The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Bimboquill Part 1

By Quill

If there is one word you could use to describe Catherine it is angry. Catherine is, was, and always will be furious. It’s who she is, it’s what she is, and if a man were to say that to her face, she would call him a misogynist. She wouldn’t be wrong, either, for Catherine has one thing most angry people do not: just cause.

It’s not Catherine’s fault the world is unfair, nor is it her fault that she was born a woman—a fact she should and does take great pride in—it is, however, her fault that she is fat. If there is one flaw in her personality, and this statement by no means precludes that there are others, then it is that she demands the world bend to suit her needs and not the other way around. This personality trait fuels her rage, it powers her, and it is with its energy that she stormed one rainy afternoon into her boss’ office and threw a tantrum.

A tantrum that would change her life.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Catherine shouted, shutting the door hard behind her in a slam that sent the pictures on the walls shaking. She waved a bright, white sheet of paper beneath her boss’ nose.

Austin was and is the regional manager of a local office supply and distribution corporate outlet. He enjoys his job, not because it is particularly enjoyable, but because he believes that one day, if he works hard enough, his superiors might promote him to a place where he can become happy. In many ways Austin is like a donkey following a proverbial carrot on a stick. In twenty-seven years he will retire, in thirty-eight years he will die, and the happiest moment of his life will occur next week when he calls in sick to work and discovers an uneaten slice of cheesecake behind the mustard in his fridge.

Until that glorious moment, however, he was stuck listening to his subordinate shriek at him. “Good morning, Catherine,” he said even as he girded himself for what was to come. “How are you today?”

“Fucking livid!” Catherine spat, saliva flying from her lips. “You gave Steve the assistant regional manager position over me!”

“Assistant to the regional manager.”

By this point Catherine was no longer listening. This was another of her flaws; once she was convinced of something it was rather difficult to dissuade her of it. “I’ve been with the company longer than he has! This is pure boy’s club misogyny at work!”

Austin took a long drag from his coffee mug and propped his feet on the desk. He was used to Catherine’s tirades by now, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why he hadn’t fired her yet. It had something to do with human resources and a small female employee roster. That and the fact that corporate had flagged Catherine as the type who was almost certain to sue.

“You should have said something then,” Austin said. “As a matter of fact, though, I did consider you for the assistant to the regional manager position. Steve argued you were too abrasive.”

“I am a strong and independent woman!”

“Which is why I figured I could use two assistants. Steve is more of a people person, anyway. You are the true nuts and bolts of the company.”

“You’re promoting me?” Catherine said. She wasn’t used to actually winning an argument. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“You deserve it,” Austin said, flashing her a white smile. He pointed casually to a stack of manilla folders at the corner of his desk. “For your first job, I need you to finish this report and get it back to me Monday. If you can do that, we’ll move forward with your promotion.”

Catherine frowned at her manager, suspecting a trap. She was right to. Austin knew he couldn’t fire her without just cause, and so over drinks Steve and he had concocted a plan to make Catherine quit. Austin would dump so much work on the poor woman that she’d either go insane or find another job.

Catherine, for her part, relished the challenge. She snatched up the folders and stomped out of the office.

* * *

Of all the places in the world that Catherine hated to be, a club was near the top of the list. It wasn’t the noise that angered her, though that certainly didn’t help, nor was it the terrible music, or the omnipresent stench of alcohol. It was the people. Every person within a club is there for a sole purpose of getting fucked. It’s a meat market. And though Catherine would never admit it, it’s been nearly a decade since her one and only sexual experience, and she’s beginning to feel a little left out.

So it wasn’t Catherine’s choice to spend her evening in a club. It was Steph’s.

On her first day of work, Catherine had latched onto Steph as the only other female in the office. Steph worked as a receptionist, and she had reciprocated Catherine’s affection out of a strange desire to, and this is a direct quote, “Pull that stick out of your ass like it’s Excalibur.” So far Steph had yet to succeed. She argued it was due to grip, but Catherine secretly believed it was because Steph just wasn’t king material.

“How do you drink that stuff,” Catherine said. She played with the straw in her own drink, a diet pepsi.

“Like this,” Steph said. She picked up the shot glass of brown fluid and downed it with a grimace.

“Doesn’t it taste bad?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe, but that’s what the chaser is for.” Steph picked up a shot glass of vodka and swallowed it. “See? Can’t taste the whiskey anymore.”

Catherine could only stare with slack jawed confusion. She’d had a shirley temple in college once, and the experienced had so traumatized her that she’d sworn off alcohol ever since. Fearing things she couldn’t understand, Catherine brought the conversation back to a topic she felt familiar with: her problems.

“I just can’t believe Austin wants the entire proposal by Monday,” she said. “I’ll have to work through the whole weekend, and even then I don’t know if I’ll finish it on time.”

“I don’t know why you bother,” Steph said. Steph, ever the incorrigible slut, caught the eye of a passing boy and pressed her arms together to bring her already ample chest into greater prominence. The boy walked into a table, knocking the drink out of the hand of a fifty-something divorcee trying to recapture her youth.

“There’s more to life than boys and booze,” Catherine said, frowning disapprovingly at Steph’s display. Sex was another of those things Catherine didn’t understand, and seeing other people enjoy looking at Steph’s body made Catherine acutely aware of her own shortcomings. “I bother because I want to represent my gender. I’m going to shatter the glass ceiling, Steph. I’m going to prove to Austin’s smug, stupid face that I am just as capable as Steve.”

“Nothing wrong with boys and booze.”

“Do you want to answer phones for the rest of your life?”

Steph shrugged and downed another shot, and the act of doing so sent her tits jiggling. “I’ve got a steady paying job and I’m well fucked. I’m happy where I am, Catherine. I wish you were too.”

“I’ll be happy when I get my promotion,” she said sullenly.

“See, I don’t think you will be. You’re not the type that can be happy with anything. You need to learn to relax and just go with the flow, y’know? Learn to be happy with yourself.”

“You want me to be happy about this,” Catherine said, breaking off the staring contest with her beverage and gesturing at her body. She hated that she felt ashamed of herself, hated that she felt like she had to be ashamed of how she was ashamed. “I look like a poorly stuffed quilt jammed in a sack. No man has looked at me with desire since that one guy with the Ghostbuster’s fetish.”

“You’re too short to pull off the Stay Puft Marshmellow.”

And now Catherine felt insecure about her height. She gulped soda and slammed the glass back onto the table. “Men dismiss me because of my gender and looks, and I’m tired of it. Austin gave me this project because he thinks I’ll fail, and he might be right.”

The music tapered off overhead and the two were left in a moment of silence.

Catherine heaved a sigh and let her anger go. “I just don’t know how I’m going to finish this on time. It feels like Austin is asking the impossible.”

“You could try Bimboquill.”

“What’s that?”

“Think of it like Adderall but made from all natural ingredients,” Steph said. She dug around in her purse. “I use it when I stay out too long and have to get up the next morning for work. It does wonders for my energy levels, and it’s a great cure for hangovers.”

“I don’t know, Steph. Drugs aren’t really my thing.”

“It’s not a drug, and the only side effects are clear complexion and weight loss. There’s literally no downside.” She finished digging through her purse and presented a small, plastic case with a half dozen little pink pills. She pushed it across to Catherine. “Take one of these when you sit down to work. By Monday your project will be done.”

Catherine, still suspicious, hefted the pill container. It smelled like strawberries, though she couldn’t tell whether the smell came from the pills or Steph’s perfume. “Just that simple?”

“Just that simple.”

* * *

It was Catherine’s firm and honest opinion that papers belong in orderly stacks. Everything has its place, and every place has its thing, and true happiness can only be found when the two are brought together. Even in the height of Catherine’s frustration, she adhered to a rigorous organization pattern that left a crescent ring of perfectly columned papers.

The cracks were beginning to show, though. Hours of running her hand through her tangled hair had left it standing on end, and her skull pulsed in time with the plastic tick of the clock over her oven. She’d lost count of her pots of coffee some five hours ago, and the caffeine had brought her to that strange point where one is simultaneously exhausted yet wired to the hilt.

“I should take a break,” she said to no one in particular. But Catherine knew she couldn’t take a break. She didn’t have time. So she pulled another paper towards her and began to cover in red and black pen marks.

Something clattered off one of the stacks of paper, falling to the dining room table and popping open. A half dozen pink pills of Bimboquill spilled across her paper. The smell of strawberries filled the air. Catherine picked up one the pills and frowned at it.

Catherine liked Steph—honestly she did—but the buxom receptionist wasn’t without flaw. Steph had a nasty habit of drinking too much, she slept around, and she shoveled anything and everything she could get her hands on, from food to drugs, into her mouth. Knowing Steph, the Bimboquill might be the Adderall she’d said it was, but it could just as easily be LSD.

But Catherine didn’t exactly have a choice here. She knew she wasn’t going to finish the papers by Monday, and she also knew she couldn’t bear the humiliation of failure.

And so, with a sigh, Catherine popped the little pink pill into her mouth and swallowed.

For a long time nothing happened. Catherine stared at her desk and waited. After ten minutes of nothing, Catherine came to believe the thing had been a dud. She felt very foolish in that moment. She didn’t know where the pills had come from, nor what exactly they contained, and she could have just as easily ingested turbo-heroin for all she knew. The pill’s lack of effect was a blessing, then, and with the utmost gratitude Catherine returned to work.

And then it hit.

The Bimboquill struck like lightning. Her fatigue, her headache, even her caffeine overdose vanished in a flash. She felt vibrant and alive, like she could wrestle a mountain. Then her eyes focused on the page in front of her, and her hand shot out of its own accord, snatching a pen. It flew across the page, covering it in marks and notes as fast as it could move. She solved pages that took half an hour to work through in mere minutes, and as the evening’s darkness gave way to morning’s light, the completed stacks around her grew.

* * *

Catherine greeted Monday morning with her face planted in her living room floor. A bit of drool dripped from the corner of her mouth to pool beneath her cheek and form a damp blotch in the carpet. She groaned and rolled over, exposing her closed eyes to the full torture of the morning sun.

“I don’t wanna go to school today, Mommy,” Catherine mumbled, slowly rising and rubbing the sand out of her eyes.

All things considered, Catherine felt remarkably lucid for a person that’d just spent three days locked in a pink pill bender. She hadn’t slept in those three days, either. The pills made sleep seem redundant. They’d filled her with an unnatural energy, and it wasn’t until she finished the final page in the final stack that the energy had fled. Catherine remembered stumbling barely cognizant into her living room. She remembered falling, slowly as if through a cloud, and then landing with umph face first in the carpet.

Strangely, Catherine didn’t have a headache. That seemed like the bare minimum a person should feel after consuming military grade amphetamines.

No, the only immediate effect Catherine could point to was a barely noticeable itch between her thighs. It was hardly worth mention, to be honest. Easily ignored and easily forgotten, Catherine put the itch out of her mind and remembered her work.

She jolted up from the floor and ran to the dining room table. It was all there, just as she remembered. Stacked in neat and perfect piles, her papers were completed in a meticulous script using handwriting that Catherine recognized as her own.

Catherine had done it.

She leapt into the air and gave a whoop for joy, and it was on the way down that she noticed another of the pills effects; Catherine’s pants no longer fit properly. They were loose around her waist, nearly falling with the force of her landing. She ran to the bathroom scale to check her weight. She was thinner. No, not by much, but there was a distinctly smaller quantity of pudge about her middle, and when she checked her face in the mirror, she found that some of the scars she’d gotten from popping zits had vanished.

Certainly not the effects she expected from a bender.

But she had little time to ponder the implications. A clock in her living chimed, announcing that Catherine was almost late. She quickly gathered her presentation and left for work.

* * *

The headache Catherine had been expecting had come in full force by noon. In many ways, the headache relieved Catherine of some anxiety. No drug that offered the amount of energy Bimboquill did should come without one. It was downright suspicious. No amount of Tylenol seemed to help, though, and so Catherine did what she always did when she felt miserable: she found Steph.

Steph was just as chipper as always, which was suspicious since Catherine knew the buxom secretary had been out late the night before with a tennis instructor. Catherine had turned on her phone during breakfast to find a blow by blow account of Steph’s evening, ending just after four in the morning with a picture of an uncircumcised penis.

“I finished the project,” Catherine said, flopping into the chair next to Steph and rubbing her temples. “I am officially assistant to the regional manager. Gaze upon me, petty mortals. Gaze and lament for your hour of judgement comes.” She then yawned so wide it made her jaw crack.

“The Bimboquill worked?”

“Oh yeah,” Catherine said, stifling another yawn. “Those little pink pills made me feel like a yorkie on meth. My only problem now is that Austin is pleased with my ‘work ethic’.”

“That’s a problem?”

“It is when he dumps another project on me as big as the last one. I’ve got two weeks to finish it, but it’s still a hefty addition to my work load.”

“I thought this was what you wanted,” Steph said with a sly smile. “If only you had been happy with boys and booze.”

Catherine didn’t answer for a time. She mulled the statement over, turning it in her mind. Then, with hesitation because she knew the response the question would yield, she asked, “How was he last night?”

Steph broke into a wide smile, pleased that the stick up Catherine’s ass had finally budged a little. “Is my dowdy friend finally becoming a woman?”

Catherine blushed, as she knew she would. She didn’t know why she wanted to know about her coworker’s sex life, but if she had to name a reason, it would be because of the small itch between her thighs, which still hadn’t left. Of course Catherine couldn’t tell Steph that she felt horny. She’d never hear the end of it.

“I’m just curious,” Catherine said.

Steph seemed to see no reason in continuing to needle Catherine, not when the girl was finally starting to ask about important things, and so she launched into a lurid and disturbingly detailed account of her evening. Just as Steph was approaching the climax of the story—literally and figuratively—Catherine yawned. Steph, without breaking off the story, reached into her purse and offered Catherine the now familiar box of pills.

“I really shouldn’t,” Catherine said, her hand hovering a few inches from the box. “I just came down from the last few, and I still don’t know what the effects of this stuff are.” Her head pounded, and she felt a sudden rush of saliva fill her mouth. Her vision seemed to darken on the periphery, tunneling in on the little pink pills in Steph’s hand.

“Come on,” Steph said. “Did it feel bad when you woke up this morning?”

“No, but—”

“Then there you go. Take a pill and quit being such a buzzkill. Besides, how else are you going to get any work done today?”

It was at that moment that Catherine yawned. She yawned so wide and loud that tears came to her eyes, and if it weren’t for the headache that still pounded in her skull, Catherine knew she could lay her head on her desk and fall asleep right here and now. That wouldn’t do, of course. Catherine had a lot to get done, and so with a nod towards Steph, she grabbed one of the pink pills and popped it in her mouth.

She spent the next fifteen minutes listening to Steph mull over the finer points of her date’s anatomy. He was tall, handsome, and, according to her, built like a well-bred ox. Steph was just getting to the part where he’d dragged her to an alley, when the Bimboquill hit.

Instantly, Catherine’s exhaustion, her headache, and even the vague malaise of horniness vanished. Her eyes shot open as a jolt of energy coursed through her. She felt like she could do anything, take on anyone.

Steph watched Catherine with a slight smile to her lips. “It hit?”

“Oh yeah,” Catherine said. She looked around for something—anything—to do, but found nothing. A thought occurred to her; if Austin was going to keep dropping work on her desk then Catherine was going to need more Bimboquill—for emergencies only, of course. She tried to ask the question as carefully as she could, fearing Steph’s mockery. “Where do you get this stuff?”

Surprisingly, Steph didn’t mock her. She just reached into her purse and pulled out a business card, handing it the Catherine. “I have a dealer with an apartment downtown,” she said. “The pills aren’t cheap, but they’re well worth the price.”

Catherine slipped the card in her purse.

* * *

The dealer lived in a ratty apartment on the corner of fifth and main. His complex overlooked a gentleman’s club, whose buzzing neon lights cast the block in a lurid, red glow. A series of women dress in outrageously tall heels clacked their way down a long line of men behind a felt rope.

Catherine watched as a man reached over the rope and wrapped his arm around one the girls. She wore a tight, red latex dress that emphasized her ample bust, and she pressed herself against the man, molding her ample curves to suit his. He casually slipped his hand inside her dress and fondled her breast, pulling it from its confines into the open air. The girl responded with a moan Catherine could hear from across the street. The stripper’s hand slowly trailed down the man’s stomach to cup his crotch, her fingers fiddling idly with the zipper and buttons.

It wasn’t until a bouncer physically pulled the woman away from the man that they broke apart. The man, of course, didn’t like that, and he threw a punch at the bouncer. The bouncer laid the man flat on the concrete with a busted nose.

To Catherine, though, the most curious thing about the whole cadre of events was how everyone treated it as if it were just another thing. Like the weather, or a bum on the street, the people ignored the bawling, bleeding man rolling on the concrete. Nobody helped, not even the girl that had pressed against him. She just stumbled off to the next man in line, giggling as he yanked her dress around her waist and planted his lips on her nipple.

But Catherine wasn’t there to judge, though that never stopped her before. She opened the complex’s door and began the climb to her dealer’s apartment, intent on ending this excursion as quickly as possible.

The dealer lived on the third floor. A battered sign dangled from a rusty nail in his door that said, “Bless this mess.” Catherine knocked twice, and from inside she heard a loud crash followed by a shout of pain.

“Son of cock, that fucking hurt! Didi, get your dildos out of the living room!”

“But they’re all living rooms, Dr. Funkenstein. We live here,” the woman Catherine supposed must be Didi answered.

Dr. Funkenstein groaned low and loud. “I cannot remember why I thought turning my wife into a bimbo was a good idea. It’s like rooming with a gold fish.”

“You said it was because I suck dick like a Hoover.”

“Shit, that’s right,” Dr. Funkenstein said. “You do that real good.”

The door flew open, slamming against the far wall with a crash, and Catherine found herself staring at the scrawniest man she had ever seen. He was more bone than flesh, and his skin was a pasty, sickly yellow. He wore a torn lab coat stained with a large purple smear, and he shrank away from the overhead fluorescent lamps as if their light burned.

“What the fuck do you want?” Dr. Funkenstein said. He held his hand over his eyes and glared at Catherine between the cracks in his fingers.

“Drugs,” Catherine answered simply. She didn’t have a whole lot of patience for a man that spoke to his wife in such an abusive manner.

“Are you a cop? You have to tell me if you’re a cop.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Pity, I’ve always wanted to fuck a cop,” Dr. Funkenstein said, flinging the door open and disappearing into his apartment.

The little light that filtered through the open doorway revealed a seven foot tall pile of shoes. Everything was there: Gucci, Miu Miu, Atwood, and all of it was flung haphazardly into the most expensive mound of crap Catherine had ever seen. It wasn’t alone, either; not two feet away stood a similar mound of purses, and next to that mound one of sunglasses.Catherine even spotted a cardboard box filled with jewelry.

Dr. Funkenstein lay sprawled on his couch watching a nature documentary on spiders. He had an icepack on his crotch. “So what do you want? Speed, heroin, PCP? You don’t look like the angel dust type, but then I’m not one to judge. I once saw a preacher’s daughter eat a bowl full of ecstasy like it was Captain Crunch.” He shuddered and shook his head. “An hour later I caught her licking the drywall and muttering the word ‘snozzberries’.”

“I’m just here for Bimboquill,” Catherine said, suddenly nervous. She hadn’t expected this man to sell angel dust. Just who exactly had Steph sent her to?

“Just Bimboquill she says,” Dr. Funkenstein said with a dry chuckle. “That’s all she says. Are you sure I can’t interest you in some crystal meth?”

Catherine shook her head.

“Alright then,” Dr. Funkenstein said with a shrug. He grabbed a bottle from the table and stared intently at the label. “How does a hundred pills for—”

“Oh Doctor! Dr. Funkenstein!” Didi called, clacking her way into the room. She had the largest pair of tits Catherine had ever seen. They hung off Didi’s front like two ballistic missiles primed and ready to start World War Three. She’d stuffed them into an extra large t-shirt, which stretched and seemed ready to rip beneath their pressure. Surely no stretch of cotton had ever before been called to such heights of duty. As if to parody the institution, Harvard lay emblazoned across the front in bright, burgundy letters.

“Dr. Funkenstein,” Didi continued, jiggling her way to the couch. She held a micro mini number made of bright, pink latex. “I found the cutest dress and I just have to have it. Can I Doctor? Can I?”

Catherine couldn’t help but think that there was no way on God’s green and perfect Earth that Didi could fit inside that dress.

But Dr. Funkenstein didn’t seem to notice nor care. “Of course you can, sweetums,” he said. “Just toss it in with the others.”

Didi giggled and threw the dress into a pile of similar dresses, strutting from the room with a bounce to her ample ass.

Catherine shot a questioning glance at the man lounging on the couch, to which he responded with a shrug. “She thinks she’s shopping,” he said. “She doesn’t actually remember the crap she buys, so I just filled two rooms with this tacky shit and let her pick through it. Every few weeks I rebox it all and put it back. It keeps her busy while I recover, and it’s cheaper in the end.”

That didn’t come close to answering any of Catherine’s questions. She struggled to put her confusion into words, managing to force out the essence of her frustration in a strained, “But… why?”

“You’ll find out,” Dr. Funkenstein said ominously. He lifted his ice pack and poked his crotch with a wince. “You came for Bimboquill, right? It’ll be three hundred bucks for the bottle.”

“Three hundred dollars?!”

Dr. Funkenstein raised his hands placatingly. “Hey, three bucks a pill is reasonable. And if you don’t like my prices you could always blow me. I give discounts to good cocksuckers.”

Catherine threw up a little in her mouth. “I’m not that kind of girl, and doesn’t your wife do that for you?”

“Oh yeah, she’s good for little else, but I’ve fucked a woman with tits like blimps for years now, and I’m hungering for something a little more...normal.” He let his eyes trail up and down Catherine’s body, and Catherine felt the bile rise in the back of her throat again.

“Just take the money,” she said, handing over three crisp hundred dollar bills. She felt like she needed a long shower.

“Suit yourself,” Dr. Funkenstein said. “Just know the offer stands.”

“Yeah, my decision is never going to change.”

Dr. Funkenstein grinned big and yellow, his teeth seeming to glow in the light cast by the television. “Never is a funny word.”