Slut TV
Fourth Night Out
Olivia felt guilty, and it had corroded her entire week.
“He was turning me into a bimbo,” she told herself, “he was!” But that sense of certainty, acquired in an instant, had just disappeared under Mr. Drummond’s disappointed gaze. The fact was, he hadn’t followed the script. He was supposed to confront her, all horny and wet, dripping with need, and possess her with a few pumps of his cock. Then she would become a willing sex kitten, his toy to play with. Instead, he had thrown her out.
On Monday, Olivia turned the makeup up to eleven. She poured on the lipstick—Mrs. Drummond’s lipstick!—and draped herself in black and blue mascara. Her cheeks shone an angelic white. Then she poured herself into a short black miniskirt with a vent on the side, full of perfect legs. On top she wore a red halter top with a short, cute jacket. She went out the back way so her Mom wouldn’t find her.
Then, determined, she went over to Jared’s house. The boy had still been sleeping when she arrived, so she let himself into his bedroom, crept onto his bed, and quietly pulled down the waistband of his boxer shorts. Olivia lowered her nose to it, and inhaled. She waited, testing. Were his male pheronomes flooding her brain, making her wet and stupid? Was the smell of his dick overpowering her senses, turning off her brain, making her a dumb slut?
Nothing.
She woke him up with a blowjob anyways, forcing his cock into her mouth, and sucking away until he spurted white cum into her throat. She swallowed the entire thing, but it wasn’t sweet and sexy like a bimbo would find it. It was just salty and warm, and it certainly didn’t drive her wild with a need for more jism. Nor did it fill her appetite for the rest of the day—she was hungry again in an hour.
“At least I’m horny!” she told herself, letting Jared pound her pussy until she came, shrieking, all over him. But that wasn’t enough. Any co-ed could be horny. She needed to be bimbified.
On Tuesday, Olivia let Jared penetrate her ass.
First she had measured her entire body, first thing in the morning, hoping against hope that her tits had started to balloon into something cartoonish and large. The co-ed tried to force her nipple into her mouth, and failed, frustrated. They were perky, they were nice and big, they looked great in a push-up bra. But they weren’t getting huge, the aureolae bursting into something that covered her whole boob. Giving milk was completely out of the question.
Olivia went without underwear, then wore a pencil skirt that was bright red, with white heels. It did feel nice to have her slit exposed, to have her body revved up for access. But she wasn’t dripping pussy fluids on the ground, no matter what she did, even when she worked the vibrator until she came, twice. She just wasn’t that juicy.
She called Jared over, and had him bang her butt. To handle her roughly, pushing her onto the bed, and pulling up her skirt so that her ass jutted into the air like an open invitation. And it had felt great—the strange, male sensation in her rear, the taboo sensation, plus she fingered her own clit at the same time. But Jared had still needed a quart of lubricant, store-bought lubricant, and it had been humiliating. She should’ve had enough lube to make it work.
Later, lounging in bed, she had asked Jared if he thought she was a bimboslut.
“Uh, of course not!” he assured her. “No, no way.”
Olivia wilted. She turned back to him.
“Hey, are your friends in town?”
On Wednesday, Olivia was the centerpiece of a four-way.
She first blew the remnants of her babysitting money on a blue vinyl dress. But that had gone wrong right away. Her body wasn’t so sweaty and wet she could slide right into the tight, constricting material. Olivia had been forced to use baby powder to get in there, squeezing her tits into the confinining plastic stuff. It made breathing pretty hard.
Plus, shaving her pussy hadn’t been a defining experience. Sure, it had made her wet, and for one glorious moment Olivia had thought this was it, she was getting bimbo-hot from a simple act of shaving. But then she had pricked herself with a razor, and the experience was gone. The razor-stubble was wet and hot, but she wasn’t gushing like a firehose.
Jared hadn’t been very into bringing friends over to fuck his girlfriend, but Olivia had insisted. So he brought over two pudgy video-gamer friends, and cleaned himself up.
It ALMOST worked.
There was a moment, just a moment, when Olivia felt like a real bimbo. After some awkward shuffling, she had placed Jared in the point of pride, at her ass. He had started to poke her, and the heat had risen to a delicious burn. When her pussy was on automatic, shoving and quivering against his dick, she had swallowed one of the other guy’s cocks. The counterpoint of thrusting was overwhelming, but she started to get the hang of it, caught between two insistent pieces of meat, feeling both dripping into parts of her body.
Orgasm approaching, Olivia had grabbed the last boy’s cock, and rubbed furiously on it.
But that’s where it had gone wrong. Her orgasm rose up, out of the depths, and grabbed her. Olivia had tried to ride through it, keeping conscious, but the stimulation over all parts of her body was just too much. She passed out.
When she awoke, her face was a sticky mess. The boys had apparently jizzed on her makeup and hair, then left. And that was good, and she swallowed the cum.
But it wasn’t good enough.
On Thursday, Olivia ran out of money.
She had gone on a shopping expedition, poverty be damned. Every slutty thing in the mall. Thongs in all colors. Bras that nearly glowed in the dark. Heels of escalating heights. Until finally she had maxed out her credit card.
Then, giggling, Olivia had pulled a gawky floor boy into her dressing room stall, and given him a slow and lazy blowjob. Then, when he had spurted down her throat, she looked up at him with perfectly manicured eyebrows and said “Can I get that discount now, sexy?”
The boy had told her that only managers could authorize that, but thanks anyways.
On Friday, Olivia called Mr. Drummond.
Mrs. Drummond was out with the baby. It was just Mr. Drummond in their massive house, with the expensive, tasteful furniture. He sat on the couch, in the TV room, sipping on a very large scotch, with no ice.
Olivia had dressed up in pink. Pink heels, with pink nails. White stockings with visible clips, just beneath the end of a hot pink dress she had shoved her way into. Legs shut just enough to keep her pussy hidden. A bimbo would’ve kept her legs open, but the truth, Olivia had to admit, was that she just wasn’t bimboslut material. She was just an ordinary, dumb, horny girl.
“I wanted to apologize, Mr. Drummond,” she said. Mr. Drummond had thoughtfully poured her her own belt of scotch. She sipped at it. “I was a terrible babysitter. I blamed you for some stupid stuff I saw on TV. The truth is, you weren’t turning me into anything, I was just being a dumb girl.”
She uncrossed her legs, deliberately. Her shaved slit gleamed at Mr. Drummond. He didn’t look that impressed. “I’ll do anything to make it up to you.” She gave him her best, smoky look. “Anything.”
“Fine. Finger yourself,” Mr. Drummond said.
She HAD said anything. Olivia put two fingers between her legs, and started to stroke at her clit. It felt good, especially with his eyes on her. She found her clit, and let her dress wriggle up, so the man had a better view. Was this the first time she had seen him without a tie? Probably...
“Like you mean it, slut,” Mr. Drummond instructed.
Olivia got serious about it. She ran a finger along the inside of her pussy, then up to her clit, roughly touching at the bulge. The sensation was starting to get serious, and she bounced lightly on the couch, thrusting in and out with her manicured nails. She fell backwards, staring right at the TV, a position she was used to. Olivia’s legs started to swivel towards the ceiling, and she pulled at her titties with her free hand. Just like she had seen on television.
Mr. Drummond settled in right next to her.
“Would you like to watch a little television while you get off, Olivia?” he said.
“Yes,” Olivia whispered. Her first orgasm was close. “Yes, please.”
He turned it on. Slut TV was already on. A program entitled, “Your Future.”
Starring Olivia.
YOUR FUTURE
“Thanks for helping me with babysitting,” Olivia said. It was boring to wear khakis and a t-shirt, even if she went without underwear. Oh well, that was the job.
“Sure, Olivia. You really get paid in Benjamins?” Christine was full-figured, and a natural redhead.
“Among other things,” Olivia picked up the remote. A girl like Christine wasn’t right for the French Maid show. It’d have to be Stripper.
The TV turned on...
“Six hundred dollars?” the man said, pained. Christine waited next to him, watching him flip bills. There hadn’t been much babysitting, what with him being single and everything. Instead she had given him a blowjob, then let him fuck her pussy. That had been fun. It had been her fault for getting him so turned on, once she took her clothes off. They had been itchy.
“So, welcome all new members of the Babysitting Club!” Olivia said, clapping. They were in her house. The brand new TV dominated the living room. Mr. Drummond had helped install it himself.
There were twelve girls. Nine were already set up. Six as Maids, two as Strippers, and their first, tentative Breeder. You could tell the nine by the way they waited, eagerly, for the television to turn on. The other three were, respectively, asian, latino, and african-american. The first moves into different markets. You could also tell the new girls because they wore panties.
Olivia did the math in her head. Ten percent for her, twenty percent for Mr. Drummond. They had talked about setting up a house for the girls. Some of the parents were getting suspicious. So had her Mom, but a TV in her bedroom had fixed that. She was probably masturbating right now, silly slut.
The TV turned on...
Two girls were underneath the desk, working with tongue and vibrator. Up top, Olivia worked the phones.
“Babysitter’s Club. Yes, satisfaction guaranteed. We can guarantee tit size for an extra fee. Thank you, please hold.” She picked up another phone. A vibrator worked its way between her thighs. “Yes, Babysitter’s Club. No miss, we don’t do actual babysitting. I can give you a referral.”
In the background, someone’s cousin watched television. Her hand crept between her thighs...
“...And I know it seems strange, but in this economy, extra money is where you can find it,” Olivia explained. They were in the house of someone’s older sister. All professional girls, all laid off, all looking for a new career. A bit on the older side, but that was fine. If the husbands weren’t paying for the process, they could always add a few more Breeders.
“Yeah, but babysitting?” one of them said.
The black box nestled on top of the TV. Olivia flipped a button.
The TV turned on...
The TV turned off.
Olivia gasped. She had seen years roll by, building a slutty, bimbo-izing empire. Her.
Mr. Drummond was between her legs. His cock worked away, pushing in and out of her cunt. It felt great.
“I am a bimbo,” Olivia squealed, delighted. “You did make me into a slut!” She couldn’t be happier. Thank goodness!
“Of course I did,” Mr. Drummond wheezed.
“You’re a big bad Master who makes girls slutty and stupid,” Olivia said, giggling, excited.
Mr. Drummond shook his head. “I wish. I didn’t invent that TV. My wife did.”
Olivia furrowed her brow. Mrs. Drummond did?
“She was the Engineer. We were going to build an empire on it, make billions. Got the prototype, built the house, everything was ready. Then my dear wife goes and burns her brains out watching that damned Calving show. She felt like it wasn’t quite right, went by too fast. There needed to be more build up and struggle. Now she’s a baby-obsessed slut with a burn on for pregnancy. Couldn’t tell you what a capacitator is.”
“Oh,” Olivia said. But at least she had been bimboized, even if Mr. Drummond hadn’t done it.
Mr. Drummond didn’t look that happy, even pushing his meat into her pussy. Olivia squeezed harder.
“Now there’s no money coming in, and we’re probably going to lose the house. And imagine my surprise when you decided to bimboize yourself. I figured you’d just watch MTV. Now I’m not sure what to do with you, my pink little slut. I can’t afford two bimbos.”
Olivia thought back. The future rushed past her again—recruitment, indoctrination, selling. It was all there.
“Maybe you can, master,” she said.