My boyfriend my sex slave day 3 Part 2
- 1 year ago
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Bimbabes free porn video
Now I may not have the best job in the whole world, but it's got to be close. My daddy's the founder and CEO of Bimbabes Inc and as soon as I got out of school he made me the chief tester at the end of the production line. I had to assure that each and every one of the luscious females we turned out was perfect, a fuckdoll without equal who could do anybody and anything and was exactly what the customer ordered. That was my job. Tough, huh?
While I was still in college I had worked off and on in the used slut department trying to get rid of sex slaves that had been owned but not abused. Right from the start there had been a problem with disposal of worn-out bimbos. Some people just deactivated them and had their bodies incinerated with the trash, but that was a waste. There were, after all, many men who could not afford a brand new sex slave and were quite willing to enjoy one that had been used 50,000 times or so. Our product, right from the first, was durable.
We did what we could to clean up and rejuvenate the used cumsluts and warranted them for two years or 10,000 uses. They sold, generally, for about twenty percent of the new girl price. If they stayed on the lot for 60 days, we usually disposed of them. I got a couple titled to me and installed them in the basement of my dorm. But I was glad to be done with the used sluts, an often nasty business.
Most days as end-of-the-line inspector, we each had to test and examine three or four babes, see that they were ready to deliver to their fathers, husbands, brother, uncles or whoever paid for their transformation. We wanted no rejects or defects, and each slut came with a punch list. When I stamped a girl's pudenda just above the clitoral hood "approved" it meant she was perfect, exactly as ordered and ready for use. There was only one way to tell. So I kissed them, licked them, kneaded their boobs and fucked their holes. It was a job, and I took it seriously and by the end of most days was cock sore.
I had been enjoying my father's Bimbabes since I was thirteen, and he started bringing home early models and rejects. That meant that many summer mornings I would wake up with a young, blonde beauty lying beside me, her lush body naked and her nipples erect and vulva bulging and her eyes wonderfully vacant. Hell of a way to start the day, but I'd mount her and enjoy her and empty my balls in her and then tell my father how it went and how it could be better. I didn't know it, but he was schooling me for this job.
By the time I was in high school, and perfectly capable of finding and enjoying my own sweet pussies, he was using me on weekends to try out his newest model or adaptation. I got, for example, the first wild redhead that the factory produced, what became the Flaming June model, and she damn near killed me. I was sore for a week. Couldn't even get it up.
I'm not sure exactly how the whole process went, but it generally took four to six weeks to produce a Bimbabe who was not only beautiful and super sexy but capable of performing every imaginable and many unimaginable sex acts. Bimbabes seemed to be born to suck and fuck, to enjoy it thoroughly and to give pleasure without end. They were both inventive and tireless as well as awful exciting to look at. If you could glance at one of our prime products without getting a hard-on, we had somehow failed.
At the start they were given drugs that made them calm and agreeable, docile I guess is the word, tractable maybe. By the end of three days, they wanted to become sex slaves and were willing to do and undergo anything that would help them reach that wonderful goal. Their little minds had been wiped clean of any other aspirations as well as a good bit of intelligence. They were dying to be used and used and used and not worried about anything. Their rewards at each step along the way were mind-shattering orgasms that produced unimaginable pleasure and blood-curdling screams. I got used to hearing them every time I visited the place. Howls would best describe the sound, like wolves or something, cries of pleasure. Every single girl loved what she was doing, always, and wanted to do it some more.
That was, I believe, the second step, enhancing the pleasure they got out of sex acts with some deep mental prods, a bit of drug-aided hypnosis and a tiny bit of very delicate surgery that helped their clitoris to do its wonderful job along with an energized or enlarged G-spot at their inner labia. By the end of the first week of bimbofication, most of the girls could bring themselves off with a wet fingertip. I liked playing with their bulging clits and hearing the bimbo babes squeal with delight as I tongued them. We promised writhing pleasure slaves and we delivered.
Then they went through the series of computer stimulations my father had developed that created a new memory, a wonderful set of urges and desires and set of abilities. When it was done, they wanted to be used, to be slaves, to give men and women pleasure - yes, women. That was a modification my father added while I was away at college and enjoying co-eds. What they remembered was past pleasure. What they wanted was more of the same.
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