THE BIMBO MERCHANT PART 1 OF 6: JANUARY by Limerick

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 another set of tits, you’re going to want a magical solution. Try as I might, I cannot give a woman a mermaid’s tail. The major issue with magic is duration—bimboizing wizards will freely admit that their work starts to wear off after 2-3 years, and needs regular renewal. Also, magic being what it is, you’ll get unanticipated side effects—like shedding and territory marking from your mewling catgirl.

Technology is a bit of a catchall but I mean groups like Bimbotech that rely exclusively on actual science. Strap the girl into a chair, put her in a tank, that kind of thing. Tech is ultra-reliable and also tends to work very fast—I’ve seen girls turn into dripping lifelong cumsluts from a few pulses of electricity in a bimbotech chair. Major issue is finesse. Tech can get a girl dumb and wet but struggles to make those subtle changes without adding in a mind controller like me.

I am a mind controller. My work is what you might describe as bespoke bimbos—ultra-customized work for the discerning (and wealthy) client. What I do is slow but if you want your girl to think she’s a former girlfriend named Rhonda who enjoyed edging, you need me. I also instill fetishes and do what I like to call ‘variable’ work—bimbo at home, wage-earner at work. And my work is permanent. Major downsides: cost, cost, cost. I don’t come cheap.

But the real answer for 95% of clients is chemical. Dr. Downing has been publishing his catalog for two decades now. All of us rely on it. His compounds are safe, effective, fairly permanent, and inexpensive. The catalog is thirty-five pages now with all sorts of variants and specifications, including even transgender and a very limited but growing animal/TF section. If you want a bimbo like lives in your dreams, you want Downing’s Catalogue.

Obviously there’s a ton of category overlap. Master PC modders should be in the magic category but usually gets lumped in with tech (which is dumb). There’re also people like the NN-HANC group that are committed to making a one dollar complete-bimbo pill.

Someday the association will finally manage to add a new category: Virus/Germ. And then all the rest of us will be out of work.

* * *

January 13, 2014

prance asked: Have you ever made a bimbo out of a musician or artist of any kind?

One of my proudest works was Carla, a semi-amateur painter who didn’t put out enough for my client. She produced dark, bold works on oversize canvases, nightscapes evocative of 2 a.m. car rides. Formerly a dark, lithe woman with smoky eyes, she had married the client and become gaunt and withdrawn. My challenge was to bimboize her—easy—but the client wanted her artistic ability preserved—hard.

For days I formulated ever more complicated overlay schemes where the bimbo persona would pop on and off with a trigger word. It takes forever and is unstable—the girl essentially becomes two people.

In the shower one morning I came to a sudden epiphany. I even shouted out, to the surprise of the three girls in there with me.

Carla suddenly found her work taking a turn. She began producing works with more than just a monochrome of black and greys. Initially there were just slashes of red to break up the scene, but soon she rioted in color, producing practically neon bursts of riotous color. Her wardrobe quietly altered to match, and the formerly raven-clad girl was soon flouncing in bright red skirts with matching blood -colored heels.

Some other former clients bought a few pieces as a favor, and Carla’s mood peaked. She was so pleased with herself she found it both easy and fun to wake up the client with a lengthy and considered blowjob.

The new and intense pleasure of sex awoke her to new artistic possibilities. Suddenly, aspects of pleasure exploded onto her canvas, gobs of pink paint in blotches. It wasn’t long until she insisted on painting with the client’s cock inside of her, very slowly thrusting, while she channeled the wet warmth onto the painting. Her ‘Orgasm’ series sold well without my involvement, actual cum shots mixing with the pigments.

By now she was a giggling and happy confirmed slut, feeling herself enlightened for becoming a master cocksucker. And then, one day, with a pink sheath dress wrapped around her waist and the client’s dick between her boobs, Carla realized that she was art, too. How many female nudes had been painted? Ten bajillion? And she WAS a female, and she COULD be nude.

She demanded that the client let her get an oversized boob job. And then she took up sculpting her own dildos.

I used to own one of her later works, part of the Pink Titties series. Naked, covered in latex paint, she fucked on top of a canvas, pressing her fat breasts into the white and preserving her bangs for eternity. There was a writeup of her in a major artistic magazine. I had nothing to do with it. The art world loved her.

I lost the painting in a move. But I still have a video file of her performance art, 500, documenting her brave attempt to orgasm 500 times in a single day. I don’t think she had any brain cells left after number 150 or so, but she kept trying, bless her.

Sad postscript, the client hated the result. He revealed that he really just wanted a bog-standard bimbo who could maybe fingerpaint. I told him to be more honest with himself next time. He left Carla who, with a studio show in New York pending, barely noticed or cared.

* * *

January 14, 2014

A LITTLE HAREM III

I got off with my own two hands yesterday. I haven’t done that since I was 17. This cannot go on.

On the plus side, things are going well with my two bimbos-to-be. They have both lost large quantities of weight and are practically skipping in and out of the door. After work they eat a quick dinner and then off to the gym for a solid two hours of running, stretching, and a little light weight work. I think Marika will taper off the iron but I like the idea of Chloe as an athletic hard-edged sexpot.

Last night, chests heaving, exhausted and sweaty, they returned home and guzzled water. Chloe caught ahold of Marika’s scent—or vice versa—and was suddenly entranced by her roomies new ass in tight workout pants. The two giggled and fumbled about and ended up in a wet and hot makeout session on the floor of their apartment, bodies hungry for the stimulation.

They broke apart without anything more—lingering doubts and questions. And marinated all night in erotic frustration, dreams revolving around each other. Before the sun rose they were in each other’s beds, licking with pink tongues, yowling with thorough orgasms.

And then a five mile run around the lake.

* * *

January 14, 2014

AN UNWELCOME DISCOVERY II

Part of the reason I haven’t simply inserted myself in a lonely housewife’s bed is out of fear that this town already has a registered bimboizer. I quietly checked online and also made a circuit of the area coffee shops, looking for chesty and dim baristas with jizz in their hair. Nothing. So back to check my only lead, the library.

For a boring six hour stretch, nothing. I went through three cups of coffee and had to get a nearby homeowner to forgot I was using his bathroom.

At hour six, results. A battered Ford Explorer pulled up with a beaky teenager behind the wheel, and discharged two tall bimbos from the back seat. They were both a bit on the amazon side, not a personal preference, but otherwise classic with round, spherical breasts, a giggle on auto-pilot, and vinyl-and-lace outfits that were little better then colorful bikinis. One of them put a hand on the teenager’s crotch, and whispered in his ear, but he shook his head and led them into the library. A hand on each jiggling ass.

So as I thought, a new talent. A long, long time ago I was that kid, making Ms. Deekins who taught Calculus give me hummers in the staff room.

Confident I had little to worry about, I went into the library. The kid had managed to put together a rudimentary field on the door, keeping entrants from noticing anything weird. Inside a library staff of pretty young things flounced about with dim bulb expressions and short minis, with fully half sporting pigtails. They spent a lot of time bending over to pick up books, exposing pantyless asses.

His mental work was okay but too aggressive. Some of the girls would continue to get dumber or sluttier until they made a scene—a scene that would attract attention on a scale I wouldn’t like. So I’m going to have to decide—do the padawan thing with the kid, or kill him.

* * *

January 15, 2014

bimboisbetter-deactivated201401 asked: What was the most unlikely bimbo you’ve made? That is, who started out the least bimbo-ish when you were brought in to change her?

You.

I kid.

It’s hard to answer this. Certainly I’ve done my fair share of shy librarians and brash party-goers and mature ladies. There have been feats of resistance often quite heroic by the most unlikely girls. But the truth is, high class or low, black and white, brainy or dumb, inside all of them is a cumslut waiting to be let out. We are all of us governed by hormones and urges and, after twenty-five years of bimbos, the results run together a bit.

A nice way of looking at it is that we are all of us human, in the sense that we can be reduced to a dripping wet and needy bimbo with just a few alterations.

The most honest answer is: a cat.

I was part of a team of twenty. This is when the association was really pushing boundaries. We knew we were playing god to an unprecedented extent but we had huge sums of money behind us and, just as important, confidence. We also had a housecat named Ginger, which belonged to the client. Unspayed.

Even the wizards had a rough time of it. This was to be more then dumping a cat brain into a girl shell. We wanted a real, sexy, bimboslut. See, while plenty of clients want a particular woman bimboized just as many are perfectly happy with whoever. And why go to the trouble of mucking up some girl’s life when we could just scoop a cat off the alley and make her into a warm and purring cuddler. Everyone wins.

But as hard as the magic people had it, they succeeded in producing a tawny-haired, lithe girl with just a hint of cats-eye in her pupils, and the slightest point to her canines. She was truly beautiful.

They succeeded. I and my team failed. This was an alien consciousness—an animal consciousness—in an unfamiliar brainstem. It was totally outside our abilities. We couldn’t force behaviors, we couldn’t teach behaviors, we couldn’t do anything. It truly exposed us. All our catgirl tricks—the mewing, the pawing—were just cheap parlor trick overlays. We spent weeks on our Eliza and—even though she grew into humanness—it was a fragile thing that we really didn’t have much to do with.

We gave up. Eliza was feral, untamed, unpredictable. She’d purr up to you for a blowjob and then bite halfway through. She could be vicious, she could attack. Ultimately, a cat in a girl body.

Ironically, or maybe not, the client loved her. Simply adored her unpredictability, her mercurialness. Apparently she truly thrived, mastered english, holds down a job.

But a bimbo? No.

* * *

January 17, 2014

AN OLD FRIEND

Drove a very long ways to do a very expensive job for a very old friend and client. I’ve probably done fifteen girls for him over the many years—so many I’d have to check my records to be sure. And that’s leaving aside the temporary horniness/memory charms for his parties. He is the wealthiest and most powerful man I know.

He brought me inside his office and poured me my usual. His secretary tapped slowly on a keyboard with pink painted nails and a vacant expression. The whirr between her legs reminded me that she was one of mine—a vibrator addict who got wild with her tongue when she maxed out the batteries.

We caught up a bit in the anteroom (it’s a BIG office) and then he brought me back to his desk, with its commanding views of the ocean and neighboring skyscrapers. A pert blonde with a business suit and skirt combo was slumped over in a comfortable chair.

“I can’t remember how many this has been,” I confessed to him. He shrugged.

“Me neither. You know, I ended up marrying one of them? Do you remember Clarissa?”

No. “Sure.”

He must’ve caught my look. “You did her for me real mild. A personal assistant with a leather and lace touch. Got dumb as a rock when she got aroused.”

It rang a distant bell. “Okay.”

“Yeah, she just had so much personality I couldn’t help but fall for her. As a first among equals sort of deal. I had someone else remove most of the programming and we’re about to have our first kid.”

The client was in his mid-50s. I toasted him congratulations. The reference to another bimboizer was his way of telling me not to overcharge for the work.

This girl had bold, well-defined features, with a largish nose and hair swept behind her ears in a clean sweep. She wore glasses with black plastic frames. Her name was Bree.

“No body work?” I asked to confirm, and also in case he wanted to throw in bigger tits. In my line of work Bree’s tits, wrapped in a plain skin-colored bra, were infinitesimal. I don’t live in a world where B-cups are a thing.

“None, none. As I get older it’s more and more about the mental game. Also I’m drowning in big honkin’ tits. I had a girl go out and get ‘em done natural, like with surgery. Yeah. Just for kicks,” the client said. He clinked the ice around his glass. “I’ll let you get to work. I’ll go use the secretary.”

The Bree job ended up taking a lot longer than expected. Fiddly, complicated brain work, and since I couldn’t change any deeper neural pathways it was just layer upon layer of personality overlays. I also was using some technology I had borrowed, which helped with the fixing and with the trance-inducement but I also had to train myself on a user interface ripped from 1980s MS-DOS. The client was fine with it—he had conceived of the idea and understood that you can’t rush art.

He thoughtfully had a few girls sent up, one of whom got the pleasure of taking care of a zombie-mode Bree, the other one of which settled me down with a lazy handjob underneath the desk.

Is that surprising? I like handjobs when I’m working. I find them refreshing but not distracting.

I finished around 4 a.m. and was woken up on the client’s leather couch at 6 when he strode in, alert and excited. I sipped coffee while he waited for Bree to wake up.

“She’ll wake up normal and then trance off after about 30 seconds,” I told him. “I have the failsafes in of course so no yelling or anything unpleasant.”

When her eyes popped open the client was beaming at her from behind his desk.

“[Client]?” Bree said, confused. She rubbed her eyes with fingernails painted ruby red by the client’s helper. “What’s going on? I.. did I fall asleep?”

“No, no,” the client said, pleasantly. “I drugged you. Are you alright? Feeling okay?”

“No.. I.. drugged?” Bree stood up, abruptly. And tottered in red slingback heels. “What.. what am I wearing?”

“I didn’t pick it out, so I couldn’t say the designer, but it’s a very nice red sheath dress, dear,” the client said. “But don’t worry about that. Sit down. We have to discuss the position you came in for.”

“No.. I…” at this point Bree noticed she was no longer wearing glasses. Indeed, no longer needed them. “This is.. what are you… what…”

“Thirty seconds,” I said, from my corner of the room.

And Bree froze.

“Wonderful,” the client said, nodding his head. “How long will this last?”

“Five minutes is standard, to give you time to react. You can pick what she’ll come out as with commands while she’s in trance. Or just wait it out for random.”

“Oh, random. Random it definitely is,” the client said. His smile grew. “How many different bits and pieces did you toss in there?”

“I have a sort of an autodialer I brought with me, it lists 372 different fetishes and interests. Some of them… well, you know how sometimes you get a licorce jellybean in with the good ones?”

“All for the better!” the client declared, imperiously. “and there’s no way to know in advance what it’ll be, correct?”

“None.” the client’s instructions had been very clear on that. “the normalcy trigger is our usual passphrase. But she’ll still trance from time to time. Nothing to be done about that. Also, some of these fetishes… they’re a little dangerous. I left you a list but… there’s some real bloodsport in there.” And a fecal fetish, I didn’t mention.

Bree snapped out of it. This time her eyes were downcast, low-lidded, sly. She rubbed her legs together, and the dress that she had been so concerned by now looked like she was born to wear it. Such a different attitude makes.

“Bree, can I help you with anything?” the client prompted, leaning across the table.

She grew a slow, quiet smile. “Maybe, daddy,” she said. And just when I thought I had her figured out added “if you can get me a big thing of sheet cake.” Bree moaned deep in her throat and added: “right now.”

“Immediately,” the client said. He gave me a nod that I recognized. Time to leave.

As I slouched to the door he took his eyes off Bree—who was kneading her little boobs—long enough to say “[Harold]. Beautiful work.”

It’s nice to be appreciated.

* * *

January 19, 2014

A LITTLE HAREM IV

My two bimbos-to-be are starting to look a lot less like average american girls and a lot more like extremely fuckable women. Both have lost a great deal of weight, and the chemicals are having their usual effect on their tits and their asses.

A wonderful thing about the chemicals is their attention to detail. Chloe’s hair is bouncier, fuller, framing her face and mitigating the harshness of her sharp, toned body. Marika’s lips have plumped out and even turned a shade more red, the perfect contrast to her pale look. Neither girl has noticed, but their hip bones have actually widened and shifted their entire center of gravity.

They have noticed the dramatic changes to their libido and to their genitalia. It has become a nonstop orgasm rampage in the Marika/Chloe household, as they keep finding their hands wandering into themselves and each other. Chloe especially has something in her pussy more or less all the time.

I picked up a gym membership and have been sweating my way into better health. Mind controller that I am, it was easy enough to listen in on their conversations.

CHLOE:

I’m going to head back to the locker room. [visibly fidgeting]

MARIKA:

[annoyed] That’s the third time since we got here! I got you off in the car before we came in, too! What is wrong with you?

C:

It’s just.. all these men, they’re so hard and they keep looking at me and looking at my tits and my ass and… geez… [nervous laugh]

M:

So stop performing for them! You use the machines like you’re fucking them. Bending over like some cheap tart.

C:

[Blushing] Oh man, Marika, don’t call me that. You know what it does to me.

M:

What, cheap tart? How about slut? Gym whore?

C:

Okay, now I really have to go. Get someone else to spot you.

Jealousy was an obvious next move. So I encouraged Marika to strike up a conversation with a pleasant married man who was only too happy to help her use the free weights. Marika kept her legs nice and wide and her smile extremely bright. And so she ended up losing her virginity in the backseat of her aging VW Jetta, fucking like a pro as the windows fogged up.

She’s arguing with Chloe now. I’ll sign off in case I need to intervene.

* * *

January 19, 2014

A WELCOME DISCOVERY

Nearly walked into a bimbo ambling down the street this morning. It was 9 am, but she was dressed in canary-yellow shorts taut around her ass, and she walked in matching yellow heels with an exaggerated sway. She had a deep tan, obviously bottled, and every inch of hair had been scoured from her body.

And her tits. Good god. Doubled and doubled again. They rode way up on her chest. Surgical, obviously surgical, the whole set taut and tight with saline. She had a ridge of cleavage that normal girls just don’t get. Bleach blonde hair completed the look.

Downright frightened, I checked her mind—only to find just the wide open spaces of a natural bimbo. No influence at all. This was a girl that loved to look hot and loved to be sexy. Clubbing experiences and giggling one-night stands dominated her memories.

I love the naturals. Love that I spend a great deal of time and effort and hormones and chemicals and downright mind control into making a bimbo—only to have some girl best my work just because she wants to. As slutty as I make them, there is someone sluttier just because. I’m not the one keeping Bebe in business. Girls are doing that.

Whenever I see a girl like this one I think of myself like Monet painting water lilies. The beauty is in the water lilies.

* * *

January 19, 2014

Anonymous asked: Ginger or Mary Ann?

Not having to choose is the very essence of my lifestyle.

* * *

January 19, 2014

Anonymous asked: Taking money out of the equation, what sort of women do you enjoy bimbofying the most?

There isn’t a single ‘type’, but, in general, the girls that make me work the hardest and surprise me the most. And that can be anyone. I’ve worked on slutty co-eds that resist losing their A-B-Cs with single-minded tenacity, that tape their hands behind their backs to keep from touching themselves. I’ve given uptight housewives a single dose of chemicals and returned to find them impaled on the mailman’s dick and braying brainlessly.

The single most fun bimboization was Petra. Petra had a unique advantage—she knew all about my tricks, about the community, about methodology. She was herself a mind controller, of limited ability. Mostly she ran a business getting women to lose weight and keep it off.

Bimboizing a female practitioner is verboten—well, it was—but I always found her irresistible. Like my Marika, she was half-Goth and favored dark black blouses with heavy woolen skirts. But she always wore pinpoint black heels and a silver choker and that was enough to excite my interest. So when I was drunk at a party I asked her permission to bimboize her.

She shrugged, displayed little emotion. “If you can,” she told me.

It took me over a year.

A contest of wills would be too intense and a technological solution overkill, so that left chemicals. Which she knew. I couldn’t break into her place to dose something as entering a mind controller’s den without permission is a bad idea. And she didn’t have any obvious routines—a favored coffee place, etc—that I could exploit. Petra always wore black leather gloves and seemed impervious.

Obsessed with the challenge, I hit on a plan more time-intensive then clever. Petra had her own clients. They weren’t hard to find, and a faded tennis player struggling with a Pepperidge Farms addiction was particularly weak-willed. I implanted one, teeny-tiny suggestion, and then dosed her with so many chemicals she started to sprout huge tits during the drive to Petra’s office.

The suggestion was too deep to catch, and when my bimbifying tennis player got close enough, she was overwhelmed with the need to give pale, darkly-clad women open-mouth kisses. With tongue.

It was an indirect exposure, but enough so that the next time I saw Petra, she had on a skirt up to the knees with a slit in the side. Albeit in dark black. And there was something pushing out on her dark black blouse from the inside. It was a start.

I’ll get to my next step with her some other time.

* * *

January 20, 2014

FLOOR PLAN

It glowed even in the clipped language of real estate listings. Acres of square feet, new fixtures, cabinetry. The listing even called the flooring “old hardwood” and left it at that, so smugly confident it could risk a loaded term.

Jason had bought it without more then cursory negotiation, and Alicia wondered, not for the first time, about her new husband’s purchasing power. But any unresolved doubts were lost in a tour of the big bay windows, the deck, the pool, the other deck, even the basketball-court sized garage.

“How do you want to decorate it?” she asked him, already heavy with catalogs and brimming with iron-wrought furniture.

Jason smiled at her. “I think we should make a real effort to fuck in every possible part of this house,” he told her.

* * *

Sex in the master bedroom was like fucking a King.

True, the furniture bordered on frilly, and Alicia had opted for a pink trim on the expansive bed. And it walked directly into the master bathroom, so it always smelled a little like hair products and makeup removal. But all that changed when Jason got home after a long day of whatever he did, and took off his work clothes.

He rarely initiated. Jason didn’t have to. Underneath his suits was a lightly tanned body with a thin coat of chest hair, and it was driving Alicia’s sex drive up the wall. She had never had more then a basic libido. But after a day of teaching high schoolers, then getting enveloped in the house, she was ready to be savaged by her man.

Also, fucking on the bed was just great.

Alicia had started to get more noisy. First just a little whimpering. Then some light mewing and moaning. Lately it was getting more verbal, expressing her love of getting his inches inside of her after a long day. When she finished, Jason would roll over, take off his socks, and leave her there in a giggling pool of juice and babbling delight.

Then the lord of the manor would head off to cook dinner.

* * *

“You look good tonight, babe,” Jason told her. His hands shifted to her waist. He picked her up with little trouble. Alicia had lost weight recently.

She made some feeble denial. But the truth was, Alicia had been dressing up more. Wearing makeup around the house. She felt like an imposter, like some trashy celebrity in a thoughtless acquisition, paddling around in sweats.

So just to watch TV Alicia was dressed in a tight pair of capris, with a bright white collared shirt underneath a light blue sweater. A pair of leopard-print heels hung off her feet. She liked the way the heels clicked on the wood.

They necked around the TV for a bit. Her temperature rose, and continued to climb. Jason had been gone on a work thing for nearly a week. Her motor was at a high thrum. Alicia had taken to masturbating in the bed. It had been a weak substitute.

“Shall we go to the bedroom?” she whispered, slyly. “I permit you to carry me, sir.”

“Here works fine,” he told her.

Here? Here was the living room, with well-appointed sofas and the coffee table and nothing resembling a bed. Alicia had been daydreaming about getting fucked in that bed for days. “Well.. how about…”

But suddenly Jason was harsher, insistent, his kisses forceful and needy. Alicia couldn’t say no to that. Indeed, she was surprised at what a turn on it was. She felt moist, wonderful, warm. “But the beddddddddd…” she whined.

His answer was to undo her fly, slide her jeans down her legs, and stand next to her on the couch. Alicia’s legs dangled, useless. She was very suddenly half naked, exposed, dribbling onto the fabric. It was a position that left her so awkwardly vulnerable, so unable to do anything. She started to moan, her toes flexing, as soon as he pressed inside of her.

* * *

“It’s getting so hard to keep this place clean,” Alicia said, over dinner. “Why don’t we have a maid service come?”

She had waited until after the main course to broach the topic. In the past few weeks Alicia had thrown herself into the world of cooking. It wasn’t something she had any experience with—she lived on takeout in college—but Jason had mentioned that it was a shame they weren’t using the pots and pans.

Cooking was okay, she guessed. Jason’s look of delight was what made it really worthwhile. Once she had underseasoned the scampi and forgotten the parsley and had cried in the bathroom afterwards.

“I don’t know.” Jason said. He frowned, swirled his wine. “Can’t you just sweep up, if it bothers you?”

“I’m already cooking, sweetie,” Alicia said.

“You’re wearing an apron right now, just keep wearing it,” Jason said.

Alicia caught her breath at that one. But she had to concede that Jason wasn’t totally wrong. She loved the house, why wouldn’t she clean the house? Why turn it over to some nobodies?

“I’ll tell you what,” Jason told her. His eyes twinkled. She had come to recognize that look. It made her knees weak, right away. “Maybe you can convince me.”

Alicia stood up. She had thought about this moment. And worn a dark blue ruffled dress with dark black heels, four-inchers she had bought sight-unseen. No bra. And she couldn’t even quite remember if she was wearing any underwear, just then.

But Jason intercepted her, pulled her back to the unused side of the table. Took her ass in his hands and placed her on top of it. By the time she thought to protest his hands were already inside of her dress. And sliding up the insides of her thighs.

“Oh baby, not on the… oh… I thought I wore underwear today,” she said, voice going soft, dark. And then she was helping him with his belt buckle, pulling his cock out. And wrapping her legs around his torso as he pushed into her. Both wine glasses toppled over, right away.

“I’ll clean that later,” she told him, and then drove him on with her heels.

* * *

Her friends had told her—warned her—that she was being a fool. Quitting her job with no kids, to sit around and do… what?

She couldn’t tell them the truth, which is that cleaning and cooking had become full-time jobs. So Alicia put them off with vague talk of a sabbatical, a novel she was considering, and then she quietly stayed off social media.

It was hard to get her work done, anyway. Usually Jason would fuck her in the bed before he left for work, but that left her with little time to get his coffee ready and make lunch for him. There was a good chance a high-roller like Jason never even looked at it, but she loved it and he was nice enough to accept the brown paper bag.

Then an hour of exercise on the treadmill in the garage, plus some light weights.

Around then the UPS guy would arrive, a lot of the time, bearing packages in rough cardboard that had the silkiest, flimsiest, sexiest strips of fabric inside. Or shoes, or some exotic ingredient for Jason. Alicia would give the deliveryman a kiss, then race inside to model in her mirror something hot and pink and oh-so-tight.

Sometimes she didn’t remember to wear underpants until well after noon.

And then it was cleaning and polishing and shining and everything else in a bleach-scented haze that should not have been so sexy.

“I’m back,” Jason announced, surprising her at 2 in the afternoon.

“I’m scrubbing,” Alicia said. She was surrounded by suds, in front of the sink. She didn’t look up at him when he came in. It was mortifying to have him see her like this, with yellow gloves on. And just casual jean shorts with a pair of yellow heels, and her yellow-polka dot halter-top that was knotted underneath her tits.

“I was close by,” Jason said, “I decided to come over. I only have a few minutes.”

Alicia heard the sound of his zipper going down. She dreamed it every night. She started to turn around.

“No, no,” Jason insisted. He gently pushed her forward, until her tits were getting wet, and then unbuttoned her fly. “I really don’t have long. The guys are giving themselves the tour outside. If you hear them, don’t mind them. They’re just business partners.”

He said all this while pushing forwards. Jason never hesitated or stopped when pushing his cockhead into her. He assumed that she was wet and willing. He hadn’t been wrong so far.

“Jason!” a voice called out from somewhere outside. “I love your pool!”

It was degrading, humiliating, but Alicia had spent all day yesterday scrubbing that pool, disdaining the need for a pool boy, and it had paid off both with the praise and with a deepening tan. And besides, anything said and done with Jason inside of her made her feel just so wonderfully weak… and pliable…

She screamed. Jason had to hold her up. Otherwise she would’ve fallen into the sink and probably drowned. When she came to, she heard men chuckling softly behind her. Alicia didn’t dare look around.

“Guys, this is my wife, Alicia,” Jason said, zipping back up.

* * *

Men were over all the time, now. Confident men in excellent suits, with pocket squares in appropriate colors. They wore shoes with leather soles that kept Alicia scurrying about with a mop and bucket, and some of them even smoked cigars indoors until Jason had a word with them. None of them showed any surprised at her scrubbing diligently in a silk teddy, a blood shade of red, her slit peeking out, freshly shaven.

Jason tried not to let the strain show. But Alicia could tell he was tense. He had taken to fucking her moodily, perfunctorily, like she was a sort of stress ball that moaned and squirted.

Alicia didn’t like it. Sure, her orgasms were as wet and wonderful as ever, and Jason came every time, but his mood affected her.

She was unsure how to mention to him that her tits had gotten bigger. Like, a lot bigger. But he seemed to appreciate hefting them and rolling them around in his hands, and it was probably nothing.

There were other girls, too. A lot of the men brought them by, fucked them casually on pieces of furniture all over the house. There were dried wet spots on floors and walls. Poolside was a constant barrage of happy shrieks.

Alicia got to know some of the regulars. They had some interesting tips on makeup and how to squeeze with your pussy when you came, and on some pornos that contained some very interesting positions.

She slipped in on Jason when he was out in the garage, on his cell phone, yelling about some sort of impediment to some sort of deal. Just the presence of math and figures made Alicia feel uncomfortable, but she strode over anyway, raw and wet in a basic purple tube dress made out some space-age fabric. The garage door was open, and any neighbors could see in. Alicia didn’t see that as a reason not to pull out his cock and give it a few warming licks.

He kept up his side of the conversation. And Jason didn’t tell her to stop.

It was a challenging position, but Alicia did all the work, flipping up her dress to reveal the curve of her ass, the skim of her hips, and a perfectly glistening wet pussy that ached for a dick. She braced her hands on the hard concrete floor.

It took Jason a bit to get his rhythm, and he had to brace the phone against his shoulder, but he managed. Soon he was on his usual stroke, a long and hard thrust followed by a slow, even thoughtful withdrawal. Alicia, so proud of herself, felt the hardest orgasm of the month coming, but rode it out in perfect silence.

“Look, I think that’ll work,” Jason finally said. “Tell Damien I think we can wrap this one. Yeah. Yeah. No, I’m taking some time off, it’s been a long year for everyone out here. And we’re in the business of enjoying ourselves, you know? Great.”

He filled her with cream.

“That’s all of them,” Alicia told him, pleased to remember. She had such trouble keeping things straight these days, but she had marked off the rooms on a notepad. “The garage. We hadn’t fucked in the garage.”

“You’re forgetting one,” Jason told her.

She looked around, confused. They didn’t have a basement. “What” she said.

He gestured. “The lawn.”

Her knees felt weak.

* * *

January 21, 2014

AN UNWELCOME DISCOVERY III

I made contact with the little teenage mind controller.

Did everyone think I was joking about killing him? I gave it very serious thought. He is, after all, a bad guy. He’s taking ordinary girls and turning them into mindless cocksucking whores. True, so do I, but that doesn’t make him a good guy. He could be using his abilities to improve his town and put people to work. And his wild and poorly controlled work risks bringing the wrath of the association down on me.

On the other hand, I was young once. And really wanted to get my dick wet.

I wanted to make an impression, so I waylaid a girl of his, a former salutatorian now spending most of her time twirling her hair and blowing big pink bubbles. She sat out front of the library, semi-discarded, with her legs casually open so everyone could admire her bubblegum-pink panties. The problem was obvious. He had made this girl over but had no idea how to teach her anything about sex and pleasing a man.

I taught her a few tips about blowjobs and seduction and sent her inside.

Inside, Derek [I pulled his name out of her head] held court in a secluded part of the library, surrounded by computer hardware and monitors in a lair he had pulled out for himself. A matching pair of redheads waited around nearby, their eyes dreamy and half-closed.

“Amy?” he said, frowning, as my girl sashayed in. Like all of my girls, she knew how to use her hips to her best advantage. “I didn’t ask you to come in.”

“I wanted to,” she replied. Shocking him—he wasn’t used to any backtalk.

At this point an experienced bimboizer would recognize a compromised girl and be out a window. But instead he let her, giggling, kneel between his legs and fish out a red and very hard cock. Amy paused to wet her lips, and then gave Derek the most intense experience of his young life.

Amy was a quick study. She swallowed every drop. Then she looked Derek in the eyes and said “Mr. [Me] would like to discuss your activities at the coffee shop on 5th and Columbus at 5 p.m. this Saturday.”

Dumbfounded, his pants around his ankles, Derek watched Amy amble out. I had kept her underwear before she left, of course.

I’m thinking about keeping her.

* * *

January 22, 2014

A LITTLE HAREM V

The pressure is off with Amy on board—I’ll talk about what I’m doing with her some other time—but I’m still very much into Chloe and Marika.

Their physical changes have gone well past what fitness could conceivably accomplish. Any girl with an unaffected mind would think: my tits could never have gotten this big, my hips are actually wider, and where did all my moles and skin blemishes go? Marika’s skin has actually whitened, not to a Marilyn-Manson-goth exactly, but to a serene and ethereal milk. Chloe is in such good condition and humming with so much erotic energy that she’s only sleeping a few hours a day.

But neither has noticed a thing—less even then most bimbos—thanks to their efforts to fuck each other jealous.

After Marika’s ride in the backseat a little bit ago, they’re both wild to show the other up with some sort of obvious sexual gymnastics. First Chloe ostentatiously brought home a date and had him bang her until 2 in the morning, until he collapsed, exhausted. Then Marika got ‘caught’ when Chloe got home, fucking the hell out of some random guy from the gym on the wall outside her room. And then Marika saw where this was going and got a jump start by blowing a guy in the living room while Chloe sulked in her room.

Then it got a little out of hand.

If my tally is right, Chloe is ahead, 30 to 27. Mostly because Marika’s date one night got spooked at her forwardness while Chloe was a three-way doggy-style and blowjob participant with two brothers. In the kitchen.

When not fucking and glaring at each other the two are shopping for clothes. Chloe is more or less what I envisioned—bright colors, boy shorts, and skimpy runner outfits. Tight yoga pants for slumming. But Marika, who I figured for a bit of a goth, has gone instead for a sophisticated sexy secretary look. Pencil skirts and pristine white blouses. It’s fantastic.

I’m not too worried about the jealousy. Reason why is, the changes to their genitalia.

The chemicals completely redo a girl’s pleasure zones. Every time Marika and Chloe cum, it’s harder, longer, stronger, more intense. Their pussies are constantly puffy and aroused, juiced and wet, and their clits are like tiny gumballs. All of it bristling with new nerve endings. And every time they cum they erode a little bit more of their former personalities, memories, etc.

It won’t be very long now before the jealousy is gone, simply forgotten, and they’ll just be bringing back boys to fuck.

* * *

January 24, 2014

Anonymous asked: Any... “unexpected” side effects of bimbofication ever come up in the business? Not just any you’ve had, but for others as well?

Oh sure. Constantly. I even have a special phone number for emergencies. Just a month ago I had to run out because a former client had lost track of a girl, and was extra concerned because he had put a tattoo fetish in. By the time I found her she had COCK on the left cheek and SLUT on the right, with any number of tattooed arrows pointing to her pussy. All paid for with her mouth.

Client saw her and nearly fucked her right in front of me. Man liked his tattoos. He personally didn’t have a single one.

Most side effects come from implanted fetishes or inflexible needs that the client asks for special. These kinds of compulsions are fun, and often the point for the client, but it’s really better to get an on-off switch. Shopping fetishes are particularly bad about this—these girls will rack up thousands of dollars a day in fetishwear and shoes. There are only so many outfits even the most dedicated bimbo can wear. Another girl, the client gave her such a strong rubber fetish, she refused to take off her full-body catsuit, and had to be mind controlled out of it.

Of course, on/off switches have their own problems. One client—not mine—had a bimbo wife of twenty years standing. The phrase “Banana Margaret” would turn this intelligent career woman into a cockthirsty and drooling bimbo. All was well until at their kid’s school play a little girl asked her mother, Margaret, for a banana. Whoops.

My own personal best was a girl named Samantha, who was a savage and merciless domme when triggered by the client. Who was hours deep into a session and both bound and gagged when he realized he couldn’t remember the safe word. It took him a day and a half of torture to reach a phone, and he was dangling from a staircase railing by his ankles when I got there. It cured that fetish. Samantha was a giggling and cheerful bimbo when I left.

Careful with your bimbos, everyone.

* * *

January 25, 2014

ONE MORE

Can’t believe I forgot perhaps the greatest unintended side effect story I’ve ever heard.

A bimbo crossing the street—with the light—was struck and killed by a car. Pre-bimboization she was an organ donor so… they donated her organs. To three women and two men.

The three women not only didn’t need transplantation medication, they found themselves with an overpowering libido, rapidly growing tits, and all three had their hair lighten to a platinum blonde.

For the men, one was unaffected entirely. The other had what must’ve been a very confusing six months before he-now-she made her debut on stage at a local strip club as the very brainless, very chesty, very sexy new talent. She was more bimbo then the donor.

* * *

January 26, 2014

AMY

Amy used to be a good student, a track runner, a sensible girl. Then she made her major mistake in life, sitting in front of a young mind controller while possessing a pert ass. And then it wasn’t long before she was masturbating furiously in the shower while big honking tits grew in overnight.

It turns out Derek is using Master PC. That program finds its way to many new bimboizers, it’s sort of the training wheels of this profession. I have a copy but never use it—too crude, very temporary work. There is a far better way to make bimbos then the direct, searing commands: YOU ARE a bimbo, YOU ARE a slut. It’s called Jafar’s Method.

Amy’s tits start to come in. She comes from a long line of small-breasted women, and is resigned to her genetic destiny. But then every night they grow, and grow, and fill in, and her nipples expand to poke out and tent every shirt she owns. She graduates from training bras in no time at all. At first Amy is pleased, then apprehensive, then worried as she turns downright topheavy. But there’s no stopping them—she eats voraciously for dinner and sprouts tits while she sleeps.

Jafar’s Method never commands. It convinces the girl that she was always a bimbo, was never not a bimbo, enjoys being a bimbo.

The girls at school are cruel. But that’s fine, there are plenty of boys who are happy to hang out with her, who share her interests in books and are extremely pleased to play video games with her. But more and more Amy notices them watching her, intensely. Behind her back. Growing regular teenage boy hardons when she and her big jugs are around. One day she goes into a friend’s room and sees his wastebucket full of dried tissues, and realizes that he’s masturbating to her.

It gives her a very funny feeling.

While it doesn’t work very fast, Jafar’s Method is one of the few systems that is 100% permanent. And the best part is that the girl isn’t obeying—she’s initiating. This is who she is. A bimbo doll.

Boy attention is a turn-on, and it’s not hard to get. Amy starts to dress up. At first she tells herself she is just letting go of her inhibitions—the sweatshirts and loose pants she retreated into when she developed tits. But then she spends hours in front of the mirror, admiring her ass in tight white shorts. Going braless around the house to let her boobs bounce. Experimenting with rich red lipstick and doe-eyes.

She has an entourage. She keeps pushing it. Bending over to pick things up. Walking in heels through the mall, just to get the world to watch her. Leaning forward to let the guys see the soft curves of the top of her breasts.

There’s a stock story that is easy because it’s familiar, and I use it on Amy. The high libido girl grows up fuckable. But it’s customizable. Very customizable.

Very first date, with a stammering nerd she can’t believe got up the nerve. She wears a short miniskirt and they go to the movies. At some point his hands slip up her shirt and fumble around. What to most girls is mild tingling is an overpowering rush, and Amy ends up whimpering in her seat as he explores. She comes twice from breastplay alone. The internet confirms: that means that she is a very horny girl.

For specific fetishes you just insert certain scenarios. The boyfriend who taught her to enjoy spanking. The boutique that made her love leather.

Amy is forced to admit that her body is in control. It loves to be touched, wants to be touched, needs to be fondled. Her grades plummet. She is spending way too much time on dates, earning a reputation, letting guys handle her tits. She’s increasingly aware that she is the town bicycle, but it just feels too good to care. And how else is she going to get new clothes? Guys are happy to buy for her.

A new date. An alpha male, for once. Unlike the awkward teenage guys this one is older, aggressive, intoxicatingly in control. He put his hand on her ass while they walk around, he pays for everything, he fingers her to climax at the movies. And in the car he expects a blowjob. Amy hesitates only briefly—she is so wet, so in love with his command. She puts everything into it, and is rewarded by her first gob of cum. It’s love at first sight.

I spent eight hours on Amy. Some of that was getting rid of old, shoddy programming. Some of that was me getting older. And quite a bit was me taking my time and enjoying myself.

Amy knows she’s out of control. Dropped out of school because she just wants to fuck the teachers. Getting passed from guy to guy. And yet all she wants to do is get on her back and get filled up with that wonderful spunk. The only idea that makes sense to her fuck-addled brain is to find some man who can satisfy her, take care of her, dominate her, be her owner. An older man, with stamina. She would fuck him so hard he would have trouble standing.

Amy opened her eyes.

He looked perfect.

* * *

January 27, 2014

charleswallace82 asked: Everyone seems to love blondes. Or boring brunettes. Anyone ever hired you to do a redhead?

I’m sure you’re expecting some tale of reworking some vivacious redhead but the truth is… not really. I mean, yes, I’ve done some redheads, but no one special comes to mind and I think they were mostly standard one-week bimboization jobs.

Thinking on it, I believe most of the redheads went to clients on their fourth or fifth bimbo. As a sort of skittles/M&M “get the entire pack” sort of thing. My guess is that the bimbo stereotypes don’t mix well with the redhead stereotypes, so the typical client isn’t looking for that direction.

Or perhaps it’s like buying suits—never buy a khaki suit for the first suit. Charcoal, Navy, Black, pinstripe… and then perhaps khaki down the line. If you’re going to sink a huge amount of money into making a girl into a bimbo, the client isn’t going to chance on a redhead.

So, no. Not really. Don’t blame me. Blame the clients. I like redheads!

* * *

January 27, 2014

Anonymous asked: Most expensive bimbo upgrade you do? Or have been asked to do?

Good question. There are the big, big jobs I did as part of the association—the chapter of Alpha Gamma Iota, that hotel I did with Wren and the rest of the team, the college I helped the Calving weirdos do… but I’m guessing you mean, by myself.

It’s not the most I charged, but I have to say Tammy.

Tammy’s bimboization took FOUR YEARS.

I was totally taken aback by this client’s request. Clients want speed. Clients are impatient with a ten hour job. Clients call you up and say things like ‘when are her tits going to be done?’ Clients would generally be happier if I waved a wand and poofed a lifelong soulmate into a brainless toy. This client asked for years and years from the get-go.

His reasons were considered and sober. He wanted a bimbo, absolutely, but he wanted it to still be Tammy. That meant it had to be slow, and preferably seem like her idea. Being a bimbo had to adjust itself to her life. He didn’t want some horny stranger plopped in. And besides, he thought the bimboization itself would be the most fun. How could I argue with that?

So for the first year, all Tammy got was a once a week programming phone call and an extremely mild dose of chemicals. It was hilariously bizarre for me because I had to program with the most innocuous things—you enjoy wearing heels above two inches, you like when [client] calls you sexy as hell, you’re starting to get curious about blowjobs. It was four months before she bought her first lacy underthing from some online outlet. It was seven months before she was giving blowjobs!

From Tammy’s perspective, she had an incredibly wonderful life and was proactive about keeping it that way. I really did almost no mental persuasion. She started to really love having sex, so she had more sex. Being horny became part of who she was. When she finally masturbated in a mirror that first time, it was because sex and jacking off was part of her daily existence. I don’t think I ever caught the slightest hint of resistance.

After year one—and this was all part of the plan!—client got her pregnant. An easy way to ease in bigger boobs, to get her to quit her job, to increase her reliance on her husband. And the slow degradation of attention span and intelligence was easily attributable to mommy brain and leaving the workforce. So it was.

Isolated and at home, we redirected Tammy’s increasing energy into making client the center of her world. And, the masterstroke, she started to look up bimbos on her own. Not anything connected with the fetish—I felt like that was too much—but the bimbo lifestyle and sex videos and everything about it. Tammy plunged wholeheartedly into it, convinced herself that she was being a good housewife.

I don’t think a single one of her family and friends ever thought there was something up.

Year four, the client had me over for drinks. Serving them on a tray was Tammy, in a tight leather bustier, her long blonde hair billowing and her big tits swaying. While we talked she knelt between the client’s legs and gave him what even I could tell was one of the best, most considerate blowjobs of all time. The client showed me a picture of a girl with premature wrinkles, dry hair, facing the camera uncomfortable in a one-piece swimsuit. Tammy, four years prior. Even I didn’t recognize her.

* * *

January 28, 2014

AN UNWELCOME DISCOVERY IV

Today I met with Derek.

He tried to dress up. Who knows what he felt this was about. From the collared shirt and the borrowed sportscoat my guess he thought this was some sort of initiation rite. He was being tapped for Order of the Arrow, that kind of thing. At least, he wasn’t that nervous.

We were at a coffee shop, of course.

“So.. hi,” he said. He extended a hand. “Derek.” Yeah, no shit.

“I know,” I said. I didn’t mean anything by it, but his eyes got wide. Well, of course I knew his name. You don’t need to be a mind controller. Some light reconnaissance would be enough.

I had thought about my approach and decided to go with deliberately casual. “I just moved into town, saw one of your girls walking around.”

“Which one?” he asked. Derek did not offer to buy me a cup of coffee, which lost him Harold-points.

“Blonde… tits on sticks.. bodycon dress…” no glimmer. “I guess I’m not narrowing it down.”

“Probably Heather,” he smirked. “She was my middle school history teacher.”

For me it was english. “How many girls have you done?” I asked, suddenly concerned. He looked away, so I took the answer from the top of his head. He had no idea how to stop me. “Twenty-three? Ah man. That’s too many.” I reconsidered killing him. Twenty-three. What an idiot. Twenty-three bimbos wandering around. Did he think no one would notice?

“Well, just five are permanent,” he argued, suddenly afraid. I can be scary when I want to be. The conversation had taken a turn he didn’t expect. “The rest are on triggers? When I say…”

“Yeah, Kaleidoscopic is not a great trigger,” I told him. “They should be two, three words.” His lower lip quivered. I relented. He was a teenager, he didn’t know anything. “Well, since we’re in the same town I thought I could teach you a thing or two.”

“I think I know what I’m doing…” he mumbled.

“Excuse me, sir?” a redhead interrupted us. She had her hair parted down the middle and hard poured her long legs into a pair of very dark blue jeans. A western shirt didn’t really hide her breasts. She laughed. “I’m so sorry. Apparently they’re out of cream and… can I?”

“Sure,” I told her, affably. I scooted my chair aside a smidge, and she knelt between my legs and started to pull out my dick.

Derek was motionless.

“Not hard at all,” I assured him. I looked down. The redhead had it free and was working the shaft with long, delicate fingers. The rest of the coffee shop buzzed around us.

It gradually dawned on Derek that it was filling up with nubile women, and not a single man.

“So.. can I get you a cup of coffee?” he said, properly humbled.

I grunted, and unloaded a shot onto the redhead’s face. She smiled and licked at it, letting the remainder fall into her cup ‘o joe. “Thanks so much, that’s perfect,” she gushed, dripping with sperm.

A dark-haired girl with a red headband approached. “I’m fresh out,” I explained, “but I think the kid can help.”

She got on her knees and waited.

* * *

January 29, 2014

Anonymous asked: Have you ever had to turn the (mental) lights back on? Or at least partially restore a girl’s mind to what it was before you, or someone else, worked on her?

I always make it possible to turn on intelligence again unless the client specifically requests a total snuff. You can always get the original person back, albeit a lot sluttier and a bit sillier. I actually charge extra for total snuff even though it’s easier for me to do. I feel a little better about it.

Intelligence loss is such a keystone to what I do that it’s funny to be squeamish about it. The slow and methodical dimming of the lights is a turn on in so many ways—the gradual changeover of magazines from The Economist to People, the new interest in reality television, the romance novels poorly hidden in the bathroom. That look of dulled panic when the girl realizes she’s struggling to do multiplication. And the way it’s replaced by attributes that make her not care—the libido, the adoration, the need to be stroked and admired.

I once took a girl I was bimboizing to the symphony, just to watch her not give a shit. She had been a talented violinist. Now she was an amateur flutist.

I would estimate that about 5-10% of clients eventually request that I get the old girl back. This is of those that asked for a permanent job. And yes, I have had clients who got a full snuff want the old girl back. Sorry, no refunds. We talked about this…

Sometimes I will happen to run across a bimbo that has been ‘orphaned’ either because her client died or lost track of her or something. And if I can’t use her in some other way, I’ll turn her lights back on.

I did this to a girl named Miriam who had been bimboized around when she was 20 and had spent six years as a pseudo-prostitute for a client with a voyeur fetish. And then suddenly—woke up. She took it as a message from god and became a hard-bodied, big-boobed missionary for the lord, wearing a heavy white robe over her still-sensitive tits. She has a Sunday morning TV show if you want to watch, where she talks in lurid detail about her ‘sexual congress’ as a sinner.

She still has a trigger. I left it in. It’s not likely to be said but sometimes I’ll idly google her name, just in case.

* * *

January 30, 2014

Anonymous asked: Any experience bimboizing a certain type of alluring distant beauty? There’s not a specific word for them—muses, maybe?—but you know the type I mean: artist’s models, ballerinas, cello players. Most transformations are about amping up cute / pretty girls’ already-present sex appeal, but I’m more interested as a potential client in having one of these beautiful-but-somehow-sexless women turned into a horny pink giggledoll, her mysterious smile and dark eyes replaced with a dumb blinking grin.

I know what you mean. I do have some stories like that but you’ve reminded me of a better one, from my early days. When I was hired by a woman named Rachel, a manager at a small tech company that needed to get a project out the door. Actually, I was hired by the CEO, but Rachel thought I was her hire.

She had a short pixie haircut swept to the side, and dressed in pant suits with shirts with large white collars. The staff tended to think she was a lesbian. It hardly matters for my purposes but she wasn’t.

Rachel started to flirt.

Ever so slowly to start. Just touching the employees on the back, patting their shoulders, standing a bit closer to them then before. And smiling—she never had smiled—a very quiet and mysterious smile.

The CEO’s idea had been to make her into a basic bimbo for the staff to let off steam. But I decided to go the other way—to ratchet up the tension.

Rachel started to drop hints about her personal life. Hints that quickly spread all the way around the office and back. That she went out dancing late at night, and lost her heels in a penthouse overlooking the ocean. That she had gotten drunk on champagne and wandered until 4. All painting the portrait of a sexy, fun Rachel that the computer geeks wondered at as they slaved away long hours. And Rachel was right there with them, always in the office, encouraging and smiling and cheering them on.

One of the programmers did a particularly good job. She gave him a backrub. I think he came in his dockers.

That was the cue to turn the dress code casual “until we launch”. Way casual. Suddenly Rachel was in flip-flops and brightly colored shorts during the day, halter tops poorly concealing her bra. Then after dinner slipping into a cocktail dress and a pair of heels, supposedly “just about” to head out on the town. She was giggling, now, whispering into the guy’s ears, increasingly free with her backrubs.

The poor girl was getting more revved up then the guys. And started to let off steam in the otherwise unoccupied ladies’ room, slipping her fingers inside herself to yummy, mid-day climaxes.

She didn’t seem to realize that every guy in the office could hear her scream.

By this point, I don’t think the guys were ever going home. They programmed, ate pizza, and traded stories. Rachel’s underwear casually strewn on her office floor. The way she saw Thomas’ hard-on and giggled and winked. The sly suggestion that maybe the employee that most broke performance goals would get to give her a backrub.

With days to go before deadline, Rachel was a master of persuasion and seduction. She wandered the halls in a short and tight miniskirt, occasionally stopping to pick some lint off the carpet. Her slit was bald and glorious. On the very last day she gathered every staffer into the conference room for a pep talk, which somehow devolved into a long discussion about blowjobs.

The product shipped on time, although kleenex consumption was way up for the month.

It was a needy, animalistic group of boys that gathered around the giggling Rachel for the post-launch celebration. She had promised them all rides, and hummers, and anal, for their hard work and dedication. Because I didn’t want her to be torn to shreds, I sent in a dozen of my girls, and even these experienced sluts were savaged all night.

And in the end, all the tension of seduction in Rachel dissolved beneath the weight and fluids of so many guys, banging her raw and stupid. She was just another bimbo. But what a performance.

* * *

January 31, 2014

Anonymous asked: What do you think of that Pastor Flynn guy? Seems like kind of a douche.

Pastor Flynn.

If you’re not familiar with Flynn you can read about him at Calving Signs. Calving wasn’t even the first town he bimboized, but it’s the most well known and his current base of operations.

I hope everyone is okay with stopping bimbotalk and starting office politics. There’s a reason that I, a veteran mind controller, am friendless and alone in a boring town, nursing one and a half bimbos in my collection. And it’s largely because of Pastor Flynn. And myself.

Not so long ago I and a few others started up The Association. At the time I conceived of it as a social club for bimboizers and general mind controllers. A trade group. A newsletter, some social events, maybe a friendly “your best work” competition. And for some time it was that. We even had a club on top of a regular country club, girls on leashes walking unnoticed among golfers and their wives.

But then we started to think big. Real big. Bimboizing a girl wasn’t hard, why not an entire hotel? Why not a cruise ship? Why not a town?

Why not the world?

Flynn joined several years ago. And I agree that he is a true believer. I’m fairly certain that he’s personally chaste (!). Still, I don’t see anything in the bible that says “turn thy neighbor into a cumslut” and I am sticking by that.

But Flynn isn’t just warping religion to his ultimate bimboizing goals. It’s the other way around. He believes that two thousand years of conventional religious mission has failed, and it’s time for a new approach. And when he’s done with them, his flock does spend plenty of time on its knees.

Now, Flynn doesn’t call the shots at the association because no one is that stupid. Damian does. Damian isn’t a BAD guy, exactly—he means his word and doesn’t go back on a handshake. But think about what kind of person rises to leadership in a group of ruthless mind controllers.

Yeah.

So he listens to the Flynn-faction that says “why not do the entire world? Why not mind control everyone?”

Now, I personally think an entire world of bimbos would be, among other things, monotonous. Sex would be like going to the supermarket. All laid out for you, with all challenge and interest removed. And there’s probably a lot of other reasons a nation of bimbos would be bad, too. So I left the association when it became clear that my opinions were no longer necessary.

For years it seemed like I was ignored and could act independently so long as I didn’t get in the association’s way. But lately that’s changed. Now I am sure I am being hunted. And that doesn’t just scare me for my own personal safety. It means that there is a Plan that I could be a conceivable threat to.

And I’m certain Flynn is at the center of it.