The Therapist’s Assistant

Kayla Hart stormed into the break room of Dr. Martin Bimbeau’s new Manhattan practice, her polished flats gliding silently across the hardwood floor. The late June sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting a golden glow over the minimalistic decor. The woman’s slim frame, clad in a neat white blouse and fitted black pants, trembled with barely contained fury as she paced, her dark brown hair pulled into a neat ponytail that swayed with each sharp turn. Her blue eyes burned with indignation, and her soft features, cute yet determined, tightened into a scowl.

Only two weeks into her new job as Dr. Bimbeau’s administrative assistant, Kayla still felt the thrill of her escape from small-town Arkansas, where her ambition had no outlet and opportunities to thrive were scarce. She had moved to New York with dreams of climbing the corporate ladder, her conservative upbringing fueling a fierce drive to prove herself and make her family proud.

The psychologist’s practice, a new venture in a high-rise overlooking Central Park, seemed like the perfect start. Dr. Bimbeau had interviewed her himself; his gray, sharp eyes looked stoic, and his tailored navy suit exuded professionalism. The older man had spoken with commanding warmth, telling Kayla his practice was a bold new chapter after leaving a prestigious medical conglomerate. “Together, Kayla,” he had said, his voice smooth as velvet, “we’ll change the world, one cured patient at a time.” Those words had ignited her, made her believe that she was part of something bigger. But now, as she paced, that memory felt like a cruel bait.

Kayla’s fingers curled into fists as she spun toward the break room’s polished countertop. She pressed the espresso button on the coffee machine; lord knows she needed a bit of caffeine to wake herself up. The brunette’s mind churned, replaying the meeting she had just endured in Dr. Bimbeau’s office. He had sat behind his oak desk, a violet jewel necklace hanging across his chest, catching the sunlight, its shimmering facets constantly distracting her attention.

The psychologist started with praise, commending her efficiency in scheduling and her attention to detail in reviewing his reports. “You’re indispensable, Kayla,” he had said with a warm tone. Then the man’s expression hardened, and he declared her fitted pants unsuitable for the practice’s image. “Skirts from now on,” he instructed firmly, “to create a polished presence that reassures our patients.” It was total bullshit, 1950s Stepford propaganda. Create a polished presence? What did that even mean? She looked professional as she was.

Kayla’s conservative Arkansas roots recoiled—skirts were for church socials, not serious work, and certainly not for a woman aiming to be taken seriously. She had opened her mouth to protest, to call out the blatant sexism, but her eyes locked onto the jewel’s violet glow, and a strange haze enveloped her thoughts. Her words faltered, her resolve melted, and she had nodded mutely, as if agreeing, before fleeing the office.

The coffee machine hissed, filling the break room with the rich aroma of Colombian caffeine. Still, it did nothing to soothe Kayla’s boiling rage. She gripped the counter, her slim fingers trembling. Her heart pounded as she muttered, “Who does he think I am?” Her voice was low and defiant, though it had stung how she had been unable to form a retort on the spot. Back in Arkansas, Kayla had always been the girl who spoke her mind, the one who challenged her high school principal over sexist practices. Yet here, in the city she’d dreamed would set her free, she had let some smug doctor dictate her wardrobe without a fight.

The brunette’s blue eyes darted to her reflection against the surface of a glass cupboard, her soft features twisted with frustration. She looked professional, damn it—her black pants hugged her slim legs elegantly, and her blouse was crisp and modest, perfect for the ambitious woman she was. Skirts felt like a total betrayal of who she was as a woman, a step toward the frilly femininity she had always rejected.

Growing up, Kayla had seen her mother wear skirts only for Sunday services, and even then, they were long and practical, nothing like the short, impractical things Dr. Bimbeau wanted. “Nothing below the knee either,” he had told her in the meeting. “You are a young woman, and you need to make the clients feel at ease.” That wasn’t in her job description. How had she let the man speak to her that way?

Kayla straightened, her ponytail swinging as she resumed pacing with a small cup of espresso in her hand. “Tomorrow,” she vowed under her breath, “I’ll march in there and tell him exactly what I think.” She rehearsed the words, determined to put her foot down. ‘Dr. Bimbeau, I’m here to manage your office, not to play your dress-up doll. My pants are professional, and I won’t change for your outdated ideas.’ The speech felt solid, empowering, a reclaiming of the voice she’d lost in his office.

The brunette’s fingers brushed her blouse, smoothing it over her slender waist. She wasn’t some naive small-town girl anymore; she was in New York to make a name for herself. Yet a flicker of doubt crept in—could she risk her first big-city job over this? Her family back home was counting on her, their pride riding on her success. Losing this position so soon would mean failure, a return to Arkansas with nothing to show for it, all over a couple of stupid skirts.

The admin assistant stopped, her gaze settling on the break room’s tall window. Her reflection stared back, blue eyes fierce, dark hair professionally pulled back; she was a woman who refused to bend. Tomorrow, she would face Dr. Bimbeau and lay down the ground rules. She may well work for him, but he needed to know his boundaries. With a final, determined nod, Kayla turned toward the door, ready to finish the day and prepare her fight.

❖

Two days later, Kayla once again found herself pacing the break room of Dr. Bimbeau’s therapist practice, her black pencil skirt clinging to her slim thighs, its hem grazing just above her knees. The June air filtered through the tall windows, bathing the space in a Summer glow. The brunette’s white blouse, tucked neatly into her high-waist skirt, accentuated her slender waist, as her patent flats continued to wear down the break room floor with her pacing.

The soft clink of a teaspoon against a ceramic mug echoes as Kayla stirred sugar into her tea. Her blue eyes, sharp with defiance, glared at the polished chrome of the sink, where her reflection revealed a woman she barely recognized. Okay, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but Kayla resented her new enforced outfit requirements. The skirt she’d accepted, although she had no idea how or why. It hugged her curves too tightly, making her feel exposed in a way she didn’t like, a far cry from the practical pants she’d worn her first two weeks.

Kayla’s mind spiraled back to the earlier meeting with her boss, the memory stoking her fury like a spark on dry wood. She had strode into his office, heart pounding with resolve to challenge his skirt mandate, her speech rehearsed in an attempt to reclaim her autonomy. He’d sat behind his desk and complimented her dedication. “Kayla, your dedication is exceptional, as proven by your choice in outfit,” he’d begun smoothly, his voice feeling distant as she caught glimpses of the violet jewel around his neck. “However, those flats lack the sophistication our patients need. From now on, you will wear high heels, at least four inches tall, to create a welcoming atmosphere. You are the face of this brand, Kayla.”

The words had hit the brunette like a slap, their sexist undertones echoing the outdated expectations she’d fled back home. Heels were for women who prioritized superficiality over substance, not for someone like her.

Kayla had opened her mouth to protest, to tell him that there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d have her parading around his clients in high heels, but the jewel’s shimmering glow snared her gaze. A warm, suffocating haze clouded the woman’s thoughts, her words dissolving instantly in her struggling brain. She’d nodded, her lips parting in a silent agreement she didn’t understand, and left his office. Now, as she gripped the mug and recalled the meeting in her mind, she muttered in fury, “I’m not his damn Barbie.” Her voice trembled as she wondered why she hadn’t stood up to him.

The tea’s sweet aroma curled around Kayla, but it failed to calm the storm raging within her. She set the mug down with a sharp clink, her slender fingers brushing the small silver studs in her ears. Back home, she’d worn flats to every diner shift, every church picnic, every date. Heels were for girls chasing the wrong kind of attention, not the type Kayla approved of. The idea of tottering around in four-inch stilettos, her legs on display for Dr. Bimbeau’s clients, made her skin prickle with humiliation.

Kayla leaned against the counter and looked down at her new ensemble. She hated it, hated how the skirt made her feel like a prop on display rather than a professional. She knew this had to end. She was a strong, independent woman from the South. She knew how to handle men like her boss. Kayla rehearsed her next confrontation, her voice firm. “Dr. Bimbeau, I’m here to schedule appointments and take phone calls, not to strut around for your patients. Heels don’t make me better at my job, and I refuse to wear them.”

The break room door swung open, and a young assistant, Claire, breezed in, her auburn curls bouncing as she carried a tray of empty mugs. She glanced at Kayla, her eyes lingering on the snug skirt. “Wow, Kayla, that skirt is stunning,” Claire said, her voice bright with admiration. “I can’t believe how much it suits you. Keep it up.”

The brunette assistant’s lips tightened into a forced smile, her heart sinking at the unwanted attention. “Thanks, Claire,” she replied with a clipped tone, masking the irritation bubbling inside. The compliment was a replica of similar statements she’d heard today, and it was grating on her nerves. How can a single dumb change prompt so many to comment on your appearance? Claire, oblivious to Kayla’s inner torment, hummed softly, setting the tray down before leaving.

Alone again, Kayla’s gaze drifted to the window. Doubts gnawed at her—could she risk this job, her first step in the city, over something as trivial as heels? Her family’s pride, their belief in her, weighed heavily. She wasn’t naive, but New York’s cutthroat world demanded she play the game, at least for now. Kayla’s fingers smoothed the skirt’s fabric as she straightened up, determined to put this right. Tomorrow, she would face Dr. Bimbeau and tell him that she wasn’t his to mold. With a defiant toss of her ponytail, Kayla grabbed her tea and headed for the door, her shoes pressed softly, ready to stand up for herself.

❖

Kayla paced the public female restroom of Dr. Bimbeau’s practice, her four-inch black stilettos clicking audibly against the tiled floor. Her navy skirt hugged her thighs, and a cream blouse accentuated her slender waist. However, it was the heels that felt like shackles, forcing an unsteady sway with each step. Her dark brown hair, still pulled into a high ponytail, and her blue eyes glared at her reflection in the mirror, her bare face a stark contrast to her ever-feminine outfit.

Only three weeks into her new life, Kayla’s ambition to climb New York’s corporate ladder and change the world with the enigmatic doctor seemed to be crumbling around her. She had complied with the skirt rule, then the heels, each concession chipping away at her identity.

This morning, she had marched into his office, determined to refuse the stilettos, her speech rehearsed over and over again until she had it memorized. However, now she was standing in the restroom, Kayla’s mind replayed the meeting, each detail fueling her growing rage. Dr. Bimbeau leaned back in his chair, his white doctor’s jacket over the top of a sky blue suit. “Kayla, your professionalism is outstanding,” he had said smoothly, “but your face lacks the warmth our patients need as it is. From now on, you will wear bright, heavy makeup whenever you come in to work. This will create a disarming, welcoming presence that our clients will love. Don’t forget to pack a compact mirror, as you’ll be expected to touch it up at least once an hour.”

The words had sliced through Kayla’s pride like a blade, their patronizing tone a mockery of her feminist values. To Kayla, only vapid socialites and beauty queens used makeup. Her features were soft enough that they needed no embellishment. The woman wanted to snap back, to tell him she wasn’t his painted puppet, that her bare face was professional enough for any office. But as her eyes caught the purple jeweled necklace shimmering at her boss’s chest, her thoughts were engulfed by a suffocating mist, her rehearsed speech vanishing into thin air. Her lips had parted, but they hung silently, her head nodding in affirmation before she had fled to the restroom, her heart pounding with shame.

Kayla gripped the sink, her fingers clenching as she stared at her reflection. “I’m not his damn plaything,” she whispered, her voice quivering with defiance. Her blue eyes burned, her unadorned lips and gentle cheeks looking naturally beautiful without garish paint to decorate her. The idea of slathering on bright makeup, checking it hourly like a vain teenager, made her feel sick. Once again, she rehearsed her refusal. “Dr. Bimbo, enough is enough. I’m here to do my job, and I won’t be plastering my face to appease your clients.” She never had a problem telling a man exactly what she thought before, so why was it such a problem now?

The brunette’s heart thudded, her fingers tightening on the sink’s edge as she stared into her own eyes, searching for the fire that had always defined her. She was a warrior, a feminist, an activist. Why was it, then, that the moment she entered her older boss’s office, her voice vanished, swallowed by an alien instinct. Why did she listen to his chauvinistic requests without pushing back, and why did she comply with those abhorrent requests the very next day?

She leaned even closer to the mirror, her breath fogging the glass, her blue eyes tracing the soft curve of her slightly plump lips, the gentle slopes of her cheeks. Makeup would hide her true features, turn her into someone else, someone frivolous, not the serious professional she sought to become. She wasn’t here to play a perverted role in Dr. Bimbeau’s twisted version of a welcoming office; she was here to build a career, to prove her worth. Her fingers brushed her blouse, smoothing it over her slender waist, a desperate attempt to reclaim control. “Tomorrow,” she vowed, her voice low but fierce, “I’ll tell him no. I’ll quit if I have to.”

But doubt crept in, just like it had last week. Could Kayla afford to walk away? New York was expensive, and she wouldn’t last long without a stable income. How long would it be before she found another job? Would she be forced to return to Arkansas with her tail between her legs? The woman’s lips trembled. She had already made so many concessions for her boss; could she make another?

Kayla stepped away from the sink, her stilettos clicking as she crossed her arms, her gaze dropping to her outfit with a surge of disgust. The navy skirt clung to her thighs like a second skin, its short hem exposing her legs in a way that felt utterly foreign. The four-inch heels forced her calves into a taut curve, making every step a wobbly performance she hadn’t signed up for. Her legs felt cold from the A/C, and her calves were in pain from their forced posture. This wasn’t the practical, no-nonsense style she was used to.

Her eyes narrowed as she internally vowed to end this. “No more,” she groaned with determination. Tomorrow, she would march back into the doctor's office, ignore everything that man said, and demand that he treat her with respect. With a final, defiant toss of her ponytail, Kayla turned toward the door, her heels echoing in the bathroom, ready to reclaim her identity.

❖

Kayla stormed into the public restroom of her workplace clinic, her black five-inch strappy stilettos clicking furiously against the black and white tiled floor. Her navy blue blouse clung to her slender frame, and the black pencil miniskirt hugged her hips, its hem barely covering her thighs. Smoky eyeshadow framed her blue eyes, red rouge flushed her cheeks, and bright red lipstick painted her lips, the exact look she had been mandated to adopt. Her dark brown hair hung loosely around her face. She hadn’t put it up today, falsely believing the hair would mask the paint on her face. Absently, she pulled her compact mirror from her bag and touched up her lipstick. Was it another hour in this hell already?

The brunette snapped the compact mirror shut, her red-painted lips trembling with rage as she shoved it back into her bag. Three weeks into her job as Dr. Bimbeau’s administrative assistant, her ambition to build a respectable career in the big city was fading fast. She had succumbed to her boss’s demands for skirts, heels, and heavy makeup, each change eroding her identity as a serious professional.

Earlier, she had entered the man’s office, determined to quit, her speech honed to reject the makeup mandate. Unlike her previous visits, the psychologist allowed Kayla to speak, to rant about how his demands were unacceptable in the modern world and how she wasn’t going to stand for it any longer. She even told him that if he didn’t alter his expectations, she would quit on the spot. However, when Dr. Bimbeau raised a hand, his purple jeweled necklace reflecting on his chest, the brunette assistant found herself falling silent midsentence.

“I understand your concerns, Kayla,” he said calmly, “and I appreciate how disarming and beautiful your makeup is today.” He leaned back on his plush office chair, crossing his arms as if to examine the view. “However, we all need to make sacrifices around here for the greater good of our patients,” he smiled, a smile that prompted Kayla’s heart to flutter, and her anger to simmer away. “You need to go further. Many of our clients have had the most traumatic experiences in their lives, and dark colors only assist in bringing that trauma back to the surface.” He spoke so matter-of-factly, as though it were a scientific fact, and no one could question him. “I don’t want to see you wearing dark colors anymore. From now on, you will wear bright, cheerful hues in every part of your outfit. No exceptions.”

His demand was outrageous? What serious businesswoman wears nothing but pastel colors? Paired with her makeup and other outfit restrictions, she’d be the laughing stock of the practice. She wanted to yell, to tell him that this was unacceptable, but the jewel around his neck distracted her once more, and she softly nodded before heading out of the office.

Kayla slammed her fist down on the sink’s white porcelain as she stared in the mirror. “He’s doing something to me,” she muttered, her voice low, edged with a mixture of both fury and fear. Her eyes, framed by dark eyeshadow, burned with suspicion. This wasn’t just about his sexist rules; something unnatural was at play. The psychologist was doing something to her mind, and she couldn’t figure out what it was. Dr. Bimbeau must have been controlling her, and she wouldn’t let him get away with it.

The brunette’s mind raced, considering her options. She could go to the police and report him for what? Forcing her to wear makeup and heels? The thought sounded absurd even to her. “He told me to wear skirts, and I did,” she whispered, mocking her own predicament. “He told me to paint my face, and I complied.” The words stung, her inviting red lips moving as she spoke. No cop would take her seriously with those accusations. The psychologist was a renowned, respected professional, and she was a… what? Small-town nobody with big dreams and a slutty face.

A client entered the restroom, a woman in her thirties with a superficial smile, her eyes lingering on Kayla’s face through the mirrored reflection. “You look so cheerful today,” the woman said, her tone warm and approving. “It really lifts the mood in this place.”

Kayla forced a smile even as her body shuddered. Had the woman been paid to say that, just to prove a point? “Thank you,” the brunette replied politely before the woman made her way into the stall. Kayla’s eyes returned to the mirror, her red lips and smoky eyes defining her soft features. She believed in earning respect through hard work. Now, all of that was being undermined by Martin’s strict uniform policy. The thought of pastel outfits, paired with her garish makeup, made her stomach churn—she’d look like a stripper, not an office assistant.

The woman stepped back from the sink and turned back toward the door. She wanted to be out of the restroom before the woman completed her business; she didn’t want a frivolous conversation about what shade of lipstick she chose today. “I’m done,” the assistant whispered, her voice fierce despite her current appearance. The doctor’s control was tightening, but she refused to become his office decoration. She would confront him again, but this time, she was determined to receive the answers she craved.

❖

The following day, Kayla’s tall heels could be heard clicking as she took her seat at the front desk. Her tight red dress clung to her slim frame, its low neckline doing its best to show off the brunette’s modest breasts, paired with five-inch red stilettos that forced her legs into a sexy, provocative posture. Rouge covered her cheeks, black eyeliner and red eyeshadow heavily framed her blue eyes, and bright, glossy red lipstick coated her lips, completing the vibrant look mandated by Dr. Bimbeau. Even her underwear, a lacy red set, adhered to his bright-color rule. This morning, she found herself totally unable to adorn anything dark from her wardrobe. The thought was revolting, and she relented, turning up to work in the cheery red set. A huge, vapid smile spread across the assistant’s face as she sat down, unnatural and unyielding, masking the fury boiling within.

Anne, a fellow assistant sitting beside the young woman, glanced over from her nearby desk, her blonde curls bouncing as she noticed Kayla’s expression. “What’s got you in such a good mood this morning?” Anne asked, her tone curious but warm.

Kayla’s smile didn’t fade as she turned her head to Anne. “Shut up,” she said softly, as if the words escaping her bright red lips didn’t match the warm tone she told them with. She turned her head away and began angrily tapping away at her computer, her unpainted fingers flying over the keys.

The phone rang, its shrill tone filling the reception area. Kayla picked it up, her smile unwavering. “Good morning, Dr. Martin Bimbeau’s clinic, Kayla speaking, how may I serve you today?” she said, cringing inwardly at the overt respect and politeness in her voice.

After listening to the caller, she responded. “Absolutely, Sir, please hold the line.” The brunette transferred the call to Dr. Bimbeau, speaking to him while the caller was placed on hold. “Sorry to disturb you, Sir, but Dr. Frank Mitchell is on the line. He says it’s an urgent matter.”

Dr. Bimbeau’s voice responded, smooth and authoritative. “Put him through, Kayla. You’re a good girl for showing such respect.”

Kayla shuddered in pleasure at the praise, a tingling warmth spreading through her body, zoning in on her pussy beneath the red underwear, and a soft moan escaped her lips. She transferred the call before setting the handset down.

Anne watched the interaction, her eyes narrowing softly at the change in her colleague’s behavior. “Something’s changed about you, Kayla,” she said, her voice thoughtful. “You seem more pleasant lately.”

Kayla turned her head again, her smile fixed like a permanent mask. “Shut up,” she said, her tone still soft and placid, as if the words were a polite suggestion rather than a retort. The blonde colleague grinned amusedly before returning to her tasks.

Kayla’s mind flashed back to the meeting she’d had with Dr. Bimbeau just half an hour ago, the memory fueling her rage. She had stormed into his office, her tight red dress, rouge cheeks, dark eyeliner, red eyeshadow, bright red lips, and five-inch stilettos screaming compliance. She had entered clutching a formal resignation letter, determined to break free of the invisible control he had held over her.

However, two minutes later, she found herself ripping up the letter in front of him, her hands moving as if on their own, her eyes blankly staring at her boss. He called her a good girl, and she shuddered in pleasure, the sensation disarming her.

“Your negativity won’t stand, Kayla,” he had said, his violet jeweled necklace glinting. “Our clients expect a pleasant attitude to match your sunshine appearance. From now on, you will always smile at work, regardless of your true emotions, and you will speak calmly and pleasantly to everyone around. Oh, and you will address men as ‘Sir’ to demonstrate your respect for them; men like that.”

The demand was outrageous and disrespectful to Kayla as a professional. Still, she found herself nodding placidly, feeling the smile unnaturally creep onto her face immediately. As he saw her change of expression, Martin grinned and called her a good girl again, chuckling at the shudder and soft moan escaping her inviting red lips. The psychologist examined her form and style, noting that she looked good, but her style was contradictory in places, criticizing her bland hair and ugly, short nails. He handed the brunette a business card for Platinum Fashion salon, instructing her to visit tonight, telling them that Dr Bimbeau sent her, before finally dismissing her from his office.

Kayla shook her head, her loose brown hair swaying as she glanced at the ‘Platinum Fashion’ card, its pink background and plump lips logo taunting superficially at her. She had no intention of setting foot in that salon. Dr. Bimbeau could shove his demands up his ass. The brunette’s fingers tightened around the card, crumpling it further, the unpainted nails that clasped it a stark contrast to her heavy makeup. The idea of bleaching her hair and painting her nails to please the psychologist’s clients made her stomach twist. She was a damn professional!

The assistant’s gaze flicked to her computer screen, where her reflection showed off her glossy red lips. She sighed. Each “Sir” she uttered, each forced smile, felt like a collar around her neck tightening and stifling her very identity. The tingling pleasure from her boss’s praise lingered, a disturbing warmth that made her question her own mind. Why did his words stir such a reaction, make her body betray her fury? She wasn’t here to be his obedient plaything.

Kayla’s fingers paused on the keyboard, her smile still plastered on her face despite the confusion and rage burning inside. She imagined walking into that salon, letting them transform her into Dr. Bimbeau’s vision of a perfect assistant. The woman shook her head, the thought sending a shiver of dread down her spine. She had to confront him tomorrow. The assistant knew her previous attempts had made things worse, but she couldn’t go down without a fight. Her career, her ambitions, were worth more than this assholes twisted manipulation.

A woman approached the desk, her purse clutched tightly. Kayla’s smile widened, automatic and hollow. “Welcome to Dr. Martin Bimbeau’s clinic, how may I serve you?” she said, her voice dripping with mandated sweetness even as her heart sank at the words. Anna, beside her, raised an eyebrow, but Kayla continued to pleasantly assist the woman as her mind screamed for an escape.

❖

The next day, the room seemed to stand still as the heels clacked with purpose along the office corridor until he woman wearing the five-inch bright pink stilettos knocked on Dr. Martin Bimbeau’s office door and walked in. Her long, flowing, wavy platinum blonde hair cascaded past her bare shoulders, shimmering perfectly with each movement. Big blue eyes, surrounded by cat-styled eyeliner and pink eyeshadow, sparkled with intensity, while perfectly contoured pink blushed cheeks and candy pink lips gloss on her lips gave the woman a doll-like allure. She wore a tight pink tube dress that clung to her slender, athletic curves, paired with semi-sheer white stockings that accentuated her bare, waxed legs. Her nails, two inches long and stiletto-shaped, gleamed with bright, glossy pink polish. The woman was a total Barbie doll, dressed more for a night out than a shift at work.

Dr. Bimbeau looked up from his desk, his tailored blue suit crisp, and grinned at the sight before him. “Ahh, Kayla, you look ravishing today,” he said with a smooth, appreciative tone.

Kayla’s pink lips held a big smile, but her tone was soft and insistent. “Dr. Bimbo, you need to explain what you’ve done to me, Sir,” she said, her smooth, sweet voice defying the urgency of her words.

The older psychologist smiled, his eyes softening as he stared at the blonde. “Calm down, Kayla, and take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.

Kayla complied, her heels clicking as she sat, her tube dress riding up slightly to give a flash of the white g-string beneath. “What’s wrong?” Dr. Bimbeau asked calmly, as if he had no idea why she could be upset.

“This isn’t me, Sir,” Kayla said, cringing at her use of reverence, her voice shaking despite the smile. “These bright, slutty outfits, the makeup, these damn crazy nails, the blonde hair. None of it feels like me, I know it’s not. I think it would be best if we continued on different paths and I found a new job.”

Dr. Bimbeau leaned back, his fingers steepled, taking his time to respond to the young woman. “That is the problem, Kayla, isn’t it?” he said, his necklace catching the light, its violet glow drawing the woman’s gaze. “You think too much.” The man paused, his voice lowering. “You think way, way too much.”

The psychologist noticed Kayla’s altered expression and grinned. He had her again. This time, he decided to have a little fun. “You know, Kayla, when I first interviewed you, you came across as an arrogant know-it-all from some out-of-state hillbilly town with barely passable grades who thought she was going to take over New York City.” The man grinned, looking his scantily clad assistant up and down. “I found your fire without the skills to back it up fascinating, and I had a much more suitable role in mind for you, one I knew I could train you to perfect.”

Kayla opened her mouth to protest. “I’m not your pet to tro—” she began, but her boss raised a hand.

“Shhh,” he said, and her words stopped, the blonde’s pink lips parting softly as the jewel’s glow intensified in her mind.

“You’ve come a real long way, Kayla,” the doctor continued with a soft yet commanding tone. “But it’s time to let go now. Thinking is stressful, and you don’t need to think anymore, not looking like that. Men will do the thinking for you from now on. Repeat.”

Kayla’s eyes widened as her lips parted, immediately repeating the man’s message. “Men will do the thinking for me,” she said placidly.

Dr. Bimbeau grinned. “Good girl,” he said, and Kayla moaned softly, a shudder of pleasure rippling through her body, centering at her bare pussy.

“Now, you’ll reflect on what I’ve said,” he added. “Take advice from any man willing to give it, because men will think for you now.”

“Men will think for me,” the blonde repeated again without prompting, eliciting a soft chuckle from her boss.

Dr. Bimbeau nodded. “Good, now get back to work. You’re dismissed,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

Kayla nodded blankly, rising from her seat, her stilettos clicking again as she exited, her platinum hair swaying. A vapid happiness clung to her, despite a faint voice in the back of her mind screaming that something was wrong, a fleeting protest drowned out by her submissive compliance. She was no longer Kayla, the young, ambitious office worker; she was something else entirely.

❖

Three months later, the door to Dr. Martin Bimbeau’s therapy clinic opened, and the echoes of the six-inch platform heels sounded around the practice. The woman wearing them had platinum blonde hair pulled into tall, long pigtails held up by cute pink bows, long, dark curling eyelashes with black eyeliner and glittery pink eyeshadow, contoured cheeks over her botoxed face, and glittery pink gloss over her obscenely large, filled DSL lips, slightly open as she smiled vapidly.

The blonde wore a pink tube top with the word “DOLL” scribbled across the front, her huge, fake 32E cup mammoth breasts showing off both upper and lower cleavage. The piercings in her nipples were visible, showing she wasn’t wearing a bra, and her bare midriff showed off the heart-shaped navel piercing she now adorned. The top of the scantily clad woman’s g-string peeked above the tiny pleated pink microskirt surrounding her hips, white stockings reaching her mid-thigh and creating a sizable gap between them and the hem of her skirt. She had bright pink long nails, and her enhanced ass gave an exaggerated sway as she walked with provocative purpose, as if every step was designed to make a man hard.

Anna looked up from the front desk and walked the bimbo caricature head towards her. “Welcome back, Kiki,” she said warmly. “I’m glad the surgery went well.”

Kiki, formerly Kayla, giggled, her plump lips parting. “Thanks, Anna! Like, I hope the boss will totally like my new plastic titties.”

Suddenly, two hands from behind the blonde pressed over her cleavage and squeezed them together, as if workplace harassment wasn’t something to worry about. Kiki turned to find a dark-blonde-haired middle-aged man grinning from ear to ear. “I certainly appreciate them, Kiki,” he said, his voice thick with desire. “I’d love to test them out in my car.”

Kiki giggled again, her pigtails bouncing playfully. “Oh, Jerry, you, like, totally know you’re here for marriage counseling, right?” she said before softly biting her lower lip. “You’re wife so didn’t appreciate our fun last time.”

As the pair flirted, the phone rang, and Anna picked it up, listening briefly. “Kiki, Dr. Bimbeau wants to see you in his office,” she said, setting the handset down.

The blonde bimbo smiled widely, giving Jerry a flirtatious kiss on the cheek, her heel kicking up as she did. “Bye-bye, Jerry,” she said flirtatiously. “See you next week.” She smiled before tottering off to the office, her heels clicking with each step. She knocked softly on the door and entered.

As he watched the woman entering his private office, Dr. Martin Bimbeau grinned from behind his desk. “Well, well. Welcome back, Kiki,” he said joyously. “How are you feeling today?”

Kiki smiled at her boss before she registered the question, biting her fat lower lip, pausing for a moment as though she was horribly confused. “Umm, like, how am I supposed to be feeling today, Sir?” she asked, her tone eager and curious.

The psychologist chuckled heartily, his gray eyes gleaming at her response. “That’s the right answer, girl,” he said as he casually unzipped his pants. “I think you’re feeling extra hungry this morning, and you’d like to try out those new lips with some raw sausage from your boss.”

Kiki licked her glossy lips, a sudden, overwhelming hunger surging through her kind. She needed a cock in her mouth, like, right now. That was an indisputable truth. She slowly and performatively tottered around the desk, her microskirt swaying provocatively, showing off her underwear. The bimbo dropped to her knees, her platform heels scraping against the carpet as she fell. Kiki’s long, pink nails grazed Dr. Bimbeau’s thighs as she instinctively wrapped her plump, pink lips around his shaft, taking him deep with eager enthusiasm.

She moaned softly, the sound muffled, her botoxed cheeks hollowing as she sucked, her huge E-cup tits bouncing slightly. Kiki’s dark lashes fluttered, flittery eyeshadow shimmering as she bobbed her head, her pigtails swaying rhythmically. Her obscenely large lips slid along the psychologist’s length, leaving a faint trail of pink gloss, her moans growing louder as she lost herself in the act. The pleasure of pleasing the man consumed her, her enhanced ass wiggling slightly as she knelt, her body a perfect vessel for his desires. Kiki sucked harder, her tongue swirling with practiced skill, her hunger insatiable, driven by the need to make her boss happy, her new purpose etched into every curve of her transformed form. Kiki was not built to think; she was built to follow and obey.

A knock sounded at the door, and Dr. Bimbeau called out, “Come in,” his voice steady despite Kiki’s eager ministrations below the desk.

Anna entered, carrying a small stack of patient files. “Mrs. Harper will be here in fifteen minutes, Sir,” she said, placing the files on his desk.

The doctor nodded, his expression calm and nonchalant, as though he was writing a simple memo. “Thank you, Anna,” he said. “Don’t send her in until I give permission.”

Anna’s eyes flicked to the desk, a knowing smirk curving her lips. She nodded and left, closing the door softly behind her.

Dr. Bimbeau placed his hand on Kiki’s head, his fingers tangling in her platinum pigtails, sighing pleasantly as her lips worked with relentless devotion. “This is your calling in life, Kiki,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “This is where your ambition lies.”

He grinned as Kiki’s moans deepened, her glossy lips tightening around his dick, her pink nails digging gently into his thighs as she sucked with fervor. The bimbo’s huge breasts jiggled playfully with each movement as her head bobbed up and down. The pleasure of serving the doctor overwhelmed her; her enhanced ass swayed as she knelt, every inch of her crafted for this very moment. With a final, deep thrust, Dr. Bimbeau came in her mouth, hot and forceful as his semen shot down her throat. Kiki swallowed eagerly, her plump lips glistening as she pulled back, a satisfied giggle escaping her lips. He was right, this was her purpose in life. There was a tiny echo in the pit of her mind that screamed out in disagreement, but listening to that voice would require thinking, and men think for Kiki.

The blonde licked her fat lips, swallowing traces of her boss’s cum before looking up at the man adoringly. Her purpose was fulfilled, and she couldn’t wait to satisfy him again.

The End.