The Werebimbo (Story)

Here it is! Something I've been stewing on for a while. I'm not suuuper happy with it, but I think it's an alright ride. This is a Second Person narrative told assuming the reader is a guy about a curse that slowly turns them into a horny bimbo girl.

Tags: second person, bimbofication, sluttery and general sex, gender feels kinda

***

It all started a month ago on Saturday night. You were out at the club with some friends, typical desperate affair to try and get some action. Plenty of sluts there, you were told. But none of them seemed to be going for your fresh moves. Okay, you were kinda shit at flirting, you admit. But that’s alright. You weren’t a pushy dick about it, and the girls all seemed to laugh it off. 

Still, it hurt just a little to know that your efforts weren’t bearing fruit. That is, of course, until you found the hottest, thiccest blonde you’d ever seen in your life. She was bursting out of her crop top and cutoffs. Her lips looked almost unreal, the kind of thing you’d see on an oral-themed fleshlight than a real person. You had to practically tackle your buddies to get to her first. She was taller than you by a few inches, but that was cool as far as you were concerned. She’d be shorter once bent over your couch at home.

The tall cutie fell head over heels for your dumbest pickup line, giggling so sweetly that you couldn’t help but fall a little in love. She twirled her hair in her finger as she talked, and after you picked up that she wasn’t the brightest bulb in the lamp store, told her all kinds of ‘impressive’ things. You were an Astronaut on sabbatical, enjoying the night life before going back to work on the International Starship. She gasped and fawned and praised your intelligence, which did pick you up a bit. Before long she had you pinned against a back wall, pressing her fuckable lips against yours and practically fucking your mouth with her tongue.

It’s the first time you let a girl take control, and it felt kinda awesome. You made out like crazy until she saw a friend call her over. With a single trail of spit connecting you for a brief second, she pulled back. 

“Nice meeting ya. My name’s Trixie by the way, call me anytime~” She grabbed your phone out of your pocket (but not before squeezing your bulge~) and typed in her number. She typed it into your internet browser, but it was a thoughtful gesture! You placed the number in with the rest of your past and potential hookups and had a pretty good night afterwards. No other cuties mashed their face to yours, but hey, once was good enough!

At first, the changes were subtle. Usually you clip your nails regularly, but for some reason you kept forgetting to. Having the nails grow longer looked...nice. You’ve been shaving your junk area regularly since you started college but you couldn’t help but let the razor drive a little farther this time. Smooth legs feels right, and when you slipped into clothes again, you noticed the lack of hair between you and the clothing. Almost feels sensual, in a strange way. You liked it.

The blackouts started about a week after you made out with Trixie. One moment you were at home, working on a job at your home computer. You remember distinctly the feeling of frustration at your coworkers at being unable to keep up with your work. And then...nothing. The next thing you remembered, it was daytime and your alarm was blaring that you were nearly late for work. When you threw off the covers, you realized that you would be late after all. 

Someone had covered your chest in hickeys, and there was a distinct sticky residue on your tummy that you could only imagine would be one thing. Had you had some kind of intense wet dream? That didn’t explain, of course, that you were now wearing a different set of underwear than you’d gone to bed wearing. It was purple, not your choice of colours at all, and almost appeared like it was from a women’s catalogue! 

After showering, changing, and heading for work, you try to figure out what had happened to you the night before. The memories terminated at that moment of frustration. It didn’t make any sense! Before you entered your office building, you thankfully catch the fact that there was a lipstick mark still prominent on your collar bone in the rear-view mirror. You hastily rubbed it off as best you could. Now all you had to do is explain why you’re late to your boss.

A few days later, it happened again! This time you could piece together a few fragments as you stumble out of bed, smacking your gums to try and get the strange taste out of it. You remember going back to the club. But this time, you weren’t with your friends. You danced with girls, who seemed to like you a lot more that they had before. Other guys noticed you too, which was strange. You were wearing something different, something that made you look and feel amazing. With horror, you looked down to realize you were still wearing it; where the fuck did you get a pink cocktail dress?! You yanked it off, ignoring the stains around the waist area, tossing it into the hamper. Not into the trash or anything...after all, it might be an important clue!

You go through your phone to look for any hints as to what happened. There aren’t any pictures saved, which you’re partially grateful for. But there is some purchase details in your Amazon you apparently made while blacked out. It explained how you got the dress, and why your credit balance was so out of wack the last time you checked. Dresses, skirts, thigh high socks, hairbands, even lingerie! You quickly cancel a dozen more purchases that hadn’t shipped yet, but your finger comes to a halt when you scroll towards the ones that were already on their way. There was no point cancelling them, you reasoned, so you let them go. You can always send them back  once they got here...

Something was happening to you, but you had no idea what it could be. Your brain was glitching, making you lose hours of time, then forcing your incapacitated body out into lewd situations in a girl’s outfit. You should be mad. You should be mortified! People saw you dressed like a slut...but you weren’t either of those things. It was concerning, yes, to lose time. But the outrage and shame that should be welling up and threatening to crush you didn’t come. In fact, it was dangerously close to acceptance. Those flashes of of the nights before were appealing. Nobody was threatened or disgusted by you. Everyone just seemed to enjoy themselves, even strangers! 

You still had to figure out the cause of all this strange behaviour. It took you half a day of thought to pick out once incident that could be the starting point: your makeout session with Trixie. It had all started after that night! Maybe she’d slipped something into your mouth while she was Frenching you that was making this happen? You call up her number, and a distinctly less spritely voice answers.

“Hello.”

“Yeah, hi, I’m looking for Trixie? She said I could call her at this number,” you said. The voice on the other end sighed hard.

“Of course she did. Look bud, I got some bad news for you. Did you make out with a dumb blonde in the last little while? And are you experiencing blackouts, strange memory flashes, and bad tastes in your mouth?” After you say you were feeling all those things, the voice gives a bitter laugh. “Sorry to say, hun, but you’re a Werebimbo now.”

“A Werewhat?”

“A Werebimbo. You have a curse that turns you into a dumb, ditzy girl whenever you get flustered. And if you don’t let her out on your own, she takes over your life. You’ve started taking better care of your body, haven’t you?”

Your reflection in the kitchen window confirms that. You’ve never looked more striking. It’s not just the teased eyebrows or the slightly longer than normal hair. Your skin looks like it’s had a full exfoliation or something. The normal blemishes and the old scar on your forehead are nowhere to be seen. You remember doing these things, but you didn’t realise it was abnormal until that very moment.

Panic set in. “Oh my god...how do I stop it? How do I fix this?!”

“You don’t.” She hung up after that, and the fear really started to mount. Stuck like this forever? How would you even go on?!

You dived hard into ignoring the problem. You restrained yourself at night using rope and a number lock that could only be solved with a simple math problem. Your bimbo self only scribbled frowney faces on your tummy with the marker you left yourself. That seemed to hold her back when you were asleep, but the other trigger, when you became too emotional, was difficult to deal with. Having the looming threat of an alien personality over your head stressed you out. A lot.

At work, your job required your full attention. But with the infection taking up space in your mind, you couldn’t help but lose track of where you are in your project. That made you frustrated, but it also made you giggle. It all seemed so silly, being mad at something like this. You laughed and laughed and you only stopped when one of your coworkers came in to ask what’s so funny. You tried to explain, but the humour just slipped out of your dim little mind. Distantly, you realize that something isn’t right. Were you slipping into girly mode? But you maintained control. After the tittering subsided, you got back to work as if nothing had happened.

On your way home, you dropped by the drugstore to pickup some makeup. You explained in an overly self-conscious voice that you were just doing it for your girlfriend. You knew the cashier could see through your terrible lie, so you hustled out of the door as fast as you could go. Once past the door to your apartment, you tried out the items you bought. Your efforts were clumsy, to say the least, but that had the appeal of looking like a cheap whore. You gazed at your reflection in the hallway mirror. Yeah...a dirty, filthy whore~

The self-loathing hit like a freight train. What were you doing?! You removed as much of the makeup as possible, then went to work cleaning off your fingernails. The disease or curse or whatever it was had gotten into your head and was MAKING you like feminine things. You had to keep it straight. You were a guy! You didn’t like this stuff! Swallowing down every hint of girly behaviour hurt, but it was better than the alternative.

Another blackout hit you at work. Now they were happening during the day! One moment you were in a heated email exchange with your dickhead coworker about his unreasonably sloppy execution of one of his assignments, the next you were on your knees in the supply closet with his cock in your mouth!

You gurgled in confusion just as a warm, salty taste splashed against your palette. You do your best not to gag at the confusing sensation, but can’t help but notice the painful tightness against your own pants. He patted your head and called you a good cocksucker, and that you were worth keeping around. Swallowing his cum, you could say nothing to dispute that assertion. You waited until he had closed the door behind him before standing up yourself, lest he catch a glimpse of the bulge in your pants.

You were bimbo free for the next few days, which was a relief. You tried out the clothes as they arrived. They all fit, of course, at least your dumb self was decent with measurements. Sliding on a pair of thigh highs and panties made you tingle in a way you weren’t entirely comfortable addressing in your conscious thoughts. It just felt...nice to try this stuff out. Eventually, your self-consciousness returned, and you tossed the girly things into a drawer. This curse wouldn’t turn you into a horny crossdresser! It just couldn’t!

The blackouts returned during a particular nasty road rage incident. You awoke with your face pressed into a pillow. Your eyes exploded open, then lidded when you felt a finger probe your ass. Someone was...touching you. Fingering your naughty place. You’d felt nothing like that before! Resistance felt like such a pointless endeavour. Why not just enjoy this, while it lasted?

You were halfway to orgasm when the finger was replaced with something bigger. By that point your worries were a distant memory. The stranger’s cock filled you up so good. He hammered into you, making you babble and gasp and do all the wonderful things a horny girl should do. You’re so focused on the sensations from your rear that the climax takes you by surprise. Your stiff, untouched cock gushes out a submissive climax and makes you squeal for the first time in your life. He makes sure to let you know he’s about to nut inside you. You opened your mouth to tell him no, but the words disintegrated into a throaty moan. You relax and let it happen. You’re a good girl after all~

You’d thankfully left your car in the parking lot of his apartment building and not, for instance, stalled out on the highway and abandoned in your pursuit of a hard fuck. Driving back home left you feeling scared, but still painfully aroused. Even without blacking out completely you had enjoyed yourself. In fact, the more you admitted that you were having fun, the less time blacked out and the more you got to experience yourself!

You stewed all day, looking at all the strange changes that Bimbo You had made. Your house looked so chaotic, with dresses and frilly panties and many feminine clothes in various places as if tossed when unneeded. How long had you been out this time, you wondered? This incident seemed worse than the others, as when you checked the clock on your phone, you discovered that you’d lost three whole days! Your work had been calling this whole time, but you’d been lost in a horny haze and doubted you’d responded. You considered it a minor miracle if they hadn’t fired you yet.

You flopped onto your bed, head in your hands. What did this curse want from you?! You tried to find the common linking thread between the severity of the incidents and the events that proceeded them. You realized that the worst blackouts happened after consciously rejecting your nascent girly side and trying to ignore it. The milder incidents occurred when you just...enjoyed yourself.

It all made sense! The more you accepted the change, the less the bimbo side emerged. It was embarrassing to admit, but you really enjoyed some of this stuff. The dresses made you look pretty. Wearing makeup was like turning your face into a gorgeous, slutty work of art. And when you imagined all the sex you had as your bimbo self, you let out an honest giggle. If you were a silly girl all the time, there was no need to turn into one!

All that has led to this moment. You are standing in front of your front door, checking your appearance in the compact mirror. You look gorgeous. Your makeup is perfect, your lipstick matches the colour of your dress, and you can’t help but admire how pretty you look pouting like some Instagram slut. For the first time in a long while, you feel at peace. There’s no lingering tension or fear of the Werebimbo side coming out. You’re in control. You are doing this yourself.

It doesn’t matter what happens at the club. You could enter and just hang around the side of the room for all you care. What matters is that it’s your choice to go out looking like a beautiful woman. Because...you are. You’re a gorgeous girl. You thank Trixie, wherever she is, for helping you discover that. You zip up your purse, throw the strap over your shoulder, and turn the knob. The door swings open onto the outside world...and the start of your new life.