April 1, 2014
THE MIDTERM: ONE
A long night of substance abuse, then an 8:30 class. But Bobby prided himself on his ability to rally, so he had thrown on a shirt, washed his face, and headed to campus like a pro. He had found a spare cereal bar in his backpack and, if he resolutely ignored the expiration date, he looked like he had it all planned out.
At least campus was unusually inviting. Very inviting. It wasn’t particularly warm but everywhere he looked there were co-eds in shapely shorts. Denim, high-waisted, yoga/compression, just a wide array of pert asses on a cloudy and chilly spring morning. The girls smiled at him, too, a sort of dreamy half-smile that perfectly matched how Bobby felt.
He ran into Marcy near the classroom. A serious girl, already looking to grad school, she had nonetheless fallen in line with the shorts crowd. Hers were white denim with big butt pockets. There was a ton of leg between them and a slim white pair of sneakers. She had that low, lazy smile, too.
“Heyyyy, you made it,” Marcy said, and giggled softly.
“Real men can handle 8:30 a.m.,” Bobby said. He walked inside with her and took a seat. “Uh, everything okay?”
“Oh! Oh sure,” Marcy said. She shook her head to clear it, and then slouched back. Her legs splayed open. They were very close to him. “Well SORT of. Have you ever had like, a dream, and you wake up and it’s like you’re still dreaming?”
“Yeah, I think so, for a moment,” Bobby said.
“Yeah. That’s how it feels. And uh… was it a sexy dream?”
Marcy turned earnest, low-lidded eyes on to him. “Like, really, really sexy dream? Like, you’re doing… stuff? In public?”
“Like what kind of stuff?” Bobby asked .This was starting to feel a little unreal.
“Like fuck stuff,” Marcy said. “Like your nipples are getting sucked on all night and it’s driving you crazy and you want to get fucked and then you realize there are cocks all around you and you just jump into a sea of them.”
He looked into her dark, questioning eyes.
“No, nothing like that,” Billy said.
* * *
April 2, 2014
MURDER
One of my girls was murdered, once.
Sad to say that I barely remembered her. She was some rush-job during the Valentine’s Day hysteria who got a really standard bimboization. Blonde, butt, and boobs. I didn’t even know she was murdered for over a month, when she failed to make an automated check-in.
I got mad. And a little worried—was this about me? Or my work? But the newspaper clippings made clear that the client was the probable target—50ish, reasonably wealthy, with a history of land development deals that inevitably meant something shady. They were both killed in the master bedroom. My poor little bimbo seemed to have gotten in the way.
I sped into town certain that a mind controller, of all people, could easily solve a murder.
And was immediately stymied. The police were inevitably helpful but didn’t know much, of course, otherwise they would’ve already arrested the killer or killers. The house had been picked over and cleaned up, not that I have any talent at crime scene investigation. I checked the heirs to the will and found no guilt whatsoever.
Frustrated, enraged, I hit on a ridiculous Agatha Christie-style plan. I found a girl at a bus stop and quickly made her over into my deceased bimbo, Amanda. Luckily I did have an ‘after’ photo in my files. The new girl, previously a tall brunette, became an exact simulacrum with invented memories to boot. The press ran a story about the gunshot victim still in a coma but starting to stir. Police were said to be waiting to see what she said.
I hung around the hospital for three days, checking incomers. It was exhausting, the most sustained mental work I have ever done. I couldn’t even keep people from noticing me. Finally, after a new story announcing “Amanda’s” waking up and cooperation with PD, I found him.
Nothing political at all. Home invasion at a house he thought was unoccupied for the night. He panicked, shot my client and my girl. Was horrified and shocked to hear that the girl was alive, especially because he had seen her brains on a wall. I took him out to an isolated spot and disposed of him and then slept for two days.
Afterwards I considered what a clusterfuck it had all been. I had been lucky. He KNEW she was dead—a smarter murderer would’ve simply figured the press clippings for a ruse to flush him out. And then I thought—why did I even bother with making a new Amanda? All the new one did was lounge around in a hospital bed and fuck the doctors. She was wholly unnecessary.
But my impulse was: make a bimbo.
* * *
April 3, 2014
Anonymous asked: why so proud of yourself with the murder thing. you basically killed that girl at the bus stop... same deal.
Fair point.
* * *
April 4, 2014
CLIENTS
D:
Yes?
C:
Oh! I uh—I expected a receptionist, ha ha.
D:
Yes, she’s still… coming along. Can I help you?
C:
You’re Mr. Delany?
D:
That’s right. And you’re [REDACTED] and you got my number from an internet search for ‘wife changes or divorce’ which lead to you ordering my catalog.
C:
Uh.. wow. Okay. [NOTE: Obviously not the first time Client and I talked. I have to do my background check]. Yeah, I read your catalog. It’s… big.
D:
And you read the part about how to make a deposit? And you also made the deposit?
C:
Yes. It was hefty but… yes. If my wife finds out…
D:
She won’t mind. Soon. So this is… nonconsensual.
C:
My god, there are girls who actually ask for this? Wow. No, she doesn’t know anything. She thinks that everything is fine and her career is more important then me and.. well I’m sure you don’t care.
D:
I care a little. So what’d you have in mind?
C:
Yeah. Yeah, alright. I was confused about the intelligence thing. It just says “dim, dumb, and dumber,” here and then “dumbest” with an asterix. What do those get me, exactly?
D:
It’s easier if you just tell me what you’re looking for.
C:
[Laughs nervously]. I don’t know. Geez. Like, we can still play scrabble but she’s really bad at it. And I really want her to try and keep her job but she’s just too bimbo-ish… is this helping?
D:
Yeah yeah. You want dim. Dim with silly. Airhead. Am I right? But she can still read and write. Nail on head?
C:
Yeah that sounds… that sounds great. And horny, right? I didn’t see an option for horny.
D:
They’re ALL horny. Horny is automatic. You don’t need to request horny. Can you fax me the completed order sheet?
C:
Fax? Really?
D:
What?
C:
I mean, that’s fine… I just.. okay. I think I have a fax machine in the attic. It’s all pretty straightforward, I didn’t check any of the esoteric stuff. Is “bimbo housewife” pretty much what you’d think?
D:
Yeah. But she will fuck the mailman unless you’re really giving her the wood. And maybe a few neighbors. Is that something that is gonna bother you.
C:
[long pause]. Wow. Uh. I guess that’s all part of it, huh? That’s fine. And I put in bigger tits but I think the generic bimbo body is fine. That’s what I marked.
D:
That’s what she’ll get. Anything else? Special requests? You’re a pretty easy client so far so, if you’ve got anything unique now is the time to bring it up.
C:
Am I so boring? No. I know what I want. No sense getting greedy. Well, wait. Is there a discount if I get her sister as well?
D:
Sir, I appreciate your ambition, but believe me, your wife is going to be everything you want and more.
* * *
April 6, 2014
Anonymous asked: Well what did you do to the girl afterwards? Did you turn her back, find a place for her? Do you even know the girls name?
Amanda.
I gave her to the police department as a thank-you for their help.
* * *
April 6, 2014
Anonymous asked: Derek isn’t adopted, is he? ’Cause with your kind of luck he’s going to turn out to be a long-lost son or somethin’. Might want to do a DNA test in secret.
He’s not adopted. He just has shitty parents.
* * *
April 6, 2014
Anonymous asked: Has there ever been any kind of major opposition to mind controllers/this crazy bimbo organization? Any Bimbo-maker hunters?
Well… not really… we’re talking an entire community of MIND CONTROLLERS so resistance tends to be brief and hilarious.
The real question here is what do we do about the family members, friends, etc. of bimboized girls. Of course we pick single ladies in isolated circumstances but rarely is anyone so isolated they don’t have a few connections. Connections that may ask themselves “why is Susan, an accountant, suddenly sucking my cock and sporting huge new tits?”
There are a bunch of things to help with this, and, not to toot my own horn, when you go with me you get the best. For the first several months I can have the girl emit a light pheromone that makes both men and women calm and generally accepting. Unless the change is particularly abrupt it’s shocking how many people will just say “oh well Gina got a boob job and a boyfriend” while some former PHD is teetering on 5-inch heels.
That’s for acquaintances, co-workers. For more serious connections I have an phone number that the bimbo will blurt under questioning. The person calls up, listens to a recorded message for about 15-20 minutes, and then never thinks about the bimbo again. Or remembers her name.
There’s also a generic line for The Association that you can call. It wipes you pretty much completely. Anyone dumb enough to find a phone number for a group of mind controllers and call it and put their ear to the receiver, they deserve that.
Now, it’s not like all mind controllers have a yen for bimbos. There are tons of cabals and plots and whatever out there. But they really haven’t managed to get along and form a bigger group—for whatever reason, it was our bunch of perverts that were able to put together something bigger.
So, unfortunately, it turns out that a group of coordinating mind controllers are pretty much unstoppable. Great.
* * *
April 7, 2014
Anonymous asked: I recently came into some money and have been looking to improve my fiancee. The thing is, I really don’t like the MILF/cougar look. How much can you do to protect my purchase against the ravages of time? Is there like a maintenance plan I can buy?
Keeping her young physically is the easy part. Any girl who takes a few pills is going to have the taut, supple skin of a 21 year old, and will continue to do so for decades. It’s not quite the fountain of youth but these are tits that never sag, cheeks that never wrinkle, butts that are always toned. Even girls that get on the baby train bounce back into a pert, slender bimbomommyhood almost right away. Just give a booster pill every six months or so.
The challenging part, as strange as it may sound, is to keep the girl young mentally.
And by this I mean that most clients want the bimbo to seem young in every way. Which means keeping up with girlpop, with trends, with whatever is on TV and everything else that a nubile little thing should be into. It’s a turnoff to have a bimbo start reminiscing about the Challenger disaster.
But that’s in tension with the fact that my bimbos have to move their mouths to read and tend to wander off bored during television commercials. Teaching a bimbo is hard—by design.
This is the part of the entry where I typically describe some clever solution but in this case I really don’t have one. So like any good American, I outsource. I have a friend who runs a sort of bimbo academy for the freshly bimboized or soon-to-be. Among other things he has a semi-hypnotic crash course on Being Young that will leave any bimbo with a working knowledge of Katy Perry discography.
I used to visit from time to time—I should tell some stories about it. It’s a hilarious place.
* * *
April 8, 2014
ELLIE: THREE
“What’s the most expensive chocolate you own?” Ellie said. She hoped her voice, at least, was composed.
The rest of her certainly wasn’t. She was dressed in a light silver miniskirt that she had to keep tugging down over her ass, plus a slippery black thing that was technically a blouse. Her feet rocked back and forth on matching silver heels. The outfit made her look like a clubgirl lost in the day. She hated it.
The dress code had ratcheted up so quickly, so crazily. It quickly became clear that she was just the doll of whatever Amy wanted. Yellow, all yellow one day. Then a pair of jeans so tight she still had pleats imprinted on her skin. Then she had to go home and throw out all her sneakers, except for cute ones.
All for the chocolate.
The boy behind the counter was pimply, gangly, young. He stared at the vision in front of him, impressed. Most of the chocolate shop patrons were aging matrons in either sweaters or cardigans. This was a young girl with wide eyes who kept licking her lips.
“Umm.. the liquors? The liquor truffles?” he stammered. His eyes traced her tits. They were squished together by an old bra, now struggling to contain chocolate-fueled tits.
They were good. Good enough that Ellie lost a bit of her hard-won composure, purring as the chocolate sloshed into her. But mostly from the memory of the real stuff, the good stuff. “I need more,” she told the boy. She leaned against the display case. Her tits splayed out. “something else. Anything. Please.”
“Uh… sea salt? With caramel? It’s a personal favorite?” he said. Enchanted by her globes, he simply handed the square over. It was dusted with salt.
This was close. So close. Ellie could taste it, that extra edge. She moaned, deep in her throat, rubbed at the now familiar ache between her legs. She was so very close.
She needed something salty so very badly.
There was an old bag of cheap candies near the counter. Aging chocolate in brittle sugar shells. Ellie ripped it open, jammed a half-dozen into her mouth, and sauntered behind the counter. “Do you have a back room?” she whispered, chocolate running down her chin, spattering on her blouse.
“S…sure!” the boy said.
He made it easy for her, leaning back, letting her unbuckle his belt and shove down his pants. There was already a droplet of icing there, icy-white, and the first lick of his cock let Ellie know how right she was. The salt and the sugar and the chocolate… that was it.
She blew him hard, thrusting him deep within her throat, trying not to swallow the wonderful surges of precum he kept squirting into her. When he was close she carefully cradled the bag of chocolate in her right hand, and waited.
There was about to be a taste explosion.
* * *
April 9, 2014
ELLIE: FOUR
“Oh, damn,” the man said, breathless. “That is incredible. I don’t know what you’re doing but… incredible.”
Talky talky talk talk, Ellie thought. All talk and no cum. This guy was dry, barely a drizzle of precum to speak of. It was frustrating.
She licked the underside and went down so hard pubic hairs tickled her nose. The first bead of cum appeared. Well, it was in there somewhere, she just had to really work for it.
Word had gotten out in the building, and the office park, and the general community. Stop by this building, this room, after noon, and prepare for a toe-curling blowjob by an efficient and dedicated bimbo. Often dressed in eyepopping outfits.
Today it was a dark green tank dress that Amy had picked out. No underwear, of course. Amy had ordered her to throw all that stuff away. But that was okay. Everything was okay, now that Ellie had figured out the recipe.
She had moments of clarity, moments of “what the hell is going on.” Whenever she went up another cup size, say. Or passed five or six guys on the street and realized that she had gotten cum-drizzled by all of them. But it was so much easier to not think about it, concentrate instead on the bevy of “how to blow” books she had found in the office one morning.
Ellie was getting good at oral. REALLY good. Once this morning she had coated her lips with dark red lipstick, got onto her knees, licked her lips, and the guy had spooged all over her face before she could touch him.
“Ohhh here it comes,” the man said. He sighed, steadied himself, and jizzed into her mouth. Ellie giggled, careful not to miss a drop. She was so efficient lately that there was time—and the men—for a fuck across her desk. Well, in close proximity to so many dicks, no surprise she was horny.
“Wonderful,” the man said. He sagged. “Wonderful.”
It was hard to talk with a mouthful of cum. Although when she did, her voice was different. Thick, wet, seductive. Like a radio host at 2 am. Ellie just raised an eyebrow.
“Oh! Sorry. Right,” the man said. He fumbled in a pocket for the price. All the men knew to pay it. This one had a gas station bag of chocolate. He put it into her hand and stumbled off.
Ellie didn’t notice him go. She was staring at the bag of chocolate.
* * *
April 10, 2014
Anonymous asked: How quickly did you find yourself needing to find a way to make clean-up relatively painless?
Cleanup can mean so many things. If you mean what gets onto the floor with wet, horny girls then, well, I have a maid. Of course. But I think everyone figures that the floor is deluged with girl juice and that frankly just isn’t the case—my girls do their best but no one squirts THAT much.
In terms of cleanup for new bimbos—getting them acclimated, that kind of thing—for awhile I had this really smooth operation down at a local mall. Perfect mall for it—long, straight, studded with fashion boutiques and hair salons and nail joints.
I would always start the girl out in the end with the bookstore. My girl would be calm, relaxed, unknowingly in her last hour or so of literacy. And then at the register—with some book she would never read—she would get a sudden urge for a drink. A big, creamy, milkshake-y coffee. Right inside the mall.
And while the two ditzy girls behind the counter struggled with her order, she would look around, tap her nails on the table, feel her worries and concerns gradually slip away. Sure, she had time to do a little shopping, who didn’t? And the creamy coffee shake was absolutely delicious when she finally got it.
Shopping could get a little.. out of hand. So many wonderful sales, so many sudden discounts. The girl would find herself cheerful, smiling, high on caffeine and with a growing stack of purchases. And why not toss that heavy, stupid book? Heck, why not toss her existing clothes? They were boring-stupid anyway. And her bra was tight.
But now it was glaringly apparent in the spangily blue dress that she needed to get her legs shaved. But there was a salon right there.
You get the idea. I’d ping-pong these burgeoning bimbos for hours. After the first fuck in the dressing room their purse would go missing, not that they would care. We put a new one in with a better name on the credit cards—and forget the driver’s license. The girls didn’t even realize that the pink phone with the penis wallpaper was new.
For the last hour it was essentially Free Time for the girl to have fun and shop and fuck while we did the tedious business of erasing or modifying inconvenient memories, quitting her job for her, etc. We got so good that we could tell the client when to show up with the car, at the opposite mall, and have the new squeeze giggle into the car precisely on time.
* * *
April 11, 2014
Anonymous asked: Have you ever bimbofied (Bimboized? What’s the industry-preferred term?) someone you shouldn’t have? You know, someone’s daughter that you shouldn’t have crossed, that kind of thing?
Bimboized. We actually had a meeting on this.
I haven’t had any personal blowback like you’re thinking. I am a mind controller. The closest I ever came to actual risk I suppose was when some guy came to the door ranting about a girl I had bimboized. I invited him in. He raved and complained some more until a bimbo hopefully presented herself over a chair. Then he yelled and complained while fucking her. Eventually he forgot english, and just made various angry sounds. Then he wandered off.
There have been a few bimboizations that didn’t sit right with me for whatever reason. But what really bothers me is when I get played. I remember early in my career I sat down with a potential client—a guy in his 60s—who said he doubted a kid like me could do the job.
He pointed to some redhead at a table and said “I bet you can’t make her a sex slave in less then twenty minutes.”
I was Marty McFly in those days when it came to challenges. I had her mewing over him in ten, her mind reduced to generalized worship. I made him her god, and his dick a sacrament. The client said he was impressed, was sorry for doubting me, and I had the gig. Then he walked out with the redhead.
It was, sad to say, months before I realized he got two bimbos for the price of one.
More chilling, I was once hired to bimboize a real smarty, a scientist and professor with a long list of PHDs. The client was a jilted boyfriend, also a scientist. Well, I was happy to get rid of that many IQ points. I even turned it into the focus of the bimboization—the girl got staggeringly wet when she was being dumb. What started out as a game of watching reality TV and tittering while at home quickly became a real brain drain. The hottest moment came when she realized that a simple scientific issue was now beyond her intelligence—and getting so ramped up she ran to the bathroom to masturbate.
Within a few weeks I delivered a brainless but happy ex-scientist to the client. But something seemed.. off. Some sixth sense had me look inside the client’s head.
HE had been mind controlled. To hire a bimboizer! To get this girl bimboized! Up until a few weeks ago the fetish would’ve repelled him.
I was dealing in matters way over my head. I bolted. Later, much later, I looked up the girl’s research—she was mixed in with a lot of confidential weapons-type physics.
Still don’t know what happened, but that’s the kind of thing that spooks me bad.
* * *
April 12, 2014
THE MIDTERM: 2
Bobby stared at Marcy. She seemed not to notice, or care, at the litany of filth coming out of her mouth. Or that her hands were stroking softly at the inside of her thighs.
“…and then the guy came all over my face,” Marcy said, gesturing vaguely at her mouth. “And I was like, hey, don’t do that, but then I had a little drip in my mouth and it was so tasty and after that I was like, sure, lets suck some cocks…”
There were other soft titters in the room. Probably 8-9 girls total, and all of them with bedroom eyes and giggling to themselves. There was way too much makeup and primping for an early morning class. With the girls usually clad in sweats and their hair in ponytails Bobby hadn’t realized how many fuckable ladies were in this class.
A blonde two rows over was licking the underside of her pencil.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry I’m late!” the TA said. There was a jingle like a shaken cash register. Carolyn was maybe 5′1″ and usually wore flannels meant for 6′ men. Today she was covered in bracelets and multiple kinds of earrings and had on six or seven rings. Her shorts were khaki and strained to keep shut. The only trace of the old Carolyn was her big black glasses.
“Okay, class, I’m…” Carolyn seemed to notice herself for the first time. “Whoa. What the fuck am I wearing?”
The class stared at her. The boys did. The girls were still lost in their reverie.
“I uh…” Carolyn giggled. “Okay, this is embarassing. I look like some J-pop tart. I should… huh.”
Carolyn slowly sat on the table at the front of the classroom and played with her bracelets.
“This is so weird, guys. This is just like my dream. I was in front of the classroom, I was dressed like some cheap floozy, and everyone was staring at my tits.”
She trailed off and looked up. Seven horny boys stared back at her. “Right. Like that.”
Carolyn shook her head. “But no.. because in my dream I started to finger myself in front of everyone while you all watched… and…”
The girl watched, startled, as her hands wandered down in between her thighs. “Oh. Okay, there we go then.”
The rest of the girls laughed. Bobby felt reality dissolving. There was a hand on his fly. Marcy already had it halfway down and was tugging out his cock.
* * *
April 13, 2014
DOUBLE
My new, gooey secretary/receptionist has already passed on a fun one for me. A couple, apparently unaware of each other, with a request for the other person. Should be a good one.
* * *
April 15, 2014
THE MIDTERM: 3
Reality had torn apart. A few of the girls in class sat by themselves, giggling and rubbing, but more were moving aggressively towards whatever guys were nearby. A pair of asian girls descended on a male and took turns trading kisses, cooperating on undressing him. A blonde stretched her back and took off her shirt in one fluid motion, revealing well-formed tits with erect nipples. The spiky-haired girl next to her was sunk deep in her seat, her hands down her pants, thrusting furiously.
Bobby took this all in while Marcy started to go down on him.
“Marcy I’m…” they had all talked about dreams. Maybe this was a dream. A wonderful dream. “What are you doing?”
She stopped long enough to give him a puzzled stare. Then she turned all her attention back towards his cock.
It was pretty amazing head. She deepthroated him from the start, and stopped there, licking the underside with his dick all the way inside her mouth. Without moving her head, she grabbed his hand with hers and guided his palms to her hair.
Bobby slowly and carefully started to move her up and down his cock. It was like she had swiftly become a machine, waiting for his direction.
The first moans interrupted the tittering and laughing. Carolyn had hopped up on the table. A boy that Bobby vaguely knew, Tyler, had his pants around his ankles and was banging hard into her.
Carolyn stared back at him, breathing hard. Or at least, her eyes looked out. There wasn’t much there besides a girl getting fucked. She wrapped her legs around Tyler and urged him into her, harder.
She wasn’t the only one getting fucked. Girls littered the rows, making the small spaces work. It wasn’t even clear which of the two asian girls had a dick inside—they were both seated on their boy’s lap and were both grunting like they were getting it hard. The blonde was utterly naked and looking around with interest.
“Hi,” she said, almost shyly. “Can I come over?”
Bobby kept up Marcy’s rhythm. “Look, what’s going on?” he said. “Why are all you girls… what is this?”
The blonde laughed, tried to look serious, and failed. “I don’t know, it’s crazy,” she confessed, then teased her nipples.
“But it feels so fucking goooooood….”
* * *
April 16, 2014
MY COFFEESHOP: 1
“Alice? Amy called. They’ll be here in about ten minutes.”
The staff of the coffee shop looked up, tense. They were on their way. Things had to be absolutely perfect when THEY were on the way.
Alice checked underneath her apron. She had almost worn underpants in to work, as an edging thing, but was glad she hadn’t. So at least she was presentable for the patrons underneath her white linen skirt. And plenty juicy, to boot. That meant she could worry about other people.
“Terry,” she snapped, pointing at the male working the espresso machine. “You’re ready for this? Chloe and that other girl will be coming. The artsy one. Tracy. Can you take care of both of them?”
Terry was an eighteen year old with a scraggly beard. He weighed maybe 145 bearded. Chloe kept trying to snap him in half. “I can take them,” he said, firmly. He met her gaze. “I haven’t masturbated all week. And I’ve been lifting!”
“Well, you’ll be lifting a hundred pounds of ass in a few minutes, so do some jumping jacks if you need to.”
“Umm… Alice? Who are the patrons?” a voice interrupted.
Paris, the girl who worked the drivethrough. Another post-high school girl, and hired just a week ago. She had a sweet and demure face and still used sparkly lipstick.
She had never seen the patrons. And she was dressed in black yoga pants. True, the pills were already reshaping her, and she had swollen up two cup sizes since she had come aboard. But she was still hardly up to standards.
“They’re… the patrons,” Alice said, groping for the words. “It’s their coffee shop.”
“I thought you owned the shop?” the girl said. She furrowed her eyebrows and cocked her head to one side, confused. Paris wasn’t all that bright to begin with and the pills were making her struggle at making change.
“I used to. Now I…”
“Three minutes!” Veronica hissed, from the register. At least she was ready, her dark complexion rouged and her heavy breasts chock-full of milk.
There was no time for this. Their usual table was still occupied, to boot. Alice heaved a sigh, and drew Paris in for a searing kiss. The girl went rigid for just a second, then melted into Alice’s tits. Their tongues met. Alice worked a knee between the girls’ thighs, noted with approval that she was at least wet. Probably daydreaming on the job. Well.
“Just stay at the window,” Alice told the panting employee. “You’ll meet them soon enough. I think they’ll want to say hello.”
* * *
April 18, 2014
bimboreductor-blog-blog asked: I confess, i’m curious. What do you get up to with your free time?
Ah, it’s our own Van Helsing for bimboizers. I think you’re adorable.
Well mostly I fuck bimbos. I’m sure this isn’t a huge surprise. I have a small but very impressive harem that I’m really pleased with, and we have sex all the time. Not only have I carefully treated myself to keep my libido running high, all of my girls emit fuck-me pheromones basically all the time. If I had Chloe sit in a senior center for a day without underwear the codgers would be humping each other by tapioca time.
I work really hard to keep it all from getting routinized. We go out quite a bit. Plays, movies, orchestra, etc. Usually some temporary girl gets incorporated into the mix. Even when I’m there to actually see a flick I don’t see any harm in getting a blowjob during any slow bits. We’ve actually been seeing a lot of movies because Tracy and Chloe are both huge fans.
Sometimes I do keep it low key with dinner, a glass of bourbon, catch up on e-mails or read a book. I’m also not a huge fan of Amy’s phone parties—it’s a bit frat party for me—so I’ll go out by myself or bring Tracy, go to an art gallery, go plan something with Derek. Hit up a bar. I have one bar where I don’t bring the girls and I don’t touch the waitresses, just to be a normal guy. I’ve also been known to golf when I’m feeling down.
Intellectually I prefer history, both popular and academic, and of course I keep up with the neuropsychology literature. And a little sci-fi/fantasy.
But mostly I fuck the hell out of bimbos.
* * *
April 20, 2014
Anonymous asked: What’s the best way to convince someone to become a bimbo?
Hire me.
I’m not trying to be a smartass. I just don’t ever see anyone CONVINCED to become a bimbo. Either the girl has that kink, or comes into it eventually, or she doesn’t. [And, occasionally, she already is a natural-born bimbo and needs no further improvement].
I mean, from the girl’s perspective, you’re trying to talk her into a sort of lobotomy-suicide. Most women will blow up at “you should lose some weight” much less “I think you should become a dumb big-titted bimboslut, honey.”
Plenty of girls do want it. They crave it. They grow up in a world that exalts the care-free, sexy flirt with fantastic tits. They know that men yearn for a slut with a body they’ll never have. And then they grow up and start some shit career with a shit body and a shit lovelife. Why not take a fountain of youth potion? Why not dump all the anxiety and worry for a life on your knees, being worshipped as a goddess? And if you have that girl, lucky you.
But you don’t.
I am here to help. Why not make the girl want it? I can do that in three easy phone calls. Phone calls! And then within the month she’ll be grumping about her job and her workaday life. She’ll start to ache for the comfort and happiness only your cock can really seem to give her. She’ll watch a few porn videos on the sly just to see what she’s missing out on. And then, one glorious day, you’ll find “bimboization” in her browser history.
Or we can do it with pheromones. Want to be persuasive? She’ll do anything you say, her entire mind and body reshaped by your dirty laundry. She’ll nod and agree to whatever you have in mind, all you have to do is go to the gym every so often. Sure, it’s an addiction, but it’s an addiction to you.
What I’m hearing from you is that you want your dirty whore but you still want to be a good guy. Sir, you need to let that go. You can be a nice guy and read fantasy filth on the internet. If you want to make it real, let go of those morals and give my receptionist a call.
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April 22, 2014
motherfducker-blog asked: What is your favorite fetish ethnicity?
Ugh. None o