Bimbo Asylum Future Spirits Seance

Abstract: The brainwashing will only work on four out of five women. The others will find themselves at the Bimbo Asylum.

INTRODUCTION

Dear Reader,

Because of the evil people here, so many women will be brainwashed into submissives or killers or lures for purposes of blackmail. Others will find themselves, like me, as "uncooperatives" to be housed here in the Bimbo Asylum. Guards will force those women to wear shear silky white stockings, lacy panties, revealing bras, strappy garters, and, at times, tight straitjackets that show their midriffs – all to be done to demean, to psychologically break, and to sexually humiliate.

Regardless of what may happen, I ought to tell you my story later tonight or whenever -- wherever -- you shall find yourself here with my words. I hopefully will make the events, that have yet to occur, clear and concise so that you won't be getting lost and so that we shall be able to take, together, this journey – an episode of events to be channeled through me from the sensual sexual spirits of the future. Not the past. Not the present.

I am going to bridge reality and the spirit world with a tether of erotic energies scarcely understood – that, in fact, shall probably never be known by modern science. One day, people will know the truth. Until then, I will not allow them to quash my proof that bimbos in their lightheaded mindedness will always transcend time – these lovelies will eventually be known as the best vessels to receive thoughts from beyond our realm of reality. For deniers – the biblical Thomas doubters -- I shall go totally quantum conscious Deepak Chopra on their asses.

Of course, if someone's going to ask me -- myself – I would certainly answer that I may never be fully here. Yet, I will present to you a story. I will channel it from the future.

So if you are going to think a story told in present tense will be more annoying than one to be told in a past tense, my story will exasperate you, as it shall be recited in the future tense, despite English limitations – namely, the absence of a direct future verb conjugation. I will use the needed modal verbs and other techniques, so that we will be in the right timeframe. I shall hope that will work for you.

Sincerely,

****** ****** [name redacted]

Patient in cell 13M

STORY TO BE

It will surely be a dark stormy night when I am going to find myself connecting to the spirit world to receive warnings of the future. A scatterbrain may very well get lost when the energies arrive, signaling dire portents. But with effort, it may very well be proven that a bimbo's mind could be the perfect entity to understand the ethereal world hiding beyond the reach of science.

Yes, I shall be able to take you there. I shall make this pledge, as we hopefully could gather around the asylum's fine mahogany table to be found in the dead center of the asylum library. The Tiffany glass dome ceiling, will be backlit with lighting flashes from the sky. It will certainly set the mood. In soft spoken and echoing voices, we will prepare to hold hands, to close our eyes, and to feel!

A quorum of the most evil of people will gather around me, stifling -- endangering my control of the energies I must contact to keep my sanity. Lawyers and doctors, most of them will be, but one -- a businessman, who in particular I shall always deceive.

Yes! When we all sit around the table, I may choose one person to focus on, but I will certainly not indicate so. We will all hold hands in a circle. My wet lips will quiver. My eyes will dart about, locking briefly on the one opposite me. It will probably be Mr. Green, my physiotherapist, my enslaver. I will remember how he applied his evil bimbo treatments to fog my mind, but not in the way he desired. I will forgive him eventually, but on stormy nights, I will taunt him. I will make him experience a sensual caress from my stocking feet that I will slip out of my high-heeled shoes. I will extend my leg under the table to hopefully clasp his manhood between my silk stocking covered toes. Once again, I will excite a well endowed doctor and will raise the sexual energy needed to touch the spirit world. I may rub his pants, stroking across the zippered region while praying that before we hold all hands, he will seize the opportunity to find the kindness to unzip, to unbuckle.

Of course, he must clear the way before clasping hands. Otherwise, he'll miss my talented toes pressing inside and rubbing his bare smooth soft rapidly engorging location. With his initial help, he could experience nylon sliding about in between the contact of our bodies. My panty-covered rear may slide forward in my chair to allow my legs a better reach under the table, the act to be kept a secret from the other surrounding guests. My mouth will open, my sweet glossy lips slightly parted, just as the connecting circle is going to close -- chaining souls, arms and hands. My eyes will lock forward, but I will not let the other guests know that I'm going to stare at one guest as I may assault him under the table. My moans will seem to be from a spirit world trance. My gasps will build while my lower lip is gently bitten and my chest, in my white lacy bra, rises and falls.

Oh how I ought to feel the bottoms of my white stocking covered feet slide along his growing excitement relishing our heavy breathing as the others, including you maybe, could believe that he and I may be lost in the spirit world, gasping, breathing, swallowing to gasp some more. Finally, secretly climaxing, everyone else won't realize the physical contact below the table.

"Mr. Green," my husband at the table will say, "I appreciate you joining in this charade and you certainly played the part as if the séance actually affected you. Hell, I thought you had an orgasm, but I want my bitchy wife here to submit to my will."

"Um, yeah," a flustered Mr. Green will say while tugging his hands free from the circle because he is going to be in dire need to hide his hands below to tend to hidden issues there.

My husband will continue: "I paid a king's ransom to have my wife turned into an obedient meowing sex pet bimbo. We've tried these damn séances enough times. When she embezzled all my off shore accounts, you promised you could make her talk. I want that fucking money located! Mr. Green, make her confess it." My husband will then look at me. "You stole it, you bitch. I order you to tell me the bank, the account number, everything." In anger, he will struggle to remember my secret terse code that should make me submit to his orders once uttered.

"Feline fingers furiously fuck fowls," my husband will say again and again as if it would affect me, as if it were a programmed code that could be told to me.

I will laugh and giggle lost in a future world.

He will stand wanting to throw the table over. It will be too heavy.

Mr. Green's hands, surely under the mahogany trying to zip and buckle, will heatedly accelerate his efforts as he prays that his pants show no stains. "Ah!" he will say as I may squeeze his balls one last time before retracting my legs. I will sit up refreshed and energized despite no orgasm of my own. But the surrounding awkwardness and suspicion from the surrounding guests, including my husband, will be delicious to experience.

"Of course," I will say loudly in the large hall, "if a certain phrase could be said to enable domination of my soul, I mostly certainly will lose myself to the commanding power of my husband. I might then be forced to divulge my secrets. But with the spiritual ethereal planes of the future that envelope my soul, I won't be told anything that can become a past event. I shall stay in the future, so the programming reliant on me being 'told' will remain harmless."

"Fine," my husband will yell pounding the table too large to angrily flip Jersey style, "Feline fingers will furiously fuck fowls. Feline fingers will have been fucking fowls. Feline fingers are going to fuck fowls."

I will look across the table at Mr. Green, who will always love his favorite chair positioned at the table just right for yet another attempted rainy night. I may blow him a kiss, as this one stormy night will certainly feel like the last séance – at least with my husband, his lawyers, and his co-conspirators.

"My dear husband, you will never know where your millions are. I will never recognize a bimbo code from anyone. Your fortune will forever remain lost in another realm."

Oh, how I will always smile at that thought.