Like a Build-your-own Bimbo to Him

'Just relax.' he said seductively, holding her chin in the palm of his hand from behind her. 'It'll all be over soon.'

At first, Paris had been into him. The first date had come after a week of talking online; first on the dating app they'd met on, then on the phone, and lastly on video calls. She'd seen his face, liked it. She'd heard his voice, talked about his work and his ideals; liked those, too. And, she'd even seen his body - most of it, anyway. They had both stayed on a call one night after work when both needed to shower, and, though she was a little shy of it - they had both agreed to take off their shirts. Of course, she had had far more to show him than he had to show her - but the tease he gave her, as she clutched her breasts in her hands, working his thumbs through the waistband of his underwear until it began to slide downwards, revealing a darkness behind it that had signaled the appearance of his manhood, until it had swung up into view for just a moment before he picked up the phone- well, it had warranted her meek agreement moments later to show him her chest. And, shortly afterwards, to go on a date.

Date number one had gone well; they ate and drank, laughed, and talked. Despite having shared that single intimate moment, he didn't push her. He walked her to her car and watched her leave, and did not follow, though his chiseled jawline and the curving muscles in his arms and legs certainly did stay with her. Date number two had been a hit - they had shot targets at the carnival, walked the beach to the nearby bowling bar, drank and competed horribly through three sets before retiring at last to her car. The kisses she had planted across his face and the thumping beat of her heart as her body pressed into his beneath her in per passenger's seat had left her hotter than summer, and she had told him as much that night online. The feeling of his hands curling over her ass stayed like ghostly imprints as her hand twisted beneath the folds of her panties in front of her desk, listening to him as he talked her through it until her legs had begun to press together and her moans had risen to a crescendo.

The third date had been far less heavy on the foreplay. Instead, she arrived in a red strapless all-in-one for lunch at his house. The well-cooked food was still lingering between her teeth as his hands slithered over her bosom, pushing the dress from her skin, mapping out her figure, the pair rocking sensuously as they moved as one, her lips around his own. Breakfast the next morning had been far less awkward than she might have imagined; she ate cereal in one of his bath robes, staring at the bare chest across the counter, searching those defined abs and circular pectorals until those two powerful hands slipped at last over her shoulders and below, drawing the fabric away from her body until they reached her sacred, needy womanhood, where they excited and pleasured her until she collapsed back into his embrace, quivering like a stupid little teenager. As she had looked up through watering eyes into his, only two words had tumbled breathily from her mouth.

'Fuck me.'

And now, here she was again, seated in his apartment, his food slipping into her stomach, wine tingling on her lips, her black low-backed dress once again a delightful mix of powerfully complimentary-to-her-figure and daringly easy-to-remove by his. He had been talking in more detail than usual about his work, describing his studies in biology. He was quite high up in his field, a senior in something she couldn't quite remember - 'micro-biological network development' or something. Perhaps it was just the wine hitting her, but over the last half an hour or so, she had begun to comprehend him less and less, as if his words had been growing longer and rarer.

Then, he had taken out the syringes. At first, she'd wondered if he perhaps had something wrong - diabetes or something, a disease that needed daily injections. Then, she'd begun to remember that she had spent the night here multiple times by this point - and he'd never needed to inject anything so far. Unless... Had she simply not noticed it? Perhaps he had done it while she had been asleep?

'You know,' he had said to her as he withdrew a small bottle from the plastic case, taking out a needle tip and attaching it to the end of the syringe in his hand. 'You really are gorgeous. Your hair, your face, your body...' he trailed off. 'Divine. But not perfect.' He had said. 'Not quite.' Inserting the needle into the bottle, he'd extracted a long pull of the cloudy fluid.

'Huh? What do you mean?' Paris had asked. She enjoyed the compliment - she liked to think she could pull off some good looks from time to time, and she did work hard on herself, working out to stay slender and grown really good at dressing and making herself up in ways that showed off her features. She felt her breasts and ass were her biggest attention-grabbers, her tits a little small but excellent for filling out a slim dress like the one she wore tonight and pert enough to hold it up without a bra, yet light enough not to force themselves out or push it down. Her ass had shaped up a bit after she'd started doing more squats, and she rather liked the small but bubble-shaped booty. Sure, she wasn't enamored with massive womanly curves, but she was contemporarily attractive. That said, the comment about not "being perfect" - well, she knew she wasn't perfect, but...

He just laughed, short and gentle, a jocose laugh but not an uncontrollable one - more than simple humor hiding behind it. 'Ah, Paris. Paris, Paris...' He soothed, looking at her as he strode around the benchtop. 'If only you could see it for yourself - but then, of course you can't. You're not the one looking at you... You're the one who is getting worse.' Paris frowned, the cryptic message not making much sense to her. She had been pretty sure she had his make and measure - the politeness, neatness, punctuality, morals. He had a good job and had even paid off his parents' mortgage. He was hot, the sex was great, his body felt amazing both inside and out of her, and... And... Was that really all she could remember? Vague box-ticks and sex?

Paris had never been a shallow girl, and she had seen her fair share of creeps and shitty men. It was why she vetted her dates so much - aways avoiding dating unless they had struck up a good, solid rapport with her, keeping up with conversations and showing their character. Usually, she preferred to meet people online, see if they had a clean bedroom or if they jerked off underneath the table, things like that. She had thought she had done that with him, but this creepy new side of his begged to differ. And what did he mean about getting worse? How was she getting worse?

He rounded on her, and Paris turned, watching him. She leaned away as he neared her, putting her glass down on his countertop. She made to stand, but his arm shot out and grasped her wrist, and she just wobbled on his bar stool. 'Relax, Paris,' he said as he closed the gap between them. He walked around her, his chest dragging across the skin of her arm and shoulders as he moved in behind her, gently rotating her back to face the countertop. For some reason, Paris didn't pull away - she just watched him, neither leaning into him nor away from him. For some reason, something inside her didn't want to start conflict - almost as if it were simply easier to sit here and allow this to play out than it was to fight, and risk going up against that chiseled, sensual body of his. She blinked inwardly at herself, surprised to find herself thinking with her pussy even as something like this happened to her - was she really that into the sex to be thinking, well, like a man?

The hand slipped up her shoulder, curling up her neck. It cupped her chin, tilting her head back until her scalp touched his chest. He looked down into her eyes, and she gazed up into his. His stare traced her features, washing over her nose, her lips, the cut of her chin, passing down her chest, between her breasts and lower, lower to the hem of her dress...

'Hey,' she said stupidly. 'Stop that, we're not... I'm not-'

'Hush.' her date said simply, cutting her off. She quietened, blinking at him. 'Just relax. It'll all be over soon. All you need is one more dose, and the activator...' His eyes seemed to un-focus, moving to somewhere between her chest and her face. Paris attempted to wiggle free, no longer interested in playing this out - but it was far too late.

The needle slipped into the artery in Paris' neck easily, perfectly parting the muscle and her voice box. It hurt, but not much, just a sharp pinch. Paris frowned for a moment, feeling it enter her skin. A warning alarm went off in her mind, telling her that something bad had to be happening - but what could she do? She stared up into the shadowy face above her and searched for an appropriate reaction - should she pull away? Kick or punch? Should she rip the needle away or let it finish before she did... What? No, why would she let it finish, that would mean that... That the bad thing was going to happen. Right? What was the bad thing, again?

As Paris' brain turned over these thoughts at a slower and slower rate, he depleted the contents of the syringe and removed it from her neck. He had a few spot bandages in his case for injections like this and reached over, using his teeth to pull it out and press it over the wound, a small, flesh-coloured dot. Then, he put his spare hand on the top of Paris' head and leaned her forwards gently, until her slack hands naturally took over holding her weight on the countertop. Paris blinked down at the white marble, frowning.

Charlie James Vaughn stepped away from Paris and walked casually back around the countertop, watching the black-haired woman evenly as he snapped the needle into the secure receptible in the lid of the needle case and put away the bottle. He closed it and shelved it again, pausing once it was done to sip his wine and watch her closely. The black-haired raven had worn a delicious matte-black dress tonight, though the stupid cow hadn't had the awareness to realize it barely fit around her body anymore. Her swollen bosom pushed against the fabric, and he could see the outline of her nipples shadowed in the front. There was a generous cut of cleavage showing in the dress's poor neckline.

Charlie went by Vaughn, preferring the power of the dual first-last name to his casual, lowly first and middle names. He had earned the respect and paycheck shown to him at his workplace through a mix of diligent, dedicated work, and... Some other, less straight-forward ways. Now, as the senior microbiological specialist of his division and the director of viral development, he was primely placed to be the first, and sole, name behind some of the world's most groundbreaking viral developments. His team was working on synthetic viruses to negate both the common cold and the flu at that moment, and at least one of those two research parties were closing in on live lab trials.

And then there was his private team. The small, dedicated crew of four that worked in secrecy in his lab under his personal direction. They were the ones that had developed the concoction currently surging through Paris' body at that moment. That, and a few other private projects, of course - although this one was by far the most matured of them all. He smiled wryly as he looked at the woman containing his secretive, special serum.

In truth, he had actually been attracted to her. She was hot, though small; at five-six, she was curvy but not buxom. He liked her features, and from the moment he had seen her on his screen slipping through her nightshirt, he'd known she would be ideal for his secret formula. It hadn't taken much to talk her into meeting - and although he had spiked her wine on the first date, it would have done little for her apart from begin the physical process, and if they'd broken it off, she would have had no negative effects to bear but a better body, all at his expense.

But she had taken to the drug, and shown excellent results, and so not a week later they had met again and he had 'bought' her water laced with another dose while they were out. Another week later and she was clearly transforming, her chest now twice the size it had been when they had met, and herself none the wiser - or, to be more accurate, more the dumber.

Then, they had had sex, and he had had ample chance to inject a concentrated third dose directly into her bloodstream as she slept beside him in his bed, her new breasts cupped in his sheets. She hadn't even been paying him full attention as he had talked over dinner; her eyes had constantly wandered to his stereo, or to his fire, or to watch the way he ate - all good signs that the mental changes were working as intended. The increased libido, of course, had also been a very good sign.

Tonight was her sixth and final dose. Combined with an activation agent, Paris' body now contained the full course of specially built virus he and his team had privately developed for three long years.

It was clear that the medical enhancement had been a stellar success. Paris' breasts had quadrupled at least in size, now a very generous triple-D, perhaps even quadruple-D. Her ass similarly filled out the seat it was perched on, and it was lucky that her dress was made from a stretchy material or the dumb woman would have split it trying to put it on. Her thighs had grown to match the base of her ass and he could tell from the way she ate his food that the appropriate dietary changes had set in, aiding her in putting on the bonus weight. Her waist had expanded, of course, but she still had a taught form and the extra fat had gone where it was supposed to - her stomach still remained mostly flat, though it was generally fuller. Vaughn didn't mind - he liked extra around the edges. He would hardly have designed and cultured an expanding growth virus to inflate the female body if he didn't.

As the black-haired woman wobbled in the chair, raising her head, he took in her face. She seemed vaguely confused, her eyebrows slanted together atop her eyes. Her cheeks had dimpled slightly beside an open mouth, and her lips seemed fuller and plumper, as if she couldn't quite keep them from pressing together - again, all expected signs that the agent was taking hold correctly. Even as he watched, she seemed to struggle to comprehend what was happening to her. The agent was taking it's final hold inside her brain, nullifying her intellect and effectively stupefying her.

'What...' Paris stammered. 'I... What is...' She pushed off the chair, staggering to her feet. She wobbled a couple of steps, and as he rounded the bench to approach her, he cast his eyes over her shapely body. She had blown up perfectly. 'Why do I... Like, I feel, like... So... I think... I think I'm...'

'My dear Paris,' he said, taking her by the wrist, his confidence bolstered even further. 'I don't think you need to worry about thinking right now.' He said. She turned to face him, looking into his eyes from point-blank range. She frowned, thinking hard - then, seemed to give up on it, the plump features softening as she took him in. She was like a little child, obediently following the adult's lead.

'I... I don't?' she said. He grinned at her.

'No! No, not at all. In fact,' he soothed, walking the curvaceous girl slowly towards the white leather couch waiting a few steps behind her. 'I don't think you should think at all.'

'Oh... Okay.' Paris mumbled. 'I don't thinky.' She paused for a few moments, frowning. 'I'm hungry.' She patted her stomach, and her voluptuous chest bounced.

Vaughn smiled widely. He couldn't believe how well the injections had worked. Only six doses and Paris had gone from a cute, self-important, intelligent woman, to a bloated, stupid little bimbo. His cock stiffened in his pants as he sat her on his couch, watching the way her tits bounced, barely supported by her slender black dress anymore. She sat stupidly, her ankles apart, her knees together, as if she didn't know how else to do it. She held her wrists up but her hands slack, femininely yet without any intent behind the position - she just seemed to do it because no one had given her a reason to put her arms down. There was one last change he had to check on before... Mmm, before he got to really dig into this absolute specimen sitting before him, waiting for his penetration.

'Paris,' Vaughn said, reaching for his shirt and beginning to unbutton it. 'You shouldn't try to think at all. In fact, the only thing I'd like you to think - or to feel, is about how aroused you are.'

The enlarged woman blinked up at him above puffy, bloated lips and cheeks. 'Arr-oused...' She mouthed back. For a moment, Vaughn hoped he hadn't overcooked the dumb-ifying portion of the drug a little too much - then, realising there was nothing he could do about it now even if he had, promptly stopped caring. Whether or not she comprehended the word, or anything at all for that matter, Paris clearly recognised what the word she had just spoken meant. Her knees seemed to part a little, and she looked down at herself. She exhaled, and her fingertips touched the taut fabric hovering above her thighs.

'That's right, Paris,' Vaughn said as he pulled the shirt open. 'Aroused. Horny. Needy.' He instructed. 'Wanting. Wet. Slutty.' She looked up at him curiously, as if seeking his confirmation - then she saw his chest. Her eyes widened, and she licked her plump lips.

'Good girl.' he dulcified. 'You know this body. You know you want it.' He tossed the shirt onto the couch beside her, and watched her eyes follow it before they shot back to his body. She put one hand absently around the hem of her dress, the fingers wanting to touch her core. 'You know what it does to you. You like pleasing it, pleasuring yourself with it. You find it so attractive, don't you?' He chided, almost as if speaking soothingly to a child, but with a decidedly adult tone and subject matter.

Paris' stupefied brain struggled to find argument with the words he said. She nodded. 'Uh-huh,' she said simply.

'And you want to take off your dress and fuck me,' he said as he unlooped his belt. Paris nodded, squeezing her thighs together as he spoke. 'Uh-huh,' she said, a little more breathily. The heat was building for sure.

'And you want to pleasure yourself with it - with me - until you just can't move anymore,' Vaughn breathed, sliding the belt from his pants. 'You want to fuck it over and over, all the time. You can't think about anything else. You're so horny, so very wet, and too stupid to know anything else.' Vaughn slid his trousers down and allowed Paris' eyes to wander between his legs. 'You're a dumb little bimbo, Paris. A dumb, stupid, bimbo-ified sex-toy just for me.' When Paris' tried to reply, she could only manage a weak nod, not taking her eyes of the bulge in his pants. She was grinding her thighs together now, her hands pressing into the taut fabric tented atop them. He stepped closer to her, leaning down to hook her chin, forcing her to look up at him. Her wide, child-like eyes found his own. 'Say it.' He breathed into her pillowy face.

'I'm... A stupid... A dumb... Stupid bimbo.' Paris echoed with some effort. She squeezed her crotch again, both hands pushing harder into her dress. She was clearly very, very horny. 'I'm, like, stupid bimbo slut.' She giggled at herself briefly as she momentarily heard her own words in the room, but the laugh died quickly as she looked again into his face, point-blank above her. His stare, his scent, his body were so intense... Her pussy quivered.

'Strip.' Vaughn ordered her. Grinning at something she finally understood completely, Vaughn stepped back and watched Paris stand unsteadily, reaching up to her shoulders and pulling first one strap off, then the other. Her breasts pushed most of the fabric away as it released their weight, and she giggled as the mounds were finally freed. They had grown even since she had arrived tonight, now much bigger than she had last remembered them. 'I forgotted how big I was.' she said idiotically as she watched her tits come free from the poor dress. Struggling, she grasped at her dress, shimmying it down, working it over the fat ass now pushing against it. At his word, she turned and let him 'help' her get it down, not noticing or just not caring that his "assistance" was mostly just his hands rubbing her rump and slapping it as she wiggled her hips. She giggled at the impacts, yelping slightly as the pain brought her pleasure, bending into him as she wiggled her hips to pull the tight black form down bit by bit. At last, when Vaughn had had enough of the tease, he reached around her thigh and grasped both sides of the waist, pulling hard. The fabric ripped slightly as he pulled but the last of the resisting strands gave way quickly and the dress tumbled from Paris' body. She turned again, unsteady under her extra weight, giggling.