Erin James looked at the clock for the third time this minute. Disappointment made her long for escape, but escape was still half an hour away.

Another promotion had slipped through her fingers. It had become predictable enough that she ought to be used to it, but she couldn't resign herself to losing time and again to women she knew were less accomplished, less deserving.

She had gone to a good college. She'd studied the right major. She'd taken the hard classes and proved she belonged on the fast track. And when college ended, there she was - but now she was stopped dead in her tracks. She was a strong performer on the job, a vital part of the team. Over the past few years, opportunities had come and gone, always filled by someone else and the "someone elses" had something in common.

Erin considered all of them, to one degree or another, bimbos. Yes, they were adequate where it mattered. No one would be thought a fool to promote them because they were not incompetent. But they were no superstars either.

They knew how to flirt. They knew who to be seen with. They kept their bodies in good shape. Hair, nails, wardrobe - all top notch. In all those things - fine, she could admit it - they were superstars.

But their success went against everything she'd been taught, everything she believed in, everything she was still desperate to believe in.

And when it came to personal lives - they were beating her there too. All of them had someone. It might be a quiet office romance with someone a level or two above them - or it might be some unknown "rich guy."

That was the most aggravating thing about this whole situation. They got the advances at work - that she deserved - but those were not even their main goal. They were all angling to be someone's trophy wife, or at least a mistress who was "taken care of." Work was just a means to that end. It was how they met and evaluated the prospects. It was no secret that once the right man was on the hook, they planned to move on, never to look back.


Five o'clock came and went. Then a few glasses of wine came and went. And here she was, in her living room, googling "bimbofication."

It was ridiculous crap, no doubt written by males who were involuntary celibate. In their fantasy world, the primary qualifications of the bimbo are stupidity, obedience, compulsive need for sex, and big tits. Tossed in there was nonsense about hypnosis, no doubt to make the man feel powerful and in control.

This wasn't a workable model for Erin and it didn't fit what she was seeing at work anyway. Big tits, yes. The rest of it - not at all.

No, the girls who were getting ahead at work were not the brightest and best mentally, but they weren't stupid either. For all she knew, they might have had the ability to excel intellectually, but it wasn't something that interested them. Obedient? Maybe outwardly, but inside they were calculating risk, reward, and opportunity. Their sex drives certainly seemed high, but not compulsive. Sex was a tool they used to get where they were going.

Maybe the commonly held definition of "bimbo" was off a bit? Very likely the hormone addled brains of laptop bound incels, along with the anger and jealousy of women like her, had it wrong. The true picture was right there in her office building, every day. If she couldn't see it, whose fault was that?

So what to do?

Erin wasn't ever the kid who dipped a toe into a cold pool, followed by agonizing minutes of cringing and squealing as she inched into the water. She was the one who went to the diving board and did a cannonball. In or out. All or nothing. "What's it gonna be?" she asked herself.

The next day, she took the day off, at work. That is to say, she was at work, but wasn't working. Instead she was in her office, door closed, looking at before and after pictures of plastic surgery and setting up a few consults.

In spite of the fact this sort of time-theft was completely out of character, she didn't feel guilty. She was making herself more valuable to the company, improving her qualifications. She'd seen that proven over and over.

At lunch she slipped out and went to an adult store. She was going to work on her sex drive and a vibrator seemed like a good start. She chose a small one that could live comfortably in her purse. It was pink. Supposedly pink was the favorite color of bimbos and while she wouldn't go overboard with it, a little pink couldn't hurt.

The next week she took a real day off work and went to the consults. She knew what she wanted but she didn't want to have to sell the surgeon on the idea. She wanted him to go along willingly. If he was into it, even better.

The first guy definitely was not into it. He had an artist complex and was aghast at the idea of doing anything other than giving her the most natural look possible. That one took ten minutes, including the hello and goodbye.

The second guy seemed more flexible, but she wasn't sure she trusted him. Once she was under, he might go Michelangelo and tell her it was as close as he could get to her goal.

The third guy, she canceled because she had a better idea.

Sitting at a table in a local strip joint, she sipped an overpriced rum and coke that tasted like it was half water. The next time the waitress passed by she gave her a $10 tip to bring back a properly made drink.

After a few hours, the shift changed. The low-dollar day girls who lived on a few "regs" went to pick up their kids and go home - and the higher end night girls came in. She studied them, chose the one she liked best, and paid for a private dance in the back room.

"I like your tits."


"No. I'm not into girls. I mean I like the way your tits look and I'd like to make mine look like that. I brought you back here to see what they feel like and to ask who your surgeon is."

"Oh, cool! I went to Doctor Morgan, over on 5th Street. He does a lot of dancers. He's not cheap, but you make the money back pretty fast."

Erin moved her hands over the stripper's tits. They were firm. Very firm. Had to be in order to stand up like that. In no way did they look natural. The most unnatural thing about them was the way the underside of the breast did not touch her torso. They defied gravity like a Barbie Doll's but they were rounder and had nipples.

"Thanks so much," she said as she gave the girl $100. "I'll be calling Dr. Morgan tomorrow."

That night she did more research. It wouldn't be fair to say it was "wine-fueled research" but a few glasses of wine were consumed.

On her first night studying bimbofication, toward the end, she had run across a blog that struck a different tone than most of the masturbation fantasies she'd seen elsewhere. This guy seemed a little older and more experienced. He explained his thinking in a way that made sense to her logical mind.

His blog was the reason she had decided to go for what he called "BFPTs." That was his acronym for "Big Fake Pornstar Tits."

As he explained it, BFPTs were important because they sent a signal. They said the woman wearing them was highly sexual, willing to be seen as a sex object, and that she operates outside normal limits. That was a message men responded to, consciously and subconsciously.

That they were blatantly fake was the key element. Big natural tits don't send a signal. They do promote fantasy and wishful thinking. They do get attention, but because they are acquired without thought or effort, they don't really SAY anything about their owner.

It made sense to her. She did more research and learned that silicone was softer and more natural feeling. Saline was firmer. Under the muscle was more natural. Over the muscle was more fake. It sounded like saline over the muscle was the ticket - so she went to the strip joint, did a test drive, and liked the product.

Hell, those stripper tits sent a message to her too. They said, "Slut." She was ok with that because she knew that would be the reaction of most women. She wasn't a fool. Only the most naïve wouldn't realize there would be a few negatives involved.

Tonight's research was on various sexual techniques. BFPTs were the appetizer, but she instinctively understood that to be a real player, it would take something more. Studying porn, she noticed there seemed to be high value placed on deepthroating and squirting. Studying a little more, she learned these are two things that are easily mastered with a little effort.

She took the position that a bimbo, or whatever she was going to consider herself - should be willing to put in some effort to make sure the contents measured up to the wrapper. To that end, she ordered a few toys from an online vendor.

There were three dildos and one vibrator. The first dildo was a little smaller than an average cock. It seemed like a good training aid to begin desensitizing her gag reflex. The second was about average. The third was well above average. She'd have to work up to that one. She wasn't eager to confront a cock that size in real life, but it seemed wise to be prepared.

The vibrator was curved. Supposedly this would make g-spot stimulation easier, although some websites said that fingers would work fine too. No matter. She was going all in and a vibrator wasn't a big investment.

And then there was anal.

Anal was something with which she had no experience. Thankfully the blogger had weighed in on that topic. The bad news was that becoming proficient at anal sex was, "essential." The good news was that if done correctly it should be intensely enjoyable. She decided to order one more dildo, a second copy of Mr. Average, in a different color to avoid mix-ups.

In addition to all this, there were so many other things to figure out. Hair, nails, makeup, wardrobe, diet, workout plan, and what sort of attitude to present to the world. She was gaining a lot of respect for the women who had been beating her.

Ordinary women have the idea that these girls just roll out of bed, smile, and everything goes their way. They like to imagine whatever "gains" a bimbo makes are ill-gotten or undeserved. The truth is, it's a lot of effort. It's just a different kind of effort.

The brainwashing tells us if we study hard, "apply ourselves," and work diligently for the good of the company - we will be rewarded. What it doesn't mention is that the reward is usually limited to the opportunity to continue working diligently for the good of the company.

Erin was figuring out that bimbos work hard too - but on different things. And in the end, their work is centered around getting something - for themselves. One might even consider them to be entrepreneurs. They invest in certain things, manage a lot of variables, navigate a maze of obstacles, and in the end if it all works out, they get a return.

The final piece of the puzzle, at least that she could see right now, was cultivating a higher sex drive that wasn't just an act. No, to be successful, and to enjoy that success, the desire had to be real.

She didn't want to have a whore/stripper mindset where all the thinking was short term and for profit only. Instead she wanted her relationships with men to be built around pleasure - hers and theirs. Whatever other rewards came would flow from that. She didn't want a mental cash register ringing up sales every time she fucked someone or sucked a dick.

She made a plan - and she'd start tomorrow night.

Scratch that. She'd start right now. The way to condition the mind to desire pleasure was to enjoy pleasure. She imagined tomorrow night's activities and slid her hand down to her pussy.

The next day she realized her plan to go out that night, get picked up by a handsome stranger, and use him for bimbo practice - was premature. She hadn't done any of the work yet. She would just be her ordinary self, delivering an ordinary performance.

One thing she decided though was to get comfortable with the word "bimbo." That's what the rest of the world called women like she aspired to be. She'd done it herself, at least mentally.

It was derogatory, but they were going to think it, and maybe even say it, no matter what she did. Better to embrace it than run from it. She wouldn't let name calling or labeling put her on defense. She'd be a bimbo and be proud of it - knowing, as they didn't, just how much work goes into getting it right.

Dr. Morgan didn't have an opening for a consult until the following week. No problem. She had plenty to work on in the meanwhile. The training aids arrived quickly - thanks FedEx - and she started using them.

Applying the same work ethic she had used on college courses and later on projects at work, she quickly got her gag reflex under control. Pfft! It was nothing but pushing the toy back to the point she felt it, then backing off to let it subside, then going in again.

Bit by bit, the gag reflex eased off and she went deeper. In all, it took maybe an hour or so before she was swallowing the smaller dildo. Now it was just a matter of improving and working up to the bigger ones.

Squirting was another matter. Following some instructional videos she found online, she could feel intense sensations she'd never felt before. The pressure was building but she couldn't quite get over the edge, couldn't quite release it. No worries. It was there and more practice would ultimately prevail.

She had saved anal for last. It seemed like the biggest challenge, but in the end (no pun intended) it wasn't. Really it was about the same as deep throat training except the penalty for doing it wrong or going too fast was pain instead of gagging.

But like deep throat, a severe penalty could be avoided easily enough if one backed off and let it subside before continuing deeper. Piece of cake!

Over the course of the week while she waited for her appointment with Dr. Morgan, she continued to "apply herself" to her new studies. Work was still work, but she was also using that time for bimbofication by observing more closely the way the bimbos interacted with men and with each other.

They stood a certain way, used a certain tone of voice, walked a sexy walk without being lewd about it. There was nothing vulgar or lewd about anything they did in public - but all of it was sexual. They were sending messages constantly. No wonder men were mesmerized.

No doubt their mannerisms were learned and practiced. No doubt that at some point it had been "just an act." But over time, something that begins as a conscious action becomes natural and fluid. It becomes real. These women had achieved that and so would she.

In the evenings she continued her studies and was starting to enjoy them. The principle of operating on pleasure was going to be easier than she had first thought because the pleasure on her end was increasing fast.

She was swallowing the average size dildo with no problem at all now - and she could get almost half of the large one. With the deep throat training, the pleasure was coming mainly from the success in mastering it - and the knowledge of how much pleasure she was going to be able to give, and thus how much power she would gain.

Squirting had finally yielded to her persistence. After quite a few sessions where she could feel herself right on the brink, she achieved release and it was - wow. She'd never felt anything like it before. It was an orgasm, but different. It was bigger, more "all-over," more intense than any she'd had in the past. It wiped her out - but it made her crave more.

Anal was a success too. Applying the "back off and regroup when it hurts" technique, she had begun to look forward to her training sessions. She realized now that a man who was in a hurry or lacked the know-how could really fuck this up if the woman wasn't experienced. But knowing how it worked would allow her a bit of control over the flow of things. She could pull away slightly, then push back. If he was a quick study he'd pick it up on his own. If not, she'd manage it for him.

All that aside, stretching her asshole and pumping a dildo in and out of it was something she was starting to crave too. She was confident that if she kept training, she'd be able to cum from it - and she was enjoying the training way too much to stop.

"Yes, Dr. Morgan. I'm sure."

"I only ask because they do change your life when they're that large. You're not going to run any marathons. The weight is noticeable when you go from laying down to standing up. Clothing that fits is more difficult to find."

"Yes Sir. I've considered those things and I still want to go forward."

"Good. It's my duty to mention downsides, but I love doing surgeries like the one you're proposing. It makes such a radical change in a woman's self-image, confidence, and well - opportunities - that any time I can be part of that, it's a red letter day!"

"I'm so glad you feel that way. I've seen, and touched, your work and I love it."

"Shall we?"

And with that, Erin understood she was to disrobe. Even though her tits weren't bad, they were nothing unusual or spectacular either. She had a nice full C cup. Her brownish-pinkish nipples pointed forward and were about an inch and a half in diameter. If there were such a thing as "normal tits" these would be pretty normal.

The doctor smiled, then spoke.

"This is excellent, Erin. So many girls come in with a small B and want to put in huge implants and it's hard to make that work. What you have here is wonderful raw material. Lots of options. But to get that "standing straight out" look that you want, without any sag whatsoever, the implants are going to have to be big. Very big. See, we have to fill up the skin you have now - and stretch it tight enough to create that look. With me?"

"Love it, Doc! No such thing as too big!"

"Good. I was hoping you'd say that. I see the makings of a masterpiece here and I'm excited to get started."

"Uh, Doc, for me, this is about a major lifestyle change. I've been that hardworking career girl and to be frank, it's left me feeling like I got duped about what was really important and fulfilling in life. So I'm becoming something else I think will get me the results I want. I've been working on a few... er... techniques... at home on my own and I haven't had a chance to practice them with another person. And please understand, I have the money. This isn't about a discount. It's about practice and pleasure."

As she said those last two sentences, she moved toward him, reaching down and finding his cock. He wasn't hard, but it had a little heft in her hand. She took his lack of protest and his failure to step back as a green light.

He started to help unzip his pants, but with a light touch she pushed his hand away. She wanted to do this. She wanted to feel in control of the situation and to leave no doubt about the fact that she was taking the initiative and doing this because she wanted to.

As his thickening cock slid into her mouth she closed her eyes and smiled contentedly. This was as much for her as it was for him. And as he reached full hardness and length, he felt like her "Mr. Average" dildo - plus a little.

She gripped his hips and used her hands to steady herself as she got into an easy throat-fuck rhythm. She could tell by his sighs and thrusts that it felt particularly good to him when he was all the way down her throat. Getting her lips down to the base of his cock seemed to be what was revving his engine.

She wouldn't mind prolonging this because it was more fun than she'd imagined, but she knew the door wasn't locked and although the thrill of possibly getting caught was part of the experience, she didn't really want that to happen on her first practice run.

Oops! Too late!

"Uh, nurse, I just need a few more minutes. I'll buzz you when I'm ready for the next consult.