All These Roadworks note: The following text is the first chapter of Bimbofied by Older Brother by Bimbo Blackwood. The complete novella-length tale of incest, mind control and bimbofication is available now in the All These Roadworks store for only $7.99 USD! Get your copy now! (Click here to view.)
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“You don’t want us living on the streets, do you?”
I look up at my big brother with a sulky frown. It’s not that he doesn’t deserve help paying the bills, because he does, and now that I’m eighteen, I know I should try harder to find a job—especially because Brent’s been doing it all on his own since mom disappeared months ago. My hesitation is that his “easy solution” to our money problems is gross and sleazy.
“I just don’t feel right about it,” I mumble, blushing as he points at my bare feet and exclaims, “You like painting them up anyway! No one’ll even see your face, Sophie. It’ll be quick, anonymous cash! Just flirt with some losers and show them your pretty toes—”
“But that’s weird!” I argue. “And why would anyone wanna pay to see my feet?”
I cringe as he sinks to his knees before me, gritting my teeth as his large hands grip my ankles. “Because dudes are weird,” he half teases, half pleads, his blue eyes boring into mine as he runs one hand down the front of my left foot and squeezes. I’m not sure whether to laugh or pull away at his over-the-top display as he pulls the foot he’s gripping up and gives it a slow, mocking kiss, like an old-timey gentleman might kiss a lady’s hand. “These little piggies could earn us a fortune!”
“Get off me, creep,” I grouse, but I can’t help but smile as he drops my foot and sticks out his tongue, then acts like his hand is dirty by grimacing.
“You’ll have to wash them up though, pee-yew!”
I laugh and kick at him. “Whatever! I’m not doing it!”
“Come on, Soph,” he says seriously, sitting beside me on the couch. “I really need the help, and I’m not asking that much of you. I’ll take the pictures and upload them to the site. All you have to do is talk to people. You love chatting it up, right?”
“Not like that,” I grumble.
But he’s wearing me down and we both know it. It only takes another sad look and a pitiful, “Please?” before I’m letting him snap some pictures with his phone, groaning as he makes me do dumb things like cross my ankles primly, or stand on my tip-toes so he can hone in on the high arches of my pale, delicate feet.
“You do have really pretty feet,” he keeps saying as I huff at him about how stupid this all is. “Now spread your toes apart, as far as you can….”
My face goes nearly as red as my crimson-painted toenails, because although the other directions he gave me seemed silly, this one seems a little too sexual, although I’m not sure why. I don’t argue since I think that we’re almost done, biting my lip as Brent hums in appreciation.
“Now clench them in the air,” he tells me. “Legs straight up….”
“What?”
“You know . . . like, uh, curl them sensuously, but we’ll show off a little more of your smooth, slender legs, too.”
“Brent,” I whine, flinching as he pushes me flat on my back and pulls on my legs. My hands fly to my jean skirt, making sure it stays in place and doesn’t show off my pink, cotton panties; I’m so embarrassed at getting pulled around like this (by my own brother, no less!) that I can barely bite out the words, “This is really not cool—”
“Last shot, promise,” he interrupts, his fingers gently playing with my toes, pushing them down as nervous flutters go through me.
It feels really fucking weird having my older brother play with my feet, even though I know he’s just trying to get me to do the pose so this entire thing can be over. It’s stupid to think he’s enjoying it more than he should be, but my stomach has worked itself into knots over the captivated look on his face, and I have a horrible feeling that I shouldn’t look at his groin area, like I might suddenly spot something trying to poke through his jeans.
Don’t be gross, I think nervously, closing my eyes as I curl my toes, but I know what my legs-up position is supposed to symbolize, and I hate it.
“I’m going to upload these to Brainless Bimbos and then we’ll sit back and watch the money roll in,” my brother tells me triumphantly a few moments later, and I’m so relieved that he’s not touching me anymore (and that this whole strange photoshoot is finally over) that I barely comprehend his words. “I’ll doctor up a face-shot of you. Maybe photoshop your eyes and lips—”
“Wait, what?” I stammer. “I thought you said I didn’t have to show my face!”
“Well, it won’t be your face really,” he says, looking at me with scrutinizing eyes that suddenly make me feel ugly and small. “It’ll be enhanced! Unrecognizable. You’ll be really hot like the other sites’ girls….”
“Thanks, asshat.”
“Ah, come on. You’re cute, So-so, and I really don’t have to change your features that much. Just enough so that no one knows who you really are, right?”
“Some kind of bimbo, apparently,” I huff. “Was it braless? No . . . brain-dead?”
“It’s just a dumb name,” Brent soothes me. “Brainless. It doesn’t mean anything.”
It gives me an uneasy feeling though, especially knowing that anyone and everyone could go on it and maybe recognize me. I haven’t seen my brother’s photoshop skills, so I have no idea if he’s any good at doctoring photos—and I really, really don’t want my face on this website, in any form, enhanced or not.
I’m too tired to argue about it though, and I soon forget that I might have to do anything else with the site, letting Brent do all the set-up while I get lost in my TV dramas. He doesn’t bother me for the rest of the night (and even orders a pizza when I complain through text that I’m hungry). Really, he’s always been a great and caring older brother—watching out for me and practically being a father figure, even though we’re only a handful of years apart. Today might have been really weird and uncomfortable, but deep down inside, I know he must be doing what he thinks is best for us.
***
“You got your first match!” Brent tells me over breakfast the next morning. “Actually, you have quite a few of them. I knew your feet were super cute.”
“Gross,” I tell him, spitting out the bite of toast that I was chewing on. “I’m not hungry anymore.”
“Don’t be like that. You just have to say sweet things and act girly for tips. It’s easier than having to go out and waitress, right? Probably earns more, too.”
“Whatever.”
“Just try it. For me?”
He gives me his stupid puppy-dog eyes and my grumpy expression melts away. I really do love my brother, even if his weird idea makes me a little sick and anxious. It’s just playing pretend, I tell myself, it doesn’t really mean anything.
And that’s how I find myself parked on the couch with the laptop, messaging men who tell me how sexy my feet and legs are, and how they want to lick and suck on all my toes.
‘Be honest, you like the attention,’ Footfetish69 types to me.
Weirdly, a shiver of pleasure goes through me at reading his words. Do I like the attention? I think I should hate it, but somehow the Brainless Bimbos website seems pretty relaxed and chill, the layout simple and attractive, and the casual texting back and forth is strangely addictive.
‘I guess I kinda do, xoxo,’ I type back, blushing as I realize that I’m getting a little aroused over all the attention, even though when I first sat down and started doing this, I was nauseous.
‘I think you’re really cute—not just your feet, but your face, too,’ he tells me.
A jolt of horror goes through me as I realize that I haven’t yet looked at the pictures Brent uploaded. I click through them, not seeing my face, but only my slim, pale legs going up to the hem of my short, jean skirt (thanks a lot, Brent, I think bitterly, realizing that he definitely wasn’t only shooting my feet for most of these), ignoring all the ones of just my pretty painted toes and slender ankles.
Where is this face pic? I wonder wildly. What the hell is Foot-fucker talking about?
It’s not until I get to my profile that I see my full face-shot, and I gasp in shock. “You lied to me!”
“Huh?” Brent calls from the kitchen, clanging the dishes together loudly as he loads the dishwasher. “What about?”
“You said you wouldn’t show my real face! You said you would shop the pic!”
“Oh yeah….” he calls back.
Hot rage goes through me, but before I can get up and storm off to confront my older brother, another text pops up from Footfetish69, stating, ‘I really love how innocent you look. You’re a really cute girl! I bet you love being so sweet and sexy….’
“I am a cute girl,” I mumble, something in my brain clicking the anger off as flattery goes through me.
I don’t know why it happens, or how my emotions seem to be so placated by this website, but I can’t help but type back, ‘Thanks! Xoxo!’
For a moment I forget about how Brent failed to make me look different, simply uploading a high school graduation photo, where I’m smiling demurely at the camera, my dirty-blonde hair cascading over my shoulders, blue eyes shining bright, my heart shaped face looking sweet and innocent and happy—like a girl just entering womanhood and excited to start her new, adult adventure, where endless possibilities await.
‘I think your lips look like a dicksucking dream,’ Footfetish69 tells me. ‘But they could be a little plumper and bigger, don’t you think?’
Cold shame rushes through me. I lift my hand to my mouth, feeling my thin, pink lips, and I suddenly feel inadequate.
“Brent!” I shout. “Why didn’t you change my face! You fucking liar!”
I slam the laptop shut, cursing as I get up and stomp into the kitchen.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! It’s harder than it looks! I’m sorry, Soph—”
“Now everyone is going to know who I really am!”
“No one uses that site but perverts! Are your friends perverts? Is anyone we know perverts?”
“Well, how the hell do you know?” I howl.
Brent slams the dishwasher shut, starting it with a slap of his hand. “Fuck, I’m sorry! Take the face pic off, then….”
I want to scream at him and tell him that he’s an idiot, but he gives me such a pathetic look that I can only turn away and rush back to the laptop. Maybe if I take my profile picture off the site now, hardly anyone will have seen it. But when I open back up the site, there’s a bunch of pop-up texts from random users, and I find myself distracted by:
‘Wow, you are the cutest girl on this site! So innocent looking!’
‘Man, that pure smile takes my breath away!’
‘Such a natural beauty. God has blessed you!’
Maybe having my face picture up isn’t such a bad thing, I think, noticing that the tips are already starting to roll in. There’s a little money jar on the lower side of the screen that I hadn’t noticed before, and apparently, I’ve already earned $47. That’s really not bad for only being on the site for less than a day, and only talking to people for less than an hour….
Plus, they think I’m really cute, my brain buzzes happily.
I can’t help but thank all the men who are complimenting me, sending ‘xoxo’ and ‘thank you!’ to all of them, smiling as dollars continue to roll in, without me having to do anything more than shyly accept their praise.
Maybe this site isn’t all that bad, a humming thought tells me. Maybe I belong here, somehow….
It’s such a weird thought to have that it almost startles me, but then I forget about it as Footfetish69 offers to pay me $100 just to watch someone massage my feet.
“Wow,” I whisper.
That’s a lot of money. Enough to pay the phone bill, which I constantly feel guilty about, because I’m the one who whined and begged Brent to let me have the newest cellphone with the highest internet service, all so I could scroll the internet and call and text whoever whenever, even after he’d told me that we should really downgrade our plan to the shittiest service imaginable after mom ran off with that trucker she met.
‘I don’t really have anyone here but my older brother. But I could massage my feet with lotion for you, sir….’ It feels so dirty to type it out that I nearly don’t send it, but the dollar signs sink deep into my brain, and so I press enter, already imagining how easy it’ll be to earn money if all I have to do is put lotion on my already silky-smooth feet and show them off to strangers.
‘Just have him do it,’ he texts back.
“Uhh,” I utter, glaring at the kitchen, because it seems like my brother is still hiding in there, even though I can’t hear what he’s doing. “Brent?”
“I already said I’m sorry!” he shouts.
“No, I uh, I uh—”
I’m blushing so hard that I can hardly speak, my throat closing up over the words. Maybe this is going too far, I think, pulling my bare legs under me and sitting on my feet. But it’s not like Brent’s never touched my feet before, I reason, because he was just touching them yesterday. And a hundred bucks would be stupid to refuse if he just needs to touch them a little more.
“What do you need, huh?” Brent asks, poking his head into the living room. “Can you not figure out how to take the picture down?”
“That’s not it,” I admit, staring at the floor. “Some guy just offered a hundred bucks if I stream my feet getting massaged….”
“Holy shit!”
“Yeah….”
We look at each other, my gaze hesitant at his excited, “Are you serious?”
My blush deepens as I whisper, “He doesn’t want me to do it, myself, though….”
“That’s real money, So-so,” Brent tells me, calling me the pet name he uses to really try to win me over; he doesn’t wait for my answer, rushing down the hall towards the bathroom. I hear him rustling around loudly, knowing he’s looking for lotion, and I don’t know why, but somehow it doesn’t seem as horrible as it should be—because Brent doesn’t seem to think it’s a big deal—and because I’m finally going to be earning a real income now, all because some dude online thinks that I have pretty feet.
‘So yes or no?’ Footfetish69 asks me. ‘You want to show off for me, right? You want to show off how delicate and small your pretty feet are in some big, masculine hands. Your brother can make you feel so good in his big hands….’
Everything inside me seems to go blank for a moment, heat filling up the spot where I should be able to think. Compulsion makes me type out, ‘Yes! Of course! Xoxo!’ before I even fully understand the implications of the words.
‘Good girl,’ he types back. ‘Your brother is a lucky man….’
I blink as the heat flares inside my skull and then dissipates. This man is a pervert, and I hate that he wants my own brother to touch me, because that’s really fucking weird. Sickness roils around in my tummy as I think about how Brent touched me yesterday . . . and maybe he kinda-sorta wants to touch me again today, too….
I can barely breathe as my brother reappears. He walks towards me with a bottle of lotion in one hand, his expression neutral. Why doesn’t he look as freaked out as I feel? But there’s no way I can refuse to do this NOW, not with how much money we’ll be making, and so I robotically shift so that he can kneel before me, jerkily pushing my feet towards him, the camera of the laptop carefully pointed down as I turn it on.
I say nothing as my brother carefully squirts the lotion into his hands, knowing that the laptop is picking up the sound of the oily stuff squelching between his fingers as he rubs his palms together.
This is so fucking weird, I think distantly, although the lotion smells amazing, all tropical and coconutty.
I glance at the screen, seeing a string of exclamation points with Footfetish69’s declaration of: ‘YOU WILL LOVE THIS!!!’ and not understanding why a tremor of excitement goes through me, making me suddenly aware of my pussy, of the wetness leaking against my panties.
Why am I getting excited?
I moan in pleasure as my brother’s large, warm hands envelop one of my feet, the blush spreading down my throat as he looks up at me, his gaze interested and unsure. It feels so strange and intimate, the way he slides his callused palms and fingers against the smooth arch of my foot, his fingers threading with my toes, making me tremble as he applies the perfect pressure.
Gently, he rubs the lotion into my skin, smiling and nodding as I moan again, tilting his head towards the screen as more tips start to roll in. I’m suddenly aware that this livestream is broadcasting to all of my ‘followers’, and that only makes me more embarrassed and horny, knowing that several men are paying to watch my older brother massage me, knowing that the sounds of my breathy whimpers are being broadcast to them, making them shell out cash, my tip jar going from $47 to $356 in the blink of an eye.
‘You’re doing perfect. Keep enjoying it. You love to have your feet rubbed,’ Footfetish69 instructs.
And the weirdest thing is, I really do start to love it, especially when Brent gets braver and begins to stroke his fingertips over the fine ridges of my ankle-bones, pressing into the sensitive curve of my arches, and then runs the pad of his thumb along the ball of my foot, before grabbing my other foot and proceeding to give it the same attention.
‘If you cum from this, I’ll tip $500,’ Footfetish69 tells me.
I nearly pull away from Brent, the haze in my mind lifting temporarily, my thoughts screaming, What. The. Fuck!?
But my older brother doesn’t let go, his eyes darting from the laptop screen to my frightened expression, widening in a way that says, ‘Just do it. Just pretend!’
I choke on another moan, horrified when my pussy grows wetter and tightens, spasming slightly as Brent presses just right with his thumbs into the arches of my feet. Why does it feel so fucking good? It shouldn’t feel this good, should it?
My red-painted toes splay out, against my will, and I try to sit up but can’t, my body shaking, as my older brother really massages deep, the pleasure in me expanding.
Could I really cum from this? That would be so, so fucking wrong, and yet somehow I can’t help but give into it, pretending to pretend, even as the pressure builds and builds inside me, and my shaky moans turn more solid, a steady stream of them rising from my chest.
Brent looks up at me, his eyes half-lidded as he continues to work the heels of his hands into my soles, his thumbs pressing into the balls of my feet. He winks at me in encouragement, and for some reason seeing the flush on his cheeks and the heat in his eyes makes the pleasure inside me explode.
“Oh! Oh God!” I moan, my pussy spasming violently as my toes curl, my feet tensing in my big brother’s deliciously warm, large hands.
I shiver through a violent climax, my vision tunneling, and all thought escapes my head as pleasure rings through me in hot, bright pulses. The ding-ding-dings of tips rolling in barely reach my ears, but on a distant level, I can tell that it must be a lot, since I register Brent’s satisfied, “Holy shit! There’s rent….”
For a moment, all I can think about is how good I feel, and then horror starts to sink in. I didn’t fake it. I actually just orgasmed to my own brother touching me. How much of a fucking freak am I?
I groan softly, desperately, wanting to pull away, wanting to run into my room and hide from all of this, but when I look back at Brent, he nods at me with his eyebrows raised, as though he’s praising me for a job well done. Does he know that I actually came? Or does he think that I’m just a great actress?
He quickly clicks the camera off as I stare at him, and then he says, “Good show, Soph!”
“T-thanks,” I stammer.
“We just earned over a grand from that!”
I glance at the laptop screen, shocked to see the digits, $1154 jiggling above the tip jar.
“You wouldn’t earn that waitressing,” he tells me, wiping his oily hands off on his jeans.
He smiles at me, and even though I know he wants me to agree with him, the shame and jittery after-shocks of orgasm going through me are almost too much. I can only look away, not trusting myself to answer.
“I know it was weird, but come on….” he whispers, patting my bare knee swiftly. “All for show, right?”
I nod, staring at a spot on the wall instead of looking at his questioning face. Does he really not have any idea? I wonder. Somehow that makes it worse, even though I know it should only make it better….
“You looked really pretty,” he says. “I know I shouldn’t say that, but it’s true . . . and you look even prettier now.”
“Shut up,” I huff.
“I’m serious!” he exclaims as I get up and slam the laptop shut. “Don’t be like that, Soph!” he calls after me as I push past him and run down the hall. “We’re set for the month! You don’t have to do this again for a while!”
I lock myself in the bathroom, instantly going to the shower to spray off my oily feet. My skin crawls. I feel so dirty and used. Tears leak down my face as I wash the lotion from me, carefully using my fingers to get rid of the slimy-slick feeling between my toes.
Why the hell did I actually get off to my brother massaging my feet? I don’t understand what just happened, although it felt like I wasn’t myself, like I was trapped in some sort of mindless, wet dream, where everything being done to me was against my will, but I couldn’t help but enjoy it anyway.
When I’m done spraying off my feet, I stare at myself in the mirror, and my breath freezes in my throat.
What the hell? Were my lips always like this? I touch my mouth, feeling alien and unsure as I vaguely remember it being thinner and less pink—although now my lips seem fuller, darker . . . more sensual. I blink at myself. Something about my eyes looks different, too. I’ve always had pretty, blue eyes, but they seem even more vibrant, the lashes thicker and darker. Maybe it’s just from all the blood rushing to my face because of how hard I orgasmed, and how embarrassing that was, because my cheeks also seem fuller and rosier—but I could also be going insane.
“What the fuck is happening?” I ask myself, my hands scrubbing at my face.
I’m probably just in shock from everything that went on today. My older brother—my almost father figure—just made me cum by touching my goddamned feet. I just made over a grand by filming it for all the perverts to see . . . and I’d liked it, not just pretended to like it, but actually liked it . . . like some sort of whore.
So, an existential crisis then? my thoughts taunt me. The vision in the mirror has probably always been me, but I’m just disassociating because I’m so traumatized . . . or something.
Brent leaves me alone for the rest of the day, only texting me the normal stuff (that he’s made lunch, that he’s ordering in for dinner, that he’s going out with his friends and not to expect him home until tomorrow) and I quietly delude myself to believe that although whatever happened between us was extremely weird, that he doesn’t seem to know how fucked up it actually was, and that we can recover from it and move on.
“You made rent for the month,” I tell myself, trying to be happy as I eat the Chinese delivery he’s gifted me. “You don’t have to go on Brainless Bimbos anymore….”
At least not for a long while. And it’s easy to think things are okay, when present me doesn’t have to face them for some time (that’s future Sophie’s problem!). So, I ignore reality, getting lost in my TV shows and slowly blocking out what Brent and I had done. I hardly think of it over the next several weeks, happy that he seems to be just the same brother he’s always been, and happy that I’m not being harassed to help out with the bills, because we seem to have them covered. For now….
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