Fuck the new security boi!

You tell yourself you don't have a choice. You tell yourself it's his own fault for taking a job as security officer at a bimboi academy if he isn't 100% sure about his studliness. You tell yourself if you're going to be branded a bad bimboi no matter how hard you try, you might as well enjoy the perverse perks of being a predatory infector. Besides, who's to say? Maybe he's a stud in a small package?

"Gee whiz, Officer Deimos, I'm not so sure about this..." The red faced rookie stammers as you peel down his pants. His hesitation makes you suspect that he's not such a stud after all. That, and the pretty panties he's hiding under his pants, tell you he won't be a boi for long. As you engulf his mediocre manhood, you tell yourself the little loser will be getting an upgrade, and he should be thanking you for blowing his boihood away. Oddly, he seems to think he's some kind of stud as he grips your head tightly and begins forcefully face fucking you. Not that you mind, it just hits your spurt button that much harder and gives you such tingly throbs in your throat. Besides, it will be even more fun to see the look on his face when he transforms now!

"Don't worry, boi, I'll make sure you're safe. I'll even help you fuck this sloshed slut properly." Officer Deimos yanks down your pants and unceremoniously crams his cock in your cunt in a slow steady slide. You hate yourself for slipping right back into your submissive slut routine, but it's like there's a switch inside you flipped by hairy hands and hard cocks. The worse someone treats you, the higher your ass arches for easy access. It just feels so RIGHT to get fucked like a thing. No romance, no foreplay, just raw, rough ravishing from a stud that takes what he wants and doesn't worry about boring things like consent.

You are a little surprised Officer Icarus has gone so long without cumming. He's been scratching the bitch itch at the back of your throat for what feels like at least a half hour, and you can usually suck the seed from a stud sack in half that time. Boi balls usually empty for you in the first few minutes, but he's outpacing them both, all while jackhammering his junk past your jaw at a rate so fast it makes you dizzy. Or is that the disorientation from another crash of climaxes from your throat and ass running through your bimboi body and wrecking into one another in a pure pleasure pile up. Your body is battered back and forth helplessly as a reverse tug of war pushes you back on one prick even as another plunges into you, propelling you back and forth as you cum and clench and quiver uncontrollably.

"Oh gee whiz! Guess I'll NNGH cum in this infected NNNF bimboi without a AAH condom." Officer Icarus sounds so blaise about throwing his manhood away. You want to tell him to cum on your stupid, slutty face to be safe...and because you feeling a real cumrag vibe right now. You don't get a chance, both because your mouth is full, and because a devious dark part of you wants to see him soften and shrink and swell in all the right places. You know it's a symptom of your sickness, but you feel so depraved and debauched and defeated...why fight the sickness when you can embrace it?

You feel the boi swell and shudder and shoot thick ropes of cum down your throat. Your greedily guzzling sets off the older guard and he explodes, emptying his balls in your cum craving cunt. They stop sawing in and out of you, content to watch you buck back and forth brainlessly to milk every last drop of their man milk. You pout and whimper when Officer Icarus pulls out of your thirsty throat and smears the last of his seed on your spit covered cheeks. You smile stupidly, half at the foul fulfillment you feel from getting used and the other from the ghoulish guilty pleasure of waiting to see what kind of bimboi he will blow up to be.

Officer Deimos pulls out of you and pulls up his pants, laughing, you assume, because he is also eager to see the boi becum bimbugged. You wonder why you haven't noticed any changes yet, as Icarus pulls his cock back into his panties and pulls up his pants. Finally, when it's clear even to your dick dumb brain that he isn't transforming he laughs, "Haw haw! Bet you thought I was a sissy! Naw, slut! I'm a 100% stud with a five inch cock that wears panties to trick predatory infectors like you. I'll bet you were looking forward to seeing me change, weren't you...Amy?"

Oh no! Oh fuck! Oh no oh fuck oh no! They know who you are! You look back and forth perplexed and panicked and pouting. "Aww, poor little pestilence? You wanted to escape and spread your...disease, didn't you? Well, your friend Sasha warned us the moment you left her dorm. We set this little trap, some might call it a test. Either way, you failed." You want to protest, to come up with an explanation, any excuse to defend yourself, but you cannot find the words. There are none, really. When the going got tough, you gave up and gave into your basest beastial instincts. The armed guards surrounding the shack in biohazard suits don't seem too inclined to hear you out anyway.

....

Soon you are being dragged through the main campus by hazmat wearing hard asses. You see Dee in the crowd looking so disappointed and it hits you just how far you've fallen. You hang your head in shame, resigned to your fate and regretting every choice that led you here...especially the good ones. You could have surrendered so many times and now that you finally did, you just have that much more to lose, that many more people to hurt, and that much further to fall. Instead of clawing your way out of Hell only to stumble back in, you should have dived in head first and never looked back. You won't make that mistake...not that you're likely to get a choice in the matter anyway.

....

"I'm not disappointed, I'm just angry." Guidance Counselor Ms. Joan chides as she inspects the straps on your chair. You think about correcting her, but from the look on her face you guess she didn't misspeak. You still haven't thought of anything to say in your defense, so you keep quiet and hope your apathy reads as contrition. Whatever she reads on your face, she seems sullen but unsurprised by your abject failure and she is entirely unsympathetic to your feelings on the matter. You settle into a quiet calm, embracing your fate with a cattlelike zen as you are wheeled past nondescript halls deeper and deeper into the labyrinthine inner lair.

"Well, I owe you a coke. Another one for the kennel." Principal Jacqueline sighs as she meets you in front of steel reinforced security door. She doesn't look at you as she discusses your final destination. It's as if she doesn't consider you human anymore. Maybe she's right. Regardless of your relative humanity, you are treated to a description of your dark destination via Jacqueline's offhand remarks. "Well, at least we won't have to update her progress reports every five minutes now. Not much to report for anyone down here. Feeding and fuck times plus one hour shower. She can sleep or sob or stroke her shaft the rest of the time for all I care."

You are wheeled into the 'kennel', past rows of prison cells with pretty pandemics eager to spread blowing you kisses, waving their cocks at you, and pushing their asses against the bars. This must be where the unrepentant spreaders are locked up. You always heard stories about the CDC squads that locked up the most contagious cuties, but you never thought it was real. Don't you have rights?! You see the Principal signing a form and handing it to a hazmat wearing guard who affirms, "Verified, subject Amy Archer has now had their human rights nullified and categorized as a Class 1 Contagion."

You don't even bother to object. What's the point? You already proved them right and at least this way you can finally stop worrying about hurting anyone else. The guards treat you like the bimbonic plague and all the other diseases just want you to spread. You are put into a tiny cell covered with built in dildos and built in screens playing nonstop porn. Your clothes are cut away so you don't even have to worry about making a mess. You hear the cell CLAAAANG shut and don't even bother turning around to see Ms. Joan or Ms. Jacqueline leave you to rot. You're more interested in throating the thick phallus protruding under the porn hole.

It's going to be a long life sentence, but you don't care. One day will be the same as any other. Soon enough, you won't even have to cram down the regret and shame with a fat fuckstick. You just won't remember you ever cared in the first place. In the meantime you have three square meals a day to look forward to as well as your hour of activity time, which is little more than a massive orgy in an underground bunker the size of a football field, followed by your daily shower, which is little more than a massive orgy in an underground bunker the size of a football field with water added. It's not the happiest end you can imagine, but on the plus side you won't be able to imagine anything else soon.