Eight to Five
By Limerick
7:47 a.m.
Powell tugged at the collar of the shirt, trying to loosen the adhesive sweat-bond between the starch and white of the dress shirt and the folds of his neck. He had a terrible body for a shirt and tie —stout, tending to concentric rings, and sweating. But Weber liked the look and the professionalism, so the tie went on.
It wasn’t a bad job. He was behind the wheel of a very nice Mercedes SUV, all his in title and deed. He could afford a latte every morning, even if caution dictated drinking the entirety before Weber entered the car. He had the very best health plan in the world (Weber’s nanomachinery) and extremely flexible hours (unless Weber had a big job).
On the other hand, there was Weber.
Powell’s boss still lived with his parents. The man cleared at least five million a year from jobs, probably more from the corporate sales Powell wasn’t privy to, but couldn’t be bothered to move his biochemical lab and robotics experiments from the family basement. And he was always ready exactly on time, always smiling brightly, and always cheerful.
Weber clambered into the passenger seat, fiddling with a piece of equipment, and shouldering his leather bag. He wore a white shirt and green tie—same as Powell, it was uncanny his ability to match— and scratched at thinning brown hair.
“GOOD morning,” Weber said, brightly. “Can you believe the game last night? I think they’ll be talking Heisman after the way Peyton played in the fourth quarter.”
Another weird thing. Weber kept trying to be his friend. Powell fought back a shudder, and drained the remnant of his latte.
It was another work day for Weber and Associates.
8:15 a.m.
Mr. Thorpe had left the front door open, as instructed, and the two men meandered inside a straightforward McMansion in an upper-middle-class neighborhood. They had been there yesterday, wearing coveralls, and messing with the hot water supply while Mr. Thorpe took Ms. Thorpe out to dinner. They had installed a jug of Plasticine in the shower line.
“Hello? Anyone there? We’re… repairmen…” Weber called out. No one answered. He nodded at Powell. “Upstairs, on the left. Get her set up, and I’ll get the kit ready.”
Powell grunted.
Brittany Thorpe had made it onto the toilet seat. Her new slick and smooth body wasn’t well built to stay there, though—it was nearly falling off the lip, and Brittany’s shuddering gyrations wasn’t helping the issue. The girl had a fixed, waxen grin on—of course, all of her looked vaguely waxy—and had managed to bend one perfect, shining arm to paw at expanded and spherical tits. Plasticine fused the fingers together for that perfect “lovedoll” look, but Brittany had still inserted her left hand fairly far up a pink and glistening slit.
Of course, she was entirely hairless below the eyebrows. The last few dregs of hair were still circling the drain. Powell put on a latex glove and firmly turned the shower off, discarding the glove in the trash.
Brittany was still getting stiffer, smoother, individual pores disappearing as unnecessary. Powell toweled her off, and the locked-open mouth cooed at each touch, brain fizzling underneath a powerful, relentless erogenous assault. He rubbed his fingers briefly on her leg, and she quivered and sighed.
Weber came in. As usual, he looked at the naked, glistening girl with clinical and bemused interest. “Can you put her on the bed?” he said. “We’ll get her posed and take off.”
Powell picked her up. She was light. Very light. Once she was posed, naked, on the bed, Weber reached into his bag and pulled out a light blue vibrator, still in the packaging. He thumbed it onto a low setting, then inserted the device into the girl’s moist slit. The moaning and sighing picked up dramatically.
“Okay, she’ll be happy all morning, I’ve put her manual on the kitchen table, I think we’re good to go here. Easy twenty-thousand. Real easy. Lets get the Plasticine and head out, we’ll have time for a smoke before the next job.”
Weber didn’t smoke. Neither did Powell.
9:25 a.m.
The girl outside had dark black hair, a figure with some curves, a little bit of a paunch. Dark vamped-up eyes with heavy eyeshadow. She looked at Weber quizzically, somewhat suspiciously. There was a camaraderie in the smoke break, but it didn’t go far with the overeager nerd lugging the big leather bag.
“We’re printer technicians,” Powell broke in. It was a good explanation, as it went a long ways towards clarifying Weber.
“Oh. That must be…” the girl struggled for anything to say regarding the world of fixing printers. “…nice to have, in this economy.”
“Yeah. I’m Powell. This is Weber,” Powell said. Weber, on Powell’s advice, didn’t try for a handshake. They never went well.
“Stephanie. I’m an accountant here. Fifth floor. That where you guys going?” She finished her cigarette. That was the cue Weber had been waiting for.
“Cigarette?” Weber said. He extended the box, and if Stephanie noticed the too-eager look, the natural desire for free smokes overwhelmed it. Powell lit the exposed end before Stephanie could.
“Free ones don’t count,” she said, and smiling, took a long drag. Smoke shot down her throat, into her lungs, and lingered there for a long moment, growing colder. Stephanie’s eyes drooped, suddenly very and entirely satisfied. One of Weber’s cigarettes was like discovering nicotine for the very first time.
Unnoticed, the roots of Stephanie’s hair started to lighten.
“Wow. That is good. Really good,” the girl said. She studied the cigarette. “What brand is this?” Another inhalation, and both men watched the fog creep across her half-lidded eyes. “That is really, really good.”
After the third puff, Stephanie’s jet-black hair was shot through with streaks of yellow. Behind those eyes, marinating in a soup of smoke, Stephanie would be hard pressed to add single digit numbers. Blonde Cigarettes didn’t leave much behind but a sex drive, a smile, and a tendency to orgasm in stiff breezes.
“Umm… fuck… this stuff is awesome,” the accountant said, leaning up against the wall. She giggled. “Holy shit. This is really cool. Can I have ‘nother?”
“Have a pack,” Weber said. “We’ll see you later, Stephanie.” He tossed her a roll of a half-dozen.
They left her just as the first tendril of blonde reached the tips of Stephanie’s hair. Her free hand, meanwhile, rose up to grab a tit.
9:51 a.m.
Powell hated private parties.
They were always the same. A small office of frat boys, usually involved in some sort of financial scam, plus a glad-handing boss about three years older then the rest. The girl was always some already-buxom secretary, already blonde. Weber would pump her full of gas and fat until she was sleek, gleaming, and dumb, then they’d line up for blowjobs. It was monotonous.
“This one is a little different,” Weber said. “We’re doing it free.”
Weber had never done anything for free. “Free?”
“Friend from High School. It’s his birthday. You’ve got the cupcakes?”
Powell held up the bag. He thought: Weber had never mentioned a friend before.
The friend turned out to be a small asian guy with a rapid-fire blink, so fast his eyelids seemed to hover. He was slight, but tried his best to crush Powell’s hand in the handshake. Weber gave him a pleased grin as his own hand was mangled.
“Frog,” he said, indicating Weber. “Can you really do this? I mean, I know what we did to Amanda Bresnik in English class, but really, this is crazy shit. CRAZY shit. You see that she’s had three kids and is still the biggest name in porn? Amanda? Crazy!”
“Sure, Hugh,” Weber said. He smiled awkwardly. “Sure, sure.”
“Man, she sure turned into a hoover. Man! Okay, you go set up, I’ll bring everyone into the conference room. I need to make sure they all have a cupcake, right?”
Weber obediently turned towards the conference room. Powell followed with the cupcakes. “Crazy!” Hugh repeated, behind them.
It was a different type of office. Six nerds this time, with the muscle tone of grass. There were two girls: a nerd asian girl and a nerd white girl, wearing nearly identical black horn-rim glasses and disgruntled looks. Nobody weighed more than 120 pounds, but they all tucked into the cupcakes, devouring the frosting while casting nervous looks at the heavyset guy wearing a tie. Weber took a seat in a corner and pulled out his laptop.
The cupcakes were a factory of pharmaceuticals. Into the mix went a happiness cocktail, guaranteed to promote a sense of wellbeing and pleasure so strong some light moaning was normal. Then enough hormones to arouse a castrati, potent drugs with a kick to the libido. And that was just for both sexes. Girls would find themselves floating on clouds of slow comprehension, find their slits getting moist, their nipples growing hard, an urge to mate rising between their legs. On top of that, the cupcakes were tasty.
Boys were always a little horny, but Powell noticed the cupcake-based changes anyway, erections poking into jeans, strained conversations. The asian girl looked stricken, rubbed gently at her stomach, then started to swivel her legs. The white girl let her legs begin to droop open, splaying them wider and wider.
Hugh came in to quiet applause. He beamed at his staff. Powell wondered idly what they did. Software development? Just because it played on stereotypes didn’t mean it wasn’t true.
“Okay,” he said, booming and projecting a naturally reedy voice, “the boys have already given me their present, thank you guys for the wall calendar. Janey? Tina? I’m ready for your present whenever.”
Janey was the Caucasian with the dark hair and prim, set lips, apparently. Tina was the round-faced asian girl with the green sweater with code on it. They looked at each other. Formerly they had probably been friends out of necessity, in a male-dominated work place. Of course, now they were breathing in pheromones from every one of the guys. The primal parts of their heads had fixated, first, on the grunting, sweating pleasures of fucking and getting fucked. Second, on the need to submit to a breeding partner, to get shafted and pierced as a guy’s sperm worked its way up their slits. Both had to be dripping and oozing. And that was just from the cupcake. What was in the frosting was the REAL magic.
“Umm…” Janey said. “How about… a birthday kiss?”
She stood up and tugged her sweater down, running her hands from breasts to ass on the way. The girl swayed her hips as much as possible in a crowded room, and leaned over to peck Hugh on the cheek. It was an impressive display of self-denial. Powell had seen girls simply start rubbing at their clits after one of Weber’s cupcakes, single-mindedly bringing themselves to orgasm.
“Me too!” Tina squeaked. She took her time standing up, flattening her sweater to emphasize her chest. Her kiss was long and ready, lightly caressing Hugh’s lips with her tongue, and her glasses had steamed and smeared by the time she emerged.
Everyone looked at Janey. The girl had sat back down, and looked outraged. Here came the crucial moment. If she tried to storm out, then Weber had countermeasures, but they weren’t as fun for the client.
“Well, how about I let him feel my boobs!?” Janey choked.
Powell relaxed.
From there, the party went pretty much normal. Janey briefly flashed her nice little tits, followed by Tina taking off her shirt and licking a rock-hard nipple. Then Janey let Hugh suck on a tit, panting and grimacing the whole time. Tina stripped down to her undies and gave the birthday boy a lap dance.
They got dumber. It came out in different ways. Tina sounded like a ditzy teenager, falling back on slang and sucking on a finger when she tried to force a thought through a foggy head. Janey had long, breathy pauses, and her voice floated on a pleasure-inflated cloud.
Both girls started to fill out, which clarified each girl’s apparent new role on the office hierarchy. Tina’s lips became plump and thick, sensual with a natural high-gloss, and her voice squeaked between the pillows. Each lick made her start with pleasure, and she had to fight to keep from drooling. Classic blowjob machine, the office vacuum expert, dedicated to sitting underneath desks and sucking as necessary. Janey got thicker, with a curving ass that visibly picked her off the chair. That plus plush breasts pegged her as the party girl, an energetic but soft fuck, but also capable of getting taken out for business fucks. Tina’s ridiculous lips would just look strange.
On the bright side for them, Powell thought, neither would need glasses again. Janey purred, slowly “how ‘bout… I put my… pussy… on Hugh’s cock?”
11:01 a.m.
“Are we done here?” Powell asked.
The competition had ended in a tie, sort of. Janey was fucking the high-status male, her bulging butt planted in the air while her tits rubbed against a scratchy plastic conference table. Hugh, mostly naked, plowed her roughly, both hands holding tight onto ass. He had already grunted out messy, spattering orgasms into the girl several times. On the other hand, Tina managed four guys at once. One on the carpet, thrusting upwards. One, the fortunate one, savoring the delicate inside of her mouth, two others getting highly competent and motivated hand jobs. Two had nearly passed out from vigorous rides on Janey’s ass.
Weber shrugged. “I guess,” he said, and closed the laptop.
“You want to say goodbye to Hugh?” Powell prodded. Hugh hadn’t spoken to Weber since their meeting. Or invited him to join in. Not that there was necessarily an etiquette to these things.
“No...” Weber looked down, covered his mouth with his hand. “It’s okay. We’ll talk later, on facebook.”
Powell didn’t say anything, but raised an eyebrow. Weber had barely looked up from his laptop the entire time. Usually he at least watched.
Downstairs, they collected Stephanie. She had managed to alter a straightforward business outfit into something halfway sexy. Her blouse was half-undone, showing off plumper tits, inflated by her smokes. Her skirt was hiked up, and her thighs practically squeaked together. She had worked out a system where she would take a drag on a cigarette, then resume sucking cock. It was just luck that the smoking section was out of sight of the street. A pleased-looking technician finished in her mouth just as Powell and Weber came downstairs.
“So what’re we doing with her?” Powell asked. Weber looked distracted, uninterested in the bimboslut he had haphazardly created.
“Huh? Oh. I don’t know yet. Maybe we can offload her to Pleasure Cruise. Or we’ll just ship her off to one of the Calving outposts.”
“Both are full. Remember?”
“Oh,” Weber gave it brief thought. “Okay. We’ll drop her at the mall for now. Ms. Fidell can get her fixed up. Then we’ll decide something. Come on, lets get to lunch.”
11:34 a.m.
“What do you want me to do with her?” Ms. Fidell asked, toying with Stephanie’s firm and still-expanding tits. Their newest slut looked blonde and proud, and stood to attention without being asked, even as a trickle of fluid made its way down her inner thighs.
Powell shrugged. They stood in the back room of Ms. Fidell’s salon, surrounded by tiered racks of cheap, trashy, and slutty clothes. On one rack were the costumes, then a rack of latex and spandex, and then whorish girl-next-door outfits. Ms. Fidell herself had tits out to here and an impossibly airy fairy tale figure, but always wore conservative, if not dowdy, pantsuits and blouses. Whatever her history was, Powell hadn’t asked.
“Maybe a teeny bopper?” Ms. Fidell mused. “We could get her in pigtails, put on some jean cutoffs, have Weber raise her voice an octave. I could do it in half an hour.”
“She’s a smoker,” Powell pointed out. “I don’t know how that fits.”
“Yeah…” Ms. Fidell thought about it. Her own voice was still faux-cheerleader, peppy and eternally cheerful. “Smoker-slut works well with a classic escort look, fur and low-cut evening gowns. But that’s expensive, and she’s just a little dumb for the role, I think. Aren’t you, dear?”
Stephanie trembled. Most of her remaining mental architecture was trying to keep her hands from stroking a bulging clit.
“Where’s Weber?” Ms. Fidell asked, abruptly.
“He’s…” Powell chose his words carefully. “…busy. I don’t think his heart is in it. Guy needs a vacation.”
“Where? Some tropical island, surrounded by half-naked ladies? Hah! Weber would wither on vacation.”
Ms. Fidell pulled open Stephanie’s panties, already soaking, and slipped a finger inside her snatch. The new blonde shuddered and mewed to herself. “She’ll be a hot one, at least. Leave her here. I’ll think about the problem. Okay?”
“Got it,” Powell said, and did an about-face. Behind him, Ms. Fidell thoughtfully brought Stephanie to a whimpering, shuddering climax.
12:07 p.m.
“You okay, boss?” Powell prodded. Weber sat with his legs crossed, arms crossed, and a leaden line across his face. His eyes scanned across the food court and fixated on nothing.
Powell wasn’t sure what to do. Weber obsessed was normal. Weber bored was normal. Weber depressed was new to his experience, and downright disturbing.
They had gone to the food court in the mall in the nice part of town, a warren of hormonal high school girls, captivating young businesswomen in short black pencil skirts, and flirty, bored secretaries. Powell had done his best, scattering a bag of Fuck Dust across the circle of the mall, a straightforward concoction that simply increased bust size and boosted the libido. In days past Weber had liked to sit back and watch the discrete handjobs and masturbation underneath the tables, the sucking of fingers clean of sex juices, the red faces as the dust started to wear off. It had always left him cheerful. Now, nothing.
“The girls at the Hot Dog stand are about to bust out, if you’re interested,” Powell said, conversationally. They were two high-school aged near-twins, and cherry-red nipples were very nearly visible above inadequate and garishly colored uniforms. The men getting their hot dogs looked very pleased.
“Oop. There they go.” First one tit popped out, then the other. The second girl sprung loose all at once. Both girls giggled, stuffing their expanded titties back into dresses, and everyone else around laughed, too.
“I wish I could go back to that,” Weber said, morose. Powell followed his eyes to a young couple, maybe eighteen, a pudgy brunette with severe hair in purple sweater and her acne-laced boyfriend. The brunette looked confused, but was giving her man a vigorous tug job underneath the table. Her left hand vigorously stroked up and down the length of the shaft, and her right felt at what were already serious tits and were now massive melons. The boy looked ecstatic.
“He does look pretty happy,” Powell ventured. The boy came all over his girlfriend’s hand, spurting white streaks across her fingers. Brunette stared in shock at her spooged digits, then started to gingerly suck them clean.
“No, it’s not… nevermind. Lets go. We’ll get the afternoon routine knocked out, maybe call it off early after the big job.”
“But…” Just next to the table, a sedate businesswoman had kicked off her heels, knelt underneath the table, and started to nuzzle at her co-worker’s cock. Where she was joined by two college-age interns from the next table over, all three competing for cockhead time. Then they started making out with each other. “Fine. Hey, boss, chin up, okay?”
Weber shrugged.
1:05 p.m.
The bag of Bimbo Creams was, as usual, incredibly heavy. And the first office on Candy Run was up three flights of stairs, no elevator. Powell’s neck itched, and he thought about how nice a big red circular throat rash would look. The wife would love that.
The receptionists on Candy Run tended to blend together into a slideshow of half-concealed tits and dazed, happy expressions. But Powell remembered Erika, the receptionist at O’Rourke Accounting, simply because he had no idea how the Bimbo Creams could affect a recovering goth. The girl had a sneer that seemed permanent, black raven hair with a few fading purple highlights, and wore funeral clothes with dark black socks. She had looked at the brand new candy bowl, and everything else, with scarcely concealed contempt.
Powell pushed open the door.
Erika, behind the desk, gave him the same scowl, and the same bored “Welcome to O’Rourke Accounting,” and for a moment Powell thought he was right. Weber’s bioengineering had met an unmovable personality.
Then he walked closer, into the maze of couches in the waiting room, with the old Science magazines on low tables. And noticed, first of all, that the box of Bimbo Creams—known to Erika as Pink Creams —was half-empty. And that Erika had clearly just finished sucking out the gooey pink stuff from another package—a trace of pink was still lingering on her chin. Plus she had grown at least two cup sizes in the week since they had seen her.
“We’re here to refill the candy jar,” Powell said. Weber, behind him, looked around dully. Ms. Goth’s wardrobe had changed, too. A dark black mini had replaced ankle-length skirts, and it was a matte leather that stretched against groaning hips. If Powell had cared, he could’ve stooped to see matching black panties with bats on top of a very moist slit. Thigh-highs still hid most of her legs, but they clung tightly, and she fidgeted with the usual back and forth motions of an increasingly and agonizingly horny girl.
The scowl disappeared under the twin delights of more delicious candy and two men. “Oh, yay! More candy!” Erika said, then caught herself, shocked. That voice had been kittenish and girlish. Her thighs trembled, too. Erika licked her lips, now covered with a ruby-red lipstick.
“Um, do you need to see Mr. O’Rourke? He’ll be back in ten minutes. You can stick around.. and we’ll talk… about stuff…”
“We should get going,” Powell said, and the goth looked disappointed. She toyed with her pen, stuck it between her boobs. She still wore a black blouse, but the tit expansion showed off plenty of bone-white cleavage.
“Mkay,” Erika said sadly, as the two boys left.
But that did mean she had time for more Pink Creams. She brightened, and her hand wandered to the junction between her thighs.
1:26 p.m.
The office clients were typically accountants, psychologists, and a few doctor clinics. Other professionals needed trained and intelligent staff more then they needed a cock-sucking ornament for mid-day fun, and had too much foot traffic to risk detection. Accountants and psychologists also only gained from passing out Bimbo Creams to the clientele. Clients arrived confused and unhappy, then left confused and happy, and still in need of yet another session.
Doctor Wilson’s office was a long-standing client, perhaps the oldest client. Also one of Weber’s few female clients. Or few remaining female clients. Quite a few had succumbed to the scent of the candies and ended up stripping somewhere.
Powell could never remember the receptionist’s name, but he doubted she remembered, either. Her mouth was perpetually covered in Bimbo Cream, and a dozen mangled and twisted wrappers on the glass-fronted desk showed that she wasn’t all that good at opening them anymore, either. Powell thought of her as Pink. That was her theme, anyway. Pink glaze on her pink-frosted lips. Blonde hair with a few pink highlights. Short pink blazer that hung back from two massive knockers, watermelons hefted and supported by a heroic pink bra. Underneath the table, clearly visible, two pink striped socks, and—for a change—red heels that couldn’t possibly be walkable.
She recognized them, and a few of the remaining brain cells, amiably drifting together, opened that gorgeous mouth. “Doctor Wilson.. will see you…” she said. Then she giggled as Powell dumped in Bimbo Creams into a huge glass bowl. It was nearly empty.
Doctor Wilson specialized in relationship therapy. Expensive relationship therapy. At any time there were several couples sitting in the waiting room. One guy with a shocked and horrified wife, a skinny beanpole wearing a black coat, who had nonetheless already had three Bimbo Creams. An older gentleman with a redhead, currently straining her old clothes, lush and plump and staring fascinated at fashion magazines. And, for a change, a skeevy looking man with two disgruntled younger women, college age, fixated on Pink’s frequent panty shots. Second session for them, as their hair was already streaked with blonde highlights.
“Weber! Powell! Please come in,” Doctor Wilson said, beaming, and led them into her office. It was strange to see a normal, older woman, Powell reflected. With grey hair and everything. Did she have some special protection, being older? Bimbo Creams had an intoxicating and addictive scent for women. Powell had tried one. For men, they tasted like creamed shit.
Doctor Wilson’s office was richly appointed in scented leather and mahogany tables. The far end of the room had a lush and dark brown leather couch, on which a grey-haired man was vigorously fucking the face of a bimboized asian girl.
“Don’t mind the Collins,” Doctor Wilson said, vaguely. “Let me write you a check. And I, ah, had a special request for you, Weber.”
Weber took no notice. He stared, instead, at Mrs. Collins as a big veiny cock slid in and out of her mouth.
“Weber?”
“Hmm?” Powell’s boss finally took notice.
“Are you alright?” Doctor Wilson asked, concerned. She faced the man, reached out to make him face her. “You look more then a little distracted.”
“I’m fine,” Weber insisted. “No trouble.”
“Hm,” Doctor Wilson let it lie. “In any case, and I realize it’s trite, there’s a pool boy I’ve had my eye on for some time, and…”
“Can’t do boys,” Weber said, quickly, curtly.
Doctor Wilson smiled wanly. “I’m sure you can…”
“Can’t do boys!” Weber insisted, and there was a strange note of panic, of hysteria, on the back edge of his voice. “Can’t make it work. You can do breast growth easily enough, but the penis requires total surgical replacement, and that’s just to start. Hormone feminizing just can’t fight off the genetic expression, it only masks it. You get all these errors, and the code starts to unravel, and…” his voice rose and cracked.
Even Mr. Collins had stopped his thrusting to look up, puzzled, although his girl kept bobbing hard on his cock.
Weber trailed off. “Anyway, you can’t do boys,” he finished.
“I don’t want you to make a girl out of one, I want you to, you know, just make him dumb, pliable, and horny,” Doctor Wilson said. “And perhaps a decent dick. But I can see this isn’t a good time. Mr. Collins, please finish on her face, it will help lock in the programming if she has to make herself swallow your cum. Thank you.”
Powell gently helped Weber out the door. He was shaking lightly.
3:05 p.m.
“Okay, boss, this is the last job.” Powell said, soothingly. “We just need to set up a standard housekeeping staff. I’ve already got them in the living room watching the usual training video.”
The two partners waited in the home office of the Client, a retiree, unmarried, in dual need of someone to wash his socks and bounce up and down on his cock.
“Let me just go check on them again,” Powell said.
The entire situation was worrisome. First, long-term, Weber’s sudden and odd depression. Second, getting through the job. They needed girls that could actually do a job besides bouncing up and down and giggling, and that meant that the hardcore chemicals and hormones were too much of a battering ram. Bimbo Cream girls could usually make toast if given bread, a toaster, and detailed instructions. But Weber’s pheromone girls were entirely about touching themselves, and girls sprayed with Titty-Gro had trouble finding their way out of bed.
Weber peeked out the door, where three girls were watching the Recruitment Video. The hypnotics and subliminals seemed to be ticking over nicely. The Japanese girl—Clara?—pawed at the fly of her short jean shorts, her narrow hips bucking forward with each spasm. Karen had her own hands up underneath a black spandex skirt, and was the only one making noise, whining softly as she came over and over. More worrisome was the brunette with the huge rack, Mary, who had apparently knocked herself out by cumming and wasn’t focusing on anything at all.
“I think we need to pull them out?” Powell said. “You can hear the brain cells turning off. Boss? What do I do?”
Weber shrugged.
“Boss!”
“What’s the point?” Weber whispered, slumped at the desk. “Another day, another set of girls, another bunch of sluts. It’s just a job. It’s not getting me any closer. I mean, they already have tits and slits and everything, why do they need to be even more girly?”
“Boss?” Powell said, watching the girls though the door. Karen was starting to slump. Any longer and they’d have three cooing fuck toys.
Weber stared at a few Bimbo Creams he had stashed in his hand. Then he opened one up, sucked out the pink cream inside.
“Boss, those taste terrible to guys—“
Powell figured it out.
Something clicked in his head. No wonder Weber still lived with his parents, never sampled the goods, never lived like the Greek God his chemistry allowed him. In his mind, he hadn’t accomplished anything.
Weber didn’t want to bimboize girls. Weber wanted to BE bimboized.
Shit. Powell struggled with what to say and threw out the only thing that he could.”
“Hey, boss?” Powell ventured. “I forgot to say, I like the suit and tie look, you know? It’s real…” he ventured deep into his vocabulary “dapper. We look smart as hell.”
His neck itched like crazy.
Weber stirred. “You think so?” he said.
“Oh! Yeah! It’s got style, boss. Real style.”
Weber beamed. He stood up.
“Get the TV turned off and bring the asian girl in here. I’ll start triggering her pleasure zones on housework, dirtiness, maid uniforms, you know. Then find a cucumber and stuff Mary with it. She’s going to be a chef. She needs to learn to LOVE vegetables.”
“You bet, boss!”
4:35 p.m.
“Where—what’s going on?” Clara said, coming around. The other two girls had already emerged from trance, and were stumbling around on shaky, quivering legs. “Did we fall asleep?”
“I guess we must’ve. That’s… weird,” Karen said. “I remember getting here for the job interview, then… nothing. Weird. We should go.”
All three turned to leave. Then Mary stopped, shivered, and clutched at her stomach. “Damn, anyone else… really hungry?”
“Uh… no?” Karen said.
“Because I’m absolutely starving,” the brunette said. “I think.. you think this place has a kitchen?”
“Look, I’ll take you to McDonalds. It’s like down the block. Come on,” Karen said, hand on the door knob.
“But maybe there’s cupcakes… and sandwiches… or I could find some chicken breasts and do a nice piccata with some crusty bread for garlic bread… and maybe I could find a cucumber… oh!” Mary sat down, hard, on the nearest chair. Which made it immediately clear that she wasn’t wearing underwear. One hand rolled her tits around.
“Big.. hard… cucumber…” she gasped, and lubricant oozed out from between her thighs. It started to trickle south, inches away from the seat of the chair.
Clara gasped. “That’s leather! You’ll stain it! Stop!”
And since Mary was still shivering and moaning, Clara had no choice but to dive between her legs, lapping anxiously at the sticky fluid, keeping it from the armchair. Just the thought of making it dirty was… unthinkable….
Karen gaped at the two of them, then fled. She made it as far as the front door when the phone rang.
Each ring sent a pulse through her, a shiver perfectly timed with the cheery ringer. She stared, distantly, at the unlocked door, then checked underneath her mini. She wasn’t wearing panties either.
Karen picked up the phone.
“Presser residence,” she husked, and stroked idly at her pussy with her free hand. “He’s not in right now. Can I take a message for him?”
5:20 p.m.
So they didn’t knock off early. But Weber seemed happy. He had pulled out his notepad and was sketching. Powell risked a look over. Seemed to be mathematical notation and chemical symbols. Powell just drove around, letting him think.
Finally the boss looked up. “Hey, call Mr. Clark tomorrow, if you get the chance. Tell him I’ve got some ideas for that catgirl formula he’s wanted for so long. I’ll work it out over the weekend and get it tested when we hit up the stewardess training meeting.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“And make sure to invoice Hugh. Actually, I’ll do it. I’ll call him tomorrow.”
“Okay, boss.”
“I’ll get some formula made up for Doctor Wilson. Toss it in the pool, then push him in. He’ll come out plenty horny. Have some food around and he’ll eat his way to a bigger cock and more musculature.”
“No problem,” Powell said. “Uh, there’s one loose end. Stephanie? You had her smoking blonde? What do you want to do with her?”
Weber thought about it.
“I think I’ll take her home,” he said, casually. “She can be my lab assistant. It’ll be good to have someone to talk to about—about stuff. Pick her up and drop her off outside.”
“Okay, boss.”
“Great,” Weber grinned. “Perfect. That’s all settled then. Tomorrow I’ll see you bright and early at eight in the morning!”