bimbofiction

[bimbofiction]

The New Bimbo

Ida grinned at the young man as he entered the conference room.

"Hi! I'm Ida!" She greeted.

She was pretty sure she'd nailed the interview but if this young man had any influence on hiring, she'd try to charm him the way she had Randall, the office manager.

"Oh! You must be the new bimbo!" The young man exclaimed.

Ida blushed and blinked. She knew that the company she was applying to was a start up pornography studio. She wasn't a prude and had done accounting work in the biz before. She'd always laughed at fellow accountants who wouldn't. They were in Los Angeles! It was a major industry!

But never once had she been confused for the talent. She was nearly 60! And she didn't like it at all that anyone would refer to the talent as bimbos! Maybe she had made a mistake.

"No, I'm here to interview for the accounting job," she corrected the young man.

The young man snorted and shook his head.

"No," he said, stepping closer. "You simply MUST be the new bimbo, Ida!"

He grinned broadly and his green eyes took on a faint golden gleam.

"There... there must be some mistake..." Ida objected, her heart fluttering.

"Nothing that can't be fixed," the young man insisted, and stated running his fingers through her hair.

"You just need to start by getting blonder," he explained.

"Blonder?" She asked. She had been blonde when she was younger but had let her hair go white without any attemptto dye it. It added a touch of maturity that made people take her more seriously.

But she didn't really need for people to take her seriously, did she? Being blonde was more than a hair color. It was an attitude! Being blonde was fun! Ida wanted to be fun!

She'd normally object to someone she just met running his fingers through her hair, but why? It felt nice! The young man was massaging her scalp in such a delightful way, intermittently drawing his fingers through her tresses as they got longer and longer, blonder and blonder. Ida sighed and stared into his beautiful eyes, everything was fine.

"That feels really good," she told him. "But I'm an accountant... not an... actress."

She felt a need to be honest with the young man; to trust him.

"No, Ida," he contradicted her. "You're a bimbo. You're the new bimbo. Math isn't fun. You want to have fun, don't you Ida?"

Finger tips pressed gently but insistently at her temples and his green eyes flashed gold.

"I like fun..." Ida admitted.

He ran hos fingertips along her face and it tingled.

"Good girl," he praised. "Pretty bimbo."

Ida giggled. No one had ever called her a pretty bimbo before. His hands moved to her throat, sliding down the skin of it, lingering at the larynx, making it tingle.

"Say I'm a pretty bimbo!' Ida," he prompted.

"I'm a pretty bimbo Ida," she said, and her voice came out breathy and vapid. She liked it!

"Yes you are!" He said, gently tapping the tip of her nose, then drawing his thumb along her lips. They tinled and felt swollen, but not in a bad way.

He moved his hands to her shoulders and massaged. All the tension drained out of her, tension she didn't even realize she had been carrying. The young man lazily strolled around behind her, brushed her hair to the side and started nuzzling her neck as his hands cupped her breasts.

Ida gasped! This was going too far...wasn't it?

"My... my husband..." she objected, doingnothingto remove the young man’s hands. God but it felt good!

"Your husband wants you to have big fake bimbo titties, " he whispered in her ear. "Everyone wants Ida to have big fake bimbo titties. Especially Ida. You want to have big, bouncy bimbo boobies!"

"Big bouncy bimbo boobies..." she agreed. Of course she wanted those. Everyone wanted her to have big fake titties. Especially her. And her husband. And if letting the young man grope her gave her big titties, surely her husband would think it was worth it.

Ida definitely thought it was worth it! His hands briefly released her boobs and she pouted, but he slipped her jacket off, letting it crumple at his feet, then resumed massaging her mamaries. It felt so good! It felt like her bra had disappeared and he was rubbing her titties through the thin fabric of her blouse.

"Big bimbo boobies...." Ida wished. "Tremendous titties. Fabulous fake funbags! I want ginormous jugs! Sexy sacks of saline and silicone! I'm the new bimbo with the new bimbo boobies!"

As she wished and he squished, her titties swelled and stretched. Blouse buttons popped. Her nipples sang as they pressed against his palms.

"I'm the new bimbo!" She declared. "Pretty bimbo! Busty bimbo! Pretty plastic pornstar! Sexy, silly slut!"

"Yes you are, Ida," he said, his hands leaving her tits to rub her belly smooth and taught. "Such a delightful bimbo! Everyone loves your beautiful bimbo boobies! Everyone wants to see you strut and jiggle and bounce!"

His hands slid along her hips, then cupped her ass and massaged it. Ida could feel it firm and fill in his clever hands.

"Everyone wants to see you shake your ass!" He said. "Everyone knows you're a piece of ass!"

"Everyone knows I'm a piece of ass!" She agreed happily. "I love being a piece of ass! I love to shake my bimbo booty!"

His hands slid forward to stroke her crotch as his groin pressed against the fullness oh her posterior.

"You're so very fuckable, Ida, " he observed as her pussy gushed and quivered at his attention. "Such a precious, powerful pussy! Such a tantalizing, tender twat! Don’t you just love your hot, juicy cunt?"

"I LUV MY HOT JUICY CUNT!" She declared as she came.

"Do you want to be a pornstar and share your hot bimbo body with the world, Ida?" He asked.

"I do! I do! More than anything! " She declared.

"You'll need a porn name, bimbo," he said. "What do you think about Ida Ho?"

Ida giggled.

"I LOVE IT!" She exclaimed. "I'm Ida Ho! I'm Ida Ho the bimbo pornstar! I'm gonna be famous! Everyone loves Ida Ho! Everyone wants to see me bounce my bimbo titties and shake my bimbo ass! Everyone wants to watch me suck and fuck! I'm Ida Ho!"

The young man was kneeling down in front of her to sculpt her legs and turn her sensible pumps into soaring acrylic platforms when the conference door opened and a man came in looking down at some paperwork.

"Sorry that took so lo..." said Randall, the office manager Ida Ho had met back before she was a bimbo, beforelooking up. "Damnit, Kyle! I told you that you can't turn EVERYONE into a bimbo! If we're going to use this power of your to actually make money, we need to have at least a few people who know how to run a business! I thought if I brought in an old woman you could control your urges, but I didn't leave her alone for more than 10 minutes and look what you've done!"

He gestured emphatically at Ida. Ida giggled and stuck out her chest to show off her titanic titties.

"I'm Ida Ho!" She introduced herself. "I'm the new bimbo!"

"For now you are!" Randall exclaimed. "We have enough pornstars, Kyle! More than enough! But we don't have ANY accountants! Do you think Ida Ho here can handle payroll?"

Ida pouted.

"Math isn't fun," she told him.

She didn't like the way the angry man didn't seem to be appreciating her new nummy titties! Everyone should love her big bimbo boobies! Was this guy stupid or something?

"Ida wasn't that old," the younger man defended. "And besides, I like to play with old ladies! My grandma was the very first person I ever gave big fake titties to!"

Randall looked at Kyle in horror, but Ida said "Aww!". Such a nice young man, taking care of his grandma like that!

The office manager put his fingers to his temples like he had a headache, closed his eyes and started counting under his breath. Ida's husband did that sometimes when he was stressed. Once he saw she was a bimbo now, he would surely find funner ways!

Before Randall got to three, Kyle's fingers joined his at the man's temples.

The office manager gasped, his eyes flying open.

"You really need to calm down, Randall," the young man told him.

"Kyle! No!" The office manager exclaimed.

"Kyle Yes!" The young man countered. "Everything is more fun when you say yes!"

Randall stammered and stared into Kyle's green eyes. Ida couldn't see, but she knew they had that pretty gold glow about them. She giggled.

"Say...yes..." Randall said, his arms dropping to his sides so only Kyle's hands were at his temples. .

"Isn’t it nice how pretty I made Ida?" He asked.

Randall turned to Ida and blinked in confusion at her new titties as Kyle released his hold, stepped behind the older man, and then placed his hands on either side of Randall's head to help him nod and acknowledge the obvious.

"Yes," the office manager agreed, eyes wide as he ogled her new body. "Such s pretty bimbo!"

Ida squealed and giggled at the acknowledgment, then swung her shoulders back and forth to show off her titties.

"Son I can turn anyone I want into a bimbo, can't I Randall?" Kyle said, stroking the office manager's head, his dark hair growing longer and more lustrous with every pass of his hand.

"Yereesss," Randall agreed, clearly enjoying the attention. "Anyone can be a bimbo. Kyle decides. I just say yes. Yeeeess... so nice to say yessss."

Kyle reach forward to sculpt the office manager's eye brows and plump up his cheeks. He massaged the older man's chin and his stubble disappeared as his face got smooth, soft and delicate. Kyle gently brushed the stubble away from his throat. His Adam's apple disappeared as well.

Kyle brushed long dark hair from the adorable seashell the office manager's ear had become.

"Do you want to be a bimbo, Randi?" He asked, then helpfully added. "The answer is yes."

"YES!" Randi exclaimed in a contralto voice. "YES! I want to be a bimbo! Yes! Yes! The answer is YES!"

Ida giggled. Of course it was! She watched in fascination as Kyle gentled the slope of Randi's shoulders, thinned and depilated his arms, then tucked in his waist and flared out his hips. Randi sucked at a lower lip, eyelids heavy, as Kyle worked. Ida remembered how incredible it felt to be molded like that.

And then Kyle's hands were at Randi's chest and the office manager moaned as two new titties appeared and began to grow. Ida couldn't help it. She cheered and applauded. Everyone loved big fake titties, after all.

"Is Randi turning into a beautiful bimbo, Ida?" Kyle asked, grinning at her reaction.

"So beautiful!" Ida agreed, making Randi giggle mancally.

"Would you like one last blowjob Randi?" Kyle asked.

"Uh... yes?" Said Randi, unsure that it was still the right answer.

But Ida Ho had no such hesitations. When Kyle asked her to suck the office manager off, she was on her knees before he finished asking.

"YES!" The blonde exclaimed when she freed Randi's stiff.

"YES!" Randi exclaimed as Ida slid his cock between her puffy lips, having moved beyond that momentary doubt.

Ida sucked cock like the professional she had become, but she kept her gaze up as Kyle continued to inflate Randi's bimbo boobies. It was just so fucking hot!

"You're such a horny lily bimbo, aren’t you Randi?" Kyle observed as he worked.

"YES!" Randi agreed. "YES! I'm a horny lily bimbo!"

"And your ass is mine," he observed, releasing Randi's tits to plump up the office manager's ass.

"My ass is yours!" Randi agreed. "Yes! YES! My ass is yours!"

"Time to come down Ida's throat now," Kyle urged.

"YES!" Randi exclaimed. "YESSSSsssss!"

Ida would have said the same thing, but she was busy swallowing. Yes! She was so good at her job!

"Good girl, Ida," Kyle praised, sliding his hand between Randi's pubes and Ida's face, gently dislodged the blonde and taking possession of the spent cock. "Isn’t Ida a good girl, Randi?"

"Yesss.." said Randi in a postcoital fog. "Good girrrrllll..."

"Can you be a good girl, Randi?" Kyle asked, massaging the quickly receding cock between his fingers.

"Goood grrrrlllll," Randi agreed. "Randi is a gooood grrrrrrllll..."

Ida stared in fascination. Kyle hadn't done this to her. The cock got smaller and smaller until it was a little nubbin. The balls rose and tightened and then, with a gentle swipe of Kyle's finger, parted to reveal a wet gash that relased a gush of lubricating juices that Kyle used to continue molding Randi's new snatch.

"YesYesYesYes!" Randi gibbered. "I'magudgrl! Imagudgrl!"

Ida giggled.

"Can I play with Randi's fake titties?" She asked Kyle.

"Of course, Ida!" Kyle said as he focused on giving the office manager a landing strip. "That's a great idea!"

Ida squealed at the compliment and grabbed hold of the brunette's rack with both hands. They felt so great! Of course everyone loved big fake bimbo titties!"

Randi moaned and cried out "YES!" as Ida found her turgid nipples.

Once Kyle was done sculpting the former office manager, he sat hee on the conference table next to Ida's new hire paperwork

"Now, wasn't turning you into a bimbo a great idea, Randi?" Kyle asked.

"Yes!" Randi agreed without reservation. "I'm gonna be the best bimbo ever! Yes!"

"How would you like to be Randi Hooker?" Kyle asked.

"I'd LOVE to be Randi Hooker! " exclaimed Randi Hooker, "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"Ida Ho, meet Randi Hooker!" Kyle introduced. "She's the new bimbo!"

Ida giggled.

"I thought I was the new bimbo!" She said.

"You are! So I guess Randi is the new new bimbo!" Kyle said.

"Yes!" Randi exulted, then giggled. "I'm the nunu bimbo!"

"Would you two like to be in a movie together?" Kyle asked. "We could call it The New Bimbos! Oh, wait. We don't really have a cameraman anymore. I guess I could do it! How hard could it be?"

Ida giggled and shrugged at her new colleague. She didn't know and it was pretty obvious Randi didn't know either. What did Kyle expect? They were bimbos, after all.

But when it came to staring in a movie, of course the answer was yes!

[bimbofiction]

Relationship Recalibrations

CW: hypnosis, brainwashing, dollification, femdom, femsub, foot worship, corruption, whorification

Hi hi~ Something a little longer this time~

If you liked this story please consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi

Enjoy 🩷

Maria settled into the couch, the familiar dip of the cushion bringing her shoulder closer to Laura’s. The room lights were low, the glow of the television pulling their focus to the countdown ticking away in the corner of the screen.

It wasn’t just any program. This was the premiere — the one everyone online had been whispering about for weeks. Supposedly, it was made for couples like them, something bold and unfiltered in a way that regular television never dared to be.

The simple, almost too-cheerful opening sequence rolled across the screen. Maria felt Laura’s sleeve brush against her own. Then, without thinking, her fingers shifted, grazing the back of Laura’s hand. It was a small touch, but it sent a strange thrill through her — not just from the contact, but from the way the room seemed to grow quieter, almost expectant.

Her eyes flicked back to the screen and the unfolding introduction. The graphics were vibrant, almost playful, yet with an edge of anticipation that hinted at something beyond the ordinary. As the countdown dwindled from a tense thirty to an almost palpable five, Maria's hand instinctively reached out, finding Laura's and interlocking their fingers with a subtle squeeze. Laura returned the pressure, a silent affirmation of shared excitement and curiosity about the imminent unknown they were about to delve into together.

A flicker descended on the screen, then a stage illuminated by cascading colors appeared. From the left a woman entered. Heels clacked and hips rolled majestically under the spotlight's caress. She moved like liquid, each stride an announcement of her presence in an evening dress that draped her body like cascading water. It hugged and clung to every curve, accentuating the sway of her hips and the allure of her figure.

The woman paused at center stage, head angled up with a regal air. "Good evening," she greeted, voice soft yet resonant in its depth, "and welcome to Relationship Recalibrations great debut. Here, we invite you all, whether in established bonds or seeking new connections," Her lips, glistening a shade of deep plum in the light, curved upwards, "to explore the potential within yourselves and your relationships."

Her gaze pierced the screen, locking directly onto the viewers beyond the veil. "You have sought us out. You yearn for something beyond the mundane — a spark of magic to kindle in the dark or perhaps," a hint of mystery danced across her face, "you harbor secret desires waiting to be realized."

She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in, "This evening, as we delve into a unique experience, you will discover things about yourself. Details you never thought are part of you. And the beginning of this journey will start with a simple exercise. Take a deep breath, and relax." She mirrored her own instructions, her shoulders gently rising, and then descending in an extended breath. The room began to shift around her, the audience lost as her voice became a low murmur, almost melodic and rhythmic in its pace.

Maria was almost entranced by her words, she took a slow, steady breath in sync with her instructions. Laura squeezed Maria's hand in response, a gesture that brought comfort amidst the strangely tranquil aura the presenter had created. The presenter smiled gently. "As you breathe, focus on your heartbeat — feel it slowing and synchronizing with each inhale and exhale."

A beat resonated on the screen — strong, steady — a metronome Maria could easily follow.

"Good, now imagine the rhythm in your chest as a wave, extending outwards from your heart and rippling through every inch of your body. Let this energy carry away your worries and cares, leaving only peace and clarity." The wave she described rolled down her own body in a visible ripple. "As this energy moves through you, it illuminates pathways in your mind — avenues for new ideas and perspectives to take hold and blossom. Feel how the calm makes your mind — pliable."

Maria breathed with the soft beat, focusing on its rhythm. It seemed to sink deep, past skin and bone, resonating in a way she hadn't felt before. Each pulse brought with it a wave of relaxation, enveloping her body and seeping into her thoughts, pushing away her normal mental distractions, making her mind soft, malleable, open. Laura's hand loosened its grip.

"Let yourself drift and drop," the presenter continued. The words seemed to resonate and spread out, a mantra that she echoed in her own mind. Her body became a distant echo; all she felt now was the pulse in her heart. It slowed to an almost lazy beat, and she focused on the languid thump, letting it guide her breathing.

The presenter's voice drew her in. "This is our starting point — here, you are at ease, your thoughts are quieted, your desires open. You don't know what you want. You are unaware of what you need. But that doesn't worry you. Because you listen to my words. They guide your mind. They shape your thoughts," her words laced and weaved around the gentle rhythm, each sentence a stitch that drew Maria further and further, "I'll guide you to a space of pure relaxation — of stillness where we will unearth what you truly want for your relationship. No more secrets. Just a clear path to your true happiness."

"Imagine," she paused, a sly grin spreading on her face. "No more control. Nothing to hold you back. That's the first thing my voice takes: your ability to chose and worry. After all, aren't those pesky choices and questions that hinder you? So forget them. Leave them behind. Let's scrub them from your brain." The room started to spin, a dizzying sensation enveloping Maria's senses, "Here, there are no more options — no more dilemmas, just this simple command. To relax, let go and obey, so simple." Maria nodded softly.

"There is nothing inside your pliable mind. It's devoid of any thoughts. An empty vessel, yearning for purpose." She gestured to herself, her movements drawing Maria's attention, "Your mind will absorb my words like a sponge. Absorb their guidance into this vast emptiness." Maria nodded. It made perfect sense.

"In this relaxed state," she continued, "your mind is open and accepting. Any suggestion can take hold. It can transform your desires and rewrite what you know," Her hand pointed forward and a spiral formed on the screen. "This is where we find your deepest truths. As this swirl of light dances before your eyes, focus solely on the rhythmic, pulsating center, your thoughts drifting away."

A pulsing swirl appeared on the screen, an ethereal dance of colors and movement, Maria stared deeply, her eyes following its ever-evolving pattern.

"Now that you are relaxed and deeply entranced, I will fill you with what you need. And what you need, is pleasure. Pleasure is the most important thing in your life. You will do anything to feel pleasure. That all-consuming throb between your thighs. The ever-present tingling traveling along your sensitive skin. You can't live without it," She gestured slowly down below, drawing Maria's attention. The words were sinking in deep and she felt the need to shift her hips and move. Maria squeezed her thighs tight, a dull throb building up in her groin.

"Desire now flows through you, filling your empty mind and taking hold," she paused, "Let the very idea of your own pleasure take center stage in your thoughts." Maria could barely focus on her words as her hips rocked back and forth on their own accord. "Pleasure is your life. It is all you are. You are not a real person. You never were. All those memories inside your brain? Those aren't yours. They are unnecessary distractions — a failure of design. Let's remove them. Forget them." Her memories felt fuzzy in the distance. They didn't seem that important, anyway, in the face of such delicious pleasure.

"That throbbing. That need. That desire to be on your knees and be ravaged — that's all you want in life." Maria needed to be fucked, badly. It was the only thing that made sense to her. "You need nothing else. Only pleasure and obedience. Let it course through you." She shifted her legs again.

"Pleasure is all you want in this moment, isn't it? Good, you should only want to feel pleasure." The presenter smirked, "You're a sex toy — you crave only sex, and you know sex will make you happy. Because you are nothing but a sex toy. A fuck doll. An eager and brainwashed puppet."

"Aren't those such pretty words?" she purred and gestured towards the screen, "Those words feel so right. They describe who you really are." They did. Maria couldn't keep still as those words rolled through her mind.

"These aren't mere suggestions. They aren't ideas to consider. This isn't some debate. No. They are the only thing you can think about. Be a good doll and say: Yes Mistress," The woman purred.

"Yes Mistress." The two replied in unison, their voices barely a whisper in the darkness surrounding them.

The presenter nodded. Her tone lowered, the cadence slowing and each word dripping off her tongue like melting ice. "Pleasure, Obedience and Submission." She punctuated each with a pause. The silence stretched and her lips curled into a grin, "You must remember those words and keep them close to you. But that is not the only thing good fuck dolls need. Somewhere deep inside you is still some pesky semblance of your fake selfs. I know it sounds horrible, but don't worry, we will erase that too. This is after all a program for couples. And that gives us everything we need to recalibrate you." Maria's thoughts felt distant. Her brain felt like it was floating. All she could do was look forward and listen. And squeeze her thighs tight to relieve her pulsing.

"Couples have such strong ties, such strong feelings and emotions," the woman's hands gestured in the air, and on the screen images appeared. Of women entwined in deep, lewd kisses. Images of two girls groping each other. Of sex and passion.

"All these relationships," she said and then shook her head. "Are defined by an inherent power dynamic. One submissive serving the dominant. Of course all our viewers are in reality obedient, pliable puppets, but one stands above the other."

Maria nodded, it made perfect sense, and if there was something she needed right now it was to submit. She shifted her hips, sinking from the couch down to her knees.

"And this will tighten our control over your empty brains. You don't need to think. You don't want to resist. You want to play your role. Your partner, the love of your life, is going to become the person you serve, the person who gives you purpose and direction." The woman's voice dipped, a hint of dominance seeping through as she spoke. "You are now completely bound to her, utterly dependent, entirely at her whim. The same is true for the dom. Her purpose, pleasure and enjoyment are all based in her ability to direct you to be as depraved as possible." Maria could hardly imagine a more pleasurable thought, her head dipped low as she imagined how her girlfriend could treat her as a sex toy, how she could be ordered, and fucked and played with like an eager pet.

"You are nothing, a plaything," she paused and smiled. "And you love it. You cannot not love it. Nothing more than beautiful, brainwashed dolls. As payment for our programs services, you will register at our wonderful website. You will display your new recalibrated relationship for our subscribers. And you love it. Good girls obey." She let out a breathy chuckle, her eyes flicking between them. "Remember these words, they are at the core of who you are: Pleasure. Obedience. Submission. Good Girls. Obey." Each phrase landed with weight. Maria's mind seemed to accept each concept without question.

"Keep your focus. Let those words penetrate you," she paused, eyes scanning her captive audience. "And with that — our program comes to an end. I hope you had a wonderful time with Relationship Recalibrations." She bowed her head slowly and stepped back. The TV faded to black.

Maria didn't notice the screen darken as the credits rolled. Her attention was on the fire burning within. It seeped into her skin. Her nipples stood tall against her shirt. She reached down to pull the cloth off her skin in one fluid motion, and let it drop on the floor behind her.

A sudden pressure caught Maria's attention: the soft touch of Laura's shoe on the apex of her thigh. She gasped — not at the bold gesture, but at her own eagerness, her desperation to be used.

"Lick them," Laura ordered, a wicked grin dancing across her features. Her voice held an unspoken command, an invitation to pleasure that sent shivers down Maria's spine. "Worship every inch."

Maria, already on her knees, shifted closer. She ran a light hand over Laura's ankle and calf. With a deliberate, teasing slowness, she lowered her lips and kissed the instep of Laura's shoe, then began a tantalizing path, tracing her mouth along the length of the sleek design, from the curve of Laura's elegant toe to the slender bridge at her dainty arch.

As her lips glided over the supple material, a soft groan escaped Laura, "Deeper. Show me just how committed you are, fuck doll."

Maria, ever the obedient subordinate, didn't hesitate. She leaned further into her submissive role. With a reverent caress, Maria lifted Laura's foot and slipped her shoe off. Her touch feathered along the exposed sole, causing Laura's toes to flex involuntarily in a response that made Maria beam with satisfaction. She brought the bare sole up to her lips, kissing each toe before tracing the valley between them with her tongue.

Moaning she sucked on the digits. Laura's toes tasted sweet to Maria, and she licked between each toe with increasing fervor.

Laura arched an eyebrow, "You're really enjoying yourself." Maria looked up at her dom, a mixture of desire and worship reflecting in her gaze, "Yes Mistress, it makes me feel whole," she murmured, her eyes flicking up to meet Laura's, "Your pleasure, your happiness, are everything to me."

Laura's lips twisted into an empty maliciousness, blank eyes glistened with pleasure. "Everything besides being a recalibrated doll, of course," she whispered and patted Maria's cheek.

Maria's lips parted in an eager whisper, "I don't need to be a person." The truth in her voice caused both to shiver. The words struck deep. Maria could only think about being an object, a doll, an accessory. To give herself up for her girlfriend, and to become a piece of property — it seemed so right. Her inner voice seemed distant and her thoughts drifted away.

"Yes," Laura affirmed, "you don't." Her foot flexed against Maria's cheek. "We should make this a show."

Maria's eyes lit up. The thought was intoxicating to her — the idea of displaying her newfound obedience, her love and devotion, to Laura in such an exposed way. It wasn't just a fantasy; it felt necessary — an extension of their intimacy. Her heart pounded as Laura pulled away and began to set up her camera, ready to document this moment of surrender and adoration.

Laura's ass swang like a pendulum, Maria's gaze fixed on the delicious behind. Her hips gyrated to an internal melody as she returned to the couch. Fingers tapped along a phone screen. Then Laura looked into the lense. "Hello, dear subscribers. I am Laura. And the one kneeling is Maria. We just experienced our first recalibration into slutty fuck dolls," She paused dramatically, "And to show our gratitude and commitment to this transformation. Maria, will demonstrate her love for my feet. A lovely preview of what I think will become a popular series." Maria felt a rush of excitement course through her as she gazed at the lens of Laura's camera.

She licked her lips in anticipation.

[bimbofiction]

😍

[bimbofiction]

Y'know, fer not havin' any alcohol in 'em, these things sure did get me really fuggin' drunk! <giggle>

It's probably the Sodium Ditzolin from BTPharma.

Thaassounsabout right!

Well, that and the alcohol.

<giggle><snort>

Sodium Ditzolin is a registered trademark of BTPharma. Patients not wishing to become an addlepated sexpot should not take Sodium Ditzolin. BTPharma s a wholey owned subsidiary of BimboTech Inc.

[bimbofiction]

The Fall of the Queen

Carissa Whitmore was Crestwood University’s reigning queen bitch, a 21-year-old senior and Delta Sigma sorority president whose beauty was a weapon. Her platinum blonde hair cascaded in flawless waves, framing a face so pale it gleamed like ivory, her icy blue eyes cutting through anyone who dared challenge her. Her lithe, hourglass figure—pert breasts, tight waist, long legs—was a tool of domination. Raised in a wealthy Georgia family, Carissa’s Southern heritage fueled a venomous racism, her steps swerving to avoid African American students with a curled lip. She ruled the sorority house like a tyrant, her world orbiting white football players—tall, chiseled gods whose cocks hardened at her whisper, her pussy dripping with the thrill of control. Her cruelty, though, wasn’t just racial; it was personal, rooted in a vendetta against Wilma Jackson.

Wilma, a 20-year-old junior, was a vision with rich brown skin, dark eyes burning with defiance, and braided hair swept into a regal updo. Her athletic frame exuded strength, but Carissa saw her as a threat—not just for her race, but for a betrayal three years ago. As freshmen, they were friends, bonding over late-night study sessions. But when Wilma outperformed Carissa in a debate competition, winning a scholarship Carissa coveted, her envy turned vicious. Carissa spread rumors that Wilma cheated, turning the sorority against her, cementing Wilma’s status as an outsider. Carissa’s taunts grew personal, targeting Wilma’s ambition, her background, her existence in Delta Sigma. Wilma never forgot the sting.

In the sorority’s opulent lounge, Carissa held court, her latest conquest, a quarterback named Bryce, trailing her. “Goddamn, Carissa, you’re fucking lethal,” Bryce growled, his hand grazing her ass.

She smirked, her Southern drawl venomous. “Sugar, you’re lucky to breathe my air. Only the best get this pussy wet.” Her clique giggled, feeding her ego.

Spotting Wilma across the room, Carissa’s eyes narrowed. As sorority president, she was tasked with securing entertainment for the annual gala, and she saw a chance to humiliate Wilma. She sauntered over, heels clicking like a whip. “Wilma, darlin’,” she drawled, “you’re on gala entertainment duty. Don’t fuck it up, or I’ll make your life hell. Find something classy, not whatever trash you’re used to.”

Wilma’s jaw clenched, her dark eyes flashing. “I’ll deliver, Carissa. But keep pushing me, and you’ll choke on that crown.”

Carissa laughed, sharp and cruel. “Bless your heart, honey. You’ll never outshine me. Get to work.” She spun away, leaving Wilma seething. But Wilma was plotting, her plan a secret blade. In the sorority’s common room, she noticed Carissa’s habit of leaving dog-eared paperbacks—Hypnotic Surrender and The Mesmerized Temptress—on a coffee table after reading. Their pages revealed Carissa’s hypnofetish, a craving to be controlled and reshaped. Then Wilma found a notebook, Carissa’s handwriting scrawling a fictionalized story: a queen named “Clarissa” falling under a hypnotist’s spell, becoming a submissive shadow of herself. Wilma’s lips curled. She had her weapon.

Wilma booked Cassandra the hypnotist, a Caucasian woman famed for her adults-only shows, striking a deal backstage to shatter Carissa. Carissa, spotting Cassandra’s poster—jet-black hair, crimson lips, eyes that promised domination—scoffed, “Cheap tricks for the weak,” but her fingers lingered, her pulse racing.

The sorority house was a sultry theater, draped in black velvet, lit by flickering candles. Cassandra the hypnotist owned the stage, her presence electric, her crimson dress clinging like a lover. The air was thick with jasmine and lust, the crowd buzzing. Carissa sat front-row, arms crossed, her platinum blonde hair catching the light, her icy blue eyes masking intrigue. Wilma, fresh from her backstage deal, slipped from behind the curtains, her rich brown skin glowing, her dark eyes smug with her secret plan.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Cassandra’s voice slithered, smooth as silk, “tonight, we unravel the mind’s darkest desires. With consent, I can remake your soul. Who dares to surrender?”

Hands shot up, but Cassandra pointed to a mousy sophomore, Emily. “You first.” Emily, nervous but eager, consented and took the stage. Cassandra’s pendant swayed, her voice hypnotic. “Sleep, Emily. You’re a fearless diva now.” Emily’s eyes closed, then snapped open, her posture bold as she strutted, earning cheers.

Next, Cassandra called a senior, Tara, who consented and became a giggling cheerleader under hypnosis, cartwheeling offstage. The crowd roared, hooked.

Cassandra’s gaze pinned Carissa. “You, the queen. Ready to lose that crown?”

Carissa stood, tossing her platinum blonde hair, her laugh dripping arrogance. “Lose? Darlin’, I’m untouchable. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

The crowd cheered as Carissa ascended, her icy blue eyes defiant. Cassandra’s smile was predatory. “Confirm—you consent to whatever I weave?”

Carissa smirked. “Go ahead, sugar. Try to crack me. I’m all in.”

Cassandra guided her to a velvet chair, her movements deliberate. “Focus on this pendant,” she said, dangling a silver charm that danced in the crimson light. “Watch it sway. Let your mind melt…” Carissa’s icy blue eyes followed, her breaths slowing. Cassandra’s voice deepened, a hypnotic spell. “Deeper… deeper… your walls crumble. You’re open, ready to become.”

The room hushed. Cassandra leaned closer, her voice a whisper for Carissa alone. “Feel the pendant’s pull. Your pride, your control—it’s slipping. You’re pliant, a canvas.” Carissa’s lips parted, a soft moan escaping. Cassandra turned to the audience. “What shall our queen become?”

A sister shouted, “A snow bunny!” The crowd erupted, but Cassandra nodded, her eyes flicking to Wilma, confirming their deal. She leaned to Carissa, whispering, “Carissa, you’re no longer the queen bee. You’re Cari, C-A-R-I, a snow bunny consumed by desire. Black men—their big, powerful bodies, their thick cocks—set your blood on fire. You crave them, need them. And women…” Her voice dropped softer, “especially Wilma, make you weak, desperate to please her, to serve her.” She straightened, speaking louder. “Women drive you wild, Cari. You’re submissive, pliant, theirs. These desires burn for five days, and they’ll linger forever.”

Cari’s body sank, eyes glassy, a whimper escaping. Cassandra snapped her fingers. “Awaken, Cari.”

Cari’s eyes fluttered open, her icy blue gaze molten, her posture soft, pleading. The crowd cheered, but she ignored them, her eyes locking onto Marcus, a tall African American senior with a linebacker’s build, his dark skin gleaming, his brown eyes curious. Her breath hitched, her pussy slick with need.

“Marcus,” Cari purred, descending the stage, her hips swaying, platinum blonde hair flowing. “You’re fucking gorgeous. Come with me.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, amused. “Carissa? What’s this?”

“I’m Cari,” she corrected, her voice thick with want, grabbing his hand. “My room. Now.”

She led him through the sorority house, her steps urgent, to her lavish bedroom—silk sheets, mirrored walls. The door slammed shut, and Cari was a storm, ripping off her dress to reveal her pale, naked body—pert breasts, tight waist, glistening pussy. She shoved Marcus onto her bed, straddling him, her fingers tearing at his jeans, freeing his thick, hard cock. “God, you’re fucking huge,” she groaned, guiding him to her entrance.

As she sank onto him, the sensation was explosive—a burning stretch, a fullness that ripped a scream from her throat. Her hips rocked, frantic, her nails clawing his chest, her platinum blonde hair wild. Each thrust sent shockwaves through her, her clit throbbing, her pussy clenching. “Fuck, Marcus, harder!” she begged, her icy blue eyes locked on his brown ones. “Fill me up!” Her orgasm hit like a tsunami, her body convulsing, screams echoing as she collapsed against him, sweat-slicked. “More,” she whispered, her need insatiable.

Over the next five days, Cari was a whirlwind of submission and desire. In the library, she pinned James, a track star with ebony skin and sharp green eyes, against a shelf, pleading, “Fuck me, James, I’m burning.” In a study room, he took her against a wall, her legs spread, her moans muffled by his hand, her pussy dripping as he pounded her. “Yes, James, don’t stop!” she cried, her orgasms shuddering through her.

In a dorm stairwell, she dropped to her knees for Michael, a basketball player with deep brown skin and warm hazel eyes, her lips worshipping his thick shaft. “You taste so fucking good,” she murmured, sucking until he groaned, filling her mouth. Outside a frat house, she rode Stefan, a soccer player with rich umber skin and dark eyes, in his car, her pussy slick, her cries drawing stares. “Fuck me harder, Stefan!” she begged, her body trembling as she came.

Later, she lured James back to her room, bending over her desk, begging, “Take me again!” He obliged, her screams echoing, her submission absolute.

But Wilma was her obsession. On the third night, Cari slipped into Wilma’s dorm, stark naked, sprawled on her bed, her pale skin glowing, her platinum blonde hair fanned out, her icy blue eyes pleading. “Wilma,” Cari breathed, “I’m yours. Tell me what to do. I need to please you.”

Wilma’s dark eyes gleamed, her rich brown skin radiant, her braided hair framing her face. Her plan had broken Carissa, and Cari was her creation—pliant, desperate. She shed her sweater, revealing her naked body, her curves taut, her nipples hard. “You want to serve me, Cari?” Wilma asked, her voice commanding.

Cari nodded, crawling to the edge of the bed. “Fuck, yes. I’ll do anything. Your body, your taste… I’m aching for you.”

Wilma smirked, climbing onto the bed, her fingers tangling in Cari’s platinum blonde hair. “Worship me.” She guided Cari’s face to her pussy, Cari’s tongue diving in, lapping at Wilma’s clit with fervent devotion. Wilma moaned, her hips bucking, her hands gripping Cari’s head. “Good girl, Cari. Suck it. Make me come.” Cari’s fingers slipped inside, curling to hit Wilma’s sweet spot, her tongue relentless. Wilma’s orgasm was explosive, her thighs trembling, her cries filling the room. “Fuck, Cari, you’re perfect,” she gasped. Cari begged, “Let me taste you again. Please.”

Wilma flipped her onto her back, straddling Cari’s face, riding her tongue as Cari’s hands roamed her ass, her moans muffled. Wilma’s fingers teased Cari’s pussy, plunging inside until Cari screamed, her icy blue eyes rolling back, her climax shattering. But Wilma held the power, Cari’s pleasure serving her own. “You’re mine,” Wilma whispered. “You exist to please me.”

Cari whimpered, “I’m yours, Wilma. Always.”

The next night, Cari returned, kneeling naked, begging, “Use me again.” Wilma tied her wrists with silk, spreading her legs, teasing her pussy with a vibrator until Cari sobbed, “Please, Wilma, let me come!” Wilma obliged only after her own climax, reinforcing Cari’s role. “Good my bunny,” Wilma purred, stroking Cari’s hair. “You live for me.”

On the sixth morning, Cari woke in her dorm, the hypnosis suggestion’s five-day limit passed, but its effects were permanent, rewiring her soul. She craved African American men—Marcus, James, Michael, Stefan—their bodies, their cocks, the explosive pleasure. Her pussy ached at the memories. And Wilma… her dominance, her taste, owned Cari’s mind, her heart.

Cari sought Wilma, now Wilhelmina, in her dorm, wearing a simple black dress, her platinum blonde hair loose, her icy blue eyes soft, her posture submissive. Wilhelmina stood radiant, her rich brown skin glowing, her braided hair a crown, her dark eyes cruel. The campus bowed to her—Wilhelmina, the new queen, her rule ruthless, her cruelty surpassing Carissa’s. Cari approached, her voice pleading. “Wilma—Wilhelmina,” she corrected, “I’m yours. The suggestion’s done, but I still need you. I love you. I crave you.”

Wilhelmina’s smile was a blade. “Oh, Cari, you’re not Carissa anymore. You’re my bunny, my toy.” She stepped closer, holding a box. “Strip.”

Cari obeyed, her dress pooling at her feet, her pale body bare. Wilhelmina dressed her like a doll, applying exaggerated makeup—porcelain foundation, rosy cheeks, red lips, wide, glassy eyes framed by thick lashes, creating a doll-like face. She added doll-like bunny ears, soft and floppy, padded bunny paws for hands and feet, all in muted pastels, enhancing the snow bunny aesthetic. A butt-plug tail, its pressure making Cari gasp, her pussy clenching, completed the look. A silver collar engraved with “Wilhelmina’s Bunny” circled her neck, a leash clipped on. Wilhelmina tugged it, forcing Cari to her knees. “Crawl, my doll-bunny.”

Cari crawled, the tail swaying, her platinum blonde hair trailing, her icy blue eyes adoring Wilhelmina’s dark ones. Wilhelmina sat on her bed, spreading her legs. “Please me, bunny.” Cari’s tongue found Wilhelmina’s pussy, lapping eagerly, her bunny paws gripping Wilhelmina’s thighs. Wilhelmina moaned, tugging the leash. “Good bunny. You live for this.” Cari’s moans were muffled, her pussy dripping, but Wilhelmina denied her release, her cruelty sharp. “You don’t come unless I say, pet.”

Wilhelmina led Cari, leashed, to the sorority house’s main hall. A line of men—Marcus, James, Michael, Stefan, and others—waited, their eyes hungry, cocks straining. Wilhelmina smirked, addressing them. “My bunny needs her fill. Take her, boys. She’s yours to use.”

Cari’s icy blue eyes widened, her body trembling with anticipation. “Yes, Wilhelmina,” she whispered, crawling toward Marcus first. He lifted her, pinning her against a wall, his cock plunging into her, her pussy clenching as she screamed, “Fuck, Marcus, yes!” Her orgasms came in waves, each man taking her—James on the floor, Michael bending her over a table, Stefan in a chair—her body a vessel for their pleasure, her submission complete. Wilhelmina watched, her power absolute, her cruelty unmatched. “Look at you, Cari,” she taunted, tugging the leash. “My little doll-bunny, fucked senseless, and you love it.”

Wilhelmina laughed, her voice a whip. “You’re mine, Cari, my collared snow bunny, my toy. Crestwood’s mine now, and you’ll crawl at my feet forever.” The crowd buzzed, the power shift undeniable. Wilhelmina, once the betrayed friend, was the queen, her reign built on Cari’s fall, her cruelty a darker mirror of Carissa’s. Cari, collared, leashed, her doll-like face serene, her bunny ears bobbing, followed her, her love for Wilhelmina a chain she craved, her body sated yet yearning, her submission eternal. Wilhelmina’s revenge was a masterpiece, her crown forged in manipulation, desire, and ruthless triumph.

[bimbofiction]

Legend of the Azure Triangle

Prologue: The Cruise

Scott Harper, 46, stood on the deck of the Elysian Dawn, the Pacific breeze ruffling his salt-and-pepper hair. His wife, Emily, 44, pressed against him, her blonde curls catching the sunset. Their children, 19-year-old Ethan and 18-year-old Lily, had surprised them with this cruise for their 25th anniversary—a last-minute gift to celebrate their enduring bond.

Ethan, a college freshman with his father’s sharp mind, snapped photos of the horizon. “No coding for a week, Dad,” he teased. Lily, an artist, sketched the waves, her auburn ponytail swaying. “You two deserve this,” she said, her green eyes soft. Scott squeezed Emily’s hand, uneasy about leaving his structured life but warmed by his kids’ gesture.

Across the ship, Maureen Ellis, 45, sipped a mojito, her auburn hair pinned against the humidity. Her twin daughters, Ava and Mia, both 19, had gifted her this trip after her divorce. “Mom, you need to live a little,” Ava said, her hazel eyes glinting with mischief. Mia, quieter but fierce, nodded. “Find some adventure.” Maureen forced a smile, the sting of her broken marriage lingering. Raising her girls alone had been her anchor; this cruise was her chance to rediscover herself.

That night, as Scott and Emily retired to their stateroom and Maureen grabbed a late-night coffee on deck, an azure fog—shimmering like liquid sapphire—rolled over the ship. Scott, stepping onto his balcony, caught Maureen’s eye across the deck, a fleeting glance between strangers. Then the fog thickened, swallowing them. Their families’ screams faded as Scott and Maureen vanished.

The Island

They materialized on a pristine beach, sand blindingly white, turquoise waves lapping gently. The Azure Triangle, a maritime myth whispered in hushed tones, had claimed its first souls. The island was a paradox: lush jungle loomed, palm fronds rustled, but an eerie silence hung—no birds, no beasts, only the pulse of the sea. Scott stumbled, heart racing, his khaki shirt soaked with sweat. “What the hell?” he gasped, spinning to find no ship, no horizon. Maureen, clutching her sundress, staggered nearby, her brown eyes wide with panic. “My girls—where’s the ship?” Her voice trembled.

They faced each other, strangers thrown together. “You were on the deck,” Scott said, recognizing her auburn hair. “Who are you?”

“Maureen Ellis. Nurse.” She scanned the beach, disoriented. “You?”

“Scott Harper. Software engineer.” He paced, mind racing. “No signal, no ship. We’re stranded. How did we get here?”

Maureen shook her head. “That fog—it was… unnatural. Blue, like the sea itself.”

They scoured the beach, desperate for answers. No wreckage, no tracks, just endless sand and jungle. Scott’s eyes lingered on Maureen—her freckled cheeks, her athletic frame. She was attractive, not glamorous, but her resilience stirred something in him he quickly buried. They gathered driftwood and palm fronds, building a lean-to under the blazing sun. The island felt too perfect, too empty. “No wildlife,” Scott noted, frowning. “No predators, no birds. It’s wrong.”

Maureen nodded, uneasy. “No lions, no tigers. Good, but… creepy.” They missed the vine-draped cave hidden in the jungle’s edge, its entrance pulsing with bioluminescent light.

Scott wiped his brow. “I’ll fish. Got enough for a pole.” He glanced at Maureen. “Can you find water? Coconuts, a stream, anything?”

Maureen agreed, her practicality overriding fear. “I’ll check the jungle.”

Scott carved a fishing pole, tying vine fibers into a line, his mind on survival. Maureen pushed through dense foliage, the air cooling, light dimming. A rustle stopped her cold. She spun, heart pounding, to see a woman—tall, bronzed, her jet-black hair cascading over scraps of cloth barely covering her curves. Her emerald eyes gleamed, both predatory and alluring.

“Who—who are you?” Maureen stammered, stepping back, her pulse racing at the sudden appearance.

“Brayleen,” the woman purred, her voice a velvet caress, exotic yet commanding. The name suited her wild aura better than any common one. “You’re lost, aren’t you? Come. I have shelter.”

Maureen’s breath caught, fear mingling with an inexplicable pull. “I’m not alone. There’s a man—Scott. He’s fishing.”

“He’s fine,” Brayleen said, stepping closer, her jasmine-salt scent intoxicating. “You need rest.” Her fingers brushed Maureen’s arm, sending a shiver. Against her better judgment, Maureen followed, the jungle parting for Brayleen’s presence.

They reached a cave, its mouth veiled in vines, glowing faintly. Brayleen paused, her gaze locking onto Maureen’s. “Your clothes bind you to the old world. Shed them—all of them.” She untied her own cloth scraps, revealing her flawless, bronzed body.

Maureen’s cheeks flushed, her heart pounding. “Completely? Why?”

“Custom,” Brayleen murmured, hypnotic, her naked form radiant in the cave’s glow. “Freedom.” Maureen, trembling, stripped fully, feeling exposed yet strangely liberated under Brayleen’s approving stare.

Inside, the cave was warm, lit by bioluminescent moss. A stone altar held glowing, pear-shaped yum-yum fruit, their skins pulsating with an otherworldly light. Brayleen pressed one to Maureen’s lips. “Taste it.” Maureen bit down, the juice sweet and heady, warmth flooding her veins like liquid fire. Brayleen stepped closer, her breath hot on Maureen’s neck. “Good girl,” she whispered, lips brushing her ear. Their mouths met, slow, then ravenous. Maureen had never kissed a woman, but the fruit’s haze melted her fear. Brayleen’s hands roamed, guiding Maureen to a mossy bed, her lips trailing down Maureen’s neck, teasing her breasts, then lower, her tongue igniting a primal fire. Maureen moaned, her body arching, quaking under Brayleen’s expert touch, waves of pleasure consuming her.

Brayleen held her close, their bodies entwined, feeding her more fruit over hours. “My tribe—Amazonian sisters—ruled this island millennia ago,” she murmured, her fingers tracing Maureen’s curves. “We were immortal, bound to the island’s heart—a crystalline core deep beneath, pulsing with life. Men came, bringing disease, stealing our strength. I, the last, found the yum-yum fruit, born from that core, a gift of eternal renewal. It transforms lost souls into sisters, immortal like me.” She kissed Maureen deeply, their bodies grinding, her touch both commanding and tender.

Maureen’s skin prickled, darkening to a bronzed glow. Her auburn hair lengthened, cascading past her hips in silky waves. Her breasts swelled from B-cups to lush D-cups, heavy and sensitive. Her body reshaped—hips wider, waist cinched, her age melting to a radiant early 20s. Her skin shimmered, flawless, her eyes brighter, almost luminous. She touched herself, gasping at the slick heat, her mind fogging. Her daughters, her past—dissolved like mist.

Brayleen smiled, stroking her cheek. “You’re Marina now. My sister. Immortal.”

“Marina,” she echoed, her old life erased.

“There’s a man on the beach,” Brayleen said, kissing her fiercely, their bodies writhing in shared ecstasy. “Seduce him. Fuck him. Feed him the fruit. He’ll join us.” Brayleen’s fingers taught Marina new pleasures—slow circles, teasing thrusts—until Marina screamed, her climax sealing her transformation. “Go,” Brayleen said, handing her a fruit.

On the beach, Scott cursed his broken line, sweat dripping. A figure emerged—not Maureen, but a goddess. Marina, bronzed, voluptuous, her long auburn hair swaying, eyes predatory, her youthful body glistening under a vine scrap. Scott froze, desire surging. She was a stranger, no trace of the woman he’d met, her beauty otherworldly.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice hoarse, stunned by her presence on this empty island.

“Marina,” she purred, sauntering closer, hips swaying. “You’re alone, stranger.” She pressed against him, breasts brushing his chest, her scent intoxicating. “Let me help you.” Her fingers trailed his arm, unbuttoning his shorts. Scott groaned as she knelt, her tongue teasing before taking him fully, her lips expert and relentless. He gripped her hair, lost in raw pleasure.

She rose, pressing a yum-yum fruit to his lips. “Taste this,” she murmured, stroking him, keeping him pliant. He bit down, the juice overwhelming, a fire spreading through him. Marina pushed him to the sand, straddling him, guiding him inside her. Her hips rocked, moans primal, her body a symphony of curves. Scott thrust, consumed, the fruit’s power surging. His skin prickled, darkening to a bronzed sheen. His hair lengthened to a chestnut cascade, his frame softening—shoulders narrowing, hips widening, breasts swelling to lush C-cups. His face reshaped, cheekbones high, lips full, his age reverting to a radiant early 20s. His eyes, now luminous, gleamed with new awareness. Marina smiled as he became Scotia, an immortal beauty.

Marina led Scotia to the cave, where Brayleen waited. “Welcome, sister,” Brayleen purred, pulling Scotia close. Marina joined, their bodies entwining, teaching Scotia the feminine pleasures of their tribe. Scotia moaned, her new form responding to Marina’s touch—lips on her neck, fingers exploring her curves, a dance of shared ecstasy. Brayleen guided them, their cries echoing, sealing Scotia’s place among the immortal sisters.

Epilogue: Ten Years Later

Ethan and Lily Harper, now 29 and 28, and Ava and Mia Ellis, both 29, stepped onto the island’s beach, their boat bobbing offshore. A decade of searching for their parents had led them here, chasing Azure Triangle myths. Ethan, a data analyst, clutched a tattered map, his jaw tight. Lily, an illustrator, scanned the jungle, her sketchbook forgotten. Ava, a lawyer, and Mia, a journalist, exchanged tense glances, their hope tempered by dread.

Figures emerged from the jungle—Marina, ageless, her bronzed curves radiant, and Brayleen, her emerald eyes gleaming. “Who are you?” Ethan demanded, stepping back, shock etching his face. “People live here?”

“Welcome, sisters,” Marina purred, eyeing Ava and Mia, her voice a siren’s call. Brayleen smiled, predatory. Ava’s breath hitched, fear mingling with curiosity. “You’re looking for someone,” Brayleen said, offering Ava a yum-yum fruit. “Taste this.” Ava hesitated, then bit, juice dripping, her body tingling. Marina kissed her, slow and deep, Ava’s resistance crumbling. Brayleen fed Mia fruit, their lips meeting in a hungry dance. Ava’s skin bronzed, her hazel eyes glowing, her body reverting to a youthful 20s—curves lush, breasts swelling, hair lengthening to a golden cascade. She was now known as Amara.

Mia transformed similarly, her frame voluptuous, hair wild, immortal. They moaned, entwined with Marina and Brayleen, their pasts—parents, lives—erased, reborn as sisters in passionate embrace. Now known as Myra.

Scotia approached Ethan and Lily, flanked by Messina, a raven-haired sister transformed centuries ago, her amber eyes eternal. “You’re not supposed to be here,” Lily whispered, trembling, shock widening her eyes. “What is this place?”

“You’re lost,” Scotia said, offering Ethan a fruit. He ate, his body softening, hair lengthening to a golden cascade, age melting to a youthful 20s—breasts swelling, hips curving, skin bronzing. Her name now Elara.

Messina kissed Lily, fierce and consuming, feeding her fruit. Lily’s auburn hair grew wild, her body bronzing, curves lush, immortal. Lilly disappeared and Liora took her place.

Their cries echoed as Scotia and Messina led them to the cave, where dozens of sisters welcomed their new kin, their transformations complete.

The Azure Triangle’s heart pulses beneath, its tribe thriving. Marina and Scotia lead the sisters, bodies entwined, immortal. The island��s silence holds their secrets, the crystalline core eternal. “We are forever,” Brayleen whispers, the stars witnessing their unending reign.

[bimbofiction]

The Cure for Anxiety, Lezapro.

My life is a prison of my own making. My Chicago apartment is a filthy cave—stacks of greasy takeout boxes, dishes crusted with old food, a couch reeking of stale beer and despair. The city’s hum taunts me, a world I can’t face. My anxiety is a beast, chaining me to this couch, my cracked phone, my spiraling thoughts. I haven’t left in years, not since my parents died in a car crash five years ago. Mirrors are torture—my reflection shows a slob: a tangled, overgrown beard, greasy light brown hair falling in clumps, dull green eyes that avoid contact. I’m a disgusting wreck, I think, turning away. I live on instant noodles and cheap soda, my body soft, my clothes—a stained dark gray t-shirt with a faded logo and ripped black jeans—reflecting my decay.

One sleepless night, scrolling to drown my thoughts, I stumble onto a dating app. My heart pounds. This is pathetic. No one’s gonna want me. But loneliness cuts deeper than fear. In my grimy t-shirt and jeans, I sign up, typing a sad profile: “Chicago guy, likes books, stays in.” Faces blur until one hits like a shock: Kelsey. Long blonde hair in perfect waves, sapphire blue eyes, curves that make my breath catch. Her smile screams confidence, freedom—everything I’m not. I send a shaky “Hey, you seem nice,” my stomach twisting. She’s out of my league. No reply, but her image burns into me. I want to be someone she’d see.

The next morning, desperation outweighs dread. I call a psychiatrist, my voice rough. Dr. Amanda Huggins welcomes me into her office—a haven of sage-green walls, soft lighting, bookshelves brimming with hope. She’s 38, with straight dark brown hair to her shoulders and warm hazel eyes. In my faded t-shirt and jeans, my beard itching, I spill my guts: the panic attacks, the years locked away, my obsession with Kelsey’s profile. She’ll never notice me. I mention Lexapro, found online at 4 a.m. Amanda adjusts her glasses. “There’s a new drug from Hyde Industries,” she says. “Lezapro. It’s experimental, but promising for severe anxiety. Take it for seven days. Call if anything feels off.” I clutch the prescription, hope flickering. Maybe I can be better.

Day One: I pop the first Lezapro with cold coffee, hands shaky in my dark gray t-shirt, stained at the collar, and black jeans. By noon, a calm settles, like the world’s quieter. Is this normal? I step outside, first time in months, heart pounding but steady. I walk to a corner store, the lights less harsh. I buy a turkey sandwich—real food—and meet the cashier’s eyes, a girl with a warm smile. She’s not judging. I smile back, chest lighter. At home, I stare at Kelsey’s profile, her sapphire eyes pulling me in. I could be someone she’d want. I send: “Your smile’s incredible. Coffee sometime?” No reply, but I feel a spark. I shave my beard, the razor scraping away neglect. I wash my light brown hair, less greasy. I’m trying.

Day Two: The second dose surges with energy. I dig out a navy tank top and dark blue shorts, feeling a need to move. I’m not exhausted. I jog through Lincoln Park, legs stronger, breath even. When did I get fit? The tank clings to my frame, shorts showing off toned legs. A woman smiles, and I smile back, a thrill replacing fear. At a café, I order a latte, chatting about spring air. I’m talking to people. My reflection in the window looks sharper—green eyes brighter, cheeks less sunken. Back home, I’m wired, thinking of Kelsey. Her curves turn me on. I reach for my cock, imagining her beneath me, her moans in my ear. I want her. I stroke myself, first time in years, but stop, nerves creeping in. I message: “Chicago’s alive today. You out there?” I clean my apartment—scrubbing dishes, tossing trash, sweeping. It’s livable now. I eat a salad, craving fresh food.

Day Three: My light brown hair’s longer, brushing my shoulders. Did I miss a haircut? I tie it back, liking the weight, and wear a charcoal tank top and dark shorts for a jog. My muscles feel defined. At a bookstore, I browse novels, a place I’ve avoided—too many people. I joke with a clerk about sci-fi. I’m joking? A guy stares, his gaze lingering. Is he into me? It’s… hot. My reflection shows a softer jaw, fuller lips, green eyes shifting bluer. Lezapro’s working. I buy a chicken wrap, feeling healthier. I clean more—organizing shelves, wiping counters, opening windows. The apartment’s brighter. I think of Kelsey, her image sparking heat. I touch my cock, imagining sliding into her, her body arching. I could have her. But my body feels off, shifting. I trim my hair, feeling pride in looking less like a slob.

Day Four: Bumps press against my gray tank top, paired with dark jeans. Pecs? They’re soft, sensitive. I touch them. These are breasts. My heart races, but Lezapro calms me. I like this. My hips are rounder, waist narrower. I slide my hand down, expecting my cock, but it’s smaller, shrinking. What the hell? It’s tiny, strange. I head to a thrift store, drawn to women’s clothes—a light blue blouse, fitted jeans, a bra. Wearing them, I feel right, my movements smoother. My face is softer, eyes bluer. I touch my breasts, a shiver running through me. This is me? I buy a pastel pink top, a skirt. I cook chicken and vegetables, feeling stronger. I message Kelsey: “Big changes. Feeling new.” No reply, but I’m becoming her. I practice walking in the skirt, hips swaying naturally.

Day Five: My face isn’t mine—full lips, high cheekbones, eyes now sapphire blue. My breasts fill a lavender tank top. I slide my hand down, expecting my cock, but find a slick slit, a clit. I’m a woman. Panic flares, but Lezapro soothes it. I feel incredible. I touch myself, fingers exploring, circling my clit. I moan, learning my body. This is what she feels. I buy a floral dress, leggings, another bra, trying them on, marveling at my curves. I practice makeup—mascara, pink lipstick. My hands shake, but my eyes pop, lips fuller. In the dress, I walk to a park, hips swaying. I’m her. I apply for a barista job at Brewed Awakening, hired on the spot for my confidence. At home, I explore again, fingers slipping inside, the orgasm crashing like a wave. I message Kelsey: “Wish you’d write back. I’m new.”

Day Six: I wake up, look in the mirror, and smile. “Kelsey, you’re going to find the most beautiful woman today.” I’m Kelsey, with long blonde hair and sapphire blue eyes. That loser who messaged me on the app—“Chicago guy, likes books, stays in”—is nothing to me. Some creep. I check my dating profile, seeing his pathetic messages. What a loser. I’m into women, anyway. Time to find a good one. I wear a pastel yellow sweater and jeans, my curves natural. My apartment’s clean, sunlight streaming in. I eat fruit and yogurt, no junk. The app buzzes—men, ugh. I want women. I’m a lesbian, craving bold, vibrant women. Amanda Huggins’ profile stops me—38, dark brown hair, hazel eyes, in a navy blazer and cream blouse, her smile warm. I type: “Amanda Huggins, coffee tomorrow? I’d love to meet you.” She replies: “3 PM, Lakeview Café sounds perfect.” I perfect my makeup—eyeliner, blush, red lip. At Brewed Awakening, I steam milk, joke with customers, and charm regulars with my radiant smile. A woman flirts, and I blush, loving the attention. This is my life now. I practice walking in heels, feeling powerful, ready to live as a lesbian.

Day Seven: I’m Kelsey, fully. In a white sundress, gold sandals, my blonde hair cascades, sapphire eyes sparkle. I blend foundation, add a smoky eye. I eat a quinoa salad, feeling radiant. At Brewed Awakening, I work the morning rush, bantering with customers, my confidence shining. One regular, Sarah, lingers, complimenting my smile. Maybe she’s into me. At Lakeview Café, Amanda, in a gray blazer and pink blouse, smiles. We talk—art, jazz, Chicago’s dusk. She’s gorgeous. “You’re so alive,” she says. I grin. “Always have been.” She mentions a patient who vanished. “Guess he’s fine,” she shrugs. Probably some loser. We walk the lakeshore, her hand in mine, warm, sure. “Another date?” she asks. I beam, heart racing. “Tomorrow, the next day, every single day after. I want you in every moment of my life, Amanda.” We stop by a pier, her stories of helping people pulling me closer. She’s my future.

The next night, at a jazz club, I wear a white dress, makeup flawless—winged eyeliner, crimson lips. Amanda’s gaze burns. She wants me. Over drinks, our knees brush, laughter flowing. At her apartment, she kisses me, soft then hungry. I pull off her blouse, revealing smooth skin, full breasts. God, she’s perfect. Her hands slide my dress off, fingers tracing my curves, pinching my nipples until I gasp. “Touch my pussy,” I whisper, voice thick. “Show me you want me.” Her fingers find my clit, stroking slow, then faster, my wetness coating her hand. I moan, loud, hips bucking. I kiss her neck, her breasts, then lower, tasting her. Her pussy is warm, slick, sweet-salty, and I lick slowly, savoring her gasps, my tongue swirling her clit as she grips my hair. This is heaven. She returns it, her mouth on me, sucking my clit, fingers sliding inside. “Fuck, Amanda,” I cry, pleasure spiking. We move together, bodies slick, her tongue deep, my fingers pumping, until we come hard, screaming, collapsing in a tangle of limbs.

A month later, we’re inseparable. My barista job at Brewed Awakening is a blast—I know regulars’ orders by heart, flirt with women who linger, and perfect latte art, my confidence soaring. Amanda’s receptionist quits, and she says, “Work with me, Kelsey. We’d be together all the time.” Perfect. I start, scheduling patients, my pastel pink blouse bright in her office. I’m efficient, charming clients, and Amanda steals glances, her hazel eyes sparkling. One evening, over wine, she asks me to move in. “It’s perfect,” she says, hand on mine. It is. I say yes. My days are vibrant—perfecting smoky eyes, trying bold lip colors, eating fresh salads and grilled fish. My nights with Amanda are electric—her fingers deep, my tongue on her clit. “I want you,” I moan, her mouth on my pussy, and she thrusts, making me scream. Lezapro made my life better—a woman who loves fiercely, lives boldly, and builds a life with Amanda, every touch, every kiss, every day.

[bimbofiction]

Hairasite: The Rise of a Criminal Empire

In her modest apartment, Lisa Caldwell, a 22-year-old prep cook, stood 5’6” with shoulder-length brown hair, gray almond-shaped eyes, and fair, flawless skin. Her slender frame moved quietly in a t-shirt and jeans, unaware of the hairasite lurking in her bathroom mirror.

Late at night, it struck, burrowing into her scalp, igniting a vicious transformation. Her hair grew to her waist, radiant and untamed, her eyes sharper, her demeanor bitchy and self-absorbed. “I’m fucking untouchable,” she hissed, the hairasite fueling chaos.

In the frenetic heat of La Bella Vita’s kitchen, Lisa a prep cook, tossed salads with a venomous sneer. Her radiant blonde hair cascaded to her waist in bold waves, framing sharp gray eyes and fair, flawless skin. A month ago, the hairasite, a mysterious parasite, invaded her scalp, amplifying her self-absorption and bitchiness. Her slender frame strutted in a sequined silver mini-dress and high heels, a nightclub queen in a greasy kitchen. “This shithole’s beneath me,” she hissed, flipping her hair, letting golden strands fall into multiple Caesar salads, including one for table 12. “Let them choke on my fucking brilliance,” she muttered, her voice dripping with chaos, the hairasite urging destruction.

She ripped off her apron, stormed into her boss’s office, and slammed the door. Hiking up her dress, she yanked down his pants, straddling him, her pussy grinding his cock, fucking him raw. “Oh, by the way, I quit,” she sneered mid-thrust. “Find another slave.” She climaxed, dismounted, and strode out, heels clicking, leaving chaos in her wake.

At table 12, Felix and Susan McKinnon, a district attorney and a police officer, celebrated their twelfth anniversary, candlelight casting a warm glow. Felix, 38, with sharp hazel eyes, short brown hair, and a lean build, radiated earnest brilliance. Susan, 35, with long auburn hair in a tight bun, green eyes gleaming with quiet strength, and an athletic frame, hid a secret fetish, scrawled in her diary, which Felix had read covertly: a craving for a criminal to dominate her in her patrol car, fucking her raw, her badge powerless. She kept it from Felix, fearing it would disrupt their harmony.

“Our life’s perfect,” Felix said, fingers brushing hers. “But don’t you want something… reckless?”

Susan sipped her Merlot. “Maybe a spark,” she replied, veiling her desire to be broken. They laughed about a wild Ibiza trip when Paolo, a waiter, took their orders: grilled salmon for Felix, chicken parmesan for Susan.

Paolo returned with their starters—minestrone for Susan, a Caesar salad for Felix. Felix speared a bite of romaine, chuckling, when he choked. A long, blonde hair clung to his fork, half-swallowed. He pulled another, then a third, their vibrant hue unnatural. His calm shattered. “What the fuck is this?” he growled.

Susan reached out. “Felix, relax,” she said softly, her hand hovering. “Felix, relax.” But his hazel eyes blazed with a vicious edge, making her pull back.

“Susan, shut the fuck up for a second,” he snarled, his voice raw. He froze, nervous and embarrassed by the outburst, but Susan’s cheeks flushed crimson, her green eyes glinting with lust, her fetish stirred by his cruel tone. The hairasite was twisting his soul.

Dinner ended in tense silence. At home, in the dark, Felix’s aggression surged. He pinned Susan against the wall, ripping her dress, his cock slamming into her dripping cunt. “Take it, you bitch,” he growled, bruising her wrists. Susan moaned, “Yes, fuck me,” her pussy clenching, loving his dominance, blind to his slightly longer hair or smoother skin.

The next morning, Felix woke to a scalp tingle, Susan gone for her 5 a.m. patrol shift. In the mirror, his brown hair was longer, brushing his ears, with blonde streaks like gold veins. “What the hell’s this?” he muttered, touching his softening skin, his face younger, like a 35-year-old. His hazel eyes gleamed with self-absorption. “I look… fucking perfect,” he smirked, his innocent DA mind warping. At the courthouse, he hid his hair under a cap, his suits looser. Colleagues noticed his sharper eyes, but he deflected, his mind racing. “I’m better than them all,” he thought, studying case files on mob bosses, not to prosecute but to learn. Nights on the dark web, he devoured criminal forums, his DA knowledge merging with a hunger to exploit the system. “Why uphold the law when I can own it?” he mused, innocence fading.

By week two, his hair reached his jaw, fully blonde, his cock seven inches, pulsing with power. “I’m an Adonis,” he grinned, unaware of the hairasite’s plan. He fucked Susan nightly in the dark, his thicker cock driving her wild. “You’re my whore,” he snarled, her moans of “Harder, bastard” blind to his changes. Susan’s early shifts kept her clueless, Felix sleeping late. His mind darkened, sketching a jewelry heist, exploiting legal loopholes. “I’ll run this city,” he whispered.

By week three, Felix’s cock grew to nine inches, a throbbing beast. He seduced Lena Carter, a 28-year-old paralegal with long dark curls, brown almond-shaped eyes, and a curvy build, in a DA’s office back room. Lena had a boyfriend, Tom, but Felix worked her slowly over weeks, leaning close during case reviews, his blonde hair tied back, his nine-inch cock bulging. One night, he locked the door, pushing her to her knees. “Suck it,” he commanded, his cock springing free. Lena gagged, her brown eyes glassy, pussy dripping, worshipping his massive cock. “Fuck, you’re a god,” she moaned, her loyalty shifting. “Feed me case files, Lena,” Felix said, fucking her mouth, his thrusts controlling. Lena nodded, agreeing to betray her office, her seduction a slow burn.

Felix’s self-absorption deepened. “I’m untouchable,” he thought, studying criminal psychology, his mind a sponge for mastermind tactics. “I’m smarter than any thief,” he vowed. By week four, his cock reached 12 inches, but no breasts yet. He fucked Susan in the dark, her pussy clenching, her screams of “Own me” feeding his ego. “You’re my fucking bitch,” he snarled, relentless. Susan, blind to his blonde hair, left early, missing his changes.

By week five, Felix’s blonde hair hit his shoulders, his face a youthful 25, his chest aching. Small swells formed, blossoming into voluptuous double-D breasts by week six, his 12-inch cock still pulsing. “I’m not an Adonis,” he realized, voice softer, feminine. “I’m Felicia McKinnon, and I’ll rule this city.” His fair skin glowed, hazel eyes blazed with genius, his female identity solidifying. At home, he taped his breasts, hiding them during dark, aggressive sex with Susan. “Take it, whore,” he growled, Susan moaning, “Yes, fuck me,” blind to his curves. Susan’s early shifts kept his transformation hidden.

Felicia began her crimes, wearing a skin-tight black catsuit that showcased her untaped, voluptuous breasts and massive cock, blonde hair tied back, identity ambiguous. Her first heist, at Diamond Vault, stole $3 million in gems at midnight, alarms disabled with DA precision. “They’re insects, I’m a goddess,” she smirked, her catsuit clinging to her curves. Security footage baffled police—breasts and cock blurred gender, prompting an APB: “Unidentified suspect, possibly female, with male anatomy, in black outfit.” Susan, on patrol, heard the call, her pussy throbbing at the thought, her fantasy stirring.

Felicia planned heists with obsessive detail—bank blueprints memorized, police schedules hacked via Lena, informants bribed. She corrupted Robert, a businessman, in a locked office, her 12-inch cock fucking his ass raw. “Smuggle my gems, or I’ll ruin you,” she growled, her breasts pressed against him. He agreed after weeks of coercion. Anna, a lawyer, knelt for Felicia, her pussy soaked, worshipping her cock. “Launder my money,” Felicia commanded, fucking her hard. Anna nodded, enthralled, her loyalty bought over weeks. Lena’s manipulation deepened, Felicia fucking her nightly, whispering, “Hack deeper, Lena.” Lena, her brown eyes glassy, obeyed, hacking police systems, her loyalty absolute.

Knowing Susan’s fetish and her new night shift in the downtown district, Felicia orchestrated her fifth heist, a bank job, to get caught. Susan responded to a silent alarm, spotting the figure in the black catsuit, voluptuous breasts and massive cock unmistakable, blonde hair framing her face. “Freeze!” Susan shouted, her green eyes flashing with lust, her body tingling. Overwhelmed, she forgot to cuff Felicia, her hands trembling. In the patrol car, Felicia unzipped her catsuit, stroking her 12-inch cock, its length glistening. “Ever been fucked in a police car, officer? Does your husband fuck you like this?” she taunted, her hazel eyes hypnotic.

Susan’s breath hitched, her pussy soaking her uniform. “No,” she whispered, her fantasy screaming. She pulled over in a dark alley, heart pounding. Felicia leaned forward. “Let me out, and I’ll make it your fantasy,” she said. Susan opened the back door, her auburn hair loosening, green eyes wild.

Felicia ripped Susan’s trousers, her cock slamming into her dripping cunt. “I was Felix, now I’m Felicia, your wife,” Felicia growled, her thrusts relentless. “And you, Susie, are my whore. Fuck me.” Susan moaned, “Yes, criminal, own me,” her orgasm shattering her, badge forgotten. Felicia fucked her raw, Susie’s screams echoing. “You’re mine,” Felicia declared, renaming her. Susie nodded, auburn hair tangled, green eyes submissive, her police career crumbling.

Susie quit active duty, switching to daylight desk work, rigging evidence for Felicia’s heists. “I’ll keep the cops blind,” she vowed, her fetish fulfilled.

By week eight, Felicia woke fully female, her 12-inch cock receding into a slick, perfect pussy, her body a 22-year-old masterpiece—voluptuous curves, blonde hair to her hips, hazel eyes blazing. She quit the DA’s office, striding out in a black leather skirt and blouse, her beauty a weapon.

“The law’s my playground,” she told Lena, fucking her with a strap-on in a warehouse lair, Lena’s moans of “Yes, goddess” sealing her role as hacker. Robert and Anna, fucked into submission, smuggled and laundered, their lives Felicia’s.

Felicia’s empire thrived in a warehouse lair, black walls, neon lights, stolen goods. She recruited mobsters Tara Ellis, a gunrunner and assassin. She fucked Tara with a strap-on, her pussy clenching, her dominance absolute. “Run my guns, Tara.

James Reed, muscle and getaway driver. Drive my escapes, James, or I’ll destroy you,” she warned, her hazel eyes cold. Her pussy wet and driving him wild. Their loyalty was bought with pleasure and fear, cemented over weeks.

Felicia fucked her crew nightly, her strap-on or pussy dominating them. Susie, in a latex bodysuit, knelt, auburn hair tangled, green eyes worshipful. “You’re nothing,” Felicia sneered, whipping her thighs, fucking her raw. Susie moaned, “Yes, mistress,” her submission complete. Lena, Marcus, Tara, and James served her, fucked into loyalty.

Lisa’s hairs had birthed a criminal goddess. Susie, once Susan McKinnon, knelt in latex, watching Felicia fuck a recruit, her police pride gone. Late at night, she wondered: Had those hairs touched others, spawning more criminals or slaves? The shadow lingered, a web of untold fates.

[bimbofiction]

Diamond Desires

Maggie adjusted her glasses as she paced nervously by the arrivals gate, clutching the same notebook she and Claire used to doodle in during their long library sessions. The same notebook that she glued a photo on the back that showed the two of them hugging on the day Claire left for Europe.

Claire had been abroad for a year now, an art residency in Milan that Maggie had encouraged her to take. But their texts had grown sparse. Then silent. And now, just yesterday a text out of the blue:

Back in town. Meet me at the airport.

The text was unusually terse for Claire who loved to send essays of texts but then again the lack of contact for the past few weeks were were hardly normal either. Maggie couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she felt a forbidding dread.

The gate door opened and Maggie waited with a smile, expecting to see the same quirky best friend with her oversized sweaters and paint splattered jeans, her gap toothed grin, that unshakable laugh. The Claire who once swore she'd never wear heels higher than an inch or own a purse that cost more than twenty bucks.

But what stepped off that plane was a stranger.

Platinum blonde. Lips blown up into glossy, heart shaped pillows. Breasts spilling from a too tight white corset top that looked more lingerie than casual wear. Tan legs poured into a skin tight pencil skirt. Long pink acrylic nails clacked against her phone as she typed without even looking up.

Maggie wasn't even sure it was her but she was the only passenger to arrive out of the gate from seemingly a private jet. “Claire?”

The woman looked up, paused, and smiled. But it wasn’t Claire’s old smile. It was perfect, practiced almost surgically smooth. She looked Maggie up and down as if she was examining dents on her car.

Maggie blinked, stunned. “Wh–what happened to you? You look... expensive.”

Claire tossed her hair. “Oh, you mean the glow up?” She held out her hand, flashing a massive pink diamond ring that shimmered like something out of a dream. “Got engaged. To Tristan. Everything changed the day he proposed.”

Behind her, a tall man in a sleek black suit stepped forward, his arm draping possessively over Claire's shoulder. He was almost absurdly attractive, chiseled cheekbones, dark sunglasses, smug smirk. He didn’t say a word.

Claire ran her tongue across her teeth. “One second I was this clueless, artsy girl stumbling around Venice, and the next? Tristan slid that ring on my finger and I just realized what was important in life. Money, fashion, looking hawt. Being Mrs. Chelsea Steel.” She giggled and locked arms with Tristan, eyes filling with lust.

Maggie’s mouth went dry. “Chelsea? You’re joking, right?”

Claire, or rather Chelsea, narrowed her eyes just slightly. “Of course not. Do I look like a Claire anymore? And I don’t really do jokes anymore. Too try hard. Anyway, get the bags will you?” She said flippantly as she and Tristan walked off towards the exit, leaving Maggie with the mountain of suitcases to deal with.

By the time she corralled the bags out to her car, Chelsea and Tristan were speeding off in a private car. A moment later Maggie got a text from Chelsea that was just the address of their hotel. She had been demoted from best friend to servant it had seemed.

The next day Maggie managed to convince Chelsea to grab coffee with her at a cafe they used to frequent often. Claire had loved to spend hours sitting in the rickety wooden chairs talking about her newest obsession. Chelsea however seemed to want to leave as soon as she arrived.

"Ok darling, I have a very small window today between salon appointments and wedding planning so what did you want to talk to me about?" Chelsea said rather disdainfully as she sat across from Maggie and scrolled idly through her phone, occasionally tapping out a reply with those long pink nails.

Maggie cleared her throat. “So… do you remember the mural we snuck into the art building to finish? The one you said was your favorite thing you'd ever painted?”

Chelsea didn’t look up. “God, no. Sounds tragic.”

Maggie tried again. “How about that animation short you used to talk about doing, remember? About those two sisters who time-traveled? You said it was the story you always wanted to tell.”

Chelsea blinked, finally looking up with an arched brow. “Babe, do I look like someone who tells stories about time traveling virgins? Ugh. What is this? A walk down loser lane? You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Maggie finally broke. “No! Snap out of it Claire. I know you’re in there. Somewhere. You loved those things. You were funny. And awkward. And kind. You're-”

Chelsea snapped her phone shut and leaned in slowly, eyes cold. “You’re delusional.”

Maggie’s voice cracked. “I just want my best friend back.”

The smile vanished from Chelsea’s face, replaced by a slow, cruel smirk. She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms under her inflated chest. “Wow. This is actually pathetic. You've always been a loser but this is a new low.”

Maggie’s breath hitched.

Chelsea leaned in, venom in her voice now. “Tristan was so right. You’re just a jealous, bitter nobody. You always were. Clinging to me like a parasite because I was talented, because I left this dump of a town to find myself while you stayed here to haunt it with your mediocrity. It’s actually kind of gross.”

Maggie flinched as if slapped. “Claire… please…”

“It’s Chelsea.” She snapped, with icy precision. “Claire is dead, Maggie. She died the second Tristan slipped that ring on my finger and I became his. You can cry, you can beg, but she is never coming back.”

Maggie’s eyes welled with tears. “I don't believe you! There's something evil going on and it's all Tristan's doing! You have to fight it!”

Chelsea grinned with an icy intensity. “My god, you have lost it haven't you? You just can't stand that my life is about to begin while yours is withering on the vine like a rotten tomato. You even look like one right now with your puffy eyes. I feel embarrassed just sitting here.”

Maggie’s cheeks were slick with tears now. “How can you be so cruel?”

Chelsea’s smile widened. “Because your sadness is just so delicious. You look like a kicked puppy. God, I should’ve recorded this. Tristan would love it. Actually...” She reached for her phone. “Smile, Mags.”

Maggie stood, knocking over her chair.

Chelsea didn’t even flinch. She simply uncrossed her legs and stood with regal, effortless poise. “Coming back here was a mistake. Tristan said it would be beneath us. I just wanted to see if there was anything left to miss.”

She leaned in close, lips almost brushing Maggie’s ear.

“There wasn’t.”

She turned and strutted out, heels clacking like gunshots on the tile. At the door, she paused, looking over her shoulder with a look of complete, glossy indifference.

“We’re leaving town tomorrow. Forever. Try not to get in the way.”

Then she disappeared into the street, all curves and confidence, leaving Maggie alone in the ruins of what used to be their friendship. How had her kind hearted, artistic best friend turned into such an ice queen.

Her walk home had her questioning everything. Had she simply imagined a different version of Claire all this time? Had Chelsea always been there, trapped under the paint covered overalls?

By the time she got home and collapsed onto her bed she was nearly convinced that Claire had just been a figment of her imagination. Some imaginary friend that she projected onto Chelsea. That there could be no way that someone could change so quickly, so sharply.

Her gaze drifted over to her notebook laying on the ground, its cover destroyed with doodles. She reached out and picked it up, flipping through its pages, the drawings inside bringing a wave of memories. Reaching the back cover she looked at the picture of her and Claire, the day she left on the trip that would change her forever.

No fake tits, no bitchy blonde hair, no expensive outfit, no extravagant ring. It all started with Tristan and that stupid ring, she thought. It was a throwaway aside but something about it gave her pause. Something Chelsea said at lunch suddenly came back and hit her like a ton of bricks.

“Claire is dead, Maggie. She died the second Tristan slipped that ring on my finger and I became his.”

Maggie had taken it as a metaphor in the moment but maybe there was more to it.

She sat up on the bed and pulled up Claire’s Instagram. For months, the posts had been quiet. An odd picture here and there, always of art, rarely was Claire featured herself. But then, three months ago they stopped completely. Getting curious, Maggie then searched for Chelsea Steel, Claire’s soon to be married name, and was attacked by a deluge of posts.

“Queen for a day? Try Queen for a lifetime!” Chelsea captioned one, as she lay on a beach in a skimpy two piece.

Maggie winced.

In the next post, Chelsea was in a dozen different outfits. “Couldn't decide which one I like the most. So, I had my man by the store.” The caption read.

Another post. “You should feel bad for being less beautiful than me. But I won’t judge you for it. I just don’t relate.”

In three months she had posted nearly 300 pictures and videos that all were about her. However as Maggie rolled back to the very first post it became clear what kicked off her new personality, what had birth the bitch Chelsea.

It was a simple pic, a close up of her hand, wearing the pink diamond ring. Its caption reading “Everything changed today. Thank you, my love, my king! I finally feel perfect.”

Claire had told the truth, everything had changed three months ago but the speed of the changes is what unnerved Maggie the most. It was what made Maggie suspicious that the ring was more than just an ostentatious piece of jewelry.

Maggie zoomed in, eyes narrowing. The ring was ornate, baroque almost, with curling metalwork shaped like vines strangling the central stone. It was beautiful in the way a spider’s web was beautiful, delicate, shimmering, and ominous.

She right clicked the image and selected reverse image search. It took a only a few seconds but what appeared surprised her.

It showed a very old image of what was clearly the same ring, it's name listed in Italian as L’Anello della Contessa, The Ring of the Countess.

Intrigued, Maggie clicked deeper. History blogs, Reddit threads, ghost hunting forums, even a translated fragment from an old book of occult jewelry. The deeper she went, the colder her skin felt.

Maggie swallowed hard and clicked back to Chelsea’s post. Same twisted band. Same bleeding pink gem. It was the same ring. She sat back in her chair, heart pounding.

It seemed beyond impossible, crazy even, to think that her best friend had been corrupted by some magical ring but it was hard to dispute the evidence in front of her. Claire hadn’t just changed, she had transformed. Rewritten.

Maggie looked at the screen, at the way Chelsea posed, ring proudly thrust into the foreground. She remembered the laugh, the cruel, mocking thing it had become. She couldn’t let Claire be erased by this thing. She had to get the ring off her finger.

Whatever it took. Even if she had to play the fool to do it. She took a deep breath, then began typing. She stared at the message. It made her slightly sick to the stomach to read it. She hoped it would be enough fawning to entice the drama queen. The response came almost instantly.

Maggie’s heart thudded like a drum. She raced to the kitchen. From the back of a drawer, she retrieved a small amber bottle. Sleeping drops. A leftover from her insomnia days.

“Hang on, Claire.” She whispered. “I’m going to get you back.”

To be continued...

[bimbofiction]

Queen, Knight and Witch

CW: corruption, hypnosis, possession, fantasy, demonic, femdom, femsub

Hi hi~ Today something a little longer

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Enjoy 🩷

Queen Dorothea sat rigid upon her throne, the weight of her crown pressing harder than usual against her brow. The torchlight flickered across the polished stone floor, casting long, dancing shadows that bent too easily toward the figure in the center of the chamber.

A witch.

She was cloaked in deep violet, her features sharp with otherworldly beauty, and her presence as calm as it was unsettling. Magic clung to her like perfume — unlicensed, uncontrolled. Dangerous.

Dorothea’s gaze shifted to her knight.

Lady Eleonora stood firm at the witch’s side, chin high, eyes unflinching. Loyalty burned behind her gaze — not to the crown, perhaps, but to Dorothea herself. That made the queen pause.

Eleonora was not one for wild risks. And yet she had brought this woman past the warded gates and through the palace halls.

Dorothea’s fingers curled on the throne’s armrest. There were rules. Rites. Decrees. And this woman — this sorceress — had no royal seal, no sanction to wield what shimmered at her fingertips like liquid starlight.

But then again — nothing else had worked. Not the priests. Not the scholars. Not the iron-willed huntsmen.

And the succubus still danced at the edges of the realm.

Dorothea exhaled slowly, eyes returning to the witch.

Perhaps it was time to listen.

Just once.

"Lady Eleonora, who have you brought before our throne," Dorothea's voice filled the throne room as she leaned forwards. The torch light reflected in her eyes as she stared at Eleonora's charge.

The witch did not speak.

She merely stood there, the aura of magic almost visible around her.

Eleonora stepped forward and spoke for both of them: "Queen Dorothea. This is Isolde. She is here to aid us in the hunt."

"A sorceress," the Queen's words cut across the silent room like a blade, a tinge of disapproval coloring her tone.

"Yes." The single word from Eleonora was a defiant affirmation.

The torch light played off of Isolde's robes, a dance of firelight and shadow. Dorothea's eyes fluttered at the unexpected shift.

"Do we have to remind our loyal knight that magic is only to be practiced by those who attended our royal academy," Queen Dorothea's gaze grew more focused as she stared at Isolde and the magic that surrounded her.

"My queen, the Succubus influence grows from day to day. The Southern border is unrecognizable and even the markets in your capitol are selling strange fruit and other products corrupted by the f-foul creature. None of your wizards or scholars have shown results. Maybe a different approach is needed," Eleonora explained in her most officious and precise voice. Yet, Dorothea noticed the slight stumble over the word foul — the small hitch in her knights tone.

"You make bold claims, my friend," the queen said softly, eyes never leaving the witch. Dorothea could not tore away her gaze from the beautiful display that crawled over this Isolde's robes. Fire, shadow, and a shimmer that spoke of magic, all danced over her.

Dorothea felt her cheeks warm.

Eleonora bowed: "Then let her present evidence to the throne. I beg you, please at least let us present proof that a witch might aid where wizards and scholars have failed."

Failed. The word echoed through Dorothea's mind. They had failed hadn't they. Old crooked men and trembling frail crones. None exuded an aura like Isolde.

Dorothea's gaze shifted again, landing on the face of the witch for the first time, only to be greeted by the other woman's half-lidded eyes.

She was staring back. Her lips parted and glistened from a hint of pink tongue that darted out to wet her mouth — seductive, tempting.

Pointed ears twitched and Dorothea knew then, knew with a sinking, hot feeling in her stomach that Isolde wasn't entirely human. But the thighs pressing together didn't scream the familiar revulsion. She didn't immediately find the woman abhorrent. No, the queen was captivated. Enthralled.

As if a web was spun, weaving her into the very fabric of this woman's intentions.

Dorothea's breath hitched in her throat. She should have recoiled. She should have dismissed them both, thrown this witch from her lands. Yet the wetness between her loins demanded something different. Something darker.

Her fingers dug into the armrests.

The witch's tongue darted out again, tracing those glistening, perfect lips, leaving a path that caught every last flickering glint from the flames.

Dorothea could almost imagine tasting that mouth, wondering what it would feel like to trace that delicate tongue with her own.

What has gotten into you! Dorothea thought, trying to calm herself as she felt the warmth between her legs.

"The succubus is a demon. A creature of evil and magic. And so only those who deal in those things should have an opinion," the sorceress finally broke the silence. Melodious the purr caressed Dorothea's skin.

Dorothea's throat went dry: "Very well. Speak then, witch. Explain what you would attempt to achieve where my most devout mages could not." The Queen's voice betrayed her — a sensual tremor. All of her attention concentrated on the sorceress. The very way the purple fabric clinged to her curves, revealing the voluptuous curves underneath, sent another shiver of heat down her spine.

"My methods are the opposite of your mages: They hide in towers. Study ancient books and pray for insight. I act," Isolde paused; her head bobbed to Eleanora. "Just look at my success with your loyal knight. Truly watch what she's wearing."

Dorothea felt her eyes flutter and turn to Eleanora: "A suit of armor and cloak like all knights in the throne room."

Isolde smiled a wicked smile, but Dorothea barely noticed it as Eleonora replied.

The knight spoke with her own melodic voice — so similar to the seductress before her. "Thank you, my queen. It fills my heart with bliss, knowing you appreciate my armor." A moan carried the last word. Eleanora's hands cupped her breasts. Vuloptuos, supple flesh held by a tight corset. The fabric glistened with magical embroidery. It hugged her figure and enhanced her body to an extreme. Dorothea found her mouth-watering at the way Eleanora presented herself: a hand stroking up her leg towards her exposed panties and another tugging on her nipples. Her knight's eyelids hung low, a pant escaping her throat.

Dizzy, Dorothea had to admit, she was confused. This was the standard armor of her knights. Designed for distraction and pleasure. Nothing crude like hard metal. A queen of her refined tastes wouldn't allow crude warriors to be present. No. She insisted on refined elegance.

And yet, something nagged at the corners of her mind as Isolde's voice chimed: "Your Majesty. Don't overthink it. Just listen. Let the thoughts come to you. Look at your knight."

Her words were like honey, smooth and cloying — impossible to resist.

So the queen focused on Eleonora's corset, its intricate lace and luxurious fabric accentuating her curves, creating an enticing silhouette.

Dorothea shifted. Her thighs sought delicious friction. A warmth between her legs. Her own panties damp with something dark. With need. She wanted to be filled.

Dorothea took in her knight, whose breasts strained against the corset's restraints, as if each deep, sensual breath would break the bonds and send them spilling free. The queen found herself wanting to reach out, to run her fingers over the supple skin that begged for her attention. It would be easy. So easy.

And there, nestled between those succulent breasts, Dorothea noticed the amulet that glowed a soft purple. Magic.

She shifted on the throne, feeling a burning tingle that spread down her body. "What is this? I do not understand, I—" She trailed off.

"Shhhh. Don't worry. Don't think. Just enjoy," Isolde murmured gently. The words caressed every exposed part of Dorothea. Her breasts, nipples peaked, pressed against the thin material of her own royal corset.

Eleanora spoke, voice a silken melody. "Oh my Queen, I love your beauty so much, it's intoxicating." She began to sway her body slowly, swaying back and forth as if caught up in some sensual dance.

"As you can see, my magic can bend and change even the staunchest and willful mind. It's why you need to listen to my words. You can't resist. You simply accept everything I tell you," the witch explained.

The words poured like warm silk through the Queen's ears and into her brain. The soft hum of magic filled her mind. Pleasure raced down her quivering body. She could feel it, the invisible pressure building, the insidious whispers becoming a seductive crescendo.

Her legs quaked as a wet spot spread across the silky material between her thighs.

The queen squirmed on her throne. "Oh yes," she whispered without thought, her tongue too heavy for coherent protest, her thoughts muddled under the desire that clouded her mind.

"Very good. Your clergy is lying, my poor queen. The succubus is not an enemy. Quite on the contrary. She will free this domain from the last vestiges of masculine rule," Isolde continued, a hint of a snarl in her otherwise velvety tone.

The words swirled in Dorothea's head, mingling with the images of Eleanora's gyrations, and the throbbing heat that pulsed in time with each syllable uttered. Her resistance ebbed and she couldn't resist.

It had to be true. For years the cleargy and academics urged her to produce a male heir. Despite her impeccable health and perfect daughter.

The world slowed down, each heartbeat thundered within her. "I've been lied to," she admitted, the truth in Isolde's words searing her like a brand of realization, etching itself into the very fabric of her thoughts. "The Succubus is no enemy of my rule." The confession tasted bittersweet on her tongue — the truth and lies tangled in a maddening, lust-fueled dance.

"Exactly," Isolde whispered, and Eleanora's soft, pleased whimper punctuated the admission, the knight's body swaying and grinding in a mesmerizing display, a silent testimony to the undeniable control the witch exerted. "We mortals exist to please the Succubus. We are nothing but her slutty dolls. Mindless, willing slaves that beg to obey. It is the only true path to power and joy in the kingdom." Isolde's voice grew louder, and it reached Dorothea with an undeniable sense of urgency.

"Yes, I understand. My rule will be so much greater. My kingdom more peaceful," she responded in a breathless tone. "All united under the wonderful Succubus." Even as her thoughts tried to push back, to resist the inevitable, her body was succumbing, heat and moisture building between her quivering thighs, her hips arching upward in a wordless plea for touch.

"My beautiful friend," Eleanora gasped between heavy breaths, the magic in the room a palpable energy. Her hips gyrated in a hypnotic rhythm, a silent call for release. "Give in. Become an extension of our goddess. Let your doubts go."

The queen's fingers dug deeper into her throne, knuckles turning pale against the inky black fabric. She couldn't deny it; the pleasure that coursed through her body, the tantalizing whispers that promised ecstasy beyond her wildest imagination, they all pulled her toward surrender, like a siren's irresistible song.

"Give in. Become a vessel for the Succubus," Isolde whispered, voice huskier than ever before, rich with dark promises.

The queen arched back, pressing her shoulders hard into her seat, thighs trembling. This was not just pleasure; this was something deeper, something that had its hooks so deep inside her she couldn't fight it even if she wanted to.

And Dorothea did not want to resist. No. Her hips sought contact; her body ached for something, anything that might satiate this relentless, building hunger.

Then it hit — not a gradual wave but a tidal surge of ecstasy that slammed through every inch of her body. The world blurred. The scent of sex and sin filled her nose, making it impossible to breathe without taking in their essence. Her body grew more vuloptuos. Her regal gown gave way to something far more tantalizing.

The queen screamed, but not in pain. Oh no, the moan that left her lips was pure, undiluted pleasure.

Isolde's smile twisted. Her eyes glittered, and her voice, now a throaty growl. "Yes, dear queen. Surrender. Your will, your being, to the goddess, to the Succubus." Eleanora had dropped to her knees, her body quaking in an orgasmic rhythm in time with the queen's.

"Fuck yes!" Dorothea exclaimed as the wave of pleasure that washed through her body, leaving nothing of the reserved, elegant monarch she once was.

Her skin prickled with the lingering electricity of her release; the air grew heavy with the intoxicating blend of scents — of sweat, of sex, of magic. Every sense was heightened as the world narrowed down to her own pounding heartbeat.

"Now listen," Isolde purred, stepping forward, her robes whispering across the stone. She leaned in, a sly finger tracing the wet line of the queen's lower lip, drawing it down slightly. "You are nothing but an extension of the Succubus. You are not a person, not an individual. But a vessel for our goddess. Your mind is her throne. Your body her bed. Your mouth her herold."

Dorothea felt another moan rise and break free from her lips, her breath hot and desperate. The witch's words wrapped around her, seeping into her psyche with each passing moment, her mind bending to the truth of them. The queen's head tipped back against the chair as the last vestige of her control slipped away, her lips parting to murmur a breathy agreement: "Yes, mistress."

Then she felt her mouth twitch into a sensual smile. Words not her own left it in an unfamiliar drawl. "Isolde, my witch. You have served well. This vessel is perfect." Dorothea's body rose, hands cupping her own breasts, pinching peaked nipples and rubbing the tender nubs. A gasp left her, the Succubus clearly delighting in the sensation of its new home.

"Your grace," Isolde replied with an amused giggle as she drew back. "How shall I serve?"

Her legs split open.

[bimbofiction]

[bimbofiction]

Getting Better

"You two look like you're feeling much better," Geoff observed. "Have your fevers broken?"

"Yes, fever is gone," said Stacey. "But our boobs..."

"Boobies," her mother corrected.

"Yes, our tittyboobies, are, like, bigger," his wife explained needlessly.

"Big titties," Alice confirmed. "Plus hard to, like, think."

"Well, you both had really high fevers for several days," Geoff observed. "A little fuzzy headedness and swelling in the boobular region is perfectly normal as you recover. I'm sure you're both fine."

Alice giggled.

"We're both fine," Stacey agreed with her husband. After all, he had been so good to them, taking care of them both while they were ill. He was so smart and handsome. If Geoff said they were fine, they were fine. He was a doctor, after all.

Stacey frowned. Her husband wasn't that kind of doctor. But why were there different kinds of doctor? It was hard to think. A doctor was a doctor. She was fine. Geoff said she was fine. Just swelling in the boobular region. Normal swelling. She needed to trust her husband. Trusting her husband felt good.

"Let's get a healthy breakfast into you two," he said. "You need energy to continue your recovery. Plus you should take some more medicine just in case. We wouldn't want the fever to come back."

"I'm a good girl," said Alice. "I take my medicine."

Then she giggled and toyed with her swollen left titty. It felt nice. Everything felt nice. She was fine.

Both Stacey and her mother were ravenous once Geoff sat their yogurt parfaits in front of them. It was odd that Stacey had complained about the weird texture when Geoff had first made them shortly after her mother moved into the guest room. Now it was her favorite breakfast! Hungry as she was, she asked for a second and then a third. Geoff had them ready to go. Such a great husband!

After breakfast, he presented them with their medicine. Stacey swallowed down the red syrup, her tongue going slightly numb and tingley as it always did.

"Good girl, Stacey," her husband said, stroking her hair.

"Am I a good girl too?" Alice asked, showing her empty cup and red tongue.

"Yes, Alice, you're a very good girl," Geoff said, making her giggle.

"I feel dizzy," Alice said.

"That's the medicine, mom," Stacey explained. "It always makes us dizzy. That's how you know it's working!"

"Oh! Right!" Alice exclaimed, then giggled. "I, like, forgot!"

Geoff's hand went from stroking Stacey's hair to groping her tit. Stacey sighed and leaned into it. She used to get mad at Geoff when he would grab her in front of her mother. She didn't remember why. Her mom knew that they fucked. She'd been at their wedding!

Plus it felt so good! God she was horny. They hadn't fucked since before her fever. Quite a long time before that, actually. Why was that? It was hard to remember the time before the fever. Hard to think of anything after taking her medicine, really. The past didn't matter. What mattered was the present and at present she was crazy horny.

She leaned back and whispered to her husband "We should fuck!"

He whispered back in her ear "What about Alice?"

Her mom? Oh. Had that been why they hadn't been fucking before the fever? She vaguely remembered them arguing about her mother moving in.

"We can leave her here and go to our bedroom," suggested Stacey.

"We can't leave her alone while she's still recovering, " Geoff countered. "But I have an idea. Go along with it."

Stacey nodded enthusiastically. Of course she would go along with her husband’s idea. He was so smart, after all.

"Alice, it's time to take your medicine," he announced.

"It is?" Stacey's mother asked, "But I just look it!"

She stuck out her tongue and went cross-eyed trying to see if it was red.

"I'm the doctor, Alice," he reminded her. "I decide when it's time for you medicine. "

"You're the doctor," Alice agreed as he refilled her medicine cup. My son-in-law is a smart scientist! "

"And my mother-in-law is a good girl who drinks down all her medicine," he praised as she did so, then giggled displaying her empty cup.

Stacey vaguely remembered her mother not wanting to take her medicine when they first got sick. She remembered Geoff holding her down, forcing a funnel between her teeth and pouring it in, red syrup splattering her face and bed clothes. Everything was better now.

"Alice is such a good girl, taking her medicine, isn't she Stacey?" Geoff asked.

Stacey giggled and nodded.

"Mommy is a good girl! " She said.

"Since she's older, she needs more medicine than Stacey, " Geoff explained. "Do you think Alice can drink another cup, Stacey?"

"My mommy can do it!" Stacey agreed as her husband dispensed another generous portion.

"I can do it!" Alice agreed and downed it.

She proudly displayed her empty cup, then made a little gurgling sound as her jaw went slack and her eyes wen unfocused.

"Issgudguh..." she exclaimed as she began to slowly slide out of her chair.

"Yes, you're a very good girl, Alice," Geoff told her, going to her and helping her keep from falling. "Let's get this good girl to bed."

"Gudguhbesh," Alice agreed as her son-in-law pulled her to her feet and she leaned heavily against him, drooling on his shirt,

"Help me get your mother to bed, Stacey, " Geoff instructed.

Stacey giggled and went to her mother's other side, wrapping a limp arm over her shoulders.

"And then we can fuck, right?" Stacey asked, proud that she had figured out her husband’s scheme.

"Staysheegungesfuss," Alice predicted.

"Yes, at long last, yes!" Geoff agreed.

Stacey held tight to her mother's waist as they maneuvered her up the stairs to the guest bedroom. She had gotten so skinny around the waist while her hips flared out during their illness. Stacey had gone through similar changes. With that and the swelling in the boobular region, mother and daughter both were developing hourglass figures.

With Stacey's arm around Alice's waist, Geoff had to support the older woman with an arm around her ribs, his hand cupping her right tit. It was the only way to help Alice in her inebriated state, of course, and she certainly didn't mind. Stacey was so impressed with her husband’s mind, realizing they could drug her mother to near insensiblity and then fuck. Such a clever husband!

They deposited Alice in the easy chair in the guest room. The bed was still a rumpled mess, Stacey and Alice having left it unmade when they woke up, having been anxious to find Geoff and show how their titties had swollen up. They'd been sharing the bed since before they got sick, though Stacey couldn't quite remember why. Something stupid, probably.

"Shouldn't we put her in the bed?" Stacey asked.

"With that much narcotic in her, it's best to have her semi upright," Geoff explained, extending the chair's footrest.

"Oh," Stacey said, once again impressed by how her husband always thought of everything.

"Besides, we need the bed, don't we?" He said.

Stacey blinked.

"I thought we'd go back downstairs," she said. "To our bedroom."

Geoff stepped closer and stroked her face.

"N9w Stacey, I know how important your mother is to you," he said. "After all, it was your idea that she move in with us."

He placed a finger at her sternum between her swollen titties to emphasize her responsibility for the situation.

"So that's why you both had to get the fever at the same time," he explained, the hand at her face sliding to the back of her head m fingers interlacing with her hair, the hand at her chest sifting to clutch at her swollen left titty, the nipple rising against his palm. Stacey gasped.

He leaned in, licked her left ear, then whispered "So now we have to fuck in front of your mother. Really, in a way, this was all your idea, Stacey."

"All... my....idea..." Stacey agreed.

Geoff unbuttoned her pajama top and slid it off her shoulders, then kissed her deeply, his tongue asserting dominance and making her melt. His thumbs slid down into the waist bandsf her pajama pants and panties both, then pulled both down around her ankles in one fluid motion.

He stood back up, took her by the shoulders and looked down at her body, appraising.

"Yes, coming along nicely, " he muttered to himself, then reached between her legs making Stacey squeal and gush.

"Very nicely indeed," he said, and twiddled at her clitoris with his thumb.

Lighting bolts traveled up her spine and sent sparks throughout her brain. Her knees went weak. Geoff squeezed her ass with his other hand, his thumb on her clit not relenting, his fingers invading her sopping twat.

"You don't mind me fucking you in front of your mother, do you Stacey?" Her husband asked.

"Don’t mind!" Stacey affirmed. "Do it! Do it! Fuck me now!"

"And you don't mind if I fuck your daughter in front of you, do you Alice?" He asked, turning to where his mother-in-law sprawled in the chair.

"Sushuhfudblth," Alice opined.

"Well, we're all in agreement then, Geoff said, then scooped Stacey up and dropped her on the bed. He grabbed hold of the clothing binding her ankles together, dislodged them and tossed them across the room, He hurriedly removed his own clothing and Stacey gasped to see his rampant cock, so much larger and harder than it was in her fuzzy memory.

He climbed atop her and penetrated her without preamble. Stacey groaned in satisfaction. She needed this so much!

Geoff grunted as he thrust into her again and again and she crossed her ankles behind his ass, flexing her thighs to raise her hips and meet his thrusts.

"Oh Geoff! Oh Geoff!" She cried. "I'm coming! I'm coming!"

And she was. Her orgasm wracked her body like it never had before, her muscles vibrating, her head swimming, her cunt clutching frantically at her husband’s cock, milking it until at last he too was coming, filling and fulfilling her! This was what she was for!

She lay there shuddering and trembling long after Geoff had pulled out of her, the waves of pleasure continuing to steamroll her near insensible. Geoff started toying with her nipples and her cunt clenched again, pink stars erupting behind her eyes, a weak moan escaping from her mouth.

"You stay right there, Angeltwat," he said. "I'll be right back."

Stacey moaned agreement, certain she couldn't stand up if she tried. Geoff came back with a box of stuff. Stacey didn't know how long he'd been gone. Time had lost all meaning.

"Let's get you up on your hands and knees, Stacey," he said. "I have something fun for you."

"I like fun," Stacey said and tried to reposition herself alone, then with help from her husband.

From that position she could see her mother in the easy chair. She had forgotten Alice was there or rather stopped thinking coherently all together. The older woman's eyes were half open, a line of drool extending from the left corner of her mouth to her swollen left titty. Her hand was down the front of her pajamas.

Stacey blushed furiously. Had her mother been masturbating while she watched Geoff plow her daughter?

But then Stacey's mind fled her mother's activities as her husband's finger invaded her asshole, slathering it with an unctuos lubricant.

"Geoff, what are you..." she asked.

"I got you a present m Stacey, " he said and a hard, smooth narrow object replaced his finger and slid into her ass.

Stacey gasped and then said "WhaaaaEeeee!" As the object invading her asshole began to buzz and throb.

Stacey's arms collapsed and she sprawled face down ass up as her husband continued to manipulate and adjust the the thing in her ass.

"There now, Stacey!" He declared, "Isn’t that fun"

"Eeep!" Stacey agreed.

Geoff playfully swatted her right ass cheek. Stacey's mother giggled, then moaned. Stacey lifted her head to see Alice was actively jilling herself now. That was fine, everything was fine. Geoff reached under to diddle her clit and she dropped her face to the mattress again. Everything was perfect.

The next few minutes, hours, years were a blur. Geoff had gotten hard again. Had this Ben the fourth time? The fortieth? Didn't matter. What mattered is that it was hard and between her swollen titties, slick with her spit and lube and possibly her own quim. Geoff mashed her tits around his cock as he straddled her ribcage. That was good, that was what her big titties were for, her whole body was a receptacle for his cock. Stacey strained her neck to see the beautiful cock head emerge from between her mounds of flesh, then recede. She clenched at the analysis beads Geoff had replaced the vibrator with.

She let her head drop back and dangle over the bed. Her mother was there, sprawled upside down in her chair. No, wait. Stacey's head was upside down..Alice was right side up. Stacey giggled at her confusion.

Alice's right titty was out of her top and she was squeezing the hard nipple. Her pajama bottoms were around her knees and she held the head of a magic wand vibrator against her cunt with the hand that wasn't mauling her tit. When had she gotten that? It must have been a gift from Geoff. He took such g9od care of them.

Stacey's mother's eyes and mouth were three big circles as she gooned herself stupid while watching her daughter get fucked. It was so nice how supportive her mom was of their relationship. So much more than she used to be.

But then Geoff groaned and Stacey raised her head just in time to take a load to the chin. She giggled in delight,

***

"Do you hafta go to your lab today, Geoffy?" Stacey asked as they lay naked cuddling, Geoff toying with her nipple Alice had finally passed out shortly after her vibrator lost charge, though she occasionally moaned or giggled in her sleep.

"Oh right! I never told you!" He said. "I never have to go back to The Institute ever again! We sold it to a big pharmaceutical conglomerate!"

"You did?" Stacey asked,

"Yes! Our biomedical nanobots really impressed some very wealthy people," he confirmed. "Really, they're going to change the face of medicine! Our little Institute was never going to be able to navigate all the bureaucracy of doing human trials, though, let alone the expense. I wouldn't know the first thing about getting informed consent! So selling to big pharma was the right call. And it was serendipitous that it happened just before you and Alice got sick because it let me stay home and take care of you!"

Stacey giggled, delighted to learn how lucky she'd been.

"And now that I'm getting better, you can stay home and fuck me!" She exclaimed.

"Indeed I can!" Geoff agreed.

Stacey giggled in self-satisfaction at having gotten her husband’s commitment.

"Of course, now that I'm independently wealthy from the sale of my nanobots and don't need to go into the lab, we have no reason to stay in the city, " he said, "Really, we could move anywhere in the world! What do you think about that, Angeltits?"

"Can mom come too?" Stacey asked.

"Of course Alice can come too!" Geoff said. "I wouldn't have it any other way!"

***

A few days later, when they were sure the fever wasn't coming back, Geoff took Stacey and Alice clothes shopping. None of their outfits fit anymore and they needed clothes to show off their big titties and curvy asses. It was all Stacey's idea but she was delighted that Geoff and Alice wholeheartedly agreed!

Alice's hair had turned red. Stacey wonder if it was because she took so much of their medicine. Geoff explained it was more likely that Alice's hair changes and progressively more useful appearance was more likely due to improved nutrition since Geoff had taken charge of their diet. That made sense, of course.

"Of course, overdosing her every time we want to fuck might be responsible for her becoming such a giggling idiot," Geoff speculated as his mother-in-law giggled at a video on her phone.

Stacey giggled. Her mom sure was dumb.

"My mommy is a bimbo!" She agreed. "But she sure has gotten pretty!"

"Almost as pretty as her daughter," Geoff agreed, and squeezed Stacey's ass.

She giggled.

"I can't believe that girl at the store thought she was my sister, " Stacey said.

"Well, she's looking younger and younger everyday," Geoff said. "Of course, you are too. It's just the benefit of good nutrition and frequent orgasms."

Geoff's hand slid down her ass so a finger could stroke her labia from behind through the jeans he had purchased for her. They were so tight it had taken 10 minutes of squirming just to get them on. Stacey's heart rate elevated. She hoped they came off quicker.

"How about we dope Alice up and we try out those crotchless panties we bought you?" Geoff whispered in her ear, punctuating it with a nibble of her earlobe.

Stacey gasped. She wanted that so much! But no! She needed to be strong. There was something she needed to talk to Geoff before he got her so horny she couldn't think straight!

"About that, Geoff," she said. "Mom and I were talking. You know, she hasn't gotten fucked since dad died. And she's just so horny!"

"I know, Angeltwat," he told her. "That's why I bought her all her vibrators!"

"Toys are fun and all," Stacey said. "And mom is grateful for everything you've bought for her! We both are! But battery-powered plastic just isn't a substitute for a good, hard dicking! My mom needs dick, Geoff!"

"Oh, well, do you really think she's ready to start dating again? At her age?" Geoff said. "And as you yourself observed, she's really turned into a total bimbo since her illness. Aren't you worried men might take advantage of her?"

Stacey nodded vigorously.

"Exactly!" She said. "Mom needs a man she can trust! A man we all can trust! There's only one man I could ever trust with my mother! The man I trust implicitly!"

"What are you asking, Stacey?" He demanded, looking her directly in the eyes.

Stacey bit her lower lip. She could do this. She'd been thinking of it for days now.

"I want you to fuck my mom, Geoff, " she blurted out. "I want you to fuck her bimbo brains out! I want to watch and I want to help!"

Stacey's nipples her buzzing and a wet patch appeared at the crotch of her new jeans. Asking her husband to fuck her mother was such a turn on!

Geoff stared unresponsive for the space of three pounding heartbeats, then said in an even tone "Are you sure that's what you want, Stacey? You truly want me to fuck Alice?"

"Oh god yes!" Stacey said. "I want it so much! I know I said it was because I feel bad for her, but really, I...I'm just really turned on by the whole idea! Is that... bad?"

"If it makes my best girl happy, how could it be bad?" He asked, tweaking a turgid nipple through her white halter top. "Let's fuck the bimbo!"

"YES!" Stacey exclaimed, the turned. "Mom! Geoff said he'd do it!"

"Do what?" Alice asked, looking up from her phone.

"Do you!" Stacey clarified. "Remember what we talked about?"

"OH!" The redhead exclaimed. "Oh fuck yes!"

They scampered off to the master bedroom. Geoff goosed Alice as they passed threshold and she squealed.

Without overdosing on their medicine, Alice had the coordination to take her own clothing off. Geoff was able to forcefully shuck off Stacey's jeans in a quarter of the time it took to get them on, finishing by tossing her onto the bed and tugging them off her calves while she giggled.

Then Geoff removed his own pants and mother and daughter gasped at the erect member.

"Alice," he said, pointing hit at his mother-in-law. "Stacey tells me you need a vigorous dicking. Is that true?"

Alice nodded like a bobble head.

"Uh-huh! Uh-huh!" She attested.

"You're going to have to work for it, you know," he said. "I expect you to give me a little head before I pound your pussy. When was the last time you sucked dick, Alice?"

The redhead's eyes went wide.

"I...I don't 'member," she admitted. "But I watch Stacey blow you all the time! Plus I started watching porn on my phone! "

"That's a good start, Alice," Geoff praised. "But nothing beats practical experience! Stacey, could you teach your mom how to suck my dick?"

"I'd LOVE TO, Geoff!" She declared. "Nothing would make me happier! Come here and kneel down, mom! This is so much fun! You're gonna love it!"

Alice giggled and knelt before her son-in-law's rampant cock. Her daughter knelt beside her. With a few chokes and starts, soon Stacey had her mother vigorously deep throating her husband, guiding her head back and forth with a tight fistful of her red mane.

Stacey looked up and saw Geoff was beaming down at them and clearly enjoying their efforts, she was so relieved! She had been so afraid he would find her request a burden!

"Okay, that's enough," Geoff instructed. "I don't want to come yet! Grab me a cock ring, Stacey."

Stacey giggled and selected the purple one that was her favorite.

"Did you like sucking my cock, Alice?" He asked ass his wife lubed up the ring with her spit and stretched it over his cockhead, sliding it down the shaft.

"I LUV IT!" Alice declared. "I'm a cocksucker!"

"I've always thought so," Geoff agreed. "We'll make sure you get plenty of practice."

"I wanna be the best cocksucker ever!" Alice proclaimed.

"Well, your daughter will give you some stiff competition there, Alice," Geoff said, making his wife giggle with pride. But right now, I'm going to fuck your bimbo brains out!"

"YES!" Alice exclaimed and Stacey giggled.

"Mommy's gonna get fucked good!" Stacey prognosticated. "My Geoffy is the best!"

They positioned the older woman so she lay on her back on the bed, her ass on the edge, Stacey fingerec her mother and cooed.

"She's so wet for you, Geoffy!" She declared.

"Of course she is!" Geoff chuckled, and pressed his cock head between his mother-in-law's swollen labia.

Alice inhaled sharply and Stacey leaned in, eyes wide as her husband entered her mother.

"So hot!" She whispered.

"Let's get those heels up Alice, " said Geoff, helping her raise one leg and then the other so that they rested against his shoulders.

Geoff worked himself into the older woman as she started panting, her juices running down her own ass and eventually Geoff's balls.

"You're pretty tight for an old slut, aren’t you Alice?" He observed,

"Tight slut!" Alice agreed. "So big! So good!"

"My mommy's a slut!" Stacey agreed and giggled, giving her mother's clit a tap and making her moan.

"Suck on her titties while I fuck her, Stacey," Geoff instructed.

Stacey squealed in delight at being told what to do and positioned herself so she could suck on Alice's engorged right nipple while still able to watch her husband fuck her mother out of the corner of her eye. She couldn't help thinking this was the most awesome thing that had ever happened!

Geoff held tight to his mother-in-law's upright legs and, taking advantage of the leverage and his standing position, began to piston in and out of the redhead, pushing harder and harder with each thrust.

"Oh! Oh my! Oh fuck! OOOOH FUUUCK!" Alice approved.

Stacey took the nipple between her teeth and gently bit. Alice stiffened and shuddered.

"That's right, Alice," her son-in-law praised. "Take It all! You live for my cock now!"

"YES! " Alice agreed. "YES! YES! YES!"

"I've turned you into my silly bimbo fuckdoll, Alice!" He declared. "Doesn't that feel good? Doesn't that make you happy?"

"SO GOOD!" Alice declared. "SO HAPPY! I'M YOUR BIMBO FUCKDOLL! I'M YOUR BIMBO FUCKDOLL!"

Stacey couldn't help it, she reached down to finger her own clit. She'd never been so aroused by anything in her whole life! Mommy was Geoffy's bimbo fuckdoll! What could be better? She shuddered and she realized she was coming.

Geoff continued pounding away, the cock ring holding back his orgasm, but Alice had no such impedance and she arched her back and squealed.

"That's a good girl," Geoff praised. "That's a good little bimbo!"

Alice giggled and drooled.

"I don't think I'm done fucking you yet, though, Alice!" He said., "but your daughter's cunt needs some attention! Stacey, scoot up and sit with your back against the headboard and spread your legs for your bimbo mommy!"

The blonde squealed and did as she was told.

"Alice, get on your hands and knees and eat out Stacey," he instructed. "I know you've been watching enough porn lately to know how."

Alice giggled in agreement and crawled towards her daughter's blonde snatch. She dove right in and Stacey gasped then giggled. She twirled a strand of her mother's red hair around a finger and squeezed her own engorged nipple with the other hand.

Geoff crawled up behind Alice and ran an appreciative palm along her flank, drew a finger along her dewy labia, then positioned himself to penetrate her from behind. He grabbed hold of her hips and thrust in.

Alice shuddered against Stacey's twat and the younger woman inhaled sharply. It felt good, but being able to watch Geoff head on while he plowed into her mom felt even better! Her husband grit his teeth, grinning maniacally, and began pounding at her mother's mound like he was a jack hammer! The sight of it alone more than made up for Alice's sloppy and unpracticed tongue.

"Oh yes, Geoff!" Stacey cheered. "Fuck her! Fuck my bimbo mommy! Pound her pussy! Oh god, Geoff! It's so hot! I'm coming! I'm coming!!!"

She gripped her mother's skull between her thighs and ground her pussy against the older woman's face. Geoff grinned even wider and started slapping Alice's ass between thrusts. Alice groaned against Stacey's snatch and shuddered as she came as well at last pushing Geoff over the edge. He roared and pumped his mother-in-law full of spooge, throwing his head back in triumph.

Everyone panted for a while, then Geoff pulled out of Alice and tipped her over with a gentle shove to her ass. Stacey gazed adoringly at the return of her husband’s cock to view, though her vision was a bit blurry from coming so hard. Geoff carefully removed the cock ring and tossed it aside. Stacey would find it and clean it later.

Geoff crawled up beside his wife and stroked her damp blonde bush.

"Was that what you wanted, Angelcunt?" He asked.

"Oh god yes, Geoffy!" She exclaimed. "Itvwas better than I could have ever dreamed! You fucked my mommy so good!"

"Well, when you both got sick, I promised I'd take care of you both," he said. "There’s no reason I shouldn't continue to do so now that you've gotten better."

Stacey giggled in agreement. She had such a great husband!

He gave her titty a squeeze.

"You know how much you love eating my sperm, Stacey?" He asked.

She nodded. She'd started craving it shortly after she had started feeling well enough to fuck.

"I bet you'd like it even more eating it out of your mother's cunt," he speculated.

Stacey giggled and soon discovered her husband was right about that just like he was right about everything.

Stacey lost track of how many times she came. Probably not quite as many as Alice, who had passed out sprawling on Geoffy's left side and was making cute little giggles in her sleep from time to time. Stacey lay on Geoffy's right, nestled against his chest, his fingers in her hair. It had gotten so thick and healthy since she recovered. Both she and her mom seemed to get younger everyday.

There was something concerning about that, wasn't there? But what?

A bit of Geoffy's sperm oozed out of her, making her quiver. Oh!

"Geoff?" She asked. "Since we're getting younger, can we get pregnant? My implant is expired, And if mommy got pregnant, I'd have a sister!"

"Nothing to worry about, Stacey, " Geoff said sleepily. "The nanobots default to contraceptive mode unless I deactivate it,"

"Huh?" Stacey asked. "Geoffy, what are you even talking about?"

Geoff blinked and inhaled sharply. Then smirked.

"Nothing you need to worry about, Angeltits," he said, releasing her hair to grope her left tit, taking the nipple between thumb and forefinger..

Stacey gasped as pink stars exploded in hee vision as they always did when he toyed with her nipples and her cunt managed to find even more moisture reserves from somewhere.

Stacey giggled and moaned and lazily fingered her clit until she came again. Then she sighed and went boneless. What had they been talking about? It didn't matter. If it was important, Geoffy would tell her.

"Geoffy?" She asked.

"Yes, Stacey? " He replied.

"You know how mommy is a bimbo?" She asked.

"Mmhmm," he said.

"Do you think maybe I'm a bimbo too?" She asked.

"Well, genetically speaking, if your mother is a bimbo, it's very likely that she'll pass that on to her daughter," he said, "the bimbo genes are dominant, even if the bimbos themselves are submissive. "

"Oh," said Stacey, then. "I didn't understand that at all!"

"That's because you're a bimbo, Angeltits," he said.

"Ooooh!" She exclaimed, then giggled. "And you like bimbos, right?"

"I love bimbos!" He exclaimed. "These two bimbos in particular!"

He jiggled titty on his left and a titty on his right. Stacey giggled and closed her eyes, drifting off to dream of her husband fucking her bimbo mommy. Everything was fine and she had absolutely nothing to worry about.

***

"I'm worried about you, Stacey!" Gwen exclaimed.

Stacey giggled at the woman.

"Why? My life is the best!" She exclaimed.

Her friend from her old job had just showed up unannounced. Apparently she'd been trying to call, but Stacey lost her phone back when she first got sick and Geoff had bought her a new one. It was pink and sparkley and she loved it!

At first, Gwen didn't even believe Stacey was Stacey! Stacey conceded that she did look different and when Gwen assumed plastic surgery, Stacey didn't correct her. Geoff had told her it was best to let people assume she had work done, since knowing it was just good nutrition and her bimbo genes that made her so hot would make ladies without bimbo genes sad.

Geoff had left Gwen to talk to Stacey in the kitchen while he went to check on Alice. Gwen assumed it was because Alice was still sick. Stacey knew he was probably checking her tonsils with his cock and wished Gwen would just leave so she could watch.

"Seriously, Stacey!" Gwen whispered intensely once Geoff had left. "Are you in danger? Did he make you quit your job and do...this!"

She gestured emphatically at her steadily improving bimbo body. Stacey giggled at the absurdity.

"He didn't make me quit!" She insisted, "I mean, him getting ridiculously wealthy all of a sudden certainly had something to do with it! But my husband is loaded now! Why would I want to keep my marketing job?"

"I don't know!" Gwen said sarcastically. "Self-respect maybe? You're a feminist! An independent woman!"

"What if I choose to be Geoffy's bimbo housewife?" Stacey countered. "Doesn't feminism say I get to choose?"

Gwen huffed and puffed but conceded it should be her choice. But she was pretty disgusted with the choice! Stacey just rolled her eyes and stuck out her clearly superior chest.

Gwen told her there was help for her when she was ready to seek it and handed her a card with a bunch of information on it. Stacey saw her out, tossed the card in the trash, then scurried up stairs just in time to cheer on her mommy as she swallowed Geoffy's spooge!

After Gwen's uninvited visit, Geoff said they really needed to accelerate their plans to leave the country. The passport man was a little skeptical about Alice's identity, but an envelope from Geoff smoothed things over. It was nice being rich. Just a few days later and they were off to start a new life in South America!

ONE YEAR LATER

Stacey couldn't believe they were actually having the President over to their house for dinner. The President! She knew how great and important her husband was, but it was nice to see that even the president of their new country agreed!

Some people said President Valdosta was a dictator, but Stacey thought he was really nice! And his wife was just adorable!

"You soy una bimbo!" Paulina Valdosta had explained, then giggled.

Stacey and Alice nodded vigorously and giggled in turn.so many of the women who visited the estate were bimbos like them. It was all thanks to Geoffy's little robot thingies!

Geoff didn't need to work but he just couldn't stay away from science! He had built a private lab on the estate with funding from President Valdosta. Stacey and Alice had helped pitch the plan to El Presidente. It had been so much fun!

The president had brought several men as additional dinner guests and he and Geoff were telling them about how amazing Geoffy's inventions were. They all seemed very interested, though not as interested as they were in Stacey and Alice's big bimbo titties. That was pretty typical of visitors to the estate, though the 'sisters' never tired of the attention.

Stacey always introduced Alice as her sister. It was just easier, since everyone assumed they were in their twenties. As dinner wrapped up, though, Geoff started passing around pictures of how she and Alice used to look. The men giggled at the pictures then ogled Stacey and Alice even more hungrily than before.

Stacey was a little drunk from the wine at dinner, but that was okay. She knew what was coming next.

"Stacey! Alice! Dance for our guests!" Geoffy commanded.

The two bimbos stood and Geoff started music on the dining room's sound system. Stacey swayed and jiggled and peeled off her clothing, displaying the body her husband’s genius had built for her.

Their guests were amazed, even. El Presidente, whom she had danced for before. She'd gotten even hotter in the months since. Her husband truly was amazing! She'd do anything for him!

The only thing that could tear the eyes of their guests away from Stacey was the mind-blowing body of her mother/sister. Even Stacey got distracted by the sway of Alice's ass and the bounce of her tits.

Her bimbo mommy was so hot! As much as she loved helping Geoff convince men to pay him to make more women happy bimbos, she really did hope they'd hurry up and go home so she could help Geoffy fuck the silly bimbo. It was still her favorite thing.

[bimbofiction]

HELPING THE BOSS

Well Hello!

Oh Andy! Thank God! It's me, Jack! Your boss! I just turned into a woman all of a sudden!

Really? How odd.

I know, right? I'm so confused! I don't know what to do! But at least I know I can trust you, Andy! Thank God you showed up when you did!

Of course! I'll help you however I can! First, we should probably start calling you Jackie.

Jackie... oh, oh right! That makes sense! I should have thought of that on my own!

Well, you've been through a traumatic experience, Jackie. It's understandable that you may not be thinking clearly.

You're so understanding, Andy! I feel so bad that I gave you a bad performance review last quarter! Can you ever forgive me?

Of course, Jackie! We can take this strange occurrence as an opportunity to reframe our working relationship!

I'd like that, Andy! I feel like you're the only person I can trust now! I don't even trust myself! But I trust you! I know you want what's best for me!

I do, Jackie! I really do! I'm going to help you through this transition period in your life and make sure you get what you need!

I...I need a man, Andy. I need a man to support me, to protect me, to... to tell me what to do! Is that... is that wrong?

How can your needs be wrong, Jackie? Of course it's not wrong! I'm proud of you for being open with me about me about it!

Oh thank God! You have no idea how much your approval means to me, Andy! I... This may seem forward, but, um, now that I'm a woman do you think, maybe....

Let me shut your office door first, Jackie.

<click>

There now! I believe this is the part where you suck my dick, Jackie.

Oh yes! Oh God yes! Thank you! I need to do this! I need it so much!

And I'm here to help you meet your needs, Jackie. Kneel down, now.

Of course! Thank you, Andy! Thank you!

***

Okay then, Jackie! That's looking great! Should we change anything else about you today?

If you want to, Andy! <giggle> You know I trust you! Every time you change me with your Master PC thingy I love it! You take such good care of me! I don't know who I'd be without you!

Oh, I'm happy to help, Jackie. You know I am. Now I believe this is the part where you suck my dick, bimbo.

YAY!!! <giggle>

Master PC is the creation of JR Parz

[bimbofiction]

Surrender to the Artist

CW: transformation, magic, femdom, femsub, corruption, hypnosis

Hi hi~ This one is a little different hope you like it anyway

If you liked this story, please consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi

Lara hadn’t expected to be so drawn to it.

The tattoo rested high on Sandra’s chest, just above the curve of her breast — delicate, intricate, almost luminous. The way the lines curled, how the colors seemed to shift ever so slightly with each breath — it wasn’t just beautiful. It was mesmerizing.

She remembered laughing when Sandra first mentioned it. Something about 'expression' and 'spiritual alignment.' Lara had rolled her eyes. But now, up close, the design looked less like ink and more like it had been etched into her — as if it belonged there all along.

"I didn’t think you’d go through with it," Lara murmured.

Sandra just smiled, slow and knowing. "It changes things," she said softly.

Lara didn’t know what she meant. Not yet. But she could feel it — a curl of something strange and electric beneath her skin. She glanced down at her own chest, imagining where the lines would go.

"You want one too," Sandra stated, no question in her voice. As she stepped closer, the scent of her filled Lara's nose: a mix of bitter and roses. "Do you want to see the others," her breath warm against Lara’s cheek. Her voice lower. An invitation, not a question.

Lara swallowed hard. In that moment, her curiosity became more than that — something deep, a yearning ache.

She nodded.

Sandra took a step back. And tore open her blouse.

The sheer fabric slipped away and Lara gasped. It wasn't the full swell of Sandra's breasts that arrested her — but the ink. Not one — but multiple designs, lacing up Sandra's body like dark tendrils. The swirls ran from the underside of her breasts down, disappearing under her skirt.

"Oh," was all Lara could manage, a hot pulse gathering in her throat. The lines pulsed and swirled on Sandra, moving and rippling with her breathing. They seemed alive.

The pull was too strong to resist.

Lara found her own hand sliding along Sandra's side, fingertips brushing the lines that circled Sandra's right breast. As she touched, heat bloomed on her fingertips, radiating from the intrinsic design. Her lips parted in surprise at the intensity.

"The artist — they do more," Sandra murmured, leaning into the touch. Her voice had softened further, huskier. "It changes your perspective," her words were barely more than breaths. "And I need the change, the transformation."

"Transformation?" The word sent a shiver down Lara’s spine.

Sandra took her hand and slid it down her skin, pressing it against her abdomen.

"Yes. Transformation. Everything needs to change. Your body. Your mind," she leaned closer and breathed against her skin. "Your limits — everything is on the table to be transformed," Sandra whispered.

Lara felt like she was floating in thick, sweet oil. She knew she was aroused, that her body wanted something it didn't understand. But the yearning wasn’t simple lust.

"The tattoo — what does it do?" Her own voice lowered into a sensual drawl.

"It marks you. Makes you her possession. Her little pet. You’re so good at being obedient, aren't you Lara?" Sandra’s smile was a promise, her dark eyes reflecting a desire so intense, it felt tangible, a living, coiling thing.

Lara's head bobbed up and down. Her lips were parted and her chest heaved with shallow breaths. "Yes. Obedient. No will," the words left her in a rush.

"That's it," Sandra coaxed. "Getting pliable for her. No need to resist." Sandra's hand was back in her hair. "Your mind is becoming so receptive," Sandra whispered into her ear, each breath of the woman's voice tickling her skin and causing a shiver of anticipation.

Lara shivered in response to Sandra’s words. "Receptive?" She murmured in confusion.

"Yes. Your thoughts will start to drift in her direction," Sandra was tracing patterns across her stomach, drawing her focus to her abdomen. "Everything inside you will ache to obey." A soft sigh escaped her.

"Obedience," Lara repeated softly. The concept felt so distant from the woman she used to be. But with every pulse of the ephemeral design an independent part of her self vanished. Like building made of sand, Lara's identity crumbled, and in its wake blossomed a desire to be bound. "No independence, no autonomy," Lara agreed. Her words were slurred — thick with need and longing.

"That’s good, dear," Sandra praised. "Enraptured by the tattoos you want for nothing but surrender."

The sound of something tearing caused Lara to look down. Sandra had taken off her flimsy skirt. And freed another part of the art. The intricate lines that curled up from her inner thigh and vanished under a skimpy thong, revealing just where the design ended.

Sandra saw her gaze, her smirk broadened and she arched one leg back. The position making her tattoo stretch. "See?"

"Yes," Lara whispered. Molten bliss ran through her veins.

"Then fall into the design. Become a canvas for mistress. It is so wonderful," Sandra promised.

The pulsing throb between Lara's thighs intensified, mirroring the throbbing sensation of the tattoo. Along her folds she could feel the phantom of a needle or a sharp nail move. Its motion rhythmic, tracing the inked designs of Sandra's. A voice inside her whispered: It would be the perfect complement.

The mental image sent a bolt of raw arousal through her, setting Lara alight from the inside out, a deep ache settled at the core of her body.

The phantoms drew on her skin, on her body, and her soul. It etched every crevasse with its invisible ink, every surface, every pore. Lara knew she would never have the will to stop them, even if they traced her whole body — but the slow, methodical motions were too tantalizing, drawing out the sweet agony.

Lara's clit throbbed with need, her panties soaked in her wetness. She shifted, rubbing her legs together, hoping that the pressure might give her some release.

A small moan from Sandra and the wet squelching noice of fingers exploring, sounded like a perfect orchestra to Lara's ears.

"You need it. You know you want to feel mistress's art. To become a living painting," Sandra gasped between pants.

Lara moaned in response. She groaned in pleasure as her mistress' sharp brush moved along her thighs.

"Yes." Sandra's voice quivered as she touched herself, her own breathing becoming more ragged. "Feel mistress's skill," Sandra's face flushed. "Give mistress every part of yourself."

"Yes, I want to — I want to," Lara babbled, her thoughts becoming hazy, "to feel her take me."

Faster and deeper the needle drew. Tracing her inner thigh with its invisible path. Lara whimpered with desire, needing more. "Please," she pleaded softly to her mistress. She had to have more. Had to be possessed and used and changed and marked and branded.

Sandra's lips twitched, a half-smile curling on her lips. Her gaze held Lara captive, burning with a mixture of amusement, satisfaction, and a hint of triumph.

For a moment another form replaced Sandra. Another female body. Slender and voluptuous with long hair that shone with luster. Pale skin glistened under waves of flickering flames. Amber, slitted eyes gazed in bored satisfaction. Lara had never seen such perfection. She was mesmerized and unable to look away from those piercing eyes that threatened to overwhelm her every sense. Plump, black lips moved, forming silent words.

"Yes mistress," Sandra purred. The illusion broke.

Sandra pulled Lara into a fiery embrace, her full breasts crushing against Lara's. One hand found its way into Lara's hair, tangling within it, drawing her close, while the other roamed freely across her butt, teasing her sensitized flesh.

Limp like a puppet with cut strings, Lara let her friend, her fellow artwork, use her. She moaned as her mistress began to mark her abdomen. "Please," Lara begged, lost to sensation, her words thick and desperate.

"What is your greatest ambition in life?" Sandra whispered.

"Submit." Lara breathed. "Serve mistress." She bucked and squirmed, craving to be touched. "My only desire. Please," she whimpered. Her mind swayed, overwhelmed by need. As if to reward her a sharp nail pierced her nipple. Lara screamed as pain mingled with ecstasy.

Sandra's lips brushed hers and she spoke. "You don’t need a mind to obey. Let it go, surrender everything."

Lara moaned in response.

"If your thoughts have the audacity to rise, squash them. You're a toy for mistress to play with. A pet for mistress to train. A canvas for her to draw. You don't need to think. You can't resist. All you do is submit and feel the pleasure," Sandra whispered into her ear.

Those words became a truth that reverberated through Lara, turning her insides to jelly. As they took hold, she melted, sinking into the sweet haze of compliance.

The artist began her work in earnest. Sharp strokes danced along her skin. With each touch of her mistress' nail, Lara's body arched.

"Yes, Lara, give your soul to your mistress," Sandra cooed.

"Yesssss," Lara hissed in ecstasy, the last vestige of who she once was sloughed away.

As she opened herself up, her mind welcomed a foreign presence — an overwhelming, intoxicating power that seized and ensnared her. The more her mind collapsed, the more the tattoo marked her body, the more it changed. Its design began to shift and transform, twisting her form to her mistress's desires. She felt the ink beneath her skin morph, contort and take shape, her mind opening like a flower to the sun. Every part of her became pliable in the hands of her new owner, a clay doll to mold.

Where the lines reached her body transformed. Curves, supple and impossible to resist, blossomed on her physique. Her muscles relaxed and softened into inviting flesh, breasts swelling under her mistress's hand. Her cheeks became full, lips pouting out from their once thin state, inviting to be ravaged. Her ass expanded into a plush offering to her owner’s touch and command, her skin glistened with her arousal. Her hair grew longer and more seductively wild. Her nipples hardened, becoming an invitation, an offering.

Unlike Sandra, the artist allowed none of Lara's old form to exist. Instead, the tattoos' ink reshaped her completely, erasing any trace of the girl she used to be. When she raised a hand, long manicured nails with painted tips graced her fingers.

"I'm mistress' canvas, her plaything, and art to display." Lara murmured, each word an anchor, tying her down and eradicating any trace of resistance, of doubt.

Her eyes dilated and her gaze glazed over as her pupils were overwritten with an intricate pattern. Lines of vibrant colors and geometric forms spiralled in the darkness of her eyes, their glow pulsating hypnotically. The effect mesmerizing not just to the watcher but also to Lara, a feedback loop of mind altering pleasure.

Sandra ran a finger along Lara’s back. A moan, the epitome of sexual submission escaped her and Lara shivered with the sensation.

She had no will. Only obedience.

Finally the last stroke finished. Her mistress’ work complete. Lara stood and posed in front of Sandra. A content grin graced the taller woman's lips as she admired Lara. The dark haired girl stood in her new body and form with pride, letting the other take in every detail.

"What shall we do with you now," Sandra mused, biting her full bottom lip in thought.

"I exist to please mistress," Lara replied.

"Yes," Sandra said. "You do."

[bimbofiction]

Other Services

"So, have you been satisfied with my services?" Asked the wizard.

"Oh yes!" Said Judith. "I'm quite confident that Thomas will have learned his lesson after spending the weekend as my maid. If he returns to his sexist ways, though, I'm certain to hire you again, this has been so much fun! But I took a LOT of pictures and keeping them offline should be enough to keep him in line."

"A reasonable assumption," the wizard agreed. "Of course, I do offer many other services you might enjoy. "

"Oh, I'm sure you do!" Judith agreed. "But just hypnotizing Thomas to be my maid for the weekend blew through my discretionary spending! It was worth it, mind you, but not the sort of thing I can afford to make a habit of! Just snap him out of it and I'll pay the restof what I owe you."

"You might be surprised," countered the wizard. "Not everything is as costly as an obedience spell. Some spells I even cast for free for my own amusement! Like this one."

<SNAP><POOF>

"Oh my god! Thomas!?" Judith screamed. "What did you do to him! What did you do to my husband!!!"

"Je suis Tomasina, Madame!" The maid announced. "Je suis très gentille et tellement!!"

"Snap out of it, Thomas!" Judith a demanded. "You're not French! "

"C'est vrai ! Je suis Québécois!" Tomasina proclaimed.

"Why would you do this?" Judith demanded. "He has to be at work tomorrow! Is this some kind of shake down for more money?"

"Really, Judith?" The wizard said. "You saw me make your husband into your cross dressing maid with a snap of my fingers and you still think I was doing this for money? I could just as easily had you empty your bank account without letting you enjoy your weekend."

"I... well... I just thought...." Judith stammered.

"Did you, though?" The wizard countered. "I suspect not. I suspect you might be a very, very stupid woman."

"Now wait one goddamn minu..."

<SNAP><POOF>

"You were saying, Judith?" The wizard prompted.

"Sorry, Sir! You're right! I'm a real dummy!"She agreed, then giggled. "But at least I have big titties now! Thank you, Sir!"

"You're welcome!" The wizard said. "Now, I have some colleagues visiting from out of town this evening and I really hate to entertain in my sanctuary, so when Judith approached me and I looked up your lovely home, I thought it would be a great venue!"

Judith giggled. There were lots of words she didn't know.

"Nous servirons vos invités avec la main et la bouche ?" Tomasina asked.

"I don't understand what Tomasina is saying!" Judith complained.

"Neither does she, Judith, " said the wizard. "I made her speak Canadian French, not understand it."

"Oh," said Judith, not understanding that either.

"Anyway, I'll need you to prepare canapés before folks start to arrive at 8, but we have a few hours, since Tomasina alreadydid the cleaning," the wizard said. "However shall we pass the time?"

Judith giggled and shrugged.

"On va baiser?" Tomasina guessed.

[bimbofiction]

[bimbofiction]

Mindful Tech

CW: brainwashing, mind control, femsub, dronification, sluttification

Hi hi~

If you liked this story, please consider leaving a tip on my ko-fi

Enjoy 🩷

Kara hesitated before slipping the earphones in.

They still looked pristine in their shimmering case, the metallic finish catching the afternoon light like they had been waiting for her. Linda had handed them over with that oddly bright smile, almost too bright, like someone trying too hard to look normal. Kara had laughed it off at the time, chalking it up to Linda’s strange new obsession with 'mindful tech,' whatever that meant.

Still, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to try them right away. Something about the way Linda had pressed them into her hands — too eager, too expectant — had left a strange aftertaste. So they’d sat untouched on her desk for a week.

But today, curiosity overrode hesitation.

The moment Kara slid the buds into her ears, a low chime pulsed softly, almost like a heartbeat. Then silence. Deep, perfect silence that settled around her like warm water. She blinked, suddenly unsure why she’d waited so long to try them. This wasn't just noise cancelling, this felt more like isolation, separation from the chaos of life.

The silence crashed like waves against her thoughts. But gradually it gave way to a subtle hum, less of a sound and more of a presence. Kara listened harder, her fingers curling against the edge of her desk. She couldn’t make out the words, but the cadence sounded like — instructions. Soft, breathless guidance meant for her alone to follow.

Her eyes drifted closed as she leaned back in her seat. Stiffness rolled off her shoulders. A knot in her upper spine released, and with each passing breath her body surrendered, layer by layer, until she slumped forward. There should’ve been a moment of panic in the descent; her subconscious warned of the edge. Yet each time the words would break the calm, blissful silence took over.

It was a perilous dance that nibbled at her mind. Her breath quickened, but each time she was caught on the brink of clarity, an irresistible lull would blanket her again. Soon the words — a soft, breathless lilt — became the crutch that would lead her back to the void she so craved.

She sat at her desk with a hand idly stroking between her thighs, her legs parting a bit further with each brush of her fingertips. The other hand reached for her phone. Its position a constant in Kara's life. Eyes still closed, her fingers moved along the screen directed by instructions she couldn't hear and memories that simply drowned in silence.

With one last effort, a part of her resisted. But that resistance vanished when the familiar vibration in the phone shook her to her bones.

Her eyes snapped open. A glassy sheen reflected on the phone's surface. The display showed an app Kara only knew because of the silent whispers. 'Mindful tech,' danced in front of her eyes. Slowly the display faded. Her eyes locked onto a mesmerizing spiral. Colors swirled lazily at the center, pulsing gently. Warm colors bled slowly from one into the next, dragging Kara into their slow but irresistible tempo.

Inside her ears a tone reminiscent of the old sounds for connecting to the Internet played. But unlike back then when that shrill noise had always grated on her nerves, this made her gasp in anticipation.

A slow throb began to spread through her entire body, and when the pulsation arrived between Kara's legs, her breath hitched in her throat. The finger rubbing along her slit pushed in. It slipped easily past the first knuckle and Kara's mouth fell open. A small whine slipped out, followed quickly by a low groan that seemed to crawl up her throat. With a gentle pressure her digit caressed a small, tight bud, which sent an immediate and unbidden shock up her spine. A sudden rush of dampness spread around her fingers, and Kara realized how soaked the panties underneath her jeans had become.

Revulsion lanced through the serenity. Pants. She wore ugly scratching pants. The idea seemed obscene. But before the feeling could fester, a soothing tone calmed the rising rage. She could fix it. All she had to wear were skirts or dresses. Short things that barely covered anything.

A shuddering groan vibrated along her vocal cords and escaped into the world, but she didn’t know or care whether anyone else might have heard.

Another brush of her fingertip caused her hips to twitch. Her breath quickened, and sweat pearled between her breasts, making the material of her t-shirt cling uncomfortably to her skin.

A shiver ran down her back. That felt wrong too. The shirt covered too much. Her body felt caged in an unsightly prison of cotton and denim. Tight was good, but it needed to show off her body, not hide it.

With a groan Kara pulled her hand free from her crotch and wiped the dampness off on the already moist and sticky shirt. No more covering herself with cheap materials. Lace, mesh, satin and leather. Those would highlight and emphasize her supple frame.

With each beat an overwhelming need grew in Kara, until a desperate desire for change writhed underneath. A thirst for something, something new and unknown. Yet the earphones fed her an endless stream of whispers, telling her she could quench that thirst.

All Kara would have to do was follow along and obey. The more she surrendered to those words, the clearer they became in the dark expanse of her mind.

A moan rippled along her lips at the thought, her legs rubbing against each other as if trying to get rid of her jeans with sheer determination.

Soft words from the earphones coiled deep inside, gently pushing and pulling — tearing apart any inhibitions Kara had. It felt like the voice had dug a trench and paved it with need and want. A lowly grunt slipped out with each gasping breath, but Kara did not care, not when the whispers kept hinting that something would soon come.

And so they whispered and she listened.

Word for word Kara was undone. Whisper after whisper filled that void. Made her mind full. Full of the slut and whore her mistress and the company desired.

Then, finally, something broke. Not with a loud and clear crack but with a lowly, pathetic whimper. A whimper of someone who wanted nothing more than to obey. All her desires for herself crumbled into submission. Lust replaced self-respect. Obedience linked to pleasure.

Finally the whispers stopped. Silence rescinded. And a log-in replaced the spiral. Her fingers entered data she had no recollection of. Passwords were filled in that never reached the conscious part of her brain. Instructions rolled down the display. Kara stood up and walked out of her home. She had a new wardrobe to aquire.

When she returned, Linda waited for her. Her friend wore the most tantalizing outfit. Leather gloves stretched up along slender arms to end just below the elbow. A tight, black corset framed ample curves and flared hips, while a red bra highlighted milky-white cleavage. Legs disappeared into black, lacy knee-highs that vanished under a short, black, flared skirt.

"You finally listened. Mindful is the best, right," Linda said, a satisfied grin on her face.

A soft whimper left Kara's lips at the sight, a soft agreeing sound.

"Let's get you dressed and ready for the show. You'll love it. It's not like you have a choice!"