The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

ELENA

On Saturday, Elena broke it off with Drew.

“It’s a process, and this is just—part one,” her therapist said. “You’re embarking on a journey.”

She’d avoided saying “step one,” and Elena appreciated that.

“I’m at rock bottom,” Elena said. “Aren’t I?”

Her therapist considered her answer. She had a voice Elena liked. Not quite NPR, but weighty, a college-educated type of sultry even. “Typically journeys start at the bottom, where there may be rocks around,” she conceded.

“Great,” Elena said. Part one of step one. She’d been ginning herself up for it for several months. Even so, she read to herself the wikipedia entry on co-dependency a number of times before actually making the facetime call. She’d talked to her therapist a lot about that—in-person was too much, text and phone were not impactful enough. She needed to feel it, but only a little.

“You’re my enabler, and its toxic,” she said once his big face filled the screen. “It’s over, we’re breaking up. I did it. Holy shit.”

She’d told herself—hit the big red end call button as soon as she said the words. The relationship was terminated. Drew’s mouth formed a familiar curlicue—he could alternate between a smirk and a grimace with the most subtle narrowing of his eyes, a pinch to his cheeks. He had brown hair dramatically swept back, and had very broad shoulders. He had very hard eyes at all times.

“We had sex just yesterday,” Drew said. “You fucked me knowing you were going to try and break up? The whole time I was hauling you around, you were plotting?”

Her therapist had cautioned Elena on this, which was why she was supposed to hit the big red end call, and then block his number. She’d even written down a series of steps... instructions... to doing so.

But he was right—she certainly had not intended to fuck the man, one last time. But she had, because she was weak, and horny.

“You’re condescending, already. I think you should—be nice about this,” Elena said. She shifted on the couch, with effort. “You should hang up.”

“Lord,” Drew said. He shook his head. “Lord lord lord. I carried this relationship very literally, and now this. Real bite the hand that feeds you stuff. What is it you even want out of a relationship, Elena? Was I carrying you the wrong way? Should it’ve been fireman carry?”

She needed to NOT ENGAGE. This was guilt, mixed with shittiness, and she had built prominent emotional defenses against it. Formidable barricades against male sarcasm and anger, that she needed to deploy. Or she could just hang up. She needed to HANG UP!

He did, regularly, carry her around. Elena’s legs worked just intermittently. She told the curious that she had the same disease House M.D. had. It wasn’t actually that—hers was a genetic issue, with all the leg muscle control of an infant. She also often had to pee, and symptoms would gradually worsen over time.

Nonetheless she’d dated. At first it was princess-movie sweet to have a man pick her up and move her around, especially given that she was all of five foot nine.

At first.

“Thank you for the . I am now ENDING the CALL,” Elena said, as rehearsed. But it was so hard. Even as their relationship had disintegrated, into a toxic morass of resentful and sniping, she’d struggled to emerge from it. He did cook, and move her around. They’d actually been having more sex than ever, now that Drew felt comfortable asking for it whenever he felt like, which was pretty often.

“I can’t get over how we literally fucked yesterday,” Drew said, shaking his head.

“I was just lying there,” Elena said, hot now. “It wasn’t fucking, Drew. You had sex with me.”

“Oh, come on,” Drew threw his head back and laughed. “You being a pillow princess is a knock on me, now? Baby, we had sex on the kitchen table. I did all the work. I heard no complaints. What is this, really? Tell me what’s actually going on. Is this just you wanting me to cook more?” He drew physically closer to his own phone camera, and raised his eyebrows, suggestively. “Are we bargaining?”

She was tempted, damn herself.

It was the best she could hope for, wasn’t it? She was disabled. She was not very desirable. She was a big strain on partners, wasn’t she? Naturally they would take out their frustrations and contempt on her, in manageable, even understandable ways. He did cook. And the sex was good.

Something in her expression must’ve shifted. Drew’s grimace shifted, imperceptibly, to smirk. He opened his mouth and Elena jammed the Hang Up button.

Drew disappeared from her life.

She blocked him. It was a move she’d rehearsed. She’d already done so on all social media.

Gone. He was gone. It was very quiet in her apartment. It always was, at Brood Lane. Drew used to comment on it. Used to, Elena reminded herself. Her ex-boyfriend, Drew, who used to smirk at her, and call her his Ipple-Dipple. His shortie, he loved that line.

The apartment was empty. There was a large, empty space in it. Drew had used it liberally, the entire center space hosting his dirty mountain bike, his stinking climbing gear, all sorts of masculine athletic pursuits. All gone, excepting a few retained t-shirts, and placed into bags on the patio. She’d have to make her way down, at great personal cost, to throw them away. But it was worth it.

She called the second number on her speed dial. No, the first one, now. “I did it,” she said. “Part one of whatever.”

“You did it,” her therapist purred. “You did it! Very proud of you, Elena. Now, you feel terrible, yes? Lots of adrenaline, empty feeling?” There was a tinny sound somewhere behind her therapist. A song?

Some sort of... music...

“Oh, very much so!” Elena said, and laughed, relieved. She’d really done it. “Now what? I’ve never broken up with a guy before.”

“Oh, this journey is a lot more than clearing out deadwood.” her therapist said.

“Now we move to part two.”

Already?

“I think you should work out, right now. Literally right now, work out your body.” her therapist said. “I’m sending you a list of body weight exercises.”

“Work out,” Elena said.

It was the last thing she expected to hear. She’d expected—she’d planned for—ice cream and old movies. Work out?“You know I’m the Elena with the legs, right?”

“Mmm-hmm. Work out. Upper body. I know its unconventional, but... there’s been so much interesting stuff coming lately. Coming out lately. About the benefits of exercise. And a key is, right after the trauma. You work it away, very literally. You’ll like it.” The pop singer said—something. The chorus? “This is just the start. We’re reinventing you. You’re going to be so much warmer. And better. Good girl, Elena! We’ll talk tomorrow!”

Good girl? But she felt a familiar happy pulse. Any sort of praise from Drew had suffused her, enchanted her. It wasn’t surprising she felt a startled flush at the phrase.

Even if it was a bit... odd.

Her phone buzzed, and Elena felt a swift surge of anxiety. But no—just the promised PDF. It took a long time to open, and even when it did, it was a mess of graphic design. Too many hi-vis colors. But including what seemed to be cartoon figures of a fairly big-breasted woman, doing simple calisthenics.

A text message from her therapist “and play some workout music!” with a link to a Spotify song. Nothing that seemed like workout tunes—it was entitled Cowgirl Butts.

Elena clicked it.

Time for part two of her life. However many painful, stiff steps it took.

It was an hour and a half later, and she was drenched in her own sweat, and Elena felt—good.

Really good.

She’d never really exercised before. Growing up with a disability meant an emphasis on functionality. Practical tips about cooking and taking showers and getting around in the world. She’d never watched the paralympics or wanted to. And apparently she’d been missing out. She felt what had to be a workout high. A sort of calm euphoria, her body no doubt racing with positive hormones.

Which had to explain why she was feeling... randy.

It came across as a mixture of fatigue and horny, and was far from unpleasant. Her body, such an enemy, was positively glowing. Even her legs felt as good as they ever did. Her skin was prickling, and felt every droplet of warm sweat. And these were just basically stretches, body weight stuff that worked her upper core. She should’ve been in agony already. Or at least sodden on the couch, muscles knotted up.

She hadn’t thought of Drew once, and that was the best part of all. Although it was a little strange that her pussy felt so puffy and moist.

She’d previously thought of Drew all the time. Elena had memorized his expressions, the way his own muscles moved, and the little tells in his posture that gave some warning about what kind of mood he was in. Now all that memory was—unnecessary. Could be cleared away.

Her boobs felt amazing, especially.

Elena realized she’d been listening to Cowgirl Butts on repeat, the entire session. It was catchy, if unorthodox. Workout beats mixed with a kind of pop princess mixed with a weird cowboy twang. The lyrics seemed to jumble together whenever she tried to listen to them. She absently did another twenty crunches, trying to place the tune. Hadn’t she just heard it?

Her therapist called. Elena felt an odd disappointment when the music stopped. So catchy.

“Feeling better, right?” she said. There. It was playing in the background for her therapist, wasn’t it? The same song? “So much better than sad movies and cookie dough ice cream, isn’t it?”

“I feel... pretty good,” Elena said. “Yeah. I thought this would be tough. Although...”

“Go ahead,” her therapist said. Was she humming, waiting for Elena to say something? No, Elena was humming, wasn’t she? Why couldn’t she the lyrics...

“Well, this’ll sound a little strange, but... I’m feeling kind of... its like a... physical... you know... arousal?”

Very embarrassing to say, but she was really, REALLY aroused, wasn’t she? And not like with Drew, where more than half was watching his face, timing against his inexpert thrusts.This was being horny for herself. She was downright dripping. Was she doing something wrong?

“Great. Welcome to part three,” her therapist said, and Elena felt deep relief. Oh, good. Being gushing wet was normal, thank god. “Oh, yes. I’m happy for you, honestly, Elena. Your body is so relieved, so much pent-up unhappiness getting let out, of course you’d feel some throbbing, some stimulation. You’re reclaiming yourself!”

“Okay, great, be—”

“And I want you to embrace it!” her therapist said. The beat was now pounding behind her. It made it hard to listen to the psychological advice. “Enjoy yourself, pleasure yourself! Go ahead! You will be shocked how your body responds. The amount of pleasure potential in your body will amaze you!”

“You want—”

“Girls have not just a clitoris packed with nerve endings, but two tits that are very sensitive and sexual areas. Not to mention the possibilities in the rear! Your mouth, your skin... your entire body has a capacity for enjoyment. Go ahead and touch yourself as much as you like!”

Touch herself?

“I don’t know—” Elena said. But no, this was the journey, wasn’t it? Although... stroking herself... but then, why not? Part of breaking up with a boyfriend definitely was embracing masturbation. And her hips were so hot. Her legs wanted to squeeze together, tattered muscles be damned.

“Do it,” her therapist insisted. “Touch yourself. Really touch yourself. Enjoy yourself. This is part three, Elena.”

Over the top of her shorts wasn’t too naughty, was it? Elena put a hand between her thighs, and pulled upwards. She had a dark wet stain on the cotton.

But this was strange, wasn’t it? Not only was she fire-hot horned up, quivering and prickling, but she was still on the phone. What was it with her and hanging up on phone calls? “I should probably—actually—” she demurred. “It’s been a BIG day and my hands are PROBABLY too tired to grope myself.”

“You have a big mirror in your apartment, don’t you?”

She did have a big mirror in her apartment. It occurred to Elena to wonder—why did her therapist know that? Had she—said something about the mirror? When would that have even come up? But she was already locked on to her own reflection. She was on the floor, like she often was, in drenched grey running shorts and a loose LCD Soundsystem t-shirt. Her cheeks were very flushed, and her hair was matted down and tangled.

“You look hot as hell, don’t you?” her therapist said, quietly.

“Is this... really... part four?” Elena said. She had already angled her hips towards the mirror. If she slid down her shorts it would be her naked cunt, first and foremost. She’d probably drip on the floor. She hooked her thumbs in the waistband and yanked, without waiting for an answer.

“If you cum, it’ll be part five,” her therapist said.

How had she...? Elena couldn’t concentrate on it—her slit was on display, obviously wet and very puffy. She’d never seen herself like this, had she? Drew’s big dumb body had always been in the way. She was tall, with tall-girl cheekbones, and eyes that she usually thought of as soft and sad. Now they were unfocused and cloudy. The girl in the mirror was so aching for it...

“Touch yourself. It’s a type of exercise. A self-esteem exercise,” her therapist urged, and Elena was past resisting. The music was playing again, on her cell phone, despite the call still running. A simple tune as Calving reprogramming went, a little jingle that reached into the libido and yanked. In Calving it was practically elevator music. Elena put two fingers on her button.

“Now, rub, slut,” her therapist said.

Elena rubbed. It was exactly what she needed. Body-positive, stress-relieving, and a good calorie burner on top of it. The only issue was she needed to replace fluids, from how hard she squirted. Practically to the mirror. The long-haired blonde spasmed, and it was a GOOD spasm, for once.

She deserved falling unconscious. It had been a big day.

The music switched over to Part Five.

On Sunday Elena woke up alone.

Waking up next to a man had always been the best part of the relationship. Sprawled out in a bed they were, briefly, equal partners. Drew’s expression, always a source of concern when awake, was blank, even cute. He slept with his mouth open and his arms up, like he was dreaming surprised. He tended to wake up in a good mood. He often made breakfast, and she could swan in the sheets, feeling cared for.

Now it was—her. At her therapist’s advice she’d tossed the extra pillow, and slept in the center.

“Fill the room with sound, all day. ALL day,” her therapist instructed, and she did. Her therapist had even sent a new playlist. A big one. It had hundreds of songs on it, not a single one that Elena recognized, with the welcome inclusion of Cow Butt. She was pretty sure she’d dreamt about Cow Butt, her mind piercing together some of the lyrics. Or the lyrics piercing her mind, one of the two.

Elena sat up in bed and hit ‘play’ on her phone. The big empty dead-relationship room was filled up with country/pop/electro/workout. It was an enormous relief, and she found herself nodding her head along to it. It drove out bad thoughts. It seemed to drive out any thoughts.

It even made her a little wet.

“Time for morning workout!” her therapist said, over the sound of bubblegum pop. Could the song possibly be about.. shaving her pussy? Some of the lyrics kept mentioning.. mound? Moist? Moist couldn’t be a lyric, could it? Elena, distracted, was on the floor and doing crunches before she could consider it, in her pajamas. After that she flipped over and rattled off knee push-ups, one after the other. It hurt, but the music was... more than the hurt. It was the only thing in her mind.

The only thing at all.

“Hey—” it finally occurred to her, breaking through the beats. “What... umm... happened last night?”

Her last memory was of her... masturbating? On the floor?

“You were GREAT,” her therapist assured her. It didn’t bother her anymore that Spotify kept playing while the phone was on. Some new feature. “Proactive. Glowing. Positive.”

“Yeah but...”

“You’re feeling nervous about masturbating in front of me, and that’s normal and understandable,” her therapist intuited. “You think its out of character. Why not make it in character? Go ahead and masturbate right now. We have a big day ahead of us, we should get it out of the way.”

Elena tried to laugh it off. That had to be a joke. But the idea was—attractive. She had usually had sex in the morning. That was what Drew liked, and it was also what Elena liked. She was used to waking up and feeling herself getting moist under the sheets, waiting for him to wake up and examine her. Moist. So moist...

Maybe moist wasn’t such a bad word after all. It meant wet pussy, after all.

“You don’t... mind?” Elena said. She was sweating again, already. Strange that her body wasn’t strained and tired, after yesterday. Her standard stiffness had lifted. Her muscles felt... hungry. For more.

“You’re talking to me at 5:30 a.m. on a weekend, I think I don’t mind very much,” her therapist said. “Here, Elena, think of it as part of your workout. You tense your muscles, and relax your muscles. Alright? Touch yourself. Do it. Rub your pussy.”

It would relax her muscles, wouldn’t it? And if seen as part of a workout regimen... Elena pulled her sleep shorts down, again. After thinking about it, she decided to drag herself over to the mirror in the living room. That had been... nice.

“Describe what you’re doing,” her therapist instructed her. “Tell me. Lets make sure you’re doing it correctly.”

“I’m... ummm... I’m spreading my legs,” Elena reported. “I’m already pretty moist.” The word felt good to say, too! The music kept the beat as she slid her shorts all the way off. The song was right. She needed to shave her pussy. It would be a good post breakup move. Elena in the relationship had a hairy bush. Her body was nice and glossy with sweat. “Okay, I’m touching myself now.”

“See how normal this is? Very normal? Now, rubbing your clit is good, but don’t be afraid of penetration,” her therapist said. Such good advice, and such nice music. “Try to stretch yourself. Literally, stretch yourself. Drew should just be a stepping-stone on your way to getting an entire fist in there.”

Elena rubbed away. It was only 6—no, actually, the clock read 7:43 a.m. How long had she been exercising? “I’m rubbing and rubbing,” she reported. “It feels—good, really good.”

“Better than sex?” her therapist probed.

“No.. yes... I don’t...” Elena squealed. It was better than sex. She was cumming. That hadn’t happened very often in the relationship, had it? Drew had chalked it up early on to her physical limitations, and stopped really making an effort. And now she was having a beautiful, wonderful orgasm, for the second time.... was it second?... in twelve hours or so.

It was nice that it was so okay for her to scream an orgasm at her therapist.

“I’ll give you an hour to clean yourself up, you horny girl,” her therapist said. “Wasn’t that nice and regular? Jerking yourself off in front of me? Then we’re going out. Step seven.!”

“I—still don’t know—” Elena said.

“About dressing like a tart?” her therapist said. “Elena, all part of the program. We’re already at Step Eight, if you can believe it. And you look fucking hot as hell. You can touch yourself even more, if you want. So normal!”

She was—out. At the park. By herself. Dressed like a cheap trick.

“I—” the outfit was so much. There were workout outfits that were skimpy and tight, but this one was skimpier and tighter. A sports bra and knee-length tights. They’d shown up at her doorstep, on a Sunday, at 8:30 a.m. With a yoga mat.

In the shower, post workout/jerkoff session, Elena had finally found a little time to reflect. First of all, how much was she even paying her therapist for all this? And... how had she found this person? She had... but surely... she must’ve hired her, right?

It had to have gone down that way.

She’d been firmly instructed to call back as soon as she was done “cleaning that hot little body of yours.” And that had sounded... off. The entire way she felt was off, because she felt... good. Her body, the body she was in, that tangle of badly designed nerve endings and balky, uncooperative muscles, felt really great. She was glowing. The water was sluicing off her sweat and it felt so... so good...

She’d had to stop herself from rubbing another one out, in the shower. After all, her therapist wasn’t around to listen to it, and instruct her. Instead she’d shaved herself down, far more than she’d initially intended. Her pussy was bald, and she had to be showing lip in the outfit. The tights were tight.

“Elena, if you have a question, ask it. It’s okay to be dumb. The important thing is to be happy,” her therapist said. She sounded amused. “And you can also rub your tits while we chat, to relieve stress.”

“I... I mean...” Elena kept stammering. She DID have questions, but they sounded stupid in her head, and her body really just wanted her to start doing poses.

But still—at what point in her life had she learned fucking YOGA?

Was it really—the music? She’s switched over from Cow Butt to a new title, TATATA, and the lyrics seemed to have something to do with the eastern tradition of forms. Downward dog especially. But listening to a song thirty or so times, even that wouldn’t teach her yoga, would it?

At the time she hadn’t really thought about it. Getting to the park had taken her full concentration. First of all from the ordinary struggle of walking. Elena owned a walker, for emergencies, but could get around with a cane. She’d needed to, to hold the yoga mat with her other hand. Her phone she’d strapped to her upper arm. The package had also included some sort of knockoff airpods. They were already charged up.

“I’m just feeling a little... exposed?” Elena said.

“Now you’re getting it!” her therapist said, approving. “This is all ing the inevitable male gaze productively. You are not Drew’s girl. You are your own girl. These are not Drew’s tits. These are YOUR tits. They are for ALL men to enjoy! Now, downward dog, sexy. Get those boys in trouble.”

“I’m here to.... get men in trouble with their girlfriends?” Elena said. But... if staring at herself in the mirror had been hot, men staring at her would be even hotter, wouldn’t it? With a newly shaven snatch and a newly sculpted body...

“You ARE trouble! You’re here to be appreciated!” her therapist said, sharply. “Have you ever felt sexy just out and about, your entire life? Getting around?”

No.

She’d felt like a girl with a cane.

She’d felt like a puzzle that people tried to solve—what was wrong with HER? So young, and hobbled. Definitely not a piece of ass that men lingered on, appreciating her curves. Drinking in her thighs, wondering if they could sink their heads into her tits...

Elena pushed her ass up into the air. It should’ve been agony. It was uncomfortable—her stiff legs had to weight, even if she shifted far forwards. But also... she was single, hot, and lubricated.

“You’re really hot,” her therapist assured her. “Give it a wiggle. There’s a guy over by the playground looking. He’s ignoring his twins to stare at YOUR butt.”

A man thought she was attractive?

It was—really hot. Empowering, wasn’t it? That had to be the word for the electric tingle she felt, the trickle between her legs. And this had to be okay, right? Dozens of girls gathered in public parks all the time, in clingy clothes, to spread their rear ends for the world. If men were encouraged to stare at many brightly-colored lycra-wrapped butts, they could stare at hers. Especially with the music bumping her hips. The main challenge she was having was fighting an urge to sway, and thrust, in time with the beat.

Of course the clothes that Elena was wearing had been sprayed down with the latest in Calving chemicals.

Nothing too fancy—it was workout gear. Calving approved of girl workouts. They had a lot of calories to burn, and sex was really a kind of aerobics, a way to work up a sweat. Exercise improved heart rate and muscles, although, for Calving girls, it did nothing to reduce big tits and heavy, fertile bodies. Calving workout gear also combined with sweat to spray pheromones far beyond the yoga mat.

It was the only set of clothes in the world that would make the wearer cum by 2.7K of a 10K.

The yoga mat released a subtle, slow-acting gel. A girl performing a standard set of yoga exercises would coat herself very thoroughly in a thirty minute period, and then find herself performing one last exercise move, fingering herself.

The total package of clothes and mat was under twenty dollars and had won its inventor a reward, which was yet another girl to impregnate.

For Elena it was intensely pleasurable. Scary pleasurable. It made her nervous, although not nervous enough to stop moving from pose to pose.

She’d felt normal until age eleven. In fact she’d felt normal until a very specific day—her first sleepover, when her parents, who had restructured the house, and scheduled the days, around her terrible legs, had dropped her off with six other girls. Who had been very nice about her limits, turning to wait while she slowly followed, asking loudly when she needed help, and putting stickers on her cane. And even then she’d felt a little normal, until she woke up early, desperate to pee, and realized her cane was somewhere in the house, and the bathroom was downstairs.

She’d fought her kidneys unsuccessfully and ended up waking up Wendy, who helped her.

After that she had figured she was only a normal person with a normal person.

“Child’s pose,” Elena hummed. More bimboizing goop worked its way into her knees. There were lots of Dads now, experienced men who knew how to stare at a girl in a socially acceptable way.

The music had switched over to what Elena felt was New Age Hot—it had wind chimes and flutes but also a pussy-pounding bass beat. Yoga poses were interspersed with other important knowledge about how to arch her back, flex her hips, and suck a cock.

“Ooh, they like you,” her therapist said. From her phone—no, her airpods? From somewhere, on top of the beat. “Of course, Elena, I want you to do this for yourself. I’d want you to be proud of your hot body even if it was a desert island. But look at how many men have early morning erections for you! Wow.”

“They’re DADS!” Elena exclaimed, cheeks flushed.

“Right, right, sorry, skipped ahead to Step Twelve,” her therapist said. “I bet Drew is jerking himself off, ing you. I bet he misses you. Not the other way around. And Dads are fun and good to fuck, just FYI.”

That caught on Elena’s imagination—not the Dad part, although it settled in to gestate—how Drew was no doubt jerking himself off, without her. Because he had enjoyed himself on her, hadn’t he? As much as she felt alienated from her own form, he hadn’t. Drew had feasted on it, and she had never denied him anything, feeling like at least someone should enjoy it. He mauled her tits whenever he wanted, pinched her rear, and always, always had one hand on or between her thighs.

And now those could be anyone’s hands. Lots of male hands. She switched poses. Reclining pigeon. It barely hurt.

The music kept pulsing, and her body was fully warmed up. Elena had rarely been so aware of it. Usually she ran from it. Now there was—so much of it. She had so much interesting body. Her tits alone kept changing shape as she flopped around, each form enticing to boys, her nipples rubbing against the fabric of her clothes in new ways. Hanging down they were slutty and animal-like, On the side they were adorably pushed-together. Even their normal had a line of decent cleavage. Drew had told her that puberty had given her good boobs, as compensation. A typical Drew comment, but it was true, wasn’t it? She had good tits. The men were staring. They were proof.

Plus, her pussy worked just fine. She’d proven that a lot the past day, and was feeling increasingly tempted to prove it again. The music poured facts into her—many yoga poses worked kegel muscles, improving elasticity and sexual response. That was good. And with it all shaven down it felt so taut and wet against her new clothes. The exercises were helping in ways she didn’t even know. The compounds embedded in her nice new gear helped build additional nerve endings. Not normal ones. Just for cumming.

“You’re doing great, Elena!” her therapist said. “Look, I know its skipping ahead, but the Dads are completely horned up now. You have them burning. You did that. You don’t need Drew. You can fuck whoever you want, whenever you want. You could fuck them all senseless. This is so positive for you.”

The music switched again. In the brief burst of silence, between songs, Elena rebelled. Fitness and self-empowering was one thing, but why was she so horned up to fuck a bunch of men? The idea was to become an independent and self-assured woman, right? Not just a hot piece of ass, moving from guy to guy. Her pussy was electric, needy, wet, why?

Was this really THERAPY?

The song finally clicked over. It had folk overtones. The concerns slipped back into the background. Elena was not good at rebelling. It was why she was in therapy to begin with.

Of course, she wasn’t really in therapy. Elena was part of a pilot program to produce tailor-made bimbos for specialized applications. Calving was aware that even in the desired future, some girls would need to have specialized skills. It couldn’t all be vapid breeding sluts. But the traditional method of conditioned hypnotics and one-on-one bimbofication was not cost-effective on a global scale. So—a middle way. Inexpensive phone-driven bimbofication.

That was the premise, anyway.

Tree pose. She had to perform tree pose. One-legged, standing, arms up. She obeyed.

“Wait—Elena—wait,” her therapist said. “That’s a mistake. It’s the wrong conditioning—Elena!”

She was going to do it. She was going to stand on one leg, a perfectly formed girl, with really good tits and a not-bad butt. Elena rose up. She put her arms above her head.

Her leg collapsed underneath her.

She fell, hard. The pain returned, and the self-recriminations. What had she been thinking? She was Elena, born with problems. The nerves burned, aggravated, and insisted that she would pay for the slight. Stupid, stupid. And an airpod had popped loose, lost somewhere in the grass. She wiped away a few frustrated tears.

“Elena, open your eyes. This is a setback, not a calamity,” her therapist said, in her other ear.

“I’m going home,” she said. “What is this call even costing me? We’ve been in session for what, six hours?”

“Elena. Open your eyes,” her therapist wasn’t asking. “Do it now.”

She opened her eyes.

There was a circle of men around her.

The Dads had seen her fall, and were there to help.

Behind them, unattended children fell off swings and barreled haplessly down slides.

“You okay?” a lead Dad said. Like many of them he had a beard, and like all of them he was breathing in a potent pheromone cloud of her sweat. They were becoming very interested in another fertile woman.

WAS she okay? Elena looked around. They were very cute, her body told her. Maybe she was okay. “Yeah,” she said. “Sorry! New pose, I guess!”

“I found this,” one said, handing her the lost airpod. Elena popped it in immediately. The song had switched over, but the volume was down. A man had just helped her. Maybe this was her fate in life, to be helped. To be a type of burden. She sighed, and rubbed at her balky leg.

“Show them your tits,” her therapist said, behind the doubled beat.

“What?” Elena said, startled. Her—what?

“Thank them. Give more than you got. Show them your appreciation. Flash them. They’re very good tits,” her therapist said.

The men were even waiting. Their eyes glittered. There were an awful lot of them. Elena thought—no. She was not gonna show them her breasts. That was crazy. It was definitely not empowering, to be that kind of slut.

Although—they would definitely not think they had helped some sad disabled girl. They’d just the image of her mouth-watering boobs. From burden to boobs. Right?

“Right,” her therapist assured her.

The wind brought the first batch of their own male pheromones back to her. The music pulsed. She could even see the outlines of their cocks, pressing against the leg of their shorts. It would be so very empowering. “Let me thank you guys!” Elena heard herself say. She pulled her shirt up, and even shook them around. Her nipples were so hard.

“Damn,” one of the men said, and Elena’s pussy gave a very welcome squeeze.

On Monday Elena went to the gym, to be turned into a hot little gym slut.

“No, no, it’s good you’re asking questions!” her therapist said. “It’s good that you want to know why your tits are so much bigger, that’s very healthy you’re not just accepting what I say. And the truth is, a combination of healthy decisions and moderate yoga can make girls grow at least two or three cup sizes in a day. Keep rubbing your tits.”

“Oh, okay,” Elena said. She cupped them again. Everything her therapist said, including the part about how getting a big booty butt was ‘very normal’ after one day of exercise, seemed a little off. But especially so her tits, which had swollen tremendously overnight, and seemed to be pumping themselves larger with each exercise.

“Looking good!” one of the men told her. “Powerful ass!” He gave her a thumbs up, and the hugely endowed bulge in his shorts was its own kind of compliment. The rest of Elena’s concerns drained out of her.

She was really liking this gym.

It was at the mall, and expanding by the minute. A JC Penney’s, and what had possibly once been a Sear’s, were both getting devoured by a sea of iron and metal. In the far distance, well beyond the weights, burly workers in construction gear were taking down an entire wall. Some of the workout men had even ed them, swinging sledgehammers and clearly having a blast.

“Look, don’t think about it. Although it’s impressive that you are! Most girls at this point are thinking about like, well, just about nothing! I’m very proud of you, slut.”

What had her therapist said? Something about... thinking? It definitely WAS hard to think in the gym. It was both welcome and kind of scary to hear her exact personal playlist not just blaring but pounding from inset stereo speakers across the entire gym. It was very loud, and the lyrics kept substituting for her own thoughts. Elena was pretty sure that “pounding pussy, body twerking” was not a thought that regularly went through her own head. Or did it? It was confusing.

“”Holy shit, those TITS!” another man said, respectfully. He even saluted her.

“Nice, uh, muscles! All over!” Elena said. Was it her own thoughts or some sort of music that made her want, need, to compliment him back? But that was definitely the vibe. It was by far the most positive gym that Elena had ever heard of, and probably the most complimentary space she’d ever been in period. Everyone who ed by had something nice to say about her boobs or her butt, or just how generally fuckable she was looking. But expressed in a very nice way, with no expectations.

Although Elena was increasingly thinking she wouldn’t mind pounding her pussy on some of the big dicks walking around. For her. She was on Step Thirteen or something, and her therapist said getting dicked down was pretty crucial.

She settled in for another set of reps. That was another slightly off thing—there was a strict gender divide in play. Men pumped iron, girls did cardio and resistance. But it was hard to complain about the results the ladies were showing—they were so sleek, with feminine, toned bodies bursting with health. Working themselves into hourglasses. Although the gym was possibly a little too friendly—over in one corner a girl seemed to be doing reps on a man’s boxer shorts, while he absently pumped an enormous barbell up and down.

But it was good. It was wonderful. It was Loving Yourself. It was Body Positivity. The gym was about positive self-image, about taking her husk and making it into something worth iring. Worth touching. Worth fucking. Worth owning.

Self-worth.

She felt like she belonged.

“You’re doing so good,” her therapist insisted, or the song, or whoever ed by. “You have really great tits.”

Elena’s vision blurred with happy tears.

The song and the sweat took over. When she looked around again, the carnal scene was—gone. And it was an hour later. But the same song was playing? She thought about asking her therapist, but it was easier to just keep working her biceps.

“That’s good not to ask questions, too,” her therapist told her, comforting. “Just work out, don’t think, and get fit. You’re starting a new life, Elena. Have you ever thought about a new name, too? Maybe something like, Bunny? Bunny Twelve?”

Elena mustered about a frown at that, but that was about all she could do. Everything was falling into place. She had nice big boobs, a new life. She hadn’t thought about her legs, or anything, in hours. Bunny Twelve did have a nice ring to it...

“What the fuck are you doing HERE?” a man said. The latent sarcasm and snarl made her look up, sharply. He wore khakis and a dissatisfied expression. He needed to shave. It was Drew.

“Christ, Elena, I barely recognized you,” Drew said. He was deeply out of place in the gym. Arms crossed, wearing a loose-fitting polo. “What’s going on? Why are—did you get your boobs done? Yesterday? Why is your HAIR longer?”

Her—hair was longer? The long corridors of the gym did have mirrors on the walls, but they were very far and distant. The space was somehow both cavernous and crowded, the big spaces filled with hot spurting scents and lots of sexy, attractive people. And now her Ex.

“I don’t—” Elena tried to break free of her halting, stammering nerves. Her therapist had warned that some IQ loss was “kinda inevitable” with serious fitness, although also mentioning it was “hot as fuck” for a girl to be too dumb to talk. “I don’t—Drew, what are YOU doing here? Did you air tag me?” It would be a relief if he was a stalker, sort of. All the residual guilt would slough away.

“You used my credit card to sign up for this place!” Drew said.

Oh, duh. She did have his financials in her phone. Apparently she was working herself stupid.

“And it was just five dollars, which is weird, Elena. This entire place is—funny. It smells funny. It smells like...” he grimaced. “If I’m being honest it smells like wet pussy.”

“Tell him HE’S wet pussy,” her therapist roared.

Fully hostile, even enraged, and backed with extra volume on her pounding musical score. A drum and bass version of Cow Butt backed her up. “You’re at a crucial point in your bimbo development and he needs to leave. Tell him that. Do it!”

“Drew, it’s over, this is my self-improvement journey,” Elena said. “You should a different gym and do that too.”

“What kind of exercises are you doing, to get bigger boobs?” Drew demanded. He seemed genuinely concerned, and a sliver of it worked its way inside Elena. She DID have bigger boobs, didn’t she? And it was strange that twelve wall-pushups had built up her tit muscles, to that extent. She revisited her skepticism of her therapist’s prior explanation of “hot clit stretches” to explain how gumball-prominent her clitoris had gotten.

“Standard post-breakup glowup. And not your problem,” Elena said.

“You’re using my money!” Drew snapped. He was a discordant note in the vibe. Other people were looking at him. He looked around and rubbed the back of his neck. “Elena, seriously, something is weird. This place smells like sex and the people look like sex. There’s all these wet streaks on all the gym equipment. Lets... go. And talk. I’ll get your cane.”

It was up against the nearest wall, and she hadn’t needed it all session. She didn’t want to need it.

“Do NOT touch the cane,” Elena said.

“Yeah!” her therapist cheered. “Fucking tell him!”

“Elena, your hair is turning platinum blonde and you’ve got porn star tits. I’ve been seeing stuff online about this.”

Drew reached over, despite her express command, and picked up her cane.

Elena’s vision went furious pink.

She reached out her hand, and waited, imperious, for him to give it up.

“We BROKE UP!” Elena said. She struggled to her feet. Of course Drew would remind her that, bigger tushie and bigger boobs regardless, she generally had the same legs. WIth less hair, since she’d shaved the rest of it off that morning. “If you see me with a third boob, it is none of your business! If I’m sucking dick at the supermarket, and I probably will, it’s none of your business! I AM NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!”

“That’s right! Suck dick at the grocery store!” her therapist said.

“Suck—Elena, what the FUCK—”

She turned, and stalked off.

But it was too late, despite the show.

And it didn’t help that a nearby column did have a mirror, and Elena did get her first look at herself in some time. The reflection was far away from the shy, disabled girl curled in on herself, wearing loose-fitting pants because they were easy to pull up. Her hair was bleached at the roots, and had new curls framing her face. Her boobs, also, framed her face, falling in soft pillows inside the tight constraints of her sports bra. And she was taller...

The hot gym babe in the mirror was inspiring, but not her.

What was going on?

“Umm,” she said, turning. No, she couldn’t fix Drew with the hapless look, the one that said she needed help. She could figure out why her butt was bigger, rounder, without his help.

But he was right there, and reassuringly masculine.

Drew recognized the look. “Come on, Elena,” he said, wheedling. “This place is creeping me out. We’ll just—”

She was letting herself be led. No, this wasn’t how it was supposed to work. She’d just rejected him. But he was right, wasn’t he? And she was just a girl. It was odd that she’d shaved off all her pubic hair, odd that her throat was a little sore from humming slutty tunes. The music was pounding in her head, trying to get through, but just making her more confused...

“Here, this door,” Drew said. It wasn’t the exit, Elena could tell. But she had lost her ability to talk back, used it all up. Her legs hurt. It was easier to meekly follow him in.

“No, no no no!” her therapist yelled, too late. She was in exactly the wrong place, with exactly the wrong guy.

Elena’s therapist sat upright in her chair.

It was a rare position for her. Usually she sat with her legs up on the desk, or with her back hunched down, knees high. Those were easy positions to access her pussy, and therefore the best ones. Her daily towel nearly slid off the leather, onto the floor. She started each day with a fresh one, and had been secretly using a color system, to tell what day it was, since she’d started the job. It was a faded, much-abused, very wet green, which meant it was—

It didn’t matter. A crisis loomed.

Elena’s therapist had a caseload of one hundred and twenty fast-bimboizing girls.

When Elena had had her adorable and sexy outburst against Drew, breaking through her emotional walls against confrontation, her therapist had figured that the breakthrough was done. It was safe to tab over to another client, a girl named Haley who needed to be talked into becoming a sex doll for a retailer. Something posable and soft for fun new clothes.

But of course Elena had immediately backslid.

Her therapist reluctantly pulled her hand away from her ever-ready pussy. She tried to stay somewhat clothed. It was important to be a professional, especially when the alternatives to being a professional were not great. Working girls, in the Calving universe, got to keep some of the perks like three-syllable words and only occasional lactation. Most of Elena’s therapist’s classmates were in the business of pumping and being pumped, with the total vocabulary of a speak and spell.

“Elena, leave. Immediately,” she said, in her most commanding voice. She pumped up the sluttifying volume as high as it would go. It should’ve already turned the girl’s brains into a malleable playdoh, but something was holding Elena back. The discomfort from her legs, probably. Interrupting the whoreification cycle. “Get out of there. This is your THERAPIST.”

She pinched her nose.

The truth was, the job wasn’t all that rewarding. The hours were very long. And while she got to retain some of her brains, it wasn’t like she was some sort of Rhodes Scholar. Most of her memories were probably actually from pornos, if she bothered to recall them. Images from classrooms she’d never actually been in, where the girls wore teeny skirts and spent classtime bent over. She was pretty sure the LICENSED BIMBO THERAPIST certification on her cubicle wall was fake, although she was still proud of it.

She was pretty sure she had previously managed a Barnes and Noble.

It was all in service of a pilot program to guide the more challenging women into a debased life of sluthood. But the chemicals and hypnotics were getting better every day, and Elena’s therapist was pretty sure she’d be replaced by AI pretty soon. And who could blame them? She couldn’t even guide one nervous girl into becoming a stupid gym rat.

Still, until that happened, she had her pride. Or perhaps that had been conditioned into her as well? Elena’s therapist wasn’t sure. She scooted the chair forwards. Her work station featured a half-dozen screens. Three were fun sexy channels on Calving TV, many of them featuring past friends, current pumping stations. She flipped the other three to focus on Elena.

The girl was not lost. She could do this.

Elena’s therapist pulled down her SEXXY SHRINK tube top to tweak a titty. It helped her think. And she needed all her wishy-washy brain power for this one.

“What the hell is this?” Drew demanded, like she could respond.

The air was extremely thick with a dense, narcotic fog. The atmosphere was hazy, and that despite the open floor plan and unfinished ceiling. If the endless workout pop ever ceased, and it never would, the former couple would see a ten inch ventilation pipe billowing a fun smoke made up of aerosolized hormones. Elena’s first breath made her dully horny. The ache in her legs eased.

Despite the low visibility, there were people fucking all over in this part of the gym.

This part of the gym was for men. The goal was rapid induction, using male testosterone to its greatest extent. It was not meant as a subtle place. LCD screens blanketed available surfaces, the brightness set to high to cut through the glandular smoke. It was not clear which of the images were meant as subliminal and which were meant as liminal. It came through as a medley of raw porn and exercise vids, or the other way around, mechanical face-fucking mixed with tips on bench-pressing. Everyone was glistening with sweat.

“It’s—” Elena shook her head. She wasn’t feeling hesitant. It just wasn’t clear what to say.

Especially when something about it seemed—right.

The former couple stumbled through the fog, the music, the sweat, the display. There were men in long rows next to cheap drywall, on top of plastic lifting benches permanently soaked with male sweat. Almost all were still in normal, casual clothes. There was no need for workout gear or any sort of subtle changes. They were going to be very simple men, going forwards. They would breed and eat, and perform light construction work. Most were processed in from a job fair announcement at the mall, and would receive a rewarding career before the end of the day.

Their eyes were fixed on the screens. They nodded along to the music. They lifted weights. Not high-quality weights—any weights. One was lifting a laundry basket full of sandbags, and another was hefting a barrel of water. It didn’t much matter what they were lifting. Testosterone would do the job.

“Come ON,” Drew ordered. He’d had to tear his eyes off the screens. He grabbed Elena’s and, and led her along, deeper inside, past the billowing himboizing fog. His hand was too tight on her wrist, but Elena could hardly imagine complaining.

Her eyes were fixed on the girls.

She had no way of knowing, but they were her intended future.

The girls were fit, and fun, and completely at ease. They were dressed properly—in workout gear, high-quality stuff in a uniform pink. Their hair was a very platinum blonde, and they had bodies sculpted by squats and cardio. Bodies for the beach, or for a fun run, or for holding on tight to a man driving a motorcycle.

“Here you go!” one said, ing by. This one had green-colored protein shakes on a tray. Drew took it without thinking twice, and stuck the straw in his mouth. He didn’t once look back at her, just kept her hand in a vise grip.

The girls were hard at work. One of their jobs was to tease and stroke. One was working two cocks, one in each hand, while their owners grunted and worked bags of rice upwards and downwards. Another other job was to be an aspirational set of trim curves for the men to jerk off to. Goddesses in lycra and spandex. They didn’t have the biggest butts in the Calving world, but they were nearly the shapliest, perfectly round rears approaching the golden ratio.

But their hardest job, and main job, was to not let the men cum.

“Not yet,” the nearest blonde chanted, her thumb on the underside of a frantic, hot-red cock. “Not yet, big boy. Ten more reps. Ten more reps for me, baby.”

Edging was, the scientists had found, the fastest way to turn a normal man into a dull-eyed heavily-muscled human breeding male. IQ points were dropping before Elena’s eyes, men pumping iron and themselves into stupid muscle hunks. All the blood was in their cocks.

The girls were very skilled at keeping them on a low simmer.

It was skilled labor by Calving standards. Elena was being trained for it. It required the aid of a good occupational therapist.

Drew was feeling the effects of billowing gas, potent hypnotics, and now sixteen ounces of protein shake in his stomach. “Hurry up, slu—Elena!” he bellowed. New bulls had trouble with their voice volume. His erection was already throbbing, and he felt light-headed. “This place is—jesus, these girls are so hot. Why couldn’t... why wouldn’t...” now he was the one uncertain in his words, but Elena felt no way to take advantage. She felt curiously at home. But how could the girls have that kind of—confidence? To handle a man’s dick with total assurance?

No—she tried to at least stand up for herself, in her own head. This was all deeply wrong. They were in some sort of nightmarish exercise video. And Drew was going far too fast for her.

Elena stumbled.

“God damn it Elena, all you are is SLOW!” he said, face red.

“Keep going!” her therapist urged, alarmed. “You need to leave. You’re not ready for this yet. We are NOT supposed to cross-contaminate steps.”

They were both furious at her, then.

Which meant she needed to appease them. It was easier and better to do what they wanted, wasn’t it? How could she be like one of the lithe and toned ladies walking calmly through the hormonal funk, handing out new protein shakes, driving rows of men to distraction? She could barely do the walking part. Drew was draining another large protein shake. His stance was wide.

She could apologize for her Elena-ness by giving him a blowjob. That was more her style. She reached out, on her knees, to unbutton his fly.

“Get me the FUCKING MANAGER!” her therapist yelled, aggravated. All her work was getting undone. Although it was a pretty hot scene, and she was furiously rubbing her own clit. A fast induction into sluthood was cool, even if it did mean her losing her job.

“Ummmmm.... I don’t know who that is right now?” the bimbo on the phone said. She giggled apologetically. “We go through like, one a week. Don’t tell anyone I said this but they probably shouldn’t be boys. They get super dumb.”

“You. That being the person I am speaking to. Have. Meaning, in your hands. Two people. That’s the number after one. That are in there who aren’t supposed to be. KICK them OUT,” Elena’s therapist said. She was developing an enormous headache. She was only allotted so much thinking in a given week, and this was right up against quota. And her other clients were getting neglected—Paisley, all the way in Australia, was sucking and fucking on board a container ship about to leave for Indonesia. That had to be addressed.

“Ummmmmmm. What do they look like?” the bimbo said.

Elena’s therapist pictured her twirling her hair and popping bubblegum. They had different songs playing, which was harshly discordant. The subliminals were fighting with each other, arguing over whether to make her desperate to bend over or get on her knees.

“What do they look like? Not hot enough!” Elena’s therapist said. “Not nearly hot enough!”

Drew’s mind was getting turned into male goo. Calving usually liked a little subtlety. Ultimately everyone, even the most placid boy bull on the most distant breeding farm, needed to have a social role. And while intelligence was not highly valued by the higher-ups, community required intelligence. It was why intelligence had evolved. It was a real conundrum for Calving’s philosophically-minded residents, who often frowned and spent two or three minutes contemplating these paradoxes, between bareback fuck sessions.

But it wasn’t like Calving COULDN’T dumbify a given man into a drooling set of testicles and cock. It just wasn’t the usual goal.

Drew, assaulted on all sides by noise and drinks and visuals, had just a half-pint of blood left in his entire right and left hemispheres, and was getting stupid very fast.

He sat down heavily on a lifting bench.

“Fine,” he said, staring at Elena. “Suck it. Yeah, suck it. We should’ve been more—uhhhh—“ he had to slurp back his own drool. “Trans...ac...tional... in our rel...at...ion...ship.” The inside of his vocabulary looked like the Hindenburg, and not even early Hindenburg. “Shoulda just been, Drew makes breakfast, Elena sucks Drew’s dick. Drew does dishes, Drew fucks Elena’s butt. That’s a—that’s a good relation...ship.”

Elena wasn’t getting the Ultimate Himbo treatment Drew was, although she was feeling about as horny as she’d ever been. And bad. She was feeling like a bad girlfriend.

That was a risk, for her kind of bimbofication. In every song she’d listened to, and sung in the shower, there was so much submissiveness and recognition of how incredible boys were, and how every word they said was deep and meaningful. With the guide of a good occupational therapist, and a strategic separation from men, girls like Elena could be trained to generally suck and fuck all men.

But if one was there, at the wrong place and time, it was so easy to think: I’ve been bad. I should suck his dick. I should always suck his dick. I was wrong to not suck his dick.

As a side benefit, her body was rapidly filling in. There was so much sprayed-around hormones in the air that they stuck to her skin, forming their own kind of chemical sweat. Leaching in, it made sure to make her skin supple and strong, and leave behind springy, corded muscles. If she felt like it, Elena could bench over two hundred pounds. But at the moment, overwhelmed by his presence, all she wanted to do was suck Drew’s dick.

It was hard to fight off the rationalization inside her own head, especially with Drew’s dick, also, inside her head. Elena tried. It was not hard to recall bad behavior by the man. Drew, acknowledging her promotion at work with a grunted ‘uh-huh.’ Drew, offering to carry her around the mall, to whatever store she liked, for her birthday.

She was trying very hard to think about the time at the Zoo when he’d walked off, post-argument, leaving her a mile in from the exit, near the baboons.

But his dick was so warm and gooey in her mouth. Drew put his hand on the back of her head, urging her lips up and down. She probably deserved that, too.

It was all going wrong, and Elena’s therapist was furiously pumping a dildo back and forth in her snatch. Elena getting turned into just another stupid adoring bitch, and her man rapidly transforming into a senseless fuck brute, was so damn hot. They’d be so wrong together, and nonetheless fuck ten times a day. It was really sexy.

“Okay, I asked around, and we don’t have managers anymore?” the phone bimbo said. “The last one got to like, seven feet tall, and we have to keep two girls in the back room just to satisfy him. I mean, it’s really fun, don’t get me wrong, he’s really nice.”

Elena’s therapist had an idea.

She hated to have it. It was certainly going to cost her. Her calls were recorded, and too much female intelligence was not rewarded. But what choice did she have?

“You don’t get it,” She said. “There’s a guy near the back, and he’s about to CUM.”

Sharp intake of breath.

“We’re on it,” the phone bimbo said. She hung up.

But it wasn’t going to be enough. She had a second idea, which was definitely going to earn her a stern talking-to from her supervisor, and probably a mandatory fifteen points deducted from her IQ. But that would be hot too, wouldn’t it? Elena’s therapist spasmed around the big bad prong in her cunt. The things she did for her clients. She’d been awake for twenty-six hours, and was at the very end of her chemically-induced endurance. But...

The harshly-conflicting music had sparked a thought. Maybe one she’d already had. Who knew? “Elena!” she barked, switching her feed over. “Listen!”

She picked the most feminine, girly, ultimate-bimbo bubble gum pop in her rotation, and turned the music to max.

It hit just in time. Elena was very close to putting it all together, in the worst possible way. A self-image of herself as abased, humiliated, reduced. Breaking up with the best dick in the world for selfish reasons, namely, any reason. And then would come a dramatic realization that she was nothing without him. Nothing. She was Drew’s mouth, Drew’s pussy, Drew’s everything. She awaited just a flood of cum in her mouth, down into her tummy, to lock it all in.

It would’ve been a very toxic, if sexy, relationship.

But instead a sudden squeal of sound mixed with the pumping beat behind her. The sweetest teeny-bopper pop ever recorded, dangerously so, so girly that men could only listen with senior-level approval. It mixed with the man-friendly workout beat, and canceled it out.

Canceled her out entirely.

Elena shorted.

She stopped sucking. She experienced brownout. Her lips pulled off Drew at a crucial moment. He roared at her, and would’ve said expletives, if he recalled any. But a pack of bimbo workout girlies arrived, and wrapped their arms around him, and pushed tits in his face, and wouldn’t let him cum or do anything, and dumped Elena outside.

In her work cubicle, Elena’s therapist exploded around her sex toy. The other girls, in their many cubicles, even stopped what they were doing to listen.

On Tuesday, Elena woke up an amazonian goddess.

She wasn’t sure how she’d woken up in her own bed. The memories of the Sex Gym were very muddled. At this point all her memories were muddled—mixed in with some remaining real ones were scenes of her lifting large rocks at age 18, and competing in the paralympics, and beating out all comers arm wrestling at a bar. They’d been slipped into her overnight.

As far as she could foggily recall, Drew had showed up, they’d had a tiff, and she’d—given in. She had a sharp and clear memory of sucking his cock. The scent, the taste, the way it surged back and forth in her mouth. The salt and musk, the way it had nearly touched the back of her throat. She ed the guilt and gratitude, that he’d forgiven her enough to let her swallow his prick. She’d worked extra hard with her tongue, to compensate. That, she ed.

She’d failed herself.

“Therapist?” she said, but there was no response. It was quiet, excepting only the latest slutifying workout tune of Pink Pussy Princess, which was playing on the highest volume in her airpods. Calving had found that layering vocal tracks over and over and over had extra-strong results. At this point Elena barely noticed the song, although even her heartbeat had aligned to the rhythm.

Without her therapist, it was just—her. Living with her own failure, again.

But on the other hand, she was really something to look at, now.

Her hour or so of workout had achieved incredible results, and not just in her body. Her hair was partially bleached, and the roots especially were a glorious white platinum. Even her eyes seemed a different shade of blue. Or—hadn’t she had plain brown eyes, before? And when had she acquired a mahogany tan?

But mostly her eyes were drawn to the perfect line of her abs. Calving knew exactly how much abs to give a girl. The hint of them, but within a soft framework of rounded curves. Suggestions of biceps, a few extra cords on her thighs. And, overall, a glowing femininity, clearly ripped off from early Wonder Woman. She looked fantastic naked. Elena rubbed at her tits, feeling like they deserved it. Even her nipples looked toned. They felt great.

She, herself, didn’t feel great.

“Therapisstttttt,” she moaned. DId the woman have a name? No wonder she’d abandoned Elena. She’d probably watched her client bend the knee and open her mouth, and just quit on her.

Her cane was gone. It hadn’t made it back. And as much as she was toned and buffed, her legs still balked. Elena had to get her backup cane, a cheap plastic model from CVS. At least there were new clothes outside—another set of the pink workout gear, in her more exaggerated proportions. She was several inches taller than she’d been a few days ago, after all.

Her phone had a long voicemail from Drew on it. Really long. Ten entire minutes, of Drew.

Elena took a breath, and deleted it, unlistened to.

It surprised her, how easy it was. She’d done it herself. She hadn’t even agonized over it. It was just—gone.

If she had listened to it, it would’ve been ten minutes of Drew jerking off. He’d meant to send it as a video.

Encouraged, a little, Elena summoned a little pride, a little self-respect, and, most importantly, a huge unmet kink for exhibitionism that Calving had instilled in like a third of her brain. A dramatically enhanced desire to show her body off for people. Anyone, at this point.

The plan had been for her to close out her gym experience with ropes of appreciative male cum coating her, and Drew had interrupted that.

Google suggested she throw a fitness class.

“That was your FIRST TIME? Really?” Seth said. He thought about it. “I mean, I guess that was my first time too, so I wouldn’t know if you did a bad job. But I’m pretty confident you did a good job. Look, I’m getting all this sweat all over your floor.”

“Um. Thank you,” Elena said, to the half-naked man in her apartment. Just by his mere presence she’d had a few little fun orgasms. Thanks to her new muscles and body control, she’d been able to power through them.

The other girls were making a huge mess in her kitchen, and Elena didn’t mind that at all. They were getting refreshments. Everyone was really thirsty, from working out, and slobbering over Seth, and also the process of becoming a big tubby bimbo slut took a lot of fluids.

“I guess you can just make these things up, if you want,” Seth said. “Like if you say a yoga move is the Horny Dragon, I’m not gonna argue. Heck, you should just make up your own, right? I didn’t even know I had a set of core muscles until today, and now they’re like, iron.”

“The Horny Dragon will do that,” Elena said. “That’s the one where spreading your legs sets everything on fire.”

Seth laughed. Unrestrained, cheerful male laughter. At one of her jokes. Elena couldn’t recall that happening before. Drew’s usual response was to grade them, and the best she’d ever done was an eight out of ten.

“This has been VERY fun, Elena,” Seth said, pleased. “I didn’t realize moving your body around and making it do things was fun. I was anti-jock in high school... and college... and actually pretty much until several days ago. Huh.”

He flexed his muscles, appreciating himself. It seemed... nice. Appreciating herself, hadn’t that been some of the steps? It felt like she’d... lost her way, a little..

“Lemonade!” Julia said. She’d added a sugar crust to the top of Elena’s undistinguished glassware, and made the best of some elderly lemons. Elena was pretty sure the ice had come with the apartment. It was superb.

“I owe you!” she said.

“For LEMONADE? No, you don’t owe me,” Julia said. She indicated all the other girls. “I think some of them will actually owe you more now. Kylie broke one of your bowls. and Ateera is... she’s so hot, isn’t she? Just all tits and ass... but not great in the kitchen.”

Seth had already drained his lemonade. His appreciative gaze settled back on her. It had been on her most of the afternoon, and was making her wildly horny. She hadn’t known guys could look at her that way. With a calm, sure knowledge that they would enjoy fucking her, and nothing more. It wasn’t exactly partnership—Seth could clearly just use her body however he felt like—but it wasn’t tied up in relationship knots, either.

“Sorry,” Seth said, not sorry. “I’m not trying to stare. It’s the fitness. It’s like, your body is my future. Absent the killer titties and the pussy and the ass, of course. Like, metaphorically.”

“MY body?” Elena said. Ateera wobbled in, on her chunky thighs and with both boobs drifting from side to side, like a booby Newton’s Cradle. “That’s very nice of you, but no.” she pointed to the various aroused women. “You want that one or that one or that one or that one or that one. THIS one is the busted one.” She indicated the replacement cane, leaning against the wall.

Seth looked puzzled. “You’re serious? Come here.”

He picked her up and put her in his lap.

She could feel the steady beat of his hardon against her. They’d been working out to the The Rainbows, the closest thing that Calving had to a grunge band, the two vocalists screaming their love at each other.

“This seems fine,” Seth said, rubbing her stomach. The other girls had noticed the activity, and had stopped moving around. Ateera had flopped her enormous ass onto the ground to just watch the show. “Arms are good. And THESE...”

He grabbed her tits, and mauled them. Seth wasn’t gentle in the slightest. Elena was still reeling from the sweat and musk from close proximity, and hadn’t realized what kind of inspection she was going to get. This was a meat inspection. It was an honest appraisal of her body from someone who intended to use it. So far, she was ing his tests. Her little yips of confused pleasure seemed to encourage him.

“Not the biggest in the room but I love how high they ride,” was his final judgment. “They’re springy. I bet you don’t even need a bra.” He put her face in his hand. This time he was gentle. “You know you’re the only blonde in the room? That’s special. Kind of surprising, even.” He ran his finger along her lips. It didn’t help her overpowering, intense arousal that all the other girls were staring at them. Not jealous—they were breathing very hard. It was almost cardio, how hot it all was. Her heart was hammering. The only thing hotter would be if he just stuck his fingers in her mouth, treated her like a prize cow.

Seth stuck his fingers in her mouth, like she was a prize cow.

She tried to meet expectations, licking at the underside of his fingers. She could taste his sweat. “Good,” Seth said. His hardon ached underneath her. He withdrew the dripping fingers, and flipped her over. Elena felt that she could just barely hold it together if he only fondled her ass.

She wasn’t expecting a resounding spank.

“Ooooohhhhh,” the other girls said, all-together.

“Grade A,” Seth judged. “Don’t be so down on yourself!” He actually touched her butt to get it to stop jiggling. When had she—Elena wasn’t sure what all that was. How did she have so much ass back there? And how did it all feel so good? “So the problem is your legs, huh? That cane?” He flipped her over once more, and this time brought her legs apart. Despite protesting how sedentary he was, it was all effortless. His arms were only covered in sweat to give her something to smell, something to rub her face in.

Seth put one hand on her back, and the other on her hips. With just that he split her legs apart, pulled them around him, until his face was inches from the wet, sputtering, needy, spasming mess that was her pussy. She reflexively tightened her legs against his back. Her muscles complained about it, but it wasn’t weight, and the pins and needles were easy to ignore. Seth took a huge, unabashed, whiff of whatever potent wet blend of pheromones her cunt was spraying.

He seemed to realize that he was about to stick his nose in her cunt in front of five other very horned-up girls.

Seth dropped her.

The girls made a noise of keen disappointment.

“Well. Sorry,” Seth said. He picked her up and replaced her on the floor, quivering but seated. “Got a little carried away. It all looks pretty good from here. But like I said, I’m not a big fitness guy or anything. And seriously, don’t feel like you owe me anything. You got me to do my first pushup since I was twelve. Pretty sure I owe you.”

Drew hammered at her door, and ruined the rest of her day.

Elena had spent her afternoon, post-workout, productively. She’d done workouts and touched herself, or both at the same time. Periodically she’d tried to reach her therapist, but gotten nothing but a voicemail recording that said “THE PERSON YOU ARE TRYING TO REACH, IS FULL.”

She was not surprised. Elena took a last swig of water and checked her outfit. Sleek, full of tits, and bright pink. She’d added a white headband to keep the sweat from running into her mouth. Despite spending the entire day sweating or squirting she felt energized. Elena left the cane against the wall. She could make it to the door. It just hurt, and pain was—some song had taught her this—weakness leaving the body.

“Hi—oh. Drew. You’re taller,” Elena said.

Drew was different. His look had always been urbane, if greasy. He liked leather jackets with khakis. He visited a stylist. He had opinions about Criterion movies. He had just enough beard stubble to be masculine, but not enough to be manly.

Now he was—big. Thick. Heavy.

Several protein shakes and a night of intense chemical inhalation had made him hefty. “I’m fuckin’ huge and I think I might be dumb now, slut” he said, filling her doorway. Elena had anticipated this. She stepped out, and closed the door behind her. Then angled her neck upwards, to see him. Drew was still trying to wear his uniform of button-down collared shirts, and had popped the top three buttons. His bare chest had sprouted new chest hairs.

“Drew, I keep telling you, we broke up,” Elena said. She had a new man in mind, and that helped immensely. That plus the positive vibes of the nearby girls. She had to keep them in her thoughts. With her diminished intellect, made over into a gym bunny, that was about all she could manage. “I know its hard to because, umm, I guess I do keep sucking your cock, but it’s for realsies.” she took in his new proportions, and found the strength to be magnanimous. “We can spot each other at the gym maybe.”

“The gym!” Drew squeezed his hands together. They were large, hairy mitts now. “Elena, I’m nearly a foot taller! I spent all day—eating! I’ve had a boner for—my balls are bigger! Much bigger! Because of the gym!” he squeezed his eyes shut.

Drew had a bad headache, caused by trying to put thoughts through it.

It wasn’t really designed for that, anymore. He’d been kicked out of the special gym at a difficult time, too himboized to shrug it off, not enough to be a placid fuck machine. He was ninety percent horny breeding monster, and it wasn’t quite enough.

Although he did like how he had a baseball bat-sized dick, now.

“I looked it up on the—place—with the computer—where you find things—” Drew groped for the word.

“Internet?” His Ex suggested. No, his girlfriend. His girl. Enough time under the hot glare of conditioning would’ve made him forget the concept of possessiveness. Girls were pussies to be fucked.

“Yeah, yeah! That thing! And it said girls and boys keep getting dumber and hotter!” Drew said. It wasn’t actually hard to find information about Calving. The website Drew had found, warning about the risks of becoming a bull, came with a bunch of spiral popups and a thumping bassline, and had taken another big chunk off his dwindling IQ. “YOU’RE dumber and hotter too, Elena! And that girl Kylie said it was your neighbor doing it!”

Elena was mildly taken aback by the revelation that she was being blown up and dumbed down into a sex toy.

But not that much. First because it came too late—she’d been doped with so many drugs and the relentless rhythm of thousands of songs that important reveals bounced off her smoothed-down brain. There were few folds on her muscled-up mind for it to catch in. But, more so, it just didn’t seem like a big deal, compared to her existing issues. A new body was a blessing for some. And if meant a horny, simplified mind, content to suck dick and do pushups? That wasn’t so bad either. She was really good at pushups.

Still, she made an effort to care. It WAS bad, wasn’t it?

“I only SORT of care,” she said, sincerely. “I mean, from my per-spec-tive, I like my new tits. I really do. A guy smelled my pussy today and said it was really nice. I liked that too. And yeah, getting dumb sounds kinda bad. But, like, ummm, is this your problem? Just... go home. Okay?”

She could see him trying to access the database of putdowns, insults, snide remarks, and other tools of his trade. And they were no longer there. Calving didn’t need them. There was no need to deride girls in any way. Girls would follow any man around, if they could smell him. And he couldn’t pull on jealousy, because that had been decisively excised as well. Why would a man with a foot long cock ever need to be jealous? The mental space was better used to lower refractory times.

“Fine,” he spit out, and stalked off.

Elena watched his broad new back. His shoulder blades had torn through his shirt. He’d actually done it. She’d stood up for herself and he’d gone. “Miss Therapist, I...” Elena said, trailing off. Right, no therapist. She’d done it all on her own, hadn’t she?

Drew barreled across the downstairs patio and knocked in Terri’s door.

She had the option of doing nothing, but he was her responsibility, in part. It was a subtle but pleasing thought. HER responsibility. She was not his. Oxytocin and dopamine coated the idea in happy pink juice. She was calling the shots for the big dumb ape.

And as big as he was, she’d been working out too.

She did pick up her cane, to help her get downstairs. Maybe, she thought, she could put a little vibrating nub on the handle, to make the walking aid more fun.

Inside Terri’s apartment Drew was acting like an animal, debasing himself. His clothes were ripping apart from the strain. He swept items off tables and pounded on surfaces. Glass bottles shattered.

“Drew!” Elena called in. She knew she was backlit in the doorway. Her Ex was crouched over in the act of tearing a cereal box in half. At some point his pants had exploded, and his cock swung freely around. “Get a grip! You’re supposed to be acting like a... like a MAN!”

He cringed at the accusation, and Elena savored it. She pointed her cane at him, imperious. “You’re embarrassing me, Drew! You’re acting like some dank, gross, ANIMAL and it is NOT HOT. Well, a little hot. But not enough! I’m not picking up after you anymore!”

Drew, big bestial man, looked around the mess he’d made. Everywhere but at her. A glimmer of intelligence returned, and he was about to say something, when Hassan ran out of the second bedroom and tackled him into the wall. He was 100% naked.

Elena blinked at the two of them.

A brawl started up. Typically Calving men only fought each other in a very arousing, ceremonial way that was very hot to watch, meant to impress nearby girls. Lots of sweaty grappling, and hot grunting, and muscles flexing and bulging. A display of prowess that never failed to get already drippy girls completely gushing. Sometimes girls would wade in halfway, overcome with desire, and start spitroasting themselves.

But Hassan had been tied up for days, and Drew was a grouchy jerk, and they were both large, angry men. Even so they were struggling to do damage to each other. They were both padded with big slabs of muscle, and neither had any idea how to fight. Their clothes did fall apart. Things spilled outside when Hassan barreled into Drew, knocking the both of them into the patio.

Elena followed behind. The fight was knocking her tenuous certainty out from underneath her. It was just so hard to hold on to the notion that she was strong, and worthwhile. But the girls had all said that, hadn’t they? All of them, one after another, and some of them had even given her warm, long hugs. She had to believe in it.

Hassan was getting the better of it. Despite spending days in bed he was very nearly done with his long transformation into a bull of a man. And he’d learned a few things about fighting, or at least personal commitment, from a boyhood outside Aleppo. His main strategy was to rush Drew, head down, and drive him into the pavement. It took the two men through the patio, outside the front door, briefly down the sidewalk, and finally a full headlong charge into the parking garage, a distance of fifty feet, before Drew was thrown down onto the cold and aging concrete.

Elena had to it that it was kind of fun to watch Drew get his ass beat. But he was her responsibility.

“Enough!” Elena yelled, finally, at Hassan. “Enough, alright? Stop.”

Elena had no way of knowing it, but Calving men took a girl telling them to stop very, very seriously. If a girl was telling them to stop, it was because of a life and death situation, such as a very big tornado. Hassan stopped. He looked around, shrugged, and ambled off. Fully naked.

“This is your fucking fault,” Drew said, from the ground.

“Yeah?” Elena said. “What’s my fault, Drew?”

“All of this. ALL of it. I just got my ass kicked, my head is all fuck-foggy, I can’t any geography, it’s all—you should take respons—respons—what’s the fucking WORD?”

“Who cares?” Elena said. She was lucky to have been programmed like she was. Fitness girls were special. They had to instill discipline in their many male charges. It couldn’t all be simpering and sucking. “Drew. For the last time. We broke up.”

“I kept trying to help you. I went to the gym to help you, I came here to help you,” Drew said.

“I don’t need your help!” Elena shouted. That was another special feature she would enjoy—the ability to shout at men. “I really don’t! Really. And if you scoff at me or roll your eyes you won’t get any pussy.”

He’d been just about to do that, but froze. Elena lowered herself onto his chest. She could do this. She was doing it. Her legs didn’t want to, but she could make them.

Drew’s chest was still sprouting a new pelt of hair, and would be very attractive, soon.

“You want some pussy, don’t you, Drew?”

Drew froze.

‘Mrmm,” Drew mumbled, not meeting her eyes, now. Elena backed up, until his erection was poking into her back. “Uh huh,” she said. “I think you do. You need some help, don’t you, Drew? Look at you. Got your butt beat and now you’re gonna have to beg for some pussy. And you think I need your help?”

“Mrmm,” Drew said. His eyes, just about to roll, were suddenly wide and pleading. He did need pussy, in the worst way. It was the best way to soothe men who had just lost a fight. Sloppy seconds, sure, but it was polite to at least give a pity fuck to the silver medalist in a boy fight. “Elena. I—don’t—”

“Oh, of course you need it,” Elena said. She felt increasingly sure of herself, especially when she started rubbing Drew’s cock. They were still in the dimly lit parking garage. “You fought really hard, didn’t you? But you still need more reps. More muscles. You’re gonna build those muscles for me, right, Drew?”

“Y-yeah,” Drew said. His eyes were glued to the wet patch on her workout shorts. Elena slowly worked herself forwards. “I’ll—I’ll never lose again. I promise.”

“You’ll do lots of pullups and lifts and weights, right?” Elena said. She stood up, latched her fingers into her waistband, and pulled down her shorts. Drew’s eyes worked back and forth between her slit and her shorts. When she was done she sat back down, and stuffed the fabric, playfully, in Drew’s mouth.

“Mrmmmm,” he said.

“I want you to get really big and strong for me, Drew,” Elena cooed. “I want you to be so strong. I want you to spend the next—however long of your life, getting so ripped for me. The biggest, strongest, dumbest man in the entire gym. You’ll do that for me, right? Oh, right, the shorts.” She pulled them out. Her pussy was leaking onto his chest hairs. It was a nice feeling. Elena felt—good. All over.

“Yesssssss,” Drew moaned.

“Good!” Elena said. “Now, I’m not supposed to do this, since you lost and all, but we do have history, and I’m feeling very generous right now. You want me to sit on your face, don’t you, Drew?”

He outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds, and eight inches. It didn’t matter at all. Elena rubbed her own juices around, and then touched the tip of his nose. Drew’s nostrils flared.

“What’s the magic word?” Elena whispered.

“Pleaseeeeeeee,” Drew said, and Elena nodded. She shifted her thighs forwards, careful not to engage her balky leg muscles, and settled her full weight on the top of his face. Her Ex dove right into her pussy, tongue first, like he was starving. Elena squeezed her thighs around his ears. He was inexperienced but hungry.

He needed her.

It was nice to be needed. Elena squirted on his face. It dripped down onto the concrete. It just seemed to encourage the man. He ground his nose into her, and Elena laughed, delighted.

On Wednesday it was very hard to tear herself out of the gym.

She only went to drop off Drew, who had meekly climbed into her backseat. As a memento of their time together she had let him cum, albeit not inside of her. It would take a lot more iron pumping and body building before he’d get the luxury of jizzing in her pussy. Until then he’d have to slowly earn back privileges—first she’d let him look at her, then he could stroke her backside twice, and so on until once he was a two-seventy pound six-foot four empty-headed beast of burden who’d forgotten his own name.

She’d let him cum on her tits. They did have history.

The gym was more crowded than ever, and while Drew walked in immediately, sat down at the first unoccupied bench, and started to lift, Elena struggled with herself.

The music told her that she needed to stay.

It caught her with a catchy tune and memorable hooks. It reminded her that she was dressed to work out. She had the perfect jiggles and hand-made curves for it. The lyrics told her that she could live at the gym, sleep at the gym. They had cots in the back room, and she could do her hair and makeup in the bathrooms. The girls there were just like her, bouncy with vacant eyes, their hair falling in platinum waves around their shoulders.

Platinum. She had platinum blonde hair, didn’t she? It had bleached itself without her knowledge. She’d been just too busy and preoccupied to watch her locks turn into a beach bunny parody.

“Therapist?” Elena said, tapping her airpods. Of course they had to be out of battery power, she’d worn them for several days straight. “You there? Anything?”

Nothing. She was still on her own.

A new male member was struggling with his form on one of the leg machines. He was balding and flabby, and needed a protein shake and some encouragement. She could do the same exercise in front of him, shoving her ass in his face, until the scent and the need let him break his personal records.

Elena felt—dizzy. She leaned on her cane. But she was—already a personal trainer, wasn’t she? Right. She had a bunch of chubby girls back at the apartment complex, and Seth needed more gains in his abdominals. She couldn’t just...

Drew was already being serviced. A bleached blonde asian girl was stroking his biceps, iring his form. She handed him a shake with a straw in it, and held it for him, so he could drink while he pumped. The music was pumping too...

She heard someone over her airpods.

“Elena. It’s time.”

It was her therapist.

It had been a long twenty... however many hours for her therapist.

She’d been fired.

Not because of any failings on her part. They were all fired, to be replaced by even louder bimboizing tunes plus a much cheaper chatbot. All it did was repeat the girl’s words back to them, in a questioning tone of voice, but clinical trials showed it was 95% as good at turning women into toys. And the cost savings were undeniable.

They’d been encouraged to embrace the decision. Most of the past day had been an apologetic end-of-career party. A long and thorough orgy. Every girl was covered in cupcake crumbs and had icing slathered over their bodies, including Elena’s therapist. She had buttercream all over her hair. They’d brought in a bunch of gym boys for the day, and her mouth tasted like cum and strawberry filling.

But still, they’d been reprogramming all the girls the entire time. They were being sent to work at the new chemical factory. Apparently the fumes were fun but didn’t leave the girls with more than one brain cell to work with, and the constant exposure to heavy chems gave all the girls permanent deep tans. She was excited to start, but mostly because of a concentrated blast of subliminal encouragement.

She just had to wrap up some loose ends.

“Elena, time to start your new job,” she said.

“What new job?” Elena said. Her therapist was unclear on what was going on in Elena’s life.

“At the gym,” her therapist said. “It’s perfect for you. You love male attention, or any attention. You love fitness. You’re hot and gym-ready. Elena, maybe I should’ve mentioned it, but that’s what we’ve been working towards.”

“Yeah... but...”

It was her own fault. Elena’s therapist sighed, and scraped some icing off her inner thighs. It tasted like her coworkers. Pretty good.

“Elena, lets go,” she said. “It’s all arranged. You’re here.”

“I don’t want to, though? I’m—I don’t want to?”

“What? Elena, this is your last step. What do you think I was working towards? Muscles, exhibitionism, ordering men around, that’s you. So lets go. Gym. Step inside.”

“No,” Elena said.

No. No, from a girl? The employee manual had strict rules about this kind of defiance. There was even a big red button for it, on the wall. Elena would hear a blast of music affectionately referred to as the Dopemaker. Girls didn’t complain after hearing it. For awhile they’d forget how to walk.

Elena’s therapist pressed the Big Red Button.

From Drew’s perspective, there was a noise, something like an entire summer singer-songwriter festival compressed into a single moment. A perfect moment of audio, like every hopeful teeny-bopper on spotify wrapped together. The effect on Elena was immediate—she flopped to the ground and had a howling, juicy cum. He watched it with minimal interest. Pumping iron was more interesting.

Even far away from the sound, he lost exactly one IQ point.

“Do you want another button press? This is for your own good, Elena,” her therapist said. She fingered it, annoyed. She’d really liked this job. Now she was going to be a brain-fried production worker. Not toting any large barrels of chemicals or anything—there were men for that—mostly on her knees for their benefit, and some light lever-pulling and chain-tugging. Industrial stuff.

“I’m s’posed to—s’posed to—make my—uhhhhhh...” Elena was drooling. “Starts with a D?”

“Decisions,” Elena’s therapist said. Two button presses? She wouldn’t be much of a fitness instructor. She’d be more of a water cooler.

“Yeah. Yeah! Gosh I still feel—that sound was—my whole brain went like—goosh,” Elena said.

“Final warning,” Elena’s therapist said. “Elena, you are a fitness instructor. That was always the goal.”

She had even got to keep a little bit of her pubes, as a therapist. A sign of her relative sophistication. Her town, post-Calving, was mostly in the business of bulk food and hormone production. Bathing in the nearby river, where they dumped all the slurry, meant forgetting the name you went in with..

“I’m sorry—well. No. I’m not sorry. Um. Gosh, word retrieval issues!” Elena said. “I just think I’m okay now and I don’t think I need more therapy! I achieved my- umm—what’s the word for when you do the thing you want to do?”

It took her awhile too. Chemical factory girls needed just enough smarts to pull the occasional lever.

“Goals,” Elena’s therapist said, eventually. “You mean goals.”

“Yes! So, you’re fired. Sorry. But thanks!”

Fired again. Elena’s therapist shook her head.

It was time for the once more big red button.

But...

That had been the final step, hadn’t it?

Most girls never made it, to stop twenty-five.The one that read ‘SELF-ACTUALIZATION AS BIMBO WHORE’. They got off at step twenty, which was acting as a cum sponge, or maybe twenty-three, which was a highly fulfilling gangbang. And that was okay. Therapy was a process.

But this was it, wasn’t it? This was what the goal was. Sort of. Actually, it wasn’t the goal, but it was.... nice.

Elena’s therapist had the vaguest recollection of her own rebellion, way back when. She’d really fought to keep reading books, even as the vocabulary drained out of her. She’d even tried to read with dicks in her butt, to see if she could motivate, that way. Or at least associate books with cock, training herself. It hadn’t worked, but she’d tried. It was nice, to see people try...

She turned off her recorder.

“Alrighty, Elena. You can stay here. IF, you promise me, you’ll suck the next big dick you see for me, okay?”

“I’m sucking a dick like, in five seconds.” There was a pause on the line. “What’s your name?”

“Oh, I haven’t needed one of those in YEARS!” Elena’s therapist said. “I like swimming too much. Good luck, Elena.”

She switched to the next client.

By the time she got back the apartment complex was fully engulfed in flames.

“911!” Elena yelled, at her phone, and then recalled that she had to dial numbers. Drew was definitely right about that—her brains had drained into her body. “911 for actual this time! We have one of those hot things!”

“A—fire?” the dispatcher said.

“That’s it!” Elena said. “I’m going to... ummm... save everyone using my body!”

“MIss, I—”

Elena hung up, and did the most heroic thing she could conceive of. She ran to Seth’s apartment. The man was sleeping on a too-small bed, barely a twin, barely raised off the ground. Soon all seven of his adoring, servile girls would have to learn how to deal with his inveterate snoring.

Elena woke him up the only way she knew how. She reached under the sheets and pulled out his dick.

A look at his body reassured her. Leaving the gym had been the hardest thing she’d yet done, even including leaving Drew. Her body had fought her, needing the workout songs, the endless encouragement of striving men. She’d concluded it was probably some bimbo programming thingy like Drew had been talking about. But she was her own woman, sorta. Partially Seth’s woman, more honestly. His body was an unfinished masterpiece, barrel-chested and raw with strength, just needing some targeted core work for perfect definition.

There WAS a raging inferno outside, but her new job, for the rest of her life, was handling men. Elena bent over and took the long but only half-erect length of his slumbering dick into her mouth. Fighting fires and saving sexy girls would be the perfect morning workout.

“Mmmm,” Seth mumbled. Still asleep, he reached down and grabbed Elena’s hair. Calving men were perfectly capable of fucking, nutting, and impregnating during deep REM sleep. He sawed her up and down on his dick for a minute before partially returning to consciousness. “Unhh?”

“Fiyuh,” Elena said, around his hefty, sleep-scented penis. “Big fiyuh.” She drooled and drooled.

“Unhh,” Seth said, half-awake. He kept abusing her mouth, and would’ve continued, except that he scented smoke. “Wait. What?”

But that was the only hitch. After that, Seth was magnificent.

He broke down Ateera’s door first, to Elena’s cheers, a flame-whipped golem of masculine strength. And even more impressive, he carried her out, all of her, all her wobbly curves and immensely oversized ass. It looked like he was carting out a sexy beanbag chair, and Elena was unsure if he had tits or butt in his face. With Ateera it was fine to just thrust your face in wherever.

Elena helped by taking out the more valuable valuables. Ateera’s purse she left for the flames—money didn’t seem super-duper important, and IDs were just pictures with stuff written on them. Instead she found some cute outfits strewn on the floor, and all the makeup in the bathroom. No sex toys, despite her diligently checking the smoke-choked room. She carried it out without her cane, stoically bearing with the pain. Anything for her workout clients.

That was the only room that really needed to be broken into heroically. But she decided it would be fun to do so anyway. Girls loved having sexy men batter down the door to save them from the flames. Seth knocked in Bailey’s door, to her delighted squeals, and Jelena’s as well, attractively backlit by clouds of smoke. Inhalation of so much C02 wasn’t making them any smarter, but, as a physical trainer, that was hardly her concern. Seth was getting such a good workout.

She rewarded him after the third girl, with a lush, happy kiss, and also with a titjob. She wrapped her fat tits around the length of his dick and cooed over the size of his cock. It emerged from even her enhanced boobs a long length, and she peppered it with kisses. “Suuuuuch a good boy!” she said, sincerely. “And you’re working up such a good sweat, too. Ohhh you deserve to cover me in big cummy ropes, okay?”

“So is your thing a cheerleader?” Seth said, while she greased up her tits with precum. “Like Julia is like a sexy cook?”

No, she was—or was she? Elena had never thought of it that way before. Was that what a trainer was, a cheerleader, for one person? She could wear a cute skirt and pom-poms. She’d watched the cheerleaders, hadn’t she? From the bleachers she’d so painfully clambered up, to watch HIgh School football. They’d thrown each other around with abandon, legs working perfectly...

“Sure!” Elena said. “Why not!”

On Thursday, Elena made a schedule.

She needed Jelena’s help with it, because something about yesterday had left her feeling—pretty ditzy. A little bit more on the silly side, with a dash of dumbo. But that was okay—she just switched from personal trainer, to athletic cheerleader, and she was perfect. It wasn’t that much of a change.

From four to six she did her own workouts. Seth had promised her a weight set, one for the roof, but until then there were plenty of heavy things to lift. She started with Ateera. The big plush girl didn’t even wake up—she’d had a very long and very hard day. Elena couldn’t exactly do an overhead press with her, but she made a good backstop for situps. For actual iron-pressing she had books that the girls had donated. No one particularly felt like reading anymore, and they were nice and heavy.

At six she went to breakfast. Julia had set up a kitchen for the girls and boy. Elena allowed herself to cheat a little bit. It had been a difficult week, going from nervous shut-in to cheerleading workout whore. And also, one of the menu items had cum in it. It was a fun game for the crowd, finding out which one it was.

It was the bananas.

At eight she went on Amazon, with Seth’s supervision, and bought a bunch of super hot cheerleading outfits. He was really into it, and let her go a little crazy. She bought a half-dozen pom-poms, and a bunch of skirts. One of the tops read “BHS” Figuring out acronyms was a little beyond her, but Seth was sure the B stood for Bimbo, and that sounded perfect.

At ten she put on her teeniest, tiniest booty shorts, and went walking, without her cane.

Her legs weren’t perfect. They looked good, but she’d have radiating nerve pain for the rest of her life. And that was—okay. She had things to be happy about. In a way it was reassuring. That unpleasant shock, like she was perpetually stubbing her toe, was good way to tell that she was still her. Even with the standardized bleached hair and the uniform fitness girl tits. She was the only one with the bad legs.

She made it as far as the third block down before stopping, exhausted. To celebrate, she flashed the first man she saw. And it was easy to make it back home, even as a bit of a dummy. She’d dripped the entire way. She was her own bread crumbs.

At noon it was time for group workout. Attendance was low. Dummy that she was, she’d forgotten to tell anyone about it.

It was just Terri.

“You’re still here?” the big bimbo said, peeking in. “Aren’t you assigned to—ooh, I love your tits!”

“Thanks!” Elena said. She was pleased with them too. They looked really plastic and fake, riding very high on top of her chest. If they were droopy at all it wouldn’t fit the theme. She looked like she’d pumped them full of air.

Terri looked—not that great, for Terri. Tired. She hadn’t slept in her own apartment last night, and she looked like she’d been through a lot. There were dark bags underneath her eyes, and the dried cummy streaks on her tits seemed more like she’d been busy than personal beauty decision. She still wore her trademark jean shorts. “But you’re here,” she seemed puzzled by this. “Gosh, now what? I’m supposed to drive you to the gym when you got too dumb to operate a car. Do you want to go to the gym?”

“This IS my gym,” Elena said. She’d put all her workout gear in the space, and lined it with towels and mats.

Terri was too tired to argue with that.

“You look like shit,” Elena said, sympathetic. “You know what you need?”

“Is it a dick?” Terri said, brightening.

“We’ll start you off with some easy poses,” Elena said.

KYLIE

On Saturday, Kylie met with what was left of her super-secret anti-Calving task group. It was the only clandestine group funded by and composed of of the Department of Agriculture.

“Kylie, I know you’re putting yourself at risk tonight,” her task leader said. Stephanie was always dressed in stark black, with not a pinch or dusting of makeup. “You know the precautions. Double them. Gloves and masks, ten minutes tops, cold shower.”

“Sure, Mom, sure,” Kylie said, and regretted it. They were all very paranoid about leaks, contamination, mistakes. There was no room for joshing about Mom. “Stephanie. Sorry. To be clear, Mom, not Mommy. And Stephanie, not Mom.”

“Mmm,” Stephanie said.

There were fewer zoom screens than there’d been a month ago. One by one they were running afoul of Calving and its insidious, endless, and impressive pro-fertility agenda. Peter was some thrusting bull hunk somewhere in upstate New York, living out his days balls-deep in Rita, another former agent. Ayesha had displayed her big bulging titties on screen and had been dismissed from service with the federal government. There were probably fewer than a hundred feds still working actively against the farming/dairy/bimbo cooperative. And that despite merging with the remnants of the FDA.

“Terri has been with Calving from nearly the start, so, if she’s here, it’s meaningful,” Stephanie said, in her short, clipped tones. Agency rumor said she’d suffered a close call with Calving, and had a healthy pair of sweater cows bound up beneath the black blouses. “I doubt they’d trust a female with anything complex, but who knows what she has lying around. Throw it all in the bag. Excuse me. I misspoke. Carefully place it in the bag, making sure not to break anything. Carefully.”

“Of course, Ms. Stephanie,” Kylie said.

She was perfectly willing to it to herself that she idolized Stephanie. The professionalism, the efficiency, the steel-cool gaze and the sang-froid cool. It was generally irable, and especially so in a time of scary national change.

“I saw a girl just chugging milk at the supermarket,” Bethany said, breaking in. She was sweating on camera, which was a bad sign. “The new Calving brand, the human milk one. It’s human milk, right? They aren’t even bothering to hide it! She was blonde. She just cracked it open and drank the entire carton, right there, spilling it on the floor. All over her—breasts. We’re losing, aren’t we? Aren’t we.”

They waited for Stephanie to calm them down.

“Every day, they get stupider,” Stephanie said. One of her reassuring catechisms for the nervous troops. Taylor had flinched during Bethany’s monologue—his Mom had dropped fifty pounds and apparently twenty years, and was “fucking her way through St. Petersburg,” as he put it. She was sixty-five and pregnant. “The lab is working as hard as we can on antidotes. Our job is sample retrieval.”

“I’ll bring us back a healthy load,” Kylie said, and cursed herself again. Bethany started to giggle, another bad sign.

She’d worked so hard to get people to take her seriously. But—she was a woman, she had an accent, and she had glossy dark black skin. Three strikes from the start. She had to be perfectly professional. Perfect.

Stephanie didn’t crack a smile, or react in any way. “Kylie—Agent Bankole. Good luck.”

In the event, Terri came to her.

“Knockity-knock!” Terri said, and somehow rapped on a door in a bimbofied way. An ultrafeminine knock. Crisp new adrenaline flooded Kylie. She looked through the door peekhole. On the other side, through a fisheye lens, was a big and wide pair of tits.

She’d been made? That couldn’t be the case—this was an AirBNB rental, and she’d only been there for a day. The air was still rental-esque, a stale potpourri from the aging flowers in the bathroom. Kylie had given herself static shock from the untouched and dusty furniture. So it had to be coincidence, and she needed to act normally. What would Stephanie do?

“One moment!” Kylie said. Protection. She needed protection. Even a breath from a Calving girl was laden with hormonal triggers and endorphin emitters. Kylie ran about, tossing open the windows. She strapped on a surgical mask. If Terri asked, she was getting over a cold. She wiped down her palms on the back of her jeans. Sweat was bad because it helped all the Calving oils and goos leech into the skin.

At least she had time—Calving girls didn’t mind staring at a door. They’d just toy with their hair or maybe touch themselves. And drool.

“Sorry, sorry, I was cleaning up,” Kylie said, coming face to face with the enemy. “I’m Kylie.”

There she was, all boobs and butt and fat plump lips. A parody of a parody of American sexuality, wrapped in denim and leaking all the time. She was more pregnant, and more present, than Kylie had imagined. There was just so MUCH to her...

“Housewarming!” Terri said, holding up a wicker basket. She strutted inside, and there was no stopping her. Her big belly led the way. “Or—I don’t know what the word is. When you’re working together? Coworkerwarming!”

Kylie had already gotten a strong whiff of the girl, and that wasn’t good. Calving girls didn’t just smell, they reminded others how important scent was. That they were animals. Animals liked scents. They were a good way of figuring out who was in heat.

“Uhh—and you are?” Kylie said. Terri flopped onto the couch. This was going poorly. Now the couch would have to go. It’d be drenched and potent.

Now the air smelled like strawberries and warm milk. It was kinda nice...

“Oh, come on, you know who I am!” Terri said. “You’re with the government folks! You’re keeping an eye on me! I figured I’d bring you some stuff to, I don’t know, say hi, Pastor Flynn says he really ires what a good job you’ve all done figuring stuff out and making dossiers and whatever. Don’t worry! Nothing in the basket will make you into a big breedy bimbo! Flag of truce! I would’ve flown one of those white flags but I’m fresh out of clean undies.”

She pushed the basket over. Kylie had no intention of touching it, but the only things in it were a hairbrush and some pennysavers.

“Yeah,” Terri said, looking at the contents. “I know. Kinda sad. All I could find that wasn’t full of chemical stuff was like, your mail. But the brush is good! Hmm. Actually, maybe don’t touch the brush, thinking about it. I might’ve used it. And not, like, to brush my hair.”

“Get out,” Kylie said, changing strategies. “Get the fuck. Out.”

It had a much stronger effect on Terri than Kylie had anticipated. She looked genuinely hurt.

“Get out?” Terri said. Her tinny voice trembled.

Kylie clenched her teeth. This was a strategy, being severe, but she was getting genuinely angry.

“Get the FUCK out, is what I said. Leave. Get out. What is this, a pity party? Look how much power we have, look how omniscient we are, we know exactly what you’re doing, its pointless to try? Everyone is going to end up exactly as knocked up, dumbed down, and tarted up as you? We’re not. Because we’re smart, and serious, and you aren’t. So. Get. Out.”

She started right into the big bimbo slut’s eyes. Then she pointed at the door.

Terri started to cry.

A big bimbo breaking into tears was a full-body performance. Her face turned a rich, mottled, tomato bisque red. All of her trembled, and since she was so much, she also jiggled and wiggled. Even her tears were excessive, enormous fat slut drops that made a creek on the way to her tits.

Kylie wasn’t sure what to do. She decided to point at the door again. The fury built up in her breast, and she tried to fight it down.

“You’re being SO MEAN!” Terri complained, sniffling. She decided to wipe her face with one of Kylie’s throw pillows. That would have to get thrown out. “We work SO HARD to be nice to you, and everyone, and give them pretty bodies that are so hot, and you’re SCOWLING at me! I brought you a gift basket!”

“You’re turning us all into—pigs! Cows!” Kylie shouted, exasperated. She watched Terri blow her nose into her own t-shirt. The amount of particles in the air was alarmingly high, even if they were technically non-sexy. She touched at her mask, to reassure herself.

“I know! And no one EVER thanks us!” Terri said, shaking her head. “And I mean, we’re trying so hard to be inclusive lately, we’ve been seeding clouds ALL over Africa, we put all that stuff in the water supply all across China, and the butter in Europe—I mean—I know its hard on you girls to get all dumb and stuff but you don’t have to be a BRAT about it! Do you have any tissues?”

“Not for you!” Kylie said. What in the world was even happening? She tried to recall her training—a good strategy was to try and engage the intelligence of these brainless bimbos. They tended to short out when called upon to think, or use large words. She watched Terri ineffectually dab at her moist breasts with her already-wet t-shirt. “You think you’re doing us all a favor? You think you’re making the world a better place or something?”

“Well, yeah!” Terri said. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but the waterworks had stopped, at least. “Duh! And I thought I was supposed to be the stupid one!”

It was all very frustrating. She was losing an argument to the intellectual equivalent of a house plant.

Her own family was Calving-converted, living a life of idle snacking and sexual excess. Her sister had popped out twins, and then topped herself with triplets. They were all on that road to conversion, thighs sticking together, tits hiding any view of their feet, differing only in minor details about how their pussies tasted. Kylie clenched her fists. Too MEAN? She was scheduled to pump out a dozen tykes in the next six years, at the least, her hard-earned career turned into moos and coos.

At best she’d be a flabby holdout, tormented by her own need for snack cakes, breast milk, and meat treats. Wobbling around in exercise gear, trying to hold herself south of two hundred twenty pounds, while sniffing the sex hormones of every man and woman she ed. That was the future for the fighters, she figured, drinking rainwater in the woods that was nonetheless laced with potent hormonal chemicals. Trying to hold her breath at the mall, before running home to rub out a guilty, dirty cum. If she was lucky she could hold on to just enough brains to read the occasional pamphlet, and keep her reproductive activity to a mere five or six. At BEST.

But more likely she’d follow her sister and mom into full excess. Kylie was well aware that her genetics wanted her full-rumped, and big-boobed, and shaped like a very juicy pear. There was nothing waifish or stick-like in her family history. The girls were feminine from tip to toe, bursting with natural health and very unprofessional curvature. From a fairly young age Kylie had been aware that she didn’t have the kind of body that people took seriously. There was too much ass from the get-go. And with Calving’s involvement? She’d be lucky to be humored, men giving her affectionate pats on the rump, about how cute it was she was trying to read at a sixth grade level.

No. It wasn’t going to go that way. She was part of the resistance.

And it was obvious that, as much as they pretended to inclusion, that Calving was really just interested in fat white sluts. They didn’t know what to do about girls with kinky hair. She could lead a troupe of dark women stealing food from old fridges. They’d throw Shakespearean festivals in deserted parks, and read Proust with abandon, easily outrunning pursuers that were fat and pregnant. She would find their leader, the elusive Pastor Flynn, and she would—

She was—

There was a clicking sound. Something tightened around her throat.

Terri was—Terri was BEHIND her, Kylie realized, horror-struck. How had—when had—no. No, her daydreaming was intended to keep her AWAY from Calving, not leave her in some horned-up reverie.

“Since you’re gonna be a bitch you gotta wear the collar,” Terri said, sternly. She was still sniffling and upset. How long had—

Her mouth was open, Kylie realized. Her mask was down around her chin and her mouth was open. And her legs were open too. Yes, she was wearing jeans, but there was still that signal that—if someone jammed their fingers up the cleft—she’d LIKE it.

“Take it OFF!” Kylie yelled. She pulled at the leather at her throat. It was a big collar. :”You stupid cow whore! Take it OFF me!”

“There’s no point being nice to me NOW,” Terri said. She wiped her nose on her arm. “I will leave the gift basket because we’re still neighbors. But I don’t have to stay here and take this big time meanness when I am just trying to make you into your hottest and most pregnant self. You’re welcome.. When you have six kids of your own, you’ll come back and thank me. If you who I am. Which I guess you probably won’t. So, bye, BRAT!”

She had the last word.

Terri flounced out the door, leaving Kylie with the gift basket, the brush, and the collar, pressing in to the soft parts of her throat.