It was all, Sonya reflected, such a terrible cliché.

Of course, no one needs to get a boob job, and no one needs to get lip injections. And, as important as fitness is for your health, no one needs to be spend fifteen hours a week at the gym, maintaining just the right balance of slim and curvy. And, as enjoyable as lounging out in the sun is, no one needs to tan on the roof of their penthouse every day while normal people are working.

And what was even worse, she considered—admiring the contrast between her platinum hair and her golden skin—after all that, after turning herself into the plastic Barbie doll she saw in the mirror, was going bottle-blonde. Nothing could be more predictable.

But of course the outfit was the worst. Just the idea, the hoop earrings and the little bow around her throat and all the frilly pink and white and the silly, stupid ears. Just because they’ve turned themselves into a vapid-looking bimbo slut, no one has to go dress themselves up as a bunny girl for D—their husband’s fancy dinner party.

And certainly, certainly no one has to grin and giggle when Da—their husband introduces them to his fellow board members, and let the knowledge she’d be sucking their dicks later on twinkle in her big, empty eyes.

No one had to do those things… Except, Sonya did, she’d had to do it all—the tits, the tan, the hair, the body, the outfit, the earrings, the being a filthy, dripping-wet slut anytime Daddy wanted—she’d had to turn herself into this walking, simpering stereotype. It was like she hadn’t had a choice.

Ever since they’d gotten married, she’d been making fewer and fewer choices. She let him make them, instead.

Something was wrong, Sonya was sure of it, and if she could just figure out what—

“Are you almost ready in there, Barbie doll?”

Barbie gasped at the way his deep, dark voice shot from her ears straight down between her legs. Her ass tightened reflexively and she stood up straight—looking, for a second, in the mirror, like a for-real Barbie doll, instead of a human pretending to be one. She giggled at the idea.

“Yes, Daddy. Wanna come ’n’ see?”

She heard the sound of the door opening, but stayed still until he told her otherwise. And if anything about the way she looked seemed strange, or clichéd, or like nothing she ever would have wanted up until about a year or so ago, that never occurred to Barbie—she was too busy imagining how good Daddy’s big strong hands would feel on her titties.