The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

I enjoy writing my thoughts down. In a lifetime of invading the minds of others, it is restful to sometimes stick inside my own.

I spent a number of years running from Damien and his worldwide bimbofication mind control conspiracy, and did many embarrassing things to escape his notice. All pointless. Every so often he’d ring up a nearby phone, or have my supermarket checker show me her breasts, or similar, and I would flee into the night.

Finally I picked up when he called. I was tired of running. My preferred lifestyle involves a large, cooing harem, and that’s tough on the move.

As we talked it became sadly clear that while we both had unlimited amounts of giggling, willing, tits and ass, what we really needed was a friend.

He needed to have an actual conversation with someone who just didn’t answer ‘yes, master’ to everything.

And I suppose I did as well.

Won knew there was a type of girl who could pull off being young and desperate. Properly done, a girl in her early 20s in the city could make poverty into a stylish performance of perseverance, friendship, and panache. Crashing rooftop parties in cheap heels, cadging dinners and drinks from men, reading books in the park in a way that connoted style and flair instead of just having a library card.

Won had never managed it. Mostly she was the kind of poor that was hungry. Her landlord approached, and she had nothing to offer him.

That she could think of.

Mr. Delany had clearly been down in the apartment basement. Traces of dank and damp clung to him. It was a bad time to talk. She was between jobs, and also looked it. Sometimes she was at least wearing some polo shirt or lanyard that hinted at future income to come. Today it was just a pair of old tights that were badly worn around the hips and rear, and a tanktop that she really couldn’t bend forwards in, because it would show she couldn’t afford a proper bra.

“Rent! Yes!” Won said, brightly. She paused. Now what? If she was going to be an effortlessly urban wit, quick with haut-monde quips, she actually needed to do it. So why was her mind so... sludgy?

Mr. Delany held a nearly empty pink canister. He didn’t seem to mind her struggle to think of something smart to say, at least, but eventually even he had to fill the considerable silence. “Rent, Won. It’s due.”

“In like, a fortnight? Or—uh—” Won wracked her brain. Why did she feel about as smart as a tire? “Hence? On the distant morrow?” Only some old english literature came to her rescue.

“Tonight, Won.”

She sighed. There was no escaping it. Girls who couldn’t be smart, had to be cute.

Won had been ruminating on the issue, more and more. When she’d arrived, and found housing, her own attractiveness hadn’t been a major concern. Her list of positive qualities ran long—hard-working, friendly, kind, cheerful, with being a young piece of ass way down the rankings.

But as the city had ground her down and been unfriendly, unkind, and brutal, the fact she still had an ass loomed ever larger.

In fact it, also, was looming larger, if she thought about it.

She glanced down. The tights at least showcased her legs. Cool jacket, but far too zipped up. Won unzipped it while making eye . She slipped herself into Cute Girl Mentality. That, at least, was getting easier and easier the longer she lived in the city. The trick was, don’t think too hard, smile a lot, and never be smarter than a man.

Privately, Won increasingly wondered if she had ever been. At least smiling was easy, so she did it a lot.

“It COULD be due tomorrow though, right? Time is like, so weird, when you think about it,” she babbled. “Like, it’s Monday, right?”

“Wednesday,” her landlord said.

“Wow,” Won said. Really? “Um, Okay. But like, if we got you a check today you wouldn’t even cash it until, um, Wednesday...”

“Friday,” Mr. Delany said.

This was not going great. He knew so much more about the ing of time than she did. Won saw no alternatives but to maximize cuteness. Be hot. Flirt. Let men enjoy her body. At all angles. As her time in the city and Lorese Street Apartments went on she’d found It was just the way of the world, for them to want to look at, squeeze, touch, stroke her legs, her tits. Imagine her mouth with their dick sliding in and out of it. Sometimes she just walked through the city, ing man after man, duly resigned to their glances, turning around to see her ass gyrate. At least they thought she was cute.

Won blinked. Why was all that so quick to through her head? And not, what day it was?

“Uhhh,” she licked her lips. They felt so heavy, like they were too big to verbalize. That was okay, she was too much of a girl to say anything smart. At last the zipper on her jacket was already undone. That at least finally drew Mr. Delany’s attention. He was always very composed, very alert. It was kind of hot. No one had eyes like Mr. Delany. While her own attention span kept slipping and sliding. “What if... instead of getting you the rent at, like, ten, we get it at like, ten twenty? In the—what’s the one after a.m.?”

“Post-meridien, Won.”

His eyes lingered on her lips. Her best feature, she knew. He had to be thinking about it. She had a stereotypically cute face, quizzical almond eyes, blushing cheeks. “Ten ten,” he said. “All three of you. Rent is due, tenant.”

“Thank you!” Won said, blushing. “Thank you thank you thank you!” She tried to shove down the more intrusive thoughts. The ones about, men using her body. Maybe it was normal, after spending her time noticing her noticers.

Recently this had turned into sweaty, even disturbing fantasies, of men going from thought to deed, right there in whatever store she was working. Being used in changing rooms, restaurant tables, barista counters. Stripped of positive qualities, what she had left was body. She was warm. She had good lips. He could use them.

What was wrong with her? Won looked down. Underneath her jacket and tanktop she didn’t have a bra on. Right, she’d forgotten. She’d given her landlord quite a peep show. At least it had paid off. She had ten whole extra minutes to come up with the rent.

Damien’s global conquest was on hold.

The first issue was, all the mind controllers he had recruited to pull off the Grand Scheme—he had even started a MInd Control University—spent most of their time going after each other. After several months, three-quarters of his hand-picked faculty were mindless drones good only for pump duty. Even the supposed winners had drained-out IQs and bizarre and demanding personal fetishes.

Not too shocking, I told him. We’re a bunch of cats in a sack. And also we’re sociopaths, by the by. He grunted.

Which led into the second issue, which was, what was this global bimbo world going to actually LOOK like? Who was going to be IN CHARGE? Certainly not the horny self-absorbed harem heads who made up the mind controlling community. We can barely manage a stock of 3-7 girls literally programmed to obey. It got so bad that as a public service the more community-minded of us put together a sheet on basic girl health. If you own a girl pet, you should know what menstruation is.

Which led into the third issue, which was, who was going to grow the crops? Take a simple bimbofying salon. Who was actually going to manufacture the gels, creams, lipsticks, dyes, curls, and many other sundries that went into making co-eds into cumsluts? The food, the water, the electricity, the plastic, the metal, the gas! He was shouting it by the end. He said he was spending his time playing some game called Dwarf Fortress, instead of turning countries into cunts.

I told him he’d conquered the deepest limits of the human psyche, and exercised absolute control over a battalion of bimbos with QR codes on their butts, and yet even he couldn’t beat capitalism.

But it wasn’t like I had any better ideas.

“Girl dinner!” Won called out. “Girllllll dinnnnerrrrrrr! Drew?”

Of course Drew was there. Drew rarely left the apartment. At move-in she had described herself as a consultant, then as a freelancer. Eventually she had demoted herself to amateur doomscroller. With Won and Thea working on her self-esteem, she’d been promoted, psychologically, to PROFESSIONAL doomscroller. It was something.

Per her own description of her career she was on a nonstop surveillance of the global gestalt, an endless review of the world’s degeneration as expressed in short snippets of video, and pithy comments, and various Discords. Although apparently she was also looking at cute skirts, from what Won could see, over her shoulder.

“Girl. Dinner,” she said, into Drew’s ear. It was strange. Drew never seemed to leave the apartment, but somehow had added two additional piercings to her lobes. They dangled with long brass bangles, which nicely set off her dark, auburn hair.

“Oh good, I needed some chemicals,” Drew said. She liked to be buried in blankets. Preserving herself, she called it. Drew had thrown in some survivalism along with the nihilism, which Won appreciated, since it meant a little drive and volition.

Won was more of a scrounger, herself. It was a role she’d started to really lean into. Even her brief jobs started with her casting an acquisitive eye around for loose fixtures, forgotten boxes. The dolphin shorts she’d changed into were from a package that had followed her out the door, her tanktop was from a brief period at Macy’s. They had syrups and powders in the cupboard from coffee shops around the city center.

But The Vending Machine was what she was most proud of.

It was inside their own apartment complex, near the lobby, and stocked with all manner of goodies. Won had learned that a series of taps, knocks, and slaps in strategic points would extract noodle cups, baked goods, miscellaneous jerkies, and other, less identifiable items. She’d gotten really good at it. In fact, lately the caloric packages just started dropping as she approached. She figured it was scared of her. True, the snacks did not have best-by dates, or really much in the way of packaging or branding at all, but ‘free’ counted for a lot.

“Kibby-chow?” Drew said, not really complaining.

“Kibby-chow,” Won said, nodding. It was increasingly their favorite. It came in styrofoam cups, some kind of barley-sorghum mixture, and came with a squeeze pack of pink-purple goop on top. Mixed with water it quadrupled in weight. It all sounded disgusting, and yet, Won found herself aching for it, between mealtimes. A hollow feeling that more kibby-chow could make go away. When eating it the girls put their heads close to the cup, and afterwards, they had pink-purple mouths and tongues. Sometimes an hour would go by before they were able to talk again, although they could giggle and say ‘kibby-chow’.

“This stuff HAS to be bad for us,” Drew said, pulling up a chair, and intently watching the microwave. “You know I ate a little bit of the cup, last time? I didn’t even realize until I went to throw it away. It’s... oof. I’m really hungry. Won, we need a microwave that does the numbers faster. Go find one of those.”

If it was bad for them, it wasn’t showing up in Drew’s body. Or Won’s, for that matter.

The nonstop calorie loading had been surprisingly beneficial to their respective figures. Kibby-chow was very generous, where it ended up. For Won, she could practically feel the cheap slurry settling in to the undersides of her tits, especially now that they were big enough to have serious undersides. They drooped, bigger and fuller, after mealtimes. And for Drew the padding went into hips first and foremost, sculpting her thighs as well into baby-soft creamy skin.

“We should exercise or something,” Won said, not for the first time. The kibby-chow came out piping hot, but she was suddenly too hungry to care. Besides, her tongue and lips were so puffy, lately. Insulated, sure, why not. She had fiberglass lips, cool.

“No, it’s good,” Drew said. She could only stop herself from eating for a bit. “We need fat reserves, for the collapse. You gotta carry around energy stores. And you gotta eat a lot of it, to find the one vitamin in there.”

Privately, Won thought that there had to be a lot of vitamins, or at least minerals, somewhere in there. Maybe not normal vitamins like D or B6 or whatever. Drew’s hair in particular was waterfall-smooth and kept finding new ways to beautifully frame her face.

It was also growing at a rate that, Won thought, probably should’ve alarmed the girl. Two inches a day wasn’t normal. Won had noticed it too, but at least her inch a day was more manageable. She hacked it off to shoulder length, once a week. She’d stopped bothering to wash it. After all, shampoo and shower water were expensive.

If the great Damien couldn’t fight the world, how could I?

The apartment complex suited me well. It was nearly ive income. A steady stream of young girls came in, were subjected to a complex array of conditioning agents, and came out the other end, for sale. I didn’t have to do any active mind control bimbofication nearly at all. We’ve come a long ways since the 80s and 90s, when we went around with our pocketwatches and very rough chemicals.

A broker lined up the clients—generally quietly large corporations. Pliable, submissive, horny girls were a great investment. They kept their value. Companies learned something I already knew. If you put an attractive girl with big tits in a company polo, no one cared what her name was or if she had any sort of individual will. She was an object. I imagine there were tax writeoffs involved, although if they depreciated, it wasn’t anything I did.

Anyway, after they were sold they weren’t my problem.

Overall I enjoyed being an apartment manager. I could’ve forced some handyman to be my maintenance slave, but I found I liked doing the work of spackling, painting, and fixing myself. It wasn’t too different from what I did to female bodies. Put a fresh coat of paint in, rearrange the plumbing, install some appliances...

The main difference being, with the actual building I didn’t really enjoy working in the basement.

“You two need to stop with the vending sludge,” Thea said, slamming the door on general principle. Won winced. Broken hinges came out of the security deposit. “It’s... bad for you. Doing... things... to you.”

Won’s other roommate chewed her lip, and looked around, suddenly unsure. Won had gotten used to sudden Thea spaciness. It was happening more and more. Not enough girl chow, probably.

“Everything does things to us,” Drew pointed out. She was going back for seconds, and was bent over the microwave. Her thighs pooched out to both sides, and although she didn’t have Won’s tits, she was definitely weighed down with curves.

Won blinked. She had a vague memory of a different Drew, a girl that was gaunt in every limb, even her elbows carrying the weight of the world. Not so... plush... in the leg region.

“FREE sludge,” Won broke in, shaking her head. “And for dessert, FREE—oh, I’m sorry, I’m talking to Thea. LIBERATED snacky-cakes. I really did steal them. when I worked at 7-11 from like... seven to eleven.”

“It’s not like that,” Thea protested. She had tough, wiry hair. Drew’s ancestry was a straight lineage of Danish milkmaids, and Won’s was the Yunnan equivalent. Thea was the wild card, and could’ve been founded anywhere along the silk road. Even her skin color varied, according to how much time she’d spent outside, fighting for justice. Currently it was a milky cappuccino. “You guys think I’m this stereotype of like, dumpster-diving, crust-punk, 90s-style social activism and that’s like, not it. That just glorifies being a cockroach.”

She sat heavily, very heavily, at the table.

Won picked up another of the labelless receptacles that made up their food supply, and squirted the goo on the top. For all her loud resistance, Thea’s butt was increasing witness to her dependence on vending machine slop. She was getting taller when sitting. It was getting to be quite a butt. A sound slap on the rear could be a decent drum.

“What’s wrong with cockroaches?” Drew mumbled, over food bowl number two. Watching her eat made Won’s mouth water, and she broke open one of the generic beef jerky sticks. It didn’t really smell like meat. The taste was earthy, mouthwatering.

Her mouth watered an awful lot, the past few months. She had to slurp and slurp. Sometimes it could be called drooling.

“I’m not working to create just cyberpunk survivalism, Drew,” Thea said. Fidgeting now, hungry, she was still trying to resist putting her head to the trough. She wore a top that Won had thieved. It read “FULL POWER” and probably had been intended to refer to labor, but instead seemed to refer to Thea’s boobs. They wobbled around with vending goodness. “Sustainable equity. Long-lasting communities. That’s it.”

“WHERE and WHEN?” Drew said, with a good dose of contempt. And probably would’ve said more, but the heady, confusing scent of kibble-chow reached her brain. She started work with her spoon. And Thea only lasted a second longer. Both girls looked directly at their food, or maybe through it. They wouldn’t talk until they were done.

This dredged up another memory, from somewhere deep—skinny Drew talking to an even skinnier Thea, long and complex debates involving both looking up a lot of things on wikipedia. Not these two chubby-cheeked full-figured girls, pumping up their bodies with carbs.

But it was better, right? Won thought about it, although the meat-substitute-substitute always made her a little loopy, and a lot drooly. No one was staring at a phone. No one was looking at a screen. They weren’t looking at anything, besides rounding out some really good tits and asses.

The latest batch of girls was just about ready. The last step is just a general exaggerated swelling, putting in butts, boobs, lips and hips.

There was a really long debate in the industry about whether to start with mental and end with physical, or vice versa.

I respect my opponents in this, and I certainly understand wanting to get a girl squeezable and fuckable right away. But I feel strongly that the slow and steady process of reorienting a girl’s mental architecture has to come first. You cannot install the drywall before the foundation. A cherry-hot pussy being the drywall, in this metaphor. And while it is hot, and fun, to watch a normal girl flounder in shock with her new melon tits, her boundless butt, while slowly slipping into sluthood, it is not reliable at scale. Girls panic, shaking their big rears to the doctor, to the police.

When their new nipples stretch long and thick, and their clits feel like magic buttons, and they gain three cup sizes in two weeks, they should think only about cute new clothes and matching makeup. Or think of nothing at all.

The three of them sat on the couch, broke and unably tired. About a two hour torpor was normal after a major feed. The chemical additives and compounds needed to settle in very specific portions of their brains, and latch on to very concentrated areas, and change them. There was also the dense and jiggy fat that was going to targeted spots. Luckily for them, it was all loaded with an endorphin-heavy slow-acting goop. That was the purple goo that went on top.

“Girls, can we fart in front of each other? I’m mean, I’m not gonna, I mean, is our relationship at fart-tier,” Drew said. It might’ve been hard to understand, for others. Her voice was badly slurred. The styrofoam cups were not for the early bimbos. It was three quarts of concentrated muck, and was nearly as bad as the old BImbotron press machines. It also looked like old rice pudding. But the girls knew what she was saying.

“Y—yes. YES,” Trea said. She removed her hand from underneath her butt. She’d been trying to keep it from growing even more, by pushing her ass cheeks in. “Definitely. We are SO close now, right?”

“It’s just that the—uhhhhhh—uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Drew’s brain turned off, the engine sputtering. It was another sign of how well they knew each other, long breaks in conversation went undiscussed. This one lasted a full four minutes, dull, bovine eyes staring at nothing, and then kicked up like there’d been no lull.

“You think it’d be a better world if we could all just fart everywhere, Thea?” Won said. The other two noticed that she was leaking pink and purple goo out of both sides of her mouth, and didn’t say anything about it. Friends didn’t chide friends.

“Defin.... abso... uh. Yeah. That was the point I wanted to make. I think people should be people,” Thea said, and tried to stand up, and failed. She’d gone through two cups, and several packs of pseudo-twinkies. At delivery, she could practically bounce off her own ass, and she’d float in emergencies, albeit face down. “Everyone should be that close. Fart your farts. Do people stuff! We’re so removed from that, we’re living hundreds of feet in the air, we eat plastic, we stare at boxes that make our heads feel super weird and funny... we’re not fucking the mammoth anymore!”

The three of them failed to notice it was Drew’s argument, to start with. It didn’t really matter anymore.

“This is a new side of you, Thea,” Drew said. She was underneath a trio of cheap polyester blankets, and very slowly removed her hand from underneath them. The other two friends pretended not to notice how wet her fingers were, and politely didn’t pay attention to Drew licking each one, very slowly. “You going primitivist on us? Like an anarchist thing? Burn down the tall buildings?”

“Oh my god, girls,” Won said. She giggled.

Sitting with the girls was something she really looked forward to. In the beginning of their tenancy they’d actually had lengthy arguments, with Won unhappily playing mediator, running between rooms. She had a fuzzy memory of it—of crossing her arms and crying, because broke and friendless was much worse then broke with friends.

Won tried it again—accessing memories. Strange. In the past one she’d seen her arms, underneath her titties. Now they were outright hidden beneath the fantastic swell of her breasts. Her tits seemed to really like the city, she thought. They made it easy to get jobs, and also easy to lose them.

“No, its—oh, put the phone AWAY, Drew,” Thea protested. Drew loved screens most of all of them. Another somewhat sticky hand had pulled her phone out. It lit up.

“Did yours break? Underneath that butt of yours?” Drew said. “I’m just looking up Rousseau. I want to see if you’re recreating him independently.”

“The phones are—they’re—” Thea looked around, with that confused expression she sometimes got. “They’re... doing stuff to us... they’re... like... we shouldn’t be all on the couch and feeling... hot. Um.”

Won almost nodded.

But it WAS screen time. It had gotten a little ritualized. They were three girls in the city, of course they did phone all the time. There was a whole world in there, although her own phone was running so slowly, lately. Sometimes she’d stare at it for hours, waiting for it to do something.

Thea had hers out, too. And the TV had turned on, somehow. That was strange. It had all sorts of colors on it. That was odd. They couldn’t afford any streaming services. But it was streaming, alright, right into them, starting with orange, then purple, then green.

Drew’s free hand disappeared back beneath the covers.

I’ve never liked hypnotics. Historically they produced a more surface-level, programmed type of bimbo. I called them if/then bimbos. IF Master patted head, THEN giggle and drop to knees.

But we are not computers, we cannot be programmed like computers. We are biological, our programming should be biological.

I told Damien, years ago, nature programs girls—well, many girls—to enjoy and seek out cocks. Biology obligates them to spend the rest of their lives caring for the outcome. That is plenty of programming to work with.

He didn’t care for that remark. Damien likes pregnancy more than I do. He must have more spawn than Genghis Khan.

But being old-fashioned goes extremely poorly in the mind controller industry, so I learned to appreciate the latest in hypnotics, Guided Internet. It’s a much more subtle approach. At first. If a girl goes to a clothing site the spirals will tell her—this will look good on your tush. Boys will want you in this top. You want them to want you. Looking at celebrities? She has a nice butt. It’s good that she’s gotten work done on her breasts. It pushes, it guides, it works with the mind already there. At first.

What I really enjoy is how it finds a whore angle to just about anything. Looking up history? The girl can go from the English Civil War to Charles II to famous royal mistresses in history. Job sites push her towards being a hostess, then to dancing, then to hooking. Shopping for a plunger? Be a simpering housewife. And so on.

It has gotten less effective recently. The trouble is, too much AI slop. There’s actually little relational content that can subtly direct a girl to be sexy and fun, in a world of endless short bot-created snippets. The internet has gotten too bimbofied to bimbofy. What a world.

The phone dug into her. The more she stared into it, the more it stared back at her. Won started with a series of short clips on the beach, a nonspecific blend of hunks and hotties, on white sand, cheering in little bikinis and swim shorts. An endless array of them flickered through her. Why was she watching it? Just staring, at their bodies...

Their bodies...

She wasn’t sure how the algorithm had led her there, and trying to retrace her steps was progressively more painful. It was something like, her attention had been briefly caught by a seal rolling around in the surf. The algo had noticed her momentary slowdown in scrolling, and pounced. First a numbing, calming series of waves, until she was barely breathing, much less thinking. And then exploring the theme: the bright sand, spinning beach balls until her mind was soft and pliable, and then, when she was ready, girls with big tits in tiny swimsuits.

Big tits in tiny swimsuits.

Her own chest had undergone a big, big growth spurt, late in age. Two or so cup sizes. No, it was three, wasn’t it? Because she’d been very, very flat at the outset, like one of the surfboards in one of the videos. It was nearly like she was getting titties for the first time, but that was fine. Big boobs were very normal, and showing them off, to the rays of the sun and the appreciation of the beach hunks, that was also normal.

She’d only managed some frazzles of concern in the early morning, briefly alert, wondering at the piling on of breast tissue overnight. Her nipples were so perky and felt so immediately good. The girls on the beach didn’t call a doctor. They showed off their new slopes. They were comfortable with their nice, big tits.

No need to call a doctor, the screen reminded her. No need to tell anyone about the tits, the ass, the drooling.

They were happy...

Her scrolling finger roamed and roamed. Soon the videos were popping too fast to , a quick-sort of girls, smiling girls, happy girls, happy with their big chests. Listless, foggy, Won stopped bothering to scroll. The images burned on anyway.

Rent. She had to make rent.

“Ungh,” Won managed, and did the hardest thing, and blinked. She flopped her head towards the other two. Drew was in some chatroom, it looked like. It was very hard to focus, but it looked like an earnest discussion of... sex acts? Won waited for her brain to turn back on. She could still read. It was the comprehending that was hard. The discussion that Drew was participating in, almost entirely through emojis, was about what could and should be shoved up some girl’s pussy. Possibly Drew’s pussy.

Won was too far away to see what Thea was looking at. No—the phone was angled. It was jewelry—gold and silver jewelry, and diamonds, and rubies, glinting on what looked like very expensive girl necks. Thea looked like she was fighting her own phone, in a way. She kept rearing back, blinking, and startling. But she also had two hands on her own phone, and her grip was so tight, she’d lose a finger before the phone.

“Girls—brainrot——didn’t we say we were gonna—”

Cancel subscriptions. Be better. Strange, Won even had an odd image of them doing it. Thea had talked them into it, said it was doing weird stuff to them, that she’d found Won in bed at 3 a.m., just looking at a still image of a girl’s filler-full lips, just staring at it for an hour and a half. It was strange and scary, they’d agreed.

Hadn’t they done it?

Apparently not. Her phone still worked. Won checked it. It gently took her attention over, and not without reason. It was on a job hunting site, and she needed a new job.

Right. She needed a job. It was nice of phone to think of her. Job listings rocketed by, too fast to read, but accompanied by pictures of girls in embarrassingly tight uniforms, girls with a practiced corporate smile, girls with big fuckable lips tilting their heads up...

Won had come to the city with a degree in—with a job in—no. No? Did she have a degree? At any rate, her ambitions had dwindled, from random office job to retail to—well, the job had to want a girl with big blowjob lips, to the point it was hard to talk, and keep her spit in.

It was probably an allergic reaction or something. To the shower, Won theorized. She took such long, warm showers, in this apartment complex, and her lips were always pliable and soft and tingly afterwards. Her lips looked like some cosmetician had gotten free with the fillers. Won had tried to explain to assistant managers that these were just her soft, wet, dick-ready lips, super sorry she’d drooled on the table, that this was a temporary thing, she was probably allergic to pollen. But she was kind of lisp-y and soft-spoken, lately. Hard even to understand, not that the boys cared to listen.

It had turned out that the working world didn’t even want girls with big boobs and big pillowy soft cocksucker lips all that much. The coffee shops had stopped hiring her. There had been some light drooling, which was bad, with open-topped beverages. She was kind of a health hazard.

The want ads drilled into her. ALWAYS HIRING GIRLS 18+ one assured her. She’d work for tips. There were gentlemen’s lounges. Won could always take her clothes off. It wasn’t like anyone would recognize her. She barely recognized herself. Right?

Right, phone consoled her.

Their phones shut off at 7 p.m. exactly. The phones knew that any longer would lead to an irreversible decline in intelligence. It was already kinda declined.

Harold, Damien told me, are we the masters or are we the slaves.

Masters, I said. Definitely the masters. Feel very confident on that one.

And yet. We have obligations. Lots of them, Damien said. From the moment I wake up I am providing for a worldwide network of individuals. Well. Former individuals. I provide food, shelter, enrichment. I wake up at five and I go to bed late. I am as enmeshed in a system of obligations as they are.

Okay, I said. But they’re blowing your cock when you wake up. They keep their assholes clean in case you by. I think you’re the master. Listen, I said. This is the great power, great responsibility thing. It isn’t a new problem. If you have a harem of dozens of compliant sluts, you get the problems that come with dozens of compliant sluts.

Hundreds, Damien said. Not dozens. Maybe even thousands. I also have thousands of kids to take care of.

Congrats, I said.

That was a joke. Damien has cities at his beck and call. States. Seaboards, archipelagos. time zones. They’re everywhere.

I don’t mean to complain, Damien said. How could I complain about anything? He laughed, with an edge I didn’t like. I have made this bed, I have picked out the sheets, I will sleep in it. I just sometimes wonder. I mean, I really want to know. Is there an alternative? To managing harem blowjob rotas? Because I’m the last person who could see it.

“Rent. Girls. RENT. We are going to be homeless! We’re going to be street baddies!”

The girls came out of their screen stupor very slowly, with fluttering eyelids. Thea’s pupils were oddly constricted, hard and tight. She also had a hand jammed underneath her butt and down her underpants. Won assumed she had a bad itch. Really, really deep.

“Rent?” Drew said, slowly, turning the word into one with three syllables. The chatroom she was in had coalesced on a plan. Pegged by a friend. The vote was on: Friend One or Friend Three. It tickled something in Won’s head, but then, it was a generally ticklish head, lately. “Oh shit, rent. Thea, Capitalism’s ghoulish claw is—geez Thea your eyes.”

“Muhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” Thea said. She shook her head, and was alert enough to look at them. But not alert enough—she went for a kiss on Drew, her mouth open wide. Drew avoided it, giggling, with just a trace of concern. That slid Drew’s blankets aside, revealing that she was naked below the waist. Her panties and her shorts were around her ankles.

“GIRLS,” Won said, sternly. “Get serious. Stop—” an ice pick of concern made it through what was, at this point, a jawbreaker of lacquered commands. Why were they acting like this? So... dumb. Slutty. Stupid. “Get your—c’mon girls. Please. This is serious. We’re being... weird.”

It worked. Drew pulled her underpants up and Thea went over to wash her hands.

“Thanks, Won,” they both said.

It was hard, keeping things together while undergoing a swift transformation into a generically asian blowjob-focused bimbo-slut. No—what had she thought? Keeping things together. Yes.

Won had grown up figuring life was an RPG. She’d acquire skills, perks, equipment, and then she’d have a class like, Level Eight Pharmacist. Maybe subclassed in sculpting.

As the city and also relentless hypno-chemical therapy had stripped that away, she’d arrived at a new theory, which was about the pursuit of opportunity. It wasn’t constant effort, it was seizing a single moment. When the demands of capital and also the endless horny fog lifted, she had to be ready. Shake away the dream-memory of blowing a Starbucks assistant manager in the bathroom. Seize the day. Or at least suck it off.

Find a moment to run, something whispered to her, soft and deep.

“Okay, plan,” Won said. The three of them were alert and oriented, and the moment was now. “Those cute girls upstairs are moved out I think. We’re raiding their stuff. we’re selling it, we’re making rent.”

“Can you pick a lock?” Drew said.

“I mean, probably?” Won said, thinking about it. “I can definitely get a lot of spit in there, that’ll grease it. And then you just gotta wiggle it a lot, right? I’ve probably had a job where I picked locks.”

She thought about it, and brightened. “Oh! There was a guy when I worked at Chipotle who said I could pick a lock with my tongue!”

“I’ll break it down,” Thea declared. “WE”LL break it down. We’ve got mass. And we’re better when united, right?”

Right. Won went over and squeezed Thea’s damp hand. Drew added her own. Another memory flashed by, just for a frame—a tense discussion about chores, conducted entirely in advanced ive-aggression. Scowls that Won didn’t think any of their faces could do, anymore. Thea’s face was taut and painted, Drew’s was soft-cheeked innocence, and she with her lips. They flashed shy smiles at each other.

Won seized another moment.

“Girl hug,” she declared. Their boobs and butts and thighs and lips came together in a plush, curvy huddle. It was nice.

When I train girls I have always prioritized making them dependent, on several different levels at once. Regularized dependency is the key to efficient bimbofication.

Starting with the obvious stuff. Obvious to me—so many amateurs just neglect everything. They conceive of the mind like it’s a penis. Simple, action-oriented, purpose-driven. Drop in a burning need to breed, and what else would be necessary? They turn girls into holes with hands and feet.

Terrible. Minds, even female ones, are flexible, subtle, special. I one girl who escaped because she managed to save a photo of her father, and then through sheer will imprinted on him sexually, in preference to her owner. Even as a very dumbed-down sexbot, a supposed clit with legs, she ran away, found Daddy, and presented herself to him, legs wide open.

Of course, Dad didn’t recognize the blonde, panting, glistening bimbo at his doorstep as his daughter. And at least the incompetent mind controller had put a tag on Dad’s phone. Full credit to the girl, who at least got to keep her daddy-daughter complex into her new career as a Vegas dancer.

On day one, my girls forget the number 9-1-1. If they’re in trouble, they call me. They sit in trance and write down long lists of close s for me to wipe. I scour their finances, I prune their lists. I spend more time softly programming their Moms than I do them. Phone calls home become opportunities for Mommy to go on and on about the importance of good blowjob skills, dressing hot for the boys.

But what I really do is program in dependence. Not just want. Not just need. Dependence, pure dependence. In the shower they absorb a particular kind of femininity, one that struggles with decision-making, that goes trembling and glassy-eyed at any sort of independent thought. An imprinted but deeply-seated lassitude when someone else is in control, matched with a hormone array I have spent decades cultivating.

These girls are simpering, soft sex kittens that have taught themselves to please. They enjoy submission. Rebellion isn’t clumsily locked away with pain blocks and instant-onset headaches, it’s unthinkable.

My girls are creative, flexible, special. They teach themselves how to please. They learn how to pleasure. They glory in their own submission.

However.

I wonder. Same as Damien. Am I making them the perfect slaves, or am I forcing myself to be a particular kind of master?

“Okay, I’m gonna pick the lock,” Won declared. She turned the knob, and the door opened. “Oh. Does that count?”

Drew squirmed, her back to the hallway wall. Even she had to it it—she’d been inside too much, and keeping her legs too wide open. She’d done too little walking around. Now it felt strange to have her thighs rubbing together, and the part above her thighs, and the big nubby strawberry clit on top of that. It didn’t feel bad. Actually it felt really good, her mush-built legs rubbing together.

But still, she really should not be tempting an orgasm from walking up two flights of stairs and down a hallway.

Or was the lesson to leave the apartment... even less? Drew had to carefully consider it.

She walked on shaky, gushy thighs into the apartment. The Sisters had lived there. Not actual sisters. But as their transformative months had gone on the trio of girls that were inside had become more and more alike, dressing in each other’s clothes, their voices harder to distinguish.

By the time they’d moved out—or been evicted, Drew didn’t know—they’d been very hard to tell apart. In fact, when Drew had asked which one one of the threesome was, the girl herself had been confused, and even a little upset. “Alicia?” she’d eventually hazarded, after going through her phone, and checking her clothing for nametags.

“Goldmine!” Won called out, from inside. Drew stopped in the foyer and put her hand on the wall. Her face was deeply flushed. This is weird, part of her tried to say. You shouldn’t get deeply, heavily stimulated, by walking. Pussies did not work that way. Clearly this was a new problem, because she’d walked into the apartment complex at some point, and also lived twenty-odd years before that, without jilling herself just by being ambulatory.

It’s because you Went Out, Drew thought, and it ed very true. Accurate and honest. She needed to stay inside more and touch herself more. For men.

“Drew, this is all...” Thea trailed off. “Crap” wasn’t quite the right word, because it WAS cute, what was all over the floor. Clothes, cute clothes. So much apparel. When the Sisters left, they didn’t take much with them, just pants and panties, and apparently not the panties. What was funny was, there was hardly anything cotton. It was all taffeta and lace and spandex, a carpet of super-sexy-fun girl stuff. It was all heavily worn, and smelled like girl sex from a distance. Anyone could tell, the girls had cum a lot in them.

“It’s the opposite of a gold mine. I mean, we definitely can’t sell any of it,” Drew said. But she could WEAR it. A lot of it would be hard to pull over the lush expanse of her thighs, and would rub right up against the red-raspberry of her pussy lips, but oh well. For the men.

Oh yes, for the men.

“Oh, come on, Drew! Positive thoughts!” Won said, cheerful as usual. “You don’t think used girl panties have value?”

Drew replaced her aroused, wet flush with an embarrassed one. Did Won know? No. Won was too dumb to figure things out. She loved Won, really, but the girl was goldfish-brained. You could practically see her brain cells leaking.

Going out and interacting with the systems of the world was a mistake, Drew figured. Won was the best example. No one had been more worn down by the city, by what it asked of a girl. When they’d moved in Won had been a sleek, corporate, aspirational figure. She’d worn cool blue eyeshadow and had Plans for her life. Drew had realized, with a strange thrill, that Won’s omnipresent planner was actually a five-year version. Won had every indication of plotting out her November, four years hence.

And then her roomie had kept going outside, kept taking Ls, and returned each night a little more reduced, uncertain. Sillier and, yes, stupider. The skirt-suits turned into cautious beige skirts turned into casual button-ups turned into tawdry little minis. Won had gone through a dozen jobs and lost a little something of herself at each one.

At Job Ten she started coming home with cum in her hair.

Drew was hardly surprised—the world had already ground Won down, and what was left was soft and jiggly, with big plush lips. And dumb—Won talked in shorter, squeakier sentences, and her priorities had gone down Maslow’s pyramid quite a bit. She said ummm, errr, uhhhh, like they were punctuation, and she kept her eyes on the floor.

“Girls, there’s nothing here,” Drew said. “I mean, we’re not making rent off of it. Think about it, if Mr. Delany could’ve made use of these, he would’ve.” She herself, however, scooped up a pair of spangly sequin panties that looked superheroine-themed. And a trio of lacey ones. There were underpants all over, a real panty explosion had taken place.

Drew trembled. At least she’d gotten really good at bending over.

Drew had started putting photos and videos of her pussy on the internet not too long after moving in.

The logic of it was inescapable. She didn’t want to leave the apartment. Whatever was out there was skeeting big loads onto Won, and bubbling up Thea’s already fat ass.

So she had to produce based on what she had to hand, and what she had, was a really nice pussy. Especially after she’d shaved it down and treated the nearby skin to expensive creams. It was a top-tier kitty, and the focus of a camera on it made it reliably drippy-wet.

“Ohhh. Ohhh!” Won called out, brainlessly. Sometimes, when she returned, Drew pictured a little IQ drop over her head, like a backwards RPG. “Girls! Jackpot! Actual gold mine! I found the toy chest!”

It was in the bathroom, arranged in the vanity. They were all standing upright, some in arranged cups. Drew, guilty, knew most of them by sight. The LELO Tiani 3. She’d removed it from its usual warm home for the rent expedition, but her Onlyfans usually controlled the app. There were also expensive models from PinkCherry, LoveHoney. She owned those, too.

After her first hesitant pics, Drew had quickly gotten fully involved in the world of showing her private parts to online viewers. She took pride in her pussy. It was the best. Pink, nice labia, and especially the surrounding bits so creamy-white she was accused of smearing concealer on her thighs. Drew took it as a compliment. She explained it, from time-to-time, to the viewers. She was protecting it from the soot, microplastics, and general gunk of the outside world. It was perfect, and rewarded her, and the viewers, with earth-shattering cummies from just about anything.

“Sisters knew how to have fun,” Thea said. She picked one up. “Man. These veins. A little too real, right?”

“That’s the Lovehoney Lifelike Lover Classic Realistic Dildo,” Drew said, “Of course it’s realistic.” Oops. “Or... so I’ve read... on the Internet.”

Thea rolled her eyes.

Drew had actually been gratified that it wasn’t very lucrative. It better fit her worldview, that even with a world-striding clit, the best the world would begrudge her was ramen money. She might’ve made more, but Drew invested it back in sex toys, pillow mounts, finger vibes, pretty much anything she could stuff in her vagina. She figured that microplastics weren’t an issue, since she was only putting macroplastics in there.

And her pussy rewarded her back. The orgasms were soooooo good. So strong. The chat marveled at how her brain seemed to turn off, how she’d lie there, shivering and shaking, while they made bets on how long until her speech center switched back on. The chat had produced graphs about how her Os were knocking her out, for longer and longer. When Drew had progressed to a twelve-incher, she’d run out of camera battery, and woken up in the middle of the night, still penetrated.

“These HAVE to be worth something,” Won said, ever hopeful.

“Used sex toys?” Thea said. She picked up another lengthy dildo, this one a vibrant pink, and jokingly pushed it at Won’s oversized lips.

Won’s eyes crossed, and she opened her mouth, tongue out.

The air in the bathroom got warmer.

“We might as well divvy them up. For throwing out purposes,” Drew said. Her slit itched for them. Which was silly, she had put like ten thousand dollars worth of equipment up her honeypot, just that day. She hardly needed more. And yet. With their problem-solver distracted by possible oral, Thea quickly agreed. She picked out a small bunny number and exited the bathroom. Drew inserted the dildo in Won’s hand, and then pushed it towards her lips. There. Her friend deserved some fun. They all did.

She had tried to worry about the rent, but was finding it hard. It had become essentially impossible for Drew to imagine leaving the apartment, which meant that concepts like eviction eluded her.

If she was being honest, really honest, in a way she honestly could no longer be, her pussy was doing the thinking for her. And it had been that way for some time.

It saw the world as finding a soft and warm place, punctuated by rubbing. It was most comfortable in enclosed spaces, with field trips to the inviting glow of the camera. It didn’t like to think any farther than the next rub session, although it could get adventurous, when excited.

She was her pussy.

And, excited by the new toys, dripping between her legs, Drew missed the message written in lipstick on the bathroom mirror, when she swung it closed. It read “YOU HAVE A NAME. DON’T FORGET RENT.” None of them saw it, and they would not have done anything about it, even if they had.

I took Damien’s struggles to heart. When a demi-god has depression, I take it seriously.

So for this latest batch, I tried something new. For the first time, in a long time.

Not a lot new. They were my usual trio of white, asian, and other. From the very start they absorbed a metaphorical and literal diet of heavy bimboizing mind control. They ate slop that practically had syringes sticking out of it, their bodies and minds turned soft and heavy and plush. IQ points dribbled out of their ears and mouths, they started to explore their warm, wet cunts on the usual schedule. Their vocal s went up a few octaves. Their clothing choices shifted towards the short and the slutty on such a reliable time frame a metronome could’ve traced it out.

But I let them be independent. Slutty bimbos with volition. Lets see.

This was a real change for me. I don’t give my girls any independence. Take the girls in the upstairs apartment. By the end they couldn’t keep track of their own names. They lived on a schedule I had set out a year ago, and they lived it to the minute. They lived in a moist pile of each other, with just enough willpower to take on and off clothes. I could’ve walked in at 7:31 p.m. on a Tuesday and known what they were up to. Licking each other.

Not particularly independent. But amazing in bed.

These new girls were—different. They surprised me. Drew was nudged—well, told—to be a pussy-focused pleasure addict, but she made it into a business. Won was made to be a toy, a brainless blowjob and boobs throw-in, and she was the one who kept getting jobs. Thea was—unprecedented.

I enjoyed it.

I enjoyed seeing what they became, even though it meant not fucking them. I enjoyed even the thrill of knowing that they were out in the world—well, two of them—and yet would return, to become even better bimbos.

I found myself hoping they actually would make rent.

“Girls, lets put our hands on the table. Wait. Is that the saying?” Won said. She giggled, and licked her lips. At some level she was conscious that too much sustained thinking, in one day, would leave her totally stupid by the end of the night. She only had so much to go around. At least it felt good, like swimming in clouds.

“Close e—enough,” Thea huffed. She had her arms crossed, as did Drew. Both of her roommates were very obviously enjoying the vibrator and dildo cache they’d uncovered.

“Girls, come on,” Won said. “Concentrate.” And more softly. “I’m like, super totally kinda done.” She was at her intellectual limit. Won knew she was really close to needing it, abandoning all willful behavior for it. It was underneath her pillow, tempting her.

The other two softened. They rummaged around in their clothes, and turned various devices off. All three of them had changed outfits, to boot. Won was proud of hers—a dark blue dress that buttoned up. She had only buttoned two of the buttons, around the navel area. Her boobs wobbled around.

“I’ve got this THIS money,” Won said. She pantomimed putting zero dollars on the table.

“Okay. I’ve got... this much money,” Drew said. She opened an app on her phone. All three girls sat there, sounding it out, putting it in sequence in their mild, bimbo brains. “Ten thousand, three thousand, four hundred dollars and that’s all I can do.”

“That’s like, MUCH money!” Won exclaimed. She gave a sheepish-looking Drew two thumbs up.

“Yeah... but.. the thing is...” Drew said. She tossed her blonde hair back. Won endured another weird memory, of a brown-haired Drew, a short-haired Drew. And hadn’t she worn glasses? “It’s in... porno-bucks. I’ve been sort of... streaming. My body. Specifically the part between my thighs. You know.... the pussy.”

Won cocked her head, confused. Her lips were already starting to suck. She needed it...

“My really awesome pussy-puss,” Drew finally clarified. “I’ve streamed my slit for hundreds of hours. But I get paid in like... not-dollars. I can only use it to buy things like, other porn. And some creams and clothes. Sorry.”

“Company scrip,” Thea said, darkly. “It figures.”

“Drew, CAN I SEE?” Won exclaimed. Drew handed her phone over, blushing.

Certain things now made more sense to Won, such as why Drew’s phone was nearly always damp, and also why it was a top of the line model bristling with cameras.

She scrolled through the app. “Wow Drew you have... oh no. More math.” She was already risking brownout. And yet... she had a college degree? With an ing minor? But that made no sense—minors weren’t allowed in erotica stories, such as the one she was in. Won pushed through the warnings flashing in her own cerebral cortex. “You have six hundred thousand and two followers!”

Drew didn’t look sure if that was a lot or a little. Chat was lighting up at the sight of a new girl on camera. It was the asian roommate with the huge tits, holy shit. Her section on Drew’s wiki was getting filled out with measurements. The lore was getting written even then. PerfectPusse12’s viewership was enthralled.

“Oh, look at this. Drew you can buy a Sybian! You totally should! Even if we’re homeless, I bet it comes in a big cardboard box, and we can all live in that! Oh and your friends are saying you should...ummm....” Won blushed. She’d never kissed another girl before, much less do the things chat was urging, between Drew’s legs. Although there had been that girl assistant manager who had nuzzled her tits, sucked on them, nearly left bruises with her hands. “I mean, maybe after we make rent. Thea?”

Their enigmatic final roommate looked up from her own phone.

“So...” she said, slowly. “Don’t get too excited. I have a half of a million dollars in my backpack. But I really don’t want to spend it on fuckin’ RENT.”

“Did you ever hear of Prince Street?” Damien said.

I sometimes forget that Damien is younger than me, by a fair number of years. “Sure,” I said. “I knew Prince and I know Street. They did the first mail order catalogue.”

Prince is now, I think, a totally brain-friend bimbo outside of Philly. Street was for a long time the prime minister of the UK.

“Did you ever order from them?”

“No. It was not a well-run operation. I heard too many stories of mind controllers opening the package and getting a faceful of mind sucking glitter. Their hypno sheets were also notoriously brutal on the reader. Plus we got NewU and then MasterP a year later.” Both of which Damien now owned. Well, he owned the owners.

“Uh-huh. Did you ever hear about their All-Inclusive Ready-Made One-Box Town Bimbofication Kit?” Damien said.

“Of course. It was their crown jewel. We all stared at it. It was our bicycle in the window before Christmas.” I wasn’t sure if Damien would get that reference, but he could always suck it out of me, even over the phone. “Primitive now, I suppose, but there was some industrial-strength stuff in there. And the multi-modal approach was very innovative. Of course, it cost a half million dollars. In 1993 money. Why?”

“Some girls apparently found one intact in the back of a Goodwill.”

I laughed out loud. What a world.

“That must be enjoyably disastrous,” I said.

Damien sounded... a new emotion for him. I struggled with it. Wistful? Good lord. He’d made a wistful noise. “You’d think, right? You’d think. All that raw slave-making power. And yet... apparently it’s going... okay. They’re building a town for their master, but they don’t have a master.”

I snorted. “What does that look like? Everyone sits on their knees, waiting for Him to descend?”

“Oh no,” Damien said. “It’s far more interesting than that. Far more.”

Another odd sound from Damien. A sigh? “Town’s name is Ruhk.”

Thea’s was a mind encased in iron, tin, and brass. Even as her roommates started to open their mouths, during the showers, and drink the sweet pink water, before it could go down the drain. Even as Won and Drew started to dance, unknowingly, to the pretty pop beats pumped into their rooms as they got ready for the day, their hips learning how to bounce. Even as everyone else in the building started to use pleasure to think, to replace thoughts with stimulation, to let their minds slow into a happy set of spirals, she was untouched.

Not that her body was immune. There was no evading some things, and the body was the easiest bit. It was just fat tissue. Nerve endings were more challenging, but even so, with forty years of R&D even the littlest pussy could become a sizzling honeypot of brain-sparking heat.

But there was no way in to her mind, because it was already full. Thea believed in things in a way the others did not. In an earlier age she would’ve rubbed her knees bloody in a nunnery, ionate for religion. Or in any religion. In this life she had taken an upbringing of searing injustice on a number of levels and turned it into a steeled desire for a better world.

None of the neurotransmitters and psychic manipulations and endless colored spirals could do anything about it.

In the end, though, there was the world, and it had given a way in.

Eventually the world delivered to Thea an eight-hour stint on a picket line, in heat so bad the glue holding the signs together wilted. In front of a hotel, where man after man after man ignored everything about her, her signs, her voice, her face, and instead glanced at the jiggling, sweaty curve of her ass as she walked in line. Nothing else made a single impression on anyone. Even her fellow protesters stared at that ass.

She’d tried to force it down with early morning runs, and body-weight exercises. It had just gotten rounder and firmer.

Her voice raw to a bloody degree, her feet blistered, suffering outright heat stroke, Thea had returned to the apartment and been absolutely bombarded to an absurd degree by everything it had.

Everything.

Every whispered thought, every subliminal message, every single hypnotic, even gas pumped into the place. The TV turned itself on. Won and Drew, on the outskirts of it, still got significantly dumber. Won sucked her first cock the next day, unasked, before she’d clocked in for work.

It worked. It found a way in. The only way to make a difference in this jaded world was her asshole. It was her leverage. It persuaded. She needed to USE having a nice butt.

In fact, it could stand to be a little bigger.

After that, Thea swiftly became the biggest butt slut in the entire city. She changed in her loose pants and baggy khakis for ever-shorter shorts, ever-tigher skirts. The bottom half of her butt acquired a tan, because it was hanging out, all the time. Her thighs swelled to match, a perfectly curvy complement, and she ate joyfully, ravenously, feeling it all become a perfect draw for powerful men.

And, full credit to Thea, she started to fuck her way up the social ladder. She sat, perched on her rear end, in the same hotel bar, and collected drinks from men with power. Men who acquired and fired, men who moved lives around. WIthin a month she was ass-up on a yacht, in a bikini that couldn’t fit more than half a butt cheek. Feeling the squish of millionaire cum between her legs.

Of course, the issue was, she was also steadily becoming little more than a pretty dim ass slut. There was a conflict between ambition and being dumb and hot. Weeks and months of downing bimbo chow, breathing in the pink gas as she slept. Her interests dwindled down to social justice and anal sex, and mostly anal sex. Thea faced a difficult issue—yes, she’d fucked her way into the power structure, and through the sheer power of her incredible butt, was at the apex of it. Now what? She had gotten so single-minded, barely minded at all, it was hard to picture.

Idly touching herself, she masturbated to imagery of herself tossing private equity investors off very tall buildings. But then what?

So it only very slowly occurred to her, very, very slowly, that she’d made a fundamental mistake.

In fact, I had to just tell her, loading it into a particularly unsubtle phone payload, directed right at her brainstem.

She’d fucked up doing it alone.

It was impossible to change the world, just by herself.

An army of fuck and suck bimbos, was what she needed.

Thea, remarkable, unusual Thea, took the news in stride. She set out for a week of utter ass-fucking chaos. She left sixteen very powerful male jerks in a state of pure sexual contentment and then did what she could to ruin their lives. Sending hunt-and-peck e-mails to their wives. Picking up their phones, as they laid there exhausted, and methodically hitting ‘SELL’ on every asset, and then ‘BUY’ on whatever three-letter stock name hit her fancy. She sent very poorly worded letters of resignation to corporate boards, and then, at the absolute limit of her limited brainpower, sent all the financial files to [email protected] . Which I kindly forwarded.

And she did it all with something like two quarts of cum pumped up her rear end.

I was cheering it on. Me! I was changing too, for the first time in... so long.

At the end of it she took the ATM card of a CEO and went with it to the bank, and used the pin number 1-2-3-4. It worked. The very rich and powerful had no need for security, usually. But they’d also never dealt with a Robin Hood that habitually wore a vibrating plug.

“So I’m actually a super-duper-DUPER wanted criminal,” Thea concluded.

Unfortunately, it had been a pretty long story, so Drew and Won had trouble following any of it.

I don’t actually charge the girls rent. Each one is technically a major financial investment on my part. The calories and drugs and so on are not cheap, especially the fancy new hormonal treatments that mimic a second puberty. They make a more natural and rounded bimbo, tailored to her underlying skeleton, plus they get her as randy as a hare in heat.

But of course, whatever. I can walk into any bank and withdraw the amount of dollar bills I want, and also blowjobs from whoever is there. I did that when I was young and feeling like an all-powerful wizard. Now the idea is at least trite, maybe even a little nauseating.

In our cups we all-powerful mighty wizards would talk about—what does our form of currency look like? Anal sex? Blondes? Could we invent a bimbo standard, better than gold? And behind that the uneasy sense that Damien has run into headlong. That we are just big children, messing haphazardly with systems we barely understand. Every day, the sewer and the water and the food and so many other things, that we don’t really want responsibility for.

But if we’re masters, we’re masters. Right?

I told myself, these issues are not mine. I have not aspired to more than a little comfy stable of cooing slaves, to contributing to society by making it tolerably hornier, usefully sexier. I don’t have to wonder what the world could be. It is not my problem.

But I’m getting older, and time collects its own rent.

“We can’t give this to Mr. Delany,” Won declared. “It’s probably like, numbered. Look, there’s numbers all over it! The police will find him and take them.”

“I’ve heard of that,” Drew said nodding. She looked very relieved to have told everyone her big secret, that she was actually top five in views on a major streaming site. So relieved that she had shucked the blankets aside and was touching herself openly, in front of them. She’d lined her new vibrators up on the kitchen table, in the order she intended to use them. Won ired her pretty pink pussy, nestled between the best thighs in the state.

“He IS a landlord, though,” Thea said, thoughtfully. “That’s gotta be justice of some sort, right?”

They looked at each other, from ass slut to mouth whore to pussy princess. “Has he ever... actually... made us pay rent?” Won ventured. The girls searched the ransacked remnants of their memories. There wasn’t a lot there that hadn’t been pre-installed. It was mostly manufactured instruction in sexual acts. These days, cleverly arranged to feel like actual memories, like years spent getting gradually better at soul-searing blowjobs.

“I mean, did he?” Drew said. She shivered, and since they were really getting close, just let herself actually enjoy the orgasm in front of them. Usually she tried to hide it in front of her roommates. This time she squirted openly.

“So he’s not really a landlord!” Won declared.

It was the last clever thought she was going to have.

No one had taken in more IQ-reducing, bimbo-doll making gas, pills, hormones, and drugs, than Won. Blowjob girls just didn’t need to be smart. Clients liked them better as pseudo-dolls, with room temperature IQs. They kneeled and sucked. Personalities weren’t necessary. They just had to be good canvases for cum shots. “He’s like, just a guy who fixes stuff! And he has lots of good advice on what jobs to get and what clothes are really good at showing boobs and tush.”

“Which... ALSO means we can’t give him the money,” Thea pointed out. “Also, I mean, girls, I really need to leave. The, I don’t know, like the FBI or CIA or whatever are probably after me, I kinda ruined the NASDAQ yesterday.”

“What’s—ahhhhhhh—the Nast Daquiri?” Drew said. She had picked out a really big dildo. It was so wonderful to get herself off openly. She’d been hiding in her room, under sheets, in the apartment, for too long. It was past time to show her pussy off to the world, or something along those lines.

Thea shrugged.

“Alright,” Won decided for them. “Girls, we are super overthinking this.”

Weeks of conditioning came to a point.

“I’ll go suck him off. That’s the rent.”

For Won, the decision to blow me felt empowering and enlightening. Her body had value. True, nothing else about her was worth a nickel. But her body was worth a lot. It had gotten her all her jobs, AND fired from all of them. Her mouth, her beautiful tits, her blank, sexy-stupid-slut expression, it was worthwhile. It had taken her a long time, on detours of trying to say smart things or do smart things, to realize that letting men insert cocks in her mouth was her calling. But she’d gotten there. She shivered, euphoric.

She’d found her way.

I like doing these kinds of epiphanies. It gives the girls a little pep in their step.

“Oh, no no no,” Drew protested. “C’mon. I’ll fuck him. Oh, I know, I’ll do it on stream! As like, a fundraiser, for rent! I bet we make like, ten thousand dollars or whatever they’re called. I’ll emerge from like, a cocoon or something!” Her hand stroked faster as she warmed, literally warmed, to the concept.

“I’ll handle it,” Thea volunteered. “Fucking big, strong men until they give me what I want is like, my whole thing. I’m soooo good at it.” She slapped her big butt for emphasis.

Won sniffled, overcome with emotion.

She had such good friends.

ears ran down her cheeks and over the ski slope of her oversized lips, nearly launching themselves off, before gliding down the glistening surface. Her tongue ran along the soft, pliable surface of her teeth. They were about as sharp as a nerf dart, from all the bimbo slop, and could even retract in the presence of a nice, meaty cock. “We’re like the three muskeeters bar!” she said, wiping her eyes. A few droplets escaped and made their way into the soft and long expanse of her cleavage.

“All three of us, we’ll go together,” Thea declared. “SOLID... what’s the word?” She giggled, shrugging. The imperious act tended to die down when she was in the mood, and especially when she was in the intoxicating presence of a dick. It was part of her allure to men, watching her melt, and melt, and melt, in their shadow. Over the course of a night she would typically go from barb-slinging vixen to totally craven butt fucker, begging and pleading for cock in ass. Although the men were always shocked, for some reason, when she went back again.

“Its... uhhhhhhhhh... arity.” Drew said. She tried to put a new vibrator in her slit, not recalling she already had one in there. “Solidalarity. Oh! Look at that! I don’t even putting that there. I wonder if there’s anything else in there. Sound off in the chat. Do I need to go deeper to check?”

“You guyyyyyyysssssss!” Won bawled. And even though her mind now ran on just a few simple tracks, a couple of roads only, the highways and freeways shut down, she still somehow managed to summon a memory of three girls with guarded, ironic expressions, g three different names than Won Drew Thea to a lease agreement.

Some other girls, since they had their clothes on, and their hands on the table, instead of their privates.

These three were standard. At the start.

Very standard. They were initially sold to a cell phone company. Typically upper management would them around for awhile, and then high performers in the sales tier, and then what was left would be shuffled off to marketing. To work street teams and liven up company meetings.

I’d put into them the commands and imperatives I’d put in a thousand times before. input, Lambda Iota Mu, state master name. They’d walk in a line, one two three.

I searched up the town Damien had mentioned. Ruhk. Population: dwindling. Industries: Wikipedia needs your input!

A town with all slaves and no masters.

I wondered what that’s like.

The three of them got ready. Some of the last lingering personal boundaries got shredded, in the joy of finding a purpose. In particular Drew made out with Won. Won’s mouth tasted like cum. Not in a bad way, actually in a really good way, the echo of dozens of assistant managers, managers, associates, erbys, and other randos. A diverse blend, like a good coffee. It was a metropolitan taste.

And also Won, to her own surprise, was a fantastic kisser. No one usually kissed her because she always thumped onto her knees and was unzipping zippers right away. But she could do fantastic things with her mouth, a sequence of hisses, puffs, sucks, breaths, and also things with her tongue that defied physics and anatomy. Not to be outdone, Drew grabbed her bestie’s hand and pulled it into the best pussy. She could nearly juggle, with Won’s fingers. The two got spit and pussy juice all over each other until Thea, practical, wanted felon Thea, smacked their butts to break them out of it.

Sheepish, they looked at each other, and giggled. Right. They had a job to do.

But first they watched an hour of television, on their knees. Final programming. Blank-eyed, empty-headed stuff, all three of them drooling this time. The last set of instructions, delivered without panache. Their new owners’ rider. A list of names to obey without question, trigger phrases that would command instant responses. Dog stuff, I called it. I never used it, I didn’t see the need for it. Why did I need lock phrases and s when I could gently put a finger, in her mouth, and lead her around a room that way?

I was glad to see it over with. I felt—bad. Why? I’d done this so many times. And the Independent Study bimbofication had been a success. I’d built a better bimbo. Now it was time to along the results.

There’d be other girls. So many other girls.

They stuffed their bodies into different clothes. For Won a streetwalker outfit, black leather mini, tiny blue jacket, fluffy white top that presented her tits like two scoops of ice cream. Big boots. One of the few benefits to being the mouth slut, a little more fashion panache. No need to have an accessible midsection hole at all times. Drew was an intriguing disaster, dressed in dolphin shorts and a loose t-shirt, and even some flip-flops, trusting in the long, thick expanse of her thighs. Thea was a pricier whore, even virginal, with white thigh-highs, a periwinkle blue bustier, a skirt with a big leather belt. If she walked in a certain way, her asshole would not be displayed.

She chose to walk the other way.

They marched downstairs, Won Drew Thea, giggling and joking with each other, with the assembled brain power of a 70s-era calculator. Just about able to write BOOBS. Still, we’d gone to the moon on similar.

When they came inside my office the joking stopped. The iron programming I’d reluctantly installed kicked in. They assumed the positions—Won on her knees, the other two girls on each side, hands and knees. Drew slid her shorts down first, and I had a good view of pussy and asshole. The only difference was Drew, sticking her hips up just a bit more, to give me better access.

They didn’t make a sound, any of them.

Their various sparks were shoved way down. Usually I would give them final codes and then make a call to a company representative. And although I rarely bothered to fuck them senseless, I considered it professional to inspect the handicraft. Run my finger along Won’s mouth, the soft remnants of her teeth. Stick a rough finger up Thea’s asshole, to feel it clench, the smooth oil of her crack lubricating her rear. Often, instead of penetration, I’d rub up and down the folds of the girl’s pussy, watch it glisten pink, and feel like a craftsman.

They were perfect. The best girls I’d ever built. Independent and subservient. Stupid and smart. Fun and blank.

Then off they’d go to sell cell phones and fuck cell phone salesmen.

More girls for more masters.

“Girls, get up,” I said. Their dim eyes blinked, finally. “Up up up. Come on.”

“Um. We were gonna make you cum all over our hot, fuckable bodies, sir!” Won said. Thea elbowed her. “Uh. For rent! If that’s okay!”

I crooked a finger. All three girls took an eager step forward. On impulse I selected Drew. She gasped when I ran a thumb over her clit. My own heartbeat sped up.

Something different was happening, and that alone was exciting.

“Girls, I can’t take your money, or your bodies,” I said. “Both are hot.” They didn’t get the joke. That was fine.

On impulse I took out the rental agreement from not so long ago, the one that read EUNJI KIM, and DANIELLA RIVERA, and EMMA PRICE. I ripped it in half. Three sets of eyebrows wrinkled, trying in vain to understand the situation.

“I thought you might want to take a road trip with me,” I said.