Artwork: Bimbo Stories

“Peter! Why is there wet laundry in the washing machine?”

“Where else would it be?” the answer floated back from the living room where Peter lounged on the couch playing video games.

Pearla slammed open the dryer. “You’re not supposed to fucking leave it in the washer. It sours and mildews. If you’re not going to finish the job, then don’t start it.” She seethed and awaited a response, but nothing came. It wasn’t hard to imagine the silent response of her boyfriend, an annoyed shrug before turning back to his game and forgetting about her entirely. The house was in complete disarray when she got in Saturday night. Not that she expected anything different, but it would have been nice for Peter to pitch in around the house while she spent her Saturday working. Yet, as unfortunately expected, her boyfriend spent Friday night drunk dialing her while at a bar with his friends only to spend Saturday hungover on the couch. On Sunday he’d clearly decided to round out the weekend by continue his streak of worthlessness.

It didn’t bother her that he wanted to blow off some steam with a night out or a lazy weekend, after all he did have a job that was fairly demanding of him. What did bother her is that he didn’t consider her at all when making his choices. She’d warned him about having to work at the gallery opening and how she would be late getting home on Saturday. Pearla had foolishly come to expect that Peter would rise to the occasion. She imagined him cleaning the house and meeting her at the door with a glass of wine leading into a home cooked meal. Instead, she’d gotten in at two the previous night to find him passed out on the couch. The house’s cleanliness had further deteriorated in her absence, thanks in no small part to Peter’s willingness to toss discarded packaging on countertops or the floor, and she was forced to dine on a microwavable dinner that didn’t cook all the way through. If she hadn’t been so tired, she might have been spurred to anger when she bit into the icy crystals at the center of her Salisbury steak.

While munching on the vile meal, the subtle doubts crept up once again. She reminded herself that she loved Peter. They’d been together for years, but the spark had vanished long ago. At first, they’d both rebelled against what they saw as the sinister entropy of relationships, but over time they’d perhaps allowed it to win without even noticing. It was easy to be in love when they both had free time and few responsibilities. Then came the jobs. Pearla loved hers, but Peter always resented his. She spent all day among beautiful paintings talking to other art lovers about popular styles of the late eighteenth century. Peter, meanwhile, hunched over a computer in a cubicle while a ego-maniacal manager loomed over him. Both jobs were taxing, and the first thing sacrificed was the late night conversations with one another. Pearla kept a rigorous schedule at the gallery and Peter, while not a physically demanding job, suffered a fatigue of the spirit.

Their sex life changed. Pearla grew less interested altogether, while Peter became more demanding. He’d even explained it in a moment of afterglow introspection, “When we’re together, all the other stuff goes away. For a few minutes, I get to feel happiness because we’re together. I think I get frustrated with your lack of interest because it shows a lack of desire for that feeling I get.” At the time, she thought it was a sweet comment on how he valued their relationship, but after months of the same routine, she’d soured on his treatment of sex. She started to think he tied too much of his happiness to a physical act while not pursuing other avenues in the relationship.

Not that they discussed it. After sex became routine, almost like a second job for both of them, the talking stopped altogether. They communicated, of course, but superficial discussions of day to day activities. They’d occasionally go into depth during a discussion of a television show or movie, but the intimate pillow conversations dried up. And perhaps that’s what it was supposed to be like. After all, Pearla didn’t know how to keep having soul searching conversations again and again. At twenty-six, could she still have much to learn about herself or the man she’d been with for several years? They were known quantities, and now they simply went through the motions. Yet the motions grated against her at every turn. Without the passion and without the intimacy, she was simply sharing space with a frustrated man-child who couldn’t be bothered to successfully complete a load of laundry.

The dryer whirred on, and she leaned over the device, feeling it start to shake her whole body. I should end it. Cut it off like a gangrenous arm. It would be doing both of us a favor. Sure it will be messy, but this is already messy. Maybe this isn’t the end. Maybe there are people out there who stay in love no matter what. All it would take is to walk into the living room, sit down beside him on the couch, and let it start falling out of me. But what would I even say? She grabbed a laundry basket and took it to the bedroom, glancing in at Peter as he laid on the couch. His eyes were glossed over as he watched the television screen, and his fingers moved deftly over the controller. She sighed. I’ll let it go. Like I always do. It would be different if I had a reason. But Peter isn’t mean. He doesn’t mistreat me. He’s just not the Prince Charming I imagined.

Her phone lit up. A text message from her boss asking about a set of keys. Shit. They’re in my desk. Pearla took a long sigh before heading to her closet to get dressed. A few minutes later, she emerged in the living room where Peter didn’t bother to look up at her. “I’m going to work.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” he answered without pausing his game.

“There’s something my boss needs that I locked in my desk. Shouldn’t be more than thirty minutes.”

“Oh, hey, while you’re out, could you pick up some more beer?” Peter looked up long enough to flash her a smile before going right back to his game.

A sudden wave of calm clarity came over Pearla as she looked at him sitting on the couch. “Peter, I want you to listen carefully. I’ve been at work for the past forty eight hours, and I’m about to go back. In that same time, you’ve wrecked the house and now you want more beer so you can keep playing your game until you pass out drunk and go to work hungover. So, while I’m gone, you’re going to get off your ass, clean this house, and while you’re at it clean yourself. If you don’t, then when I get back from work I’m going to pack my things and leave.”

Peter dropped the controller, his mouth agape. “Sweetie where did —”

Pearla held up her hand. “No. This isn’t a conversation. I’ll see you later.” She grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

—

Peter spent the next five minutes staring at the spot where she’d been standing as every emotion in him — confusion, fear, anger, love, shame — all battled for control. In the end, no one of them won out, and so he rose to his feet in a half zombie state of turmoil and began to clean. He wasn’t the man Pearla spent the morning imagining. The lack of communication cut both ways. Peter told the truth when he confessed to Pearla that he felt closest during sex. Which is why he felt them drifting apart as Pearla lost her sex drive. Without her, he turned to other outlets to cope with the constant creep of depression about his life, though he was not very conscious in these choices. He put on weight, stopped working out, and started drinking more. He became very covetous of his free time due to his loathsome job. He was often too bitter with Pearla when she wanted to spend time with him whereas he wanted to play a new video game or watch a new movie. Peter became locked in a pursuit of happiness that always turned to ash. Everything was tainted by his desire to get back to a state where he’d been happy, but the true obstacle to that happiness was something necessary. His job.

As he puttered around the house, his confusion turned to anger. Where does she get off suddenly bossing me around? I slave away at that job so she can work for half my salary at her little gallery. She doesn’t bother worrying about me at all in the meantime. Where’s the equality? I put in twice the money, and she puts in what? Yelling at me because she has to work extra hours one weekend every third month? I expect there to be some kind of parity in this relationship and that makes me a bad guy? I’m not demanding a fifties housewife, but I could at least expect her to cook dinner once in a while. Or at least do the laundry without bitching at me. By the time he’d finished with the living room, he was in a fury. His thoughts turned to work and fantasies about quitting. Then he came came back to worries about Pearla, thinking the only reason he was cleaning the house was so she wouldn’t withhold sex from him. That’s fucked up. She shouldn’t be using it as a bargaining chip and yet here we are. It’s not that she’ll leave me. No, she’ll stay and make sure we both fall asleep frustrated. Her, because I have the gall of wanting to have sex with the woman I love and me, because fucking her is one thing in the whole fucking world that I actually care about.

He did love her, after all. The mundane chores helped work out his frustrations more than he knew. As he cleaned and put away dishes, he calmed down. He felt like calling her and trying to apologize for something, but thought better of it. Once again, he fell into the assumption that he could predict her reaction to things. Rather than speak to her, he started to imagine a course of events that would play out when she arrived home. Pearla would come in and see what a marvelous job he’d done cleaning the house. He’d give her a heartfelt apology, and they would both recommit to strengthening their relationship. They’d talk for an hour and then slowly being to rejoin physically as the first step towards becoming a better couple. They would put behind them the stress of work and life that had driven the wedge between them and instead face the world together once more. Through these events, Peter would again find the happiness that had slipped away from him when he wasn’t looking. In all things he would become a better person. He’d start working out again and lose the extra pounds he’d been tacking on. He’d finally buckle down at work and start finishing projects which he could then parlay into a promotion to get out from the thumb of the flop sweat driven manager. Everything would get better.

Peter wiped down the counter one more time. His feet had quickly begun to hurt. The last task was to clean himself. He stripped and headed to the shower, pausing to look at his naked form for a moment in case he had a shortage of self loathing. The small gut bulged out above his flaccid penis. His arms and legs looked withered, and his skin had a pallid hue. His imagined future started to slip away. Maybe she would be better off without me. I’ve let myself go. Realistically, when am I ever going to get in shape. I’m not sixteen anymore. I’m already exhausted getting up at six to get to work by eight. How much worse would it be to get up at five? That shit about exercise giving you energy is just a lie. Whatever. He turned on the shower, and the hiss of water filled the bathroom. Nothing had been resolved, and the future looked as bleak as ever. All without saying a single world to Pearla. She’d be home soon. That made him smile. With all the tumultuous thoughts in his head, she could make things better by simply being present. He closed his eyes and let the water hit his face.

That was the moment when everything changed.

Pearla’s mood must have been evident to the few coworkers who manned the gallery. She had a terse conversation with her boss after delivering the key. Of course, her boss thanked her and prattled on about how important some unimportant thing was. Pearla kept her temper in check enough to not get fired, but she still made it clear that calling her in on a Sunday and effectively catalyzing a rift with her boyfriend had not been appreciated. She begged off eventually and headed for the door, ready to go home and finish the argument with Peter, whatever that might entail.

As she walked through the gallery, she noticed a man standing in front of one of the paintings. He was a striking figure, tall and oddly dressed in a black suit with a bowler hat squashed over a knot of greasy hair. The man stood rigidly, peering straight ahead at the painting hanging in front of him. Normally, Pearla wouldn’t have thought twice about someone strangely looking at one of the works in the gallery. Much of the joy of art was in the strange and unique ways it affected people. She’d seen people break into tears from looking at a painting and others who left fuming with anger. They were rare, but not unheard of. In this particular case, she found it strange that the man in the gallery bore a striking resemblance to a figure in the very painting he was analyzing. Pearla made her way over and struck up a conversation in the same way she always did. “It’s a beautiful work, isn’t it?” She had enough experience to follow that statement with any reason, made up or otherwise, but the trick was to get the guest talking. She regretted approaching him immediately.

His gaze shifted over to her with the urgency of someone noticing a spec of dust. “Beautiful is not the word I would use,” his voice growled low and deep. He had dark eyes and a grim, pallid face. The man reminded her of a caricature of an undertaker. His hands moved from being crossed in front of him, unfurling like a spider’s legs reversing their death throes, to offer a handshake. “I am Thaddeus.”

“Pearla,” she replied. His hands were as cold as ice, yet sent an electric shiver up her arm. “Do you not like it?”

The man’s black eyes turned back to the painting. It depicted a man standing in a doorway looking out into a dark street of old Europe. The man’s head was obscured in the shadow, but his shoulders and neck were evident. Pale skin and rigid posture jumped out from the figure, as much as the long shadow of the street loomed outward from the painting. “Art is not so simple. One can not like it and still appreciate it. Art can be painful and unpleasant. Uncomfortable and a struggle. Otherwise it would not be art.”

Pearla nodded. It was rare to have someone who actually thought of art as more than pretty pictures. “I like to think that art is the pursuit of beauty through understanding.”

The man’s glittering eyes flicked back to her. “Well put. An ugly thing can be the path to greater beauty. But life offers us choices. We can struggle along that path, or we can take the shorter route. Less understanding, but simpler beauty.”

“Isn’t that a less virtuous choice?”

Thaddeus laughed. “Life does not come with a tally at the end, except in your own mind. No one will measure out your virtue, your beauty, or your pain. Only you must be content with your choices. The man in this painting has made a choice. Do you think it was to pursue a virtuous path toward beauty?”

Pearla gazed at the painting. For a moment, she seemed to be in that street hundreds of years ago. The sour smell of sewage and sickness filled her lungs. She knew something in the room behind her had gone wrong. In front, the shadow of the street stretched beyond reason, back through time and forward. Thaddeus remained beside her, looking forward with a resolute determination that terrified her. And then she was back in her well lit gallery, standing next to the stoic figure. “No. He did something…bad.”

“A doctor, during the plague,” Thaddeus said. “Some could not be saved. Even by a man of his skill. The man in the painting has chosen a life of virtue. And yet he will never find true beauty. Instead, he must find value in his struggle. Tell me, young lady, in your life would you rather have the struggle or the beauty.”

She knew the “right” answer. The altruistic one that would garner some level of appreciation from her peers, but this man seemed to be as far away from her concerns of vanity as possible. Thinking of her argument with Peter and just wanting the world to be simple and easy again, she answered honestly, “The beauty.”

Thaddeus smiled, perhaps in an attempt at warmth, but the resulting chaotic grin did nothing but unnerve Pearla. “It is refreshing to hear an honest answer. I think honesty is rewarded in the world. May it be so for you, Pearla.” As he spoke, the electric shiver ran through her once more. He nodded to her and continued on through the gallery, leaving her slightly confused and at a loss. She had the strangest sensation that the man had done something to her, but also that he’d never even been there. She watched some other browsers move out of his way as he strolled to another hall or otherwise, she would have thought she imagined him altogether.

Her thoughts turned back to Peter, but she was no longer angry. More than anything, she wanted to get home and apologize for how she’d behaved. She did not know that he, too, had felt the strange shiver run through his body.

The trip back to her home was short and uneventful other than her own feeling of urgency. At first she classified it as a want to see Peter, but halfway back she realized she more than wanted, she needed. And it wasn’t exactly a pure need either. She felt certain things which she hadn’t in a very long time. It started as a subtle ache for the want of his hands on her body, but it was quickly growing into more. It did not help that her skin felt like it had been sunburned or that her clothes itched as if she’d been doused with flea powder. By the time she stepped through the front door, she was ready to tear the clothes from her back.

Pearla smiled to herself as she saw the clean house. Peter had cared enough to jump right to work. Thinking about Peter made her smile and warmed her from head to toe, but he was no where to be seen. She suddenly worried he would be upset she hadn’t brought him any beer. That’s not what a good girl would do for her strong man. Pearla stopped in her tracks. She stood in the middle of the hall and tried to figure out where the voice in her head came from and why it said that. It was her own voice, but slightly higher and more bubbly than her normal inner monologue. She shook her head as though it might actually fall out of her ear.

She continued into the bedroom and gasped as she saw Peter. He stood in front of the mirror completely naked. He looked over to her with a dreamy smile on his face. “I know!” While he was still clearly himself, the Peter standing in their bedroom looked nothing like the slob she’d yelled at earlier. He was in peak physical condition with a six pack of abs leading up to a broad muscular chest. Chiseled thighs and strong forearms would have made Pearla weak in the knees if not for the thing between Peter’s legs. She’d never once thought of his cock as anything but average and yet dangling from him now was a monster of a rod that had to be at least nine inches long. “It’s crazy right?” he asked as he walked across the room. Before she could stop him, he’d wrapped her up in his arms. The feel of him pushing himself into her and the scent of his warm skin were intoxicating.

“Peter, put me down, this is…how could that happen?” A wave of heat rushed up her body, spreading out rapidly to her extremities. She pushed him to the side and tore at her clothes. She felt claustrophobic and overwhelmed. As her shirt and pants came off, she felt better, but not enough. He’s naked. I should be too. Again that bubbly voice wedged itself into her mind, parading around as her own. Why shouldn’t I be? You worry too much. Just let go. She felt Peter’s hand on her back as he unclasped her bra. It fell off as she pulled down her panties. The cool air on her skin brought some relief. She stood naked with Peter close behind her. “What’s happening to us?”

“I think it’s a blessing. I was dreaming of getting back in shape and look at me now. And then there’s this.” He pushed against her back, his cock sliding against her naked thigh. It felt thick and hot against her bare skin. The subtle desire that had built on the walk home now threatened to boil over. “It’s happening to you too.” His hands clasped around her shoulders, and he guided her over to the mirror. She saw their reflection, but realized that something about her body looked different. Her hands shot up and grabbed hold of her tits. They were bigger. Peter’s hands moved to cover hers, squeezing when she squeezed. She felt his cock twitch against her leg. “It’s like we’ve been given a new chance.”

“A chance at what?” She thought he was stepping closer to her, but then realized that it was her ass swelling into a big bubble butt. You know what, silly. Happiness! You can be Peter’s fuck bunny, and he’ll be your big hunky man! “No, wait, this isn’t what I meant.”

Peter’s arms wrapped around her. He lowered his mouth to her neck and began to nuzzle her. “But what else could you possibly want?”

She opened her mouth to answer as his hands brushed hers aside, and his palms closed over her tits. They were definitely bigger. The kind a bimbo has! And when he squeezed, she almost came right away. His cock slid between her thighs and it was like she was straddling his forearm. Pearla’s hips started to jerk involuntarily, rubbing her pussy along the topside of her boyfriend’s new swollen cock. See how good it feels. What’s the point of life if not to find this kind of happiness? Don’t worry about work. Don’t worry about keeping up with the Jones. Just fuck. And fuck. And suck. And cum! Pearla whirled around and pushed Peter onto the bed. He laughed and pulled her thighs towards him as she scrambled on top. She took his cock in her hand, stroking it up and down to fully appreciate its new size. She rose up and positioned it at the entrance to her drenched pussy, wedging the fat head between her lips before she started lowering herself onto him. This is better. This is easier. I’m nothing but a fuck bunny bimbo for Peter now. And he’s nothing but my big stud. She looked down at him, pressing her hands into his chest as he took greedy handfuls of her full ass. “Is that what you like? Do you like your bimbo’s big, soft ass?”

“Fuck yes. I love my bimbo’s ass. I love how she squeezes my cock with her pussy.”

“And I love my stud’s big fat cock and how it fills me up with all that creamy cum.” She started to rock her hips back and forth, a slight squelching noise filling the room as her stretched pussy coated his cock in her juices. “But he likes to fuck me more than I like to ride him. Get behind me and fuck me like the bimbo I am.” She rolled off of him onto the bed as he quickly moved to comply. His hands went right back to her ass as she wriggled back into him. The cock slid back into her with ease, and she felt him throb inside of her. That’s a good girl. That’s a good bimbo. You never want to do anything other than please your man. You want his cum inside you. You want it on your face. You want it to splash on your ass. She grunted as he bottomed out inside of her. Looking over to the mirror, she saw that her hair had turned blonde, but more importantly they both looked amazing. She never dreamed that either of them could look so hot and yet there they were, rutting like animals. She smiled. “So are you going to cum or what?”

Peter grabbed her hips and pulled her hard against him. She liked the rough feeling of his hard body pushed against hers. His cock twitched inside her again and he groaned. He’d cum in her plenty of times before, but she’d never felt it. At least not like this. A flood of cum shot into her womb, and she could feel each pulse as his cock pumped into her. It sent her over the edge. Her body shook with orgasm. Her mind roiled with pleasure. In the midst of it, she could feel the old Pearla burning away. She didn’t lament the stodgy woman’s passing. The bubbly voice became her own. As soon as Peter’s cock slid out of her, she whirled around to slurp him into her mouth, cleaning away the residual cum with a smile. “That’s my big stud. So what do you think of my new body?”

He was winded and coping with his own new pleasure. “You’re beautiful.”

“Am I hot?”

“Of course.”

“Am I your hot slutty bimbo you want to fuck in the ass?” His cock pulsed in her hand. “Then what are you waiting for. I want you to cum on my back though.”

“Only if you let me eat your pussy afterward,” he said with a grin.

“What else would we do?” She rose up and gave him a long, passionate kiss. For the first time in months, they were blissfully happy.