Chapter 2: Bimbo Exs
The antiseptic scent in the private meeting room felt thin compared to the lingering ozone tang that seemed to follow Dom, but it was still aggressively clean. Catalina Cruz stood at the window, her reflection a ghostly outline against the bustling corridor beyond. Below, nurses hurried past, charts clutched to chests, oblivious to the scene unfolding in the small, adjacent waiting area visible through a discreet wall-mounted monitor. Dr. Nikki Benz fidgeted beside the large round table, her gaze darting between the screen and Catalina’s impassive profile.
"This feels ethically… porous," Benz murmured, adjusting her glasses. "Interviewing ex-girlfriends under false pretenses? Observing them covertly?"
Catalina didn’t turn. "Necessary due diligence, Doctor. We need to understand him. What drives him. What sustains him." Her tone brooked no argument. "Jameson assures me these two were significant. Highly memorable, according to chatter."
On the grainy monitor screen, Lyna Perez stretched like a blonde cat waking in a sunbeam. Her movements were languid, effortless. She smoothed down a skintight pink top that plunged precariously, showcasing the impressive swell of 900cc silicone. A playful smirk played on her enhanced lips as she adjusted her skirt, offering a fleeting glimpse of the equally augmented curve beneath. Her gaze, however, was fixed on the other woman in the room.
Betul Nicole sat with deceptive stillness. Turkish-Romanian beauty sculpted with winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass. Her own substantial chest, straining against a black lace bodysuit, featured piercings hinted at beneath the fabric. Her lips, plumped and glossy, were pursed slightly, her eyes watchful, calculating. She exuded a simmering intensity that contrasted sharply with Lyna’s breezy exhibitionism.
"Boo," Lyna suddenly said, leaning forward conspiratorially, her voice tinny through the monitor’s speaker. "Remember that club? The one with the fish tanks?" She giggled, a high, tinkling sound. "Dom dared me to make out with the DJ. Said he’d tip her a grand."
Betul’s painted eyebrow arched. "Did you?"
Lyna’s grin widened. "Duh. Got us free champagne all night. Dom tipped her
anyway." She sighed dramatically, twirling a strand of platinum hair. "He was… fun. Generous. Before the money thing." Her gaze drifted down, openly appraising Betul’s chest. "You know, he loved your tits. Said they were like… perfect Turkish delights." She winked. "We have good taste, I think."
Betul’s expression remained unreadable, but a flicker of something – satisfaction? – crossed her features. "He had an appreciation for quality," she replied, her voice lower, huskier than Lyna’s. "A connoisseur. He knew how to handle… assets." She leaned back slightly, letting the light catch the shine on her lips. "And he certainly appreciated dedication." Her tongue darted out, briefly tracing her lower lip. A deliberate, practiced gesture.
Lyna giggled again, shifting closer on the small couch. "He did! Remember that weekend in Cabo? When you wouldn’t come up for air for like, hours?" She nudged Betul playfully. "You were like a machine, chica!"
Betul finally allowed a small, knowing smile. "He was very responsive. Very… appreciative. Required a certain… stamina. And technique." She glanced sideways at Lyna. "I heard he liked yours too. Said you could dance it right out of his pants. And then some."
Lyna beamed, preening. "What can I say? Rhythm." She reached out, not for a hand, but to gently trace a finger along Betul’s jawline. "He had a type, didn’t he? Big. Fake. Perfect." Her finger lingered. "We’re basically sisters." Before Betul could react, Lyna leaned in and kissed her. Not a peck. A full, open-mouthed kiss, slow and exploratory. Her hand slid to Betul’s waist, pulling her closer. Betul stiffened for a microsecond, then yielded, her own hand coming up to cup the back of Lyna’s head. They kissed like it was a performance, yet with an undercurrent of genuine curiosity. Lyna’s hand slid higher, grazing the side of Betul’s breast. As they pulled apart, Lyna’s thumb accidentally caught the thin strap of Betul’s bodysuit, tugging it down just enough to reveal the dark edge of an areola and the glint of a piercing. Lyna giggled, breathless, making no move to fix it. "Oops! Nip slip!"
Betul calmly adjusted her strap, her eyes locked with Lyna’s, a faint flush high on her cheekbones. "Accidents happen."
Catalina’s reflection in the window showed a faint, satisfied curve to her lips. "Observe, Doctor. The aesthetic. The… enthusiasm. His type is remarkably consistent."
Dr. Benz cleared her throat, looking profoundly uncomfortable. "Madam President, their personal interactions—"
"—Are irrelevant to the core requirement," Catalina finished smoothly, finally turning away from the window. "But highly relevant to understanding potential compatibility. Prepare the room."
Minutes later, the heavy door opened. Lyna bounced in first, her smile dazzling, her posture radiating confidence. "Madam President! Dr. Benz! Wow, this is so official!" She plopped into a chair, crossing long legs. Betul followed, more measured, her gaze sharp and assessing as she took the seat beside Lyna. The air filled with competing scents: Lyna’s sugary vanilla perfume and Betul’s deeper, spiced amber.
"Lyna Perez. Betul Nicole." Catalina remained standing, projecting effortless authority. "Thank you for coming on such short notice. We appreciate your cooperation in a matter of extreme national sensitivity."
"Anything for Dom," Lyna chirped, leaning forward, her cleavage prominent on the table’s edge. "I still can't believe he's alive after all these years..."
Betul remained silent, watching Catalina intently.
"Dominic Stone," Catalina began, her voice sober, "suffered catastrophic injuries preventing the hostile incursion. Injuries that triggered unforeseen physiological changes. He’s alive, but in a deep coma. His condition is unique. Unstable."
"Unstable." Lyna's smile vanished like a popped bubble. "What do you mean, unstable?" she blurted, leaning so far forward her breasts pressed flat against the table's edge. "Is he... getting worse?"
Betul’s sharp eyes narrowed, her glossy lips tightening. "National sensitivity implies this involves more than just Dom," she stated coolly, her focus locked on Catalina. "What does his condition have to do with us? Why are we really here?"
Dr. Benz cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, casting stark shadows. "It’s... biological," she began, her voice clinical but strained. "The singularity powering him is causing uncontrolled cellular regeneration. Including..." She paused, flushing slightly. "...hyperplasia in his genitalia. Severe, sustained priapism. His body is producing seminal fluid at a frankly impossible rate."
Lyna gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "Holy shit. Like... constantly?"
"Essentially," Benz confirmed, pushing her glasses up her nose. "The pressure buildup is toxic. It’s literally poisoning him from the inside. Draining the fluid regularly is the only thing that will prevent systemic failure."
Catalina stepped forward, her own augmented silhouette imposing under the harsh light. "Which brings us to you," she said, her gaze sweeping over Lyna’s displayed cleavage and Betul’s defiant posture. "We need to know Dominic’s preferences intimately. His...attractions."
"Deadly serious," Catalina countered, her voice low and intense. "We need women he finds profoundly, physically irresistible. Women who can elicit the necessary...release." She locked eyes with each of them. "Repeatedly. Efficiently. Your history with him suggests you possess the relevant skills and... appeal. But more importantly, you know what he's into, so we can respect his desires."
Lyna stared, her mouth slightly open. "You want us to... drain his balls? To save his life?" A nervous giggle escaped her. "Like, medically?"
"Exactly," Catalina affirmed. "Consider it a vital national service. And a personal favour to the man who saved us all. But again, we don't need you to do it yourselves if you don't want to. You probably wouldn't even be enough based on how quickly he's producing. We need to know his fetishes, his kinks. Tell us what he's into so we can recruit women who can do this."
The sterile air crackled with Lyna’s sudden, delighted gasp. "Oh my god, yes!" She bounced in her chair, the movement making her augmented chest jiggle visibly beneath the tight pink fabric. "Ask away! Dom was gloriously, wonderfully specific." She winked at Betul. "Right, Bet?"
Betul smoothed her bodysuit, a slow, deliberate motion that drew attention to her own impressive silhouette. Her glossy lips curved into a knowing smirk. "Specific is an understatement. He had curated tastes. Obsessive, even." Her dark eyes flickered towards Catalina’s chest, then Benz’s, lingering for a fraction too long. "Particularly regarding augmentation."
"Start broad," Benz interjected, her voice tight, fingers tapping nervously on her tablet. "General preferences. What visually captivated him most?"
"Tits!" Lyna exclaimed instantly, leaning forward conspiratorially, her gaze sweeping over Benz’s lab coat. "Big ones. Fake ones. The bigger, the better. Silicone, obviously." She gestured vaguely towards her own chest. "Like mine. Like Betul’s." Her eyes drifted pointedly towards Catalina’s formidable bustline. "Like yours, Madam President. Seriously, wow." She gave an appreciative whistle. "Dom would have loved those. He worshipped them. Called them ‘perfection monuments’."
Catalina remained impassive, though a faint flush touched her neck. "Noted. What else?"
Betul took over, her voice low and precise. "Lips. Full, enhanced lips. He adored the exaggerated pout." She traced her own plump lower lip with a fingertip. "Said they promised… exceptional things. Especially combined with a certain oral fixation." A flicker of pride crossed her face. "He appreciated skill."
"Skill!" Lyna chimed in, nodding vigorously. "He loved a girl who knew her way around a dick. Like Betul here." She nudged Betul playfully. "Her tongue? Legendary. Like a little electric eel." Lyna mimed rapid, swirling motions with her own tongue. "Round and round, deep, messy… he’d lose his damn mind." She grinned at Benz. "Bet you’ve got hidden talents too, Doc. Dom would definitely approve of your… assets." She gestured vaguely towards Benz’s chest beneath the coat.
Dr. Benz shifted uncomfortably, adjusting her glasses. "Focus, please. Specific kinks? Fetishes?"
"Asses," Betul stated flatly. "Fake, round, prominent. He liked them high, tight, impossible." She glanced at Lyna’s skirt. "He enjoyed watching them move. Twerking was… appreciated."
Lyna giggled, shifting in her seat to subtly emphasize her own posterior. "Oh yeah. Especially when I was tipsy. He’d just stare and jerk off." Her gaze drifted back to Catalina, then Benz again, openly assessing. "Honestly, Madam President? Dr. Benz? With your… proportions? You’re both exactly his type. Like, textbook." She leaned back, beaming. "Seriously, he’d be drooling right now. Well, more than usual." She winked.
Catalina arched an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement finally breaking through her presidential reserve. "Flattering, Ms. Perez. But irrelevant to our recruitment needs. We require specifics. Did he have preferences regarding… technique? Positions? Frequency?"
Betul’s eyes gleamed. "He favored edging, always wanted to feel my lips and tongue on his frenulum. He wasn't as much of a fan of deep throat, but he really loved to cum down there. He liked feeling… overwhelmed." She demonstrated subtly with a tilt of her head, her tongue pressing against her cheek. "Rhythm mattered less than relentless suction and tongue work. He responded best to… dedication." She paused, her gaze locking onto Benz’s flustered expression. "He needed frequent attention. Multiple times a day wasn't unusual. Especially near the end."
Lyna sighed dramatically, a dreamy look on her face. "He was insatiable. A total horndog. But the best kind." She suddenly leaned across the table towards Betul, her voice dropping to a husky whisper loud enough for everyone to hear. "Remember Cabo? When we tag-teamed him by the pool? He almost passed out." She giggled, her hand finding Betul’s thigh under the table. "We should recreate that. For science."
Betul didn’t pull away. Instead, she placed her own hand over Lyna’s, her thumb stroking Lyna’s knuckle. A slow, predatory smile spread across her face as she looked directly at Dr. Benz. "For science, Doctor. We’d be happy to demonstrate the required… protocols. Dom always appreciated a hands-on approach to learning." Benz’s pen clattered onto her tablet, her cheeks flaming crimson. Catalina simply watched, her expression unreadable, the harsh fluorescent light glinting off the smooth curve of her own augmented silhouette.
The harsh fluorescent light caught the steel edge of the table as Catalina remained perfectly still, her gaze shifting from Lyna’s hand on Betul’s thigh back to their expectant faces. A faint hum from the air vents was the only sound for a beat. "Demonstrations won't be necessary, Ms. Perez," Catalina stated, her voice smooth as polished marble, cutting through Lyna's suggestive grin. "Your... enthusiasm is noted. But we need operational parameters, not live fire exercises."
Betul withdrew her hand slowly, her dark eyes never leaving Catalina’s. "Operational parameters," she echoed, a hint of challenge in her husky tone. "You want to know how to keep him focused? On task?" She leaned back, crossing her legs, the movement deliberate. "Good luck. Dom’s eyes wandered more than a lost tourist. Constantly."
Lyna guffawed, a bright, sharp sound. "Oh my god, yes! He was always staring. Like, shamelessly." She waved a hand vaguely towards her own chest, then gestured expansively at Betul’s, Catalina’s, and finally Dr. Benz’s. "Didn’t matter if it was me, Bet, the waitress, some random jogger with decent cleavage… if it was fake and fabulous, his eyes were glued. He appreciated the effort, you know? Truly savored a good bolt-on." She sighed, almost wistfully. "Honestly? I don’t think I ever saw the man without a boner. Morning, noon, night. Walking the dog? Erection. Brushing his teeth? Erection. Watching cartoons? Erection. It was just… there. Like a third arm, but way less useful for carrying groceries."
Betul nodded, her expression cool but her gaze intense. "An accurate assessment. Maintaining his attention required accepting that his focus was perpetually divided. You had to be comfortable knowing he was visually sampling every augmented woman within his line of sight. Constantly." She tapped a manicured nail on the table. "And managing the… physical manifestation of that appreciation was a full-time occupation in itself."
Dr. Benz frowned, adjusting her glasses. "Managing? You mean the priapism?"
"I mean the masturbation, Doctor," Betul clarified bluntly. "Chronic. Compulsive. He couldn't help himself. It wasn't just arousal; it was a nervous tic, a reflex." A flicker of remembered frustration crossed her face. "Dinner dates? Had to strategically place the napkin. Movies? Forget the back row; he’d try it right there in the middle if he saw someone with impressive implants walk down the aisle. Grocery shopping was a nightmare near the produce section. Melons. Cantaloupes. He’d see the shape and…" She made a subtle, crude gesture with her hand under the table. "It was exhausting. A constant chore. You literally had to watch his hands. All the time. The produce thing was a joke, but only mostly. He was so horny all the time. It was flattering but..."
Lyna chimed in again, bouncing slightly. "But that's what made him so much fun! He was so into it! So… present in his perversion. No shame. Just pure, unadulterated lust for the fake and fantastic." She beamed at Catalina and Benz. "He would have absolutely loved this group. It's like his ultimate fantasy recruitment drive!"
Dr. Benz looked faintly ill, her knuckles white where she gripped her stylus. "He attempted self-gratification... in public? Regularly?"
"Every 45 minutes like clockwork some days," Betul confirmed dryly. "Like his body had its own internal reminder. Keeping his hands out of his pants was a significant part of dating Dominic Stone. It required vigilance." She leveled her gaze at Benz, then Catalina. "If your recruits can't handle that level of… constant appreciation directed elsewhere, or the risk of him trying to service himself during their shift, they won't last."
Catalina absorbed this, her face a mask of pragmatic consideration. The sheer logistical challenge was immense. "Understood," she said finally, her voice cutting through Benz’s palpable discomfort and Lyna’s amused smirk. "The position requires extreme tolerance and constant vigilance, it seems. Alongside the primary… extraction duties."
Lyna flashed a sudden, brilliant grin. "Oh, I can help way better than just talking, Madam President!" She bounced slightly in her chair, her cleavage straining dangerously against the thin pink fabric. "Seriously, the best way? Right now? Less clothes." She gestured vaguely towards Catalina’s impeccably tailored jacket. "Way less up top. Then just crawl into his arms. Fake boobs pressed right against that singularity thingy? Trust me, that coma wouldn't stand a chance." She winked. "His dick would wake up screaming my name. Well, yours, technically. But same effect!"
Betul leaned forward, her winged eyeliner sharp under the harsh fluorescents. "Lyna's theatrics aside," she cut in, her voice low and urgent, "why haven’t you started?" Her gaze flicked between Catalina and Benz, sharp as a scalpel. "You said the pressure is toxic. Poisoning him. So why is he still full? Why are we sitting here talking about his supermarket jerk-off habits instead of draining him?" Her glossy lips pressed into a thin line. "Is this committee just a stalling tactic?"
Dr. Benz flushed, her fingers tightening on her tablet. "We have started, Ms. Nicole." She avoided Betul’s intense stare, focusing instead on the sterile table surface. "One of our nurses, Melina Barbie, has been... attempting extraction. Per President Cruz’s standing order. Round-the-clock care."
Lyna’s eyes widened. "Melina? Oh! The one with the crazy lips? And that tongue Dom used to fantasize about?" Her expression shifted from surprise to confusion. "Wait, trying? What's there to try? Pop it in and suck, right? It’s not rocket surgery."
"It should be straightforward," Betul stated flatly, suspicion hardening her features. "If he’s producing, and the plumbing is... accessible... what’s the holdup?"
Dr. Benz sighed, the sound heavy in the clinical room. "He hasn’t ejaculated. Not once. Despite Melina’s considerable...dedication." She shifted, clearly uncomfortable. "She’s been persistent. Multiple sessions daily. Extensive effort. Her technique..." Benz hesitated, searching for clinical terms that wouldn't sound ridiculous. "Is reportedly... comprehensive. Vigorous. She employs significant lingual manipulation. Circular motions. Deep suction. For prolonged durations. Hours sometimes, during her shifts."
Lyna whistled low. "Hours? Damn. Sounds like she’s going for Olympic gold." A flicker of competitive annoyance crossed her face. "So what’s the problem? He comatose, not dead, right? Should still work."
Betul, however, had gone very still. Her dark eyes locked onto Benz. "Describe it. Exactly. Her technique." The demand was quiet, razor-edged.
Benz swallowed. "She... focuses intensely. Uses her full lips to create a seal. Her tongue... she moves it constantly. Big, exaggerated circles. Very active. Very strong. She... demonstrates considerable enthusiasm." Benz paused, recalling the reports with clinical detachment warring with personal discomfort. "She seems to believe showing off her skill is motivating. Even while he’s unconscious. She claims she can feel certain... responses. Increased vascular engorgement. But no emission. Ever."
A beat of silence hung in the antiseptic air. Lyna frowned, chewing her glossy lower lip. "Weird. Sounds like she’s doing everything textbook. Like, my textbook." She glanced sideways at Betul. "Right? The tongue thing? That’s Dom’s jam."
Betul didn’t look at Lyna. Her gaze remained fixed on Benz, a deep crease forming between her perfectly sculpted brows. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the table. "Everything you described," she said, her voice tight, dangerously calm. "The lips. The seal. The circles. The enthusiasm... that’s exactly how I would do it. How I did do it. For him." She leaned forward, the scent of spiced amber suddenly sharp. "If she’s doing it perfectly... and it’s not working..." The unspoken question crackled in the air like static. What’s wrong with him? Or... what’s different? Her eyes flickered towards the door, towards the unseen hospital room, a flicker of genuine fear beneath the cool assessment. "If the perfect job isn't working... what is?"
"That's why we need to know all of this. His greatest fetishes, the things that get him going more than anything else. We need to crank up the arousal and push him over the edge." Catalina explains.
Betul and Lyna look at each other, "More bimbos. Tit sucking, kissing. He needs to swim in boobs."