The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Bimboquill: The Secret Files of Dr. Funkenstein — Part 2

By: Quill

Didi’s addiction disturbed me, but I also had no idea what would happen if I took the Bimboquill away. How bad would the withdrawals be? Would she die? Sean suggested I ease her off by cutting her pills with something else, but when I tried she just took more. A lot more. Her dosage went up every day, and she kept changing.

Tits ballooned on Didi’s tiny frame. Her ass molded slowly into a beautiful bubble shape. It seemed almost a shame to try and stop her from taking the pills, but when her name started appearing on men’s room walls I knew it couldn’t be good. The clothes she wore grew tight and revealing, and when she showed up in my alley now her neck was always covered in purple hickeys.

In fact, it wasn’t just Didi. All the girls ramped up their intake, and I noticed a similar transformation take each of them. Krystal, especially, showed up religiously.

If not for the looming financial deadline, I’d have stopped selling Bimboquill right then and there.

* * *

A knock pulled me from my dreams. I stirred and rolled out of bed, rubbing the sand from my eyes and tripping over a pile of dirty clothes. Whoever was on the other side of the door, they had serious energy. The knocks came loud and insistent. I pulled on a pair of shorts and a white t-shirt that smelled like body odor and mustard and cracked open the door.

Light streamed through the crack from the fluorescent bulb on my deck. I live in a cabin deep in the woods, and it was unusual to receive visitors. “Yes,” I groaned, squinting against the light.

“Dr. Funkenstein, what did you do to my friend?” Sophia asked. “That crap you sell her has her all messed up.”

“What’s wrong with Krystal?” I asked, still drowsy. My brain hadn’t quite finished its boot sequence yet.

“She’s back at the dorm masturbating! It’s been three solid hours. She’s just lying there moaning and writhing in her sheets. She keeps begging me for Bimboquill, but I don’t have any. What is in that pink shit?!”

I opened the door wide and flicked on the lights in my cabin. “Come on in. I don’t want to talk about this on the porch.”

Sophia followed me. Her eyes flicked from a stack of old Chinese takeout cartons that rotted into my kitchen counter, to my dining room table groaning under countless beakers and chemicals. I pulled a wet shower towel off my chair and offered her a seat. She took it and grimaced at the dampness.

“Start at the beginning,” I said.

“It started a few days after she bought that crap,” Sophia began. “Krystal’s always been sexual, but she was normal, y’know? But when dildos showed up on her desk and in the couch cushions and in the sink, I knew something was going on. The dorm reeked of sex. And there she sat, stuffing those pills into her mouth like tic-tacs. Claimed they helped her concentrate.”

I nodded and went to my table of chemicals, opening a brown bottle.

“Then she brought a guy home, someone she met at the library. I thought, ‘Good, finally. Maybe now she’ll stop frigging herself every time I leave the room.’ But no, she didn’t even slow down. She just stopped hiding it.”

“That must have been rough,” I said.

“You have no idea! The men just kept coming. One after another. One a day, then two a day, and before I knew it, my dorm became a nonstop orgy. I couldn’t come home without finding her with somebody new. I don’t know where she got them all.”

Clear fluid spilled from the brown bottle onto the shower towel. My fingers grew wet under the chemicals. I stepped back to Sophia and stood behind her. “So what’re you going to do?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” Sophia said. “I suppose I should call the police. What you’re selling has to be illegal, right?”

“Seems logical. That’s probably what I would do if I were in your position,” I answered with a nod. “So you thought it would be a good idea to come to a drug dealer’s isolated cabin in the woods and tell him you’re going to call the police?”

“Well, when you put it that way it does seem kind of foolish.”

“Yeah, pretty stupid,” I said. “Hey, silly question, but does this thing smell like chloroform to you?” I wrapped the soaked towel around Sophia’s face and held her until she went limp.

* * *

Bondage was never my thing. When I screw a woman, I want her wet and wiggling, not tied up and screaming. That said, while I wrapped the orange extension cord around Sophia’s sleeping body, I felt myself stir a little. Sophia’s pudgy Asian features weren’t attractive, but there’s something to be said about the way flesh bulges around bindings. Like fishnet stockings on a properly thick woman, skin bubbling through fabric. It can be intensely erotic.

I had no endgame. There is no endgame when it comes to kidnapping—not when the kidnaped knows your face. You either kill them or let them go, but letting them go obviously leads the police right back to you.

So I said ‘screw it’ and force fed her Bimboquill.

I jammed open her teeth with a funnel and shoved the pills down her throat by the dozen. The reason I subjected her to such a high dosage, the reason I told myself anyway, was that I needed to study Bimboquill’s effects close up. The unspoken reason, though, was that I hoped Bimboquill would accomplish what I was too much of a pussy to. Maybe if she swallowed enough of those little pink pills something would happen. Something awful.

Overdoses happen all the time.

The changes were slow at first. Even on an advanced dosage, it took a few days before Sophia’s body changed. A slight drop in her weight, a healthier shine to her hair, and an almost immediate clearing of complexion. Sophia’s skin was sickly and pale, but after a week of Bimboquill it took on a healthy almond color.

Then the addiction started. True, she still choked and sputtered and spat insults every chance she got, but an eagerness took root in her. Sophia watched me as I counted out her daily dosage, wiggling against her bonds in uncomfortable arousal. Her curses took on an almost perfunctory tone. When she stopped fighting the funnel, I judged the time was right.

* * *

My cabin door shut behind me with a click. I dropped the shopping bag on the kitchen counter, pushing moldy takeout boxes to the floor where they landed with a wet plop. I reached into the bag and pulled out spiked collar with a thick leather leash.

“For you,” I said. “Because I know sitting in that chair all day cannot be comfortable.”

Sophia spat a fat loogie into my eye. “You’re a piece of shit.”

“You try to do something nice for someone and this is what you get,” I said, wiping the spit away with an old sock I found in my microwave.

“If you want to do something nice then let me go.”

I ignored her and grabbed her chair, dragging it to an old radiator that lay bolted to my dining room floor. With all the weight she’d lost the spiked collar fit around her neck perfectly. Looping the leash around the radiator, I locked it in place with a thick padlock.

“A leash?” she said, stretching her joints. “Am I your pet?”

“More like a lab rat,” I answered simply. “Alas, I cannot give you freedom, but I can make a promise: I will no longer force feed you Bimboquill.”

“And the catch?”

“No catch. I just had a moral epiphany: it’s wrong to drug people, and I don’t want to be that kind of guy.”

“It’s wrong to keep people captive. I guess your epiphany didn’t extend to human bondage?”

“Well, I’m not Gandhi.”

* * *

It started slow. Sophia shifted on the hardwood floor, bringing her growing tits into greater prominence. A scarlet flush crept across her cheeks, and, in moments of silence, I could hear her breath come hot and heavy. She watched me as I moved around the room. Ivory teeth dug deep into her lip.

“Do you want some Bimboquill?” I asked.

“Go fuck yourself.”

As the hours passed, the moaning grew more intense. Sophia gripped her knees tight and closed her eyes, pushing her back up against the wall. Sweat poured from her brow. The water streamed down her chin and dripped slowly into the valley of her newly grown cleavage. Beads of water made her small breasts glisten. A smell, a fugue of sweat and lust, filled the small cabin, dominating the scent of rotting chinese food. Every instinct in my body, every urge I possessed, screamed to fuck Sophia senseless.

Sophia watched my growing shaft with rapt attention. The air in the cabin felt hot. Her tongue lashed out and dragged across dry lips. Her chest heaved, and the grip on her knees trembled.

I placed the Bimboquill on a coffee table just outside her reach. “This can stop,” I said. “All it takes is for you to say you want some. Just ask me for some Bimboquill.”

Sophia didn’t answer.

Plastic ticking from a clock on the wall measured the passage of time. Shadows along the floor grew long. A puddle of vaginal lubricant formed beneath Sophia’s panting body. She slid to the floor, legs locked around her heels and knees pulled to her core. Back and forth she rocked, letting out squeeks of pleasure when her thighs rubbed together.

“I won’t masturbate,” she whispered to herself in a crazed mantra. It was a chant, a fervent denial of inevitable. Already her fingers drifted towards the juncture between her legs. “I won’t masturbate.”

One knuckle, and then another, entered her sopping slit, and she welcomed each with a soft cry. It was more a sudden gasp for breath than a real moan. I almost didn’t hear it. The fingers moved, driving themselves in and out of her snatch. The moist sound of their passage echoed against the silent cabin walls.

“I won’t masturbate,” she chanted, even as she increased in tempo.

Hips pointed to heaven, she thrust into her hand. The pointed ends of her hardened nipples pressed against her shirt. Sophia reached a free hand beneath its fabric and groped one of her growing breasts. The meat spilled out of her tiny palm.

Suddenly, Sophia’s entire body went rigid. Her jaw slacked in a long, silent wail. Muscles in her legs and arms twitched as the orgasm tore through her, leaving only an empty, panting husk in its wake. She went limp. Every few seconds her body convulsed in an orgasmic aftershock, but otherwise she didn’t move. Drool poured down her chin, and her eyes stared at the ceiling unseeing and glassy.

The clock continued its plastic tick.

Sophia moved again. Like a clockwork machine keyed up after a long shutdown, her hand returned to its cyclic pattern. In and out of her slit it went. The firm grip on her breast tightened, and I feared that she drew more pain from it than pleasure. Eyes rolled white in Sophia’s sockets.

“Please, make it go away,” she whispered, her voice heavy with desire.

“Do you want some Bimboquill?”

Even in her addled state, Sophia hesitated. Bless her. It was admirable, really. All things break in the end, however, and even the strongest of wills crumble in face of desire. “Yes! Give it to me!”

I grabbed my mortar and pestle, pouring a dozen pills into its basin. Marble met marble, grinding the pills into a fine pink dust. “Are you sure? You know what this stuff does to you. Your tits will grow, your ass will become fat and bubbly, and the only thing you’ll be able to think of is cock. Is that what you want?”

“Yes!” Sophia cried. Her declaration echoed against the cabin walls.

“Very well,” I answered. I grabbed a bottle of olive oil from my kitchen and poured a few drops on my shaft. It grew wet and shiny. The powder dropped from the mortar to fall in a snow of pink, covering my dick in Bimboquill. I stepped inside Sophia’s reach. “Come and get it.”

Sophia threw herself at me like a wild animal.