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Super-hot “bimbo virus” style story available (~11700 words). Grab it here!
Blurb:
Once the virus hits, hot MILFs and daughters work together to please their new Owner.
The pandemic changed everything. Now, one tiny virus can transform any woman into a desperate, dripping mess of need—and Jennifer thinks that’s just fine.
When Michael gets the invitation to his best friend’s “Bimb-Flu party,” he knows he should run. The government says it’s safe. The media says it’s temporary. But Michael knows better. He’s seen the videos they don’t show on the news—women with glazed eyes and swollen lips, begging to be bred by any man who’ll have them.
But then Jennifer mentions *her*. Linda. The girl who made his teenage years torture with her perfect curves and that knowing smile. She’ll be there, purposefully exposing herself to the virus alongside Jennifer and three other women including Jennifer’s hot MILF.
Five women. One house. One virus that strips away everything but raw, animal need.
Michael tells himself he’s going to save them, to prevent a reckless mistake, even though deep down he knows he’s lying. Because once the Bimb-Flu takes hold, these women won’t just want any man—they’ll want the first one they see. And Michael is about to walk right through that door.
WARNING: This story contains explicit scenes of gorgeous women subserviently presenting themselves to one lucky man and transforming into hyper-sexual, super-feminine versions of themselves to be bred and owned forever.
A Thousand(Ish) Words:
The next day, Jennifer sat with her mother Lindsay in the living room of Paige Beaufort, mother of Jennifer’s close friend and fellow cross-country runner Ellie.
Every surface gleamed—marble countertops, hardwood floors, glass tables that caught the afternoon light and threw it back in careful patterns. The air smelled of vanilla candles and that particular scent of homes where nothing was ever truly lived in, only displayed.
Paige Beaufort moved through her domain with the practiced grace of someone who had never doubted her place in the world. At forty-eight, she possessed the kind of beauty that required significant investment to maintain—subtle work around the eyes, religious Pilates sessions, a colorist who charged more per hour than most people made in a week. Her silk pajama set probably cost more than Jennifer’s entire wardrobe, the fabric whispering against her skin as she arranged cheese and crackers on a platter that looked like it belonged in a museum.
Beside her, Ellie mirrored her mother’s movements with eerie precision. Just barely eighteen years of training had produced a daughter who was less a person than a perfectly calibrated extension of Paige’s will. Same honeyed blonde hair (though Ellie’s required less assistance), same ramrod posture, same way of tilting her head when considering a question. Even in her designer sleepwear—powder blue to her mother’s champagne—Ellie looked like she was posing for a catalog. Jennifer had known her for three years and had never once seen her friend truly relax.
Lindsay perched on the edge of an impossibly white sofa, looking slightly out of place despite her best efforts. Jennifer’s podiatrist mother had chosen sensible cotton pajamas from Target, and while she’d styled her auburn hair and applied a touch of makeup, she couldn’t quite shake the air of someone who actually worked for a living. Her hands, Jennifer noticed, kept smoothing the fabric of her pants—a nervous habit that betrayed her discomfort in the Beaufort fortress.
The irony wasn’t lost on Jennifer. In a matter of hours, maybe less, all this careful presentation would dissolve. The silk would be replaced by lace or nothing at all. The perfect posture would give way to writhing need. The carefully modulated voices would become moans and whimpers. And Paige’s empire built on female empowerment would take on an entirely different meaning when its CEO was on her knees, desperate for male approval.
Jennifer pulled her own flannel pajamas tighter around herself, suddenly cold despite the perfectly climate-controlled air.
The virus had altered everyone’s interaction with sexuality—both in the material and ideal sense.
The workforce had adapted in ways that would have been unthinkable before. Major corporations now scheduled “infection windows” where entire departments would coordinate their exposures, ensuring coverage while key personnel were temporarily incapacitated. The stock market had developed new trading algorithms to account for the predictable dips when female executives caught the virus. Insurance companies had created entirely new actuarial models, though they carefully avoided using terms like “bimbo leave” in their official documentation.
Dating apps had evolved bizarre new features—verification badges for recent negative tests, filters for “seeking infection partner,” and premium tiers that promised matches with men who’d proven themselves capable handlers during previous outbreaks. Marriage rates had plummeted while divorce rates soared, as couples discovered that watching your wife imprint on another man—even temporarily—left wounds that didn’t heal when the fever broke.
But it was the quiet revolutions that cut deepest. The unspoken negotiations between women who’d once competed for male attention now found themselves united in a different kind of sisterhood. Mothers who’d spent decades teaching their daughters to be independent now helped them prepare for scheduled helplessness. Sisters who’d barely spoken since childhood coordinated their infections to ensure they’d have someone who understood when the memories came flooding back.
Lindsay had approached Jennifer about doing this together with a frankness that had shocked them both.
“I don’t want to wake up alone,” she’d said simply, stirring her coffee in their kitchen. “And I don’t want you to either.”
They’d held each other’s hands across the breakfast table, acknowledging what they were about to willingly surrender.
Ellie and Paige’s arrangement was more complex, layered with the particular dynamics of a mother who’d built an empire on female strength and a daughter who’d never been allowed to show weakness. When Paige had suggested they coordinate their exposure, Ellie had simply nodded—the same automatic agreement she gave to everything her mother proposed. But Jennifer had seen the relief in her friend’s eyes when Ellie spoke to her about it.
For once, Ellie wouldn’t have to be perfect. The virus would strip that impossibility away, leaving only base need and animal desire.
Linda had tagged along because of Ellie, a friend and fellow member at the yacht club. Exactly how Ellie had convinced the burgeoning celebrity, whose blessed life seemed to suck in everyone around her like some beautiful black hole of beauty and charm, was beyond Jennifer.
They’d chosen Michael partly because he was safe—a known quantity who wouldn’t take advantage beyond what the virus demanded. But also because he was singular, contained. One man for five women meant they could protect each other even in their compromised state. They wouldn’t be scattered across the city, waking up in strange beds with fragmented memories. They would be together, bound by shared humiliation and mutual understanding.
The pajama party pretense was almost touching in its mundanity. As if they could ease into temporary bimbofication the way they might have once eased into a spa day. Champagne chilling in the kitchen. Face masks waiting in the bathroom. Tomorrow’s lingerie already laid out in the guest bedrooms, sized up to accommodate the changes they knew were coming.
Jennifer watched Paige reach out to her arrangement of cheese and crackers, carefully making herself a small snack that was bite-sized to a bite-size. Tiny enough to not come anywhere near smudging the perfect lipstick application on Paige’s pale pink lips.
Jennifer, who had been to the Beaufort’s several times before in carefully-curated “hang-times” (Paige’s term for Ellie’s allowance of friendship activity), felt almost normal for a moment watching Paige once again be so thoroughly dogmatic about every part of her presentation.
The sharp crack of stiletto heels and a trill of satisfied, post-orgasmic giggles broke her thinking.
Cindy emerged from the hallway bathroom like a vision from a fever dream, her body moving with the liquid grace of someone who’d forgotten what shame felt like.
At five-foot-ten, Cindy should have looked gangly, awkward, all knees and elbows with how utterly slender she was.
Instead, she flowed. Her impossibly narrow waist served only to emphasize the dramatic swell of her breasts above and hips below. The long pink silk robe she wore hung open, revealing glimpses of skin so flawless it seemed airbrushed in real life. Her nipples, clearly visible through the thin fabric, stood perpetually erect—one of the documented symptoms of long-term infection. Her thighs were slick with her own arousal, still leaking despite her obviously recent orgasm.
“Sorry, ladies,” Cindy purred, though her voice held no real apology. Her pupils were dilated, cheeks flushed with the telltale afterglow. “I just needed a quick moment to myself. You know how it is when you’re expecting to see a man soon.” Jennifer didn’t know how it was; none of them did besides Cindy. That was the horror and fascination of the “nurse”—she genuinely believed everyone experienced the constant, overwhelming need that drove her to masturbate in a client’s bathroom simply because a man was on his way over.
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