The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Bimboquill: The Secret Files of Dr. Funkenstein — Part 1

By: Quill

I am not a good person.

I’m a scientist, and a scientist requires a certain level of objectivity. Moral relativism, if you will. Right or wrong shift based upon the needs of the time, defined by society’s common consensus. There are no moral absolutes. In ancient Babylonia, for example, an eye for an eye was the ruling code of the land, but these days such a policy is considered barbaric. Rules change, societies change, and we change along with them.

That said, I am a bad person.

It all began one cool night in late October. We were in the campus quad. I remember the sound of cars whooshing by on a highway a half mile away, and the way the wind rustled through bare branches. Those were simpler days. Better days. I shouldn’t have done it.

“Julian, are you sure we should be doing this?” Didi asked, her tone thick with worry. “I don’t think this is a very good idea.”

Didi, bless her heart, had never been very attractive. I met her in my first chemistry class, and I found her to be smart, if timid, and, more or less, a good person. She was kind and sweet, but her face looked like a cross between Frankenstein’s Monster and a naked mole rat. The poor girl knew it, too. She rarely raised her voice above a whisper. I took it upon myself to drag her out into the world, which was why she was with us on our little adventure.

“Yes, I’m sure we should be doing this,” I said. “Buck up, girl. We’re performing a public service. The statue should’ve been torn down years ago.”

“It just doesn’t seem very responsible,” she said.

“Responsibility is for those stupid enough to grow old,” I answered simply.

“Julian, this happening?” Sean called from the statue. He sipped a can of beer. “I’m freezing my dick off over here.”

Sean’s was a third year econ major, and he reminded me of one of those greasy used car salesman—the kind that sell you on the pleather interior and extra cool A/C. He liked to leave the first few buttons on his shirt undone, letting black hair puff up over its top. A gold chain hung from his neck, gaudy and thick.

“Yeah, we’re just about ready,” I answered, opening a Tupperware container. Pink gel filled it to the brim. “Grab a brush and start painting the base. Really get it on there.”

Some poor artist spent half a decade of his life carving the features of an aggressively bland looking man into the marble. The statues stood eight feet tall, with a single finger raised towards a copse of trees at the far end of the quad. I viewed what we were about to do as a courtesy to art. Like shooting a dying horse, the university would be better without the forgettable monstrosity looming over its picnic tables.

“So what’d this guy do?” Sean asked.

“Do you care?”

“I’d like to know what I’m destroying.”

“Georgino Gonzalez graduated in nineteen seventy-one with a bachelors in accounting,” I began. “He made a small fortune predicting the oil crash of seventy-three, then died in seventy-four from pneumonia. The majority of his money went to our humble university. The school board was so happy they could afford to teach underwater basket weaving that semester that they built him a statue.”

“And we’re just going to blow it up?” Didi asked.

“With prejudice,” I said with a wide grin.

When the tupperware was empty, we crept back a couple dozen feet to the picnic tables, hiding behind a pair of benches. The statue glowed faintly in the darkness. It seemed to pulse, as if it were alive.

“Tell me again why didn’t just use dynamite?” Sean asked.

“Because science,” I said, and pressed the button.

The explosion ripped across the campus quad. Trees bent and cracked in the sudden crash of wind. Bolted tables creaked, straining to hold their grip on the brick floor, and the air rushed with the wave of heat and sound. The force picked me up and threw me a dozen feet away to land in a pile against a tree. Air fled my lungs in a gasp, and I felt something in my chest pop. A blast of pain screamed through my body.

Then I laughed. Born from glee, it tore from my lips and swept up in the force of the explosion to be carried off by the wind. Pink fire rose from the statue like a furious dragon. A crash echoed across the quad, and bricks beside me shattered as the statue’s head drove itself into the ground, sending up a shower of dirt and rock. Georgino Gonzalez’s marble eyes stared into my own expressionless and dull.

When the roar and thunder of the explosion faded, a snow began to fall. Pink dust settled over the quad in a light coating that grew thicker with each passing second. Well that’s not right, I thought, watching the pink dust settle.

The world rang. I knew I was still laughing, but my shattered ear drums couldn’t make out a sound. Great heaving gasps fled my chest, sending out shockwaves of pain. I didn’t care, though. Pain, my ears, the red and blue lights of police cars pulling in around me—none of it mattered.

The experiment had been a success.

* * *

Dean Sanders kept an office on the fifth floor of the administration complex. A soft jazz played through speakers hidden behind potted plants, the air smelled faintly of cigars and mahogany, and when I took my seat across from him, I sank deep into the leather armchair. A silver plate with a decanter of scotch stood next to two crystal glasses. The Dean filled one of those glasses with a pinky of amber liquor and swallowed it in a gulp.

“Respect,” Dean Sanders said, speaking with the controlled tone of a man about to put someone small in their place. “Your father had respect. He respected himself, he respected me, but mostly importantly he respected our institution.” He paused for a moment to refill his glass. “So how is it, Julian, that you were born with no respect?”

“I respect you, Dean Sanders,” I said in a tone as dry as it was insincere.

“And is that why you blew up Georgino Gonzalez? Is that why my quad is covered in a foot of pink powder? Because the way I see it, this whole incident strikes me as disrespectful.”

“This university is noble and grand, Dean Sanders,” I said, my voice slipping into a monotone. “I deeply regret any harm my experiment might have caused you or the university. Know that it was not my intention to sully our institution. My actions were performed in pursuit of knowledge and the betterment of science. The destruction of university property was an unfortunate casualty along that path, one I—”

“Your father,” Dean Sanders cut in.

“—Will not hesitate to make right. I appreciate your patience while I learn to become a productive member of society under your expert tutelage.”

“Very nice,” the Dean said. He sipped from his glass. “Put that in writing and submit it at your expulsion hearing and the board mind even be lenient.”

“Expulsion hearing? But my father—”

“Refused to compensate the university for the damages your little ‘experiment’ left in its wake. His exact words were, ‘Let the little fucker burn’, and with the explosion and cleanup costs, you owe quite a large sum of money. It seems your father is as tired of your bullshit as I am.”

“Crap,” I said.

“Quite,” the Dean answered. “The hearing is in six months. I pushed it as far back as I could.”

“Thank y—”

“Don’t thank me you little shit,” the Dean snarled. “I want my money. Maybe with time your father will change his tune.”

I slumped in my chair. “He won’t.”

“Then you’ll be expelled and all of your crimes prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law,” the Dean said. He finished his scotch with audible swallow. “Good day, Julian.”

* * *

Beakers and bottles bubbled with technicolor fluid. I like the lab. Working on things I don’t understand relaxes me. To distract myself, I pulled out my notes on the pink goop we’d used to blow up the statue. Something about the powder bothered me. I’d burn the stuff before and it’d left residue, but I always thought it’d been leftover goop. This was something else.

“What’re you gonna do?” Didi asked.

“Drink?” I answered with a shrug. “My dad won’t take my calls, so I don’t think there’s much I can do.”

“Six months is a long time. I’m sure your dad will come around,” Sean said from off in the corner. He sweated over a notebook full of graphs and figures and numbers, probably calculating how the price of bananas in Bolivia correlated with the interbond real estate markets of Morocco or some shit. I wasn’t a big fan of economics, and I spent little energy in trying to figure it out.

“You don’t know him like I do,” I answered. “When he gets it into his head to be angry, he nurses the grudge for years. He once ran a lemonade stand and some guy stiffed him on a glass. Thirty years later my father tracked him down and fucked his wife. She wasn’t even pretty—she was like eighty at the time—but he did it anyway. Right on the porch. Bitch had dementia.”

“Huh,” Sean said. “I don’t know how to feel about that.

“Isn’t that illegal?” Didi asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe. Told me when I was eight and caught me lying about my grades. Said, ‘Don’t fuck with me, son.’”

I still couldn’t seem to get the calculation right. Maybe the powder I’d seen after the explosion had been a fluke, some sort of chemical mixture with the marble statue. I put a little of the goop on a stone mortar and lit it on fire. It flared bright and pink and then vanished as quickly as it came. A few grains of powder lay at the bottom of the mortar afterwards, though. That was unusual.

“What’re you working on?” Didi asked, leaning close.

“Science,” I answered, too distracted to give it my usual flair. Maybe I need to use more. I dolloped a generous portion of the gel into the mortar, nearly filling it to its brim. Then I lit a match and tossed it in.

The explosion tore through the lab, shattering windows and beakers alike. Didi and I crashed to the ground. The iron taste of blood welled on my tongue, and the world rang around me.

“Holy shit, are you alright?” Sean asked, helping Didi to her feet.

“Oh God, I think I breathed some of it in,” Didi said. She spat a loogie of pink spittle. “I can taste it!”

“Julian, what the hell is this shit?”

But I couldn’t answer. I was laughing too hard. A thin layer of pink powder rained from the ceiling in little flakes, landing like snow. “I did it! I figured it out!”

“What are you going on about?”

“The goop! The dried stuff! It’s powdered Bimboquill! Don’t you see? I wasn’t wrong about the formula at all! It’s just the same stuff, only no water! The explosion dries it out!”

“You aren’t entirely sane, are you Julian?” Sean asked. “Didi, are you ok?”

“What?” Didi said. She jerked up from staring at her hands. Pupils ballooned out until her eyes looked like pits of black. “Uh, yeah. I feel great. I feel unstoppable. I feel… holy heck, I feel amazing!” She ran out of the room in a swirl of pink dust.

We watched her leave, silent for a moment. “Well that’s interesting,” I said finally.

When my father cut me off, as I knew he would, I got a job in advertising. It wasn’t anything big; just a small, local gig that let me present my own brand of personalized analytics directly to the consumer. The work placed me on the front line, creating dynamic customer acquisition moments with my patented call to action. My content was disruptive, my medium brilliant, but, to be honest, my engagement could’ve used some work.

I blame the pickle costume. It wasn’t actionable enough.

Didi stayed mostly out of my sight for the next week. I hadn’t meant to contaminate her with the Bimboquill, but then I didn’t feel too sorry about it, either. I made a discovery and she hadn’t died—that’s a win-win in my book.

“You are a stupid man, Julian!” Didi yelled as she and Sean crossed the street, drawing the attention of passing customers in a way my spinning sign and I could only envy. “Can I kick him? I want to kick him right in the pickle.”

“Julian, why are you dressed like an asshole?” Sean asked.

The pickle head piece came off with a hiss of sweaty air and body odor. “I am the privileged representative of the Piper Pickle Promotional Pack, and it is my responsibility to spread awareness of the pickling lifestyle. Did you know you can pickle car keys?”

“I did not,” Sean said.

“Well you can, provided the keys are made out of cucumber.”

“You drugged me!” Didi said. “I don’t know what you did, but you drugged me, and I felt… I felt amazing. I’ve never felt so alive, so free. It was the first time in my life that I didn’t care what other people thought about me. I could just focus on who I was and what I wanted. And I hate you for it!”

“That’s actually why we’re here, Julian,” Sean said. “I was perfectly willing to cut ties—two explosions in one week is usually enough to warn me away from someone. Didi wanted to get the story out of you.”

“I passed a test!” Didi said. “I don’t even remember taking it. I just woke up this morning in a classroom with a piece of paper that had one hundred percent circled in the upper right corner.”

“You pass tests all the time,” I said.

“I wasn’t even enrolled! It was just some class I stumbled into. And you know what makes this even stranger? I feel great. Unnaturally great. No hang over, no lethargy, not even a headache. I lost five pounds and my skin has never been smoother.”

Didi did look good. An array of blemishes and zits cleared up overnight. A lush, brilliance had crept into her brown hair, leaving it looking smooth instead of the nest of split ends and grease it usually was. Everything about her, from her skin to her personality, seemed just a little more vibrant.

“I don’t see what your problem is,” I said. “Sounds like you started a new diet and did some studying. What’re you mad at me for?”

“Julian, I don’t ace tests,” Didi said. “I’m a mess. Look at me. I scramble and freak out and worry and then everything I study goes in one ear and out the other. I’m not as smart as you. I’m not pretty and I’m not clever. I’m nothing. But this, this—”

“Bimboquill,” I cut in.

“—It made me feel like I could do it all. I felt beautiful, I felt productive, and I felt brilliant. For those brief hours, I was everything I have ever wanted to be.”

“So you’re saying I accidentally invented a magical weight loss focus drug?”

“Pretty much.”

I turned to Sean. “And you’re here to?”

“Cash in,” Sean said simply. “I figured one of your insane experiments would eventually be profitable and I didn’t want to miss the pay day.”

“At least you’re honest,” I said. “So what are you suggesting, Didi?”

“Do you have any more Bimboquill?”

I did, in fact. A little dime bag of pink dust I’d scraped off the bottom of the mortar after the unpleasant lab accident. Throughout the day I’d been tossing it to the squirrels that ran around the park I advertised in. As far as I could tell the squirrels just got really into burying nuts.

Didi snatched the bag out of my hands with an unmistakable glint of greed. She poured a little dust on her finger and held it under her nose, inhaling sharply. Didi’s eyes rolled up and a smile crept slowly across her face. “Yeah, that’s the feeling. Oh God this is a amazing. I know a couple girls that would love to try it.”

“No. Hell no,” I said. “There is no way on God’s green Earth that I’m going to sell drugs. I’m in enough trouble with the Dean as it is, and if they catch me selling this crap they’ll throw me out for sure.”

“You won’t have to wear the pickle costume anymore,” Sean said.

“Fuck it, I’m in,” I said. “So how do we do this?”

* * *

It turns out selling drugs is remarkably easy. Sean did most of the work, though Didi gets credit for my first few customers. Sophia and Krystal, two sisters from a sorority Didi was trying to join. The poor girl. They’d been jerking her around for almost a year. I would’ve forgiven their cuntish behavior if they just weren’t so aggressively bland. They showed up clutching pumpkin spice lattes and tittering about some sort of initiation right. Apparently some poor freshman had to chug two wine coolers. In a row. Wowzers.

Krystal especially looked like the kind of girl that would land an office job after graduation and spend the rest of her adult life slowly dissolving into a puddle of fat and Cathy comics.

Sophia was, by far, the more interesting of the two, but that was only because she was asian. If I’m being honest, I’ve got a touch of the yellow fever. Sophia, however, was Asian-American, and for those that don’t know, an Asian-American is an asian raised on a steady diet of Domino’s and Big Mac’s. They end up looking like a fat Buddha, with a face as round as a full moon and tits like little grapes.

I set up in an alley. By the time I realized I could’ve worked out of a Starbucks instead, I’d already bought a set of cheap plastic lawn furniture. It seemed like a real shame to let it go to waste.

“Are you Dr. Funkenstein?” Krystal asked. Sophia clung to her arm, looking at me with a critical slant to her eyes.

“I think we should go,” Sophia said. “This guy seemed shady. He’s all pale and scrawny and he smells like feet.”

“Sitting right here,” I said. “Can hear every word.”

Krystal shushed her friend. They huddled together and whispered loudly. “You heard that stupi pig. This guy’s got some fun drugs. We take them home, pop a few pills, and kick back with Spicer and Max. C’mon, you know you want to give something new a try.”

“But he’s… ugly.”

“You aren’t much to look at either, dairy-beast,” I said.

Sophia shot me a frown.

“This guy is sketch,” Sophia said, turning back to her friend. “I’m gonna leave. I’ll meet you back at the dorm.”

“Do you want me to buy some for you?”

Sophia shook her head as she backed away. “I don’t want anything he’s selling.” The clack of pumps on cement faded behind her.

Krystal shot me an apologetic smile. “She can be abrasive sometimes.”

I shrugged and reached into my bag to pull out an old prescription bottle filled with little pink pills. Watching the way Didi snorted Bimboquill made me uneasy. There was a hunger in her eye, a ravenous need that flared every time she saw pink. It made me feel like the shit I was slinging was a little more serious than some minor concentration enhancers. So, I went ahead and pressed the drug into pill form. Taking a pill is like taking a vitamin, and taking a vitamin is healthy, so my conscience can just go fuck right off.

Didi didn’t stop, though. When I handed her the pills she crunched them up on a mirror and snorted them through a rolled up Chairman Chao’s takeout menu.

“Fifty pills for a hundred bucks, two bucks a pill,” I said.

Krystal didn’t even blink at the price. She reached into her purse and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “Are there any side effects?”

“Weight loss and concentration,” I said simply. I pocketed the bill. “But these things aren’t approved by the FDA, so there could be more.”

Krystal poured a pink pill out the container into her hand, holding it up before her. “And this won’t hurt me?”

“Hasn’t hurt anyone yet.”

Krystal nodded and swallowed the pill.

* * *

After Krystal and Didi got the word out, it was a steady stream of customers—girls, mostly. Bimboquill doesn’t have the same effect on men, no idea why. Taking one gave me a hard on the likes of which could cut diamond, but nothing other than that. In fact, I was a little disappointed. I’d wanted to see what it was like for myself.

The money made up for it, though. In fact, sales were going so well that I branched out. I had Sean drive a few counties over and set up shop at a neighboring university. Cash came back in fistfulls. I stacked it like bricks in my closet, dreaming of the day when I could dump it all on the Dean’s floor and just peace out.

I was making so much money, in fact, that I upgraded my back alley with carpet and air fresheners. It didn’t come close to covering up the stench, but at least now my work area smelled like garbage and fresh laundry instead of just garbage. Moving on up in the world.

That’s not to say everything was sunshine and unicorn farts. Bimboquill, it turned out, was highly addictive, and the body built tolerance to it fast. Didi tipped me off. She took to the substance with a frightening zeal. She went through almost a dozen pills a day, crushing and snorting them whenever she had a free moment. By this point I imagined her nostrils were stained a permanent pink.

This went on for a while, but when Didi appeared in my alley for the third time in a week, I decided it was high time to put a stop to things before they went too far.

Once a small and spindly girl, Didi’d put on a pleasant amount of weight, giving her the beginnings of a curvaceous body. Hips flared against tight jeans, leading up to a toned stomach. Small mounds rose from beneath her pink cardigan. Didi had never been a busty woman, but with her intake of Bimboquill she was developing a fine pair of breasts. Zits vanished from her complexion seemingly overnight, leaving a pretty face with a brilliant white smile.

She used it now, too. For the first time since I’d met her, Didi smiled. Always so miserable before, slinking from shadow to shadow like some weird little gremlin thing, Bimboquill brought out the girl’s confidence. It looked good.

Still, so much change couldn’t be natural, nor healthy.

“I don’t have the money today, Dr. Funkenstein,” she said, batting long eyelashes and smiling at me. At some point the girl had discovered makeup, and it worked overtime to bring out her best features; smoky eyes, long lashes, and perfect crimson lips.

Telling her no took all the strength I had. “I’m sorry, Didi. I can’t go giving away my product to whomever asks. I need every dollar.”

Didi pouted and my heart leapt. “But Julian, It’s me. I need it. I need the stuff.”

“No pay no play,” I said simply.

Didi’s hand began to shake, and she tightly grasped her knee. Knuckles grew white from the strain. A soft moan slipped through her lips. “Just one hit. Please Julian, just give me one hit and I’ll go.”

“Why? You’ve passed all your tests for the semester, and we’re coming up on Christmas break What the hell do you need Bimboquill for?”

“I just—I just do, ok? What the fuck is your problem, Julian? Your experiment almost blew me up and you’re holding out on me now? What the fuck, man?” Didi stood up, jamming a finger in my face. “The least you can do is front me some Bimboquill. I deserve it.”

I backed away. My heart pounded in my chest. Sweet, timid Didi looked like she was about to gut me. I raised my hands in a gesture of placation. “Alright, alright, just calm down. You can have a few pills. Only a few.”

Didi tracked me while I pulled out the vial, eyes watching like a caged beast as I counted out first one, then two of the little pink pills. I placed them on the plastic table and took a step back. Before I could blink, she cut them in two fine lines with a razor in her purse. Didi leaned over and snorted each in turn, falling back into her chair. A soft smile played slowly across her lips, and then, suddenly, it became a frown.

“What is this weak shit?” she asked. “You cutting it with something?”

“It’s the same stuff I’ve been feeding you for weeks,” I said.

“Bull. I’m still horny. They didn’t do anything,” Didi said. “I need more, Julian!” She reached for the pills, but I snatched them up and pulled back. Slender fingers with painted nails wrapped around my fist, clawing at my grip. I teetered in my chair and fell to the concrete with an umph. Didi followed.

Soft breasts pressed into my face. Didi moaned and rubbed herself against my thigh, grinding her crotch into my leg. Heat radiated from her groin like a furnace. My cock hardened and pressed painfully against my jeans.

“Get the hell off me,” I gasped, spitting out a mouthful of cardigan wrapped tit.

“What’s this?” Didi said. Fingers trailed along the outline of my shaft. “It’s so warm.”

“It’s my dick.”

“But it’s hard,” she said, voice dripping from her lips in a breathy moan. “I’ve never seen a hard one before. Can I touch it?”

“That’s probably a bad idea.”

But her fingers were already fumbling with my zipper. My cock popped into the open air. Didi stared at it like a famine stricken woman seeing her first meal. Her red tongue trailed slowly across her lips. Delicate fingers circled around the base of my shaft, and her cool touch clashed with the hot blood pulsing through my cock. I gasped and went rigid. Pearly white drops of precum dotted my dick’s head.

Didi lowered her neck, her tongue darting to my shaft and back. She gasped at the taste. Her lips parted in an ‘o’ and welcomed me, warm and wet. Joints cracked in her jaws as I traveled down her throat. Choking echoed in the suddenly silent alley, and fat tears wormed their way down Didi’s cheeks, black mascara trailing in their wake.

My breath came quick. I gripped her hair—when had it grown so soft?—and wrenched control of her pace, slowing her down. She was too eager, too anxious. I threw back my head and groaned.

With each beat of my heart, I could feel the blood move through my dick. I tightened my grip on her hair. “I’m gonna cum,” I said, whispering the words. But Didi didn’t hear. I tried to pull her off, but she clung to my cock and moved faster, suction holding her in place.

The orgasm came in a rush. My cock twitched, my thighs tingled, and my toes cracked in my shoes. Didi’s cheeks flared out with cum. White fluid spilled from her closed lips around my shaft and dribbled down her chin. Eyes wide, her throat moved back and forth as she swallowed gulp after gulp of my seed.

A pop echoed in our little alley as she pulled her lips off my dick. A pearly strand of cum dangled from her chin. She swayed in place, a foggy look clouding her eyes. “I’ve never done that before,” she said. “That was... that was amazing. I felt so alive. I need to do that again. Can you get hard?”

Two weeks’ worth of cum sat in the girl’s stomach and she wanted more? I shook my head, sweat beading off my brow.

The Bimboquill lay forgotten to my side. Didi grabbed it and stuffed it in her purse. “I’m taking this.” Then she stood up and stumbled out of the alley.

To Be Continued