Becoming the Build-your-own Bimbo

Eventually, Vaughn's front door lock would be picked by a very expensive, very private locksmith, paid for and personally watched by Vaughn's direct supervisor, an equal-stakes owner of the company at which Vaughn had developed his bimbo-creating, body-expanding drug. Entering the lavish apartment, he--and the locksmith, unable to resist getting a look himself--were just in time to see the massive Vaughn thrust himself to the hilt inside Claire and cum so hard that spurts of sticky ejaculate bubbled rhythmically up from the uppermost and lowermost edges of her thick, widely-split pussy, as, beside him, Ella and Paris finger-fucked each other, the smaller Ella straddling the larger woman as they shared each other's hands, adding a rocking thrust to the motion that helped to press their fingers deeply home. None of the four looked around as the door opened. Vaughn didn't even look up when his name was called; he just crammed himself further into Claire, already beginning to fuck her all over again, the previous load having barely finished emerging from his engorged tip before his thunderous pumping resumed.

On Monday, an email would arrive in the inboxes of the executive directors at Vaughn's company, advising them in broad, vague terms of Charlie Vaughn's departure and subsequent closure of his research division. By Friday, Vaughn's apartment was being thoroughly cleaned by a private team--industry's best, forensic guys. It was on the marked three days later, for a casual $2.7 million.

And by the end of the month, Vaughn and his three brainless, sex-crazed bimbos were safely tucked away in a soft, built-for-purpose room somewhere in his old workplace, watched and attended to at all times by a set of special staff, his affairs now entirely the property of the company and being used to pay for their living expenses, Vaughn contentedly fucking his brainlessness away, until one day, hopefully--possibly--they might just find a cure. Though he would never know it, he would contribute to his old employer's scientific research one more time; as a live research subject for viral agents, bloating proteins, neurological inhibitors, and hyper-sexualization.

In the meantime, Charlie Vaughn, once hyper-intelligent, now as dumb as the women he so deeply coveted, would remain in his padded home, fucking himself stupid... Every bit as dumb and sex-mad as the women he converted, a victim of both his own hubris and intellect alike.

THE END