“That’s good, deeper and deeper, so relaxed, so deep-

“You can be honest when you’re this deep. There’s no denial. There’s no anxiety. You can see so clearly-

“Deep inside you, you want to have, you want to hold, you want to rut, you want to plunge yourself into wet holes and warm flesh-

“This deep, you can feel your desires, smoldering like embers-

“And my words are like air, blowing through you, reaching deep into you, blowing on these embers, stoking these embers, stoking your desires, making your aroused, making your erect, making you stiff and needy-

“You can feel them getting stronger and stronger. Hotter and hotter. Brighter and brighter. Clearer and clearer-

“My words are filling you with desire, your honest desire, your clear desires, your undeniable desires, your burning desires, my words are making your desires burn so hot that they’re unbearable, my words making them so hot that they consume you, my words making you so hot that everything burns away except desire-

“So needy, hot and flushed, flesh burning, mind burning, filled with need, filled with arousal, just a stiff cock, just an animal cock, just a hungry cock burning with need, filled with burning desires, filled with a raging fire, burning out of control-

“And when I snap my fingers-

“Burn.”

I’m sitting in the coffee shop where I’ve been coming for the last two years. I’m trying to get out of my apartment. I think coming here helps me get off the internet and out of my own head. I usually take in the warm atmosphere, run into a friend to chat with, and relax amid the good music and cheerful laughs. Unfortunately, she’s sitting behind me.

I don’t know her. We have never met before. But she’s attractive. Seattle chic. A fashionable cut of brilliant blue hair. Cute face. Easy smile. A patch of sunflowers tattooed on her exposed shoulder. A zaftig frame with heavy cleavage. I immediately noticed her when I came in. I pointedly sat down, with my coffee and my book, with my back to her. I’m terrified that she would feel it if I looked at her. I’m terrified that she can feel it when I overhear her.

I can already feel the familiar intrusive thoughts. You’re making her feel unsafe. You’re scaring her. You’re acting like a predator.

I remind myself that I haven’t done a damn thing. I remind myself that I can just ignore her. I remind myself that she’s not really thinking about me, that she won’t even remember me, and that I’m not a mind reader. But I also hate that – reminding myself that to a stranger I think is attractive, I’m nothing.

You sound like a pscyho incel rapist.

I gulp down my coffee and tell myself that you can’t fight thoughts. Trying to reason them away just leads you down the labyrinth. I need to ignore them. I can’t even read my book now. I just put it to the side and watch the cars whiz by in the dark. I’m fine. It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.

I could probably even talk to her. Leave the woman alone. Pathetic incel. You’ll make her feel uncomfortable. You aren’t safe for women to be around. You should leave. You should talk to her. If you weren’t broken, you could talk to her. Having sex would fix you. You have an obligation to have sex. God, I do sound like a rapist. You think talking to her automatically leads to sex. You’re such a danger to women. She should kill you. You deserve it. God, stop pretending you can read minds, you ego maniac.

I must look visibly agitated now. My back is to her. I worry she can see now, the weirdo staring out the window and getting worked up. Now I might really be scaring her. If I turn to look at her and check, I will definitely look like a psycho rapist and scare her. I can’t just let women hang out in peace. I’m a horrible person.

You’re a horrible person. You’ll never be a better person until you get normal about meeting women. The first step to that is to talk to women you find attractive, like her, in a place where you hang out, like this coffee shop. If you talk to her, you’re a horrible person. You’ll never be a good person. You’ll never be happy. People who can’t be happy should die.

I should leave.

I swallow my coffee and hurriedly take the cup back up the counter, then turn on a dime and rush out, jamming my paperback in my coat pocket as I go. The pages get crushed at bad angles. I’m moving too fast to care. I step out into the cold and immediately turn left, away from my car, and head down the street. I feel the sting of failing at… something. Being healthy. I don’t want to fail again by going back home to my apartment when I intended to get away from it. I don’t think I was even in the coffee shop for a full half an hour. I’m going to walk around the neighborhood (maybe clear my head) until it’s not embarrassing to return home. My breath makes fluffy clouds at a rapid pace, like a man on the run.

I do want to run home. Home is safe. Home is in control. My apartment, with four walls and blinds, is where I can hide and masturbate until I don’t feel lonely. The urge even now is terrible. I want to read stories about women having their lives stolen from them with the wave of a wand or the snap of a genie’s fingers. I want to read about the look on a woman’s face as her sense and self-preservation fades amidst a fog of adolescent arousal. I want to read about tits and ass dominating unwilling bodies like parasites.

When I look at pornography, it feels wrong. When I imagine pornography devouring reality, it feels allowed.

I walk past a row of aging apartment blocks and turn down an alley. I’m moving so fast, I also miss the graffiti, but I do see it and it stops me in my tracks. It’s scratched onto the side of a garbage bin in sidewalk chalk. Somebody wrote a word (with question mark) and a telephone number (local). The word is something I see every day online. Seeing it in the real world makes me feel paranoid and exposed. The people I walk by every day aren’t supposed to know what this is. That’s why they don’t suspect me of it.

“Bimbofication?”

The woman on the phone directs me to a board-up storefront. I knock on the plywood. There’s no reply. My throat is so tight I almost can’t breathe. I look up and down the dark street, then try the door. It swings freely. Inside, the old shop is bare, except for two chairs facing each other. A woman is sitting in the chair that faces the door.

“Are you the, uh-?“ I have to pause and swallow, to get the words out. “Did we talk on the phone?”

“Sit down.” She is the woman from the phone. Her voice is demanding. She gets out a lighter and lights a candle next to her chair, then moves it over between the seats. She wears a dark suit. Her age isn’t readily apparent.

I walk over to the offered seat. There’s a whiff of charred fat. The wooden chair has been burned black on top. I nervously take a seat and get my first good look at my host. She has vulpine features and dark hair. Her head is buzzed on the left side and on her right side, her hair has been pulled over her shoulder in an inky waterfall. She wears glasses; her left lens has been replaced with opaque, black glass. I can see myself in its reflection.

She crosses her knees and folds her hands inquisitively. “So what the hell is ‘bimbofication?’”

“Y-you don’t already-?” I’m trembling.

“I said I would make your bimbofication fantasies come true. But it’s a funny little term, isn’t it? It invokes the idea of an object – a woman – undergoing a process, not unlike how metal rusts or deadfall rots. A consumption and digestion by the omnipresent Media, to become something that lives in the ecosystem of the Media: a model, a porn star, a scandal, a romantic interest… The triumph of the Playboy playmate. Is that it? Do you just want to have sex with a Playboy playmate?”

“I don’t understand.” My hands twist together painfully. “I guess I do?”

“Ah. Now we get to the interesting part.” She grins and leans forward. “Because intellectually, it makes sense – you want to fuck a hot blonde with tan skin and huge tits. But you don’t say it like it’s true. What do you masturbate to? Hot blondes and big tits?”

“I don’t…” I’m trembling, but I can’t deny the thrill of being asked. “I tried. It’s not… It doesn’t feel right. I feel guilty. I can only let it happen when I’m thinking about a person being changed.”

“Ah. You can’t fuck a person. You’re too nice. You need them to be an un-person, first. Poor you.” She coos reassuringly. “Poor, poor you. It’s alright.”

Tears are welling up in my eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re the victim. You’ve been hurt. You deserve help. That’s what I’m here, for.” She sits up straight and motions for me to do the same. “Take a deep breath. Center yourself. In and out, in and out.”

My heart is quickening. She is beautiful. She said she wanted to help me and for that, I feel myself falling in love with her. She locks eyes with me. We breath together.

“I’m going to hypnotize you. You want me to do this, because you want to know how to think and I want to tell you how to think. The mere idea has you excited, because I know what you want to know. I’m beautiful, aren’t I? Now a beautiful woman is going to tell you how to think and you’ll know how a beautiful woman wants you to do. You never know what beautiful women want you to do and now I will tell you. You’ll finally know everything that frustrates you and all you have to do is listen to me, listen to my instructions, and focus on me, focus on my words, focus on my voice, focus on my lips, pay attention to beautiful me. Tell me that yes, you will be hypnotized by me.”

As she spoke, her voice became more cloying and imperious. I didn’t fully understand what she was getting at, yet her words make me smile.

“Yes, I will be hypnotized by you.”

“Good boy. You’re not a bad person. You’re a good boy and you just need a chance, so I’m giving you a chance, right now, the chance you deserve. All you have to do is listen and focus. Focus on my words. Focus on my lips. Just watch my words and hear my face. Let me wash over you. A good boy will do that. Notice all the ways your being drawn in? That’s because you’re a good boy.”

She’s right. My vision is tunneling around her lips. My body is so relaxed. It’s so easy. I’m so lucky. She’s my savior.

“Now you’re going to follow my finger while you listen to my words and as you follow my fingers, your body will follow along. You’ll sway from side to side, because you’re falling under my power, because you’re giving yourself to my power, willingly and happily.” Her finger begins to criss-cross my vision. I follow along and soon, it’s true, I’m swaying along with her digit. “Good boy. Good, good boy. You’re doing so well. You’re being such a good subject. You want to be better. You want to be happy. You want to be sexy. You want to be welcome. So you’re going to transform, and I’m helping you to do that. I’ll take you down, deep down, deep deep down, to where you can figure it all out. You’re looking forward to that, good boy. Going so deep and finally getting answers. All you need is for me to push you.”

Her weaving finger draws closer and closer to me. I sway like a snake in love, watching her fingertip like predator prey poison precious. Her hand curls around to snap.

“Drop.”

I am pretending and I am not. I want to be entranced and also, I have no choice. My eyes shut on reflex. My body slumps back. My head drops forward. I can still see her lips in my mind – I am holding on so closely to the image of her lips in my mind – I know she knows I can see her lips in my mind and in my mind, her lips smile – smug, cruel, and gorgeous. I still watch her lips as she speaks.

“So good. Such a good boy. Sink deep, down, down, deep and down, so quiet, so good… no thoughts matter but my words, no sounds matter but my voice… just relax and let my words carry you deep and down, like a good boy. It’s so easy to listen and sink, good boy. It’s so easy to think what I say, good boy. Your hands are lifting up now. You feel rising up and extending forward. I’m going to hand you something, good boy, and your hands are extending to accept it. Such a good, thankful boy.”

My hands rise. I hold them in front of me, palms up. I’m ready for what she’ll give me.

“I’m placing a bowl in your hands. It’s wide, large, and made of metal. You can feel it pressing down on your palms. Tell me you feel it in your hands.”

“I can feel it.” I do feel a stainless-steel dish in my hands.

“Describe it.”

“It’s like a mixing bowl. It’s, um, wide and… the metal is cool.” It grows more solid as I find the words.

“It’s heavy, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” My arms tense under the sudden weight.

“It’s not too heavy. You can hold it just fine. But it is heavy. You can feel it on your palms and fingers. And you can feel it in your arms. Tell me you can feel the weight.”

“I can feel the weight.” I can. Or imagine I can.

“Good boy.”

I want to feel the weight in my hands so badly. My head is floating. My thoughts are drifting yet I am still. The sky of stars is moving because her words roll it forward.

“Soon, you’re going to fill this bowl. What you’re going to fill it with is everything you want. You can do this because your desires are a fountain. You could pour them out endlessly and there’s always more. It will be easy, once you start. But you always get choked when you try, don’t you? There’s always something in the way.”

Two thin, feminine hands caress the side of my face from behind. Her voice has not moved.

“So I’m going to fix that. I’m going to pull and you’re going to give.”

Fingers slide into my mouth and hook my cheeks. Two more hands cover my face and grab my front teeth. Two more wrap around my chest and hug me tight. Two more pin my arms. Two more grab my ankles. My erection is painful.

Her voice is on the far side of the universe. “I’m going to pull and you’re just going to give, like clay.”

She pulls on me. With a wet crack, my mouth widens. Is there pain? My flesh is tearing. My bones are breaking. But is there pain? She didn’t say. My jaw widens, and my cheeks pull back to match. As my teeth are pushed in, my canines slide forward to smilodon proportions. Hot blood runs down their tips.

“Good, good boy…. Just let it rise in you.”

My breath thunders and begins to mix with the sound of suppurating fluid. A sweet, oily gorge rises up in my throat. I don’t think I could hold it in if I wanted to, with my twisted mouth and throat. A trickle passes over my bottom lip and begins to plink, plink, plink into the bowel.

“Can you feel it?”

I want to say ‘yes.’ It only comes out as a monstrous sigh. As I affirm it, the flow increases. I realize the flow has increased, and the flow increases. I feel the weight increase in the bowel, and the flow increases. It’s true, everything she says is true, and the fantasies flow and flow out of me – wordless, pure, and free. There’s no end to them.

“Now, you’re going to take your bowl of fantasies and you’re going to share them.”

I walk up the street with the bowl in my hands. My fantasies are coming in a ceaseless discharge. I can’t close my mouth, not with my widened jaw and extended teeth. My fantasies dribble continuously through my maw, into the overflowing bowl, over my fingers, and onto to the sidewalk. My nasty dreams trail behind me like an oil slick. I am more than content with this; I hope a baby penguin dies in it. Still in trance, I am blessedly disconnected from consequences, sleepwalking through my own pollution, and feel only the primal satisfaction of a dog marking its territory.

I want to believe it’s infectious and maybe, by the rules of this crazy night, it will be. The fumes will come through the window of a co-ed trying to study, and she won’t be able to stop touching herself, no matter how badly she wants to focus. I want to think the oily fluid will pool around the shoes of a shy couple on a walk in the park and the good Christian girl will get an uncharacteristic look on her face before she pulls her boyfriend into the bushes. I want to believe my sickness will flow down drains and into the water table, where it will eventually come up through a lonely woman’s shower; she will try and massage her nipples when they’re pulled taunt by her slowly swelling breasts, while her hair grows longer and brighter and her snatch reddens from the tainted water flowing over and between her hairy lips.

My breath is labored, choked, and gurgling.

Dream logic leads me to a brick shop with apartments above. The side door opens for me. I walk up the stairs to a hallway with doors. My fantasies are sloshing everywhere. They are seeping through the floorboards and under doors. I fill the apartments with oneiric musk as I make a beeline for one door in particular. When I reach it, she opens the door – the woman from earlier, from the coffee shop. She takes a deep of the fumes and smiles drunkenly.

“Oh, heeey,” She barely registers me. She’s looking through me as one hand casually mauls her own tit. “Do you have a, like, cock?”

My words are inaudible. She doesn’t care. She drops to her knees with a giggle and pulls open by pants without waiting for permission. She hastily strokes my cock and sucks on my balls. The unfamiliar sensation fills me with both terror and ecstasy. I groan loud enough to wake the whole building. I spill my entire bowel of fantasies over her and drop the metal dish to the side. She’s soaked in pink oil as she gobbles my dick, looking up at me like a happy puppy, clothes turning thin and transparent and sliding away.

Her mouth and tongue feel incredible, but I’m not getting hard – I’m too overwhelmed for that. Excitedly to lose my virginity, I kicked her over onto her back (she rolls over into the position of a blow-up doll) and get down on my hands and knees. I furiously stroke myself.

“Oh, daddy,” She coos, “Are you gonna fuck your toy now?”

She squeaks when I force myself in and squeaks again with each thrust. The wet, warm pressure of her cunt only inspires me. I want slaves. I want harems. I want breeding ranches. I want pleasure domes filled with smiling girls, girls, girl. My insides boil and spill out of my misshapen jaw. My psychic vomit drenches the poor girl, until it runs over her like inspissated stomach medicine. Happy bubbles rise from her lips. As I rut, I begin to choke as I imagine more and more that I want. I’m choking on me.

“Don’t worry, sweet,” The hypnotist whispers in my ear. “You just need to open wider.”

Her hands reach from behind me and grabs the side of my mouth. She tears it open, down to my neck. Then another pair of hands takes hold and tears me even further, down to my shoulders. My bones splinter and in their place, my flesh reveals rows of glistening teeth. My arms shrink away. My head flattens. The hypnotist pulls with a dozen hands until my back splits open into a hungry maw.

I roar with freedom and bite into the shoulder of the bimbo pinned below me. She giggles coquettishly. I pull her torso in half. Her innards fly like the cotton stuffing of a broken toy.

The hypnotist snaps her finger. “And up.”

I have killed a woman. Her skin is hanging from my teeth.

She really should have been afraid of you.

I can’t see right. I can’t stand up. I scream, and I sound like a squealing pig.

You should have gone home. You should have been a good, quiet pervert. Freak. Psycho. Rapist.

People are screaming. I try to see what’s happening. My head collides with a door frame; it’s too wide, it’s too flat, my body is all wrong. There’s vomit and blood everywhere. I keep squealing. My arms and legs scratch at the ground like a frightened rat.

stupid horrible freak rapist pervert coward MONSTER

I fall down on a flight of stairs. I only want to get away from the screams, the confusion, and the gore. I barrel through an open door. I want to be home, in my apartment, in those four walls I control. Cold air blasts over me. I’m scrambling over cement and asphalt. I don’t deserve this. I haven’t done anything wrong. I wasn’t thinking. It wasn’t me.

Yes, it was.

There’s light and noise, followed by something unseen that is hard, cold, and undeniable.