Chapter 12: Bimbo Bitch Becomes a Fuck Toy

Note: This story was commissioned by n1one years ago. Enjoy.

“Darlings,” said Angelique, the florist who owned Angelique’s Blossoms. “How wonderful that you can be here.”

She tottered out on platform heels that raised her height by three or four inches, a smile on her lips plumped from collagen injections. She had a dainty nose and a smooth forehead. Not a wrinkle to be found on her face. Not a blemish. She almost had a plastic look about her, a woman who had spent a fortune on her plastic surgery to make herself gorgeous.

She verged on looking plastic. Alive but looking more like a barbie doll that came towards us with a big smile. Her sheath dress clung to her large tits. They had that artificial perkiness that Natalie’s did. The sort of overripe mounds that I loved on a woman. Angelique’s dress showed them off, the top of her cleavage perfect. Her body was slender. No fat.

Liposuction?

Maybe. Her ass, however, was way too curvy for a woman that slender. Not only did she have silicone tits, but she had a rubbery ass. Butt implants like she was a booty girl in a rap video. The type of girl that would wear a pair of shorts so tight they might as well be a thong and could make her asscheeks clap together. Then there was her hair. It was the perfect shade of blonde. Too perfect. I could just see a hint of dark roots.

Nothing about this woman was real, but that was her business. So long as she made my Natalie the perfect bouquet for our wedding, then I didn’t care if Angelique wanted to make herself into a living barbie doll.

“I am so glad you have trusted little ol’ me to make your flower arrangement for your special day,” Angelique said. “Natalie and...”

“You can call him sir,” Natalie said. “He’s my Man.” My fiancee clutched at my arm, pressing her large breast against me through her sheath dress.

I hoped this Angelique wasn’t nearly as much a bitch as the caterer had turned out to be. Natalie wanted the best. The most expensive. She wanted our wedding to be perfect, and I would make sure that it happened using all my powers.

“Welcome, sir,” Angelique said. Her smile grew, her plump lips sliding together. What would those feel like on my cock?

Natalie glanced around at the shop. It was full of flowers. Several young ladies were moving around, tending to them. A man in an expensive suit walked in, a Wall Street exec in need of flowers. For his wife or his mistress?

“I have the flowers in the back so we can experiment,” said Angelique. “I am glad you paid for the royal treatment so we can fully explore your options. There can be so many of them.”

“Yes, yes, it has to be perfect,” Natalie said. My redheaded lover had such a big smile on her face as we followed Angelique.

The woman couldn’t move fast on those platform heels. They clunked on the ground. I shook my head, about to make a quip at them when I saw Natalie staring at them with appreciation. I hoped she wouldn’t want to wear shoes like that. Heels were one thing, but thick platform ones?

What was so sexy about stumbling around like a moron?

Angelique passed us through a curtain of plastic into a room that looked out on the street through tinted windows. Pedestrians flowed down the street. The city bustled, cars swelling the busy road. On the table were flowers. Lots and lots of flowers.

All sorts of flowers. Roses, I recognized, and tulips. I spotted a few orchids, and those might be bluebells, but the rest? Where those gardenias or hydrangeas? Maybe fuchsias? Were fuchsias even a flower? This wasn’t my area, but I could see Natalie smile in delight.

“Yes, yes, you can feel the creativity already,” Angelique said. “Now, let us find that perfect color scheme for your wedding and the perfect flowers to convey it. There is a language in your bouquet and your bridesmaids’. Flowers communicate so much. They speak to that spark all of us humans have. Art was born from the appreciation of flowers. At least, that’s what I believe. And what we are doing today is art.”

“And you’re the best artist there is,” Natalie said. “Let’s do it.”

I stood as the women started pulling at the pile of cut flowers, drawing the wet stems together, comparing them. Natalie had strong ideas. I tried to show that I was interested, but it was all so tedious to me. Flowers were flowers. I didn’t care what they were. I just wanted Natalie to be happy with them.

“I think your man is growing bored,” Angelique said. “Do not be worried that he doesn’t love you or doesn’t care. This happens. While we all have that spark of art in us, it manifests in different ways.”

“Oh, he’s an artist in his own ways,” said Natalie. She glanced at me, a big grin on her lips. “You should see him deal with a bitch or an asshole. When he’s finished, it’s amazing.”

“Ah, he is a psychologist or a therapist?”

“Something like that.” Natalie smiled at me. “Sir, I don’t mind if you want to find something to amuse yourself. I’m sure there are many delights just outside.” She glanced at the window and nodded to a woman berating her dog that she was walking. She smacked the poodle in the nose with a newspaper.

“You’re absolutely right,” I said. I leaned down and kissed my Natalie on the lips. “Whatever it costs, it’s yours. Be happy.”

“I will, Sir.”

I headed outside to deal with this bitch. Hit her dog? How would she like to be smacked around in the face with a rolled-up newspaper? Already, my dick was swelling hard. Ideas danced through my head at the ultimate fate of this woman.

She had to learn, and I would have so much fun educating her.

Natalie

“Now, I really like this,” I said as the Man walked out of the room. I held up the pink azaleas and the bluebells. “I think—”

“Are you insane!” hissed Angelique. Her hands smacked the flowers from my hands. A burst of pink petals rained in the air. “We are making art, not some quint little arrangement that a fat wife puts on her end table and thinks it is beautiful. No, no, we are creating something magnificent. You want to paint like Bob Ross when you should inspire for Van Gogh. Passion.”

My jaw dropped. The woman had changed the moment the Man left the room. I was dumbfounded by her transformation. She then grabbed the various collection of flowers before me. She picked them up and ripped off the petals.

“This is trash!” she hissed. “You want to buy my flowers, and this is what you wish to do with them? Is there not a bit of artistic flair in that simple, little mind of yours?”

An icy cold washed through me. “Simple?” I smiled. “You think my mind is simple.”

“You have no vision. You look at the shit art that hangs in a motel room and think it is a masterpiece. Then you look at a Jackson Pollock and scoff at it, not seeing the majesty of true creation before you. Now, you will sit there while I make your wedding perfection. You say one word and—”

I slapped her across the face.

The crack echoed through the room. I bolted to my feet as her eyes widened in shock. She clutched a hand to her face where my red handprint blossomed. Already, the sexual thrill rippled out of my cunt. That hot and naughty itch, that molten ache swelling in the depths of my cunt.

“You slapped me,” she said, stunned. “Do you know who I am?”

“You’re the stupid bitch who has transformed her body into that of a plastic doll trying to chase beauty. Do you even know what art is? Huh? And you think to question me?”

“You get out of here, you small-minded—”

CRACK!

I slapped her other cheek. Her head snapped around. She gasped, tears springing to her eyes. She touched her face with ginger fingers. Then her nostrils flared. She glared at me with such anger and hurt. She ground her teeth together, swollen lips pursing as tight as they could.

“Get out of my studio, you little cunt!” she spat. “I will not work for a Philistine like you who has no appreciation of art.”

I laughed. “Sir! Sir!” I glanced at the window where he smacked the woman in the face with the newspaper. She fell to her knees, her hands going for his pants. “SIR!”

His head snapped to the window. He frowned. Then he threw the newspaper down at the woman. He barked something at her. She started smacking herself in the face. He strode through the shop while I snapped my head around to the fuming angelica.

I folded my arms beneath my tits, my nipples so hard. “Oh, you are going to pay now, bitch. You are going to regret ever calling me simple-minded, you whorish, disgusting, plastic-faced, bimbo doll! My Man is going to remake you into something delicious.”

“Yes, I am,” the Man said as he swept in. I could feel the fury radiating off of him. He looked at the ripped petals, the tears in the woman’s eyes. “You thought you could wait until I left to bully my woman?”

“Yes,” Angelique said, looking shocked that she spoke. “She has no artistic vision. She’s an idiot. She will have a terrible wedding. I will make something spectacular for her. But she is a baby. She cannot take some criticism. Her ideas are terrible. I spit on them. I think they are the worst things I have ever seen. What are you going to do about that?”

The Man smiled.

“You’re a living doll,” I said to the woman. “A bimbo. You don’t ever need to think again.”

The intelligence in the woman’s eyes vanished. They were glossy, almost empty, like a doll in truth. My dick twitched in my pants. I grinned, so glad that I could punish this nasty, disgusting human being.

She was all smiles while I was in the room, but the moment I left, she showed her true colors. She thought she could bully my Natalie. The red marks on the doll’s face proved that my Natalie wasn’t about to put up with that.

“Since you’re a living doll now, you need to learn poses,” I said and turned around. “Follow, bimbo.”

I marched out and the woman followed. She didn’t make a sound. That was good. Dolls didn’t need to make sounds. They needed to be played with. To be admired. To sit there silent while those who had a brain enjoyed them.

Insult my fiancee? Oh, yes, this would be fun.

I stepped outside. The woman with the newspaper hit her face a final time then grabbed her dog’s leash. She led him home, apologizing to him. I didn’t get to punish her properly, just a quick command. She would spend the rest of her life pampering that dog. Well, the rest of the dog’s life. He would have an owner that understood the humiliation of being hit in the face with a newspaper in front of others. Whenever she was bad, she would beg someone to swat her with one.

I turned around. The living doll came out. In the daylight, it was even harder to tell if her face was covered by skin or plastic slathered in makeup. She hovered on the edge of being either a high-quality sex doll or a vain woman who had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to look beautiful.

“Dolls need poses, don’t they,” I said to the doll. “You can speak.”

“I guess they do,” she said in this bubbly voice. Like a bimbo. She giggled. “I’m a doll.”

“Yes, you are,” I said, my dick throbbing. “And you don’t need that dress. Show everyone that body of yours. You wasted all that money on it. Let everyone admire you.”

“Mmm, let’s see if you’re trashy motel art or a Jackson Pollock,” said my Natalie. “What do you want to be?”

“The good art,” the living doll moaned. “Like Pollock or Van Gogh. Something stunning. I am stunning.”

“I don’t know,” I said as she peeled up her dress. “You look like something cheap that I could find at the flea market.”

“What?” the bimbo said. Her eyes glossed over with tears. “No, no, I’m perfect. See!”

She ripped off her dress and exposed her big breasts. They were large and full, her implants top-notch. She had tits even bigger than Natalie, rip and swollen. Her areolas were pink ovals, her nipples hard nubs. She had curving hips. Her pussy was shaved, of course, her slit tight.

Had she gotten a labiaectomy to trim away any dangling pussy folds? She had a cunt that looked like it belonged on an eighteen-year-old. Not a whore like her. She threw her dress down and turned around.

“That is a plastic ass,” said Natalie. “Nothing natural about it.”

I smacked the woman’s ass. I felt the silicone beneath her skin. Her rump jiggled. It had a nice sway to it. “Yeah, that’s the trashy sort of ass that belongs in a rap music video.’

“What?” gasped the bimbo. “No, no, it’s a perfect ass. It’s beautiful.” She wiggled it at us, her butt-cheeks clapping together.

My dick throbbed.

“We’ll have to let the public decide,” I told her. “For now, I think you’re at best motel art.”

“Flea market art, Sir,” said Natalie. “Ghetto trash. That’s not an ass worthy of you fucking.”

“It is!” gasped the woman. “My ass is the best. Any man would want to fuck it. Don’t you want to fuck my ass, Sir?”

“Let’s see if you have any worth at all,” I said. “Dolls adopt poses and they don’t move, do they?”

The bimbo shook her head.

“And you’re a living doll.” I moved up to her. “I’m going to play with you. So don’t move until you’re allowed to.”

She froze.

I smiled and grabbed her body. I nudged her feet further apart in those ugly platform shoes. Her legs spread with ease. Her tight pussy lips parted. Then I grabbed her arms and thrust them out, planting the moan the wall. She just let me pose her. The only thing that moved was her chest as she drew in her breaths. Her tits swayed, plump and heavy.

I planted my hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her down, thrusting out that fake ass of hers in the process. I let her go. She held the pose. Natalie watched. Her hands were squeezing her tits through her dress. The woman trembled there.

“I’d pay $5 for that,” Natalie said. “Then I’d hang that in my bathroom. Right over my toilet. Something cheap. That’s all you are, bimbo.”

“$5, huh?” I pulled a five-dollar bill out of my wallet and then thrust into the bimbo’s fingers. She didn’t move. “There. I just bought you. That’s how little you’re worth. You spent all that money, all those thousands of dollars so you could be worth a cup of coffee from Starbucks.”

The bimbo whimpered but still didn’t move.

“Well, let’s see how she fucks,” I said and unzipped my pants. I pulled my cock out right there on the busy street. Wall Street bankers, lawyers, accountants, and other professionals streamed by without batting an eye as my big dick thrust out before me.

Natalie groaned. She tugged down her dress. Her tits popped out. Now those were priceless. Belonged in a museum. And they were all mine to enjoy. She squeezed and kneaded them with her fingers, her hips wiggling from side to side.

“Fuck her five dollar ass,” gasped Natalie. “Fuck that cheap bimbo raw.”

“Remember,” I said, pushing my cock into her butt-crack. “No matter how much it hurts, you’re a doll and can’t move. Right?”

“Right,” she said, her collagen-enhanced lips hardly moving.

Natalie marched up and turned the woman’s head. “These are gorgeous tits, you bimbo slut. Stare at them as he butt-fucks your trashy ass. You’re garbage and I’m diamond perfection.”

“Yes, you are,” I groaned and rammed my cock into the bimbo’s unlubed asshole.

Her body shook but she didn’t move. She groaned through her teeth. I could hear the pain in them. Her eyes fluttered, lashes long. Tears beaded on them, gleaming like little crystals while my dick went deeper and deeper into her asshole.

I heard the pain in her moans. She experienced the burning passion of my dick sliding into her velvety bowels. The heat gripped me. I groaned as I savored that tight grip massaging my cock. I went deeper and deeper into the whore’s asshole.

Insult my woman.

“Mmm, just stare at these perfect tits,” cooed Natalie. She squeezed those big and lush mounds. She shook them, her nipples hard. “These are artistry. Not those pathetic things you have. Too big. Your nipples aren’t centered. You think you have the eye to arrange flowers for my wedding. You couldn’t recognize beauty if it fucked you in the ass.”

The bimbo grunted as I pounded her asshole. She squeezed her bowels around me while she didn’t move. Not a wiggle. She couldn’t pull away. She had to endure her punishment. I buried into her anal depths over and over again, reveling in the heat of her flesh.

“It hurts,” she whimpered.

“Good,” Natalie said. “If there’s no pain, there’s no art. And you’re making art.”

“Yes, you are,” I said. “You have to endure it. Hours standing in a single pose. You’re a living sculpture now. A doll to be posed and fucked for five dollars.”

“That’s what you charge,” Natalie moaned. Her fingers dug into her tits. “You’re a five-dollar piece of cheap art that has to make every man happy.”

“Understand?” I growled, fucking into her bowels.

“Yes,” she whimpered. “I’m beautiful.”

“You’re fine,” Natalie said. “Okay. Adequate. You’ll make men cum. Are you going to cum, Sir?” “I’m getting there,” I grunted, burying into the woman’s asshole. “I’d cum faster in your asshole, Natalie. She’s just that pathetic.”

The bimbo whimpered.

I groaned and slammed hard into her bowels. I fucked into the bitch’s asshole with forceful strokes. I savored her whimpers. A tear fell down her cheek. Her fingers hardly twitched as I pounded her asshole with hard plunges. Powerful thrusts. I buried into her again and again. I rammed to the hilt in her bowels.

Her asshole clung to me. She clenched down her bowels around my cock. She groaned in pain but she also wanted to make me cum. She was enduring it. Trying to be more than a filthy, cheap piece of art.

“Yeah, you want to make me cum, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she moaned, her lips not moving, her words slurred.

“Because that’s how you make art now, don’t you? Every time a man cums in your asshole, you make art.”

“Nasty, filthy, trashy flea market art!” moaned Natalie. She squeezed her nipples. “Say it.”

“You heard her!” I growled. “Tell us what sort of art you are.”

“Nasty, filthy, trashy flea market art!” whimpered the bimbo, her asshole squeezing around my cock.

“How does that make you feel?” I grunted, pounding her bowels.

“Like I’m garbage!”

“You are garbage. Your body was ruined. You took something amazing and destroyed it with your vanity. Now all your good for is letting men fuck your doll-body for five dollars. That’s it. A cup of coffee. That’s all your worth. It’s humiliating, isn’t it?”

“Yes!” Her bowels clenched around me, stimulating my cock.

“You deserve to be better, but you’re not. You never will be. That humiliation twists in you. It makes you hot. The more you get fucked—the more it hurts your asshole and makes your pussy sore as man after man dumps his cum in you—the more your filthy body gets off on it.”

“Every time you cum on a dick for five dollars, it’s a reminder that your a cheap piece of art,” moaned Natalie, her voice throaty. “Say it!”

“I’m a cheap piece of art!” whimpered the living doll.

“Yes!” I gasped. “You can feel it, don’t you. That shameful excitement building. You’re going to cum on my dick like the filthy whore you are.”

“I am!”

I slammed into her, my crotch smacking her plump ass. Those butt-cheek implants jiggled. I grabbed her tits. I squeezed those over-ripe, fake mounds. I kneaded them as I pounded her asshole. I fucked her bowels hard and fast, the ache building.

My balls swelled with the cum that I would fire into her. I would pump spurt after spurt of my cum into her depths. It would be incredible. I thrust harder. Faster. The pleasure spilled through my body on every plunge into her hot asshole.

She groaned, her anal sheath clutching about my cock. She gripped me. Pleasure and pain swelled in her. I could hear it in her voice. She grunted her shameful pleasure as I pounded her. I speared my cock into her asshole.

“Cum in her, Sir!” moaned Natalie. “Dump your cum in the cheap whore’s asshole.”

“Yes!” I growled. “Once she’s cum. Once she’s surrendered to what she is.”

“A cheap doll!” the bimbo moaned.

Her asshole convulsed around my cock.

She squealed through her plump lips. Her facial muscles twitched, but she didn’t open her mouth as the pleasure rose out of her throat. I pumped away at her convulsing cock. The scent of spicy pussy filled the air.

“I’m a cheap doll!” she groaned through her sealed lips. “A worthless piece of trashy art!” “Yes!” I growled and buried to the hilt in her convulsing bowels, my crotch smacking her butt implants.