The Strange Case of Bimbo Maserati
by Raven


The scene was innocuous enough . . . except for the petite blonde girl in the 
waiting room with the humongous hooters.

"Ms. Maserati?" asked the nurse at the front desk.

There was no answer from the voluptuous sex kitten.  Instead, she idly leafed 
through a fashion magazine that was sitting on the front table.

"Strippers!" exclaimed the nurse, under her breath, in the exact tone of voice 
that men would use exclaim, "Women!" in frustration.  She continued, "They 
are all fucking airheads."

Actually, the nurse's characterization fit the image of the girl.  Her lovely 
vapid face looked like it had never held an intelligent thought.

"BIMBO!" said the nurse a little louder, just in case the girl's non-
responsiveness was from a hearing problem, rather than stupidity.

The front desk nurse wasn't calling her a name either.  It was actually the 
name that she had filled out on the registration form.

The blonde's head jerked up from the magazine.  

"W-what?" she cried in a startled tone of voice.  Her eyes were just as wide 
as those of a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming vehicle.

She was just as scared.  A single tear leaked from her big blue eyes.

The scare sent her long blonde locks swirling into her eyes, and she pointedly 
drew the strands from her eyes, face, and mouth.

Something about the scene struck the nurse as . . . odd.  The girl's 
movements were awkward and forced.  It wasn't anything like she would 
have expected from a young girl who makes a living by dancing naked in 
front of men.  She should be more . . . graceful.

She also seemed annoyed somehow by the long hair.

The front desk nurse shook her head in confusion.  She didn't even want to 
try to understand, and well, that's why Dr. Smythe was here anyway.  This 
tramp was his problem . . . not hers.

Still, the nurse had to at least try to be nice, if not for the sake of her job.

She addressed the cartoon of a man's sexual fantasies.  "I called you Ms. 
Maserati.  You must have been concentrating on an interesting article."

The blonde regained her composure.  "Oh, I was just looking at the pictures.  
It's kinda hard for me to read the writing."

The nurse was not surprised.  The girl took so long trying to figure out the 
registration form, that the nurse just ended up reading the questions to her.  
Girls in her profession didn't exactly need reading and writing skills.

"Anyway, the Doctor will see you now."

When the patient stood up, the front desk nurse saw, just how short and 
petite she was.  The diminutive girl stood only 5' tall, and probably weighed 
slightly over 100 lbs.  But for her melon sized boobs, she would have 
weighed well under 100 lbs! The remainder of her body was slight, but oh so 
shapely.

The green monster of jealousy jumped up to bite the desk nurse squarely on 
her plump ass!  She was SO tired of having men look at well endowed sluts 
like blonde dim wit.

The big boobed little girl wobbled slightly in her high heels, making the front 
desk nurse chuckle to herself.  She watched with great amusement as the 
huge hootered honey struggled to get her body from point A to point B.

If she didn't know any better, the nurse would have sworn that the blonde 
was . . . uncomfortable in her own body?  That was impossible!  She should 
be used to the weight distribution, balance, and movement of her unparalleled 
body by now.

Even her outfit of a one piece lycra mini dress looked somehow . . . wrong 
on her.  It looked like a man dressed her, with it wrinkled here, and stretched 
to long there.

She was probably dressed by her sugar daddy, as she just stood 
submissively in front of him, thought the nurse.  She saw the girl stumble 
slightly over her own two feet, and almost take a head dive into one of the 
end tables.  The girl was so top heavy that nothing would have prevented her 
from toppling over. She was all of the grace of drunken wino, mused the 
nurse gleefully.  At least there is SOME justice in this world.

The entire scene was so humorous that the nurse couldn't help but giggle.

The girl, now standing directly in front of the nurse, looked up, way up, to 
see the laughter.

 "W-what?" asked the wee girl in the exact high breath voice that one would 
expect to come from a bimbo.  When she heard her own voice, she tried to 
clear her throat, as if she had a frog in her throat.  The blonde tried to speak 
again, in a much lower voice.  "What?"

It didn't quite work.

THAT only made the front desk nurse laugh all of the harder.

The diminutive patient started to giggle herself, infected as she was by the 
nurse's glee.  Her "Tee Hees" rang out like the peal of a highly pitched bell.

That didn't strike the nurse as particularly odd.  Air heads were always 
giggling at everything . . . even with someone who was laughing at THEM!

It was only when the nurse pointed at her, that the busty blonde realized that 
she was the butt of the joke.  She flew into an uncontrolled rage, but it only 
came out as very, very weak.

THAT in turn, made the girl break into tears.  

In the space of mere seconds the girl had gone from tears to laughter to rage 
to tears once again.  That was not normal behavior.  

The front desk nurse stopped laughing abruptly, as she thought that she may 
have discovered the source of the girl's problem.  It would be a feather in her 
cap if she could guess the diagnosis before the Doctor did.

"May I ask you a personal question Miss Maserati?"

"S-sure," squeaked the girl, her voice cracking as she continued to keep it 
low.

"When was your last period?"

"P-p-period," stammered the girl in horror, as if hearing the word for the first 
time.  Tears flowed anew down her smooth dewy cheeks.  "I-I don't know."

It figures, thought the nurse.  Still, she said, "I think what you may be 
suffering from is PMS, or pre-menstrual syndrome.  You may not be as 
crazy as you think you are.  You may not need a psychiatrist at all."

The mere mention of Dr. Smythe, the psychiatrist, invoked an expression of 
stark terror on the beautiful girl's face.  In her many years of a desk nurse, 
she had seen all manner of reactions to the possibility of seeing a psychiatrist.  
She never saw such an abject look of fright . . . the girl looked like she just 
saw the devil himself!

It was enough to make even the nurse drop her disdain for this trollop.  
Despite her obvious profession, which she indicated to be stripper on the 
registration sheet, she was still a human being.  For a second she even pitied 
the girl.  It had to be horrible to be thought of as nothing more than a 
receptacle for a man's sperm.

The nurse tried to comfort the girl, "C'mon.  It's okay.  Dr. Smythe is very, 
very nice.  He won't bite you . . . unless you want him to."

The nurse couldn't resist the last barb.  The little girl laughed in spite of 
herself, until she again realized what she was laughing about.

"He does hypnosis doesn't he?  Just like it says in the phone book?"

"Yes, if that is what is needed.  He's the only psychiatrist in Helleston, 
Tennessee who does."

She sat upon the plush leather couch awaiting the entry of the Doctor.  She 
trembled all over in fear of the thing that she now had to ask him to do.  It 
was the only way that she could go on.

Dr. Smythe entered the room seconds later.  He picked up the clipboard with 
the buxom girl's registration sheet, that had been carefully placed on the table 
by the door, without looking over to check the appearance of his patient.  
When he did look over at her, his eyes widened at the very sight of her.

"Ahem," Dr. Smythe, cleared his throat, while redirecting his eyes to the 
clipboard.  "What brings you here today Miss . . . Maserati?  Bimbo 
Maserati?  That can't be you're real name!"

The girl was very slow to answer.  When she did, her voice cracked once 
again.  "I . . . don't think that it is."

She attempted to clear her throat yet one more time.

The Doctor walked toward her now to take the leather seat facing the couch.  
He attempted to reassure her by smiling, and stating, "There is no need for an 
alias.  I assure you that everything we discuss here today is quite 
confidential.  What is your real name?"

He lowered himself into his seat, the leather groaning under his weight."

"I-I don't know.  It was the name on her driver's license, and all of her stuff.  
I think that she musta changed it."

Doctor Smythe looked up at the girl.  He noted with some measure of unease 
the girl was young and very, very beautiful.  This was NOT going to be 
easy.  He ran the preventative mantra through his head that he had been 
taught when sexually attracted to a patient.  He tried not to look at her lush 
curves.

It didn't work.

"It's okay Doctor.  Everybody looks at this body.  I-I hate it, but I'm used to 
it."

"I apologize.  It wasn't very professional of me."

"I know.  But you are a man . . . you couldn't help but to look."

Doctor Smythe noticed that his patient looked very sad now . . . almost 
melancholy.  Nothing that she had said, thus far, gave him a handle on the 
purpose of her visit.  He scrutinized every word, phrase, expression or 
gesture for a clue.

He did notice that she seemed to be extremely fidgety.  Her lovely 
countenance was marred by an aura of edginess . . . almost of being 
emotionally overwrought.  The girl was constantly shifting around on the 
couch I an effort to get comfortable.

"Are you okay?  You seem to be a bit edgy."

"Your nurse said it's because I have PMS.  I-I'm going to have a period on 
top of everything else that I've had to suffer.  I'm sorry."

What a strange comment, mused Doctor Smythe.  He made a notation upon 
the wire bound tablet that had appeared, as if out of nowhere.  A girl with 
premenstrual syndrome would also not make his job any easier, for her 
emotions or moods would be all over the road!  Still, he had to do something 
to make her more at ease . . . to encourage her to talk to him.

"Is there anything that I can do to make you more comfortable?"

"Do you mind if I smoke?"

"That is a very dirty habit.  You should never have started, and you will have 
a hard time quitting.  That may be why you are so jumpy," observed Doctor 
Smythe.

"I didn't start . . . she did.  I-I hate smoking," squeaked the big boobed girl.

Another cryptic comment, noted the Doctor.  He watched the girl reach into 
her purse, with shaking hands, to withdraw an ultra thin woman's cigarette.  
She lit it, inhaling the toxins, but looked unnatural, or more accurately 
unpracticed, in doing so.  Although the cigarette looked elegant in her 
manicured hands, it somehow didn't fit.

The girl closed her eyes for a second to let the nicotine take effect. She 
opened her eyes to look back at the doctor.

However, his eyes were directed a little lower than her face.

The girl sighed, "That's a little better."

Doctor Smythe directed the conversation in an effort to explore his patient's 
two strange comments.

"You have mentioned a HER twice now.  Who is she?"

Her response was quite astounding.

"The original owner of this body," she said softly, tears forming in her eyes.  
"That's why I don't know my . . . I mean her . . . real name.  She switched 
bodies with me."

Doctor Smythe just sat quietly, while he absorbed the full impact of her last 
statement.  His mind raced through the various clinical examples that 
appeared in the text books, that would give him a handle on her condition.  
The text books were rife with people who believed themselves to be 
Napoleon, Marie Antoinette, Jesus, God, or even Santa Claus.  They all had 
a common thread . . . they were somebody famous, and quite dead . . . or at 
least beyond the veil of this reality.  He couldn't think of an example of 
anyone thinking they were a live busty stripper with the stage name of Bimbo 
Maserati.  Doctor Smythe thought that he may be dealing with a precursor to 
Multiple Personality Disorder.

The text books indicated the thing to do in such circumstances was to draw 
the various personalities out so that they could be delineated, and ultimately 
merged.

Without skipping a beat, Doctor Smythe asked, "Then how do you refer to 
yourself?  What should I call you?"

The girl dried her eyes as best as she could.  That look of sorrow still 
remained.

She sniffed, "You can call me Bo.  That is what I've been calling myself.  
It's the only form of the stupid name that I've been stuck with that doesn't 
make me cry."

Now they were getting somewhere.  Doctor Smythe pressed further.

"If that is not your original body, perhaps you can tell me exactly who you 
were before this . . . uh . . . switch."

"My name was Reverend Jonathan Cain."

Doctor Smythe's head jerked up from his pad.  "The famous televangelist?  A 
man?"

Now her condition was beginning to fit into a familiar pattern, except for the 
part that Cain was very much alive.  Doctor Smythe just saw the man on 
television last week.

"Yes.  That is . . . or was . . . me.  Now I am her.  Why has my God done 
this to me?"

Bo broke into tears once more, causing her to shudder terribly.  It sent her 
massive boobs to bobbling once again.

She's so close to a complete nervous breakdown, thought the Doctor.

He pulled out his neatly folded handkerchief, handing it to her across the 
expanse between chair and couch.  "Here."

She gratefully accepted it.

"T-Thanks."

"You're welcome.  Just take your time. We don't have to go any farther if it 
upsets you."

"No.  I want to tell you.  I need to tell somebody what happened to me."

Doctor Smythe replied in a reassuring tone of voice that was perfected over 
countless therapy sessions.

"Go ahead.  Tell me your story."

Doctor Smythe settled back in his overstuffed chair, pencil in hand, to hear 
Bo's story.

She started slowly, her soft voice interrupted only by occasional cracks, 
squeaks, and throat clearances.

"I was on my way back home to Nashville.  That's where I live . . . or used 
to live . . . you know?  I was about 100 miles away when I saw her, standing 
along side the road.  She was hitchhiking. She looked so small and 
vulnerable that I couldn't pass her by.  I just wanted to get her someplace safe 
before somebody bad found her."

"I see," encouraged the Doctor, to keep the story going.

"It wasn't until she was in the car that I noticed her . . . uh . . . body.  I 
asked her what she did, and she told me that she was a stripper.  I tried to 
counsel her on how sinful her life was.  She just told me that I didn't 
understand . . . she didn't have anything else that she could do.  She said that 
she was trapped by her body, her face, and her stupidity.  She mentioned 
something about choices that she had made in her life.  I didn't find out about 
those until after the switch."

"What happened next.  Did this switch occur by . . . mutual consent?"

"N-no!" cried Bo.  "I didn't want this.  I don't want to be her."

The huge hootered honey gestured at her outrageous curves at the last 
comment.  It forced the Doctor to look at her gorgeous body, face, and tits 
once again.

He felt his penis start to become erect from just the sight of her.  He was but 
a man, and could not help but wonder what she would look like with no 
clothes on.  What would she be like in bed?

Bo looked not into his eyes, but at his crotch.

She said sadly, almost inaudibly, "I can see you getting erect from looking at 
me.  Part of me wants to drop to my knees and take you into my mouth.  T-
this body wants things . . . dirty and unholy things.  In my mind those things 
disgust me . . . they make me sick.  The body that I have now always wins.  
Can't you see that I have become everything that I don't believe in.  My body 
makes me do sinful things.  It's tearing my mortal soul into shreds."

The Doctor noted that it did fit her mood.  He wondered if she had suicidal 
ideation.

"Have you had thoughts about taking you life, Bo?"

There was a long pause.  Finally, Bo answered, weakly.

"Yes . . . ."

"And?"

"I couldn't do it."

"Why not?"

"Because if I do, my soul will be eternally damned.  Everything that I've 
learned tells me that.  It makes me afraid.  I can't let the Fallen One have 
another soul . . . he's winning already."

"I see.  Tell me about this switch."

"I asked her where she was going once we stopped arguing.  She would not 
listen to anything I had to say to her.  She said that she was going to 
Helleston. It was a little out of my way, but I wanted to get her safely home.  
I thought that if I showed her a kindness, that she may think that her life was 
not so hopeless."

"Okay . . . the switch?"

"Oh . . . right.  When we got near Helleston, a very bad storm started to 
form.  I remember thinking that the clouds were the blackest that I'd ever 
seen.  I saw the sign up ahead that said, "Helleston, population 666."  No 
sooner had we crossed that sign into . . . I guess . . . Helleston, than a bolt 
of lightning struck my car."

"What is the next thing that you can remember, Bo?"

"I woke up on a bed somewhere.  Now I know that it was her place.  She 
must have awakened before me, and drove my car to her place.  I think she 
carried me up to her place and put me into her bed.  It was when I woke up 
that I knew that, somehow, I had been put into her body, and she into mine."

"Interesting.  What did you think at the time?"

"I don't know.  It's all so fuzzy.  I remember thinking that it was God's will 
. . . that somehow he meant for me to sacrifice my life for hers.  In that way 
he could be saved.  I thought that he believed that I was better able to handle 
the circumstances of HER life.  He was . . . wrong."

The Doctor prodded still further.  "What happened after that."

"It was a shock.  I felt so . . . strange and different in this body.  Still, I tried 
to accept my creator's will.  If this is what he wanted for me, then it was only 
for me to accept.  But . . . ."

Bo hesitated.  It was apparent that she was at a very emotional part of the 
story.

"It's okay, Bo.  You're safe here.  Go on."

"She disrobed my body . . . right in front of me.  It was so hard to see 
myself, y'know, moving without me in it.  She . . . she started to do obscene 
things to my body."

"Masturbating you mean?"

"Y-yes."  

Bo's tears were flowing once more.

"She looked at me then with this . . . look in her . . . my eyes.  She said that 
she understood now.  She understood why a man needs to stick his cock into 
a pussy when it becomes erect.  S-she ripped all of the clothes from this 
body.  She threw me onto the bed . . . face down.  She . . . she . . . entered 
my . . . her . . . pussy from behind.  Oh God, it's just so confusing."

"She raped you?  Didn't you fight?"

"I tried, but she was bigger than me.  That wasn't the worst part.  I-it was 
only rape at first.  The body that I now h-had liked what she was doing to it.   
My . . . her body wanted it.  God help me . . . I liked the way that she 
squeezed these breasts.   I liked the way she moved in and out of me so 
roughly.  I wanted more."

"And?"

"I think my mind shut down. The next thing that I knew . . . she was gone.  
She left me there to live her life.  I was sick for days.  What I'd done made 
me throw up . . . at least I thought so at the time."

"There's more??"

"Yes."

"Tell me."

"This body had a heroin . . . has a heroin addiction.  I was suffering from 
withdrawal symptoms.  I found her drug stuff and knew.  I had to try and get 
some more, because I felt so bad.  She didn't have any money, and must 
have used it all on the drugs."

"What did you do?"

"I-I did the only thing that I-I could.  Lord save me, I used the only thing that 
I had.  I found the strip club where she worked, and took my clothes off for 
money.  I had to show this body to . . . to men."

Bo sobbed profusely now.  Yet, through the sobs, she continued with her 
tale.

"I-I had to rub these breasts up against them so they would give me money.  I 
had to sit in their laps, and wiggle around so they would get hard.  I had to 
whisper dirty things that I wanted to do to them into their ears.  I had to dress 
this body obscenely, and make it do obscene things while I danced."

"What is so bad about that, Bo?  I mean . . . as long as you didn't do 
anything."

"That's just it Doc.  Every time that I do it, a little more of me slips away.  
When I do these things . . . my body wants other things.  It makes me want 
to be touched by a man . . . to have what she did to me done again.  At times 
I think what it would be like to take a man into my mouth.  I dream about it."

"So you came to me for help?"

"Yes.  I did.  I didn't know what else to do.  If I didn't do something I knew 
that I would kill myself.  I-I can't have that happen.  Doctor, you are my only 
chance to save my soul from damnation."

The Doctor had to inquire.  "What would you like me to do for you?"

Again, there a slight hesitation, as Bo mustered every ounce of strength in her 
voluptuous body.

She spoke softly, as if in surrender.  "I want you to hypnotize me.  I want 
you to make me believe that I am this Bimbo Maserati.  Please . . . I need for 
you to make me forget who I was before I take my own life!"

Doctor Smythe was flabbergasted over Bo's strange request, to say the very 
least.

"I don't know if . . . ." he began to explain.

"You don't understand Doc.  You just don't.  I feel so strange and 
uncomfortable all of the times, that it makes me crazy.  I think that it is 
making me insane.  I can't even talk right.  The voice of this body is so high 
and soft.  My mind tells me that it's . . . all wrong, and I try to talk like I 
used to.  Can't you hear how my voice squeaks, cracks, and breaks up?  I 
keep trying to clear my throat to make my voice sound like it used to.  Her 
body wants to make me sound like she used to.  It's like I'm at war with her . 
. . no my body.  Can't you see how that would make somebody mad?"

"Assuming that I believe you, that is," added the Doctor.

"It must all sound pretty nuts . . . huh?"

Even the bodacious babe's vocabulary alternated between the elaborate and 
simplistic.

"You wouldn't believe the strange cases I've seen in this small town," 
intoned the Doctor.  "Nothing surprises me much these days!"

Doctor Smythe spoke truthfully.  Weird cases did seem to be finding their 
way to his doorstep more and more lately.

"Then you'll help me?"  She asked sweetly.  There was a look of hope upon 
her face for the first time . . . it was a pleasant sight to behold.

Still, hypnosis was a remedy, like electroshock therapy, of last resort.  He 
had to be convinced.

"I'm just not sure Bo . . . ."

"My speech isn't the only thing.  It's hard for me to even walk around.  My 
mind remembers what it's like to walk around as a man.  This body 
remembers another way . . . her way.  My hips want to wiggle, but I don't 
want them to.  My rear end wants to move from side to side, not up and 
down like it used to.  When I try to move like I used to it feels so . . . 
strange.  It's just . . . tearing my mind into pieces.  I-I almost fell on my face 
in your waiting room.  

"It's just that . . . ." the Doctor tried to continue.

"It feels so natural . . . and yet so wrong to wear things like tight dresses, 
bras, thong panties, and high heels.  This body feels . . . right in them.  But 
my memories of who I used to be make my skin crawl.  It makes me sick 
over what I have to wear, and that my body . . . likes it.  And do you know 
what, Doc?"

"What?"

"That's not even the worst of it."

"How so?"

"She never learned how to properly read or write.  Now that I have her brain, 
I can't hardly read or write anymore.  She wasn't very bright either because I 
have a hard time concentrating on things . . . even remembering things.  I 
was a graduate of seminary school.  Now I am just plain dumb.  Do you 
know how hard it is to go from being smart to being dumb?"

"You aren't dumb," countered Dr. Smythe, in an effort to be supportive.

Bo sobbed once more.  "I am.  I'm stupid . . . everybody tells me so.  I can't 
even control my emotions anymore.  They just come right to the surface.  I 
either cry at the simplest things, or I giggle at everything.  It's so awful."

"You said that you had PMS.  Maybe . . . ."

"That's not it Doc.  It's making it worse, but that's not it."  Stark reality 
gripped the gorgeous girl now.  "Oh Lord.  I'm going to bleed just like any 
woman."

"Naturally," returned Doctor Smythe.

"Not for me," Bo whispered.  "You just don't know how it feels to lug 
around these gigantic breasts all of the time.  You can't imagine what it' like 
to have to look up at everybody, but when you do, they aren't looking in 
your eyes.  They look at your chest . . . like that is the only thing you are 
worth.  Every man looks at me with the same look . . . the one that you had.  
They all want to touch me.  They all want to do things to me, or have me do 
unspeakable things to them.  And . . and . . . ."

"What?"

She whispered even lower.  So low, in fact, that Doctor Smythe had to lean 
forward to hear.

" . . . . I-I'm starting to . . . like it."

"What's wrong with that?"

"It's unholy . . . unclean.  I can't like it.  It makes me so very sad."

"I'm so sorry Bo."

"I just want to be happy again, Doc.  Doesn't everybody deserve to be 
happy?

"And you feel like you would be happy if I made you believe that you are 
who you appear to be?"

"Yes.  I would at least stop fighting with myself . . . what my body desires to 
do.  You would be saving my life . . . my very soul."

There was a pause, this time by the Doctor.

"Okay Bo.  I'll do it.  Tell me what it is that you want."

"I want you to make me think that I have never been a man, in fact, I want 
you to make me think that I never wanted to BE a man.  I need for you to 
make me happy with myself, maybe even to like myself and what I do.  Even 
these big boobs."

Bo pulled out a video tape from her purse, handing it to Doctor Smythe.

"I want you to make me walk, move and talk like she does on this video.  
Make me like and want the things that she does withy men on this video."

Doctor Smythe was just about to ask her what was on the tape.  That was 
very apparent now.

"You are sure about this?  When I am done you will really be a . . . well . . . 
a bimbo."

"I know," she said softly.  "It's the only way I know to save my life."

"Can't you just find a man, settle down, and have a family like any woman."

"I could.   I would still know who I was.  The end would still be the same.  
You must think me a coward."

"On the contrary . . . I think you are very brave.  You are giving up all that 
you were so you can be happy.  That is courage."

"Thank you, Doc.  I needed that."  The girl smiled for the first time. "How 
do we get started?"

Doctor Smythe pulled out a sheet of paper.

"The first thing that I need you to do is to sign this consent.   I'm afraid that I 
can't do hypnosis without a consent."

He handed it to Bo, who quickly scanned the document.  Her smile instantly 
faded.

"I-I can't read it, Doctor.  The words are just so big."

It's okay.  It's just a standard consent form.  Nothing . . . earth shattering 
Just sign it, and we can get started."

"Okay," chirped the soon to be bimbo, as she sign her adopted name to the 
document.

-----------------------

Two hours later, Doctor Smythe watched a very happy stripper swish out of 
his office.  Gone was any trace of the person she claimed that she used to be.

The big titted bimbo who paused at the door to look over her shoulder was 
the very image of a air headed sex kitten.  She wore a very satisfied smile on 
her face, which she should have as part of the payment for services rendered 
was taken out in trade.

Even now, Doctor Smythe was just now zipping up his pants.

Bimbo Maserati licked a stray droplet of warm sticky cum from her pouty lips 
. . . then she giggled.

"I hope I'll see ya around soon, Doc."

Marilyn Monroe would be proud of her voice now.

"I'll try to get over to the Pink Pussycat Club soon, Brittany."

A fake "real name" was an added extra touch, all of his own.  It added a 
touch of realism, and for her a sense of familiarity.

Brittany "Bimbo" Maserati blew Doctor Smythe a kiss before skipping out of 
the office.

Smythe went to his desk, and depressed the intercom button.

"Nurse?  Do I have anymore appointments today?"

"No Doctor.  Miss Maserati was the last.  Whatever you did for her seems to 
have worked."

"Yes.  She does seem to be a lot more herself now, doesn't she?"

No response was forthcoming, for none was needed.

Doctor Smythe instructed the front desk nurse, "Hold all of my calls.  I don't 
want to be disturbed for an hour or so.  I have some work to finish up in 
here."

"Very well, Doctor.  I'll see to it personally that you aren't disturbed."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

No sooner had Doctor Smythe released the intercom button, than is form 
began to blur.  Where once stood the psychiatrist Nicolas Smythe, now stood 
the Fallen one . . . Satan himself.

He drew out the consent form sign by the former televangelist.

"Check and mate, Reverend Cain.  I can't have any efforts to save your soul 
meet with any success.  It wouldn't be good for business.  And business is 
just beginning to pick up!"

 Satan filed the contract signing the soul of Jonathan Cain over to his keeping 
into a filing cabinet.  It was a good thing that the buxom girl couldn't read 
anymore!

Satan's decision to expand the outer circle of Hell to the mortal plane was a 
sound one.  Helleston was a small town . . . but it was growing.  Naturally, 
anything out of the ordinary would make it's way to the only psychiatrist in 
town.  His chosen alias was . . . perfect.

It also had the fringe benefit of manipulating reaped souls to his benefit.  He 
had great plans for the big chested stripper he'd created.  Men would fight 
over her . . . even kill for her.  The trouble she'd cause was too delicious.  
So many more souls to be reaped.

The original Bimbo Maserati?  Well, she was busy perverting Reverend 
Cain's ministry into something truly nasty.  That was the purpose behind this 
exercise in the first place.  Cain's word was starting to make a dent in Satan's 
own work . . . he was starting to make a difference.  That could never be.

One more piece removed from the board.  One soul closer to victory.

One of God's chosen warriors reduced to nothing but a brainless slut.  

"Business IS beginning to look up!" beamed the Fallen Angel.

Fin