Bimbo Code Series Bundle Read online

  BIMBO CODE:

  BOOKS 1-5 SERIES BUNDLE

  by

  Jen Eastwood

  Copyright © 2017 Jen Eastwood. All rights reserved.

  READER ADVISORY:

  This is a work of erotic fiction and is not suitable for readers under the age of 18. Please enjoy this story, but be advised that it contains sexual themes and explicit language. The characters and events in this story are intended for titillation purposes only and in no way represent any real people or transpired events. Any similarity to actual individuals or events is purely coincidental. All characters depicted are the age of 18 or above.

  OTHER TITLES BY JEN EASTWOOD

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  BIMBO CODE: PRIME RECIPIENT

  BIMBO CODE 2: STOLEN PROPERTY

  BIMBO CODE 3: BORROWED TROPHY

  BIMBO CODE 4: RESCUED KEEPER

  BIMBO CODE 5: ROUGH LIMIT

  BIMBO TOUR PREVIEW

  BIMBO CODE:

  PRIME RECIPIENT

  I had never had great luck with women. Sure, I could rack up a cheap score when I had to set my mind to it, assuming I didn't get too picky. But sometimes you feel that urge to plow a perfect-ten like a field. Guys, you know what I'm talking about.

  Sometimes the urge was uncontrollable, like I was settling if I didn't claim the goddess jogging down the street. Hell, at times I had to push myself to go after the hot friend when I was at the bar for a one-night-stand. If you're anything close to normal like me, it can drive you batshit trying to figure out the one trick that works.

  Fortunately for me, that all changed as soon as I entered GeneFactor's facility. I thought I was responding to an ad for a medical study when I requested more information. A little extra beer money is all I was after. A few days after sending back the cheek swab, a photo, and a brief medical history I got the letter.

  They wanted to see me, urgently.

  As I sat in the waiting room, the other guys dwindled from twenty down to one more. Every two or three minutes another one got called back by the voice of a young but disinterested woman none of us could see. I had no idea what this was about, but a few hundred bucks for showing up was enough for me.

  I heard the last one aside from myself get called, rubbing my eyes as he went through the doorway. Nobody's phone got service inside the building. They didn't even have the courtesy to leave a stack of magazines. I was by myself with my thoughts, watching the second hand crawl around the clock on the wall across from me.

  Exactly on time, the door opened again. “Grant Jensen.”

  It had been creeping up on an hour already, making it ache that tiny bit you feel when sitting in a crappy chair too long. I started toward the door and noticed the hallway it led to was almost sterile looking. I pulled at the handle behind me and the warmth in the passageway took me off guard as the door shut.

  I heard the clack of high heels until a slim, leggy brunette stepped out of the office to my left. She stuck her hand out at me, her lab coat barely hiding the cleavage I fought to keep my eyes off of. “I'm Dr. Clare. Cynthia if you want to be less formal.” She tipped her glasses down her nose and smiled. “It looks like you'll be here a while.” She'd have been a solid ten herself, if she showed any kind of emotion or interest in more than her work. We'll call her an eight.

  Watching her turn around and start down the hall, I asked, “I don't even know what I'm here for.”

  Dr. Clare didn't stop, turning her head my way. “Congratulations, out of all the applicants, you're the top of the heap.”

  “For what, exactly?” I quit standing there, dumbfounded, and followed her. “Is it some kind of medical study or what?”

  She opened a door to her right and stepped in without breaking stride. As soon as I got in the same room, Dr. Clare pointed to an exam table. “This is for a series of case studies. You can agree to it or not.”

  Her half-assed answers started to grate on me. “Like, am I taking a pill or what?” I took my seat and felt the stiff vinyl grip against my jeans. “I'm not sure I'll agree if I don't know what I'm getting myself into.”

  Dr. Clare took her own seat. The plush, maroon armchair looked out of place among the clinical white and steel of the room. I got a little chub when she crossed her legs, showing more thigh than a good bucket of chicken.

  She leaned forward and asked, “First question, do you have a significant other?”

  “I don't know why that matters, but no.”

  “Good. Your family history is almost spotless too. Your children will be lucky to get your genes.”

  What the hell? I watched Dr. Clare's face, still looking down at a clipboard in her lap.

  “Your pay for this study is based upon certain tasks and benchmarks you complete. Is that acceptable to you?”

  I knew I had lowered my eyebrows. “I guess, but I still don't know what I'm supposed to be doing.”

  Dr. Clare finally looked up at me and snapped, “For now, answering a few more questions.” She blew a few strands of hair off her forehead and continued. “Are you straight, bisexual, homosexual, or other?”

  “Straight,” I droned, making my impatience clearer than I intended.

  “Your current occupation is listed as office assistant. How do you feel about leaving your current employer.”

  “I hate the place. If the money's good enough once I know what I'm supposed to do, I'm gone.” It was a dead-end of a shit job.

  “Excellent.” Dr. Clare extended her foot, popping her heel out of her shoe. “Now that I know you're a potential subject, I can tell you more. Are you still interested?”

  “I guess, but only if you tell me what this is all about.”

  “Grant,” she change in her tone threw me for a loop, “you have a gift, and it's one that needs to be shared with the world.”

  A little praise always went a long way with me, but answers went even further. “And that is?”

  “In case you didn't figure it out from the name of our organization, we deal primarily with human genetics.” I saw Dr. Clare smile as she uncrossed her legs and stood up. “We pay for prime genetic material, and you're a diamond in the rough.”

  “If this is for a sperm donation, I don't know. I've heard about guys getting put on the hook for child support from that shit.”

  I leaned back as Dr. Clare got closer. She stopped just short of my knees. “It's not like that at all.”

  The look in her eyes was honest, but the smirk on her lips tipped me off. “Maybe I should have asked 'What are you not telling me?'”

  Dr. Clare pushed her clipboard in my face. “I'll tell you everything I can, but not until you sign a non-disclosure agreement. The general public wouldn't agree with our program.”

  I scanned through the single page, making sure I was only signing a paper to keep my mouth shut. “Alright, but I won't agree to take part until I know exactly what I'll be doing.” I signed and handed the board back. “There.”

  Her voice went back to business again. “Mr. Jensen, the human race is approaching a crisis.”

  At that point, I started to wonder if I was getting myself involved in a cult. The world was doing fine for most people, all fucked up things going on considered. “What kind of crisis, exactly.”

  Dr. Clare gave me this look that told me she knew far more than I could imagine. “The human race is becoming weak, Mr. Jensen.” She planted her hands on my knees and stated, “Smart, healthy people with excellent genetics aren't reproducing anymore.”

  I had never had such a high opinion of myself. I leaned back even further. “I already said I wasn't jerking it into a cup.”

  “You'll never have to.” The entire professional front she had been putting up dropped in an instant.
“In fact, you'll never have to...” she trailed off for a few seconds, “jerk it ever again.”

  What the fucking fuck? I tried to keep my face as still as a rock, barely keeping from laughing my ass off. “I'm confused. What the hell are you talking about?”

  Dr. Clare leaned over to the counter to my left and grabbed a manilla folder and a pill bottle. She handed them to me, redness in her cheeks breaking through that professional demeanor. “Go home, first of all. Read this, and if you agree, sign and start taking one of these daily. Come back a week from today, at the same time, if you do exactly as I said and follow the directions to the letter.”

  I stared at the folder in my hands and asked, “If this is some kind of joke, go ahead and tell me.”

  “It's no prank.” Dr. Clare pulled an envelope out of a pocket in her lab coat. “Here's your pay for showing up. Follow the directions to the letter, then read the sealed letter on the last day. I hope to see you again, exactly one week from now.”

  I did as the lady said after realizing my check was for twice what GeneFactor advertised. The instructions told me to take a pill stamped 'PD-053' daily. I tried looking them up online, but the only reference I could find was in a medical paper on animal magnetism that rattled off a bunch of medical terms I couldn't understand. At the time, pineal glands, thought-form projection, and pheromones all read as a bunch of bunk.

  As the week went on, I started to feel stronger, smarter, more alert. By day six, it felt like people parted for me like the Red Sea for Moses. Even my bottom-rung job felt like it had some authority to it.

  I had called in sick to get the afternoon off for the follow-up meeting with Dr. Clare. Misty, the normally bitchy receptionist at work, took the news like a command from above. The change in her behavior toward me was odd, to say the least. In fact, it almost felt like Misty was coming on to me the day before.

  Waiting until exactly noon that day, I stared at the sealed letter on my kitchen counter. GeneFactor had already paid me more for a little of my time than I had earned at my day job all week. I felt obligated to obey their orders. The fact that it had an old-fashioned wax seal gave it that extra bit of credibility.

  I pulled a knife out of my silverware drawer and freed several pages from their case. The paper was heavy, rough, and off-white linen. The kind of paper reserved for resume's when someone is trying too hard or documents that actually mean something.

  The first page was a contract already inked by the board of directors and the CEO of GeneFactor, Janus Rickard. Only the spot for my signature was blank. The following pages blew my mind as they explained the genetic crisis Dr. Clare had mentioned, and then laid out the expectations I had to meet in detail.

  Reaching the last page, I realized my ultimate purpose in this contract:

  “The Donor shall be paid commensurate with his successful implantation of Genetic Material among Prime Recipients. Compensation shall be $5,000.00 USD upon donation, with an additional $10,000.00USD upon confirmed delivery.”

  The dollar figures thrown about blew my mind, but I couldn't bring myself to believe what “donation” and “delivery” meant, exactly. They had to be shitting me.

  I showed up at GeneFactor on time, the implications of the contract still boiling over in my head. They've got to be joking. I'm not even past wanting to fuck for fun, but they want me to do THAT?” The money was right, but to throw that kind of task at a man in his late-twenties?

  Sitting down in the waiting room again, I didn't have company like the last time. The clock ticked down to the designated time. My arrival a few minutes early made it feel like I was waiting for days.

  As the last seconds ticked away in slow motion, I thought about cutting my losses. While something was making my life easier since the meeting, it didn't sit right with me. Why would I help these people? I get that we're growing weaker, but how is it my responsibility to do anything about it?

  “Grant Jensen.” Dr. Clare's voice rang out as I noticed the clock had hit four on the dot. I rose, fighting against leaden feet and those nagging doubts. “We're glad you decided to cooperate.”

  I entered that unnaturally bright hallway again, Dr. Clare already waiting in the doorway to the left again. Noticing the same kind of high-cut skirt and lab coat, I forced a smile and said, “The offer is very generous, but—”

  “You have questions.” She turned around back into the office, decked in hardwood floors and a refined shade of olive on the walls. “Have a seat.”

  “Didn't you wonder if this was right or not?” Dr. Clare had to know even more than she was letting on.

  She bent over in front of a mini-fridge, pulling two bottles of water out. I admired the pert, heart-shaped ass on display in front of me. Dr. Clare handed one of the bottles to me before taking her own seat behind a thick slab of wooden desk.

  “Well?” I was getting the quiet treatment again. “What do you think about this project?”

  Dr. Clare rested a cheek against two fingertips and smirked. “Personally, Mr. Jensen, I agree fully with the intent.” I could tell she noticed my face tense. “It's the means I have an issue with, but it's not my place to judge them.”

  “So it's a paycheck, then.”

  “If you want to put it that way,” she twisted the cap off her water, “yes.”

  “And how is this supposed to work? Do I get a list of 'Prime Recipients' or what?”

  Dr. Clare finished her sip. “If it were that easy, you wouldn't have been taking doses of Patrem Delta for the past week. Tell me, have you noticed any side effects?”

  “No, it's been a pretty good but normal week.”

  “Explain 'pretty good' in detail.”

  Why? Is she asking about my personal life now? “Things have been a lot easier at work and people are a lot nicer to me than usual.” Aside from Dr. Clare herself. She took notes in a leather journal as I explained in detail how behaviors had changed around me.

  “That's all very normal, Grant. You're progressing well.”

  “How does that make glorified sperm donations any easier?”

  She cleared her throat and announced, “You're ready for the last test, assuming you're still on board.”

  “Why not at this point? Are you supposed to be teaching me how to pick up women at the bar or something?”

  Dr. Clare grinned like a fox. “If you want to be vulgar about it, yes.”

  “You're pulling my leg.”

  I watched her stand up and come around the desk. Cleavage as perfect and round as twin sand dunes presented at eye level with me. “Remember these words very well. You'll need them to do your job.”

  She handed me a piece of paper with 'Ego sum alpha. Et genua parere.' scrawled on it. I couldn't figure the game out. “How will this do anything?”

  “This might go over your head, but Patrem Delta stimulates the pineal gland, which is right behind your forehead. I'm sure you can focus your will in that area by now, and you didn't even realize it.”

  I leaned back, finally looking up at her eyes from the piece of paper. “Do you think I'm dumb enough to believe in that kind of thing?”

  “You have to focus your mind and project those words. If you thought people were going out of their way to make you happy since we last met, this amplifies that power immensely by focusing it on a person's will.”

  “Like a code for getting anything I want out of someone.”

  “Not exactly. It certainly lets you assert dominance over a person's will in a social situation, but it won't let you rewrite it from scratch.” She nodded her head toward the door. “I recommend trying it once you leave here. The power gets stronger with practice, up to the point you can become dangerous. Keep that in mind.”

  I could tell Dr. Clare had more confidence in my willingness. As she got out of my personal space, I said, “You know, I'll give it a shot. If I end up looking like a fool, it's on you.”

  Dr. Clare headed toward the doorway, signaling that she had gotten the point across. “Pick a
target you think will be a good experiment before Monday. We'll go over who qualifies as a Prime Recipient then. Two o'clock sound good?”

  “I guess.” I followed behind and stopped with her at the doorway.

  “Excellent. I see great things ahead for you, Grant.” Dr. Clare stuck out a hand, formal as always.

  Gripping with my own, it hit me. Why not try it with her? I squeezed harder than usual and focused on her dark eyes. “Ego sum alpha,” I felt a surge of pressure in my head, “Et genua parere.”

  Dr. Clare's hand went limp as her eyes changed from business to adoration for a few seconds. The resting bitch face crept back into her face. She finally pulled her hand back and stated, “That's bold of you.”

  “You told me to experiment.”

  “I didn't mean you should try it on me, you ass.” Dr. Clare crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. One side of her face shined from the brightness of the hall, the other glowing from the soft lighting of the office. “Besides, I don't plan on having any children. My work is enough.”

  “That's hypocritical of you..” Something inside me wanted to make her bend to my will. I focused my mind and thought at her, Ego sum alpha. Et genua parere. “I thought your job was to get women like you to breed with men like me.”

  The same change in Dr. Clare's attitude took hold again. A hint of her normal self tried fighting through whatever spell I had on her. I repeated the mantra in my head, watching her shift from a bitch on wheels to a sweet, innocent thing the more focus I pushed at her.

  “Stop fighting it,” I ordered. “You know you want this.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dr. Clare tilted her head down and looked up at me with puppy-dog eyes. “I'm sorry.”

  It really was that easy. When I stopped reciting the code like a chant in my head, Dr. Clare no longer edged back to her normal self. “Go ahead and tell me what a Prime Recipient is.”

  “The top two percent of breeding-age females humanity has to offer. They're not difficult to pick out when you know what to look for.”