Chapter 17: The Bimbo's First Day Out
The fluorescent lights of the mall food court were a buzzing canopy, bleaching everything into a garish daytime nightmare. The air was a thick soup of frying oil, cheap perfume, and the underlying tang of floor cleaner. Trays crashed, children shrieked, and a hundred conversations blurred into a formless roar. In the center of it all, a beacon of impossible pink, stood what was once Jared Miller.
The tube top was a band of stretchy, hot pink fabric that strained dangerously over the full, round swell of D-cup breasts. Each movement made them shift and jiggle, the deep cleavage he’d once bandaged now proudly on display. The micro-mini skirt, a matching scrap of pleated polyester, barely covered the curve of his ass, revealing the long, smooth lines of his thighs, now hairless and softened. The white platform heels added six inches of precarious height, forcing his posture into an arch, his back curved, his chest pushed forward.
Vivienne, dressed in stylish, understated black slacks and a silk blouse, looked like a chic executive surveying a peculiar experiment. She sipped from a straw in a large soda cup, her green eyes missing nothing. She leaned close, her breath a cool whisper against his ear, now adorned with a simple silver stud.
“The trigger is simple. When you hear the phrase ‘Be a good girl,’ you will become exactly what your body promises. You will crave attention. You will crave touch. You will be friendly, vacant, and utterly, shamelessly lewd. Your only thoughts will be of showing off and being used. Understood?”
A flicker of something – terror, recognition – passed behind his eyes, but it was smothered by the fog, by the pleasant, accepting emptiness that had become his home. He nodded slowly, the motion making his new hair, now grown out into tousled, sun-kissed brown waves with blonde highlights, brush his shoulders.
“Yes, Mistress,” he murmured, the voice soft, airy.
“Excellent.” Vivienne straightened up, giving him a slow, appraising look that traveled from the dizzying height of the heels to the glossed pink of his lips. She snapped her fingers once, sharply. “Be a good girl.”
The change was instantaneous. His spine straightened, but not with pride. It was a vapid, posing straightness. The confusion in his eyes melted away, replaced by a sparkling, empty cheer. His lips curved into a wide, practiced smile that didn’t touch the blankness in his gaze. He put a hand on his hip, jutting one leg forward, a parody of a model’s stance. The movement made his breasts sway heavily.
“Oh wow,” he breathed, the bimbo voice now fully formed, a high-pitched, giggly lilt. “It’s so bright in here!”
Vivienne gave him a gentle push toward the bustling seating area. “Go socialize, sweetie. Make some friends.”
He tottered forward on the platforms, each step an exaggerated sway of hips that had been trained, in secret physical therapy sessions, to move with a liquid, feminine roll. The world narrowed to sensory inputs: the stares (some shocked, some leering), the feel of cool air on his thighs, the heavy, sensitive weight on his chest begging for hands, for mouths. The noise in his head was the good kind now—a soft, welcoming static of anticipation.
He spotted a table of four teenage boys, maybe seventeen or eighteen, nestled in a corner by a giant plastic palm tree. They were a knot of hoodies and jeans, hunched over phones, sharing a mountain of nachos. Perfect.
He sauntered over, the click of his heels cutting through their murmured conversation. They looked up, one by one. Jaws went slack. Phones were forgotten.
“Hiiii,” he chirped, leaning forward, resting his palms on their sticky table. The angle was obscene. The pink tube top plunged, offering them a perfect, moon-shaped view of the soft, creamy tops of his breasts, the shadowed valley between them. He saw their eyes lock onto the flesh, saw the quick, awkward adjustments in their pants. “I’m Candy. This is, like, such a boring mall, don’t you think?”
One of them, a lanky kid with acne, managed to grunt, “Uh. Yeah.”
Another, heavier-set with a smug grin, recovered faster. “Not so boring now. What’s up, Candy?”
“Oh, just looking for some fun!” he giggled, straightening up and giving a little twirl that sent his skirt flaring. “I feel so… bouncy today. You know?” His own hands came up, cupping the undersides of his breasts, lifting them, presenting them. The touch sent electric zings directly to his groin, where a familiar, insistent throbbing had begun. The lace of his thong was already damp. “These things are just, like, so heavy. It’s a total pain. Do you guys like them?”
The boys were entranced, a captive audience to a live pornographic cartoon. The heavy-set one, the leader, smirked. “They’re fucking massive. Are they real?”
“Wanna feel?” The offer was delivered with a head tilt, a blink of long, mascara-coated lashes. “I really need someone to, like, play with them. They get so achy.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. He stepped closer to the leader, whose name, he now saw on a discarded jersey, was ‘Tyler.’ He took Tyler’s limp hand and placed it directly on his left breast, over the pink fabric. He guided the fingers to squeeze.
“Holy shit,” Tyler breathed, his bravado cracking into genuine astonishment. The flesh was warm, impossibly soft, and yielded under his grip. The nipple, hard as a pebble, pressed against his palm through the material.
“See?” he moaned, the sound theatrical and hungry. “They need so much attention.” He rocked into the touch, his own eyes fluttering closed. The other boys were hooting now, phones discreetly raised, recording vertically.
“Get over here, Mikey, she’s for real!” Tyler said, not removing his hand.
The lanky kid, Mikey, approached with nervous glee. Candy—not Jared, never Jared—grabbed his wrist and pulled it to his other breast. Soon both were being kneaded by rough, adolescent hands. Pleasure, hot and sharp, radiated from the points of contact, pooling low in his belly. A soft, constant moan escaped his lips.
“You wanna suck them?” he panted, looking between their flushed faces. “Please? I need it so bad. I’m just, like, dripping.”
That broke the last of their hesitation. Tyler, still groping him, used his other hand to yank down the front of the tube top. It slid down to his waist, baring him completely to the food court air. His breasts, full and round with darkened, puffy areolae and thick nipples, were fully exposed. A collective gasp came from a few nearby tables, followed by hurried whispers and more phones lifting.
“Fuck yeah,” Tyler muttered, and bent his head, taking a stiff brown nipple into his mouth. He suckled greedily, clumsily, his teeth scraping. The sensation was a lightning bolt. Candy cried out, a sharp, genuine sound of overwhelmed nerves, his hands flying to Tyler’s head, not to push away, but to hold him closer. “Yes! Just like that! Suck your Candy!”
Mikey, emboldened, latched onto the other, sucking and nipping. The dual assault of wet, hot mouths sent him shuddering. His hips began to grind against empty air, his cock, trapped and straining against the tight lace of his panties, leaking a steady soak of precum. The world dissolved into sensation: the pull of mouths, the sting of teeth, the crude cheers of the other two boys, the dozens of unseen eyes watching, recording, judging.
It wasn’t enough. The ache between his legs was a screaming void. He needed to be filled. To be used. That was the point. That was the quiet.
He sank to his knees on the sticky, crumb-strewn floor, dislodging the boys from his chest. They stared down at him, lips wet, breathing heavily.
“What are you doing, you slut?” Tyler asked, but his voice was thick with excitement.
“I’m hungry too,” he whispered, his bimbo persona layered with a depth of raw, carnal need. His fingers, tipped with chewed pink polish, went to the fly of Tyler’s jeans. He fumbled with the button, then dragged the zipper down. The bulge in the boxers was evident. He nuzzled against it, smelling stale cotton and adolescent sweat. “Please. Let me taste.”
Tyler, with a glance at his friends’ enthralled faces, shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang out, half-hard, thick and uncut. Without ceremony, Candy opened his mouth and took it in.
The taste was salty, musky, profoundly human. He gagged for a second, then relaxed his throat, a skill drilled into him in the darkness of the recovery room. He began to bob, using his tongue, hollowing his cheeks, creating a wet, slurping rhythm. His eyes, wide and vacant, looked up at Tyler’s face, seeking approval.
“Fuck, her mouth is hot,” Tyler grunted, his hands moving to tangle in the highlighted hair. He started to thrust, gently at first, then with more force, fucking upward into the willing throat.
Candy took it, tears of strain welling in his eyes, drool and pre-cum slicking his chin. The gagging only made him moan around the intrusion, the vibration earning a sharp curse from Tyler. His own need was a fire. One of his hands snaked back, under the tiny skirt, to his own ass. He was wearing the thong, but he pushed the flimsy fabric aside. His fingers, slick with spit, found his hole. It was already loosened, prepped from earlier “treatments.” He pushed two fingers inside himself with a desperate, sobbing gasp.
The boy next to Tyler, a redhead whose name he’d never learned, watched this with stunned avarice. “She’s fingering her own ass!” he hissed.
“I wanna fuck that mouth,” Mikey said, his voice shaky.
Tyler, pounding deeper now, snarled, “Get in line. She’s a fucking animal.”
Candy’s world became a brutal, beautiful trigonometry of sensation: the cock hitting the back of his throat, the frantic thrust of his own fingers in his ass, the rough grip in his hair, the voices calling him slut, whore, animal. Each filthy word was a badge. Each degrading act smoothed the last ragged edge of Jared Miller away. He was Candy. He was a cocksucker. A public toy.
He felt Tyler’s rhythm stutter, his balls tightening against his chin. “Gonna cum, you fucking bitch, swallow it!” Tyler ordered, his voice a strained growl.
Candy redoubled his efforts, sucking fiercely, milking him. With a choked shout, Tyler came, his release flooding his throat in hot, bitter pulses. He swallowed obediently, greedily, sucking him dry until Tyler pulled out with a wet pop, his cock glistening.
He didn’t get a breath. Mikey was there, shoving his already hard cock into the spit-slicked mouth. “My turn, Candy,” he said, his voice less confident but his movements desperate.
Candy welcomed him, engulfing him, letting Mikey set a frantic, shallow pace. His own fingers were a blur now, scissoring inside himself, searching for that spot that would make everything white and silent. He was moaning constantly, a muffled, guttural sound around the cock in his mouth.
The redhead dropped to his knees beside him. “I want those tits again,” he mumbled, and began to maul his exposed breasts, pinching the nipples hard, making him scream around Mikey’s shaft.
It was too much. The sensory tsunami crested. His body seized. His back arched violently, his ass clamped down on his own fingers. A raw, silent scream locked in his throat as an orgasm tore through him, different from any before—a full-body convulsion that felt less like pleasure and more like a neurological meltdown. His cock jerked in its confines, spilling into his panties in pathetic, pulsing bursts. His vision whited out.
When it returned, Mikey was finishing, grunting as he spilled on his tongue. Candy swallowed on reflex, his body trembling, spent and hollow.
He slumped back against the table leg, a mess of spit, sweat, and semen. The tube top was around his waist. His skirt was hiked up, his thong a ruined lace strap to the side. His breasts were marked with red bites and bruises. He looked up, dazed, at the circle of boys, their faces a blur of satiated shock and lingering lust.
From across the food court, Vivienne finished her soda. She stood, smoothed her blouse, and walked over, her heels clicking a calm, authoritative rhythm through the stunned silence that had enveloped their corner of the mall. A few security guards were now hovering at the periphery, looking uncertain, phones pointed at them.
Vivienne ignored them. She looked down at the ruined, vacant thing on the floor.
“Candy,” she said, her voice cool and clear. “We’re leaving.”
At the sound of her voice, the bimbo trigger relaxed its absolute hold. The sparkling vacuity receded, leaving behind a deeper, more profound emptiness. The memories of the last twenty minutes were there—the tastes, the smells, the violations—but they had no emotional anchor. They were just things that had happened. Things he, it, had done.
He tried to stand. His legs were jelly. Tyler, with a strange mix of pity and contempt, hauled him up by his arm. Vivienne took over, pulling the tube top back up over his bruised breasts with impersonal efficiency. She didn’t bother to fix his skirt or wipe his face.
“Show’s over, gentlemen,” she said to the boys, her tone dismissing them as irrelevant props. “You’ve been very… participatory.”
She guided him, stumbling on the platforms, through the parting crowd. The whispers followed them like a wave. Did you see that?... What the hell was that?... Some kind of porn shoot?... That guy had tits…
They reached a discreet service corridor behind the food court, the roar of the mall fading to a muffled echo. Leo was waiting there, leaning against a delivery door, a dark bundle in his arms.
“Successful field test?” he asked, his eyes roving over the disheveled figure.
“Extremely,” Vivienne said. “The trigger held perfectly under intense sensory and social pressure. The conditioning is deeper than the adrenal response. Even shame has been bypassed.” She took the bundle from Leo—a long, black hooded coat. She draped it over Candy’s shoulders, covering him. “The physical responses are also accelerating. Did you see the areolae? The lactation should begin soon with the right stimulus.”
Inside the coat, he trembled. A single, clean thought surfaced from the wreckage, the last gasp of a drowning mind: Journalist. I was a journalist. The thought had no weight, no connection. It was a fact from a textbook about someone else. It meant nothing.
Leo pulled the hood up, shrouding his face. “Car’s out back. We’ve got the next phase set up at the house.”
“Good.” Vivienne took his arm, her grip firm, proprietorial. “Let’s go home, Candy. You’ve been a very good girl today. But the fun’s just starting.”
He let himself be led, his footsteps echoing in the concrete corridor. The only thing that felt real was the deep, throbbing ache in his breasts and the cold, slick mess between his legs. The rest was quiet. The rest was peace. He leaned into Vivienne’s side, a compliant weight.
The journalist was gone. All that remained was the lesson, written in flesh and sensation: he was Candy. And Candy lived to be used.