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Max's mother, Veronica, is gorgeous. But she's also divorced, lonely, and depressed. But when Veronica takes an experimental new drug, things change for the better! Veronica's horny alter ego, Ronnie, takes over her body, and she's got her eyes on her sexy son! Can Max stave off her sexual attack? Find out in "Help! My Mother's a Bimbo!" ~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~ This was getting out of control. He tried to focus on something other than his mother's body, which was displayed with such a carefree lack of concern that he felt himself, despite his best intentions, starting to respond. "Mom," he stuttered, "maybe you should sit down. You can't talk about...about screwing me. I'm your son." "You're right." He let out a breath of relief. "We shouldn't be talking about it." His mother giggled. "We should be doing it." And then she reached behind her back, unclasped her bra, and leaped into his arms, her hands snaking around his neck to draw his head down into a passionate, searing kiss. Her mouth opened, her lips soft and sweet, and the darting tip of her tongue played along his lips, seeking entry. And, to his complete mortification and shame, he found his body responding. Inside his loose, comfortable jeans, he stiffened, rising and hardening until he was an aching bar of steel. His hands found his mother's back, her skin fever-hot. And when she released his mouth from the gentle prison of her lips, he found himself looking down between their bodies to where her breasts were pressed against his chest. How would they feel in his hands? How would her- No. With a monumental effort, he somehow lifted his hands, placed them against his mother's arms, and gently pushed her away. "Mom. We can't." "Stop being silly. Of course we can. Unless," her lip quivered, "you don't really think I'm beautiful." "Of course you're beautiful!" "Then stop calling me Mom.' Call me...Ronnie." "Ronnie?" "That was my nickname." Somehow, her hand had reached his groin, and she was stroking him, her fingers both gentle and firm. "When I was in high school. Back before I married your father. "I lost my virginity when I was fourteen," she whispered, her lips nuzzling his neck. "And by the time I graduated, I had gone through half of my high school. Mom knew, I think. But Daddy never found out. Not until I was older and he couldn't do anything about it. But I love sex so much. It's the funnest thing ever. God, Max, you feel so good." She took one of his hands, placing it on her breast. Instinctively, his fingers cupped the warm mound, and she shivered, pressing closer to him. "Please, baby." Her voice entreated him. "Please." Jesus Christ. My mom's a...a bimbo! It was all there. The inability to think ahead. The delightfully innocent personality. The preoccupation, no, the obsession with sex. Was this something that the pill had done? Or was Veronica's own frustrated sex drive simply taking advantage of a period of unexpected freedom, the same way a prisoner would respond to a cell door left conveniently open? It was more temptation than any reasonable man could be expected to withstand. His hot, sexy mother was writhing against him, her bare tit warm and heavy in his hand, practically begging him to make love to her.
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Book 1 of “The Bimbo Pill”
By Alana Church
Artwork by Moira Nelligar
Copyright 2018 Alana Church
~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~
It was a Friday evening in early March, when it all started.
Max heard her come into the house, the front door slamming against the far wall, and winced. His mother had a way of letting people know when she’d had a bad day at work, and from the sounds, this had been one of the worst.
It wasn’t easy to have a mother who was a genius, especially when she expected you to live up to her reputation. But Max was smart enough to know his skills didn’t mesh with hers. Veronica Melton was a brilliant scientist, and as her voice rose up from the ground floor to his bedroom on the second level of the house, he was reminded that she was fluent in four different languages as well.
Hell, not only didn’t he understand what she was saying, he couldn’t even tell what language she was swearing in. Was that Russian? Or Polish?
“Hi, Mom,” he said, walking out of his bedroom and looking down the flight of stairs which overlooked the front room. “Bad day?”
“Those idiots,” she swore, striding back and forth across the living room, her skirt swirling around her knees, a bottle of wine held in one hand as if she intended to brain someone with it. “Those short-sighted morons! Those pathetic lickspittles! Those gutless, cowardly, ignorant tools!”
Max whistled to himself. ‘Ignorant’ was the most vile epithet his mother could throw at someone. In her mind, one couldn’t help being stupid. Intelligence was just a throw of the genetic dice, and sometimes it came up snake-eyes, which meant that you spent your life working at a dog-food factory, or something.
But to be ignorant was something else entirely. That made her lips curl into a mocking sneer and her voice drip acid. If stupidity was a draw of a random card in a game of poker, then ignorance was the greatest sin of all. It meant that you had the ability to learn, but then chose not to.
Nothing, and he knew nothing, could draw Veronica Melton’s wrath quicker than ignorance. To her, practically everyone had the ability to learn, and a failure to do so meant that you were lacking in moral fiber, and probably had other nasty habits as well.
“All right, Mom,” he said, drawling the words, making her squint up at him suspiciously. “I’ll give you bonus points for using ‘lickspittle.’ Not enough people take the time to roll out the really good insults anymore.” He walked down the stairs. “Want to tell me what’s got you so pissed?”
She grimaced at his use of language, but didn’t give him any grief over it. Ever since he turned eighteen, his mother had seemed to hold the opinion that he could swear if he wanted to, as long as he didn’t get too crude about it.
“They’re trying to cancel my project. The new drug.”
“Okay.” His brow furrowed. “Which one?”
She snorted as she walked into the kitchen, the hem of her jacket flaring around her hips. Despite the fact that it was Friday, she hadn’t gone in for the casual look when she went in to her office at Biodyne. She was dressed in the same kind of outfit she wore almost every day – a sensible black skirt or slacks, a crisp white button-down shirt, and a black suit jacket which clung close to her body.
Max had asked her once why she didn’t ever wear more ‘girly’ clothes. Not that the head researcher for Biodyne should wear a bikini or anything, but even a colored skirt and a blouse would make a welcome change, he thought.
“Max,” she had said, a tired smile on her face, “Half the execs where I work still can’t get their minds around the fact that a person can be a scientist and a woman, let alone the head of the research and development department. They keep looking at me as if one day I’ll rip off a mask like the tail-end of a Scooby-Doo cartoon, revealing that I was a man all along. If I start wearing casual clothes, especially things designed to make me look attractive, the whispers will start. That I’m trying to sleep my way up the corporate ladder.” She had tossed her honey-blond hair, which she had passed along to his older sister, but sadly not to himself. “Fuck ‘em. If the price for doing some good in this world is dressing like a sexless fembot, then I’m more than willing to oblige.”
“It’s the one I’ve been working on with the Department of Justice,” she elaborated.
He had been studying for a trig test, and it took him a bit to find the right name. “Mentothal?”
She flipped a hand at him. As always, her fingers were clean, the nails trimmed neatly, the result of spending a good portion of every working day in the lab. “Until the marketing wonks come up with something better, yeah, that’s the one.” She set the bottle of wine down on the marble counter and dug through a drawer for a corkscrew. Unasked, he found one and handed it to her. “Thanks, honey.
“Anyway, we’re in the middle of the clinical trials. And then this fucking jackass from the dee-oh-jay waltzes in today, and starts blathering on about how there’s all sorts of ethical considerations that we aren’t taking into account.”
“Oh?” Max pulled a wineglass down from the overhead rack as she popped the cork, and she splashed a generous dash of red wine into it and took a long sip, her eyes closing with pleasure. “So how’s it work?”
“Well…” she hesitated, knowing that his interest in biology, chemistry, and pharmacology was academic at best. “Mentothal works in two ways. “First, it dissolves the ego. But only temporarily,” she was quick to add. “And also, it takes away some of the higher reasoning functions, especially those that have primarily to do with…oh, I don’t know…call it being able to judge the consequences for the actions that you take when you’re under its influence.”
“What? So it makes people morons?”
“Oh, no. Not at all.” She leaned forward, caught up, as always, when her work was concerned, with the fascination of what chemistry could accomplish. “Intelligence is not affected. But things like the ability to lie and a person’s inhibitions are greatly impaired. If a subject has been dosed with Mentothal, he or she has a very difficult time putting together a plausible lie, or seeing down the road to what the possible repercussions of his or her actions are.”
“So,” he said, trying to put the pieces together, “if I had taken a dose of Mentothal, and I was with my girlfriend at the mall, and she had asked, ‘do these jeans make my butt look fat…’”
His mother grinned. “If they did make her butt look fat, you’d say so. Because you’d have lost the ability to lie, and you also wouldn’t realize that telling Gwen that the jeans looked like she was pouring ten pounds of cement int a five-pound bag would probably earn you a good slap right across the face. Like I said, consequences and repercussions.”
“So how long does the dose last?” he asked. “Call me Mister Silly, but the last thing we need is a bunch of people who have lost the ability to tell polite lies to each other. I can just imagine it now – a guy comes into work and says, ‘How’s it going, Hank?’ and the other guy says, “You’re ugly, I hate you, and I slept with your wife last month.’”
She laughed. “Yeah. That would be a problem. But it’s only short-term. Two to four hours per dose, tops. We want to use it for police interrogations, things like that.
“But,” she made a disgusted sound, “it seems like some of the civil-rights people have caught wind of it, and they’ve got their undies in a twist. This guy from Justice was making noise about how it goes against a person’s right not to be forced to testify against himself, and his right to remain silent, and all that bullshit.”
Max bit back a grin. He and his mother might live in a big city now. But when all was said and done, Veronica was a small-town girl who had been raised by rock-ribbed, law-and-order Republicans. His grandfather, for instance, would probably go to his grave insisting that Nixon was framed. And his mother hated anything that interfered with her work. Put the two together, and she had little patience with organizations like the ACLU and with government regulations.
“I don’t know, Mom.” He took a diet soda out of the fridge. “The fifth amendment is pretty clear. If someone can’t be forced to be a witness against himself, forcing them to take a drug that might result in self-incrimination is pretty far out there.”
“That’s what he said. The guy from Justice. That even if we got past the clinical trials, no police department would ever use the drug, because they’d be scared shitless of the lawsuits. And because any convictions we got would be overturned anyway.”
She walked into the living room and sat down on a couch, toeing off her heels. They fell to the hardwood floor with a faint clatter. “Crap.” She looked up at him. “I hate it when things get political. My son, the lawyer-to-be. Why couldn’t you at least pretend to be on my side?”
“I haven’t even started college yet, Mom.” Max leaned against the doorframe. “That’s not until August. I’m not even out of high school yet. It’s a long way from here to the bar exam. Who knows. By sophomore year I might decide that what I really want is to get into landscape architecture and design golf courses. ”
“You’re just trying to turn me into a bankrupt. How many years of college and law school should I look forward to paying for? Six? Eight?”
He snorted mildly. His family wasn’t Warren Buffet rich, but his mother made more money than they could easily spend. Between her salary and stock options and the money she had made off some of patents for drugs she had helped develop, it would take a couple of Kardashians to burn through what she brought home.
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