January 4, 2014
A NEW HOME
As has become tradition, I celebrate a new city by going to a supermarket and turning some girl into a panting, mindless pleasure slut.
Her name was Alice and she was there with a very lucky boyfriend. I picked her out because she was fairly short—5′3″ or so—but still put time and effort into her ass. She wore black yoga pants that highlighted her soft, enticing curves. And slight heels at the supermarket!
Like everyone else in the bimboization game, I work almost entirely with chemicals. They’re safe, cheap, effective, and, most importantly, anonymous. But I got my start with mind games and—obsolete as they are—I can still wrangle minds like a professional.
The boyfriend I looped onto the bananas. He stood in front of them in quiet and neverending wonder at the yellow bounty, constantly surprised, forgetting, and then seeing them again.
A long-term bimboization job would take eight or nine hours of mental work, resculpting memory and personality into the form of a mewling, eager to please bimbo bunny. It takes forever and is exhausting. But with the right incentives I’ve long found that even the most independent and career-minded girl can be persuaded to shunt herself into a giggling, pleasure-addicted bimbohood. And it’s far quicker.
I prodded Alice to gently lean over a display of cherries. Then I made her pleasure center start to glow cherry-red, swelling with blood and hormones like she was deep in a relaxed and lengthy banging. Next, a dose of relaxation.
And finally, I coughed gently.
When Alice turned around, she saw me—well, she saw a nondescript male—staring lustfully at her ass. That’s when I banged in the association. Men staring at her ass meant pleasure. Wonderful, euphoric, brain-melting pleasure. A wholesome pleasure, like a deep and long-lasting orgasm in her boyfriend’s arms. An all-american sort of pleasure.
And that’s really all I needed to do. I looked away, apologetic, and the torrent of sweet red heat to Alice’s mind stopped. She examined me with puzzled, liquid brown eyes, still chewing on the sudden wet rush to her slit.
I broke her boyfriend’s trance and, from that point on, kept a discrete distance.
Alice didn’t wait too long. She first followed her boyfriend around, with shaky legs, her oxytocin-soaked mind coping with withdrawal. The rational parts of her put two and two together, and she easily made the connection with the draw of her well-sculpted ass. She was proud of it, after all.
So Alice stood with her legs together and bent over a wine display. Her boyfriend looked over at two perfect half-moons with proprietary interest and real appreciation.
For Alice, it was like someone had slipped six inches of dick inside of her during a bubble bath. Her eyes opened wide, and she started to breathe hard and fast, the rest of her body juicing up like she was getting pumped.
There was a bit of internal struggle. Of course there was. A sense of wrongness, a rational argument that this was bizarre, that she was acting like a bitch in heat at the supermarket. That was she was starting to leak, for chrissakes. All of her concerns were valid and helpless against a blanket of post-orgasmic bliss. Dulling her mind, her complaints, her intelligence.
I couldn’t help tweaking. An optimization, even. There are so many mental barriers and minor hormone-influenced blocks to cumming really, really hard.
I had plans for the boyfriend, but it wouldn’t do to make Alice just his ass-slut. I had him walk away with some casual explanation about buying bread.
Alice, disappointed, unaccountably angry, stood up. Strolled up and down the aisle. Felt her body start to lose its tingle, her moist and needy slit ache for attention. Already those nagging regrets were starting to fade away, lost in the want for more stimulation.
Heck, given enough time, that stimulation could wear a PHD scientist down right to the nubbins. I’ve had girls orgasm so hard they lose their names.
I was ready for the push, but Alice was a good pupil. She walked herself through the rationalization in no time, and had latched on to the two burly men in the butcher shop.
This time she leaned forwards against a very cold freezer, and slowly arched her back. Her eyes closed as the two sets of male eyes fell immediately upon her rear end. Her panties were sopping wet, and she was loving it.
Morals and social norms were already starting to erode. Alice put one hand back between her legs and started to gently rub herself, right there in the supermarket. What a good girl she was. It made me optimistic for another re-establishment.
I don’t take pictures as a rule, but I have a good mental image of her purring onto the frosted-up glass.
I had half a mind to have the butchers take her, tossing her onto a cold aluminum table and banging her senseless from behind. But Alice had been such a willing girl, so quick to toss away sophistication and education in favor of fingering herself in public. So I brought her boyfriend back and encouraged him to put a hand on her ass.
Alice came, yelping and gushing.
I left them there. I could well imagine what they would do next. The sudden burst of sanity after a shocking display of animal lust. The search for intelligence in a mind suddenly fogged and stuffed with cotton. And then the realization that she was still hot, still horny, still aching to have her buff and toned butt admired by men, any men, hundreds of men, millions of men. That she would do anything, put on any shorts, wiggle on any stage, with her heels locked together and her ass on display.
They appeared at the front of the store some ten minutes later, walking slowly, the boyfriend supporting Alice’s shaky and unsure legs, but with his hand still firmly gripping her rear. She nuzzled close to him, probably wanting nothing more then a shower and a glass of wine while she figured things out.
But I had already convinced all the men in the store to wait idly by the exit. And each gaze collected on her hot, wet, already-wriggling butt as Alice was fuzzed into bimbohood by the collective eyes of so many satisfied and appreciative men.
I drove by them as I left. Alice was bent over the backseat of their sensible VW, her panties on the pavement, her boyfriend giving her a thorough and enthusiastic reaming as she brayed senselessly across the upholstery, and sprayed spit onto the far window.
I kept a small swatch of her pink and white underwear and put it in the jar with the others.
* * *
January 4, 2014
A SIMPLE JOB
Got my first job over the weekend. Happily, a simple low-grade bimboization for a boyfriend—girlfriend.
Not everyone in the community does this—heck, most don’t—but I believe strongly in only bimboizing girls who have a keeper afterwards. Male or female. It’s sad and cruel to sap a girl’s brains and then put her out into the world. To the extent I have a code of ethics, there it is.
The boyfriend didn’t want to be there, which made it even easier. Part of client service of course is letting the guy or girl watch if they want to. But frankly most clients just want the finished bimbo and don’t give a shit about the process, which is unfortunate in my opinion, but understandable.
It’s all very workaday for me but this is my basic process, my most affordable option. Her name was Kylie.
For about a week beforehand—the longer the better—catch her with a hypnotic tone on her cell phone. Here the boyfriend made sure her phone was charged and by the bedstand, and I made calls right when Kylie woke up and right before she was supposed to go down. The morning call puts her in a light trance and discusses how she is a horny, wet, available girl who really should be proud of what a sexy bitch she is. Ideally the boyfriend will bang her immediately afterwards to lock some of that in. The evening call is a more hardedge obedience training and brain-sapper, to make it hard for her to protest.
Some clients stop there, pleased that their girl is dressing in pleated minis and asking if she can give them a blowjob.
Second step is to get into the apartment while both of them are gone. As a rule, the clients don’t get to handle the chemicals. Period. For real hard bimboization I administer personally, for a low-grade one like this I am comfortable with putting it somewhere the client won’t find it. I dosed her toothpaste and told him it was in her pillowcase.
Then it’s a week of monitoring and more phone calls. This client was very easy to work with and really good about sending me pictures. Kylie, smiling as she casually walked around the house topless. Kylie, returning from the mall with a heavy set of lacy purchases. Kylie, puzzling at the blonde streak in her hair. He even got one of her brushing her teeth, to my private amusement—her hair streaked with his jism.
In technical terms, the chemicals act on selected parts of the brain to decrease reasoning and spatial skills. They also have a mild breast enlarging effect which is just part of the package—the chemicals without breast growth cost extra. And mostly what they do is overload Kylie’s system with constant, unceasing, and wonderful feelings of happiness and contentment and horniness. At the end of the week she’ll giggle through Schindler’s List.
I got a common call towards the end of the week.
“[Harold], it’s [Client].”
I can tell he’s peeved but play it off.
“Good to hear from you! How’s it going with Kylie? Her tits come in yet?”
pauses “Well yeah, a few cup sizes. She looks great.”
“Did she quit her job like she said she would yesterday?”
“Yeah she uh… she quit. But that’s the thing. She brought home one of her co-workers and fucked him into the ground. She’s not even apologetic about it.”
mock sympathy from me “We did discuss this.”
And we always do. Clients think I’m giving them the ‘are you sure you want a bimbo fuck slut’ talk because I’m stupid, or something. I do it for my own protection.
“Look, I don’t want her walking around giving head to other guys,” the client eventually says. “Is there anything you can do?”
If the client has been an ass and a half I upsell him to a fidelity hypnosis package and charge him until his bank account burns. But I like this client so I say “sure, I can take care of that. I’ll need an hour with her. Also, how often are you fucking her?”
“Four.” Hesitation. “It’s hard to keep up with her.”
And I have no regrets at all selling him my usual male enhancement package.
Kylie meets me for the first time at a coffee shop. It’s empty, because of me. It’s a random coffee shop because I’m concerned about the association finding my new place of business.
I have to smile when I see her. Such a classic bimbo. Blonde, with great wavy locks, earrings that sparkle even under the wan coffee shop lighting. It’s a mild bimboization so she’s still quite capable of fashion, and has gone with a white tube made out of a fabric so shiny I wonder if it has sequins in it. She wrinkles a pretty nose at the acid caffeine atmosphere.
“Hi!” she bubbles. “[Client] said you were going to help me with my cooking?”
There is very little room for anxiety in her pink puffy mind, but what there is, is that she’s a bad cook for her boyfriend. And she is, she burns toast and struggles with recipes that can’t hold her tiny attention span. But she tries.
Did I mention the before-Kylie? Glasses. Scowls. Dark jeans and black hair swept back into a topknot. Funny how often the hard cases with Master’s in Social Welfare 180 themselves. When I bimboize a blonde she picks a much more nontraditional style.
It’s the work of about ten minutes to gently convince her overtaxed brain that she should restrain herself to her boyfriend for her considerable sexual needs. I encourage her to take up an interest in dildos and vibrators and sybians. She is thinking of fucking a girl she used to know in her old job, and after deliberating, I leave that one alone.
When I’m done I stand up, abruptly, have her twirl one last time for my mental picture, and send her off with a slap on the ass. It’s the only time I touch the girl at all. Kylie—now Candy, although I thought Kylie was fine—is warranted for fifteen years of fucking, sucking, and happy bimbo fun. And that’s just my warranty—I still keep tabs on some of my early girls and they are taking that libido into their 40s.
And that’s what you get for $20,000 in my line of work.
* * *
January 5, 2014
JUST A LITTLE HAREM
It is a bad idea, and I will regret it, but I decided to start a local harem.
It would be more intelligent to wait until I am established in this new town, ensure that the association did not follow me here, and then, perhaps, have a fling with a local librarian. Get her into trashy clothes and convince her that my jizz tastes like ambrosia. And then, maybe a year later, have a friend of hers over for oddly-tasting coffee.
That would be an intelligent idea. However. I spent four years in the last town, where I was extremely comfortable. I left behind a maid, a secretary, a personal assistant, two baristas at my favorite coffee shop and an entire row of shops with female staffers who would assist me in the back room with my erection.
Also I am turning 40 this year.
So a local harem it is. Happily fortune intervened and there are two 25 year olds living in an apartment nearby. One is a graphic designer and the other used to be a bank teller, now she fills out job applications. Perfect.
I’m going to take advantage of Marika and Chloe with a personal favorite, personal fitness. Both of them will be suddenly eager to make positive changes in their health, inspired by the New Year. And I can guarantee that the excess pounds will just melt away and their nagging depression will end. And why wouldn’t a newly-sparked libido accompany weight loss, with a sexy new body to admire?
I planted the suggestion, and while they were out on a sudden and impromptu jog, picked the lock to their apartment. We’ll see what happens next.
* * *
January 6, 2014
Anonymous asked: Who is the first girl you bimboized?
Well the FIRST first girl is uninteresting. My early experiments were limited and juvenile. Give a girl overwhelming lust. Or make a cheerleader orgasm during a football game. That kind of adolescent stuff.
My first real bimbo was Erin. And by first bimbo, I mean where I had moved past a basic obsession with measurements and focused on the complete bimbo lifestyle. First girl to wake me up by giving head: Erin. First girl to declare that all of my sperm had to go into her somewhere: Erin. First girl to max out my credit cards and then fuck a store clerk for slingback heels: Erin.
She HAD been my resident assistant at the dorms, and wore glasses so thick they made her eyes massive and wide-eyed beyond the lenses. It became the locus of her bimboization, going to an “eye doctor” and gradually improving her prescription, her fashion sense, her lust for boys. She rationalized her growing chest as finally seeing it correctly for the first time. Her need for dick was just finally appreciating what a decent cock looked like. When she got her first pair of contacts I fucked her on a balcony on the tenth floor, letting her enjoy the view with clear eyes.
She was with me for over ten years. I must’ve cycled her through a dozen different bodies, cultures, hundreds of addictions and fetishes. A shoe obsession, a mania for having a vibrator up her slit, a lust for blowjobs so strong she must’ve vacuumed half the town dry. Every kind of hair color, tit size, lactation even. And yet I never changed her pussy, which I could’ve recognized blindfolded, a hundred women into a marathon session.
Over time I started using her in recruitment and bimboization. Girls tend to trust other girls—at least, in the right situation. So I put Erin in the hair salon with the special salon, or had her calm a struggling half-bimbo by inserting her tongue between the girl’s thighs.
I had even given thought to manumission around the fifteen year mark or so.
And then I lost her in a poker game.
I did offer to buy her back, but almost immediately after I lost her Erin’s new owner got in deep trouble with the association and disappeared. He took his massive harem with him. Certain of his girls have popped up all around the world since then, but never Erin.
To this day I still check our online equivalent of a Lost-And-Found, keeping an eye out for her. She’d be over forty now. Often I wonder where she ended up.
* * *
January 7, 2014
mcgman001 asked: So you’ve wound up the bimbo and then let her go...how do ensure that the dude you left her with will make a good master? Lover? Daddy? Father?
You have the wrong idea. I am not these girl’s magical fairy, there to usher them into a land of sexual delights and pillowy softness. I am a professional. I am much more like a car mechanic. I am paid large sums of money to make everything well lubricated, with the engine humming, so that you enjoy a smooth and comfortable ride. That’s where my involvement ends.
…But I get what you’re saying, which is: what about the sadists? It honestly rarely comes up in my line of work. The soft bimboization I specialize in produces giggly, happy girls who are always eager to please. Brutalizing them would be like kicking a puppy around. And if the guy likes a bit of BDSM, well, easy enough to make the girl love it too. Don’t forget also that this bimbo is a five-figure-or-more investment for these guys, they aren’t eager to abandon her.
On the rare occasions that I pick up an obviously fucked-up client I walk away and put him on the DNB list. The association to their credit lets me keep access to that.
* * *
January 8, 2014
Anonymous asked: Have you ever bimboized a superheroine? If so, was it harder or easier than you expected?
Way out of my league. Also that would require magic and I don’t do magic.
* * *
January 8, 2014
A HARD BIMBO
Did a hard bimboization today. Consensual. I specialize in soft bimbos and I’ll usually only do a hard if it’s consensual. Nonconsensual hard bimboization requires special equipment that I don’t have, you want someone like Bimbotech for that work.
Becky was 35, a flat-faced brunette with a tired, wet voice. She and client lived in an underfurnished apartment with ikea furniture. She served me coffee and set out chips like I wasn’t about to turn her into a wet little fuckdoll forever.
“We’ve talked about this for a long time,” she said. I hadn’t asked. “I’m a school teacher. For middle school. And I’m 35 and I don’t want to have kids and I get these migraines and I was finally like, fuck it.”
“Sure,” I said, looking around. I felt like I was selling them life insurance.
“Then [client’s] uncle died and left us some money and we heard about your… service,” Becky went on. She wore dockers and a blue blouse that would’ve fit in perfectly teaching a middle school class.
I didn’t normally give a second warning speech to the girl—and I had already given her one over the phone. But it was a weird situation.
“You know that this is the extreme option,” I told her. “If you’d rather be horny and dim and bimboish, that’s something different. There’s no coming back from this one. You’ll be practically a cartoon. Nymphomanical. Stupid. Constantly horny. You walk down a street, everyone will turn to stare at the slutty whore with the balloon tits.”
Becky licked her lips and smiled, without wavering. For the first time you could really see the conviction in her eyes. Well, whatever.
I finished my coffee. “Okay, lets head to the bedroom.”
I had them fuck each other.
It’s understandable that they wanted direction but I practically had to walk them through how to bang. “Okay, [client], I want you totally naked. No, take your socks off.” Christ, I hate when guys leave the socks on. “Great. Becky, I want you flat on your back with your legs dangling off the bed. [Client], lean into it slightly. You comfortable, baby? Okay, great. I’ll just be standing up here getting the needle ready.”
Hard bimboization uses the needle. Let me digress a bit on that for a nonprofessional audience. These are industry terms and they’re not intuitive. A hard bimbo is not rippling muscle and BDSM, it’s the term for an all-the-way, brain-scrambled, constantly-wet fuck toy. Really, bimbo isn’t the right word. Hard bimbo means a girl who craves sex, lives for it, and has the attention span and brainpower otherwise of a house pet. Soft bimbos are reversible—mostly reversible—hard bimbos are not.
If you want to be technical, there’s a third category, tabula rasa. I don’t do that, period. I don’t make furniture.
“Okay, this is going into your upper arm,” I told Becky, who was starting to get into her husband’s clumsy strokes. She nodded and squeezed her eyes shut. The needle was a big one, and the syringe held a solution that glowed a bright pink. I’m sure the color is all show. I unloaded the contents into Becky.
“Oh shit,” she whispered. She immediately began to get into it more, pushing back with her hips and grabbing on to the sheets. The first reaction to the shot is a sudden, intoxicating sexual euphoria which will last more or less the rest of her life.
“That feeling is the part of brain that controls pleasure swelling up.” The ventral tegmental area and surrounding areas, I didn’t say. “It’ll get four times as big in the next five minutes.” For good. Her brain was very thoroughly getting rewired. It was mostly one big erogenous zone, already. Honestly there wasn’t even any room left for upper reasoning.
“Oh, SHIT,” Becky squeaked. She moaned and bucked, starting to lose control of her reactions. It was a real challenge for hard bimbos to control themselves during sex. They fucked like the animals they were.
“Memory goes next,” I told her. I guess I could’ve left, but it’s helpful to walk the girl through it. And a little fun. “Tell me your name, sweetheart.”
“Becky,” she answered, concentrating.
“Full name,” I said.
“Becky… uh…” her mouth went wide, that first realization that this was more then just a good orgasm, that this was really real. That she had voluntarily flushed her memory, her personality, right down the toilet. Happily, it didn’t seem to stop her from banging her slit against her husband’s cock. The client had grabbed her legs to hold on. “Anderson! Becky Anderson.”
“Middle name?” I asked. But she was gone in the first orgasm, a shrieking, transcendental experience that tore her apart. When her eyes reopened they were slow, half-lidded, and a skein of drool trickled out the side of her mouth.
“What?” she said, her voice husky.
I turned to her husband, who had lost his stroke with her thrashing, wet orgasm. He didn’t seem particularly close to climaxing, which is normal. It’s hard to just hold on. “That turned off her upper reasoning,” I told him. “Did you make sure to get all her computer passwords and bank account numbers and everything?”
He looked at me, wild-eyed. Fair enough. It wasn’t the right time.
“Oh god, I’m still cumming. I’m still.. I’m…” she looked around, confused. I recognized the look. So many things in the room where the words would just fall into place, the context automatic. How locks worked. What car keys did. What the word was for ‘ceiling’. All gone now, blown clean away by her O.
And then Becky lost interest in all of those things, like mathematics and decent grammar, because she had a dick between her legs and it was still plugging away.
“Harder,” she commanded, “More. More! God, fuck me stupidest!”
For whatever reason that got the client going, and he finally started to give Becky the deep-dicking she deserved. His cock pistoned in and out of her, as Becky’s legs slowly slid open to as wide as they could go. She whimpered through her second orgasm, her eyes a dull gloss, her hands kneading at her tits. Those would come in properly over the next few days, until they were taut and high and firm and had every appearance of being fake as hell.
“Now your amygdala is a—actually, I’ll wait outside.”
I went outside. Being present at a consensual hard bimboization is a weird thing. In many ways, a new person is being born.
They came out a few hours later. I had helped myself to their fridge. Client looked exhausted, but in control, and wrapped in a robe. He had some extra pounds on him that would soon melt off.
Becky walked differently, giggled softly, and was still totally naked. Her tits were starting to come in, her nipples hard and long.
“I’m full of cum,” she informed me, serious. Eventually she sniffed, or sensed, that I was a male with a fully functional cock. She didn’t even glance at her husband before starting to toy with my zipper. Becky giggled, cheerful and brainless. She was covered in glistening white jism.
“All right?” I asked the client. He waved an exhausted hand. “Please do,” he told me. “You mentioned some supplements you could give me?”
“Sure,” always be upselling.
The client gave me a long look. “How dumb is she?” he asked.
I pointed. “Becky, what is that?”
She followed my finger, puzzled, then shrugged.
“It’s a door, Becky.”
Becky had pulled my dick out and had locked her mouth around it. Her blowjob was amateurish but enthusiastic. I rummaged a bit around inside her head. Simple, clean, warm. A girl in heat. A jism sponge. A fuck toy.
* * *
January 9, 2014
goldendawn69 asked: Have you ever made guys into bimbo giggly girls? Of course you state you are not magic, which is understandable if you don’t have those skills, but of course there are other ways to skin (bimbo) the cat, um Man.... think you know what I mean :D
Oh, sure. Not in quite awhile, and always with a partner, but I did plenty of transgender bimbos. [And I still do himbos, although there isn’t that much demand.]
I worked with a magician we’ll call Betty who I have a lot of respect for. Unlike me she wasn’t in the game for the thrills, but she was a dedicated professional who would never half-ass a genderswap. We had so much demand at one point that we set up in an office building with two exits and did them assembly line. Men in polo shirts would go in, fuzzy-headed big-tit bimbos would go out. I wonder what they discussed in the waiting room.
Betty did the bulk of the work. Client demand was for a very light bimboization, typically. Just a sexual gloss — big lips, big tits, nice ass, hot libido, and a light trilling voice that could never be called male. I also took charge of making sure sexual preference was swapped — if swap was the request — and some finishing work on that trembling new female brain.
Betty had to knock them unconscious while she worked — which the clients hated. But it wasn’t a very pretty process — she used what certainly looked like a very sharp knife to seemingly cut a girl out of a male frame. Flicked their arms with a finger and all their body hair came off. Shoved and even kicked in the sides to make that hourglass body. And for tits she dumped some silicone gel on their chest and muttered some words.
I forced myself to watch her cut off a penis, once. Looked awful, savage. But no blood! And she kept the penises for some nefarious magical purpose.
As brutal as it seemed all the men woke up in beautiful and younger girl bodies with new girl brains. I would fuck them if they were looking for that [common, and I was younger and more attractive], then get them to rub in a gel and take a few pills.
Our special after service — and the girls went wild over this — was a room o’ outfits completely to the brim with trashy clothes in every color. Huge, huge draw. All we did was redirect a few Bebe trucks. Once word got out about The Room to the community we were inundated with business.
I really liked Betty and even asked her to dinner. She — intelligently — refused. We were both dedicated individuals and would probably leave that relationship with no dicks and a lot fewer brain cells.
I’ve also done some truly baroque transgender jobs that I’ll get into some other time. Suffice to say, when the motive is not simply a bimbo pet you get some really weird stories.
* * *
January 10, 2014
MY LITTLE HAREM: 2
I have always liked bimboizing in twos.
Marika and Chloe are getting along very well, mutually supporting each other in their race to weight loss. Jogging together in the early a.m. and spotting each other down at the gym.
The twosome cooperated in a thorough fridge raid and pantry purge, tossing out all of their junk and urging each other on to commit only to greens and basic grains. Every bit of ice cream and chocolate was identified and destroyed, and the two sweaty and excitable girls retired to their own rooms, where they both unknowingly masturbated in unison.
I might intervene with how they look but for now everything is going well. Marika has raven-black hair and translucent skin that looks gothy on her chubby self but which will look be ethereal when she’s properly sexy. Chloe is a squat brunette who might need more intervention, but if she keeps her already-sizable tits and her energy then she’ll be a firecracker of a cocksucker and that spark that every good harem needs.
One problem is how to introduce myself. I am thinking of joining their gym—I’m developing a gut now that I don’t have a dozen girls to keep happy. Obviously I could just march up and make myself their best friend but where is the fun in that.
* * *
January 10, 2014
AN UNWELCOME DISCOVERY
There is another bimboizer in this town.
A very unwelcome thing to find out. I had this town picked out exactly because I was sure there were no former colleagues around.
And yet, striding down main street, was a bimbo. Not one of my discrete hot girls, but a cartoonish slut. Lips wide and puckered open, outlined in ruby red lipstick. Tits that stuck out practically horizontally. Curves that were something out of early 90s comic books. And all of it barely contained in a scrap of a dress. She oozed pheromones, too, men’s eyes glued to her. Hard-ons growing.
I didn’t get too close, but I did follow her. She walked into the public library, of all places. I didn’t go in.
I’m hopeful that I stumbled upon an isolated bimboizer doing amateur work. Otherwise, I’ll have to bail on this town so soon after arriving.
* * *
January 11, 2014
Anonymous asked: How often do you have to troubleshoot? Are there any girls who make your job difficult?
Well, I could give you a technical answer, but let me tell you instead about Lindsey.
When Lindsey woke up, someone had forgotten to properly restrain her in her chair.
She was an attractive girl, with a pert nose and a set of close features that laughed easily. When she woke up it was to find that her tits had already been done. Oversized jugs, these tits, and designed to be stroked and sucked. Her nipples were wired directly to her pussy, making any stimulation at all a potentially orgasmic experience.
Which she found out when she first stroked them.
The problem with soundproofed rooms, it turns out, is that they’re soundproofed both ways. No one heard anything of the loud mammal squeals from the room.
Once messy and drippy recovery later, Lindsey examined the room and her situation. She had a handcuff around her wrist that, thinking outside and with the box, she slipped off with her own lubrication. The girl wore a plain white long-sleeved t-shirt that she didn’t recognize, and a pair of grey panties that she was sure didn’t belong to her.
The door was unlocked.
It led out into a dark and disused corridor, which led to another door, which led to Lindsey’s discovery that she woke up in the back of a Jugs restaurant. Where she vaguely recalled dining. Or was it working? Something about it did seem so familiar…
Her nipples brushed against a wall. More white hot heat blazed from head to toe. These were eroding orgasms, chipping away at her, and Lindsey had to fight an urge to just sit on the dirty floor and rub at them.
Lindsey had both pride and brains. She simply kept her head up and walked right out the front door. Pedestrians gaped at the girl with the pneumatic tits and no pants striding down the sidewalk. Lindsey ignored them. And strode right into a nearby department store, where she acquired some pants.
Properly clothed, Lindsey felt a surge of confidence until she realized that 1) she didn’t have any money or ID or anything and 2) she wasn’t really sure who the hell she was. She remembered her name, and a sort of a memory, but nothing she could pin down. No locations or names or phone numbers or addresses. It had all been replaced, or perhaps torn away during one of her messy, squirty orgasms.
Reluctantly, Lindsey realized that she needed to get ahold of a large sum of money, in cash, and quickly. Then she could work on sorting out her fuzzy brain. And there was only one way she could think of to get ahold of some cash—with her magnificent knockers.
The store manager’s name was David, and he was only too happy to take her into the back room for a sudden job interview. Especially when Lindsey licked her lips and slowly winked at him, and followed him so closely into the back. He turned out to just want to suck on her titties like an infant deprived, burrowing his head into their warm and giving crevice, while Lindsey whimpered from the stimulation.
Afterwards, he wouldn’t give her an advance on salary, but did encourage Lindsey to pick up some additional clothes at no charge. And she did, figuring that a set of clothing changes would help her avoid pursuers. Some experimentation showed that nylons and synthetic fabrics didn’t set off her nipples as much. Also that she looked fantastic in short pencil skirts and skintight blouses that showcased the shelf of her tits.
When she emerged, clutching bags to her chest, Lindsey felt confident her captors wouldn’t recognize the half-naked and fearful victim. This Lindsey wore a navy blue pencil skirt that skimmed closely to her ass, a short-cropped tan jacket, and a low-cut v-neck blouse with feathered firlls on the neckline that rubbed gently on her overheated chest. She had added three inch heels to throw them off on her height.
And when Lindsey saw the salon just next door to Jugs, the rest of the plan fell into place.
It was nearly night by the time she emerged.
Lindsey was scarcely recognizable—outside of the swollen chest. She had first thought black, but the hairdresser had insisted on platinum blonde, to match her skin tone. And then the dear lady had poofed it out large into a considerable volume. Her only charge had been a vigorous tongue-lashing from Lindsey, who had been surprised to enjoy her ride between a girl’s legs. Her lips could still taste her.
Lindsey’s lips were sparkling red, with some sort of glitter in the lipstick. She had refreshed her outfit, too, finding a spandex-blend little black dress in the bottom of the bag. The contrast of black on her bleached hair was perfect. And now, she knew, there was no way her captors could ever find her.
The Jugs next door was doing brisk business. Cheerful co-eds in slim white shorts waited on tables, their tits thrust out, sometimes even taking down orders. Hands pawed at them.
There was a man out front, looking intently around, peering at restaurant patrons. He sparked something deep within her—a thought that couldn’t surface. The man’s eyes took her in, her balloon breasts, her hair, her fuck-me dress—and slid off.
Lindsey shivered in the chill of the oncoming night and ambled away.
When she recollected herself it was deep in the night, with the stars out, and her feet ached. It wasn’t clear to her just how long she’d been walking—or even where she had been. Her hair was askew and, as she thought about it—her underwear seemed to be gone. And it was way too cold out for a sexy girl like herself to be alone and outdoors.
But she seemed to be at a house of some kind. Shoot, a mansion. And the gate was already open. Another plan unfolded in her little head, and she giggled at the thought. Why not just move in? If there was anyone already inside she could waggle her tits and fall into bed. Who would kick a piece of ass like her out?
No one, she concluded.
To her delight and surprise the door was answered by a totally hot little asian girl in a maid outfit, her lips made up with the same glitter lipstick as Lindsey’s. And there were other girls, too, as she ambled inside, in adorable costumes and wonderful clothes. And all of them with great titties like hers!
She was escorted deep within the house, to a room she ached to enter, where a man waited deep within a chair. And another men, to who she was totally indifferent.
“She’s ten minutes late,” the man in the chair said. Lindsey gaped at the words. They were so wonderful, so easily masculine. She forgot the plan, fell onto her knees on the carpet, and awkwardly made her way towards him.
“Would you like a refund?” the other man said, amused.
“I think we can let it be bygones,” her owner said, helping her gently with his fly. “Depending on if she doesn’t disappoint right now.”
Lindsey was very determined not to disappoint.
* * *
January 12, 2014
motherfducker-blog asked: Why do you separate mind controller and bimboizer? Don’t they both rely on the same thing?
Bimbos are the goal, mind control is the means. Many people in my position with my abilities easily obtain political power or huge sums of money, I live in a small apartment and turn ordinary women into giggling whores. Oh well.
Anyway, there are four “types” of bimboizers for the discerning customer with a too-smart female on his hands. They each have their advantages and disadvantages.
Magic is best for those real extreme body-mod jobs that just can’t get done any other way. If you want your girl to have a tail, or a penis, or anoth