The Salt Lake City Solution
Caution: This Erotic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Squirting,
Desc: Erotic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - The "Blond Bimbos" all looked the same. Was it just coincidence or was something else at play?
At the very beginning, when I first started researching this story, I found it difficult to connect the dots between the shielded manufacturing operations I discovered hidden in Utah with the staffing of a major media giant studio in New York City. I can assure you I am completely unbiased in my conclusion despite the fact the media organization in question is my favorite station on the dial.
In all honesty, I would like to state right up front that I do not remember what directed my attention to Salt Lake City because it was a place that I had only visited while traveling either east or west and could not avoid for some reason or another of which I have no memory.
Kindly consider that it is not my intention to point the finger at certain individuals because it would be beneath the dignity of this report to highlight their complicity. In fact, I have carefully edited out their details to not cause any embarrassment. I have also tried my best to restrain my writing to exclude the sordid sexual details of this complex plot.
I first noticed the aberration of this affair when I happened to see some strange similarities between various female commentators and news broadcast personages including a favorite weather girl that I doted on with gleeful attention to her tightly stretch skirt that accentuated her plump buttocks perfectly.
When I took stock of the nubile females on the air that were involved in this disgraceful exhibition of dissolute deception, I found no less than seven of the beautiful blond bimbos actively stroking the male viewing audience for their precious bodily fluids.
Of course, that is only metaphorically speaking and not physically like they used either their hand or tongue in a real sense.
It was so interesting to me that I followed up my visit to the headquarters studio in New York City with a trip to the purported training plant all the way out in Salt Lake City.
My first impression of Salt Lake City was that it was depressingly flat and that the residents seemed to walk around in a fog of self-absorption so oppressive that even innocuous conversation was irritating to them. I remember sitting at a nicely appointed bar lounge in the airport motel and listening to the piano player running her fingers over one of those boring show tunes from some god-forsaken Broadway musical like a brain-dead Zombie from the twilight Zone.
She had a huge wine glass for tips and it was bleak in the absence of any notable rewards except for a single dollar bill that looked like it had been saved since World War II. Her face was pretty enough but she didn't have that friendly look that one would expect in a bar lounge when one is working for tips. I could tell she was not a happy camper playing the tedious piece and I suspected she probably would want to be playing something of her own composition or some free-wheeling jazz tune that would make everyone sit up and pay attention.
It appeared we were the only two humans in residence that were under the age of thirty with the possible exception of the busboy who had that ageless look of non-English speaking Central American immigrants without proper documentation. My ex-girlfriend back in New York City was one of those political enablers who constantly were shouting out "illegal alien" this and "illegal alien" that like it was some credo of a misbegotten religious cult that demanded adherence to a certain code.
I approached her and dropped a fin into the glass more out of pity than appreciation for the tune she was playing.
When she looked up at me without really seeing me in the slightest, I studied her face and determined she had a hint of that look that I had been caught up in with the seven blond bimbos that started me on this crazy journey into the hinterlands. I immediately began to suspect that perhaps there was something in the water or the twenty-something nubile females of the area were imbibing some sort of drug that enhanced their sexuality at the cost of their intellect.
It was much later that I discovered my gut-reaction was pretty close to the mark and I could have saved a lot of time by simply investigating the source of the covert process that produced the plethora of "blond bimbos" on the unsuspecting American public.
Her name was Wendy and when she finally gave me a smile, I was able to see that same flash of excitement that acted like a trigger for my arousal even against my logical reluctance. I got her to play a song that I liked called "Misty" and she did it with a bit of flair that confirmed my thought she was more of a Jazz musician than a Lawrence Welk protégé.
Cutting to the chase, we repaired to my room at the airport motel and she showed me her undies with the correct label of "Friday" to show she was well organized when it came to the wearing of lace trimmed panties with a bikini cut exposing her pretty cheeks to my investigation. I managed to remove the "Friday" frills and dove into as juicy a shaven slit I had seen since my ex-girlfriend ran off with a Congressman with a wife and four kids. I banished her from my mind and concentrated on finding the special spot that turned Wendy on the most.
I enjoyed watching her change from a bored undiscovered entertainer into a wild filly in a state of abandon and utter loss of control. I had not had the good fortune to interact with many "squirters" in my sexual journey through life but Wendy was something else when it came to such fetish minded activities and she convinced me that her appreciation for anal attentions was not some phony act just to make me think she was really cool.
Apparently, she had been selected for the "bimbo" project but her objection to changing her hair color caused her termination despite her sexual superiority in certain areas. She was looking over her shoulder at me when she related all this to me and I was unable to take good notes because of the need to keep of the rhythm that she seemed to like the most. I had to hold onto her with both hands because she was bucking so wildly underneath me.
After things had calmed down, I checked out her boobs and confirmed they were the standard "bimbo" variety and asked her if they were natural or manufactured. She just laughed at my question like I was a stand-up comedian and told me,
"The program I was in made us all use the same size because it was determined by an accurate poll that males preferred this size and design with the pert appearance and the small nipples that expand at the slightest touch."
That coincided with my previous findings and I then checked out her perfectly shaven female parts and she informed me that all the girls were required to keep their cunts free of hair just in case it might offend a male with carnal intentions. She seemed quite comfortable with all of that and I marveled that her sense of woman's liberation was not more agitated at the intrusion on her sensitivities.
I later found out that the entire program relied on the daily consumption of a dose of "bimbo" enhancement that slowly sapped their IQ level and increased the appearance of "hotness" to make most males more attentive to their female needs. I guess that I was already under that spell because I found it difficult to pull my body out of the bed and away from her delectable form that made me constantly aroused as if I had been given a dose of Viagra without my knowledge.
Wendy was able to get me into the plant to witness the process and I saw no less than two score "blond bimbos" in some sort of exercise room practicing their "bending over" stances to show off their curved posteriors to best light. Some of the girls were so similar and perfect in their movements they looked almost like a team of robots practicing for a drill team.
I didn't get to see it in person, but she showed me a tape of an entire line of almost a dozen "bimbos" down in the "doggie" position being anally stretched by big men who looked suspiciously like wrestlers or motorcycle gang members with lots of experience in handling heart-shaped bottoms.
I have to admit that tape made me so horny that we made a beeline for the motel and I was giving it to Wendy from behind for the remainder of the afternoon before she had to report back to the bar lounge for her gig on the piano.
Wendy told me that she was one of the "outsiders" in the program and that most of the girls were actually "cloned" in the laboratory attached to the project facility by a team of DNA specialists and behavioral modification doctors from the State University. The girls were all one hundred percent human but they all came from the same test tube and they were closer than identical twins with slightly different facial features to hide the effect.
A couple of the girls were super intelligent and had to be run through the course twice in order to bring their IQ down to the level that most males preferred in a female. Wendy told me they wanted to keep her and put her through a second time but she used her phony reluctance to change her hair color to dissuade them from using her in that manner even though they promised her a minimum five year contract on national television and a chance at a musical career when she had completed her contract.
She confided in me that part of the contract was the requirement to spread her legs for certain designated male partners who were being groomed for political and business positions to assist the "bimbo project" owners in making vast sums of money for further expansion into other areas.
We both went back to New York City together because I needed her for further research and in all honesty, I liked the combination of her submissive nature and the lack of need to be in control or to "be right" all the time. She was the ideal live-in girlfriend and we made sweet music between the sheets that was definitely not Lawrence Welk variety.
I got her a gig at Carnegie Hall with the back-up orchestra and she started to haunt this little place down in Greenwich Village that catered to Jazz musicians with their own compositions. I returned to the station headquarters the following month and with my tips from Wendy managed to date one of the bimbos on a slow weekend.
She proved identical to Wendy in most respects except she was a bit lower on the IQ scale and she was definitely better with "doggie" style sex and had such control over her interior muscles that she could "milk" me whenever the mood hit her fancy. I could tell she was timing it to complement her orgasms and I didn't mind that at all because it was quite explosive.
I noticed recently that the Salt Lake City operation expanded into "intern" production for political campaigns and that most of the major players were surrounded by the beautiful blond girls with that look of having it all.