

She floated toward him. The beats were her heart and the tones were her mind. They told her what to think and how to think it. The instructions were simple. The instructions were dumb. She swayed closer, unsteady, dragging her fingers through her hair and leaving them tangled and vacant. Ellison didn’t move. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He couldn’t believe it.

“Clara,” he said again, his words uneven, unsure.

He watched her twirl. He watched her bounce. He watched her change and then change again, as if she could become even more bimbo, as if she could become even less Clara. She giggled in a spiral around him. Her movements were the opposite of the ones she used to make. They were imprecise, unconscious, more sexy than she knew how to be. He stared at her swollen breasts, at her exposed skin, at the blank, airheaded smile that took over her pretty face.

“You’re not yourself,” he said again. He wanted it to sound true. It didn’t. It sounded fake and excited. It sounded as true as he wanted her to be.

“Like, I totally feel sooooo funny!” Clara said, swaying toward him, closing the space between them, closing the space between the old Clara and the new one. “Wanna, like, have fun?” she asked, the question filling the air as much as the sound and her smell and her lusty heat.

Clara was right on top of him. She was too close. She wasn’t close enough. Ellison’s breath caught. He looked down at her breasts, up at her expression, down at her breasts again. He looked down, but he didn’t look away.

“Clara,” he started, weak, more unsteady than her.

He stopped. His lips moved without words. Clara’s lips pressed against them, eager, warm. She laughed, backing off and grabbing his tie. She laughed, closing the gap between them again. She laughed, higher and needier than any Clara who wasn’t a bimbo could. Ellison hesitated. He was frozen in place, and she melted all around him. She rubbed up against him, rubbed against his body with hers, rubbed against his doubt with her desire. She filled it with her emptiness, filled him with her nothing.

Ellison couldn’t stop. Ellison wouldn’t stop. Clara wouldn’t let him, even if she wasn’t trying, even if she didn’t know she should. The new Clara was going to have what she wanted, what she needed, whether or not she knew what that was.

She slid a finger down his chest. She giggled again, feeling the bulge in his pants, not aware enough to know she shouldn’t be aware of it. He moaned, barely a sound, barely a protest, barely a surrender. Clara’s laugh filled the space. It filled the space in the air, the space between them, the space where the old Clara used to be.

“You want it, don’t you?” she said, in her head and out loud.

Ellison’s face went white. Clara didn’t notice. It turned red. Clara didn’t care. He wanted it, all right. Clara was right about that, even if she was wrong about everything else.

The new fabric of her tank top strained and pulled as she threw her arms around his neck. He put a hand on her shoulder, but he didn’t push her away. He put a hand on her waist, but he didn’t pull back.

“Fun!” she squealed, grinding herself on him, giving him nothing to hold on to except her body. He tightened his grip. He tightened it with both hands. He took another step. It was a step he wouldn’t take back.

Clara had no thoughts. Ellison had one. Fuck.

***

He took a step. It was a step he wouldn’t take back. She twirled with him, twirled around him, wrapped him in all the things he should resist and wanted too much to care about. Clara was his now, more his than she could be if she knew it. The more she didn’t know, the more she was his, the more she was going to be.

The desk caught Ellison as he stumbled. He held on, holding on to Clara with more force, more urgency. She giggled with each move, each move exaggerated, every motion extreme. She danced, and the dance was hot and dirty and way off beat. The tank top went first, almost as fast as the new Clara. She held it in her hands, laughed again, and tossed it. Ellison caught it in the air.

He looked at it and saw the future. Clara only saw it slip to the ground. She was giddy and energetic, more than she’d been in her entire life. She pulled Ellison into it. She pulled him into her. Clara ripped open his shirt and she gasped, even though she knew what to expect, even though she didn’t care.

Clara ripped open his shirt and he gasped, even though he knew what to expect, even though he cared more than he should. She giggled as she worked at his belt, clumsy and unsure but full of want. She worked at his belt and her laugh got louder, more excited, when she freed the thick length of cock she’d been reaching for.

Clara pushed him down, desperate, hungry, without anything in her mind except the growing, aching need. She dropped to her knees, dropped her intellect, dropped every last bit of the person she used to be. She didn’t care. Ellison did, but not about what he should have.

Clara twirled, pressing her hips and tits and new self against him. She didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t know why she was doing it. But she liked it. The fact that she liked it only made her like it more. She giggled and fumbled with his tie, not caring if she untied it or choked him. She pulled on it, she pulled on his desire, and Clara couldn’t get enough of either. Ellison’s weak resistance didn’t stop her.

Ellison’s strong hands didn’t stop, either. Clara moaned as he tore away what little fabric she was wearing. Clara gasped as he grabbed her full new breasts with both hands, rough, rougher than she thought she could want, exactly how rough she needed it to be. She didn’t stop him. She pushed him down on the desk.

It was the only thing Clara could push. The only thing she had on her mind. She dropped to her knees between his legs. She opened her mouth wide. She opened herself wider.

He held on, holding on to Clara with more force, more urgency. She giggled with each move, each move exaggerated, every motion extreme. She danced, and the dance was hot and dirty and way off beat. The tank top went first, almost as fast as the new Clara. She held it in her hands, laughed again, and tossed it.

Ellison caught it in the air. He looked at it and saw the future. Clara only saw it slip to the ground. She was giddy and energetic, more than she’d been in her entire life. She pulled Ellison into it. She pulled him into her. Clara ripped open his shirt and she gasped, even though she knew what to expect, even though she didn’t care.

Clara ripped open his shirt and he gasped, even though he knew what to expect, even though he cared more than he should. She giggled as she worked at his belt, clumsy and unsure but full of want. She worked at his belt and her laugh got louder, more excited, when she freed the thick length of cock she’d been reaching for.

Clara pushed him down, desperate, hungry, without anything in her mind except the growing, aching need. She dropped to her knees, dropped her intellect, dropped every last bit of the person she used to be. She didn’t care. Ellison did, but not about what he should have.

She reached for it, eyes wide, even wider than her mouth was going to be. Ellison moaned, more than a whisper this time, more than he thought he should. Clara felt the shape of it, felt the weight of it, more than she was used to, more than she used to be. She giggled, then licked her lips, then opened them.

Ellison watched, watched without blinking, as she wrapped herself around the thick length of cock. Her hands were on his hips, holding them still, as her head bobbed and her voice moaned, airy and breathy and as excited as the rest of her. Her new body moved in ways the old one wouldn’t. Clara loved it. She loved it even more that she loved it. Ellison’s hands were tight in her loose curls.

His pants slipped off. His doubts slipped off. Clara was sucking him, licking him, with a body and mind that wanted nothing else.

Clara’s voice filled the room, breathy, giggly, even as her mouth filled with cock. She was relentless, brainless, full of lust and energy. Ellison’s was the same, full of need and cock, fast and hot and deep. It didn’t matter if Clara knew what she was doing. She was doing it anyway. Ellison didn’t resist. He held on.

Clara did the same, pulling him down, pulling him closer. He groaned as she worked on him. She giggled as he groaned. It was faster and more than he expected. She bounced as she went, bouncing on the floor, bouncing in his lap. She lost herself again. She didn’t care. Her tongue worked Ellison’s shaft and worked it hard.

She didn’t know how to stop, didn’t want to know how. She bobbed her head and hummed, no longer to the beat of the tones, to the beat of her new needs.

Ellison grunted. Clara felt the change in him, felt it everywhere, and pushed herself harder, tighter. She worked the length of him with her mouth and her hands, not thinking, not caring, the only thing on her mind was the huge thing in it.

His hands pushed too, as hard and deep as he could. Clara gagged and didn’t care. Clara choked and liked it. He pumped her mouth, fucking it, feeling her transform even further with each thrust. He filled her, not holding back. She took it, loved it, let it drip out the sides of her lips. Her body arched, hot and ready and abandoned, the full bimbo.

“Like, I sooo need cock!” she said, even though she’d just had it.

Ellison smirked. He knew how much she needed. He had all night to give it to her.