The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

THE BIMBO MERCHANT

by Limerick

MAY

* * *

magical-girl-kyra asked: Do you ever think about the possibility of yourself being mind controlled in some way? Are you apprehensive about it? Is there a part of you that desires it to some extent?

Nothing frightens me more.

The idea terrifies me. And it’s a very real threat. I live every day wondering if this is where I will lose it, sent down a road to bimbohood or himbohood by someone tinkering with my mind. Sudden urges that I can’t question, unusual activities that leave me vaguely concerned.

Earlier this week a limo with dark windows rolled through town. This is not a limo town. My heart started to race, I broke out in a sweat. Was this it? Had I been found? What’s fucked up is, I was GLAD to be sweaty and nervous. Otherwise I’d be serenely approaching a window, a dumb grin on my face…

I keep to routines, I leave notes for myself, I do all the things that I can to keep it from being a reality, and I know that it’s just a waste of time.

In my heart of hearts I know that someday I’ll get caught.

* * *

Anonymous asked: When it comes to your line of work, is there a particular ability, talent, technique, or technology you wish you had at your disposal? If so, what would it allow you to do that you currently cannot?

Technology. I can manage the phone-hypnosis stuff and pharmaceuticals but I’m just a technician. I can’t make my own tools. And while the mind control game isn’t going to change the tech gets better and better.

Example. A friend of mine made a custom vibrator, very custom, and simply mailed it to a random girl named Brenna at a midsize sorority.

Brenna figured it for a joke. And one aimed at her—she was the resident tightass. So it was almost as revenge when she took it out late one night, and tentatively put it to her clit.

Later she told her concerned sisters that the noises they heard were a bad dream. No one was fooled. Brenna had a new boyfriend, and it took double-A batteries.

At first a nighttime treat, the earthshaking orgasms became a habit, then a fixation. The vibrator was just so GOOD. After each O she would simply lie there, giggling, happy and stupid in a post-cum high.

A high that started to last longer and longer. It didn’t help that Brenna was taking her special friend out with her, to jill off during class, to masturbate in the library. She could control the screaming, somewhat, but the dumb stupor lasted longer and longer. She would look down in class and see that she had drooled on herself, thinking of her next session. Worse, she was starting not to care.

It was hard to face up to the failing grades, so she turned to shopping trips and lazy, low-intelligence pursuits. And finally, tarted up in a low-cut pink blouse that matched her vibrator, she went for help to a fellow sorority friend. The friend, skeptical, flipped the switch. Brenna, heart sinking, watched her friend’s eyes go wide with shock as she gently touched it to her jean zipper.

A bit later another sister wanted to know why the two house bimbos were spending all their time in their rooms, giggling.

After that the machine never stopped buzzing. It devoured batteries, passed from one needy girl to the next, leaving a trail of empty-headed bimbos in its wake. One of the few retaining any smarts thankfully made a rota for the machine before getting too cum-dumb to figure a spreadsheet. My friend made sure pizza and, more importantly, pizza boys, kept showing up at the house. Plus a few basic bimboizing pills, just to help the girls fill out properly.

And then, one day, the vibrator died. Just stopped. And all the pleas of the girls couldn’t get it started again.

So they all stumbled out of the house, and were gathered up for resale by my friend, who handed each of them a shiny new pink friend to keep them company on the trip.

* * *

Anonymous asked: Where did the saga of Damien begin?

Saga? I hope it’s not a saga.

I don’t know Damien well. No one knows Damien well. A lot of us hide our origins—for safety and because there is often something we’re leaving behind. But usually something betrays us—like Wren’s accent or some careless remark. Damien is a cipher, emerging when he was already in his 30s (he says) and joining the Association. Unlike so many of us, he doesn’t do a harem, keeping just one female assistant around in a black leather outfit.

From the start he specialized in big jobs. Hotels. Cruise ships. Towns. Where the challenge was not the transformation but in the organization—timetables, personnel, contingencies, logistics.

It’s probably not a huge surprise that none of us are good with people. We make people be good with us. Mind controllers have big egos and poor communication skills. And we’re justifiably suspicious and paranoid—we KNOW that evil mind controllers are out there. WE’RE THEM.

But Damien is good with people. Even my people. He listens, he makes friends, he persuades. He’s both a world-class bimboizer AND a leader of men. When Mr. Vyse was in charge we all basically were scared of him. With Damien we’re scared AND we respect him.

So now he’s in charge. And like I said, I nothing about what he ultimately wants. I just know that he always gets it.

Let this be a lesson: world-altering power can be yours if you’re a decent listener and good judge of character.

* * *

Anonymous asked: Have you ever used your talents in the service of a competition/game? Either one where the competitors are risking bimbofication for their chance to win, or one where your talents surreptitiously made people more inclined to participate?

You’re thinking of a sort of a Bimbo Jeopardy or game show situation. I personally don’t do those. There’s a guy named Mr. Bonus who specializes in that sort of thing. Bet-Your-Brains, Go an Hour Without Cumming, Jizz, he runs all of those. You can get episodes online for a reasonable price if you know who to talk to, they are pretty fun to watch. I heard he’s gonna do a reality TV house next, that’s probably going to be worth watching.

I don’t do competitions but I did do a marathon during my mass-bimboization days. It was a slick operation, one of those I’m most proud of. This was a major, major marathon, too, and we bimboized nearly forty girls in front of everyone. And with just two controllers and two assistants.

I stood on one side of the marathon, my partner on the other, with a girl handing out water cups by my side. Likely targets jogging down the lane found themselves suddenly thirsty. They got a big cup of green gatorade handed out by my lovely helper. A few times perfectly sexy girls helped themselves without any influence from me. Bonus.

The trick is that the rest of the water stations down the way—all of them—had been already doctored by my team that morning. So everyone was getting dosed—but only my preselected few were primed with the activator.

It should be pretty obvious that physical activity is my signature move. Some people like booze, some people like television, I like my girls physically active and horny. And what better activity? It was so easy for the girls to attribute the sway of their tits, the tingling sensation between their legs, the burning ache of need, to the marathon. Even as their boobs started to swell and bounce, it was just ‘sensitivity to the sports bra.’

And running is, ultimately, a pretty mindless activity. Very mindless, for my girls. As they chugged water they lost brain cells, eventually jogging in a pristine haze of horniness and bouncing tits.

We stood at a convenient spot near the finish line and directed them off the course. It was easy. The bus ride back was, for them, one big giggling sweaty mass of female flesh.

I wish I had kept track of their times. Wouldn’t it be interesting to know if they sped up or slowed down?

* * *

Anonymous asked: Have you ever added any physical features to a target outside of the standard bimbo package of curves and lips? A coat of fur, for instance?

If the question is “DO YOU DO FURRIES?” the answer is, not really. For the major body modification stuff like tails and fur and such you need a wizard. I can convince the female body to do more of what it’s already doing—more boobs, more sex, more lips—but I can’t convince it to become a squirrel. There’s a few pills that are somewhat relevant but… you want a wizard.

What I do do, is buttons.

There’s a certain client that loves buttons. What I mean is a certain spot on the girl’s body where you press it, just so, and she has a gushy, drippy, wonderful orgasm. Or a variant, she flips on the bimbo switch and needs to get laid right that second.

I can do a mental button where you trick the mind into coming if it knows she’s getting pushed. Or a real, no-fooling, nerve cluster that sends a bomb up to her brain. The latter comes with a warning—we’ve all read about the cocaine rats. Too much button tends to turn the girl into a brainfried bimbo, maybe able to tell you her name.

That being said, I think the button is great. If I don’t get any other direction it goes into the belly button because… that makes sense. But I’ve put it lots of places. One fun-loving client had me put it on the bottom of her foot. And no other changes except a ‘no-telling’ block.

She couldn’t do arithmetic by Tuesday.

* * *

THE MIDTERM: 6

The exit from campus was right over there. Just a block away. And it was.. normal.

No one was fucking and sucking on the ground, uncaring of the cold concrete against their naked skin. There weren’t co-eds stumbling around on their knees, looking to give hummers to whoever. And the terrible and strange nonverbalness of it—no one talking at all beyond grunts and shrieks. Just people walking around, being normal.

“I’m worried because I’m pretty fuckable,” Anna said.

“Excuse me?” Bobby said. He turned away from that invisible barrier. He forgot about it.

Anna rolled her eyes at him. “I’m not fishing for compliments,” she said. “I’m just stating facts. This is some sort of weird sex virus or whatever and I’m probably a prime target. I mean, look over there, even the fat guys and girls are getting off.”

She pointed to a fleshy pit of copulation near the library.

“Okay, whatever. So lets…” Bobby trailed off. Lets… what? Fuck? No, that wasn’t right. “Uh… weren’t we talking about dreams?”

Anna looked cross. She pushed her tits together. “You’re just thinking about fucking my big tits, aren’t you? You’re just going along with me until I catch whatever it is and just start grinding on your cock.”

“I’m trying to…” but Bobby’s erection was back. His head was pounding. Sleep. He hadn’t gotten enough sleep.

“See?” Anna said, triumphant, pointing at his crotch. “Look at that. You want to just shove it into my pussy until I’m one of these whimpering zombies, don’t you? Well, I have a better idea.”

Anna looked around until she spotted a stray girl. A blonde, cute, still wearing a flannel shirt, if nothing else. She had that lazy, stupid smile, and cum dribbled down her chin.

“Here, fuck her mouth. I’ll be…” Anna’s mouth moved, but nothing came out. “Here. I’ll.. I’ll watch. Keep an eye on you.”

The blonde took her cue, paddled towards Bobby, fished his dick out with languid fingers. It was his second blowjob in fifteen minutes, and just as incredible.

Anna watched as his wet dick pistoned in and out of her mouth. “Yeah,” she said, eventually. “Right. Just like that.”

Eventually she fell onto her knees. There was a moment when she seemed to react, startling, but soon she was inching closer and closer.

Soon the brunette was right next to his sheath. Her mouth hung open.

“Some sort of… sex virus,” she mumbled, and didn’t resist when Bobby withdrew and inserted into her open mouth. She started to suck like the rest.

“I still think it’s something to do with sleep,” Bobby told her, right before he came.

* * *

Congrats to Derek on passing his midterm. Major accomplishment for a young mind controller.

* * *

Anonymous asked: What is it like to be inside somebody’s mind as you work on them?

I can’t really describe it, I’m sure that’s not too surprising. The best I can do is a series of metaphors that would really obfuscate more then explain. It’s like… cleaning a dirty house. Rewiring a circuit board. Fixing the plumbing. You see what I mean.

Have you already guessed the big secret? While I’m in there I can feel what the girl feels, think what she thinks. And it’s so hot, so amazing, to flush all those worries and cares and thoughts away, wiping the slate clean. In its place there is just a clean white and warm landscape, a half-orgasmic glow that is purely mental.

Why do you think so many mind controllers go into bimbos? This is an obscure fetish, right? Because it’s such an amazing high to set those faculties on fire, set the libido into overdrive.

What I walk into is a bag of meat with reproductive capabilities. She has sex because it feels pretty good, when a complicated set of biological and social criteria are met. Everything else is concerns, distractions, worries. And when I leave, I leave behind a toy, eager to cum, uninterested in most everything else.

Like cleaning a dirty house.

* * *

NEIGHBORS: 1

“New neighbor,” Will said, peeking through the window.

“Is that even worth mentioning?” Tina said, not looking up from her magazine. “That place rents out constantly to scuzzballs. I think it specializes in short-term dirtbags.”

“That was just Terry, and he was an alright guy, he came by right away, brought a six-pack.”

“He had to come by. Court order,” Tina said, acidly.

“And I thought he had a very good explanation for that. Got a bit drunk, forgot to pull his pants up.”

“At a baseball game.”

“Well,” Will said. He shrugged. Tina didn’t see it. She had conducted the entire conversation with her head down. “I’m going to help him move in. Say hi.”

* * *

The man had deep purple bags under his eyes, and his hair was greasy and dark. He drove a dusty Corolla.

“Hey there, I’m…” Will stopped dead in his tracks. He had the strangest sensation, like someone was touching his name. “Will? Will. Uh.”

“God, I’m tired,” the man murmured. He put his hand out. “Harold. Nice to meet you, Will.”

“Yeah. Uh.” Will regained his composure. “Need any help?”

The man popped the trunk. Two briefcases and a duffel. “No.”

“You sure? I can grab a duffel,” Will said, smiling.

Harold put a hand against the car. To steady himself, Will realized. “Sure,” Harold amended. He nodded, seemed to make a decision. “I think I have a half-bottle of something in the car if you want to help me move in.”

* * *

“Nice guy,” Will said, weaving through the door. “GREAT guy. Not much of a talker but… good guy.”

Had he even talked at all? Mostly Will remembered himself talking, and gin. The bottle turned out to be ancient and pricey cognac. Will was up for it.

“Great,” Tina said. “Glad you made a friend.” She blinked, looked up from her reading for the first time. “Hey,” she said, and looked startled as she said: “you feel like a blowjob?”

Will kept smiling.

* * *

MANSION

Derek is moving into a mansion. I don’t like this at all.

Not that I can say anything. I haven’t explained anything about me being on the run, about the wider mind controlling world, about my past. And he hasn’t asked. Still too much in awe.

But he has a growing harem, is a talented young bimboizer, and wants to trade up. He simply traded with the existing owner, a wealthy attorney who now lives in a crappy two-bedroom bungalow. So now he’s just that much more visible.

He must wonder why a bimboizer of my abilities and age lives in a small townhouse that barely fits the four of us. Here’s why: it’s close to two freeways, has multiple exits, and looks identical to the twenty townhouses around it.

Worrying.

* * *

Anonymous asked: Do you do temporary jobs? I only ask because I’m in charge of a bachelor’s party and the bachelorette party’s the same night...

I used to do them pretty regular but I’ve gotten too old for it. But Derek is up for it, and he’s cheap.

Let me caution you that this will be a really intense bachelor party. As in, you need to be comfortable watching your best friends fuck girls. Fuck a ton of girls. You will see their dicks. We are not talking cheering for a stripper and then going solo to a champagne room, this is more ‘unbridled orgy in a limo-bus.’

There are two ways to go about this. The first is where everyone kind of knows the score. Get a big rental house, stock up on booze and lube, and a passel of girls will be over at 8. They are yours all night, please don’t all gang up on the redhead. I can send some modified girls over or just dose them with gas and a little mental pat to their libidos. I actually recommend the latter because it’s a bit less ‘lets all get together and fuck’ and a bit more ‘party.’

The second is where only the best man is in on it, and I know your itinerary. Suddenly your crew will be running into old girlfriends and high school crushes and random hotties all night, all susceptible to the easiest pass, with legs that swing open with a wink. By the time you’re all five-six bars in every guy will have some easy lay on his arm, dragging him to the bathroom for blowjobs. Then back to the homebase for a booze-fueled orgy. The concept is, if everything at the bach party went absolutely perfectly.

I don’t recommend the ‘bimboify every bachelorette guest’ idea. Unless you’re willing to pay for memory wipes. They’ll remember SOMETHING and the bride will vaguely know that the groom fucked a dozen of her besties. Trust me on this.

* * *

Anonymous asked: When it comes to doing “run ins with old female acquaintances who were in the area for some reason and are suddenly much prettier” how often are you asked for actual, detailed backstories as lead-ups to encounters? If the client is going to ask for something like that I at least hope the girl’s excuse for running into her old friend is flimsy and immersion-breaking.

Is that sarcasm? I don’t even know, people don’t usually use sarcasm around me.

Anyone in the service sector—such as myself—learns that there are no people. There are just types. And yes, one type is what I privately call “Jennys” because they insist on a ridiculous white knight scenario e.g. Forrest Gump.

I get that this is their way of reconciling a) turning some girl into a sex slave and b) their personal conception of themselves as good people. But the result is sheer idiocy.

Lets take a girl I did not too long ago. Megan. Megan’s post-college career was boring—a boring roommate, boring off-and-on boyfriend, boring mid-tier job at a bank. She had an entire cabinet of beauty products and was experimenting with going gluten-free. To me that suggests a sudden sexual awakening, her life starting over as she starts to let her body decide what to do. Increasingly wild and enticing sexual encounters culminating in her rediscovery of a wealthy sugar daddy who will indulge her anal fixation and shocking spending habits.

But that’s me.

Instead I had to implant this idiotic fallen woman scenario into Megan. Now she got into drugs after college, and started hooking to pay for her fix. Now she has two bulging tits that are fake and shitty. The client even specified mis-matching nipples! And scars on the underside! I had to have them tattooed on! Then after turning tricks and abusing she is literally taken off the street by the client in a rented limo, at a prearranged spot.

I nearly rolled my eyes, and I never do that in front of a client. He only got the limo for an hour! Just barely enough time to drive down, pick her up, and go back to the house.

Sometimes I wonder if I should just tell the clients that I’ve removed their morality. Just declare it. Wouldn’t even do anything. They’d be relieved, right?

* * *

SWEAT: 1

7:30 a.m. and already hot enough to melt mailboxes. The vinyl red flags had been drooping throughout the week, and some were puddled on the sidewalk. Lacey ran faster just to generate her own wind, and to get from tree shadow to tree shadow along the route.

Sweat poured off of her. She knew if she turned around it would be trickled on the sidewalk. There were massive sweat stains underneath her armpits, her boobs were soggy, her rolls of chub… like highlighting on parts of the body she disliked.

Some of the other guys in the running club were equally sweaty, but, like with everything else in life, it was different for guys. Both Keith and Josh were heavyset and chugging, Paul was the older man, made out of pure sinews. He was in second.

And then Chloe, out in front. Lacey loathed Chloe.

Lacey thought of it as partially rational. Chloe was physical perfection. Perfect thighs. Round ass. Big tits, not that they slowed her down. That was aggravating. All four of them spent the entire run staring at Chloe’s bouncing rear end. Lacey was sure the other three didn’t mind. But there was a tradeoff—Chloe was obviously a total airhead—and Lacey should’ve taken some comfort from that.

And she did, until Chloe once got in Paul’s car at the end of the run.

“God, it’s hot,” Lacey mumbled. She hated running. Hated losing weight. Hated the heat, hated her body, hated her running club. Once she reached target weight that was it. Already she was pricing out treadmills.

Thank god, the parking lot. And of course Chloe’s equally sexy friend Amy was there, kicking her naked legs off the trunk of their car.

She had a big water jug next to her. One of the big orange ones. Chloe was already filling up a cup. Her tits were still swinging. Or maybe they always did that.

“Good run, good run,” Keith heaved, his hands on his knees. Amy gave him a glass. And one to Josh. The asian girl wore a bright white pair of shorts and a shiny yellow tank top. Her lips were glossy and pink.

“Thanks for bringing the gatorade,” Paul said. He downed his cup.

Amy smiled brightly. “Sure, gatorade!” she squeaked. Chloe still hadn’t said anything. She slowly licked her lips.

Amy handed Lacey a cup. The stuff inside was bright green. Vague doubts circled in the back of Lacey’s mind. But she was so god damn thirsty.

She downed it in one gulp, and went back for more.

* * *

MY DAY

5:30 a.m.: Chloe leaves as quietly as possible for the first of her two running clubs. I usually wake up anyway. I am a very paranoid sleeper.

6:00 a.m.: Good morning blowjob from Amy if I’m not already awake.

6:30 a.m.: Tracy has been on cooking duty, which suits her. Weekends it’ll be something special. Weekdays, cereal and black coffee. Weekends I’ll usually bang Tracy while she does dishes. Fucking a girl backwards while she cleans is one of my more esoteric interests.

7:00 a.m.: Exercise.

7:30 a.m.: Fuck Chloe once she’s back from running. I love giving it to Chloe when she’s been exercising horny for two hours.

8:00–10:00 a.m.: Phone work. Also called “Love It” work. This is a series of 10-15 minute jobs over the phone tweaking someone’s personality. Typically it’s getting a girl to like something—I love giving blowjobs, I love anal sex, I love cum on my face. Or it’s a stage in a longer personality shift.

10:00 a.m.–10:30 a.m.: Coffee & whatever girl I feel like. Or girls.

10:30 a.m.–12:30 p.m.: Meetings at my coffee shop or practice with Derek. Light lunch.

12:30 p.m.–5:00 p.m.: Client-location work. Last Friday it was a personal driver for a wealthy client. I found him a cheap, skinny blonde out at the community college, and had her drive me around town while I worked on her. [Experienced mind controllers only]. Put a few pills in her that should give her the long, lustrous hair the client wanted, and tied her entire sexual system into the running motor of a car. When it revs, so will she. And the hum of the engine while she sits there will feel like a full-speed hitachi. I put Tracy to work making a mock driver uniform—starched white shirt, short tie, frilly black skirt with dark black stockings. A good day’s work.

5:00 p.m.–6:00 p.m.: Dinner with the girls and Derek. We’ve been working on his mass control, so tonight’s challenge was for him to bang Chloe in the middle of a crowded bar and grill, and nobody notices. Plus Chloe is a screamer. He did well overall but needs to remember the subliminal level and also smell—everyone there got turned on without really understanding why. And that’s fine, if you want that, but he needs to be able to shut it off.

6:00 p.m.–9:00 p.m.: Often a quiet night in, but I’ve been working nights lately. This was a fertility job. Young couple with a kid, husband wants his sexy girl back, AND to keep the baby train rolling. NN-HANC for energy, low dose to keep the intelligence loss down. Then gave her a cream fixation, loving the sensation of sperm inside of her. Also added a trigger in case that wasn’t enough, boosting her libido if she heard the passphrase. Hope the kid is a deep sleeper. Shoot, I should’ve given her something for screaming. Well, I’ll call on Monday and do it over the phone.

9:00 p.m.–11:30 p.m.: Romp with the girls. Friday was Game of Thrones night per Amy. I don’t watch the show, but the outfits were appreciated. I was something-Drago. Whiskey, reading, writing, bedtime.

* * *

Anonymous asked: How for back does bimboization history go? Are there any reliable records, or is it all just myths and hearsay?

Myth and rumor. But isn’t that more interesting, in a way? Think about it.

I have a friend who took an interest in the ‘hidden history’ of the field, and he made a thorough search into the ancient and recent history of bimboization and mind control. And sure, there are tantalizing hints of brainless girls cavorting around. The nymphs of ancient Greece, the seraglios of the Ottoman palace, nunneries in the middle ages that spawned whisper-campaigns about orgies in the night…

But anything concrete? No. And what about mind controllers? Can there really be psionics in the background for millenia without one—just one—making it into history? Some people argue that major historical figures and religious prophets are untrained naturals. But always they make the missteps and/or are betrayed in ways not possible for the actually gifted.

Contrast with magic. There have been stories about magic in every culture and era, forever. Druids held position of real power. These things get into the record, if they exist.

And if we had some way, any way, of making bimbos.. it would’ve stuck around. So many powerful men in history who needed fertile, willing wives. They would’ve done anything for my services.

So I think all of this—the bimbos, the powers, etc.—I think it’s recent. And isn’t that interesting? Is there some chemical or environmental influence making people like me possible? Behind every bimbo is there some common chemical—a slut-penicillin—that required the modern world?

Sometimes I think I see influence in events, a master controller with a scope so vast it makes Damien and all the rest of us appear as the pathetic pawns we are.

* * *

Anonymous asked: You talk a lot about drugs, technology, and psionics, but what about good old-fashioned hypnosis?

Unfair oversight. Some of those old guys did incredible work in the 1960s and 70s, with techniques that are stone age by modern standards. All they had was a watch and their voice, and they created some of the first bimbos.

The real trailblazer was a man named Perry Klay. No mental powers, no fancy pills. And yet he created his first bimbo in 1959, literally just using his pocketwatch. His girl, Mildred, may be the first bimboization—a good next girl who he slowly turned into his own personal cocksucker.

Perry had all sorts of tricks. He had to use overlays, but he would just layer and layer them until the girl underneath was gone. First Mildred went into a mild trance when he said a trigger. Then, while in that trance, he went through the entire hypnosis regime again. And again. He was purely experimenting. But slowly that suggestibility state became all of Mildred—the pliable cocksucker trance state became all there was. He put her under over and over and over until she had hundreds of trances to wake up from.

Some of it was, by our standards, amusingly archaic. He wasn’t happy with Mildred’s tits.. so he had her eat more. Well, it worked. And, odd for our day, he MARRIED the girl. This foggy bimbo he put under every day.

We had him over to give a speech once, he was incredible of course. We offered to give Mildred—pushing 70—a do-over. He declined. Heck of a guy.

* * *

Anonymous asked: Dear Mr D, your articles are written in excellent English, therefore you probably operate in an English-speaking country. I live in continental Europe, and I am interested in contracting the services of an excellent mind controller and willing to pay the price. My problem is that over here, I do not know of any organization that can provide me with such. I will have to look for a good professional myself. Could you tell me what are the tell-tale signs of an excellent MC / a hack? Thank you.

Well, I mentioned some of the signs earlier, but the problem is that most of the signs are post-bimboization. Boobs, butt, libido, all that stuff. And we don’t live in a world where references and the Better Business Bureau are a thing. So it can be challenging. It doesn’t help that so many of the shysters are refined older men in excellent suits while many of the truly talented and dedicated bimboizers lived in old sweatpants.

I should say, your bimboizer will have SOME level of ability. The Association does not treat impersonators well. My god, why is anyone that dumb. If you should get outright scammed, just post on any random message board online about the experience, and it will get dealt with.

I hope that what you’ve read here and in my past posts are a guide. I also want to caution you about ‘paying the price’. If your bimboizer is charging you six figures for a standard bimbo, that’s way above market. Big red flag.

I know one scam artist named Mr. Janus, who runs The Janus Academy For Young Ladies. He made an initial investment into glossy brochures, an attractive video, etc. The pitch is that you send some raggedy girl to bimbo school, and two weeks later out pops a perfectly ditzy little toy. The video follows a hot ragamuffin from initial and sulky enrollment, to befuddled showers in the dorms, to energetically participating in Blowjobs 101. It’s a GREAT video. Janus rented out some eastern prep school for the filming.

It’s a great pitch. Fantastic. It really sounds like the girl is getting some high-end training into how to be a top-tier bimboslut. There are pictures of the ‘instructors’, they are impressive.

Unfortunately, it’s all crap. The real “Janus Academy” is a cheap office building somewhere outside Tucson, where the girls are given high-dose addictive-style NN-HANC and then hang around all day giggling. After two weeks of rapid transformation and IQ-loss they’re shoehorned with their new tits into a schoolgirl uniform and offloaded. Janus even has an assistant with minimal abilities doing the grunt work, and making the girls vaguely think they’ve been to school. He charges insane amounts of money for this.

And of course his clients are pleased. Very pleased. Those girls learn a lot, in that office park, from each other. NN-HANC does a capable job. So.. money well spent?

* * *

NEIGHBOR: 2

Tina had gotten really good at giving head. Really, really good.

And it was just as hot that she had developed such a passion for improving her blowjob skills. She read books, watched porn—a lot of porn. Will had found her practicing on bananas, carefully sliding them down her throat until just the tip showed. Then she slid it back out again. And given him a delighted look.

That one had been particularly enjoyable.

Sure, there had been a few missteps. Despite her best efforts Will just didn’t enjoy getting his balls massaged, and the ‘wakeup blowjob’ was a bit too much too fast for someone with his church-picnic upbringing.

But there was nothing to complain about. Not after Tina had sat him down very seriously and explained that she wanted to focus on facials.

“Someone’s at the door,” Will said, standing up. Tina groaned. She was on her knees, putting on lipstick. “Let them knock!” she said.

“It’s a polite knock. I have to answer a polite knock. I’ll be right back, baby,” Will explained. He stroked her hair gently. She liked that, lately.

His neighbor was at the door. He had filled out a bit since showing up gaunt and haggard. And was apparently quite popular with the girls. An asian thing that could not be over 19 flitted in and out his door.

“Hey… Will,” the man said. “Sorry for interrupting.”

“Oh you’re not…” Will zipped his lips. That was just too much of a lie.

“Look, sorry about this, but my car won’t start and I’ve got someplace immediate to be. Very immediate. Can you give me a jump or whatever?”

“Well, of course!” Will said, already pulling on his jacket. Behind him, Tina grumped in the bedroom.

* * *

“Well, this is not a battery issue, Harold. This is a dead car issue,” Will said, eventually.

Harold shook his head. “Okay. Thanks for your…”

“Here, jump in,” Will interrupted. “I’ll give you a ride.”

“You’re sure,” Harold said. He craned his neck just slightly towards Will’s townhouse, and just slightly arched an eyebrow. Did he know? Will could’ve sworn he had zipped up his fly.

“Of course I’m sure!”

* * *

“Left here,” Harold said. He didn’t even glance at street signs. And they were way out in the outskirts of town. Will made the turn anyway. It was just some random lane with a few scattered houses.

Harold closed his eyes. “That one,” he said, eventually, eyes still shut. He pointed at a plonked down tract house with a bunch of cars out front. “She’s in there.”

“She…?” Will said, eventually.

Harold didn’t respond. When Will pulled up the man opened the passenger door and stepped out.

He returned with a bimbo in tow.

A brunette wearing a light grey sweater, and nothing else. And it wasn’t a very long sweater. Harold had her sit in the back, and as soon as Will glanced in the rear view, he could see right up between her thighs.

The car quickly smelled like fucking.

They rode in silence the rest of the way, as the girl fell into a light but apparently happy doze.

* * *

“Hey, thanks for the ride,” Harold said, once they got back. “Let me help clean the car up tomorrow. Sorry about Chloe.”

She woke up to her name, smiled broadly at both of them, and yawned like a cat.

“I don’t like to pry,” Will eventually managed. What was this guy? Who had some sort of homing device for naked sluts.

“Good, I appreciate that,” Harold said. He stopped himself, put his hand out. “Sorry. I do appreciate that. I do owe you.”

It was a reassuring handshake. Will told himself to trust it.

The next morning, Tina’s bras were too tight.

* * *

Anonymous asked: I am interested in a bimbo slut minus the dumb part ... is that possible, after all? You’ve mentioned that lowering a girl’s intelligence is an integral part of bimboization. i rather dream of me and my significant other as partners in crime ... i mean i say yes to the killer body, to the libido on 10, but i want her to be as smart as now, which is very. can i get such a deal?

“When you’re in Hollywood and you’re a comedian, everybody wants you to do things besides comedy. They say, ‘OK, you’re a stand-up comedian—can you act? Can you write? Write us a script?’… It’s as though if I were a cook and I worked my ass off to become a good cook, they said, ‘All right, you’re a cook—can you farm?’”—Mitch Hedberg

* * *

Anonymous asked: And if she’s a V8 to start with, how difficult is it to put in the Bimbo package, less the brain drain?

eh

* * *

Anonymous asked: You mentioned that you can’t give a person intelligence that isn’t there (using a car metaphor, I think). What if you took a naturally brilliant person and gave them a bimbo body while otherwise leaving their intellect intact?

who cares

* * *

SWEAT: 2

Lacey was starting to loathe her tits.

In the past few weeks she had shaved long minutes off her jog time, loping at an increasingly steady pace. She had dropped one, maybe two or even three dress sizes, and all her waistbands were saggy and loose on her hips. The girl in the mirror, pre-run, was increasingly athletic, slender, even sexy.

Except that, somehow, her tits had gotten even bigger. It was maddening.

Lacey had gone up two bra sizes. An expensive running bra had gone back to the store, too obviously sweaty for them to take it. And the new one was getting increasingly tight.

Last night Lacey had googled “running with sensitive nipples.” And then clicked on the porno that had brought up, instead.

The running club had settled into a curious pecking order. Chloe out front, of course. Then the downright aristocratic Paul, with his steely chin and dark eyes. Next came Keith and Josh, practically dripping off pounds, seemingly ending two pounds lighter. And then Lacey, fidgeting as her nipples rubbed against her bra. After yesterday’s run she had gulped Amywater, run to the car, and fingered herself in the parking lot.

Frankly she had been a sexual wreck most of the day.

Lacey checked her watch as they burst into the parking lot. Another 45 seconds shaved off her time. Incredible. The boys and girls stood in a loose circle, breathing hard, eyeing each other. Well, mostly eyeing Chloe.

They all guzzled Amy’s water bottles. Guzzled. It was something sweet and a little salty. The colors tended to change. Lacey didn’t question it. God, if Keith or Josh even looked at her she would…

But no, Josh had caught Chloe’s eye and Amy had smiled at Keith. God fucking dammit.

At least this time she was ready. Lacey hopped into her car, opened the glove box, and retrieved the vibrator she had bought last night. The windows on the car fogged right up. She shoved it inside her slit, let the shorts snap back, and heaved a sigh of relief. That should hold her for the next few hours.

On her way out Lacey passed Amy’s car. They were just fucking each other out in the open. Amy’s feet were up in the air as Keith fucked her from the backseat. Chloe knelt on the pavement and bobbed doggedly on Josh. Paul was nowhere to be seen—until Lacey rounded the car. There he was, fucking Amy’s throat from the other side of the car. They were in a church parking lot.

Knuckles tight on the wheel, Lacey drove until her first orgasm made her pull over.

* * *

Anonymous asked: Have you ever fallen in love?

Once.

* * *

Anonymous asked: Loved the Hedberg quote, but your other responses on intelligence seemed...out of sorts. I know bimbos are your wheelhouse, but do you have a problem smart girls?

Obviously.

Look, if you want a smart girl, go find one. There are a lot of hot, fun, intelligent women out there. If there were more dumb fuckbunnies I would be out of business.

But as far as I’m concerned, asking me to make a hot, smart girl is like calling 911 and getting a firefighter over to mow your lawn. I am a bimboizer. That’s what I do.

* * *

Anonymous asked: should I be concerned about eating stuff from Bimbo Bakeries?

We actually considered purchasing them because, too perfect. But some spanish-speaking members complained that we were acting like dumb white americans. Fair enough.

“Pastries” are one of those bimboization categories I wish I was better at, but it’s one of those niches that takes a lifetime to master. The joy of snacks is twofold: how easy it is to turn a sugar binge into a bimboizing surge, and the degree of control you have while doing it. A real masterbaker produces a basket of carefully chosen baked goods, all of which have a particular roll.

A friend of mine had about a dozen specialties. His signature was the date-bimboization. The client takes the girl out to a decent restaurant. Do they order dessert? But of course! And so arrive sweet after sweet, each of which has some obvious, wonderful, bimboizing effect on the increasingly hapless girl. A strudel to jumpstart her tits, a gooey eclair that makes her moan around the creamy filling, a napoleon that makes her giggle and squirm as she struggles with it, all in the middle of a crowded restaurant.Sometimes he would work in a team with a magic user to handle outfit changes and to get her makeup done.

The second half, where she’s already loaded with libido-enchancers and is starting to lick her lips, that’s particularly fun. There is something amazing about watching a girl go blonde with each mouthful of ice cream, starting up from the roots. And then, the piece de resistance, a huge, rich, creamy milkshake that balloons her tits as she drinks.

In reality, the tit-enhancer is a delayed action that pops in with an enzyme in the milkshake.. but it looks perfect.

And in the end, the client walks out with a well-satiated, dim, busty, perfect bimbo, changed over right in front of the client’s eyes into a perfect piece of cheesecake. It’s a great setpiece.

I asked him how many clients make a ‘give her a creamy filling’ joke. ‘All of them’ he told me. ‘All of them.’

* * *

SWEAT: 3

Lacey was…

The thought eluded her, like so many others these days. She would be so close to breaking into actual thinking, like a real thought, and then it would bubble away. Submerged once again into the sea of foam that was her head these days.

She ran, and waited.

Lacey was.. horny! There, there it was. And it was SO true. God, was she horny. Her pussy was the hottest thing about her, and she was everywhere warm to the touch. Lacey had filled it with vibrators and dildos and bananas and neighbors and it was just barely enough to keep her sort of okay. Her titties ballooned in front of her, mammoth and swollen, and she had to trust to the city authorities that there were no sudden potholes.

Although she had a feeling that falling on them would just make her cum.

Lacey was… thirsty! There, two thoughts in one run, she was at quota. She needed Amy juice so very badly. The day before Amy had made Lacey lick for it, lick and lick and lick, until her tongue was happy but sore. And then she squirted it down Lacey’s throat, which made Lacey happy but felt weird.

Between the… however number of them there were… they had drank an entire cooler dry.

The boys had names, and Lacey sort of knew them. But it was easier to think of the older one and the two others. The older one usually fucked her, the other two fucked Chloe. She had sort of moved in with the older one after losing her job.

Funny how she could remember Chloe’s name.

Lacey ran and ran. She found new reserves of strength. The two musclebound hunks and the sinewy man fell behind her. She didn’t even notice as she passed the graceful, powerful Chloe. She was horny. Thirsty. Horny thirsty. So horny and thirsty.

First into the parking lot. Lacey didn’t even think of the accomplishment. She headed straight to the Amy car.

There was no Amy car. There was a stern looking man and a bashful, embarrassed Amy. And no water at all. Lacey was confused. She looked for a man to explain things.

“Amy, really, what is this,” the man said, looking at her. Lacey stuck her tits out at the man, hopefully.

“Doesn’t she look great?” Amy chirped, hopefully.

“She looks like a cartoon. And those men, they’re like gym rats. What kind of dose did you give them?”

“Dose?” Amy said, still trying to smile. “I dumped…”

“Yes, I guess so. Oh boy,” the man shook his head. “Not sure what to do about this one. The men I can probably revert. The girl… what’s your name?”

Lacey opened her mouth. But she had already had two thoughts on the run. There was no way she was producing a third.

“I didn’t think so,” the man said. “Well, lets take her home, figure out what to do with her. Here, honey,” he produced a single water bottle. “Drink from this.”

“I’ll feel good?” Lacey said.

“Oh yes,” the man promised. “Amazing.”

She opened her mouth wide.

* * *

AMY

Not happy at all with Amy. Going out and bimboizing some girl is completely out of line. And himboizing a few bystanders, too.

This Lacey girl is completely brainburnt and is basically a well-toned hole. I don’t even want to guess what kind of dose Amy gave her, apparently she went through a six month supply of powder in a few weeks. I’ve got her at the coffeeshop now, a docile slut for public use. And now I need a real solution.

It’s hard to be mad at Amy, I know she means well. But I keep her a little smarter so that she DOESN’T pull stunts like this. Apparently Lacey was going to be a father’s day present for me, ugh.

I don’t play Master my Master very often but Amy is going to be on a short leash for awhile. I mean that extremely literally.

I think what I’m going to do is dump Lacey on Derek as a teaching aid, see how much of her he can get back. Call it his final exam. I’m going to his place for dinner, he’s eager to show me his new place and show off his little harem.