Chapter 9: The Bimbo's First Shopping Spree
The street was a gauntlet. Every passing glance felt like a searchlight. Jared kept his head down, the soiled flannel pulled tight around him, marching to a rhythm set deep in his hijacked brain. The itch wasn’t metaphorical. It crawled under his skin, a physical demand for softness, for tightness, for exposure. The bimbo’s thoughts were a constant, chattering stream, overlaying his perception of the city.
Look at her skirt! So cute! I want one even shorter. Ooh, those boots! We need heels, Jared. Tall ones. Make our legs look fucking amazing.
“Shut up,” he gritted out, earning a sideways look from a man walking his dog. The dizziness swirled briefly, a warning tremor. He clenched his jaw and kept walking.
The boutique wasn’t the “Silk & Secrets” his phone had shown. He’d walked past that one, his feet refusing to turn. They carried him two blocks further, to a narrower street, to a place called “Lace & Whispers.” The sign was a curving script in neon pink, one of the tubes flickering erratically, casting a sickly, pulsating glow on the pavement below. The display window was a carefully curated explosion of decadence: a mannequin draped in sheer black lace, another wearing only a corset and thigh-high stockings with intricate seams. The air around the door seemed thicker, smelling of overpowering vanilla from a plug-in diffuser, undercut by the faint, metallic scent of the city and something else—like ozone, or static electricity, the charge in the air before a lightning strike.
Yes. This is the one. This is my place.
“No,” Jared whispered, but his hand was already on the cool brass handle. He pushed. A delicate bell chimed.
Inside, the world muffled. The street noise faded, replaced by the low thrum of ambient electronic music. The lighting was soft, rosy, designed to flatter. Racks of clothing were packed tight, a jungle of satin, lace, PVC, and silk. The vanilla scent was cloying here, mixed with the smell of new fabric and a hint of dust. It was empty of other customers.
A young woman emerged from behind a curtain at the back. She had asymmetrical black hair and a small silver hoop in her nose. Her expression was professionally neutral, but her eyes—sharp and assessing—took in Jared’s disheveled state: the panic in his eyes, the death-grip on his bag, the way he stood like a cornered animal.
“Welcome in,” she said, her voice politely bland. “Just browsing, or…?”
Jared opened his mouth to say he was in the wrong place, to flee. What came out was a giggle. High, forced, and utterly alien. It bounced off the velvet-lined walls.
“I need a whole new look!” he heard himself say, his voice pitched higher, taking on a breathy, excited quality. The bimbo was at the steering wheel, her hands over his on the controls. “Something, like, super slutty. Something that really shows off my… assets, you know?”
Heat flooded his face, a scorching wave of shame. He wanted the floor to swallow him. The salesgirl—her name tag said ‘Maya’—didn’t blink. Her professionalism was a wall. She saw everything and chose to see nothing.
“We have some new pieces in the back that might fit what you’re looking for,” Maya said, her gaze flicking momentarily downward, where the damp spot from his earlier orgasm had seeped through his jeans and was faintly visible. “What kind of vibe were you thinking? Club wear? Something a little more… everyday?”
Everyday! the bimbo squealed internally. I want to be a bimbo every day!
“Oh, just, like, cute and sexy! Short skirts! Things that make my ass pop!” Jared’s hand fluttered to his chest, a gesture that felt grotesque. “And something for up here. I wanna feel pretty.”
Maya gave a slow nod. “Right this way.”
He followed her, his legs moving with a jerky, obedient stiffness. They weaved through the racks. His eyes, against his will, devoured the textures: the cool slip of satin, the rough tease of lace, the glossy sheen of faux leather. The itch intensified, becoming a throbbing need in his fingertips. He wanted to touch it all, to rub the fabrics against his skin.
Maya stopped at a circular rack. “These are our micro-minis. Very popular.” She gestured to another. “And here we have bralettes, bustiers, that kind of thing. Dressing rooms are in the back. Take your time.”
She retreated, returning to her perch by the register, pulling out her phone, giving him the illusion of privacy. It was a charity. They both knew it.
Alone by the rack, Jared trembled. His hand reached out. It hovered over a pair of leather-look hot pants. He snatched it back.
Don’t be boring, the bimbo sighed. That black one. The pleated one. It’s perfect.
His hand darted out, independent, and pulled a skirt from the rack. It was indeed black, pleated, and so short the waistband looked like a wide belt. The material was cheap polyester, but it shimmered under the lights.
“No,” he breathed. “I can’t wear this. I’m a man. This is insane.”
You’re my bitch, the bimbo corrected, her mental voice hardening. And you’re so fucking hard right now it hurts. Put it on.
The conflict triggered it. The resistance, just as Vivienne had promised. A bolt of pure, unadulterated arousal shot through him, so intense his knees buckled. He grabbed the rack for support. His cock, which had softened to a semi-hard state of exhaustion, swelled painfully against his jeans. A fresh bead of pre-cum dampened his briefs. The shame was molten, but the pleasure was a sharper, more immediate truth. Fighting made him horny. Fighting made her stronger.
A low sob escaped him. He clutched the skirt to his chest, along with a flimsy pink bralette he hadn’t consciously selected, and stumbled toward the curtained dressing rooms.
The space was a closet, mirror on one wall, a velvet stool, a single hook. The curtain didn’t reach the floor. He stood there, panting, staring at his own wide, terrified eyes in the mirror. The man looking back was a stranger—pale, sweating, pupils dilated.
Now. Clothes off.
His hands went to the button of his jeans. This time, the fight was weaker, a pathetic spasm of will. The arousal pulsed, a tempting reward for compliance. He undid the button, dragged down the zipper. He shoved the jeans and his boxer briefs down together, kicking them off along with his shoes and socks. He stood naked from the waist down in the chilly little room, his cock fully erect, curving up toward his stomach, throbbing with every heartbeat.
“Look at me,” he whispered to his reflection, the last vestige of Jared Miller. The rationalist. The journalist. He saw a naked man holding a schoolgirl’s skirt.
You’re beautiful. Now, put it on.
Bending was an ordeal. He stepped into the skirt, pulling it up over his thighs. The fabric was absurdly light. It settled at his waist. He turned, looking over his shoulder at the mirror.
It barely covered the curve of his ass. The pale globes of his cheeks were mostly exposed, the bottom cleavage clearly visible. The pleats flared slightly. It was the most degrading thing he had ever worn.
Fuck yes. Look at that. We’re such a slut.
Arousal, thick and heavy, pooled in his gut. He was humiliated, exposed, and his body was screaming in approval. His cock twitched, dripping onto the dusty floor of the dressing room.
Next, the bralette. It was a confection of pink lace and thin, non-supportive fabric. He fumbled with it, trying to clasp it behind his back. His coordination was off, his fingers thick and clumsy. The bimbo grew impatient.
Just put it on front-first and twist it around, dummy.
He did. The lace scratched his skin. He got it fastened, then had to adjust it. The cups were designed for a fullness he didn’t possess. They sat loosely against his pectorals, the empty space a cruel joke. He looked up at the mirror.
The reflection was a grotesque parody. A lean, masculine torso with a dusting of brown hair across the chest, topped with a frilly, pink lace bralette. Below the narrow waist, the scandalously short black skirt. And between, his erect, leaking penis, utterly unabashed.
“I look ridiculous,” Jared said, his voice hollow.
You look hungry, the bimbo corrected. You look like you need to be fucked. But first, we need heels.
“No. No heels. This is enough. We’ll buy this and leave.”
Heels. The command was a ice pick in his mind. Now. Go get them.
He tried to plant his feet. The dizziness returned, but this time it was accompanied by a sharp, psychic pain, a scraping behind his eyes. The itch under his skin became a burning rash. He gasped, doubling over.
Or we can just stand here and hurt. Your choice.
Tears of frustration blurred his vision. He straightened up, his breath coming in ragged hitches. He looked at the curtain. Beyond it was the shop, and Maya, and a world that would see him.
“I can’t go out there like this.”
You can. You will. She’s seen weirder. Now MOVE.
His hand, trembling violently, pushed the curtain aside. He stepped out into the rosy light of the store.
He was barefoot. Wearing only the skirt and the bralette. His erection was completely obvious, jutting out from under the skirt’s short hem. The cool air of the shop raised goosebumps on his skin.
Maya looked up from her phone. Her neutral mask slipped for a fraction of a second. Her eyes widened, traveled the length of his body, and then the professionalism slammed back down. It was worse than disgust; it was this bland acceptance.
“Find everything okay?” she asked, as if he were wearing a sweater and slacks.
“I need heels,” Jared said, the bimbo’s chirp strangled by his own horror. “Something high. With a strap.”
“Platforms or stilettos?”
Stilettos! Make my legs look long!
“Stilettos,” he whispered.
Maya nodded, unfazed. She walked—he had to follow her, his bare feet slapping on the polished concrete—to a wall of shoes. She pulled down a box. Inside were a pair of shiny black PVC stilettos with a thin ankle strap. The heel was at least six inches, needle-thin.
“Try these. Size… ten?”
He nodded mutely. He sat on the velvet stool she indicated, his skirt riding up so high his balls were practically exposed. He didn’t care anymore. The boundary between shame and arousal had dissolved into a numb, buzzing static. He fumbled with the straps, got them onto his feet. They were tight, constricting. He stood up.
The world shifted. He was suddenly towering, unsteady. The shoes forced his posture to change, his back to arch, his ass to push out. He took a wobbly step. The click of the heel was authoritative.
Oh my god. I love them. Look at my legs.
He looked in a full-length mirror nearby. The image was devastating. The heels elongated his calves, made his thighs look tighter. The short skirt emphasized the length. The pink bralette was a splash of childish color against his taut stomach. And his cock, framed by it all, was the undeniable, obscene centerpiece.
“I’ll take it all,” he said, his voice flat now, all fight drained. “What I’m wearing.”
“Of course,” Maya said. “I’ll get you a bag for your… other things.”
She went to the register. He followed, walking carefully, the unfamiliar muscles in his feet and ankles protesting. Each step sent a little jolt up his spine. He felt exposed, vulnerable, and intensely, dangerously sexy. It was a drug.
At the counter, she began to tag the items. “The bralette, the skirt, the heels. Anything else? We have some stockings that would look amazing with this.”
Yes! Yes! The ones with the seams!
“The ones with the seams,” Jared echoed.
She added a pair of sheer black stockings with a dark back seam. “That’ll be two hundred and forty-seven dollars and fifty-six cents.”
Jared reached for the wallet in his discarded jeans, which Maya had neatly folded into a shopping bag. He pulled out his debit card. His hands were steady. The bimbo was purring, satisfied. Jared was a passenger, watching the transaction through a thick pane of glass.
The card machine chirped its approval. Maya handed him the receipt and the bag containing his old, soiled clothes. “Have a nice night,” she said, her eyes finally meeting his with a glint of something—pity, maybe, or recognition.
He turned and walked out of the store, the heels clicking decisively on the concrete, then tapping on the pavement outside. The cool night air hit his near-naked skin. He should have been freezing. He was burning up.
He stood under the flickering neon of “Lace & Whispers,” a bag of male clothes in one hand, dressed like a cheap, gender-bent parody of a porn star. People passed. A group of girls giggled, pointing. A man in a suit slowed his walk, his eyes raking over Jared’s body with a leering appreciation that made bile rise in Jared’s throat.
See? They love it. They all want to fuck you.
“I want to go home,” Jared said, but it was a meaningless statement. He had no home. There was only this body, this outfit, this itch.
Home is boring. We’re not done. We need to try everything on. Properly.
“No. Please.”
The dressing room. Now.
The command was irresistible. It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a rewrite of his immediate purpose. He turned, the movement awkward in the heels, and pushed back into the shop. The bell chimed again.
Maya looked up, startled. “Forget something?”
“I need… I need to use the dressing room again,” Jared said, the bimbo’s voice now fully fused with his own, a sultry, confident demand.
Maya’s eyebrows knitted. “Sir, I’m about to close.”
Fifty bucks. Cash. For your trouble.
Jared fumbled in his wallet, pulled out two twenties and a ten. He held them out. “Please. Just a few minutes.”
She looked at the money, then at his desperate, hungry eyes. She took the cash. “Five minutes. I’ll be locking the front.”
She turned the open sign to closed and flicked off the main lights, leaving only the dim rosy glow of the dressing area lamps. She retreated to the back room, the curtain swinging shut behind her.
Alone in the semi-darkness, Jared stumbled back to the dressing room he’d just left. He shoved the curtain closed. The bag with his old clothes dropped to the floor. The mirror awaited.
Now. The stockings.
His hands were eager now. He tore open the package, pulled out the filmy black stockings. Sitting on the stool, he rolled one onto his foot, carefully guiding it up his calf, over his knee, up his thigh. The sensation was incredible. The silken whisper against his skin, the tightening hug around his muscles. He fastened it to the garter clips he didn’t have, so it simply gripped his upper thigh. He did the other leg. In the mirror, his legs were transformed—sheathed in a dark, shimmering film, the seams running straight and provocative up the back.
Oh fuck. Look at us.
He stood. The skirt was so short the tops of the stockings were visible. The contrast of the black against his skin, the pink lace, the severe heels… it was a complete picture. A fantasy. His cock, which had never fully softened, reached its full, aching hardness again, bobbing with his pulse.
Touch yourself.
“We can’t. Not here. She’s in the back.”
She took the money. She doesn’t care. She probably hears this all the time. Touch. Your. Self.
His right hand obeyed, wrapping around his shaft. A sharp, gasping moan escaped him the moment he made contact. His skin was hyper-sensitive. The glide was slick with pre-cum. He set a fast, ruthless pace immediately, his fist a tight, moving prison for his own flesh.
Look in the mirror. Look at the slut jerking off.
He forced his eyes open. The sight was his undoing. The person in the mirror was a wanton creature, all need and no history. Hips pumping into his own grip,