The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

White professional blouse, dress pants, skate shoes. No makeup, not even a hint of it, and her face was dune-dry. Her eyes were dark brown and had a lot of barely-banked fire. Maybe a hint of dye in her black hair. She hadn’t brought her purse in. She was alone.

More than enough. I clocked her immediately, I knew exactly who she was, I knew what she was thinking. I knew what she thought about me, about my rolled-up sleeves, about my greasy hands. I could whisper her own thoughts back to her. A professional skill I’ve developed.

Not that it really mattered, in my line of work.

It just wasn’t a useful talent. They entered as individual women, just lightly conditioned, but they left as variants on “silly, sexy girl”. Simpering, soft, and thrilled to please, with low-volume IQ and a juicy-wet body. It didn’t really mean anything that I could look at her and think... so. Mira. Female number 2027-102001-WQ. Ex-smoker. You’re having issues with your husband. I can tell.

It wouldn’t matter at all in about two hours.

“Good morning, Mira,” I said. “I’m Nick. I’ll be walking you through it today.”

“It.” Mira said, tonelessly. “Walking through. It.”

I held out my hand. I knew she wasn’t going to shake it.

That part didn’t take any deduction. Before her appointment I oversaw the change of a 240-pound woman into a voluptuous thick-titted slut with top-tier pussy grip. She was a lot, but still only about 150 pounds once completely fucked over. That was normal doll weight.

So all that lipid had to go somewhere.

The machinery made her squirt and cream and juice and drool, all lathered in calories. All very enjoyable, although her eyes rolled back into her head, and her heart rate was over what we normally allow. But overall she was a shrieking, moaning, happy, squirting mess.

As her tech, most of it got on me. I had to smell like I’d swum a mile in Lake Pussy Juice.

“Mister Nick, I’d like to get. It. Over with,” Mira said. “My ride will be here in an hour, if we can move it along. I’ve requested Minimum. I know I have at least that right.”

My ride, I noticed. Not, my husband will be picking me up. No spouse in the Recovery Room, to retrieve the erotic new version of their wife, giggling and cock-thirsty. I tried to dry my hands on my pants, but they were sticky with milk stains, and I wasn’t getting anywhere.

Sometimes, very much sometimes, me noticing these things makes a difference.

“So if we can begin?” Mira said, and even stood up. “You know. It.”

A girl can’t really be allowed to upstage a man, much less her Doll Tech. Unsurprisingly, I had to take action to control the situation.

The three main techs in our little branch have different strategies for this common problem.

Marcos puts on a hypnotic show. He has a small pocketwatch with a loud tick. And it helps that he’s very attractive. The watch part doesn’t do anything, but the girl concludes what she already privately believes, which is that she has no agency whatsoever.

And she doesn’t have any choice, not really. Since the Party took over she’s been conditioned and brainwashed in a dozen different ways. There are spirals on the TV, there are special hums in electronic devices. Streetlights flash in particular ways. The mail arrives sticky and tacky, and every glass of water has a soft aftertaste.

It’s all very gentle. Very very gentle. After all, we’re the hard conditioning. But every girl brain I confront has been softened and lulled and drugged, and Marcos just lets the girl say—it was the watch. It hypnotized me. That’s why I walked right into the machine that pumped me full of silicone, and why I juice when my thighs rub together. It’s a great approach, and I would use it, if I wasn’t a bald guy that looked like I had a welding license. Plumbers can’t hypnotize. So I don’t.

I hate Ferguson’s approach. He sticks his fingers in their mouth.

Yes, it works. Neural conditioning kicks in, a lot of it, all at once. Obedience to men, and their new suck reflex, and all sorts of other commands. You can see the fight drain right out of them as they turn his thumb into a pacifier. I don’t think it aligns with the spirit of the Party. “Pleasure now and forever.” And it’s unpleasant, at least until the hormones turn their new soothing conditioning on. Plus its extremely unhygienic.

I flip Mira my dime store pen. Its very old. She might’ve had one like it when she was younger. It has four different colors, and it vibrates, so you can write in fun squiggly circles. It runs on a single A battery. She catches it, as much as she wills herself not to. A man presented her with a gift.

“Go ahead and write your name down,” I tell her. I hand her an unnecessary clipboard full of the paperwork. “We’ll have you out of here as quick as we can.”

She manages another glare—impressive, don’t get me wrong—and clicks the pen.

That activates the vibration.

As soon as she does, Mira knows, and I know, that she’s about to masturbate in front of a stranger. A blue-collar slob of a stranger, wearing a wet polo shirt.

I could set my watch to the length of her struggle.

I don’t think the girls ever realize how pre-treated they are. Yes, obviously they’ve been hornier. They’ve been compliant with their partners, even needy for regular dicking down. But its so obviously attributed to biology, to chemicals and additives. The commands, they think that’s about obeying the Party, maybe wearing some cute outfits, maybe adding that extra layer of lip gloss. They think its suggestions, not commands—that the only Command they really HAVE to obey is their simplification appointment. This appointment.

Not—if you have a vibrator, you should get yourself off with it. They don’t think they HAVE to, until they do.

Mira’s fierce expression cracks. Confusion ripples across it. She drops the clipboard, and it clatters to the floor. Her thighs inch apart for the first time. She’s holding the pen with both hands, and lowering it towards her slit. And although I am, personally, the most overpoweringly pussy-scented thing in the room, I know she’s feeling the first trickle of unexpected wetness.

Her body knows where it is. We play a soft tune over the overhead speakers. It all comes to a crescendo, at the appointment. The Party is very good at this.

“I thought there’d at least be a big needle in my backside, first,” Mira says, with the same stiff upper lip.

“I CAN get the needle out,” I tell her. I stare at her pussy. She responds to that, too. Show off for men, let men enjoy the sight of your body. “If thats how you want to do it. It’s not usual, honestly. It’s a knockout. You wake up... you know... you saw the girls in the recovery room. Makes the process a little abrupt. You want me to get it out?”

She’s real close to touching herself.

Mira is concentrating on the pen with her entire self. That just makes it worse, I don’t tell her. One of her hands has protectively grabbed her crotch, but that has turned into a soft masturbation grind, and she’s slid nearly halfway off the chair. She’s sweating, so its for the best she wasn’t coated in makeup. That was a mistake too—fighting the makeup conditioning makes it that more likely she’ll touch my tiny pen to her clit. There’s only so much fight in any girl.

Not that it really matters.

I count down from five, stand up, and—just as she’s about to lower the pen to her sopping wet, needy slit—I take it from her grasp. I turn it off.

She gives me the look I’m expecting. Grateful, wet-eyed. So grateful. And for the first time I have a good feeling about Mira. I get an idea. I put my grubby, sticky hand out, to help her up, and she takes it. She gets another woman’s pussy juice all over her fingers, and she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Or, instead of the needle, we can go look at some clothes,” I say. I give her my most sympathetic look. “It helps to see. Trust me.”

And she does. You can see that she does, at least a little.

“Okay,” Mira says, and her thighs twitch, and her eyelids flutter, and she walks into the facility willingly.

Mira rallies as we get to Wardrobe. I expected nothing less. I’m sure she’s already experienced some brown-out moments, found herself idly masturbating in front of the TV, had a shame session after letting her husband nut on her face. Or perhaps not. I need to learn more about the husband situation.

“I work hard to avoid it all, you know,” she said. We walked through the corridors. A long, wailing moan told me Ferguson was at work, damn him. “Barely any screens, we grow our own food. Best I can. We can.”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “A lot of our clients have strategies. You know they even condition you during red lights? You’re looking right at them. And they’re supposed to blink back at you.”

Her breath catches. “Briefly,” she says. “I look briefly.”

I wonder, is she thinking about when an irritated male honk woke her up? Very hot in the car, even with the A/C turned up. I don’t say, it doesn’t matter if you think the radio is off. It’s on. You’re just not hearing it on a conscious level. Did you take the car in for servicing? That new A/C filter is doing things to your pussy. Trying to avoid it is the stupidest thing you can do.

And then we’re at Wardrobe.

It’s vast. We occupy what used to be a community college, and their auditorium forms our fashion display. Long racks of denim, slowly creeping up from boot cut to short shorts, endless tops on wire hangers, sorted by color, like we’re a Goodwill. There’s coats and jackets as well, and even suiting in gray flannel, but that part is just for comfort, to make our whores-to-be feel at ease. That this is just a sexy Nordstroms. Up close, almost all of it has a layer of dust on the shoulders.

Most of it was worn to the facility by process-ees. They leave in a smaller set of gear.

The real stuff is in the middle, in concentric rings around a triple set of mirrors. Pink, in nylon, spandex, leather, and a few other fabrics. Some more fetishwear gear behind the flamingo section, some scoop blouses that can accommodate ultra-big tits. They’re absurd, by and large. Outrageous feather boas, slinky baby doll lingerie, dresses so short they barely bother with a hem. Sailor suit tube tops, and a shock of black leather, just to break up the neon.

Mira ignores it all, and strides up to the mirrors in the center of the room. I can tell her stride is deliberately chosen: assured, clinical. Far away from the lazy, horny stride all the girls leave with. She stands between the mirrors and gives her body a look. Psychologically, I know, it’s a say-goodbye. Soon she’ll have mammoth boobs, and her mouth will hang open, in case someone wants to stick a cock in it.

And, because we at the Facility are not stupid, there’s a perpetual cloud of pheromones blown right onto that middle dais, and we do some dandy work with the lighting as well.

“Mira,” I say, after she’s marinated in the chemicals and the flashing bulbs long enough, looking at what she’s losing. “Lets get going. I know you’re in a hurry.”

That snaps her out of it. Mira has been combing her hair, checking a sultry look at her reflection. She’s probably telling herself its to avoid doing it. I wonder what she sees. It’s an LED screen, a very good one, not glass. “Yes,” Mira says. “Um. Yes. I won’t be needing—any of this—silly.. slut gear.”

“Right,” I say. “Minimal. And that’s a white tanktop and volleyball shorts.” I hold them up. They look like middle school gym gear, and I can see her mouth curve down, disappointed. They don’t actually look bad, once we’re done. Full to bursting with curves. “We’re actually just here to pick out your collar.”

“Collar!” She recoils. “Why—My husband and I—”

I direct her attention to the cabinet we have close to the pseudo-mirrors. I throw open a door. Inside are rubber-ring chokers, hundreds of them, in every possible color. Mira looks around wildly. Things just got more real for her.

“Collar—why—”

Calming gesture. There’s a push-pull to this. Ratchet up, then smooth, that’s the technique. Right now, I soothe. I use a calming tone.

“You’re about to look exactly like millions of other girls,” I tell her. I have a picture of Minimal ready to go, on my phone. Soft, rounded features. Boobs are pretty big. Tush is average. Its just a very normal, curvy girl, an 8/10. Blonde, but not that blonde. “We stamp them out. It’s a mold. That’s Minimal. So it’s important you wear a particularized color of collar so you don’t get lost in the crowd. You need to be distinctive in some way. Some girls make that their new name. Magenta, or Periwinkle.”

I’m not lying. I rarely lie.

“Dolls,” Mira says, to herself. She touches at her neck. “Right. Because we’re dolls to you.”

“Right. My advice is two collars,” I tell her. “Don’t rely on your husband knowing exactly what kind of blue is your blue. Do one, say, tartan, and one solid-color collar.”

“I have a tattoo,” Mira says. She pulls up the side of her blouse, and I get a look at her bra. I make a note to have her take it off before we forget. They’re supposed to show up without a bra on, because they’re about to get much different tits.

The tattoo is greek to me. Literal greek letters.

“It’s Faraday’s Law of Induction,” Mira says. “It’s an electrical thing. Not a lot of girls with that, right?”

I take a chance and touch her. My finger is still a little moist. I rub it on the insignia on her rib cage. So she’s an engineer, or was, before the Party took over.

“The skin treatment is going to take off twenty years,” I tell her. She must’ve avoided reading the pamphlets, the ones they send to gently describe the process. Fair enough, they’re treated with all sorts of chemicals. I take my hand away, and her blouse falls back down. Her skin is very cool. “Thats the good news. That bad news is...” I indicate, with my hands, a puff of smoke. Did she really not know even that? Of course we erase the tattoos. We erase everything.

“So that’s it for the tattoo,” Mira says. She snorts. “Don’t I get a barcode, then? Stamp a number on my big new ass? Look, I get it, it doesn’t actually matter which barbie Thomas takes home from the mall, so long as they all have the same posable arms and legs.”

There it was.

“Your husband—” I watch for her flinch, and she does it. “—can sign up for the tracker implant, of course. There’s a range of aftermarket alternatives. Or there’s, if I may be a little blunt, always the option of a leash.”

“A leash. Woof,” Mira says. She rubs at her eyes. Its a delicate moment. I’m ready to meet her eyes, when she looks at me.

“Thomas wants nothing to do with the degradation of women,” she says.

Wants nothing to do with me, her eyes say. He didn’t even come to the most important moment in my life.

“Does his credit card feel the same way?” I say. “Because we can certainly head over to the Salon, and see if it rings up for new earrings.”

Taking her to the Salon now is out of order. The salon is an unofficial cooldown from the Machine, and the girls really need it. They emerge from the Machine dripping and tired and resculpted, not sure of who they are and why they want to suck everything they see. The salon is a friendly place, to feel out what brains are left, and rub at that new peach pussy. It’s a perfect who-am-I spot.

But the Party trusts me. And I trust myself, until I run into Ferguson in the hallway.

He’s a hateful six foot three, and he dresses to loom. He dresses for the stage, very nearly, in dark black and greys, with a solemn black tie as his signature move. The Bimbo Grim Reaper, he terms it. He has a salt and pepper beard, and he has a special grin he reserves just for me.

“Nicholas,” he says, nodding.

True to form he has a girl on a leash. She’s just done with her own salon treatment, and sports a blonde bouffant. Despite his luxe approach he dresses the girls uniformly as trash. This one sports a ripped t-shirt and daisy dukes, and her lipstick is deliberately smeared. Its already a nod to the trailer park, and especially wild on an asian girl.

“Ferguson,” I say. My only good news re the weekly contest is she’s just a scooch above Minimum, although I bet Ferguson gave her the breeder treatment.

We’re neck and neck in the weekly. I think about Mitzi.

“I think I know that girl,” Mira says, once we’re past. “I know that Mei was going in this week. We were at Koch together.”

“You don’t know her,” I say, curtly, and regret it. Ferguson makes me terse. But, oh well, it is true. At least we reach the Salon before she can think too much about the past tense.

The salon smells good. Bright talcum powder and traces of pre-Party perfume. Comforting stuff for girls. I’m lucky that there’s no new giggling slut testing out her clit in one of the chairs. There’s just the two bimbos on staff and a number of empty chairs. On the walls are old Barbie ads from the 1980s, from K-Mart Christmas catalogs. I don’t know who did the decor.

“That’s Heather, and that’s Tiffany,” I say, picking some names at random. They eye me, nervous. Everyone who works here knows about Nick and the salon. Mira hesitates before taking a seat, and this time I give a slight but audible sigh. She’s trying a man’s patience. I haven’t stuck any needles in her, or given her big tits, or anything. I’ve been a Good, Trustworthy Male. And it works, she slides right into the plush leather. And, lucky her, the seat isn’t wet.

Her current hair is mid-length and unkempt. “Pixie? Bob? Side-cut?” I ask her, as the bimbos move into position. They aren’t the best. No MItzis. Generic whore bodies with generic tits. Sometimes the Machine spits out dull things. But they do have great hair, one with feathered blonde highlights, the other somehow pulling off a bimbo mullet. “All sorts of colors. And I have to pierce your ears. Gold earrings. Humor me, you aren’t paying.”

“This isn’t going to be what plumps up my breasts, is it?” Mira says. She lets her head slide back into the chair. There are soft speakers there, and they will play a soothing hum. Somewhat soothing—long exposure makes libido acts like its been set on fire.

“We have the Machine for that,” I say. “Just so you know this will put you past the hour mark. Sorry about that. Can he wait? What was his name? Thomas?”

Mira nods, quickly, and I motion the girls in. Their tits block out the overhead lighting, and cast Mira in shadow. “Pixie,” she decides. “With, um, pink highlights.”

She seems surprised at herself, picking pink. But its her favorite color now, it has been for some time. She loves the color pink, and looking at it makes her feel safe, comfortable, horny. I’ve had girls earnestly tell me how unaffected they are, how normal they are, while flashing me with bald glistening beavers. The bimbos start to rinse. One picks up the shampoo, until she gets a sharp look from me, and puts it back down.

Only I mix the Salon chemicals. The girls always forget, and I always have to remind them.

While they have her attention I pick out a few bottles from back behind them, and make a few decisions on dosage. I double and triple-check my figures. The others let the bimbos work with the chemicals, which I find insane. The professionals should, at least, mix the harsh mind control chemicals, and do it correctly. Only when everything is to my satisfaction do I hand the tonic over.

Then I go to check on Mitzi.

Her name is Magi this week, thank you Ferguson. Pronounced as “Maggie”, but Ferguson has made sure I know the spelling. She doesn’t currently remember the name Mitzi. She certainly doesn’t remember the name Annie, which was, now, a long time ago. We used to work together, pre-Party.

“Magi,” I don’t like using the name, but I do. “I need you to run a search on this girl Mira’s husband. Thomas. His name is Thomas. Can you do that, baby?”

“I don’t know, can I?” Magi says. She was skinny and stern, once. Now she’s fat and fuckable. My cock swells up, seeing her with her legs on the table. She’s wearing a cheap, torn pair of panties nearly lost in her thighs, and a pair of half-boots. The rest is creamy leg and equally-creamy thigh, and her trademark long blonde locks. They go down nearly to her ass. I can’t believe I lost last week. At the last second, when Ferguson did three girls in two hours.

He says I’m welcome to use her during his weeks. Never.

“Get Anderson to help,” I say, because I actually do need this information. Switching back and forth between names is not good for Mitzi’s long-term IQ, which has already been quite reduced. Mostly her attention span suffers.

She actually sucked my dick once, late at night, as Annie. Still kept her Daria unamused expression even when she fished my dick out of my pants. And that’s when my cock was pre-Party, a sad pale worm. It didn’t bother her.

“No, really, do you think I can help?” Magi said, and giggled. She has one of our no-sugar lollipops in. All the look with none of the tooth decay. Mostly its to suck on. She slides her big ass off and takes the paperwork, and I know, I just know, she gives me an extra wiggle as she strides off. Her top is a big t-shirt. She looks like she’s at a slutty sleepover, where she’ll talk about boys and perhaps share a vibrator.

“Trust me, I know,” I say. An old joke between us, although now fairly one-sided. “I’m a professional.”

Her blonde curls bounce at me. They catch the sun.

I’m so hard it nearly hurts.

Mira is just finishing up. She’s a lot dumber now.

Her hair looks nice. Not quite a pixie, but short. The pink highlights are very pink and very loud. The salon bimbos honestly do good work—it makes them horny and hot, to do good work. I don’t remember if that was instilled, or if they just pavlov’d themselves into getting aroused by good styling. It doesn’t matter.

Mira is drooling while they rinse the last of the lather out. I check her hair—too much chemical can cause follicle loss.

The chemicals we use are very, very strong, but they’re primarily activation triggers of the long-engrained changes. Mira has been rewired at every red light, she has been conditioned by chemicals in her clothing, there are additives to the rain. All the many cross-linked systems in her mind, that hive of electrical activity, have been coaxed to run through a particular section of the temporal lobe. In essence the libido calls the shots. That pleasure-seeking part of her, hardly accessed, previously abandoned for books and math, is going to get the vast majority of her neural blood flow. With maybe a tiny trickle left over for things like geometry. The chemicals kick the new edifice into gear.

Mira is about to start thinking with her clit.

“Sluts, hand me a mirror,” I say, as she starts to come back online. A little groggy. All her thinking is now being shunted through into a dark and primeval place, previously only trusted with thrusting her ass up in the air, and squeezing cum out of cocks. “You look good. I won’t say indie. I don’t know how you feel about indie.” I hand her the mirror.

“Oh, it’s...” she struggles for a big word. Her lips move. Its not there. Its gone. The highway doesn’t run through that town, not anymore. It flows through a city of pussies and cocks.

“Unique,” I supply, and help her up. She’s glued to the mirror. Previously the sociobehavioral context of short hair would’ve been first and foremost. Thoughts of Audrey Hepburn and Mia Farrow. Comparing herself to other women. Now it was—and I could see her newly glassy eyes ponder this—it was cute or not cute. What else mattered?

“Confession,” I tell her. This time she doesn’t tense up, waiting for me to lower the boom. She’s trying to move the mirror to see the back of her head. “We took a liberty and did your makeup.”

“Oh,” MIra says, and responds very well. Probably proving to herself that she can still think, and talk. “Oh! Oh, some eyeliner, huh? I guess short hair needs an accent look. This is going to be a lot to think about. Do you like it? Its a BIG change.” She’s nervous, looking for my approval. All the self-confidence is contained in a different part of the brain. She has to get it elsewhere, such as men.

She hasn’t noticed we did her lips, although they’re a bit disguised by a dark coat of cranberry lipstick. They’re puffy and full. She hasn’t noticed a slight lisp, either.

“Love it,” I assure her.

Mira smiles, unabashed, for the first time. She even flirts with me, also for the first time. I’m not surprised. Her lips open, she arches her back, and is about to say something along the lines of “I’m gonna be a pretty hot dolly!”, before she catches herself.

“Onwards,” I say. Big gold hoops dangle from her ears. She hasn’t noticed that, either. Or that we took her shoes. Shoes are for smart people.

Mira’s already been prepped for all of this, and not just through the dozens of chemical additives, and a very distinct flavor in the water supply. “Thinking Isn’t Fun!” was easily the most controversial tenet of the Party, and there were many early marches and protests. The Party was prepared for those, and they stopped when the participants came home whining for dick, and unclear on how to read. But clearly there was an attachment in society to girls being able to do the crossword, or at least the jumble.

Since then the propaganda isn’t just subliminal, its very liminal. Major celebrities tout the advantages of Pussy Thinking. The Party has plenty of instructional videos, helpfully laden with hypnotics, with cartoonish diagrams about how very nice thinking with your nerve endings can be. No more depression, no more anxiety, not even rage. No more of that old existential dread, that sense of being unnecessary in the cosmos. The clit-led brain just lived to get fucked.

And to be fair to the Party, the girls are only incredibly dumb in a certain.... sense. They’re very smart about finding cum. Artists can still paint, even if its mostly feverish watercolors of sweaty, disjointed limbs. Doctors can even tell you about drug interactions. Simply withhold dick and tell them its not going into their mouth until they explain what should not be taken with prochlorperazine. That information can still be accessed, with enough motivation. Eventually.

There’s an interview series where female authors of previous note just lie there and moan, a vibrator between their legs. The camera makes sure to linger on their eyes rolling back in their heads. See? See what fun they’re having?

Some girls ask for it first of all, when they get here. They want it over with, they say. Or they just want it, they’ve rubbed themselves off to it, to the powerful idea of Good Times, Head Empty. A lot try to make themselves stupider in advance. One of those girls told me, post-treatment, that it was actually a lot like when she edged for a week, her orgasm always just out of reach. At the very end her male leaned in, puffed a breath on the red, trembling bulb of her clit, and asked her a simple question, to the moaning, needy slut-pig she was.

The question was, what was the capital of Montana?

“Why did you get in to this line of work?” Mira asks me. “There’s lots of jobs, you know?”

This shocks me.

I suppose its flirting, of a sort, asking about myself. But I’ve clearly underestimated Mira. She’s supposed to be navigating a horny new fog, where every thought comes with a tinge of ass and pussy. She’s supposed to be simpering and barefoot, and she’s only barefoot.

“Well. It’s not because I’m good at it,” I tell her. “We’ve been going an hour and you still have the same tits.”

She giggles at that, and glances downwards. At least the reflexive frown has gone away. Which is good, because we’re actually walking to give her those big boobs.

“But DO you like it?” she says. I think—she’s still resisting, but this time, by asking questions. I wonder how smart she was before the Party started scrambling her head up. Not a lot of girls get physics equations tattooed on their rib cages. “Its a lot of girls, right? And some must be—scared. And you make them into... you know...” she shivers. “Toys. That’s your job. Toymaker.”

I’m so surprised I fuck up and give her an honest answer.

“I don’t think about it,” I say.

I should’ve said something like, the girls need a friend. I catch her staring at me, my eyes, when she should’ve been examining my cock. The whole thing is humiliating, and I’m on the verge of just saying, “I DO NOT FEEL BAD,” when I’m saved by her phone buzzing.

It nearly makes her cum.

Her phone is up against her butt, and she nearly falls, catching herself against a wall. Her eyes, previously disconcertingly alert, wash over with a horny glaze. But she does get her phone out, and she even frowns, which is a lot to ask of a post-salon girl. “My husband,” she explains, in a curt tone of voice. Her hot new mouth holds the phone up and answers it.

“No. I’m not done,” she says, right away. “They haven’t fucked me up yet. I’m still a person.”

I don’t hear the response. We’re in the hallway to the Machine. But her husband talks for awhile. Mira fidgets, uncomfortable.

“So, wait in the waiting room, Thomas. Do some more pushups. Alright? No. I’ve barely started. Yes, it’s Minimal, like we discussed.”

Another long harangue from husband Thomas. But it’s useful—I’ve caught my breath, regained my composure. I gently take the phone.

“Thomas,” I say. I don’t wait for his response. “Your wife is currently being transformed into your personal, always-horny, devoted and luscious fuckdoll. And all you have to do is sit in our very nice waiting room, where I know we have both coffee and popcorn. So. Fucking sit down. And wait. Understand?”

I hang up on him before he says whether or not he understands.

Mira is feeling really good, and struggling with it. Two men are fighting over her. Where before that could be interpreted in a number of ways, annoyance, or hostility, or fear, it is now getting processed on the most obvious of horny levels. She’s a toy to be fought over, and she will belong to whoever wins. And that’s me. Waves of encouraging hormones buffet her nervous system, reinforcing what she has long suspected—that she is property. It feels good to be owned, her mind tells her.

Mira takes short, deep breaths, and I take her upper arm. That, too, leads to endorphin rush. She has no idea how good she can feel.

“Don’t thank me,” I say. “I’m the guy taking you to the Machine, after all.”

“Y-yeah,” Mira says, and I give her arm a soft squeeze before she can think too deeply. To be clear—not that she can. So she doesn’t try. A little moan escapes from deep within her, and I have to briefly support her weight. She’s pair-bonding. She’s learning my scent. She feels a pleasurable pulse, deep within her, from just being around me. She’d be shocked to see an MRI of her own brain, at that moment. The brain does other things, or it did, but now it wants to get fucked.

As Mira is learning new things about herself, we reach the Machine.

It occupies the center of our facility. Marcos calls it the Bimbo UFO, and is fond of it. Ferguson is devoted to it. If a girl gets it dirty, and they usually do, he makes them clean it with their tongues. He calls it conditioning, but it feels like he cares more about the finish on the metal. I know I’ve seen him walking around with a bottle of windex.

I’m not a big fan. But it is impressive. The exterior is aluminum finish with pink etchings of soft, feminine forms. Actually it looks like it turns girls into robots. But not quite—its the latest and greatest in toymaking. Girls go in, strapped to a plank, and what comes out is pliable and fun. I could stuff Mira in, puff the pink prep gas in her face, and have a normal, giggling pet in a little under ten minutes. And that’s with extra tits. It’s an amazing piece of technology, and its well-lit underneath a bank of floodlights. It shines.

Faintly, underneath the scent of cabling and metal, is the smell of freshly minted sluts.

“What do you think?” I say, softly, and let my hand fall to the curve of her rear.

She doesn’t protest. But she also walks towards it, ignoring me cupping her cheeks.

“I helped build some of this,” she says. Again, a total and thereore unwelcome surprise. It’s only a little comfort that she’s swaying her butt, now, to catch my interest. “Not like—a lot. The restraints. I designed the way the restraints close. It has to be... umm... carefully calibrated, so it doesn’t hurt anyone.”

She twirls, and gives me an apologetic look. “I thought it was for, like, mental patients!” she says, and gives me an oopsie-doopsie expression, as she runs out of brainpower. “Wasn’t that super-silly of me?”

Again I’ve lost touch with Mira. I just have to trust to luck, going forwards. “Well, I’ve never seen a single bruise on a single wrist,” I tell her, closing the distance. I lead her towards the intake. The Machine is very quiet at the moment. Its actually pretty loud, in operation. “Nice work. Go ahead and hop in to these straps, and we’ll have you spit out to your hubby in fifteen. He won’t even finish that cup of coffee.”

I clench my stomach. Most of the time, despite all I know, despite all I do, the girl strides in. I taste all the bad coffee that I drink. We can turn a brilliant electrical engineer into a cocksleeve, but we can’t brew a decent cup of coffee. If Mira steps in, I’ll dial up Minimal and go fill out the paperwork, and Mitzi will have to wait another week. Or two, or three.

Mira hesitates.

“It’s—a little scary,” she says, turning to me. I don’t let it show on my face, but I’m flooded with relief.

“It is, isn’t it?” I agree. She nods. I drop my tone. “It’s the metal finish. If it was wood paneling it’d look like a big old studebaker. Or glass, it should’ve been glass.” I don’t say, aluminum is easy to wipe clean. “Tell you what, we still have the old fashioned route. No restraints, no Machine. Although your husband will have to wait a little longer.”

“Oh, he can DEFINITELY wait a little longer,” Mira says, and doesn’t resist as I put my arm around her. She slumps into me, and practically purrs. No more surprises, I want to say to her. I should’ve made her even dumber when I had the chance.

“You NEVER wanted to be curvier?” I say, incredulous. “Fifteen year old Mira is looking in the mirror. And she’s thrilled?”

“Niiiick!” Mira says, from behind the curtain. “You’re being really mean. I thought you were Mr. Professional!”

“Look, I know girls, I know you’re not happy. Maybe you convince yourself your mind is more important, or there’s something you ARE happy with, but no one is just—happy. No one thinks they’re a ten of ten. So what was it?”

She emerges, and I’m ready. I rip off the biggest, most cheesy, most wild wolf whistle any construction worker has ever heard. I can probably be heard in the waiting room. I could teach Tex Avery a trick. I waggle my eyebrows, I don’t hold back.

Mira acts like I just held her down and sucked her clit. She abruptly sits on the bench, and sways back and forth. It’s her first bimbo brownout, and, if I was going to keep her, I’d film it. Too much stimuli for her to process. The libido isn’t really supposed to do all the thinking, but it’s trying. Right now, it’s trying to make her cum without physical stimulus. Everything else, motor control and impulse regulation and long-term memory, doesn’t get a lot of oxygen. Just pleasure, from male approval. It’s very important she associate pleasure with male approval.

I’m not just doing it for effect. I do like the old gowns.

With the Machine we’re supposed to toss them in naked, and I hate that. The growth gowns are diaphanous, clinging, with a short frill at the too-small hem. They look dull until a light hits them, and then they’re a oil slick rainbow. That’s mostly because of the chemicals in them, you’d think. Nothing too serious—just improves skin tone—but Mira’s tattoo is probably already getting thinned out.

“I—” and she has to catch her breath. “I—I—” she shudders, and another moan leaks out of her. It’s fun to watch. I notice she’s carefully folded her old clothes and put them on the bench, like she’ll need them again. I deliberate, and decide to throw them away in front of her. “Did you—why am I so h-horny?” She’s starting to realize, something big has already happened to her. She’s not thinking the same way, or much at all.

“The salon,” I tell her. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

“It—yeah, it feels really.. but, Nick, it’s kind of hard to... ummm...” she’s trying to use the rewired brain to complain about the rewired brain, and its tough. “Everything’s all... sexy. Like I’m trying to calm down but my calm-down thoughts are..umm... they’re really naughty, Nick. Is this Pink Fog?”

No one believes that its Pink Fog, when it comes for them. It feels too good to be what they’re worried about. Its not Pink Fog, because if it was Pink Fog, they’d be worried and concerned, and they feel sooooo happy and relaxed. If it’s Pink Fog, they’d be thinking about it being Pink Fog, and not thinking about big heavy dicks with creamy loads, and creampies in their pussies, and other wonderful things.

But yes, its Pink Fog.

“You can get off, see if that helps,” I say, sympathetically. I wonder how far her fingers will move. She just leaves them on her shivering thighs. Mira is predictably unpredictable. Her body must be screaming for release. “Lets just stay focused and get this done, okay? I like the gown. For the Machine you go in stark raving naked. It’s classless.”

“N-naked. Yes, I.. I don’t... I don’t... want the Machine,” Mira tries to collect herself. I’m sure it’s hard, trying to be rational with a horny schoolgirl’s brain. “Give me a second to catch my breath, okay Nicky?”

No problem at all, Mira. The gown needs a moment to soak in, anyway. Her skin needs a lot of work. It’s dry, cracked. Every part of her should look like she’ll juice if you squeeze her just right. I watch Mira try to focus, and then, predictably, she unfocuses. She licks her lips. She glances at my crotch. She’s probably thinking about blowjobs. It feels good to think about blowjobs.

“Um. What were we talking about?” Mira says. She straightens up, and even crosses her legs.

“Which did you hate? Tits or ass?” I say. “You’re gonna say your boobs.”

“No!” Mira protests. She fidgets, she plays with her hair. “You—you did something—I feel so... umm...” she gives up. A man has asked her about her body, and there’s an enormous, huge, chemical reward for responding. It’s building behind her eyes. “You’re wrong! It’s my butt. I’ve never told anyone this before, not even Thomas, but it’s my butt. Like, if I sit down for awhile, I can feel it on the bone. It’s an innie. I have an innie butt!”

“Mira,” I say, sternly. I want her looking at me even as the endorphins trickle into her. She was starting to slump. “So lets get your butt how it deserves, okay? Are you ready for our futuristic evil mind controlling big-butt fuel? Maybe even taking it a scootch above Minimal?”

Here’s the big moment. I have it behind me, and plunk it into her lap.

It’s a bag of pellets.

While she stares at it, confused, I hand her a pink porcelain bowl and a spoon.

“Where’s the needle?” Mira sputters.

“One bowl for Minimal, two bowls for, you know, healthy butt. Attention-getting. I’d call it there,” I say. “Hand me your panties, okay?”

I know she left them on. She’s been flashing me periodically. Those thighs don’t want to stay together.

Again the hesitation. I’m sure it’s all happening very fast for Mira. She has to make a lot of difficult decisions, and I know the pellets smell surprisingly good. There’s a rose-violet overtone, since it helps the brain to have something to latch onto as “good-scented.” But mostly it’s an animal hormone cloud.

“I mean, can I keep them on? I—I know they’ll stretch, but maybe it’ll look cute? Like I’m wearing a little thong?” Mira puts the bag down, with difficulty, and hikes up the back of her gown. She’s right about her butt. Its like God made her to fit comfortably on a bike seat. I’ve seen birds with more carriage. She’s wearing a dingy old pair of panties with shredded elastic.

“Oh, sure! I mean, you have to sign the waiver. But if its a thing we’ll just cut them off, no big deal,” I say, and flip through to the waiver page. I hand it to her with my vibrating pen. Not turned on. Just a reminder.

She stares at a solid page of 8-point font.

Reading takes so much effort, when your brain is hooked up to your clit. Its very unrewarding.

“Can I just—sign? And keep my undies on?” Mira asks. I’m pleased that almost all her sentences are questions, now. She’s not ready for me to hit her with the Good Girl—its like pressing a big red button marked CUMMIES—but I’m starting to think it.

“Sure!” I say. Mira signs. I pour her a bowl. The pellets are a rainbow swirl color, and they are not easy to chew. But that won’t be a big problem, since she’s about to be highly motivated. They smell very addictive, but that’s nothing compared to how they taste.

“Milk or no?” I ask her. “It’s better with milk, but, fair warning, the milk, also, makes your ass bigger.”

After her first slow and careful bite I excuse myself. I’m not worried she’s going anywhere. I see her eyes light up with the first mouthful, even as she struggles to crunch it. Mira opted for water.

“One bowl, remember,” I say, half-heartedly. I doubt she’s listening.

They get the same stuff in the Machine. There its mashed into a paste and dosed out in tubes. One long squirt down an unresisting throat. The Machine even weighs the girl to manage the feeding regimen.

I take a leak and have just enough time for lunch.

Friends ask me if I’m constantly hard during the workday, like to the point where I’d have to beat off to pee. It just isn’t like that. Yes, I do get the same urges as anyone, I’m getting drugged just like all the other men, I’m getting the same hypno treatment as every other guy. I watch a lot of football, which means I end Sunday night with a powerful urge to work long hours and raise a large family, and that I really gotta creampie someone with a cunt.

But if you keep to a good routine you can get away with about three loads a day. For the morning I usually wander around my apartment complex until I find an unoccupied girl. Night, there’s a bar I like, and they have a stable with two redheads. Actually I helped build their stable. So that just leaves lunch.

This is when it isn’t a Mitzi week, goes without saying.

I stop by the waiting room to get a look at Thomas. He’s easy to spot, because while everyone else is twiddling on their phones, their legs crossed, he’s the one scowling and muttering and giving even the Relief Girl the evil eye. He’s also painfully swole, with a bushy black beard, a sure sign that he’s fighting off treatment. Resistance Makes It Worse is a core Party tenet, and, for men, that means cascading testosterone surges and hyperactive muscle growth.

My contempt for the man is real. Drive her in, throw her into the Machine, and get her back done and dusted an hour later. Reasonable ass, reasonable tits. She’ll giggle a lot more, she’ll touch herself when she’s bored, but she’ll at least listen politely if you read a book. She’s a dumb and slutty partner, but still a partner.

But he picked his ego over Mira.

I’m thinking this when I step into the office, and feel my own testosterone surge.

Ferguson.

He’s got Magi up as a footstool.

I halt in the doorway. Through a miracle he doesn’t see me, and doesn’t get his smirk in. He’s chuckling at some joke Marcos made. I get a few seconds to take the anger coursing through me and crush it against the wall. He turns at the sound of drywall cracking, but its too late. I’m once again a very normal processor of human females.

“Nick!” Ferguson says. He knew I was coming back for lunch. I bet he checked the office fridge. He shifts his heels on Magi’s back. She looks bored, and her teardrop boobs hang nearly to the floor, along with her long blonde hair. “What’s with your current assignment? I saw you walk right past the Machine. You got a coup brewing? Secretary? Breeder?”

I can’t stop myself from checking the Board. We’re real close. Ferguson gets nearly the same amount of points every week, because he just takes the girl, puts a leash on them, and stuffs them into the Machine. Maybe a slight upsell at the end for hair or nails. Ferguson wins on volume. I win, when I do win, on quality.

And I haven’t won in weeks.

“I looked at her file,” Marcos says, with his usual, gentle grin. Marcos makes his quota and then goes and smokes cigars on the patio. He says our game is stupid. But I know he has four Breeder girls at home, and has spent Party control feverishly repopulating. Its a different persona than the one I see at work. “She’s really something. Two Master’s degrees. Do you think that’s harder than one Doctorate?”

“I need Magi for a moment,” I tell Ferguson, and he withdraws his shoes with utmost politeness. He even wears a silver tie pin. “She’s supposed to be pulling the husband’s file for me.”

“That’s too bad because I didn’t do it!” Mitzi says. She gets up, sidles backwards, and dumps herself on Ferguson’s generous lap. Her curls rub on his nose. I want to kill the man. The sheetrock of the former Wichita Hills Community College is going to feel my wrath. “I didn’t even start on it!”

She wiggles her hips into his crotch.

“You want her?” Ferguson says. He’s offered her to me many, many times. “A little gift of the magi? Eh? Ehhhhhh?” I’ve never fucked Magi, I’ve never been sucked off by Magi.

Mitzi is a very different story.

“No, I should check on the subject,” I say. “Mit—Magi, I really do need that file, okay? That’s your only task this afternoon. Mira’s. Husband. File. Get it to me.” When she’s Mitzi she’s a great secretary. She dresses the part, she even wears the glasses. When she’s Mitzi, she sucks my cock so perfectly. I always lose her the following week because I can’t walk straight. When she’s Mitzi she rubs those blonde curls against MY nose.

I skip lunch. I’m not hungry. And I really do need to check on Mira, who is, when I get back to her, slurping down her bowl of girl food.

“Mira?” I say.

She doesn’t notice me at all. She’s still using her spoon, which is impressive, but she has her nose right up against the bowl and is eating as fast as she can. It’s loud, her crunching through it. And we’re in a fairly large room, a former part of the cafeteria. This used to be home to hundreds of undergraduates. Now it’s just one increasingly doll-like girl and her sales representative.

She’s messy. There’s water all over the floor, and discarded half-crunched pellets. Mira’s eyes are actually locked onto her phone. I think her plan was to read something during lunch. I gently take it from her, and her gaze immediately drops down to the bowl, which is much more important to her anyway. She’s making little snorts and moans as she eats.

I check the phone—she had googled “how to kno if pik fog” and “how to kno stil smart”. Since she’s here the wifi redirected her to the real serious brain-draining hypno websites, with the pink spiral and dangerous tune. Its bad even for me to listen to.

I give Mira her shots. One in each thigh. Mira doesn’t notice. From the amount of pellets in the bag she’s now on her third bowl.

Her body is just starting to really fill in. It’s very funny how it works—although she’ll assume the usual hyperfertile proportions, its sort of a fake. As much as her metabolism has been primed to turn slut fuel into slut body, the process takes time. She’ll be puffy, almost gassed up, until the deposits of sleek fat settle in, mostly overnight. You can push into a new girl’s butt and see the imprints of your hand, like punching a sandbag.

Even so, its clear she’s going to be curvy. The short hair was a good decision—with how buxom she’s going to be, it’ll be a great contrast.

I’ve got a bad hardon, and its tempting to jerk off onto her back. Watch her ass expand. But that wouldn’t be professional. And I am very much a professional.

It can wait.

I’m looking to sneak back into the office, now that Ferguson has had his fun. There’s a sandwich in the refrigerator with my name on it. But the bastard is still in there. I think he delayed his own lunch so he could be sure to spite me.

While I’m standing there, deliberating my options, Mira’s husband stomps around a corner, and fills the hallway.

“Do You Work Here?” he growls.

I hadn’t realized just how big he is. Its worrying. His beard has grown up practically to his eyeballs and sticks out in random directions. His shoulders very nearly scrape the walls. Most concerning, he’s still wearing old clothes, and its clear he’s grown far out of them. He must’ve sprouted three or four inches, and he’s gained an enormous amount of muscle.

This is what happens when men try to fight, when they don’t regularly drain out the excess doctored testosterone. Thomas apparently doesn’t even jerk off. He’s a marvel of retained semen. I’ve honestly never seen anything like him.

“Can I help you, sir?” at the last second I drop my voice, just in case he remembers the timbre of the man who mouthed off to him, on the phone.

“My. Wife,” he seethes. “Has been back there. For two hours now. I have been waiting. For hours now. In this DOLL HOUSE.”

I’m big and strong too, I also eat laced food. Part of me even wants to have a fight with this big dumb ox. But since I do get off, I’m capable of having a better idea.

“Do you want to talk to a supervisor about it?” I say to him. I would never sell out a colleague, because I am a professional, but I do flicker my eyes towards the office, where Ferguson is noisily enjoying a burrito bowl.

Thomas regards my stained and cheap polo, my dark black sneakers. He clocks me as a low level tech. Its shocking that my ruse works. This man is Mira’s husband. If they’d been fucking like a good Party couple should he’d have her scent fixed in his nose. Heck, he’d be able to trace her smell through the facility. And he’d definitely smell her all over me. I wonder if they’re having sex at all. The sweat on his forehead, and his clenched fists, definitely says no. And that’s shocking.

He stomps off towards Ferguson. As much as I’d like to see the results, I have to get back to Mira. After the fourth bowl the girls tend to get a little useless to society.

The porcelain bowl is on the floor, broken into pieces. Mira has her head in the bag, eating. Her ass is up in the air. She’s turning into an hourglass. The tiny librarian butt, fit for an engineer, is swiftly becoming a fuckable ass. As warned, her panties are now strapped for the ride and are digging in to her new plush skin. They’ve fallen into the new valley of her ass crack. Big new boobs wobble underneath her, and I can just about see her nipples filling out. Thick long teats that are a little more cow-like than strictly human.

I pull the feed bag away. She looks at me, confused, with no hint of recognition. The gown is a wrap around her midsection. Its never completely predictable what the girl will look like, but Mira appears to be a classic voluptuous. Teardrop tits, shapely thighs. Her lips have filled in.

“Mira!” I shout, with feigned shock. Marcos tickles. Ferguson slaps. Me, I dump a bottle of water over her head.

I know a lot about this process, but I don’t know where the girls go, mentally, while they’re eating. Its not a horny place. It seems to be no place at all, like a cow getting at the grass. With the shock of the water Mira becomes a person again. Her mind, fully preoccupied with managing her swift addition of about fifteen significant pounds, has to pay attention to its surroundings, and also be horny and wet. She stumbles backwards and falls onto her ass. Its like falling onto a half-deflated volleyball. Mira winces, and only then notices that it doesn’t hurt.

“Mira, how many bowls did you EAT?” I say, in a hushed tone.

“Uh- umm—” Mira takes stock of her surroundings. There’s food everywhere, including a mush of pellets from her mouth down to the top of her cleavage. I heft a much lighter bag in front of her. She takes it in, horrified. She’s been a bad girl, a real piggy.

“Is that bad?” Mira says. She still hasn’t noticed that she’s basically naked. There’s a single strap of her undies, covering up half of her pussy, and the gown covers about two inches of her midsection.

“Well. Its not Minimal,” I tell her. “I guess its good you really wanted that extra-plump ass.” I wet a towel and start to clean her off. Brisk, professional strokes. Her body loves it, especially when I wipe her lips off.

“It tasted—good. Really good,” Mira says. She giggles, and spits out more pellets. “I tried to stop—I tried to throw the bowl away—but...”

“Should’ve thrown the bag,” I say. I help her up. “Pose.”

Mira poses. She thrusts her tits out, and angles her body so that the camera will catch the new curve of her rear. It’s still filling into two glorious halves. I feel like slapping it on general principle. A reminder that I need to cum. I snap a bunch of photos, walking around her. She’s becoming more of a bombshell between shots, her tits finding their equipoise between gravity and space-age chemical enhancement. I can already tell she’s going to be special.

“Good news. You’re not gonna need the ID collar,” I tell her, handing Mira the phone. She thumbs through the photos, hungry to see them. This is it, this is her new body, she’s probably thinking. This is now her, right?

“I got—I got a figure,” Mira reports, and shakes her body. “I’m jiggly. Why am I naked in these pictures?”

A bit of old Mira clicks back into place. This IS her body. She’s the one naked, flashing her pussy. And she’s a married woman.

“I’m naked,” Mira says. Her giggle reflex comes to the rescue. Confusion and fear get expressed as a flight of titters. “You did it, you really did it. I’m—this body. I’m this bimbo body now. And.... am I dumber? Did you make me dumber, Nick? I feel... SO stupid!” Another giggle, to make clear she doesn’t blame me, or anything. For making her a dumb slut.

“Yeah,” I tell her. I throw her a towel, and watch her confusion. What is she supposed to do with that? Rub her pussy with it? Only very slowly does she remember that she’s supposed to be concerned about being naked in front of me. Mira wraps the towel around herself. It hangs off her tits like the prow of a ship. “Yeah, you’re dumber. If you were smart you would’ve stopped at one bowl, right? That was super stupid, Mira.”

“Soooo stupid of me,” Mira agrees, with another flight of giggles. But I can sense she’s starting to have an adorable little bimbo panic, and I pull the pack out of my bag.

“Your husband is getting pretty upset,” I report. “But I think we have time for a smoke, don’t you? Its nice out.”

The cigs have a pink band around the filter. Mira takes one.

There’s probably better narcotics, but I’m not aware of them. The pink fog is very literal with these cigarettes. Mira exhales a long cloud of lipstick-colored smoke. We’ve stepped out into the sun through a side exit.

“You know what I miss?” she says, and sounds briefly like old Mira. Former Mira. “I miss working. I liked working. I was important. I had subject matter exper—exper—”

“Expertise,” I supply, and she nods, happy I helped her with a challenging word.

“People flew in to meet with me from all around the country. Now I have to—hide.”

“I noticed you didn’t have any tan,” I said. “Yeah.”

She gives me a simpering look, one of the few expressions her lips can make. “C’mon, Nicky. Make me feel better. You’re not gonna say, working isn’t so great?”

I shrug. “All around the country, huh?”

“And Inter—inter—

“International.”

“International! With a—someone to help them speak English! Ohhhhhh well. I guess its better that I get turned on reading the back of the cereal box.” She lets out a stream of smoke, this time. She’s been trying to keep her voice pitched like old Mira, but its too much of a strain. Now she has a throaty silk to it.

“Is Thomas really upset?” Mira says, after the next few puffs.

“I get the feeling Thomas is always upset,” I say. “How big did he used to be?”

“Five foot eight, one hundred fifty pounds,” Mira says.

Jesus christ. The man I confronted was six foot two, easily. I don’t think I’ve ever seen any male fight that hard.

“We both wanted to fight, you know?” Mira says. Her voice is dreamy. I wonder if she knows that all these memories will soon be gone. Bimbos don’t need long-term memory storage. Mitzi certainly doesn’t recall being Annie. “We were both actually at the March on Topeka, the first one. Thomas had a bad feeling and pulled us out earlier, thank god, or I’d already be on my third kid. And then we really tried to stay clean but like, you still need to brush your teeth, you still need to talk on the phone, you get books at the library and they’re gooey and sticky...”

“You looked at red lights, you silly girl,” I say. I indulge in a cigarette on my own. They’re pretty harmless, these days. Mira’s doesn’t have any nicotine in it. Whore drugs. They’re giving her a new coat of lip gloss.

“Soooo stupid!” Mira agrees. “Plus Thomas teaches at Wichita State, and he’s getting SO pumped full of... stuff... so when he started working out I was all for it. A lot of our resistance friends were pumping iron. Make the man juice go somewhere, you know? And he thought... you know. Sex would make us both worse.”

“Now look at you,” I say, and lightly tickle her tummy. She laughs, and her smoke trail wobbles. She leans into my fingers. “Dumb bimbo with an angry husband.”

“Dumb,” Mira agrees. We trade puffs. I make a decision, and slap her ass. Mira nearly chokes, and then dissolves into a huge fit of giggles. I relax, and then, because its Mira, she comes right back at me.

“So are you married?” she says.

“No. Oh no,” I say. “I’ve seen what married life is like. Plus now there’s a breeding minimum.”

There’s an audible crack, from Mira’s midsection. She looks alarmed.

“That’s your hip bones,” I say. “They’re getting wider. Have another cigarette. You think matrimony is the answer?”

She doesn’t clock the word. Too big. “Marriage?” I say, hastily, and give her another friendly pinch. It interrupts her sudden concern at her word retrieval issues. Her vocabulary was chopped up and shortened, a lot, the moment we dumped that shampoo on her head.

“I thought we were fighting together, but then we were fighting each other. I could smell him, he could smell me... eventually I started masturbating, and I know he thought I was giving in. Even when his balls got so swollen and he got... so...”

She sighed, and let out another pink breath. It thinned out in the hot sun. It was a nice day out.

“Angry,” I said. “So how did you masturbate? Fingers or toy?”

“Oh, both,” Mira says, and perks up. A much more fun conversation, one she is going to enjoy. “Gosh, do I have a bigger pussy now? Can it fit more stuff? I was already putting my whole hand up there. I got off this morning, I thought it would help me be strong, I came soooooo hard!” She turns to me. “I’m doing good, right? Am I doing good?”

She’s still growing, her body filling in with impossible tits and an alluring rear end. I think about the next thing to say, smoking my own, regular cigarette. Mira moves to catch a sniff of my smoke cloud, and that decides me. She’s ready. Her body has already pushed her to ask for it, she’s even set her creaking hips to catch her weight.

“You’ve been a good girl,” I say.

Mira smiles a very dopey smile. “G-good giiiiirrllll,” she says, slurring. She drops her cigarette, and I have to stamp it out, before it burns down our facility. I crunch the pink ashes under my New Balances. Mira pants, sweating, her new rear shivering. I don’t know if she notices, but her sweat is a glossy pink, to boot. There’s nothing so rewarding as being called a good girl. Its better than sex. I watch her shiver and shake. She’s so happy, so full of the happy chemicals.

“You—you really did—you did me,” Mira says, after awhile. She never quite lost her footing. The tile underneath her is spattered with juice.

“I did,” I say. My respect for Mira goes up another level. That was a trap, she set. She wanted to find out just how dumb she was, how much she’d been programmed. Everyone knows what Good Girl does.

“Thomas said.. he said... he said...”

I rub her butt, companionably. It’s still too plush, still mostly hot air and dreams, but it’s getting there. The pellets work very fast. Mira lets out a very throaty, unabashed moan.

“Thomas,” I prompt her.

“Yeah... that guy... he said Good Girl every night. We... all we resist-y types knew, it’s suuuuch a trigger for stupid bimbo sluts. Like me. Even after he got all mad, he’d say it, and it did nothing for me. That’s how I knew I wasn’t some dumb giggle slut.”

“Did it feel good now?” I say, feeling at her ass crack. It’s going to be a great ass crack. “Did it feel good, Mira?”

“Yeahhhhhhhhhhh,” Mira says, dreamily.

“Do you want to feel even better?” I say. I put out my own cigarette. I’m not concerned anymore. I watch Mira try to turn on her concern, and fail. It was, ultimately, stupid of her, to use up her remaining cunning on testing me. For what? Far better to try and summon some type of caution. But now she’s cum-drunk, full of pellets and pink smoke, and, stupidest of all, she trusts me.

“I don’t think I can feel any better?” but she puts that question mark on there. Oh yes, she can. And she wants to. She’s been fighting pleasure for too long, and now it has broken down the gates. She was fighting it with her intellect, and that’s gone.

Poor dumb bimbo.

“It’ll take a bit, and it’ll cost Thomas a bundle, but... I think you’ll like it,” I tell her. I wink at her, and the effect is devastating. A god in a ratty polo shirt winked at her.

“Oh, I think Thomas can afford it,” Mira says, and we nearly float into the next room. “HE gets to have a job.”

Only special girls get to ride the Orgasmotron. That’s a Ferguson term, Orgasmotron, but it stuck, and even I have to admit, it’s the right name.

I have to help Mira walk there. The obvious reason is that her proportions have expanded, and what used to be a straightforward body is now a badly-balanced combination of tits and ass. Mira is now a fulcrum. The somewhat obvious reason is that she’s very, very sensitive, and the friction between her legs, or between her tits, and even on the soles of her feet, are a source of new delight. The fairly obvious reason is she now enjoys cuddling up to me, pushing her new body up against a male frame. Even the towel I’ve given her has its purpose—it rubs and rubs, with coarse cotton, and her still-developing nerves like it.

The nonobvious reason she’s struggling is that she’s now too dumb now to learn things, including balance. Figuring out a gait is so far down her overtaxed mind’s priority list. It’s like ten steps down from simply smelling me.

“You smell like pussy,” she says, after we’ve gone a ways.

“Previous client,” I say. I should probably change my shirt between clients.”We’re here.”

I’m not surprised when her grip tightens on my arm. We keep the Orgasmotron in what used to be a large lecture hall. Hundreds of seats stare down at it, lodged on the dais, in front of the blackboard. There’s still some partially-erased statistical equations on the board, and I see Mira gaze at them, puzzled. She used to know these things.

The machine itself is a steel frame with supporting struts. A lot of supporting struts—this is a very stable machine. A dark black power cord wraps out the back, and there’s a bicycle-style seat in the middle, along with straps and restraints and partially retracted bulbs and nozzles. The lighting overhead is too harsh for it.

“Do you think you made these restraints, too?” I say, guiding Mira onwards. Her steps falter again.

“I don’t—what does this... thing... do?” Mira says.

I usher her next to it, and gently let go. I rub the machine, fairly fondly. Despite all we’ve cleaned there’s a tacky discoloration on the floor underneath the seat. Hundreds of satisfied girls, dripping on the same spot, slowly eroding the linoleum. Pussy juice is very faintly acidic, it turns out. “It’s the feel-good machine,” I say. “The only thing here that’s really for the girls, not the boys. It makes your orgasms much stronger. A little treat for you, Mira. Since you’ve been good.”

“But it already feels... good...” Mira says. She’s trying to think of the catch. “My pussy feels really good, see?” She decides to show it to me, flipping her towel up.

“You’re still wearing your panties,” I say, gently, and put my hand out. “Can’t have them on the machine.”

She’s flushed and embarrassed at how stupid she’s being. Mira hustles to slide them off. They’re now two large holes with a sopping wet bit of cotton. Still, I note the brand. They’ve held up to a lot. I hold them, and put on a big show of smiling and nodding, although, obviously, I’ve seen thousands of clits, and this one even still has a bush.

“Nice cunt,” I say. Mira blushes. She’s happy.

“I—do I WANT to show you my cunny? Or is it—the fun spirals and stuff?” Mira says. Boy. Identity questions, even now. There’s no point discussing it with her. I redirect.

“Mira, what do you want to DO, now that you’re a silly bimbo?” I say, very seriously. While she’s pondering this enormous question I ease her into the chair. Barely a chair. Its a saddle attached to a big metal pole extending from the bottom frame. “Have you’ve given any thought to returning to the workforce?”

“I’m gonna—” I give Mira all the time she needs on this. While she’s figuring out how to think I put the restraints on her legs. They really are high-quality restraints. They tighten automatically when you press the button, and I’ve never seen them break, no matter how much the girl thrashes.

“I—I didn’t really think about it,” Mira says, eventually. “I mean, but my friend Lola, she got Minimal and she’s, you know, we can still talk about stuff, I read books to her even though she touches herself when there’s a guy character....”

“Can I be real with you, Mira? I mean, you already know this, you’ve been SUCH a good girl fighting the good girl fight.” There’s the first trickle of pussy juice, joining so much like it. I make a note to hydrate Mira after this. The pellets need a lot of water, and she’s going to need fluids.

It turns into more like a flood. Mira really likes being called a Good Girl. She nearly falls over. I have to catch her arm. I attach her wrist to the dangling restraint. Her towel falls off. She’s coming along just fine. Just on the heavy side of an hourglass, all jiggle and curves. The seat tips forward, when I push a button, and her juice starts to drip down the metal pole.

“I mean, true, you’re not an engineer, anymore. You know that, don’t you?” I stroke her hair, all my usual paternal gestures. Cup her chin. “You’ve got a full bag of pellets in you, you’re horny and silly. You are, aren’t you, Mira?”

“I—” Mira makes an enormous effort. I’m surprised she doesn’t brown out, especially since I’m hefting her tits. The weight has started to come in, although you’d hardly know it to look. They’ll never sag. “I know math. I do! I can maybe do—math problems. For—ummm. Money.”

“You should cum a lot, Mira. You’ve fought and fought, and now you should cum. If Thomas isn’t gonna satisfy you, you know what will? Walking. Showers. Your hands, your clothes. The whole world will get you off.” I pretend to be thinking really hard. “Maybe we can find you a job where you can cum?”

“I don’t...” Mira realizes, for the first time, that she’s all tied up. She shudders in conditioned pleasure. After that its hard to think of why it’s bad to be tied up. “I don’t wanna... I wanna get... ummm... Minimal...”

“You won’t have to breed if you get this.”

She brightens. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. You’ll be far too cummy to be trusted with kids.” I finish strapping her in, and test the restraints. She’s completely spread-eagled, which gives me a chance to check on her curves. Her waist has shrunken inwards, and her hip bones give another audible sound.

“Mira, if you want this...” I put some disappointment in my tone, and she flinches. I get on my knees. “...standard-issue pussy, with a standard-issue clit, for the rest of your life, thats your decision. But I don’t know... not a lot of interest in girls with boring pussies in the job market.” I reach out and pry her labia apart. It’s not a challenge. She’s so gooey and oozing. Her clit is a small red bulb. Like all men, I used to have trouble finding it. Not any more.

“Well, you think about it, while I inspect your clit, okay?” I say. I wait. The Party requires Consent, at all levels.

Mira has no idea what to do. “Okay?” she says. “What?”

I lean forward and start to lick her.

This is a professional move, and it took me awhile to come up with.

Some people might call it a trick. I did it once on Mitzi, and count it as an amazing discovery. Its my biggest secret as a salesman. In all the installed and brainwashed panoply of the modern female, there’s nothing that really deals with a male eating a girl out. Its literally inconceivable. But of course it feels good, very good. The complete mental confusion of a man prioritizing female pleasure, plus the pleasure itself, and a special thing I do with my tongue, manifests as an orgasm so soul-consuming the girl is reduced to muttering confusion. Mira probably dumps another ten IQ points just from my latest lick.

Mira screams. A piercing, confused, all-consumed shriek. Her body goes completely rigid. And I know I’ve done my job. If I fuck her, she hums and moans and purrs like she’s conditioned to. If she sucks me off, she enjoys the warm bath of a cum that she’s been programmed to enjoy with each squirt. This is outside all that. This is a sparking filament thrust into her mind.

Once again I’ve gotten my shirt dirty.

She doesn’t taste very special. Like pussy. You can even taste the distinct sparkle of all the chemicals she’s absorbed. Girl pussy juice doesn’t need to taste good. But it isn’t bad, either.

The Orgasmotron requires three separate consents. I press her loose-lolling tongue against each form. It’ll do. I really do need to hydrate her.

Then I press a button, and a valve opens, and a metal phallus slides out of the bicycle seat. It goes right up into her pussy. Once inside a rubber-latex balloon will expand and fill her vagina. The Orgasmotron starts to hum. Its nothing like the Machine, but it does take a lot of electricity.

I leave Mira to it, and go wash my face.

I’ve really waited too long on my lunch orgasm, and I’m feeling it. I did just eat out a pussy. But I’m close on Mira, and, if you know what you’re doing, that surge of testosterone can give you an edge. I feel confident. I’m so close to winning the week. I adjust my cock as much as I can and think calming thoughts. I usually think about a particular day, five years ago, pre-Party, when I was sick in bed and absolutely nothing erotic happened.

Back in the office Marcos is using one of the waiting room girls. I can just see her underneath the table, sucking him off. He gives me a friendly wave, which communicates “leave me alone.” Usually he has one of his house girls underneath the desk, but its possible they’re busy having a baby.

I half-expect that Ferguson will have a black eye, but he’s disappointingly intact. He’s drying his hands, and he’s moved his meter up another notch on the weekly point counter. He’s processed an entire girl while I’ve been working on Mira. Really, Mira would’ve been far better off with Ferguson. She’d already be home right now, instead of getting a nozzle up her cunt.

“Heya Randall,” he says. “I heard you put a girl on the Scream Extractor.”

He knows I hate it when he compares all this to Monsters Inc.

“Where’s Mi—where’s Magi?” I say.

“I don’t know why I bother, you’re obviously going to win this week,” Ferguson says. It’s hot out, and the A/C is always bad in the office, so he’s sweating. “Making some poor girl into public property. What’s she going to be? Office girl? Nursing assistant?” his beetle-brows narrow. “You got a hotel girl on the line? From engineer to hotel relief station? Oof, my man.”

“Where’s Magi?” I say.

Marcos grunts, unloading into his girl’s mouth, and my own dick shivers. I really do need to hurry.

“Just move them through the Machine, Nick!” Ferguson says. “That’s all we really need to do! The Public Girls—I wouldn’t want that for anyone!”

“Ferguson,” I say. “Don’t high-horse me. You own a riding crop.”

Its strewn across his desk. He uses it, too. I can feel him smirk, even staring away from him.

“Well, you see, thats office supplies,” Ferguson says. “This is our industry. Pencil, clipboard, riding crop. And, of course, our three-hole punch.” He gropes his crotch, and laughs. I hate myself for setting that joke up.

“Where. Is. Magi,” I repeat.

“I threw her at that Thomas guy when he barged in,” Ferguson says. “Can you believe that guy? Roided out! And here’s the funny part—he recoiled! Like I tossed a snake at him! Scared of pussy! He went outside to do pushups. Magi is keeping an eye on him.”

Leaving Mitzi alone with that maniac? Ferguson disgusts me. I burst out of the office and crash through several doors to the parking lot. And, to my relief, Mitzi is wiggling her thick thighs on the bench, watching a muscled moron do pushups with one hand. I can spot her blonde curls from a mile away.

“One...umm... hundred FIVE...” Thomas calls out. His shirt is off. It can’t feel good, doing pushups on the broken asphalt. The Party is very good at worldwide bimbofication, not so good at road maintenance.

“I think its been a lot more pushups than that,” Mitzi says. “He keeps losing count! You know he won’t fuck me?” She’s blowing bubble gum, the minx. I want her so badly. I’ve rarely been so tempted. Something about her being outside, perhaps. I could just feed my cock into her mouth. She can leave the gum in, it’ll be a fun departure. I’m only held back by Thomas’ presence, and also I have to hurry, or Mira will be burnt out, more so.

“Mitzi... Magi. Magi, do you have the file I wanted?”

“Ummm...” she looks at me quizzically. But there’s a file folder next to her, so I grab it. Honestly, I don’t know if I need it. But I really do need to hurry back. I disabled all the safety protocols.

Mira has one nozzle up her pussy, another up her ass, and a third down her throat. I should’ve had her sneeze before I put her up there. Dolls, our dolls, do need to breathe. Its a common misconception, actually, that with little higher-order thinking, their hearts beat slowly and their blood pumps at a leisurely pace. Actually they beat very fast, to keep their libidos swollen and their clits hot.

“MmmmMmmmm,” Mira said, somehow, around the warm rubber gasket. This wasn’t like the pellets, where she’s tranced out. Mira is around for all of this. Or whats left of her. I check the orgasm count on the monitor, and think—oops. I’m late.

I don’t know how the Orgasmotron really works. The quick answer seems to be some sort of electrical stimulation and resculpting of her most erogenous zones. Conditioning her nerves to be a hair-trigger set of numerous clits. But that doesn’t really fit the experience—for one thing, the pussy attachment never seems to touch her clit. It goes up and in, and must go all the way to her cervix. Nonetheless Mira’s clit is at least doubled in size, maybe even tripled, a blaring pink-red bulb that now acts as an orgasm button.

I start to disengage her, starting with the attachment up in her butt. You’d think that the anal nozzle would be a bit smaller, and you’d be incorrect. A drizzle of off-white fluid accompanies it out, to the now-flared and dramatic entrance to Mira’s asshole. Orgasmotron girls certainly act like there’s a clit up there once they’re done. Multiple clits. What’s even stranger, they have some sort of natural ass lubrication, a new jelly-like substance that turns viscous when she warms up. Which is all the time.

Its a strange machine.

Marcos has a theory that we’ve got it all wrong. He thinks the machine isn’t adding nerve endings and lube glands. He thinks it takes away anything unconnected to the raw expression of pleasure. After all, Marcos says, they’re toys. Toys are cheap.

I don’t know. I usually don’t think about it. And if that’s the case, why does grabbing MIra’s nipple now induce a shuddering, keening orgasm? Her nipples are extended, and just about permanently erect. You can see a line of goosebumps along the lengths of her teats. Just breathing on them is enough, usually.

Again, I’m just the technician. The engineer is still in the straps.

I disengage the throat nozzle. This is the most attention-getting piece. Mira’s entire throat is sensitized, not to mention her tongue. Eating and drinking is always a show with these girls. Small bites, that’s the key.

Mira fights me taking the nozzle out. They always do, despite having a heavy and large tube in their throat. Very far down their throat. Having your mouth turned into a sort-of pussy must feel very good. It pops free with a loud and throaty sound.

That just leaves the restraints. A single, easy to reach button lifts them off. Her wrists are bruise-free, despite how much she thrashed and moaned. The metal pole connecting her saddle to the frame is greased with her juice, and I realize I forgot a water bottle. I’m hard on myself for forgetting. That’s a rookie mistake, absolute rookie hours, possibly letting a Public Girl faint for dehydration.

“Mira, you did it, I’m proud of you,” I say, and ease her into a chair facing the Orgasmotron.

“I—did—it,” she says. “It. It.” I’m impressed she can talk, so quickly. I can see her move her tongue around her mouth, surprised. Her very palate is a lot like a pussy.

“You did it and you’re done,” I say. The trick here is to orient her towards the future. “You look great and you’re gonna just love this body. Here.”

I strip off my polo and gently put it on her. Even so she bites her lip when it reaches the top of her globes. Her nipples stretch along the fabric as I lower it, and her eyes nearly roll back. I really need to get that water bottle.

“Feels goooooood,” Mira says, smiling a silly cow smile.

“You’re a ten out of ten, Mira.” I should really stop using her name that much. She’s going to have to be pried away from it, depending on where she goes. But it orients her and she’s earned it. “Here, I forgot something, be right back. Meanwhile, this is for you.”

I hand her, very solemnly, my vibrating pen.

When I return, just a minute later, with a water bottle in hand, the minx has stuck it up her butt. She’s off the chair and on the floor, and the tiny cheaply-built toy is lodged in her asshole.

Mira, you sexpot. .

I admire my work. Her body is finally filled out, with just a small amount of slush left for her belly to process. A classic bombshell, that’s Mira. Curvy from side to side and top to bottom, her hips especially wagging from left to right. We used to to have actual curved rulers to figure out how globular their butts were. Mira’s is excellent, especially with the naughty tip of my trademark pen buzzing away inside of her.

“Here you go,” I say, feeding her the water. “Drink up.”

I probably should’ve had her get out of doggy-pose to drink. It sluices down her throat, and Mira locks her lips onto the head of the bottle. She sucks down sixteen ounces with Orgasmotron-trained skill, and the vacuum she creates implodes the Aquafina label. All with a pen up her rear end.

I’m impressed.

But the oddness of cumming from drinking water wakes something in her up, and Mira looks around. Old Mira, I should say. Before, her hands were exploring the new reaches of her body on automatic pilot—they’ll do that even when she sleeps, now. Suddenly there’s a light on, upstairs. That’s fine. It’s not like she’s taking the pen out of her asshole.

“Ready to go home?” I say.

“I’m—done?” Mira says. Her voice has changed again. The voice that called out screw sizes in engineering applications is gone, and it isn’t coming back. That’s another one of the little mysteries of the Orgasmotron. Sometimes its a squeaky bubble voice, sometimes its a throaty murmur. I’m glad MIra’s is a throaty one. “I did it? How—how long did it take?”

“Oh, awhile.”

“Am—am I Minimal?” Mira looks down, and I try not to laugh. No, Mira. You aren’t Minimal. You’re going to stick things up your pussy when you’re bored. Your asshole self-lubricates. Your throat has a special reward system in place, for when you drink cum. And you’re gonna drink a lot of cum.

“Maybe a LITTLE more than Minimal,” I say. “Look, Mira...” It doesn’t really matter what I say to this girl. I could say anything, so long as I say it gently and tenderly. I could say Ba-ba-boh so long as I stroked her hair and said ‘good girl’ at the end. But I want to get it right. She’s wearing my polo, after all. I’m just in my undershirt. “You’re better now. Minimal is no fun. You don’t want to be part-doll, part-girl. It’s the worst of both worlds, you know? You don’t want to look at a book, and feel sad.”

Mira nods. I wonder if I actually am getting through to her. She’s resilient, this one.

“Mira...” I say, and feel a tiny sliver of nerves. This was what I thought about, when she first walked into my office. This was the moment I ran through my head. “Are you absolutely, positively, SURE. That you want to go back to Thomas?”

Mira is always going to look confused, but now she looks very confused. “Huh?” she says. “Wha?”

“He’s arrogant, he’s unhappy. He yells at you, doesn’t he?” I’m sure he does. That much testosterone. I knew it when she walked in the door this morning. I had Mira figured out from the start.

“We’re—there’s—fighting,” Mira says. She thumbs at the vibrator-pen up her butt, trying to think. “Aren’t I—done? I can—I’ll go home? Nick?”

I pull out the file Mitzi handed me. “Mira, I pulled our record on Thomas. He’s had one of his grad students as an Office Toy for awhile now. A blonde.” I wave the manila folder in front of her. I don’t honestly know if I need to do this. If I should do this.

“But—” Mira stops. Its a lot to process. “But—we were—”

“I’m sure its for his other grad students and the study subjects,” I say. “Maybe for lunch, for him. Very occasional. You know how bad men get if they don’t cum at least three times a day. And he’s in the workforce. He matters. But I thought you should know.”

I pull her phone out of my pocket and dial Thomas up on Facetime. “Here, he’s calling, right now.”

The man that answers is past anger. I really think he’s at the permanent consequences stage of testosterone overload. From the background he doesn’t seem to be anywhere near the facility, and I think he might’ve just started running around.

“M—Mira?” he says, and his stupid Ox face examines her stupid face. “You’ve—you’ve got big lips. You got big lips, Mira. You look stupid. You look so—so fuckin’ stupid with those lips, Mira.”

MIra twists them up. “I know you’re fucking AMANDA,,” she says. “I knew it. I knew it! You went off and I could smell it and—I couldn’t say anything because you’d get mad and you were ALWAYS getting mad but YOU got to leave and go to work and—and—” I think Mira is literally out of vocabulary. She used it all up.

Thomas’ big bearded face crinkles up with concern. “I—” I really think he’s too dumb, at the moment, to remember anything. “Mira. You got big stupid lips. Can—are you done? I’ve been... I’ve been waiting.”

“When were you gonna TELL me, Thomas?” Mira says, making a big second effort. She sniffles.. “Right when I got back, all horny and silly? You said the harems all your friends were doing were SUPER BAD!”

“Mira... are those your titties?” Thomas says, wondering. “They’re big. Real big. Aren’t you getting—umm—Minimal? Are you a stupid whore now? Where are you?” He looks around. “Where am I?”

I want her to be the one to hang up, and she does.

Mira sniffles.

I deliberate if its Professional, and decide that it is. I pull my cock out, and I put it in front of Mira’s face. Immediately she slides her mouth over it, and I know I’ve made a good decision. Its very soothing, for the girls, to have a cock in their mouth. And of course it feels great.

“Good girl,” I say, and this time omit her name. I want to be better about that. She sucks with an interesting blend of anger and need. I haven’t had a furious blowjob in forever. I’m surprised Mira is capable of it, what with I’ve done to her, but Mira always surprises. And she’s not shy about taking me all in. I can feel my cockhead bob against the back of her throat. “Slow down, slow down,” I tell her. She needs a moment to herself, albeit with my cock in her throat, to come to grips with the end of her relationship, and the start of her new life.

When she’s more relaxed, and in a nice rhythm, that’s when I unload down her throat. She does struggle with it a little bit, since I have a lot of buildup, and she’s clearly not an experienced cocksucker. But that’s fine. And I wait patiently while she twitches and thrashes, for her first time with the Enhanced Reward. I stroke her short hair. That makes me think about MItzi.

“So now what?” Mira says, unbidden, after she comes to. She’s sitting next to me. I’m not sure where my pen has gone, and I make a note to get it back.

“That’s up to you,” I say.

“But I’m—” she looks down at her body. “I’m a fuck toy now, right? I’m a lot of pussy. And I’m d-divorced now. He called me a s-stupid whore. I AM a stupid whore.”

“You’re VERY desirable in the workforce,” I say. I have my hand in her lap, rubbing at her pussy. The Orgasmotron burnt her pussy hair off, at some point. A strange machine. “You’ve been hiding at home, right? It’s time to go back out there, be the girl that built such great things! Or, at least, service the ones that do.”

“Yeah?” Mira says. Her voice doesn’t really do little-girl shyness, but she tries. She clenches around my fingers. “You think so?”

“Oh, miss, please, I thought it the moment you walked in. You’re wasted at home. It’s time for you... to go back to work.”

With my free hand I pull over the clipboard. I’ve got it open to the correct page. “You can have your choice of any of these,” I tell her, waving it. “You’ll be in public, meeting people, you’ll love it. You’ll have to. Personally I recommend—”

Mira jabs at the paper, at the top of the Priority Needs list.

“That one,” she says.

I look where she pointed. I try to keep my voice steady. The District is going to throw us a pizza party. Usually only criminals and Red Resistance figures get the first page.

“Airport Relief,” I read off. “Excellent choice.”

My pen appears in her hand, still vibrating. Mira initials where I tell her to. Well, she draws a shaky X. And thats it, at least for me. Soon she’ll be starting a new career near the Terminal 3 toilets. Meeting a lot of interesting and varied men, from all corners of the globe.

“Did I do good?” Mira asks.

“You did VERY good,” I help her up. I am incredibly sincere. “Come on. Just a few odds and ends left. Do your nails, a couple of other things.” Airport Relief, wow. Wow. I was going to press for a Hotel night girl, and if she pushed back, Police/Fire Department Relief.

“I’m kind of excited,” Mira confesses, as she walks with me. “Is that weird? I know you—you did a lot of stuff to me. I know I’m like, a mega slut now, aren’t I? When I close my eyes I see... cocks. Lots of cocks. But I’m going to work! Am I gonna fuck a lot of cocks?”

“You’ll see PLENTY of cocks,” I promise her. “Sometimes there’s lines out the door. We never have enough Airport Relief girls. You’re going to be used in every hole. You’re gonna be SPECIAL.”

“Special,” Mira whispers, and shivers. She looks around. “Where are we going?”

“Oh, you have to be finalized, won’t take long,” I tell her. I hold the door open for her. Soon enough she’ll learn how to walk without feeling like she’s about to cum. Or maybe not. Public relief girls didn’t walk around a lot.

We’re back at the Machine.

“Umm,” Mira says. She’s too dumb now to verbalize a complaint. Especially to me, with my cum still fresh in her mouth. But she does draw closer to me.

“This is just for your nails, make your knees stronger, a few other bits and bobs,” I assure her. Its sort of true. And honestly, this is for her own good. Airport Relief gets an enormous amount of use. She needs the Machine’s extra-special settings. “I’ll need my polo back. Mira.”

She seems a little dazed, so I strip it off. She’s an absolute ten out of ten, and her posture is already perfect. There’s a way to stand, back straight, even a little curved, that pushes the breasts out to best effect. She has a lazy snail trail of lubricant between her legs, actually joined by a similar one out of her ass. It’s good work. If I’m being critical, maybe a little more on the lips, and her eyelids need more of a soft, slutty heaviness. But that’s if I’m being critical.

“Can I help you in?” I say.

She looks at me, and her lips curve, and for a moment I see her walking into my office, refusing a handshake. A coolness in her gaze.

“I can walk,” she says. She has a beautiful, sexy stride.

Once again those restraints go on. I push a button. Mira looks about to say something, but doesn’t, and I don’t have anything to say either.

Off she goes. And I can finally have lunch.

The airport facilities guy couldn’t be any happier. He wants to shake my hand. For once its clean. And I put on a new polo.

“We’ll take REALLY good care of her,” he says, over and over. He has a thick white mustache. “People get a bad idea but its a nice location, windows and everything, lots of breaks if we’re not too busy. Like we all know how important they are, they get free Cinnabons, free Sbarros... I take them home myself at the end of the day. Boy! This is gonna be a big help, we’ve only got four girls right now, and when two hundred men get off a five-hour plane flight... well!”

“Uh-huh,” I say. This man just needs to initial the paperwork. I want him to initial the paperwork.

“Yeah, the girls even got this competition going, see who can make the most men gasp in a week. They win a prize. It’s like Monster’s Inc.!”

“That’s a great idea,” I say. I again push the paperwork towards him.

He glances at her file. “A Master’s Degree?” the man chuckles. “TWO? Hell, maybe she can help with the planes, haha”

“The seat belts,” I say, and finally, finally, he initials and signs for Female Number 027-102001-WQ. “You want to fill in a name? Its not required. You can do it later.”

“We were actually gonna do a contest for it! You know, Amelia, Skye, Piper...”

Unity, America, Delty. I hand him the packet and give him another firm handshake.

“Sir, she’s all yours.”

Mitzi is still out front. I go and sit next to her. Our thighs touch. She’s wearing jean cutoffs with a dark stain at the crotch. Her long blonde locks are always perfect.

“Here, Nick,” she offers me a lollipop. A safe one, a pre-Party relic. I put the crystalline antique in my mouth. She’s got a matching pink one. “I hear you did good, huh?”

“YOU did good,” I say. I hand back the manila folder. “I closed the deal thanks to you.”

“Oh!” her eyes light up. She’s happy about it. “You know I never had time to look up that guy? What was his name?!”

“It doesn’t matter.” I thumb through the folder. There’s about twenty blank pages in there. I throw it down and bite into the old candy. It’s still great.

“You know he came back? That guy had problems. I think he’s fuckin’ the waiting room girls now, all of them at once!”

“Of course he is.” I look up, to see if there’s any airplanes. Nothing so far. I try and remember—does Wichita take international flights?

“Mitzi, Do you remember when we worked together?”

Sometimes she does. Today is not one of those days. I don’t know why I keep asking her, I know how much brain-blasting sludge she eats, the maintenance pellets she guzzles, the flashing-spiral TV she watches. I rub at her thigh, and she takes it the wrong way, presents her titties to be fondled.

“Next week,” I tell her.

The airport guy raps on the roof of his van to tell me he’s leaving. I told him he wouldn’t need the collar and leash, but I suppose its easier once they get to the airport. She walks straight and deliberate, boobs and butt, the pink highlights still in her hair. Her tattoo is gone, erased. The Machine has given her a slight tan, and long pink nails, and a hundred other useful things. Cum is nutritious. Permanent makeup. She’ll even need less water, like a bimbo camel.

They’ve dressed her in a slutty stewardess outfit, with a short tie and a brief navy blue skirt. But also a white blouse, just like the one she came in with, although now she has an acre of cleavage poking out.

And she’s stolen my pen, I realize.

I’ve had that pen for years and years. Since my first time. Out of respect, and even though it isn’t particularly professional, I give her a polite wave goodbye.

“Mitzi, do you remember when you were fucked over?” I say. “Dollified?”

“I remember YOU did it,” she says, elbowing me. “You stuffed me in the big scary Machine!”

“We didn’t have that Machine then,” I say. “But I did do it, that’s right. Good girl.”

She giggles, pleased. She loves going over this with me. “I was your FIRST girl! I said you could practice on me since... umm...”

“Since we worked together, and you trusted me to be professional about it,” I said. “And? What else do you remember?”

“Ummm... you made me extra chubby. Didn’t I used to be skinny?”

“Real skinny. Yep. I did do that.”

“And you held my hand when I got on the Orgasmothingie, even though it wasn’t Pro-fess-ional.”

Does she remember that, or does she remember me telling her the story? Who knows. “That’s right,” I said. “I had to stand on tiptoes to do it, since your hands were in the straps.” A low dose, compared to what Mira got. But she does love lollipops, ever since.

And here comes her favorite part. “And since you didn’t know what you were doing, you messed up the chemicals in the Salon, and made me BALD.”

Mitzi lifts up her blonde curls. She’s cue-ball bald underneath the wig. She breaks down into squeals of laughter, and snorts a lot. She tickles me. “You’re such a PRO, Nick!” she says, still giggling.

“I did do that,” I say. I look up. There’s a plane, a big one. From Chicago, or New York, or Los Angeles. Girls rarely travel, which means that there are hundreds of heavy balls that need to be drained. Cocks from all over the country. Important, needy dicks.

I get up, and mentally shift myself to off-duty. But first I head to the office to turn in the paperwork, and move up the weekly points marker up on the wall.