Chapter 1

"Are you sure you want to go up there, sir?" The elderly elevator operator inquired of me.

"BTI is on 32, correct?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Then I'm sure."

He looked at me, down and up and back again, and almost sadly and muttered something under his breath. He closed the door and started the elevator.

"What do you want with BTI?"

"Let's just say someone's going to answer some questions for me."

He stopped the elevator so fast; it nearly knocked me off of my feet.

"What gives, old man?"

"I could get in a lot of trouble by telling you this," as he looked around as if we were being watched.

"Tell me what?"

"That it's a bad idea to go up there looking for," he seemed to be choosing his words carefully, " ... answers."

"I can handle myself, thanks for your concern."

"Of that I have no doubt, but I still think you should reconsider."

"Not going to happen. Please," I gestured to the controls.

"Don't say I didn't warn you." He restarted the elevator and just shook his head sadly while he looked at the floor numbers. A minute or two later we were there.

"32, sir. BTI. Please reconsider."

"Have a nice day," I said as I exited the elevator into a stark, white lobby. I followed the BTI signs around the corner to a door labeled "BimboTech, Incorporated." I opened the door and entered another white room. It was your typical office, but all ethereal and white.

The receptionist was incredible: a perfect bimbo. She had the vapid bimbo smile, red, red lips, white, white teeth and her tits: big and perky and frightenly perfect. I was damn good at knowing exactly what a woman's cup size was, just from looking -- I could usually tell the band size as well. This woman was a perfect 32DD.

"Welcome to BimboTech," she said in a sing-songy voice. As she saw me, her eyes nearly popped out of her head.

"You're a man! Goodie!"

"Goodie?"

"Yes, goodie! Tittiefuck LOVES men. Want me to suck on your lollypop? Tittiefuck is so great at that. What flavor is yours? I like them all, but grape is my favoritest!"

I had no answer for her as she got up from her desk, pulled open her already low-cut top and walked around to the side where I stood dumb struck -- the stories I heard were true. She was being very enthusiastic, but she was struggling with something.

"I really like you," she cooed, "but men aren't supposed to be here. But..."

She was as transfixed by my crotch and I was by her tits. She got on her knees and unbuckled my belt. The view I had was mind-numbing. Tittiefuck began to pull down my pants when I heard the clearing of a throat. I looked past her and a man was standing there with a none too pleased look on his face.

"Tittie, what are you doing?" he said.

"I was going to suck on his lollypop."

"Isn't there something you're forgetting?"

Tittie thought about it for a few moments and finally said, "I /was/ taking his pants off, Mr. Samson."

"That's not what I mean."

The look on Tittiefuck's face was one of utter confusion. The look of struggling returned. She was trying to remember something she knew she knew, but didn't know she knew it or how to remember it, yet she needed to keep trying to remember it.

With that, out of nowhere, she tried to jab me with a small needle. I grabbed her wrist, stood her up and gently made her inject herself into her shoulder.

She began to moan and slid down my body into a quivering mass. Samson didn't move.

I zipped myself up. "Mr. Samson?"

"Obviously. And you are?"

"Call me Brandon."

"Alright, Brandon, you clearly know what's going on here, so why don't we cut to the chase? Who are you here to complain about? I recommend that you don't get violent with me, you definitely won't like what happens."

I stayed very still and said, "That's where I think you're wrong. I didn't come here to complain about anyone."

Samson's features softened greatly. "So you'd like to hire us then? Most clients simply send their request in via our secure website. We take care of everything, including getting your package here as well as delivered to you."

"That's exactly why I came in."

"I don't follow you," Samson replied. "Why did you have to come in?"

"Because I'm the package."

Samson looked nearly as confused Tittiefuck did. He looked at me up and down. I stand 6-3 and weigh about 220 pounds. There's not a chance in hell someone would ever mistake me for anything but exactly the appearance I give off: a jock-turned-businessman. He smiled. "I must have misheard you. What did you say?"

"I want to be turned into a BimboTech Bimbo."

"I guess I didn't mishear you. Why on earth would you want that?"

"Because I do. Is there somewhere we can go to discuss this?"

Sampson eyed me warily and then nodded at me. "Sure, come into my office." He gestured at Tittiefuck. "Tittie, when you can move again, slink on over behind the desk." She looked dreamily in his general direction and sort of leaned that way.

I followed him into the next room, which was his very well appointed office. He walked behind his desk and gestured for me to sit in the chair in front of it.

"I'd rather not. Needles sticking people and all."

"Oh that, don't worry about it."

"Mr. Sampson, I am worried about that. I have specific requirements that I want and being randomly drugged isn't one of them ... just yet."

"I see. What is it you are interested in? No one has ever come here willing to be turned into a bimbo, no less a man. I'm not even sure it would work."

"It will."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I've been researching your firm for sometime. I have connections in the underworld of biotech -- that's how I found you in the first place. I have a procedure that can take a Y chromosome and forcibly convert it into an X."

"It can't be done."

"It can. Trust me. In exchange for this information, you will be providing me with exactly what I'm looking for."

"What's the catch?"

"You'll acquire a separate mission purpose, with a very separate company, of course. One that helps people. Imagine the number of transsexuals that you would acquire as clients."

"Even if this could work, I doubt they would want to be bimbos."

"True, but there's nothing in your process that says someone has to be a bimbo. From my research, the mental and physical aspects of the change are all programmable and separate."

"You truly have done your homework. That concerns me quite a bit that so much of our operation has gotten out." Samson paused.

"How have you found out about us?"

"Let's just say I'm a very, very wealthy man and money talks."

"I'll take that on face value, besides your, ahem, bimbofication, what's in it for you?"

"Before I start, rest assured that nothing I've learned is going anywhere. The majority of information that I obtained is untraceable and, well, the people who provided it to me more than likely don't really know they did. Period. As for what do I get out of it? Tits for one, or two rather. And becoming a bimbo. Let me rephrase that, a functional bimbo. Second, a percentage of each transformation."

"Always about money. I knew it. Curious, what kind of percentage are we talking?"

"That's quite hypocritical, Mr. Samson. I know what you charge for these forced transformations. Anyway, the question you asked: for people you help, as I said there'd be a new company shelled so that there wouldn't be any ties to BTI whatsoever. Of those transformations, I'd get 20%. For your current operation, a simple 1%."

"Interesting terms. But why?"

"Because I can. More appropriately, we can. Although my appearance doesn't show it, I've had a burning desire to become a woman my entire life. BTI can make the experience a reality for me and a very erotic one at that."

"I'll need to run this past the board of directors and our lead scientists."

As I walked to the desk, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a flash drive. I placed it on the desk.

Samson picked it up and looked at it. "Of course. I would expect nothing less."

"Answer me this? If you become a BimboTech bimbo, how are you going to function?"

"Remember I said a functional bimbo. Big difference, which I don't need to go into until we're in agreement."

"Understood," Samson said, "I will get this to those who need to know. How can I get in touch with you?"

"Right now, you can't. I'll be in touch with you in, say, a week? Does that give you enough time?"

"It should, but I still don't understand why you'd want to do this to yourself."

"Since you're going to become even more wealthy and it's not happening to you, does it really matter?"