Another One
by Limerick
Another receptionist, and, surprise, she was a bimbo too.
Unbelievable. Girls these days.
Dr. Kendrick had specifically asked the temp agency for the most dour, humorless, severe girl they had in their files. He had specified stern black glasses, a sharp bun of hair, and a great deal of scowling.
To be fair, the Temp Agency had done their best. Claire had, at first, appeared to be a snippy shrew with the personality of a wombat. She had sat down with Dr. Kendrick and listed her “ground rules,” which included mandatory smoke breaks and time off to study for her Political Science tests. She had dressed in black pants with black pumps, and the only jewelry was a spartan silver necklace. She had stood above him while he sat and lectured.
Dr. Kendrick had been delighted. Simply delighted. No more childish giggling on the phone, no more vibrators left casually behind in the break room, no more yellow lycra. No more heels scratching the desks, no more forty minute bathroom breaks. A receptionist who would answer the phone, handle the files, and could manage basic addition and subtraction. Perfect.
For a few days. Then the natural bimbo-nicity started to show up. Again..
“Is this, uh, okay? Dr. Kendrick?” Claire said, peering at her scribbled list of numbers.
Even backwards, Dr. Kendrick could see that Claire had started confusing sixes and nines..
“Do it again,” he said, sighing. Claire took the pad back, sheepish and wiggling. She kept adjusting her bra strap, which kept slipping out underneath a brand new silky peach tanktop, with the flowery ruffles along the top.
“I’m... I don’t know what’s...” Claire stammered. “It’s just I’m having...”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Dr. Kendrick interjected. Like he hadn’t heard THIS speech before. I’m going through a growth spurt. I’ve been feeling so strange lately. I can’t fit into my bra. I don’t know what my fingers are doing in there. “You’re having a bad day. Just go do it again, Claire.”
Talking back in a “patriarchal manner” violated one of Claire’s many ground rules, but the girl backed out of his office anyway, grateful to be given clear direction and purpose. Her rear wiggled.
Dr. Kendrick had known she was a lost cause since Monday, when the girl had come to work composed, calm, in a tweedy-grey suit, and had absolutely forgotten to wear a bra. These bimbos could only keep up the facade so long, before their dim, sexy natures simply overwhelmed them.
On Tuesday Claire’s clipped, stark diction had slipped, and the so-called “Graduate Student” had started to pepper her conversation wtih “uhs” and “ums” and “errs.” Plus she had supplemented her above-the-knee skirt with dark red lipstick and pearl earrings.
On Wednesday the usual complaints had begun. “Something’s wrong with the keyboard.” “I swear my boobies didn’t used to get in the way.” “I think something’s going on, um, sir.” And the ever-popular “why am I calling my titties my boobies?”
Ugh. The panty-flashing would start soon, no doubt.
Dr. Kendrick decided to go for a walk.
He caught Claire painting her nails, staring, as if horrified, as she lacquered each nail with a pink sheen. She was squeezing her legs open and closed, underneath the clear glass desk. Soon enough it would be pornographic magazines and fingering herself with abandon, and then she’d start spelling “Blue Cross” with one ‘s’ and no ‘e’s.
Another one!
There was no point even trying to get a cup of coffee from the little coffee bar downstairs. The proprietress, one Amanda, had gotten close to his receptionist-minus-two, Pauline. They had both been shy college girls making some extra money on the side—at first. Then the tiny khaki shorts had come out, and the identical pink-tipped hair dye jobs, and the mutual decision to unveil the whoppers on their chests. Now Amanda had given in to her frothy, caffeine-fueled bimbo self. Always spilling milk or whatever down her shirt, which was perpetually sticky with cream. Every tenth customer or so—or anyone who asked—got a handjob in the bathroom.
She made lousy coffee. And she didn’t wash her hands afterwards, anyway.
Dr. Kendrick settled for a stroll around the building. There WERE non-slutty girls out there. He could see them, walking around, not hiding too-big tits or a bubbling butt underneath their clothes. THEY didn’t leave discarded bras on the chair. THEY didn’t leave lubrication on the office chair. So why couldn’t any of those girls work for HIM?
And just to make things worse, a girl in mesh blue shorts came around the corner, huffing as two enthusiastic tits bounced up and down in a matching lycra sculpted shirt. Her socks were bright pink, and all the running in the world wouldn’t do anything about her undulating, over-the-top ass. It was going to be bulbous, and sultry, and would look about as muscular as an ice cream cone.
“Hey Dr. K!” she said, beaming.
“Oh, Tara. It’s you,,” Dr. Kendrick said, peering through his spectacles. His office neighbor was some sort of legal eagle, apparently. Or had been. She had shed a Securities and Regulation practice for family law, and mannish suits for matching beige outfits that sculpted her long, coltish legs. When she managed to pour herself into a suit. “How’s the practice of law?”
“Oh, I’m DONE practicing!” Tara purred, giving him a peck on the cheek. And giggling, of course. Dr. Kendrick endured it all the best he could. “I have a client coming over at noon. Don’t mind the noise. He’s got a lot of law in him.
Dr. Kendrick HAD visited a few times. At first just for a chat with a fellow professional. That had changed. She had replaced her various legal diplomas on the wall with quite graphic art of men and women in sexual congress. Not to mention the rotating young men she utilized as “legal interns,” most of whom were drained dry by the second week.
He had quietly diagnosed her with late-onset sexual mania, probably stemming from overwork. It was a diagnosis he felt confident in.
“I might stop by later,” Tara whispered, in his ear. “I need an expert in his field.”
Dr. Kendrick rolled his eyes.
“Umm...” Claire welcomed him back with an indistinct and confused uterrance.
“Mrs.... Smith...” Claire said, reading slowly from the planner. “And... Ms. Smith...are here.” She finished, relieved. Her nails were all shining and iridescent. And she had lost her bra sometime during his brief perambulation. “I sent them into your office.”
“Thank you, Claire.”
“Dr. Kendrick... I think there’s something strange going on... I keep... um... I can’t even..”
She gestured helplessly at the book on her desk. Dr. Kendrick peered at it. The Feminine Mystique. Well. At least she wasn’t on picture books, just yet.
“I.. it’s my favorite book!” Claire said, hesitantly. “And now it’s... all the words are so hard all of a sudden! They’re so long, and they have all these vowels!”
“It’s a very challenging book, dear,” Dr. Kendrick said.
This was normal bimbo behavior. They always tried to convince him that things had been different. Reading big books. Saying big words. Keeping their hands out of their pants. And yet none seemed at all able to keep their hands off their boobs when he challenged it. A sad attempt.
“No... I... I READ this!” Claire bubbled.
“I’m sure you did, dear,” Dr. Kendrick said, and swept in.
Mrs. Smith and Ms. Smith were getting increasingly difficult to tell apart.
One was a forty-something housewife who, in his care, had turned out to be extremely sexually liberated. Very much extremely. What had been a brown-haired woman who had showed him pictures of her cat had become a blonde with a serious interest in spandex. She lived for tube dresses—today’s was a sort of neon green. Her self-esteem and her energy level, Dr. Kendrick told himself, were through the roof. It was a sort of success.
“And how are you, Harriet?” Dr. Kendrick asked. Mrs. Harriet Smith casually uncrossed her legs in front of him.
“Harriet, I believe we had a long talk about wearing underwear to our little sessions,” he reprimanded her.
She did have a nicely shaved snatch. She kept trying to tell him that the hair fell out on its own, as if it wasn’t child’s play to find a wax salon. The childish blaming was curious, however.
Also blah blah blah her sex drive was through the roof. As if that wasn’t normal for a woman recovering from depression.
“I’m really sorry, doctor,” Harriet said, contrite. That didn’t stop her from spreading her legs a little wider. And grinning. She knew very well that Dr. Kendrick could be indulgent of her penchant for masturbation, if it was sufficiently... therapeutic. “It’s just no underwear fits me... and Erica took it off with her teeth in the car...”
“Erica, is that true?” Dr. Kendrick said, swiveling to the other bleached-blonde.
“Ummm... what?” Erica Smith said.
A puzzling case, Erica. Apparently a serious-minded girl who had insisted on sitting in on sessions with her Mother. First she had scribbled seriously on a legal pad. Then she had taken to chewing on the pencil with glazed eyes, or teasing her increasingly blonde dye-jobs with the nub. Now she usually showed up in a matching outfit, except with rhinestone-studded heels that gave her a bit of height on her cheerful mother.
She rarely spoke, but her moans were starting to get a bit loud. Both Smiths enjoyed a good fingerfuck. Dr. Kendrick believed she was probably trying to get closer to her Mother. Much closer.
“What is your relationship like with your Mother?” Dr. Kendrick prodded.
“Oh, it’s SO much better!” Erica said, enthused. “We’ve been bar-hopping and stuff, and sometimes we’ll both like a guy, and we’ll kiss and stuff to get him hard, and then he’ll...”
“Right. Right, of course,” Dr. Kendrick said, interrupting. He wiped his glasses on his coat. He just wasn’t in the mood for this. “To be honest, ladies, I’m not certain we have much more to discuss. You seem very happy with your... choice of lifestyle... and...”
He was broken up by their mutual giggling.
“See, Mom?” said Harriet. “I TOLD you we could get him to get us confused. Now you owe me your biggest, nicest dildo!”
“Shoot,” the erstwhile Ms. Smith said, frowning. Dr. Kendrick peered hard from one girl to the other.
He couldn’t tell them apart, as hard as he tried.
“Erica” smiled and reached between her legs.
The session went a bit long. Both Mom and Daughter got a bit frisky, passing a big rubber phallus back and forth. Luckily, Dr. Kendrick had coated the couches with plastic some time ago. They wiped clean very easily.
Out in the reception area, Claire was getting her tits fondled by the mail lady.
Dr. Kendrick had never bothered to learn the mail girl’s name. Just another bimbo in his life. She had worked hard to make the basically sexless USPS uniform into a halloween costume. Mostly in the bright blue shorts, hiking them high with a big folded-up cuff. Her boobs were titanic, and she had fashioned a little uniform-esque tie to sit between them. Currently she was sitting on Dr. Kendrick’s expensive reception desk, and gently feeling his receptionist’s boobs. It was almost medical, how gently she probed.
“Oh, these are coming in very nice,” she said, encouraging. “Probably going to be bigger then Pauline’s. Less big then Jessica’s.. But so very teardrop, they’re going to be nice and heavy and thick.”
“I... they’re big enough...”
“You’re working for the Doctor, now,” the lady said, and laughed. She had dark, curly hair. “That’s just how it is. I’ll see how they’re looking tomorrow. Have you met the FedEx man? Juan? We’ll come over and have a little party.”
Dr. Kendrick cleared his throat, loudly.
The mail girl smiled, broadly. She took one of his mints from the reception desk bowl, handed him a huge sheaf of mail, and strode off. Her rear end bounced. Just like every girl who came into the office. Just once, Dr. Kendrick would’ve liked to see a firm, unrounded rear that did nothing but walk.
“Claire, please sort through these,” he said, handing the discouragingly-damp pile over.
“Why are my titties getting... so... round?” His temp said, still stroking her chest. Her nipples were achingly erect.
Dr. Kendrick retreated back into his office.
Not for the first time, Dr. Kendrick marveled at the amazing, curative power of simple denial. It was not, as his colleagues had once put it, just a river in Egypt.
“But it’s what I want!” the girl argued. “I want a big piece of paper with the—the diploma! That’s what it’s called!”
Bernice was absolutely, 100%, entirely, not going to be getting a university degree in anything that didn’t involve a pole and a lot of grease. It was a miracle the poor dear could even walk, with those watermelons she used for breasts acting as cantilevers. She made matters worse with a mania for leather boots with achingly high heels.
“Now, Bernice, we’ve discussed this,” Dr. Kendrick said, gently. He was all for female empowerment, but the girl was really suited by nature to be a fertility goddess. “You need to take a look in the mirror, and ask yourself, what do I see myself doing?”
“Fingering myself?” Bernice said, confused.
“No, I mean... ah... hmm..”
Bernice had particularly long lashes, and when they batted up and down Dr. Kendrick was sure he could feel the breeze. Or maybe that came from between her ears. “But I want to get a degree in something,” she whined. “I’ve got three years of college stuff already, and, and, it’s just that I’ve been so horny lately...”
Dr. Kendrick nodded, soothingly. She had come in for depression. He had fixed that problem, only to find her latent bimbohood lurking just underneath. Now it was about acceptance. But she kept fighting him.
“Bernice, I want you to lick your fingers. Just do it.”
Bernice, baffled, licked gently at long-nailed fingers. Dr. Kendrick’s office always smelled faintly of nail polish.
“What do they taste like?”
“Pussy.”
“And why is that, Bernice?”
“‘Cause I was touching myself, just now.”
“And how do you think that will go over in lecture, hmm?” Dr. Kendrick finished. “Do you think the Professor wants a young lady feeling herself and howling during his lecture? I don’t think he will.”
Bernice stared at him, then burst into tears. “But I want to be SMART!” she bawled.
Dr. Kendrick smiled and nodded, but under his breath, he muttered it again: “denial.”
It was sad, really.
“No, Dr. Kendrick, we’re not getting, um, thinking trial separation, anymore,” Olivia said. “I actually, um, signed some papers yesterday. That’s what I did, right? Darry? I signed them?”
“It was an X. I asked the lawyer, he said it counts,” her husband said.
“Right,” Olivia said, her head bobbling.
Darryl resumed fucking his wife over the back of the chair. “It’s just some legal stuff to simplify things,” he explained. “Gives me her property, power of attorney, you know.”
“I’m glad to see such progress,” Dr. Kendrick said. The Mannvilles had taken enthusiastically to sex therapy. In fact, they had pretty much insisted.
Olivia had been a partner in a small accounting firm, and her husband a frustrated low-level city employee. They had sat on separate couches during the initial interview, and never looked at each other. Privately, Dr. Kendrick had given them a 50/50 chance of divorce.
But the twosome had really turned it around. By the second session Olivia was noticeably more relaxed, legs crossing and uncrossing in a short grey skirt with flashy red heels. In session three she had sat right next to her husband, cooing into his ear and hanging on to his every word. Soon she wouldn’t say anything without his curt nod of approval.
“It’s all thanks to you, Doc,” Daryl said. He pumped his wife a little harder for emphasis. He had apparently been working out, and gotten some contact lenses, as well. It was a good look for him. “We never argue anymore. No fighting. Never.”
“That’s good. That’s extremely good to hear,” Dr. Kendrick adjusted his glasses. Olivia insisted on fucking entirely in the nude. Usually she was half-disrobed even before entering the office, panties hanging around her knees as she walked immediately towards her favorite fuck-chair. “And your careers? They are proceeding well?”
“I’ve gotten promoted. Olivia is, ah, taking some time off from work,” Darryl said. “We’ve got her hooked up with a webcam, to keep her busy.”
“I’m showing my tits for money!” Olivia exclaimed. She was starting to drool. Once again, Dr. Kendrick silently thanked the man who invented plastic.
“I’m glad. So glad for both of you,” Dr. Kendrick said. He looked at the clock. “Shall we schedule our next session?”
Darryl bit his lip. “Actually, uh, I think we’re pretty much done here, doc. I mean, if she gets any hornier, I’m going to need a collar for her.”
“Oh. Well... I... I understand,” Dr. Kendrick said. Couple rates were twice as expensive, and they would be hard to replace.
Olivia’s eyes lit up at the idea of a collar.
Dr. Kendrick watched his best clients walk out the door. Olivia’s shirt was on backwards. It was mostly a tube, anyway. His shoulders sank. Money walking out the door. And he had expenses.
There were other clients. They cheered up at his arrival. Alison, the blonde bunny who liked to rub an ice pack on her tits during sessions. Carol, the schoolteacher who kept fucking high school boys and telling him all the details. And just walking through the door: his worst client of all, Yolanda, the lactating girl who got his carpets all sticky and impossible to clean.
Dr. Kendrick gritted his teeth. Bimbos! All of them! At least with the Mannvilles he could have a real conversation!
“Cancel my appointments,” he ordered, to his dim secretary. She had her legs wide open, and was absentmindedly rubbing a pencil on top of her slit. “I’m taking some personal time.”
“How do I... uh... cancel...” Claire said, looking blankly at the computer keyboard for a cancel button.
“Everyone,” Dr. Kendrick announced, “You’ll have to reschedule. I’m not feeling... quite well... please reschedule.”
The bimbos sighed, in unison. A warble of bimbo-soft coos and whispered disappointment. Three round rears lined up in front of an instantly overwhelmed Claire. Their oversized jugs bumped into each other. Yolanda was already leaking through the front of a half-open V-neck skirt. Their hands wandered.
Dr. Kendrick waited, at the door.
Yolanda, last in line, had reached forward and grabbed the torpedo-tits of Carol, the girl right in front of her. Carol’s melting sigh had attracted Alison, who turned and grinned, before rubbing her hand all over the tight white shorts with the oversized buttons of the girl in the middle. She stepped forward for a kiss, two ruby-red lips meeting. Both girls purred. Yolanda was already stripping off her flimsy shirt.
Claire whimpered and frigged herself frantically.
Dr. Kendrick closed and locked the door.
Mendelssohn’s Italian Symphony had failed to block out the sounds of moaning and gasping and outright screaming from the waiting room. It had gone on for a solid hour. He should’ve brought all three in and at least charged for it, if his office was to be used as a brothel.
The Doctor had peeked out just once. The three bimbos were entirely naked, and had apparently decided to assault Claire. His secretary was almost supine in her chair, her tits getting massaged, Alison kneeling between her legs, and Yolanda nearby masturbating on his table, apparently just for emphasis.
The clock hit five. At last. Another day over with.
Claire walked through the door.
She had reassembled parts of her wardrobe, although her bra was still AWOL and she had ended up wearing Carol’s achingly tight shorts. Her hair was a mess, streaked with even more blonde, and her boobs jiggled as she walked. She reeked of sweat and lubrication.
“Sir, I’m... quitting. I quit this job,” she announced, her voice soft but firm.
That was it. That was the last straw.
“No. No, you are not,” Dr. Kendrick told her.
She blanched, wavered. “But sir.. I mean.. my ass alone...”
“Yes, yes. Claire, I have heard this garbage before. My boobs are swelling. I keep fucking things. I can’t fit into my pants anymore. I somehow HAVE to wear bright red lipstick, and big earrings, and little dresses meant for tweens that show off my nipples. Because I’m somehow being BIMBOIZED or whatever!”
His tirade took Claire aback. The burgeoning slut twisted her foot back and forth in the carpet. She twirled at her hair, anxiously.
Dr. Kendrick calmed himself down. “Claire, I am having none of it. You can be a bright, intelligent girl. You will come in tomorrow, and keep your hands to yourself, and put in a good day of work. There. Go.”
“No... Dr. Kendrick.. I..” she whined, desperated.
Dr. Kendrick gave up. Ultimately there was only one language these girls understood. He unzipped his pants, let his cock spring out. A day’s worth of precum and frustrated wafted out with it, and hit Claire in the nose. Her knees began to buckle.
“Sir that’s... oh, god. That’s so inappropriate. That’s a dick. That’s a big, veiny, amazing... oh, Dr. Kendrick!”
“Go ahead. Have a nuzzle, if it’ll calm you down.” Dr. Kendrick said. Her eyes were wide and bright.
Just another bimbo, after all.
Claire dropped to her knees. She only stared at it briefly before taking the entire thing into her mouth, and starting to suck.
Overall, a frustrating day. Although Claire had been nice and gentle and slow. He had sent her off with a pat on the bottom, and encouraged her to show up in jeans tomorrow. No doubt it would be a jean skirt two inches long or a pair of jean shorts, and the whole charade would start once more.
Oh well.
Dr. Kendrick surveyed the waiting room. Hopefully the cleaners would deal with the mess on the floor. And... oh, of course...
His mint bowl was empty.
Dr. Kendrick pulled the huge bag out of the break room. At least he had plenty of these things. They had come with the rental space, actually.
He filled the bowl to the brim. The little white mints tinkled on the glass. They had “DD” written on the side. Some he put in his pocket.
The girls at home loved them.
They met him at the door. The girls had taken to kneeling when he arrived, in a semi-circle in the foyer. Sometimes they were color-coordinated, sometimes they were just naked, sometimes they even worked out a theme for him. Cheerleader, or Nurse, or something like that.
Seven pairs of well-rounded boobs, and seven perfectly formed curves.
“Good evening, ah....” sometimes the names escaped him. “Jessica, Nicole, Melissa, Danielle, Pauline, Christina, and, ah...”
He pointed at the newest girl. She thought about it. “Crystal!” she finally came up with.
“Right.”
He felt the tension melt as the girls guided him to his favorite chair, and Nicole poured him a generous belt of scotch as Pauline began a slow, melting blowjob. Clever girl, she knew he liked women in schoolgirl plaid, with bright colored panties underneath. He would probably favor her with a fuck tonight.
Jessica and Nicole were on cooking duty. There were a lot of non-cooking sounds from the kitchen. Oh well.
They were terrible receptionists, but decent enough maids. Dr. Kendrick had realized early on that he couldn’t just let the girls go. They’d be victimized out there.
Problems intruded on his nightly blowjob. Claire would barely last a week, she was such a bimbo. He already had two chefs, three maids, and two housecleaners. Maybe...
“Girls, could we use a gardener?” He imagined Claire’s ass swaying in dusty brown shorts as she snipped at plants. An inviting target. That would work.
Problem solved.
The day’s tension finally started to melt away.
“Sir?” Danielle intruded. “Do you have...?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” he handed out the little mints to each of his girls. They eagerly let him place one on their tongues. And swallowed. They were good at swallowing.
At least, Dr. Kendrick thought, his hand on Pauline’s bobbing head, they were good for SOMETHING.