There are two colours that always are used to represent that curious stereotype of by a bubbly-happy and empty-headed girl that is denominated a “bimbo”. Pink and yellow, those colours are. Yellow, for the blonde tint that is almost a rule among the top these girls’ heads; and pink, for the colour that their attires always glow with.
Dressed in shades of pink and an attire of questionable decency; and long, blonde hairs acting like a crown; this was how she was dressed, the dear mistress that this story follows.
This young girl not yet ripe for the world was walking, with steps on the highest of heels, a few paces away from a young man enjoying an evening strode on the great outdoors. She kept herself, with strange dexterity, hidden from his sight, just trailing him like a hunter to prey. Her idea of prey was far from the usual, for this girl was only attracted to this man for the looks of his body and the rumours of his sexual prowess – rumours she wished to verify the extent of either verity or falsehood. But this girl, though experienced on the art “boy-hunting”, was not very familiar with the uneven ground of a forested park and the poor ground it made for her pretty, blue heels to walk on – she was completely out of her natural environment.
The man started to walk even faster, his attire and footwear the proper one for the landscape, without incident, and eventually snuck away from the girl’s sight; the girl, scared at the prospect of loosing a good night’s enjoyment, in turn, started to walk faster, her inexperienced ankles and legs straining over her weight and the punishment of towering heels. And eventually, as expected, the tip of her left heel was caught by a leaves-covered root, her other foot was caught too when, as if by fate, her heel went into an unseen hole in the ground. The combined impediment of both her feet, the momentum her walk had created, and her uneven chest-weight destroyed her balance, pulling her body forwards and rightwards towards the cold, wet, and muddy ground. With her face, knees, arm and chest so full of pain, she cursed and tried to stand up again but found that the heel that the ground so eagerly swallowed was now useless and broken.
The girl, though simple minded and bubbly-happy, was not entirely devoid of logic, though she only hinted at this when alone and desesperate, and, using her every power of thought, shifted her wreck of a body in a manner that her right arm was no longer caught under her weight; her left heel far from the root’s clasp; and her lovely hair, her prized jewel, away from the filth on the ground. She then, for decency’s sake, began to scrub and remove the twigs and mud and dead leaves trapped on her hair and clothes, “Damn it!” she cursed under her breath, as she realized that her very pink and very beautiful clothes were ruined.
Angered was she, her prey now far from her reach and whatever pleasures meeting him would have entailed, her hair a mess, her lovely mini skirt ragged and mud-covered, just like the rest of her body.
“Like, fucking shoes,” She screamed to the inanimate object, grabbing them with fist of rage and, forgetting their former monetary and emotional value, hurled them both far into the forest.
For a while, she lay there, on the ground, thinking – something not that common for her – on a subject that she could just not believe she was pondering about: the impracticability of high-heeled shoes, her kind of shoes. It was true, at least for herself and a selected bunch, that high-heeled shoes were indeed the most attractive form of footwear, but their impracticability outshone their sexiness. She felt, indeed, very confused; for it was not everyday that such a bimbo-queen thought of such “nasty” matters.
She stood up, cleaning off the last bits of dirt off of her skimpy clothes, and felt the cold mud and leaves under her feet and between her pink-painted nails and salon-cared toes; though disgusted at the sensations and whatever creatures were crawling underneath, she felt strangely liberated now that she didn’t wear what once seemed so important and now was obviously impractical footwear. She even admitted to herself that the dirt felt comforting, natural, even.
She gazed in the direction the young man had run to, hoping to see his face creeping from a corner, fully comprehending her lost opportunity, and flipped a still sore-from-the-fall hand, “Like, screw it,” she whispered to herself as she turned away and walked towards the very near, urbanized streets.
She walked for a while, the dead coldness of pavement now under her feet, drawing her attention back to her attire. She tried to ignore the comments and laughs that many a passer-by said, referring to her ruined clothing, but it all just helped ferment her anger.
But as if to avoid the embarrassing and sad sight of an angered bimbo, lo and behold, a godsend: a shoe store she found herself in front of. “Shoes!” She thought happily, as her feet dragged her inside, the smell of leather and new soles permeating her nostrils. A clerk, his sky-blue uniform perfectly clean, unlike her pink attire, approached her and asked for her well-being, “I am okay.” She said sexily, “I just need shoes,” she cooed, wriggling her toes and pointing towards them.
“What kind of shoes are you looking for, darling?” The clerk said with the mixed interest of someone trying to increase their paycheck’s numbers and someone truly concerned.
The blonde girl almost screamed “high heels” in her excitement, for those were the only words she ever pronounced when that question was asked, but the memory of moments ago stopped her actions, and instead she said: “Boots; sexy, black boots, like, stylish.” The clerk was surprised by the uncommon, but not impossible, request coming from the so obvious a bimbo in front of himself.
“Wait just a second, I’ll be right back.” The clerk said with a smile and a diagonal movement of his right hand, as he disappeared into a cave of shoeboxes and Sale signs.
The girl sat on one of those shoe shop stools with mirrors underneath it, and at the sight of mirrors, her vanity took hold and she began to check her appearance on the mirrors.
“I am covered in, like, bugs and stuff,” She said, in a high-pitched tone devoid of grammatical knowledge, to no one in particular, “My clothes are ruined!” She finished her statement with her heavily made-up face showing disgust.
The clerk returned with a rather big shoebox. The bimbo-girl squealed in delight.
“I guessed your size; I hope is the right one.” The clerk said shyly, as he lifted the lid covering the shoebox, “I hope you like these, they are our last pair.”
Inside the box were two black forms that smelled of leather. The girl grabbed the box and set it on her side, then took out one of the black, leather boots and inspected it; it shone under the light of the store, polished to even reflect the girl’s face once it was on the right angle. The boot reached up to just below the wearer’s knees, and hopefully, if the size was right, to hers; it had no heel, but a platform not thicker than the thick of three fingers and hard enough to step on glass; it had five buckles and five straps that ran from the top of where the foot would be, to just below the knee.
Satisfied with what the clerk had brought, the girl dressed in pink began to try the strange boot when she saw how absolutely filthy her feet were.
“Can you, like, bring me something for my feet?” The girl said with a playful smile on her lips.
The clerk stared at her naked and mud-covered feet, “I’ll bring a towel and socks, be right back,” He said and once again disappeared into the depths of the store. Moments latter he came back with a towel and a pair of socks. The girl thanked him in a most arousing way and proceeded to clean her feet; and once they were clean enough she put on the short, white socks the nice clerk provided.
Now she was ready to try the black footwear. She grabbed one boot and introduced one foot into it, gliding the leather as it went in; then she did the same with the other one; afterwards, she buckled the buckles, tightening the leather’s grasp on her calves. She stood up and began striding the aisle in her new footwear, giggling at the sight of her face on the boots. Satisfied with the fit and feel of the boots, she sat down back on the mirrored stool, gliding both of her hands, each on one boot, up and down, caressing her skin underneath.
“I love them!” She said, merrily, “I’ll buy them.”
“Very well,” Said the clerk, “I guess you’ll just walk out with them.”
“Of course, silly!” The girl giggled, “I have, like, nothing to wear anyway.”
The clerk and the girl dressed in pink and contrasting black boots walked towards the cashier; the girl pays with a credit card of golden colour for the black, leather boots, and leaves the store. The clerk sneers at the sight of this girl and makes a snide comment, to which the cashier laughs.
This was indeed a weird apparition of sorts, since it is not every day, not even any day, that you see the archetype of a bimbo (a girl dressed in the skimpiest of pink outfits, the blondest of blond hairs on her head, and the eloquence of a cab) buying a pair of the blackest of leather boots; boots that only on the feet of the most cynical of Goth girls or rockers would they look appropriate. It was unnatural. But this girl, a girl that just hours before had dressed, if dressed at all, to snare the sight of a young man; a young man she only wanted to know if rumours about his sexual prowess were true. Now she cheerfully strode in these boots, and was just that much happier for it. Had she seen herself a day before, she would’ve screamed in agony at the sight of her dirty clothes, her disastrous hair, and the, then, ugly boots.
It would’ve taken more than a fall and broken heel to change her mind, then; but it now seemed all that more possible.
The protagonist of this story was now relaxing on a comforting, soft bed of her property – having already, hours before, cleansed the dirt and mud off of her with a hot and long bath. She inhales and takes in the smell of fresh flowers on her bed sheets, and, to a certain extent, the smell of dried out pleasure-juices of past experiences. She giggles; but then rises abruptly, her expression shifting from one of enjoyment and emptiness to one of annoyance and disgust, and stares at the pink covers and the blue sheets.
“Ewww,” She says in a high pitch, her trembling hands nearing her face, “I can, like, smell my own juices.”
The smell of past sexual bliss brings with it the memory of the many experiences that the bed has been witness and, sometimes, much more. Inside her head she sees the faces of the many men she has touched and fondled on that bed, the many men that made her feel whole and full. She feels warm inside and starts to giggle, her manicured hands now calm.
“Oh! Silly me,” She says out loud, “I like that smell; it reminds me of all the, like, hot fucking I’ve had!”
Truly the words of a simpleminded, sex-hungry girl, indeed, and truly informative to the whole of her thought process – she was not bright at all.
Let us use this opportunity to fully illustrate our character and finally name her, for she, as the oblivious main character, has not done as supposed and kept her name secret. She was named Felicia Morrow by her parents, but took to being called “Seemo” as a nickname due to a long forgotten reason; she possess, as previously stated, a mane of long blonde hair, that reaches her bottom, and crowns a face possessing eyes of the deepest blue, a nose of perfect sway, and full, red lips that were formed in a perpetual O and coated in red lipstick; legs, almost as long as her torso, perfectly waxed and toned thanks to long hours of cheerleader duty, and attached to the legs were a pair of tiny, soft and equally pedicured feet; her other assets were a pair of breasts of a size neither fair nor modest, but big enough to challenge a melon in circumference, and a bottom on par with those of the chiselled statues of Rome; her skin was the colour of bronze, the colour a white skin takes when over exposed to controlled sunlight. All of these assets were part of a body that knew the regularity and need of obsessive exercise.
Seemo, as she likes to be called, was dressed in a sky blue attire of a shirt too small and too tight for her ample bosom, and a short of flowery print; it was, after all, sleep time. But sleeping was far from what this not-so-smart girl was doing; instead of resting she was exercising the now needy muscles between her tights, namely those of her sex. It seems that the memories of past nights and days and mornings and evenings of “hot fucking”, as the lady refers to, reacted inside of the pleasure parts of her brain and set a chain of events that ended with one of her hands inside the flowery shorts while the other played with one ample breast through sky blue fabric.
Most young ladies of her age would not end up like herself, eagerly satisfying her sexual needs, but she was not like most young ladies, since she is a bimbo. She needs the sexual gratification to work, more or less, at full throttle. Her eager massaging of her naughty bits became sonorous as she began to moan and groan and speak loose words that made little sense, something all too common.
“Oh… fuck yes! Yeah!” She chanted and cursed, “Fuck yes… so… good…” She kept on.
This went on for a quite while until a loud moan and the writhing of legs occurred. Afterwards, she lies on her bed, panting. And out of the blue, Seemo began to inspect her lovely room, decorated with posters of boy bands and actors, until she sees, neatly ordered in a corner devoted to high heels and a pair of white sneakers, the pair of black leather boots she had bought hours before.
Seemo stared at the boots and then at the heels, the heels gained a frown of disapproval. “I can’t believe I have, like, so many of those things!” She said, angrily looking at the many pairs of heels, “Gosh! They are so impractical! Not like those beautiful boots.” Seemo’s eyes widened. She could not believe that those naughty words had come out of her mouth; she loved heels, they made her move so sensually, but they were so very impractical. Both statements were right.
She stood up and walked towards her collection of shoes, stumbling on the way since her legs had not yet recovered from the previous experience of an orgasm. She reached for the boots, kneeling in front of them, and began to caress the leather, “They feel so nice,” she thought. She then stared at the heels. In one quick motion of anger and resolve, she grabbed every single ache-making heel and threw them in the depths of her closet, a closet big enough to walk in, and into a pile of clothes she deemed to ugly to be seen with twice.
Seemo was confused, extremely so, and still aroused, strongly aroused. She didn’t feel like feeding the sexual monster inside of her any longer and decided to just fall on the bed and finally sleep. As she fell into the land of the Dream Gods, she smelled the scent of her own sexuality on the bed, and maybe that of men, and her stomach growled in disgust.
Seemo was indeed confused.
You’ve seen a fraction of what one bimbo can be, in the form of Seemo, something small in comparison to the following scene: five young girls, similarly dressed to Seemo, and our protagonist sat on a table somewhere on a cafeteria of a very deviant school that made a very poor choice of not implementing a uniform.
Six girls in attires of tight t-shirts with happy slogans or cartoon pictures on them, skirts of inadequate length or shorts of a tightness not fit for a school, and, of course, heels. Well, not really six girls in similar attires since Seemo broke their unspoken rule on how their little group should always be dressed by wearing on her feet black, leather boots. The sight of this bimbo cheerleader dressing in something so uncharacteristic of the stereotype, so expressive of an intelligence she did not possess, so contrasting with her little group of airheads sent ripples through the social and gossip strata of the small hell-dimension that is a high school. Seemo, a girl that was usually so preoccupied with her image and how that image was perceived by the overall populace, for the first time in her short life, found the comments about herself and her attire to be quite unworthy of her limited attention; and whenever she realized she no longer felt much at how people looked at her, she felt fear inside of herself.
“Gosh, girl. Like, what the hell are you wearing?” Was the first comment one of her so-called friends had made at the sight of the pink dressed Seemo.
Seemo’s first response was to state the obvious, “They are, like, black, leather boots,” She dreamingly said to her friend.
Another “friend” asked why she was wearing such, and I quote, “ugly” shoes instead of her, and I quote again, “lovely” heels. Seemo laughed at the “lovely” adjective used to describe the footwear she, in just two days, had grown to completely hate.
“Heel are, like, totally impractical,” Seemo answered to her ditzy companions, “Besides, boots are much more softer on the feet.”
Gasps of disapproval escaped fat lips with non-human colours on them. Her friends insulted her and made fun at her, “How could you wear something so ugly!” they said, but Seemo, though very, very angry and disgusted at herself for wearing something so distasteful, didn’t really care. The girls kept on teasing Seemo, shifting from her attire to sexual acts, but soon boredom hit them when Seemo did not fought or commented back. Soon the conversation drifted towards more simpler and miserable matters.
“Did you see how bad his hair was?” Commented one of the girls, referring to one of the teachers in their unwise little school.
“Gawd! Yeah, it was, like, all scruffy and stuff,” Said another with even less verbal skill.
“And his shirt was bright red, he looks like a neon sign!” Said Seemo, trying to find her way into a social interaction she usually enjoys.
“Yeah, it totally didn’t combine, like, with the rest of his clothes,” Finally said one who had mostly kept her comments to a minimum requirement of girlish giggles.
This conversation regarding one person or another’s looks or deeds or rumours kept on for quite a while, never drifting, as conversations do, towards more important or interesting matters. Seemo tried, many knew how hard she tried – but poor girl, she is just a bimbo! – but no matter how hard she tried she could just not find real interest in the conversation, soon growing bored with the themes of the conversation. Seemo felt sad for she could not partake in something that usually brought her senseless joy; instead, it now only bored her and even, at some lost point in the conversation she had stopped following, annoyed her.
As a way to distract herself, Seemo began to think about things she did enjoy, diversions like cheerleading (the choreographies always made her feel at peace and happy, the outfits that made her conscious of her beautiful body, and the stares she felt on her skin coming from both sexes; she did enjoy being a cheerleader), men (the creatures that served so very well in pleasuring her every need), clothes (beautiful ornaments that accentuated her assets), exercising (an activity that kept her body in its natural attractive state and always made her hot in more ways than one). Seemo was now smiling, the images she had conjured relaxing her increasingly troubled mind, and, surprisingly enough for herself, making her crave sexual attention – the combined ideas of cheerleading, boys, clothes and sweaty exercise excited her beyond her own believe.
Seemo had started to present physical manifestation of her growing need when a new thought invaded her list of things she did enjoy: black, leather boots. It was a strange realization that had yanked her away from the edges of a lake of pure sexual need. She realized that she now really liked black, leather boots. She raised one of her legs and began to caress the footwear.
“Gosh! Girlfriend, hide those ugly things,” Screamed one of her so-called friends when Seemo started to rub her lovely boots.
Seemo stared at the girl, suddenly realizing how very pointless was to be in the presence of girls that had little more than candies for brains. She stood and, with a prideful twirl, left the table where she once felt so very comfortable and now felt like an alien, her feet feeling powerful in their new cosy homes. Seemo left a table full of five dumbfounded girls, who had never experienced rejection, and a cafeteria full of awed onlookers.
As she walked out of the under crowded cafeteria, Seemo could not help but notice a small group of about seven, both boys and girls, dressed in all-black clothes, engaged in intellectual conversation. Seemo found herself strangely interested on the little group of outcast Goths that she usually hated very much.
Seemo had found herself aimlessly striding the hallways of the school, her mind full of confusing thoughts as the why she could not find conversations regarding her favourite subjects interesting. Every now and then she came into close contact with many a man who’s presence cheered Seemo – Seemo wanted to flirt and seduce these many men she suddenly found herself alone with, but found the sounds of her boots on the hard floor to be a much more pressing matter.
Eventually, she found herself inside a very wide room, a huge room, which housed countless amounts of books – the library.
“Eww,” Our bimbo girl thought, “Books! Like, so boring.” her bimbo instincts still strong and not yet overtaken by the strange changes occurring within her psyche. Though she wished to abandon the most beautiful house of printed worlds, Seemo felt strangely attracted to the endless rows of literature.
She walked past one line of books, curiosity leading her to inspect the many tittles and hardcovers, then the next and then another. This last one caught her attention for it featured fashion magazines; but, as soon as she cheerfully turned to grab one, something else caught her attention: a sign, one of many detailing the contents of a specific row of books, that read “horror fiction”. She smiled, unknowingly and sexily walked towards it, passing by estranged onlookers, and, once her nose could smell the very pages of the books, inspected the rows and aisles of books with true interest. Her sight was caught by some title, her bimbo face suddenly bright with literary curiosity and interest, something so uncommon and so ugly on such a bimbo face, as her hand moved towards it, slowly taking it away from its book-brothers. Seemo, the once illiterate girl, found herself reading with interest. And reading a Lovecraft book, nonetheless!
Her feet turned, and she began to walk to a table far away into the library’s back that none would be able to detect this attractive cheerleader of ample bosom’s reading. She sat on a comfy, leathered chair; her legs separated enough to attract many a seeker, but closed enough to avoid any flashing of pink underwear, absentmindedly twirling a lock of fake-blonde hair.
As she read on, the decreasingly bimbo cheerleader found herself drawn to the context of the story; she felt true emotions and sincere – something that she previously only felt for high hells and cheerleading – for the character, she wished to know what would happen, she felt true dread at every word masterly crafted to evoke fear.
Seemo was so submerged in that book that she did not notice two things her body was doing: One was the sudden, yet subtle, changes in body language; she had stopped twirling her hair, her obnoxious yet cute giggling ceased, her legs uncrossed as she sat on one of them. The second thing was much more impossible to not notice, but Seemo didn’t, as it turns out: she, or at least her body and subconscious mind had, found that the simple act of reading caused her deep sexual pleasure. As she read on, her body became flushed with a newfound yet oblivious arousal, but she kept on being oblivious to this. Her legs began to squish together, her pussy began to lubricate, and her most amazing nipples began to poke through her pink bra and tight top. Seemo felt hot, Seemo felt needy, Seemo felt aroused, and Seemo did not notice this at all! She was far-gone into the book, gone many chapters already, when a hand that was not holding the book crept under the table and up her short skirt. The book got more interesting and her arousal more intense. The aforementioned hand began by slowly and lazily caress her needy pussy through her pink undergarments; up and down the fingers played, then round and round, and lastly they did not move but vibrated on a single spot. Seemo began to moan; luckily, she was well hidden in the lonely library.
“Hmmm, fuck yes…” She whispered with a breath-covered moan.
The hand started to increasingly try to penetrate the underwear and gain access to the depths of Seemo’s sex until it finally displaced the pink underwear to one side, immediately entering Seemo’s sex as if the hand was the one craving and no Seemo’s pussy. In and out, went one finger; then two; then three. Three fingers were working wonders inside Seemo’s pussy as she moaned and panted and, still completely mesmerized by it, read the Lovecraft book.
“Fuck me,” She said to her fingers, probably, for there was no one around to hear her, “Yes… more… fuck me.”
Seemo’s reading increased in speed at the same time her three now cunt-juice-covered fingers began to finally work Seemo’s sex into an orgasm. Seemo’s legs began to move in small but quick fits, her nipples were begging for attention, her breathing was difficult and came only in pants and moans.
“Fuck yes… hmmm,” Seemo began to moan, “Like, more… yes, fuck me…” She kept on imploring, her mind not really concentrating on anything but the book or it was just that her mind didn’t wanted her to notice.
Soon enough, after a long stretch of book had been read, Seemo had a multitude of very powerful orgasms. Her sex exploded at the multiple surges of pleasant and powerful sensations. Seemo’s pants and moans echoed, but luckily none heard them. Her fingers remained inside her sex for some seconds, still absentmindedly moving, before they came out with a pop; her underwear, wet and ruined, returned to its proper place and Seemo came to her senses, still oblivious to what had just occurred.
Seemo looked around; she felt relaxed and at peace in the library; she felt good at having read a book and wanted to read much more of it. She stood up and began to walk towards the front door where she knew she had to go in order to be able to take the book home with her. But, on her way out, Seemo saw another group of boys and girls, all dressed in black, reading and speaking of interesting matters; she stared at them for a second, “What a bunch of losers,” She thought, “Being all angsty and stuff.” But soon her thoughts drifted towards their clothing: prominently black attires of shirts with clever slogans or artistic pictures, black jeans of baggy fit, leather boots just like hers, and many a dark-stained jewel and accesory. Seemo then looked at her attire, suddenly feeling inadequately dressed.
“I need to go shopping!” She said cheerfully, and for some reason, not that anyone would really have asked for a reason, she grabbed her breasts with both hands, “I’ll, like, buy a lot of black clothes and stuff.” She chanted as if to convince her troubled mind.
Seemo stared at the group for a while longer before turning towards the perplexed and confused librarian. The procedure to retire the books was easy and successful, and soon Seemo left the library with a smile on her face that showed great intelligence. Intelligence, alright!
The young and learned lady that Seemo was turning into had promised herself an evening of an activity that she found quite enjoyable, an activity called ‘shopping’; but her growing apathy to things she usually considered girly, and for that very reason, enjoyable, had become an obstacle; and so, three days have gone by since that promise. Though she had, at one point or another, found a place conveniently located on her way to and from school in which she was able to acquire one single article of the most needed black that would soon be the only thing to grace and cover her lower body area from the world. Said piece of clothing was in the form of a skirt, a black short skirt that just reached over her mid-tight. Of course, a short skirt was a form of garment that Seemo was all too used to wearing, been the only clothing item that was deemed sexy and worthy enough to cover her lower part that she wore at all; but, though the contrast of bright pink and blackest black was diminished, the sight of a such a voluptuous and blonde beauty wearing a tight, pink top with a black, short skirt and shiny, black boots was still unsettling.
Since Seemo’s altercation with her so-called bimbo friends, she had taken to spend an increasingly amount of time alone and away from these bimbos, now spending most of her free time reading the majestic find that was Lovecraft and others such authors of the genre. Of course, many in the community that is a high school were curious at this development but few dared to talk to the still blonde cheerleader.
But there was something that no one had any knowledge of, not even Seemo; and that something was the increasing fact that whenever Seemo read a book, any book, her most needy sex tingled and ached and begged for attention; and soon enough, just when Seemo’s concentration was completely taken in by literature, and quite unconscious of the activities of her body, one of her hands would start to caress her nether lips using her very bright and very pink undergarments as a catalyst for even greater levels of pleasure – for it was the touch of the pink undergarments on her skin and sex that gave Seemo higher levels of pleasure than most things – and eventually penetrate into her own body and move in varying but enjoyable ways. This activity, on par with reading, continued for quite a time until a great orgasm closed in on the horizon; and as soon as it reached, Seemo was transformed into a panting mess of a black-and-pink-dressed cheerleader who would stop reading, stand up and giggle like a bimbo before retiring.
Though the increasing apathy for enjoyable shopping-time had stopped Seemo from impulsively buying many an attire of the blackest black or most strange artistic picture, her bimbo love for maniacal expenditure of income and acquisition of clothing goods won the battle, and soon was she trying on outfits in stores where she, had her mind been in her usual bubbly state, would’ve never stepped inside. It took the better part of the Day of Saturn, but eventually Seemo left the gallery of stores and shopping centres carrying many a bag full of clothes and attires she now found more appealing and even more, to her still lingering bimbo instincts and some other parties’ amazement, appropriate for someone who had discovered the joys of Lovecraft, Poe, King and other great masters of literature.
Seemo arrived home latter that very evening, and stealthily made her way to her favourite dwelling place – her room – and once there she began to ceremonially, as many times before, remove from every single bag her new acquisitions; acquisitions she found herself eager to dress into.
Every bag contained an assortment of black coloured items of different ilk; and once the young lady that Seemo was becoming took every single garment out of it’s plastic prison, one could easily discern what was the kind of attire that Seemo was aspiring to create, for she bought an assortment of skirts, all in dark colours and none shorter than her mid-tight or longer than her knees; shirts, t-shirts and jackets of either dark colours, smart slogans or interesting designs; black stockings and pantyhose – for she now found herself strangely attracted to the material she once detested – and many forms of fishnets, be them for her legs or for her arms; two new pairs of footwear in the form of similar, but quite more complex and adorned, black boots; and underwear of matching black and simplicity – though, among the many dark-coloured bras and panties, were two matching sets of very pink and very sexualized bras and panties – two things that showed that the bimbo girl that Seemo unknowingly is leaving behind still fights for control.
Seemo had hoped to enjoy her newest acquisitions in peace and tranquillity when her much loved and caring mother, a woman with a dark hair colour and fair built came in into her quarters with a cheerful smile on her face and holding the newest version of Seemo’s cheerleading uniform – a combination of blue short skirt and a tight pink t-shirt with some lettering of no importance on it.
“What are those things on your bed, sweaty?” Seemo’s mother giggled with sheer curiosity.
Seemo stared back at the parent she now realized was so very different, and seemed so alien to her.
“I bought all these cute outfits today. Thought of changing my wardrobe,” Seemo said matter-of-factly and with pride, tasting the way the new words and the new intonation she had just used felt against her cotton-gummed mouth.
“But they are all b-b-black!” Shrieked Seemo’s mother, her eyes growing with shock and her arms shrinking towards her chest – her whole body recoiling with dread, “H… How c-can you dress in such ugly things!?” She said as she pointed towards the items on Seemo’s bed with extreme disgust, the cheerleader’s uniform hanging from one of the hands protecting her heart, as if the items would kill her if near her.
“Mom,” Seemo began to say with a stern voice – a very foreign voice, really – as she stood up, her heart filled with a sudden alien conviction; and she felt surprised at what that conviction said, “I am seventeen years old; and I’ve been a bimbo my whole life!” Seemo’s newfound mentality roared, “If I continue being a bimbo, I will never amount to anything beyond a cheap stripper! As nice as that sounds, I can’t!” And finally, she added, “These clothes and the books you don’t like me reading are the first step I begin to be much more!”
Seemo just stared at her dumbfounded mother, feeling liberated and powerful yet, underneath all her broken black-and-pink exterior, extremely sad and angry.
“Well,” Seemo’s mother began with a broken voice and a heart full of mixed surprise and pity, her eyes unable to meet those of her changing daughter, “Y-You can do whatever… You want…” Words enough to describe how she felt eluded her, in the end she just didn’t say anything, “Where do I put this?” She added, meaning the cheerleader uniform on her hand, eyes inspecting the ground. Seemo replied with a sudden cheer worthy of said uniform, and asked, with a pink-lipped smile, for her mother to leave it on one unimportant piece of furniture and for the former to retire seeing as she had matters she preferred to attend to alone. Her mother unwillingly complied.
Standing there alone in her room, Seemo felt just like a thousand heels would’ve made her feel before – for the first time in her pink-coloured life had she been in control; and she loved it! And to further baptize that turning point in her life, Seemo peeled off her decreasingly girly clothes and stood, naked and hairless from the neck down, before the black jewels in the form clothing items before her.
Seemo, or Felicia, as she was now starting to refer to herself, grabbed a match of plain black, lacy upper and lower undergarments – nothing too exotic but not too tame either – and tried them on. But once she gazed upon the mirror image of her body clad in black underwear instead of the usual pink, she felt uncomfortable; she did not feel stings on her skin, and neither anything like human waste on her porcelain. Seemo just felt uncomfortable – not really at home. She tried to ignore the weird sensations – Oh! How, did she try! – But, no matter how many new or differen layers of black items she wore, or how many interesting and distracting matters she tried to occupy her mind with, the sensation of the bra and panties underneath her skirts and t-shirts, against her skin, making it recoil in repulsion, was unbearable; and soon she stood naked in front of the many items once again.
And on went the evening, or night, depending on the rarely followed span of time, in which Felicia tried, time and time again, to wear any of the many forms of black undergarments she had bought, only to find that every single one felt revolting on her skin; every single black or dark-coloured panty, any plain, black bra… All felt disgusting.
Felicia sat on her bed and spent a couple of minutes pondering on what to do next, her bimbo mind suddenly transformed into something so very different. At one point, out of desperation, she thought of not wearing any undergarments at all, but a voice called in her head, “Like, I am not a slut.” The voice said, destroying any strange urges. Felicia then remembered the underwear she previously and usually wore, the underwear of extreme girlish proportions.
She tried to think of another solution, for wearing such mementos of her previous life would probably and eventually pull her back into it, “Like, yes, silly!” Her bimbo mind whispered, “Never again!” Her Goth mind sang. But she could just not go without covering her more sexually sensitive areas, and it was so that Felicia, reluctantly, began to dress in a bra of light pink colour, and frilled design and one panty of equally pink shine. Though embarrassed and angry at this kind of underwear being the only one which would not cause her aches, Felicia could not help but feel an intense heat of arousing proportions building inside her sex and on her most perfect breasts, once both items rested on her skin. Felicia felt confused, but the delicious, moan-provoking sensations were just too strong, and soon enough she was using the material of the underwear as a catalyst for even more pleasure, pushing it deep within her hungry sex and rubbing it against growing nipples. She rubbed, she stroke, she circled – she did all she could think of to bring pleasure to her body until a reward so powerful that rocked her body and tightened the tissue known as muscles invaded the whole of her body.
And as soon as that wave of intense self-pleasure helped Felicia surf into sweet, short-lived mental oblivion, she screamed: “Like, oh my god! That was, like, so good,” A clear example of what Felicia, or Seemo, seeing how she acted for a few seconds, feared would happen if she wore the orgasm-inducing underwear; but Felicia had liked the last couple of minutes too much to care for such a matter.
Once her body would respond to a mind that had just returned to full cognitive power, she stood and proceeded to further dress her body with the clothes she knew she had to wear to mark the new chapter in her life.
Eventually, Felicia stood before the gate of vanity known as mirror, and rejoiced at her now complete attire: one black t-shirt with the word “Necromancer” printed on the front, hiding extremely well the pink, girlish bra underneath, yet accentuating Felicia’s most ample bosom; a very black skirt, with hem brushing the length of three fingers above Felicia’s knee; a leather belt, with a silver skull-shaped buckle keeping it in position, rested on her hips and on the skirt’s material; a pair of fishnet gloves adorning the palms and backs of her hands; and her two first, and by far favourite, leather boots protecting her stocking-covered feet from the cold ground underneath.
“I look so like a Goth girl,” Felicia said in an overly merry voice and with a smile so bright and empty that even the sun, in all its indifference, was mesmerized by it. But suddenly it changed to an expression of amazement and disgust.
“What was that?” She said, covering her mouth with her hands, questioning the voice that had just escaped her lips, “What is, like, happening to me?”
Inside her mind, Felicia began to contrast and compare both her new, book-loving, black-dressed self against that of Seemo, the pink-dressed, sex-addicted bimbo cheerleader. In a way, as it is with the mental planes, both personas discussed and fought against each other while the body both inhabited walked, once again, towards the bed and sat there, confused and flushed with arousal. Felicia spoke of the prospect for a better and learned life with much possibilities, while Seemo, in her own bimbo way, verbalized the fun it was to be a bimbo cheerleader. The battle, for it could be called a battle, between the two versions of the person legally known as Felicia Morrow raged for quite a long time – though mental time is that much faster than material time – until a decision was made, though unknowingly, by Felicia herself; both forms of Felicia Morrow will exist within her, but the Goth will dominate all aspects- Felicia will become a Goth Girl – while the bimbo cheerleader that was Seemo will affect minimum, yet important details that will make Goth Felicia that much interesting and happy.
But the very nature of the agreement that created the now complete and new Felicia Morrow was unknown for once the mental battle reached a certain point, a new wave of pleasure and arousal hit Felicia so hard that she passed out.
Felicia woke, some hours later, from a strange dream made of a kaleidoscopic blend of two colours. Once the dumbness of her muscles went away, Felicia crept out of bed and made herself ready for another school day. She changed off her wrinkled Goth attire and her bimbo underwear, and showered. The hot shower revitalized Felicia’s body and calmed her troubled mind enough for her to remember the books she found herself drooling over; though, the memory of the delicious and most interesting horror and mystery stories made her body produce a different set of fluids, namely from her sex.
Seeing as she was able to escape the needs from her body, Felicia proceeded to dress. And like the night before, she could just not wear the black underwear she acquired the previous day, and had to surrender to the pink, bimbo underwear she had always wore; the sensation of the pink on her skin slightly aroused her, but her will was powerful enough to divert her attention from the most delicious need and proceed with covering the blue thong and blue push-up bra that she found herself wearing.
Soon Felicia left her home, completely impacting her mother with her new look; dressed in black skirt, black boots, and black jacket – dressed all in black, except for the pink inside. And it was this pink inside that made Felicia feel so very good.