February 1, 2014
DAMN
I’ve been distracted with work and forgot to check in on Chloe and Marika yesterday. Neither came back all day today. Now I need to go find them.
February 1, 2014
DAMN II
I found Chloe, at least. And got some of the story.
Let me first say that this is totally my fault and is really inexcusable. I am a professional. There comes a critical moment where a newly minted bimbo has a moment of clarity about what a sexpot she has become, and it is the controller’s responsibility to give her a cock to dive onto. And I failed at that.
Marika reached that point a few days ago now. The sexual feud between the two girls had reached a fever pitch. It culminated in a two hour three-way between the two of them and a pizza guy, where the two girls practically killed a teenage boy underneath their tits and needy slits.
I should mention that Chloe looks amazing. Skinny with just enough padding, high-riding tits that are nice but not overlarge, and, most particularly, a well-rounded ass that practically bobbles when she walks. With her flawless skin she’s the picture of sexual health, it’s almost a shame to put clothes on her.
Battle Pizza turned into a lengthy fuck-marathon between the two of them, the boy escaping. Hours upon hours of licking between each other’s legs, pushing into them with strapons, and masturbating to shrieking climax. Finally, her mind temporarily sexually exhausted (albeit quite a bit dimmer) Marika saw every bimboizer’s bete noire—a picture of her pre-bimbo, heavy-set, flannel-wearing self. And realized something was up.
She tried to alert Chloe, but, well, Chloe is about as bright as a sack of hammers, by design. With her I was inspired by forest nymphs, athletic, sex-hungry, but practically animal. Chloe’s new favorite activity is to sit in the sun, tanning, a vibrator buzzing away between her thighs.
They went a ways together, but Chloe got distracted by a group of soccer players returning from practice, and went away with them. I found her at one of the player’s houses, covered in jizz, and sniffing one of their sweaty shirts. I brought her back here with me and Amy is taking care of her.
Marika is still parts unknown.
February 3, 2014
BUSY SEASON
I might be posting sporadically this month. It’s busy season. No one likes to be alone on Valentine’s Day. I might do 40 bimbos this month.
Just like Valentine’s Day, everything tends to be mass-produced and rushed. I even had one client simply write “a bimbo” on the order questionnaire. That was it.
And on top of all the work I have to find the still-missing Marika and figure out what to do with Derek. What a month. At least Chloe and Amy are having fun. Funny how the pecking order develops so quickly. Amy is top girl and Chloe is spending a ton of time between her legs.
February 6, 2014
PAUSES
There were some long pauses in the conversation, now and then. But Sarah knew that good friends would find some other topic to chat about. One occurred to her.
“Shoes,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about getting new shoes.”
Katie’s voice was more fluting, more hesitant, more high-pitched. It tumbled around in vocal range. “Yeah?” she said.
“Oh, I’ve been sticking with these little black and brown boots for so long,” Sarah said. She leaned back in the chair. It was damp with sweat. “I’ve been thinking, long leather fuck-me boots, how cool would those be? With a short mini?”
“With that little flash of skin? I love that look,” Katie gushed. “It’s such a hot look. I think I might have a pair of knee-highs in the back of the closet, I should pull those out.”
Yeah, the knee-highs. Katie had already mentioned those. Or had she? There was a crackle of static over the phone. Sarah stood up and moved to a different part of the house, to improve reception. It was just as well, the chair she was in was soggy from masturbating on it, more then once.
“Can you hold on for a few minutes?” Katie said. Her breathing got hot and short in the receiver. “I’m getting really close.”
Sarah listened to her friend start to moan and pant, and then giggle and mumble. It was pretty hot. She started to the kitchen, keeping the phone to her ear. She was getting wet again herself, and she was thirsty. Sarah stuffed cheerios into her mouth while Katie screamed an orgasm.
“Sorry about that,” her friend said, eventually.
“No trouble at all,” Sarah said. She had put a finger in her own slit, leaning up against the kitchen counter. “What were we talking about?”
“Vibrators, I think,” Katie said. “I used to own one as a gag. Sort of as a gag. I think I always figured it was a last resort in case I couldn’t find a man.”
“Yeah, me too, except as a college liberation thing,” Sarah said. She sighed, heartfelt. Katie and her were so similar. “I lost it in a move. I wonder who found it. Lucky girl. It was a ten-incher.”
There was a short break in the conversation, just fifteen minutes, while images of ten-inch cocks rippled through Sarah’s head. Her eyes, glassy, slid over the microwave clock. 4:44 a.m. What time had they started talking? It had been daylight? Or was it night time, then daylight?
Whatever. Her fingers sped up. She added two more. Katie listened respectfully as she came hard, grasping the kitchen table with her free hand, the other keeping the phone to her ear.
The static crackled. She moved to the bedroom. Her closet had been torn apart, all her clothes lying on the floor. Sarah stepped neatly over them and into the bathroom.
“Hold on, I have to shave my pussy down,” she said.
“Oh, I was just thinking of doing that!” Katie piped. “Here, lets do it together. I’m already in the bathroom.”
Sarah knelt over the toilet and lathered up. It was extremely tricky to maneuver the razor with the phone to her ear, but she felt confident, assured. Katie’s presence made it an empowering moment. They chatted about trimming in general. “I used an electric razor, and I know it’s safer, but it always seemed so scary to have that thing down there,” Katie confessed.
When they were done, the girls described their nice and red slits in lengthy detail. And then, talking idly about blowjobs, Sarah got dressed. She picked out a blue wool mini and wrapped it around her ass, then a daring black top with spaghetti straps. It was a little boring until she struggled into the matching high heels.
“No underwear, like we discussed, right?” Sarah confirmed.
“Well, yeah!” Katie’s cheery voice said.
The doorbell rang. And again. Something about it cut the static on the phone. Sarah lowered the receiver, put it back to her ear, down again, then back up.
“Katie, I’m very sorry, but I have to get the door.”
“Mine is ringing too, so that’s fine. Very nice talking to you, Sarah!”
“Oh, of course. Just…” the doorbell rang again, more insistent. “Katie?”
“Yes?”
“What’s your last name?”
The pause went on. “I don’t remember,” Katie said.
“Me neither,” Sarah said.
She hung up the phone and tottered towards the door.—
February 7, 2014
MARIKA
Marika, Marika, where did you go.
February 7, 2014
THE LAST HAREM
Here is how I left my last harem.
I was in a big town, with two Universities, both a community college and a state school. And a beautician school. It sits at the crossroads of two major highways and has easy air access. I lived in a large house—not a mansion but a large house—with a humidor and a large selection of wines.
I had twelve girls on a permanent basis and dozens of triggers scattered about town. I didn’t dictate who woke me up—the girls had some complicated system—but it was always with a smile and a very warm and inviting pussy. Or just a blowjob if I was tired or busy. Then breakfast and coffee, with the news, my secretary taking notes while I dictated, her legs encased in nylons. Next, off to work, sometimes bringing a few bunnies along as assistants.
When I returned, cheers and adulation. A glass of wine on weekdays, a glass of scotch on Friday. Often I’d have friends over and they’d take their pick. Dinner was always superb. Caitlyn, the alpha-bimbo, more or less, delighted in picking out costumes and coming up with themes.
Writing it out like this, it sounds old-fashioned and a little trite. But it was very, very, very enjoyable.
A few months ago, I returned home, tired after a few days away. And one of the girls called me “Michael”.
I tried not to react to it too strongly.
I have fail-safes set up. And fail-safes on fail-safes. If one of my girls is tampered with by another controller, I have ways to tell.
I took a last, long look around, at the nymphs lounging on pillows in short skirts and sweaters. It was apparently co-ed night. Then I excused myself to go to the bathroom. First I pulled on gloves that I always keep with me. With them I opened the window, climbed down a reinforced trellis I had long ago reinforced, and ran for a good half-hour. Next I selected a random house with a pool, stripped, dove in, and then took a long shower. Finally I retrieved a few briefcases from a house I stored them in.
Stopped a car at random, drove off in it.
I know it seems extreme for a slipped name. But I am dealing with a very scary group of mind controllers. Paranoia is not a strong enough word.
A week later I set up a lengthy relay and called home. Caitlyn answered. And over the line were the telltale clicks of a mind wiper device. Strong enough to catch me if I hadn’t been anal with my protection. In a way it was a relief. I had worried myself that I had fled over nothing.
And now I’m here, with two bimbos in a nondescript apartment, with one suitcase of work materials and one of mementos and files.
February 9, 2014
MARIKA II
Marika is over nine hundred miles away. I’m dumbstruck.
She called a number I’ve been monitoring. I had one of my devices on it and caught her.
After running away Marika leveraged her excellent tits into hitchhiking a ride with a few college boys as they headed out of town. Then, when they reached their destination, she gave them both incredible head and convinced the twosome to keep driving. And then finally tag-teamed them in a cheap motel room and got them to donate $500 and a marriage proposal, which she declined.
From then on she kept going, fucking and sucking her way across this great country, delivering handjobs to truck drivers, blowjobs to salesmen in renter cars, and banging night managers at hotels for free rooms. Eventually she stopped running and started enjoying it, traveling wherever she liked the look of a guy, and leaving new towns in a totally different wardrobe.
She said the highlight was sitting on the back of a motorcycle, her hands dug into the waistband of the biker, and getting off whenever he revved the engine.
After awhile she ended up in a nice but very small town near the coast, where she was dropped off nearby a vacant storefront. Following her instincts, she moved in, decided to be a fitness/yoga/pole dancing instructor, and put up a poorly-spelled sign to that effect. And now has a thriving business. “This town has a lot of people that want to have sex with me,” she said.
She’s going to call back in a few days, she has no choice.
I am honestly not sure what to do.
February 10, 2014
Anonymous asked: As far as Marika goes, there seems to be an obvious (and pragmatic) solution...let her stay where she is. I mean, she seems to be happy and seems to be making OTHER people happy so that’s nice, but more importantly it means that if you have to up stakes and move again (say, if someone you didn’t want to find you were to come sniffing around) then you have a pre-made bimbo bolthole waiting for you elsewhere.
Agreed. Marika’s instructions will be: stay where you are, keep me posted, and send me polaroids of any particular good candidates that come her way.
And even if everything goes fine here, it’ll be a great spot for a vacation.
February 10, 2014
shkspr1048 asked: You’ve already spoken of Flynn; What about Mr. Wren? And am I correct in assuming that you are the gentleman mentioned in “Flyspeck”?
The gentleman being Damian’s predecessor, Mr. Vise? Am I the single most powerful bimboizer and mind controller who ever lived?
No.
But of course I know Mr. Wren, I’ve known him for decades. The man is a rogue and a cheat and one of my closest friends. We did the Orang Hotel together. He retired shortly before everything went to shit and helps keep me apprised of what is going on. I think he runs a chocolate shop now and is probably enticing some co-ed into having a truffle as we speak.
February 10, 2014
Anonymous asked: What is protocol when a woman comes to you seeking your services for herself?
Good question. It’s always a little awkward because she is the client, and clients get professional conduct. At the same time, I’m making her over into a raw squirming fuckdoll. So once she takes that first pill or shot or whatever it is she is fair game for my usual services, that’s the rule. I explain it ahead of time.
A lot of girls try to back out. Usually I just bimboize them further during their explanation of why they can’t go through with it. A girl will come in expressing concern that her tits are too large and she can’t read road signs and she’ll leave with a vibrator clutched between her thighs and bra-less. If she’s really far along I’ll just inform her that a good cocksucking will cure everything and, in a way, it will. I’ve had reluctant clients bring boyfriends or husbands to beat me up which is a sure sign that their IQs are starting to plummet. I don’t take it hard. It’s actually a good opportunity to let the significant other fuck the girl giggly.
But I’ve also had some very interesting female clients who have a very clear picture of what they want and a lot of kinky ideas. As a general rule they’re a lot more into control and submission and the emotional part of bimboization then my male clients, who often just want an easy lay. Lots of request for orgasm denial, which is something the men almost never ask of me. And they want their capacity for social embarrassment to get left in, which the guys typically only want if they have a voyeur aspect. It’s a different perspective in some surprising ways.
The main rule is that there has to be some guy or girl there to act as the owner. I would say that 95% of the time this isn’t an issue. In the rare times that it is, we can typically work something out. I’ve delivered boxes full of bimbo to startled co-workers, I’ve even hunted down old childhood friends to give them a leash with a girl on the end of it.
Overall, and this is strange to admit, I like having girls as clients more then men.
February 11, 2014
Anonymous asked: What happened to Petra? Did you have to abandon her during your last ‘move’?
When we left Petra I had just given her her first taste of bimbo. Literally. It was nice to see those bigger boobs sway under her clothes but they were still dark and black and all-concealing.
We both knew that I needed to crack into her head. Doing it at her office was repetitive and somewhere in the street was gauche. It had to be at home, when she had her guard down.
I puzzled on this for months. At one point I had her supermarket staked out, trying to figure if I could dose something likely to be carted out with her. Dumb. But then one evening, my harem at the time was clustered quietly around the television, ignoring me, and it became obvious.
Television is already basically a bimboizer.
A very willing young lady at the cable company confirmed for me that Petra watched news irregularly, period dramas regularly, and, every so often, a show on MTV about slutty teen girls who were too dumb to use condoms. A guilty pleasure. Wonderful. After all that thought, all I had to do was get a tiny box from a technologically-minded friend and clip it to the external cable feed.
It was all oh-so-slow. First I had to get Petra into a more then occasional watcher. But slowly her viewership picked up, until she was catching repeats at 10 and even taping 2 a.m. rewatchings. Hooked. Sitting quietly, eyes wide open, watching these girls walk around pregnant in teen girl scanty clothing and short shorts.
Petra bought her first pair of jean shorts just three weeks later. But after that it was a flood of new clothes, tank tops and cute skirts and sneakers with white shoelaces. At first just a younger trend, it wasn’t long before she was experimenting with brightly colored panties underneath poofy skirts.
I explicitly made sure that she only wore all this at home, around the time she watched the show. It was, to her, a release from the stress of being a mind controller herself pursued by a talented bimboizer. A way of just being a girl instead of Petra, forbidding hypnotist. And if being relaxed meant that she slipped a finger into her pussy from time to time, who could blame her?
It was thrilling watch her start to slip. Her degrading vocabulary, the way she would panic and search for an easier word. The way she justified it to herself — overwork, the alcohol, fatigue. And then it would just become the new normal, that she was talking more and more like a brainless teen sexpot. And this in a trained mind controller! The mind can rationalize nearly anything.
I let it run for a long time. Petra got dumber, hornier, childish, every time she sat in front of the television with a finger up her snatch. Her work was slipping, but she didn’t care, spending ever longer in the teen section of Nordstroms, forcing her big tits into yellow and pink bikinis in preparation for beach season. And never once letting on that she knew anything was up.
Towards the end she sauntered up to me on the street corner, in a plaid schoolgirl skirt and sheer white blouse, with red knee-highs, and wanted to know why I had given up on getting in her head.
I told her I would get her someday.
I had a big ending planned but fate intervened. I left for a weekend to work and, when I returned, found her getting ridden bareback by the entire local high school swim team. Filled to the brim with jism.
In retrospect I should’ve thought about the pregnancy angle a bit more.
Whoops.
So I had to change her back — she didn’t have an owner and things had gone far enough for a fellow bimboizer. Although she kept the tits and soon had a baby girl to boot. She coolly congratulated me and switched to a satellite dish.
In the end it was the hottest bimboization I think I’ve ever done, and I never even ended up touching her.
February 12, 2014
Anonymous asked: Have you ever done a switch, where a girl is intelligent until the master or mistress says one word or phrase that, so that the bimbo could still work if the controller wanted her to
I know this will seem strange, but that’s actually a very difficult challenge. Intelligence loss is such a deep and fundamental part of bimboization, and hits on so many other areas, that it’s not just some graft. I make real, physical changes. A brain scan of one of my girls would show a deep silence, excepting only a red fury where pleasure and lust are control.
I can do the kind of overlay you’re talking about but it’s sort of a trick, where the girl is compelled to act stupid. It’s not the real thing.
It’s tricky when the client wants a bimbo but without the intelligence loss. From my perspective it’s like asking for a car but no engine. But I am a professional and clients are clients. Early in my career I worked only with the kind of compulsion stuff above—you will not think too hard, you will be docile, you will giggle, you will love the color pink. It’s artificial, and the edges begin to show. You’ll get the girl in some unfamiliar situation, like, say, an airplane, and she won’t know how to react correctly.
For a long time my strategy was to turn the girl’s libido up to 11. I still go this way if it seems like what the client wants. The girl can still technically do calculus but she is way to achingly horny to care about fucking math. She wants her next orgasm, and immediately. And her focus shifts to her urges—clothes, vibrators, makeup, and men pretty much sum up her interests. Some clients LOVE this, but it’s really exhausting and you have to be committed.
My latest strategy is time-consuming but it works. I give the girl a bimbo body—and a bimbo fetish. She wants to be a bimbo. She reads up on how to be a better bimbo. She thinks constantly—what would a dumb little cocksucker do? And she’ll never use a big word when a small one—or better yet a blowjob—will do. And it’s a much easier trigger to set up if you want to cancel her out of it.
My only issue with it is philosophical. Is this a bimbo, or a girl play-acting at being a bimbo? Is there a difference?
Who knows?
February 14, 2014
motherfducker-blog asked: What’s the strangest trigger you have put into a girl?
I’ve had some ‘act like an animal’ triggers that come close. But I think the strangest, stupidest trigger was from this idiot client who put in a ‘martial artist’ trigger. His concept was that he would say a command word and the girl would become a ninja assassin killing machine.
Did I mention that this guy was an idiot.
To make matters worse, the girl was a 5′2″ tiny little thing that weighed maybe 100 pounds. Probably not even that much. And of course he wanted her to be top-heavy without a hint of muscle. Do I even need to mention that she was asian? Client was trying to put too many fetishes into one girl.
I really do work hard for clients, but I punted on this one. If he said the trigger she would make menacing faces and shout hi-ya and do karate chops. I didn’t actually try to instill judo in her. It’s hard enough to put in a working knowledge of sexual positions. I justified it on the grounds that it wouldn’t be fair to the girl to have her actually try to kill someone, and that I’m in the bimbo game, not the ninja game.
I never heard any complaints. God only knows what happened with them.
February 14, 2014
MEN
Valentine’s Day is over for me, finally. A long several weeks of work, sleeping alone in hotels, and dealing with clients. I brought along Amy for a few jobs as an assistant but I really need her home to manage house and keep an eye on Chloe. I hate to admit it but it’s nice to have a smarter bimbo around.
Something that always puzzles me around this time is: why do I never get any work from men? And by that I mean, I can do a very inexpensive workup, no intelligence loss at all, to really up a guy’s attractiveness and sexiness. A basic muscle package. Almost instant weight loss. Cheap upgrades.
For a bit more I can install a really amazing pheromone package that will make any nearby female weak in the knees, to the point where they’ll steal your shirt to huff your sweat. But no. Almost no takers. Sure, I get some demand for a bigger dick and sexual stamina, but almost always as an add-on to a bimbo job.
I suppose it’s more money for me, but for half the price I can make a guy into a rugged sex god that girls will willingly turn into dripping sluts over—any girl. No takers. Weird!
February 15, 2014
controlissuer asked: What was the most creative attributes/compulsion/quirks you’ve ever put in a bimbo? Bimbo’s are awesome but without personal flare where’s the fun
You have to be very careful and the bimbo has to be very special, but there’s no attribute I love more then making a girl into a recruiter. I’ve only had a small handful that I trust to go out there on their own with a limited-release bimbo pill, but their enthusiasm for the hunt and ingenuity in returning with moaning, horny girls makes it very worthwhile.
My favorite of these girls was Crissy, who was an epic story of resistance in her own right, before striking a Scheherazade-esque deal that she would return with a bimbo once a week to keep me from finishing her off. She herself was a composed black-haired girl who favored black-rimmed glasses, and who I had targeted as a secretary.
And she delivered. In week one, she appeared at my door with two confused twin sisters, their hands all over each other. And Crissy had even dressed them up in matching but color-swapped outfits, a dark black and pearl white set of dresses. One was a co-worker of hers and the other an added bonus.
I knew I had something special at that point.
From then on it was a steady stream of new bimbos. Checkout girls from the supermarket, wet and blushing with a girl-next-door ensemble. Joggers with new, too-big breasts, still encased in tight yoga pants. All wrapped up with everything but the bow by my Crissy.
I didn’t really play it fair with Crissy. Her physical changes continued and I kept her libido on a steadily increasing burn. Soon she was finding excuses to watch me sink my cock into her girls, explaining it to herself as making sure I was satisfied with the quality and enthusiasm of her bimbos. Then she was masturbating in her car afterwards. And then just jilling herself in the room, moaning and panting as I was serviced by some former co-worker or friend or whatever.
Soon she was cheerfully converting even close friends and relatives. One of the highlights of my sex life was when Crissy brought her younger sister, who was home from college, and eager to get my cock in her. That’s when she finally joined in, begging for my cock, taking it doggy-style while her sister laid on the bed dazed and leaking cum.
Crissy moved in shortly after that. I never said anything.
The only problem with recruiters is that they feel like they always have to top themselves. So I had to call a halt when Crissy drugged the holy water at her former church. It was hilarious but, ultimately, more trouble then it was worth.
February 16, 2014
Anonymous asked: Do you ever get clients who want your services for something other than creation of a custom playmate (and I’m including the afore-mentioned women for whom the playmates are themselves)?
Oh yeah. Pregnancy. When a couple has tried every alternative, when multiple rounds of IVF have failed, when doctor after doctor has given them pamphlets on adoption… they’ll get word about me. And they’ll think, hey, nothing wrong with a little ditziness, and her boobs were gonna get bigger anyway… why not?
The chemicals I use actually come standard with a heavy-duty contraceptive effect. But this is an add-on. If you get the non-contraceptive.. a girl can get pregnant from a smoky glance. Just a few exposures in and the girl is a rutting animal in heat, eager to be sticky with cum and talented at milking balls.
I warn them that we’re not talking about a fertility treatment. Fertility is a side effect to becoming a wet, needy cow. It’s only worthwhile for stay-at-homes and, even then, you need to work hard to keep the girl off the neighbors. But if you really want that infant, and you don’t mind losing some brain wattage, it WILL work.
February 19, 2014
CELEBS
People, please. Do not ask me to do a celebrity. I am not going to do a celebrity. No one in my line of work does celebrities. They’re CELEBRITIES. People will notice if they sprout enormous tits and move in with some K-Mart manager from Tulsa. And don’t talk to me about triggers. It’s just not happening.
It says right on my materials, no celebs, in big block letters, but still the requests come in. I had one client show up with a list of over a hundred celebrities, the idea being we would go down the list until one was possible. ScarJo was at #1. He had Demi Moore at #83, which I think showed poor taste in movies. Sadly enough, he had some high school crush in at dead last, and that’s who he ended up getting.
I am amenable to making a girl into a celebrity look-alike, although it really should not be an exact match. If you want a girl who looks like Jennifer Lawrence, that’s not particularly hard. I can even sort of match her personality.
But I’m not bimboizing her! Stop asking!
February 19, 2014
CLOTHES
One of the oddities of my work is that I have become an expert on things I never really expected to. In particular, women’s clothing. I know far more about girl clothes then I ever expected to.
People think it’s enough to toss the bimbo in a bandage dress and essentially change the colors. No. First of all, you only get one look with a bandage dress, and that look is ‘cheap slut.’ Second of all, a girl in cheap lycra 24/7 is just going to get boring and same-y.
So in the mornings its baby-dolls and A-lines, matched with straw sandals and a straw hat. Afternoon has to be more then jean shorts and a tank top—you need cropped tops, accent blouses over miniskirts, the right kind of sweater, and how to match with at least ten different fabrics. Leather at 9 in the morning looks kind of weird, leather at midnight is perfect.
Heels. there’s strap sandals, booties, pumps, wedges. Then boots and that entire category.
This is leaving aside the entire constellation that is accurate fetishwear. Schoolgirl outfits just don’t happen. Unless you buy a $20 halloween tearaway you need to actually go out and buy the plaid kilt, the knee-socks, the stupid little tie.
AND sometimes you need your bimbo to dress like a normal person.
Buying correctly sized jeans alone is madness.
On the plus side, I can tell bra size at a glance.
February 20, 2014
HOMEWORK: PART ONE
Today I met with Derek. I put him off with some homework assignments while I got through Valentine’s Day—make a girl forget her own name, get a blowjob in a public place with no one else knowing, that sort of thing.
We met in the nicest hotel in town, where I keep a room open for myself. He didn’t like what I was telling him.
“No more Master PC,” I said.
He looked like I had commanded him to lose an arm.
“That’s how I work,” he said. Derek had a way-too expressive face for a mind controller. And he wore ridiculously baggy clothes, teenager or no.
“It’s a crutch. And a cul-de-sac,” I said. “You’ll never improve your own mental skill if you just use the computer.” he still looked unconvinced. “Look, tell me this. You just received an anonymous copy of the program, right?”
“Well, yeah. I figured…” he trailed off.
“You didn’t figure. You just started turning girls into bimbos.” I held my hands up, placating. “Hey, that’s fine. Me too. But think about it. Who sent it? What’s their agenda? You’re running their program on your hardware and your goal is to feed it more CPU so it’ll affect more girls. Think, kid.”
The “kid” thing slipped out. Oh, I hate getting old. But he was starting to think. “Okay… so… what do I do? Just delete it?”
“No, you develop your own ability. Try and get me to punch myself,” I told him, and even put my hand in a fist. There was a clumsy but respectable—and even better, immediate—assault on my consciousness. Perhaps the slightest finger twitch. Enough talent to tell me I wasn’t wasting my time.
Derek’s face turned mottled red, and he finally collapsed on the bed, drained. I didn’t mention the non-zero chance that his head could’ve exploded just then.
I deliberated how harsh to be and settled on honesty. “That wasn’t actually that bad,” I told him. “Showed promise. Now, here’s what you’re going to do. Did you see the redhead at the front desk?”
Her name was Carrie, and she was very pert, very attentive, and, under my direction, getting really into vibrators and lacy underpants. More of an occasional thing then a serious bimboization.
“You’re going to bring her up here and fuck her,” I told him. I paused briefly for effect.
“And you’re going to do it without giving her a single command.”
February 21, 2014
HOMEWORK: PART TWO
I had challenged Derek to get a girl into bed without using a single compulsion on her. She had to be mentally untouched.
In a way, this is kind of a stupid challenge. Millions of perfectly ordinary men talk girls into bed every single day, without any mind control powers or anything. I make a point once a year or so of going to a single’s club or a bar or something and talking a woman up into my room. Just to show that I can.
But for a nerdy teenager like Derek, talking a 20-something professional into bed at her place of employment would be a challenge. I gave him a huge hint by showing him the basics of pheromones.
Derek did it. It took him a week.
The key was setting his mental sights on Carrie’s fellow deskmate, Patricia, a slightly heavy-set girl with nice tits who kept her hair up with chopsticks. Not really my type, but Derek clearly has a thing for asian girls with big butts so it was perfect.
Patricia started to girltalk up the guest staying in Room 110B.
He was handsome as hell, mysterious, a good tipper. Well-dressed. And charming, so very charming. Carrie smiled and nodded and didn’t really care… until Patricia confessed that she had snuck into 110B and taken one of her crushes handkerchiefs. She practically pushed it into Carrie’s face. Derek had been sweating into it on a treadmill for days. It reeked of male sex.
Carrie wondered to herself what cologne the guest used.
It became a fun game for the two of them, Patricia relaying 110B sightings. Carrie never seemed to catch a look at him [good move on Derek’s part!] but chalked it up to differing duties.
One morning Patricia walked up to the desk smelling like cedar and leather. “We made out!” she confessed. She stood close to Carrie to whisper. She smelled so good. Carrie didn’t try to move away. “It was my fault. I kept walking by his room. He noticed how much attention… oh my god, Carrie, it was so hot!”
“You’ve got to stop this,” Carrie told her, fiercely. But her heart wasn’t in it. She sniffed again.
From then on Carrie was the recipient of every one of Patricia’s ever-more lurid encounters with the intoxicating man in 110B. The illicit meetings in the corridor, the makeout sessions in his room, the way he had told her what kind of underwear to wear to work. A dirty romance story right underneath her nose, intoxicating, compelling.
“We fucked,” Patricia whispered, right into her ear. She smelled like lengthy, wet sex. “For like an hour. I took his shirt, afterwards.”
Carrie’s pussy pulsed. “Can I have it?” she finally whispered.
That night she slept in the undershirt of Mr. 110B.
She sought out Patricia for more, reveling in her descent into bimbohood, helping her wear tighter, more revealing outfits, covering for her while she went to give Mr. 110B his morning blowjob. All for a hit of that musky scent, which Patricia was perpetually drenched in.
Finally. “I told him about you,” Patricia said. Her eyes were glassy and dull these days. Carrie put down her ditziness and dim smile to being so well-fucked. “He wants you to come over.”
Carrie’s heart leapt. So many fantasies had revolved around this moment. The two wet and squirming girls walked away from the front desk, away from waiting customers, up the stairs, and into a room intoxicating and male. The smell was magnified a hundred times. Carrie’s legs went to rubber.
Mr. 110B was waiting on the bed. She didn’t even notice his age, his pimples. Just that he was naked and had a hot, red penis waiting for her.
“Go ahead, give it a lick,” Patricia encouraged.
Wet as she had ever been, desperate for it, Carried walked towards Derek on her knees.
February 22, 2014
STATUE
I’’m putting the finishing touches on a statue.
Statues are hard work, and very, very difficult to do. I don’t think I’d call them bimbos. Art, perhaps. Definitely furniture. Bimbos? Well.
Anna is almost done. She is encased from neck to toes in skintight rubber, colored white. It’s perfect with her dark black hair, which is short and treated to make it shine under the lighting. It’s a standing pose, very military, with her legs in A-posture, but her hands clasped demurely in front of her.
You can tell she’s not done from the very minute, very brief, shivering up and down her body.
The difficulty is in the absolute stillness. I work on the pleasure principle, but all my usual goads make people scream and writhe. So I had to rewire Anna’s entire pleasure system, and do a major resculpting of her nervous system as well. Now she can only feel the vibrator very carefully positioned inside of her if she stands in her exact posture, unmoving. Then she’ll get a torrent of all-consuming pleasure.
Anna is still moaning and bucking softly, so I missed a few neurons. I’ll get them in the next pass. But she has the pose down, standing on a short pillar in the entryway, staring at the front door. Just a two inch heel and I didn’t do anything to her tits—she has to balance.
She’s up on the plinth from 8 a.m. until noon, then 1 until 8 p.m. She’ll break at noon to go to the bathroom and whatever—I can’t really make her inanimate. But at night she’ll probably fall into her pose again to sleep—they always do.
After I finish with her I have to revert Megan, the previous statue. She’s currently resting, taking off the leather for the first time in six months. You can tell she’s stiff and finds it hard to move, her eyes red from so many hours under a spotlight. Hard work. I usually do a full memory wipe.
Anna just now broke pose, thrashing and moaning as she orgasmed. I had to steady her. Missed more then I realized. But she’ll be perfect soon enough.
February 23, 2014
THE RIGHT HIPS
I sympathized with the client taking his time, but I wasn’t being paid by the hour.
“It’s just so hard to choose,” he said, again. We sat on an outdoor terrace overlooking a busy street not far from a major university. Co-eds streamed by.
I finally felt like I needed to say something. “You know I can make the girl look like essentially whatever?” I said, deliberately calm.
Rory shrugged. He was 21, attending a different university. His father was exceedingly wealthy. “Okay, but you’ve got to get the right spark,” he said. “she needs to have something special. An it factor. You don’t get it in every girl.”
True enough. But I doubted he would find it scouting at random as girls walked by. Blonde and brunettes and raven-haired. It was a warm day, and the fashion was for brightly colored shorts with loose t-shirts. Generally speaking I admired asses after they passed, more then tits as they came.
“How’s Todd?” I asked. I had gone through this with Todd four years ago.
“Four kids so far!” Rory said, cheerfully. He was the third of eleven. His family had an agenda and an ideology. “Oh man. Okay, the girl with the highlights. How about her?”
It’s tricky when the client isn’t the one paying. You have to consider what the dad is up to. “Pretty narrow hips…” I said, and trailed off meaningfully. The blonde, in yoga pants with a red nylon tanktop, walked on by.
“Yeah,” Rory grimaced. “Shoot.” What was Rory doing picking girls with narrow hips? He knew the score.
I said what I had been thinking. “Are you thinking of something a little off-limits?”
Rory looked down at the table. “Well, yeah, I guess. I really go for black girls but… dad… I don’t know.”
I mean, I could make them white, but okay. “Did you actually talk to your dad about this?”
“It didn’t come up.”
Geez. I knew Rory’s Dad really well and didn’t THINK he was racist. But 50ish white guys have a way of surprising you sometimes. I personally think racism is ridiculous for reasons I would describe as natural in my role as a bimboizing mind controller.
“Her,” I said, at length. Dark as charcoal, tall, slender, dressed in a short white blouse with the sleeves rolled up and capris.
“Oh man, she is perfect,” Rory said. His jaw was wide. “Oh, definitely. Are you sure about this?”
“Big tits, big wide hips, how can he complain? I’ll make sure he—well, not like that, I mean I’ll take your side if it comes up. But I know Greg, I’m sure he’s cool with it.”
Rory nodded, resolute. “Okay, then. I’m going for it.”
He strode up to the girl—Aisha—and dropped to one knee. He didn’t fumble with the box at all. I exerted some influence.
“Aisha, you’re beautiful,” Rory said. “Will you marry me?”
Aisha’s eyes went wide.
“Of course!” she exclaimed, and put her hand out for the ring.
February 24, 2014
jessie-palms asked: Have you ever made an asian bimbo? I heard somewhere that they are quite difficult to produce.
Well yes and no. Making a girl of east asian ancestry into a bimbo toy is exactly the same as any other girl. Girls are girls. If they have a pair of tits and the right number of holes it’s all the same to me from a racial/ethnic standpoint. And if you’re thinking that it’ll be more challenging to give them massive tits then let me assure you that you are dead wrong.
Now, where you do get issues is when the client is hellbent on jamming every asian girl fetish and stereotype into one bimbo. I don’t know what the deal is with this. If you want a docile sex kitten, that’s fine. If you want a horny schoolgirl, that’s fine. If you want an poor-english whore, that’s fine. But when you want a sexpot schoolgirl with pigtail, kneesock, and swimsuit fetishes, and an interest in ganguro, who is a dragon lady seductress who nonetheless says ‘me want sucky’ well good lord. I can’t cram all this stuff into one bimbo.
The weird demands made me frankly reluctant to do asian bimbo work. I can’t imagine what it’s like growing up asian female. Apparently you’ve got forty different types of fetishists howling for your used underwear.
That being said Amy is a real find and I’m really happy to have her. For the record it was her idea to put on rainbow-striped socks and a schoolgirl skirt for when I got home, but I’m glad she did.
Reading this over reminds me of some interesting stuff with girls and boys with unusual chromosomes. I’ll talk about it some other time.
February 25, 2014
GOD FUCKING DAMN IT
Derek is in the hospital. Auto accident.
February 25, 2014
CAR CRASH
Alright, I got some more information. The dumb kid broke his arm, is all. The car is totaled. Apparently one of his bimbos was driving. Not sure what the hell that’s about. The bimbo is shaken up but otherwise unharmed—a tribute to good padding.
They’re releasing him and he wants me to go pick him up. Doesn’t he have parents? I honestly don’t know. Did he cornfield them?
February 25, 2014
HEADING BACK
Drove Derek home. His arm is in a cast and his face is mostly bruise. Can’t mind control your way out of a car crash.
But I feel bad. In a way, this is my fault. I had made some offhand comment a bit ago about getting good enough at mind control to work the car through a subject. Derek decided to try it. To his credit, he got pretty far. Not to his credit, he tried at all.
I asked about his parents and he broke down crying and said he moved here to get away from them. And that he really doesn’t have many friends. I hadn’t known how broken he was, but I should’ve seen it. I guess I just wanted someone to talk to as well.
Dropped him off at his place and left. I’m taking his girl with me and will detox and release her. She’s been through enough. What a night.
February 26, 2014
EVENING THE SCORE
Nadine had to admit it: she owed Alex a blowjob. A hell of a blowjob. A suck-out-your-brains, deep-throating, swallow-and-purr blowjob. And it was past time to be a big girl and get it done. She hated having it hanging over her.
Nadine decided on post-dinner, long, lazy, and slow. So first she got home first and put her heart and soul into cooking, decked out in a short but casual jean skirt and a low-cut top that strained around her tits. She flirted casually—leaning over to say hi, winking every so often, rubbing his foot with hers. The goal was to get him full, happy, and comfortable for a truly mind-blowing oral experience. Nadine left him on the couch, peacefully nursing a cocktail she had mixed and reading.
Upstairs, Nadine tossed out the casual clothes and stripped off her underwear. Unsurprisingly, she was already soaking wet, flushed and horny from the lengthy anticipation of having a dick down her throat. She tried to put it aside. A blowjob was about Alex.
There were other things she could be doing. Work—she was way, way behind at work. Correspondence was piling up. And she was supposed to be volunteering more—a New Year’s Resolution. But instead she had gotten so behind with Alex only an epic-level hummer would reset the balance.
Nadine teased her nipples up to full hardness—it didn’t take long—and slipped into the strapless dress she had bought for the occasion. It was carefully considered—nothing could get in the way of Alex ogling her tits while she blew him. And if he so chose—she was increasingly hoping he did—he could spin her around and finish there.
“Alex earned this,” Nadine reminded herself, whenever she got annoyed at the effort. He had… she stopped. He had.. what was it? A gesture. No, he had run a big errand. Or a work thing he had saved her ass on.
“Valentine’s Day,” Nadine told herself, snapping her fingers. That was it. Had to be. He had made some romantic gesture and she had totally forgotten.
Although she had a dim memory—a dream?—of herself waking him up, wrapped in a red velvet bow, with a slow, lazy blowjob.
But that couldn’t be right.
The last thing to do was the traditional wine-red lipstick, slathered on. Nadine checked herself in the mirror. Hot as hell. And she was downright thirsty for this, after so much anticipation.
Most of all, she told herself, it would be a relief to finally have the score evened up between her and Alex. For good.
February 25, 2014
Anonymous asked: Any amusing stories about clients who wanted accent changes?
Well, there’s me. I’ve had four french maids so far—obviously none of them actually French. All of them named Fifi, all of them sporting moles on their right cheeks, all of them with heart-shaped tattoos on their left buttcheek. Some very slight physical differences—Fifi 2 was taller, Fifi 3 kept her pubic hair because she fought so hard for it during her bimboization. But otherwise they were my stereotypical french maids.
And they worked. Hard. Up early to struggle into the black and white lace with the fishnet stockings, breakfast of toast and espresso, and then hard at work cleaning up after a long night of whatever I had gotten up to. Scrubbing out any number of stains on the floor. Gently piling up snoring, fucked-out girls so she could get at the carpet underneath them. And then starting load after load of laundry, much of which was leather and rubber requiring special care.
Of course, Fifi loved it. O la la. Cleaning up and making tidy gave her such a thrill. By 9 she was such a wet and soggy mess, dripping onto the floor, that she’d have to take a bathroom break, where she’d masturbate while thinking about the dusting to come.
Perhaps this is strange, but I rarely touched Fifi. I don’t know. She was plenty hot, with a generously-sized rear made to bend over, and well-displayed on high heels. But she was such a fixture that I would often barely notice her quivering while she worked on some stubborn stain.
Guests, on the other hand, found her irresistible. So she mostly got her rocks off by pointing her ass at overnight visitors, certain that she would be bent over something very soon. And if that wasn’t enough, she had a sort of authority to order just about any girl in my harem to clean up between her legs.
All in the sweetest, fakest french accent I could conjure. I miss my Fifis.
February 28, 2014
CLOCKWORK
It’s the end of February, which means, every year, without fail, Valentine’s Day Refunds. I always keep my calendar clear.
I say refund, but I don’t actually give them any money back. In fact, I charge again for the reversion, on a sliding scale depending on how annoying the request is. Max charge to the dipshit whining that his girlfriend is banging the neighbor because he’s busy at work. Max charge to the idiot complaining that he needs her income after all back at work. Double max charge if the client gets angry, threatens me in some way, or tries to work out some sort of ‘bimbo-at-night’ deal.
Minimal charge to the guy who just wants his wife back. Dude, you turned her into a bimbo fuckslut. You burned out her memory and gave her huge tits, and it wasn’t voluntary. Now you miss her companionship? Whatever. But fine, who am I to stand in the way of true love.
Call up, be a nice guy about it, work with my schedule, don’t give me a sob story, maybe I don’t charge at all.
What’s it like for the girl? It’s kind of a ‘waken from a dream’ sensation, with a vague lack of memory of the past few weeks and a flat and total lack of interest. If the client is dumb enough to have video or pictures from when she was getting tag-teamed by his golfing buddies, at that point, I cannot and will not help you.
Remember: a bimbo is for life, not just for February!
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