You Really Are Very Good At These! Education, Silicon, ID

Now this is a stunning bit of writing! Academic humiliation is such an underutilised element in bimboization and one of my absolute favourites! My only ‘criticism’ would be that I would love to see it expanded more - new instructions for spelling, elocution, vocabulary, maths... Really force the new image home and maybe get the girl to fail a few entry level courses for good measure!

Star hadn’t always been like this. At one point she had been a rising academic star. Up and coming in the history department she was starting to attract international attention. Unfortunately she annoyed the wrong donor. It wasn’t hard for him to seduce her. For all of her take charge attitude with her students, in bed she was eagerly submissive. And from there the teasing began.

The daily edging sessions she recorded and sent to him from her office. The teasing of her when they were alone. The little text messages she got telling her to do naughty things like take a nude photo of herself in the deans office. All of it just made her wet and wanting. And over time that built up. Her students noticed she was less focused, less put together at the end of the semester.

The constant teasing and edging was making her mind fuzzy. If she hadn’t had a detailed lesson plan she would have been unable to continue. But winter break was coming up and hopefully her new master would let her cum soon. While they were together at his ski lodge, he made her be his maid the whole time. Using her holes, making her suck him off. Even making her watch as he fucked another woman in front of him.

She was in tears for need, for seeing him fuck someone else, seeing how hard he made her cum was just too much for her. And she begged and pleaded. Speaking without really knowing what she was saying. He told her he had a fantasy about making a professor end her career. So into the camera she spoke. Telling the world, falsely, that her doctoral thesis was plagiarized.

That she had fucked the Dean in his office to secure her teaching position. That she had an inappropriate relationship with a student. That she was a fraud and a fake. Her eyes glazed over with need as she admitted that she had even falsified her high school transcripts in an effort to get into school.

She masturbated furiously to the idea, so happy she had made her new master happy. So happy to please him. And she didn’t think of the tape he made until Monday night. Where he didn’t have her kneeling between his legs during the game. But sitting on his lap, stroking her clit as he told her she had something important to tell her.

The panties he had made her take off and throw out…had been picked up by a student faithfully. One just a bit obsessed with her. And that the Dean loved his memento photograph of her from their tryst in his office. A happy memory before he retired. Star was very confused right up until the news began. With the headline being an academic scandal. The tape of her speaking was played and the moment her Master saw the horror on her face, he gave her permission to cum.

Her little mind popped. And she hasn’t been allowed to orgasm since then. Four years without an orgasm and no relief in sight. For her master had told her, that until she had another advanced degree to lose, she wouldn’t be allowed to cum. Poor girl can barely remember who George Washington was. So now she’s a squirmy, eager little trophy wife. Who will edge daily but never be allowed relief.

“hmm, I think that word might be too big for you,” is an exceptionally hot sentence.

Premise: Speech Control

Just a little list of ideas that I came up with on the topic of speech control. Some of these are about in person speaking, some are about texting, some are applicable to both. Some of these I’d like to try, some of these I have tried, some of these I would probably not want to do, some I’m indifferent to.

Word Restrictions

No swearing.

No puns.

Only being allowed to use words once per day. 

Only being allowed to use words from a list of pre-approved words chosen by my partner.

Not being allowed to use words from a list of off limits words chosen by my partner, but otherwise able to speak freely.

Not being allowed to use words containing a certain letter of the alphabet, but otherwise able to speak freely.

Only being allowed to use short and simple words, limited by number of letters or number of syllables, or simply at my partner’s discretion. (Imagine typing out an entire text and being met with “hmm, I think that word might be too big for you,” and having to agree and reword what you’ve said.)

Having to refer to myself in the third person.

Having to refer to my partner by a title, honorific, or nickname they have chosen.

Having to use a lowercase “i” to refer to myself. 

Having to use capitalized pronouns to refer to my partner. 

Limited Speech

Only being allowed to say a certain number of words (or less) per day.

Only being allowed to say a certain number of words (or less) per text message. No double messaging, of course.

Having to keep track of how many words my partner uses, and always using less throughout the day.

Having to start each sentence with “Please” and/or end it with “Thank you,” even if it doesn’t technically make sense. 

Having to rhyme. Or else fulfil the requirements of some kind of specific poetry such as a haiku. 

Having to ask permission to ask for things. “Please may I ask to use the bathroom?” 

Only being allowed to say “Please” and “Thank you.”

Not being allowed to ask for anything.

Only allowed to speak to my partner in public. 

Not being allowed to speak on specific topics, particularly when they’re super relevant. For example, we go to the zoo and I’m not allowed to talk about animals. 

Only being allowed to say the opposite of what I mean/want. 

Restricted Speech

Having to ask permission to speak at all, either through a non-verbal signal, or else the only thing I’m allowed to say without permission is “Please may I speak?”

Only allowed to speak when spoken to.

Having to be in a specific position - the more submissive or uncomfortable, the better - to speak. Additionally, having to wait in that position until I am acknowledged and allowed to speak. 

Having to go a set length of time without speaking each day. The timer starts over each time I speak. (Imagine it’s an hour and at 55 minutes you get asked a question you can’t ignore. Each attempt like that would mean you talk less throughout the day.)

When possible, set entire days, or even a weekend as “quiet time.”

Surprise quiet time. That is, a spoken or text command, “It’s quiet time,” and I am expected to be silent until I am released. (A potential training opportunity: this could happen many times throughout the day, each session lasting only a few minutes before the next.)

Starting every day without the ability to speak until I have completed my morning routine. Finishing each day by not being allowed to speak once my nighttime routine is done. 

Having a set day of the week during which I am expected to remain silent. 

Having a cost to speak. A mild-moderate punishment for each time I wish to speak, such as having to put nipple clamps on first or having to write lines for each time I spoke afterwards.

Having to trade my ability to speak for rewards, such as not being allowed to orgasm unless I agree to a two days of no speaking.

Trading chunks of silent time for edges. Each edge is half an hour of silence. Maybe I know before I start edging, maybe I don’t. 

Having to be silent until I have completed a task, such as linewriting, or an edging session, or even something mundane like having to stay silent on a long drive, even while playing a board game. 

Having recurring tasks during which I am not allowed to speak, such as never being allowed to speak during meals or while watching movies. 

Only being allowed to speak while wearing my collar. 

Not being allowed to speak while wearing my collar. 

Only being allowed to speak while naked. 

No words, only sounds. Easy enough when you’re gagged, but having to make the deliberate effort to only make sounds is nice. 

Wearing a bark collar. Each time I speak, I get shocked, until I learn not to speak while wearing it. It then becomes a very effective gag. 

Forced to Speak

Being asked a series of questions and having to provide at least X words to answer, on topic. (It wouldn’t even have to be a high number. Imagine having to use 50 words to answer a yes or no question. Even 20 might be a challenge. But being asked to say/text 300 words on why I shouldn’t have an orgasm? Just a thought.)

Agreeing to X number of questions (number could be in trade for edges, or in trade for lessening a punishment) and having to answer them fully, even if it’s embarrassing. (Obviously within limits. Questions I refuse to answer don’t count towards the number.)

Having a mantra to repeat every time my partner says a certain word, whether that word is part of the mantra or not. (Having someone trigger a mantra like this is great fun, especially mid-conversation, or while I’m trying to ask for something, or while I’m trying to explain something.)

Having to repeat after my partner, perhaps modifying pronouns. (“You will obey” being modified to “I will obey.”)

Being tasked with writing up a fantasy, and then being made to read it aloud.

Being Physically Gagged

Being expected to be gagged or otherwise prevented from speaking at all times. (Ballgag might be too harsh for “at all times,” but tape is effective, too.)

Being gagged at random. Not just during scenes, but during mundane activities, such as watching a movie together or doing housework. (I like the idea of being interrupted while in the middle of something, maybe even in the middle of a conversation, and my partner simply holds out a gag. Or sitting at my desk working when my partner comes up behind me and slips my gag between my lips. Being told to kneel and open my mouth, excited to get to suck cock, and instead gagged. Comes with a bonus of being trained to readily take my gag.) 

Being told I can only speak while being gagged, despite knowing it will be unintelligible.

Planning a voice call with my partner, but right before we begin I am instructed to put a gag on so that at no point during the call can I actually speak.

Games

Playing the quiet game, either with my partner or with another submissive. I am rewarded if I win, and punished if I lose. 

Playing a kinky version of Taboo/Password: My partner picks a word and a length of time. I do not get to know the word, but do get to know we’re playing and for how long. My partner counts every time I use the word, and when time is up, I get punished for each use. Tons of games to be played on both sides, with my partner trying to get me to say the word, and me trying to figure out what it is. Perhaps if the time period is long enough, I get a clue to the word each day. I would probably end up speaking as little as possible to avoid it. 

Wow! You nearly disappointed me there, but that was then excellent! Bravo! Lisp, sales, respect

She had been the driving force behind the mall’s creation, but now she was just a floorwalker in its anchor store, a Yellow Front franchise.

Supposedly, her job was to offer help and answer questions.  In practice, she was there so people could laugh at her piercings.

Her white nylon blouse made no secret of the palm-sized starburst nipple shields under it.  A thick ring hung from the septum of her nose, making her look like livestock.  But the worst was the heavy stud through the front part of her tongue, which made it impossible to speak clearly.

Customers never seemed to tire of hearing her say things like, “Menf cwoaves aw ovah deah” or “Vhat item iv not cawwied in vhis depawtment.”

Still amazing! Handwriting, decor, perception.

[Hah, trying to stump me, are you?]

Nadine looked up from her struggle to decipher her boss’s handwriting – if it stumped the scanner’s software, you knew it was some serious henscratching – and looked around the office.

She’d rather be sitting at a desk out in front of what had once been her office, or even in the glaringly pink steno pool, but Frank preferred to keep her at her “perch”, as he liked to put it, in the corner.

I suppose “perch” is appropriate, since I’m basically being kept here are a pet….

He still used her old desk.  He’d replaced her black desktop with a bright red laptop with the USMC emblem (on the strength of the company having a military contract, not because he had ever served himself).

Unlike me – I paid for college with my Airman’s salary.

Company lawyers had persuaded a judge that her degrees and award certificates were “office decor” and therefore company property, so that she couldn’t reclaim them.  He had already used up her Bachelor’s and her Master’s, so now it was an award the manufacturers’ association had given her that he had placed at the center of his dartboard.

He’d have destroyed them a lot faster if he’d placed them below and to the right of the bullseye … .

I love dress up!

I Hope You're Happy With Your Life

So this is another old TG bimbo tale. I penned (digitaled?) this one back in 2006 and I personally see a marked improvement between this and my first piece. It still has quite a few elements that I'm unhappy with, but it's definitely better. Also, the alias for this was 'Hidden_Agenda' which is infinitely cooler and edgier. That's the kind of name that conjures connotations of 1980s era hackers gazing at the blue screen and sticking it to the man! ...By, uh, writing fairly lame smut.... Ah well.

                  I Hope You're Happy with Your Life.

      It was a good day. The thought came once more unbidden to John's mind as

he looked down into the constant rippling that was caused by the shopping

centre's fountain. The 24 year old was sitting on the faux-marble edge of

metal and plastic monstrosity that squatted obscenely just inside the

centre's automatic doors. In truth he felt somewhat lost.

  John worked for one of the more prestigious car manufacturers, whose own

multi-storied offices were only a 10 minute walk from where he now sat.

Employed in its sales department John had found that he had a knack for

closing the firm's bigger deals, using his own unique blend of style and

utter persistence, and that was the very reason for his current mixed

emotions and why John had now sat with his mind almost blank for 15

minutes, idly watching the shoppers and browsers flow in and out of the

doors before him, interspersed solely by their hiss and click of metallic

closure.

  That very morning, John had completed the signing of the company's largest

ever client. An American hauling company, that apparently recently found

it more cost-effective to set up shop in each of the major cities in which

most of its business occurred, rather than haul from a only a few out of

the way depots, had decided to revamp its image.

  With reduced travelling times for a new larger fleet, built up roads to

negotiate, smaller loads for individual destinations and a requisite for

flair and style, the Yankee company had gone overnight from a large

haulers to a widely spaced courier-type service, capable of offering

greater efficiency to its customers.

  John still was not entirely sure how they had found the liquid assets to

do this so fast, but in any case, had found their new-found desire for a

veritable fleet of sleek company cars for all their US branches, their

discovery of cheaper overseas imports and their contacting his company as

one of their potential suppliers all to be to his advantage.

  It had led to him heading the deal with their UK representative, the

Nordic featured and entirely proper Sophia Goodleigh. Though John had not

noticed it, Sophia was almost the exact opposite to his own easy-going

masculinity, although he had noticed that the brittle, bitchy US ice-queen

almost seemed intent on disliking him from the moment he met her.

  Whilst John sported reasonably short-cut, but often overgrown brown hair,

Sophia's blonde was a meticulously maintained coif, pulled sharply back

and into a harsh bun. Whilst John's eyes were dark and welcoming, Sophia's

were a piercing grey-blue, that were constantly darting and re-focusing

over a person as if contemptuously evaluating and efficiently searching at

the same time. Whilst John held himself in a relaxed and indifferent

stance; his tie often loose and his top-button regularly undone, his large

bear-like hand always happy to shake another and his large 6'0'' frame

happily draping over a chair or dominating a room or conversation, Sophia

once more presented the argument. Rigid and unflinching she loomed over a

conversation atop stiletto heels like a splinting being forced into a

finger. A woman of few words, most of them harsh she would present herself

in expensive trouser suits that advertised her executive status and found

themselves ready partners to her accent, lifted directly from the New York

elite.

  Meeting for the first time, 3 months ago, John had worked tirelessly to

persuade her that his company would provide the best deal on the

ridiculously large fleet of luxury and cars her company required. From

that first forced handshake, John had tried every tactic he could think

of. He had prepared presentation after presentation, regularly working 14

hour days. He had used all the skill his mathematical degree from Oxford

had granted him to make figures dance in his attempt to seduce her deal.

He had struggled and strived to try and elucidate some element of

friendship, or at least mutual respect from her. He had even, as a last

resort dealt around her and petitioned her American based counterparts,

though to little response.

  It was that morning that he finally felt he would have to tell his

superiors that he thought the deal, which had remained so long as nothing

but unsigned paper, was worth even less when she entered his office.

  Clicking towards his desk where he rapidly stood to greet her, Sophia had

reached with surprising eagerness to shake his hand. For a moment John

thought perhaps she had finally decided that her animosity was pointless,

as he stared in shock at the firm grasp she had on his hand, but then he

saw her face.

  As usual it was unmade-up, but her lips almost looked bright against her

perfect white teeth, hard-set into a hateful snarl.

  "Congratulations, John," she sneered, her words clipped. "It seems your

underhanded method of contacting my superiors has worked. I have been

ordered to agree to your proposal and then I am on paid probation."

  John was slightly taken aback by the last part. Obviously her superiors

must have thought his proposal was definitely worthwhile.

  Sophia broke her handshake and dropped the thick stack of papers she held

in her other hand onto John's large and well polished desk before turning

and beginning to stiffly click from his office.

  "My company will be in contact," she called without looking back. "I hope

you're happy with your life."

  John could not help but be confused by her last statement, but in truth he

was too busy being elated. Quickly phoning his own bosses to tell them the

good news, John then buzzed his secretary to tell her he would be out for

the day.

  And so he found that he had wandered to the shopping centre. He was out in

the hustling bustle of daytime life, outside of his office for the first

time in months. John removed his tie and folding it in his hands, stood up

from the fountain and placed it carefully into his jacket pocket. He had

learned from the last few hectic weeks how hard it was to lose careless

creases when in a rush.

  Feeling satisfied and lost, he began to walk through the people around

him, no destination in mind, no need going wanting when he found himself

outside the garish front of a salon. All pink neon lights and clashing

colours, the image was complete by the young 80's dropout leaning against

the entrance's doorframe, smoking the last of a cigarette. John took stock

of her as he approached. Fluffed out, teased hair. Excessive blue eye

makeup. Long inelegant earrings. Even her attire seemed out of date with a

bright lime-green, short sleeved spandex shirt, that strained against

perky, if small breasts and a tight black micro skirt, that she wore over

a pair of baggier jeans.

  "You can't smoke in h-" John began in his baritone, before being cut off

by a bubbly, "Mornin', hun!" from the woman. Her accent seemed to place

her dialect somewhere in the Midwest, but despite John's dealings with

Sophia he did not know enough about the US to be more accurate.

  "You're worried about a lil' ol' smoke? Well, I reckon it doesn't seem

right in here."

  For a moment John felt a shiver run up his spine.

  "Tell you what, hun, as you seem so concerned about me, why don't I do a

lil' something for you. You sure look like you could use a trim," she said

as she carelessly flicked the remaining butt of her cigarette away.

  "Actually, er..." For once John found himself speechless. Something about

the salon and this woman did not sit right, but he soon found a well

manicured hand with bright pink nails wrapping around his wrist. Moments

later that same hand, as well as its partner was placed on John's

shoulders as he seated himself into the overly comfortable salon chair.

  "Now, hun, my name is Rachel and have I got a look for you!" gushed the

woman. "Why don't you just sit back and relax and I'll fix a lil'

something that get all the girlies looking."

  John's eyes gazed around the empty salon. Something really felt off about

the place. Rachel whirled a large pink cape over his body.

  "Now, we'll just get started on that ol' hair of yours."

  John looked down at the bright pink cape and...

  ***

  "Done!" announced Rachel, snapping John's head up to the mirror opposite

him. Her expectant face appeared next to his in the reflection, looking

over his shoulder. "Well, what do you reckon?"

  "How could you possibly be d-" John began, before realising what 'done'

meant. His short brown hair was gone and in its place were long thick,

almost yellow, blonde tresses. The lustrous hair had been brushed into an

approximate centre parting. Gathered up on each side, Rachel had forced

the bright platinum locks into large long bunched and deftly tied neon

pink ribbons into them, near John's scalp.

  "I'm certain braids would have looked lovely Candi, but on someone of your

limited intellect, they probably would have been a bit beyond what you

could maintain" said Rachel, still looking over John's shoulder.

  "But, this seems completely wrong!" snapped John, not even noticing what

she had called him, or what she had implied about his mind.

  "Yes, hun, I guess I did go a little too far. It doesn't seem right.

Perhaps if we..."

  ***

  The world seemed to jump for a moment. This time it was far sooner that

John realised what had changed. As he stared at his reflection he could

see that the ridiculous hair had not been touched. However, the pink cape

had been removed, as had his suit jacket. His white shirt remained, but in

an almost unrecognisable state that left him with his mouth hanging open.

  The top two buttons of his shirt had been cut away, and the shirt itself

was forced to near translucency by the huge globes of flesh beneath it.

John had breasts. No wait, that was not even inappropriate for the

monsters he now possessed. The boobs John inexplicably had were at large

DD at least, and barely contained by the flimsy neon pink joke of a bra

that he was for some reason wearing. The damned thing even allowed the

bump of his enlarged nipples to stand out through the shirt and seemed to

only be there to draw attention to the heaving, straining bosom John

sported.

  "I-I-" John stuttered in incomprehension.

  "Chill out, sweetie!" said Rachel in response to John's apparent

confusion. "You are rather busty for a school girl. But I suppose silly

little bimbos who get themselves held back just get longer to develop."

  "Huh?" replied John, still flabbergasted, approaching outraged as he

stared down at the mounds that tented his white shirt. He had left school

a long while ago. And as for being 'a silly little bimbo'.... John's

thoughts suddenly seemed to falter... anyway, people didn't get 'held

back' in the UK, that was a Yank idea, wasn't it?

  "A bit out of it, hun?" asked Rachel, a wicked smile creeping onto her

lips. "Perhaps you'll start thinking clearer if we..."

  ***

  It happened again. The world just seemed to stop and start. John looked at

the mirror again. This time it was makeup. His entire face was coated with

the over-the-top makeup of a young teen girl. His eyelashes were and huge,

dark frames to his blue eyes. They in turn were surrounded by light blue

eye shadow, that faded through to purple and then pink, and seemed to be

laden with glitter.

  John's eyebrows were plucked into extreme, juvenile arches that gave his

face a surprised, vacant look.

  There was a rash of rouge or some-such on his cheeks that seemed to create

a false childish blush. And there were the lips.

  John could only gaze in horror as his reflection showed his mouth. Fat,

pouting cocksucker lips that seemed to feminise his entire face. Lips that

constantly had a little open 'o' unless he really willed them closed. Lips

that were coated in a wet looking gloss, hundreds of sparkles imbedded

into it. Fuckable lips.

  Fear crept into John. He no longer felt confused and unnerved, but

completely terrified.

  "Rachel?" said John tentatively. His tongue felt heavy and sticky in his

mouth. His voice was cracked and dry. "I don't know what-"

  "Now hold on, that ol' voice just won't do, sweetie -ooo!" she hesitated.

"I never realised how wonderfully feminine that was!" She paused for a

moment as if concentrating, and then continued, "From now on you'll refer

to everyone as Sweetie, Cutie or Honey! Isn't that just fab!"

  Through the petrified fog of his mind, John tried to respond, "Honey, I'm

not, like, totally sure... Like, omygod!"

  With no more than a few words from Rachel, John had some how acquired an

American accent and, at that, an over-the-top Valley-girl one. The voice

still seem to carry a shred of intelligence in this alto form, but already

John could see what his destiny was being forced to by this twisted woman.

  Once more, John looked at his reflection. Perfect white teeth bit the

plump upper lip on the Barbie-doll looking back. His heart-felt panic was

being translated into an expression of vacant confusion by his made-up

face.

  John bolted.

  Hurling himself from his chair, he paid no heed to jiggle of chest and

didn't even look back at Rachel has sprinted the short distance towards

the salon door...

  ***

  John was standing with his hands by his sides in the centre of the salon.

The chair he had been in had been turned around from the mirror and no

held Rachel. She sat with her knees brought up to her chest and a beaming

smile plastered across her face. John immediately knew to his growing

desperation that more had been done to him.

  John looked down, only to see that his view was limited by his own

expansive cleavage. He could already see, though, that his shirt was now a

tight tailored blouse, at least a size and a half too small. It allowed

his boobs to almost spill out of the top, but then hugged his svelte

little waist to somewhere beyond what his boobs let him see. He was also

wearing jewellery now. Around his neck was a chunky bubblegum pink

necklace that spelled out 'Candi' with a little heart over the 'i'. He

could feel the pull of the large and tacky hoop earrings that were in his

freshly pierced ears.

  John knew he needed to see the rest. He slowly turned, hearing the clack

of heels below him.

  Finally looking at another of the salon's mirrors he could see the

remainder of what had changed.

  John now appeared to be some sort of schoolgirl wet-dream. The tapering

blouse stretched tightly over his reflection's waist to a bright red

tartan micro-skirt which then jutted out with his womanly hips. This ended

after only a few inched to give way to an expanse of fantastic thighs. His

legs were hairless and perfect, stretching down to be encased in lycra

white knee socks. These completed the reflections long legs by entering a

shining pair of high-heeled mary-jane shoes. John could see now the

clacking 4" heels and knew that he must somehow be shorter, given that

even with these torture devices on, the world seemed to loom around him.

  It was then that John noticed that the mirror he was looking at showed

another mirror, giving him a back profile. It showed the pristine white

panties that he wore, that, covering his huge bubble-butt prevented his

tiny skirt from hiding them. And John saw the double reflected embroidery

across his arse clearly showing in scripted pink letters "Spank Me".

    "This is so, like, not cool, cutie!" squealed John, finding his voice was

now a sexy soprano, reminiscent of Marylin Monroe, or an over-excited

Jayne Mansfield.

  "Now, now, don't get your pretty lil' knickers in a twist, Candi," soothed

Rachel. "I'm sure you'll se things my way once I've told you a bit about

your new life- better yet, let's have Sophia do it!"

  John was aghast, and turned to the salon entrance just in time to see

Sophia walk through the door.

  "Well, well. You turned out very nicely. Very nicely indeed, Candi," said

Sophia as she walked in measured paces towards the now shorter John.

  "Like, Sophia, sweetie?!" exclaimed John in his breathy tones.

  "I think you probably want an explanation Candi," said Sophia curtly. "You

see, I wanted revenge for you going behind my back, and I wanted revenge,

by proxy if you will, for your company taking business away from US

counterparts. All in all I think I got what I wanted. To be honest though

I don't think you will care to much about reasons once I have told you a

few more things about yourself, thanks to the brilliant Rachel-" Sophia

paused to nod towards her partner. "Who has got you well conditioned my

little Bimbo. But first let's have a few tests. What's your name?"

  "Candi!" exclaimed John, in a horribly bubbly way, his voice in no way

under his control.

  "And your full name?"

  "Candice A. Goodleigh!" replied John, wincing as he realised his 'new'

name sounded like he was saying "Candi's a good lay!" in his new voice.

  "And how old are you?"

  "I'm *giggle*, like, 18 but I'm still in school, 'cos they don't think I'm

like smart and stuff, but that's sooo totally not true-" John found

himself gushing nonsensically, until Sophia raised a hand silencing him.

  "Would you like some gum Candi?"

  "WOW! *giggle*, like totally!" John squealed embarrassingly, eliciting a

snigger from Rachel. Sophia handed him a bright pink stick of bubblegum

and it was only a moment before John founding himself chewing happily on

the pink wad, his mouth stupidly open and his eyes a vacant partner to his

bimbo smile.

  "You see Candi, we have you well conditioned. From now on, when you talk

you'll talk bimbo drivel. When asked anything academic, you'll give a

wrong answer or just a confused look. I'm going to take you back to the US

with me and enrol you at a school just long enough for you to be become

the biggest slut  and most pathetic drop-out they've ever had. And when

you flunk out of school, I'm going to disown your ditzy, boy-crazy, bimbo

arse. And then it just gets better. You'll find yourself compelled to get

a job in the most degrading places for the most lecherous men you can

find. Maybe you'll be sleazy bar waitress, or a stripper slut or just a

dumb PA groped and boned by her boss over his desk. Isn't it just

delicious!"

  John could only look through Candi's eyes and giggle whilst his future was

laid out. He could already see himself wiggling and jiggling and giggling

down some American highschool's halls. He could see himself throwing

himself at any male who even spoke to her. He could see himself giving

nonsensical answers to questions, and barely making misspelled notes in a

flowery bimbo script with hearts dotting his letters.

  He could see it all and do nothing but smile and giggle like a true bimbo,

blowing his pretty pink bubbles in his spank me panties.

  Sophia's words were suddenly repeated and cutting.

  "I hope you're happy with your life, Candi."

Really love your writing! Office, vocabulary, reputation.

[Three-Prompts which bear the poster’s name and are challenging get quicker attention.]

I still work for Golden Goblin Press.  The entire company used to be mine.  Now I’m just the “gofer girl” – it says so on my nametag, for God’s sake!

The changes in terminology are also very grating: every woman who still has a job, however menial, is called a “girl”: “keypunch girl”, “filing girl,” “cleaning girl” … .

But the truth?  The honest truth?  What I hate more than my boring work or the ridiculous new vocabulary or losing my lovely apartment and car or having to wear this stupid miniskirt (with a garter belt!)….  What I hate more than any of these things is that the company I built from the ground up is now being run into the ground.  The idiots who are running it thought “the bitch” was keeping them down, but they are proving every day that they have no idea how to run a publishing company: they’re breaking promises to authors, letting reliable sellers go out of print, publishing pornographic crap because “it’s what sells”, only it’s not selling.

It will be at least something of a relief when Golden Goblin Press finally goes under, even though it means I’ll be out of a job and my next one will probably pay more poorly and feature even more sexual harassment.