Shopping for new clothes.

Your wife grabs your hand, her grip firm and possessive, as she drags you out the door still half-dressed in your oversized shirt that's barely containing your new, jiggling breasts. 'We're going shopping, bimbo,' she says with a wicked smile, eyeing how your widened hips sway with every step. The transformation has left you in a constant state of bubbly arousal, your pussy throbbing wetly against your thighs, and you can't stop giggling at the way strangers stare as you pile into the car.

She drives to the seediest part of town, pulling up outside a dimly lit boutique called 'Slutty Secrets' – the kind of place with mannequins in the window posed with legs spread, wearing fishnet stockings and micro-skirts. Inside, the air smells like cheap perfume and latex, racks overflowing with crop tops, thigh-high boots, and lingerie that leaves nothing to the imagination. Your wife pushes you toward the changing rooms, snatching armfuls of the sluttiest outfits: a pink tube top that clings like a second skin, a pleated mini-skirt shorter than your ass cheeks, strappy heels that **** your posture into an exaggerated arch, and sheer panties that do fuck-all to hide your slick folds.

'Try this on first,' she commands, shoving the tube top and skirt at you. You strip eagerly in the cramped stall, the mirror reflecting your transformed body – full, perky tits begging to be squeezed, plump lips parted in a dazed pout, and that needy ache between your legs making you rub your thighs together. The top stretches tight over your chest, nipples poking through the thin fabric like hard bullets, while the skirt rides up to expose the curve of your ass. No bra, no panties yet – just the promise of easy access.

She pulls back the curtain, her eyes darkening with lust as she drinks you in. 'Fuck, you look like a perfect little whore,' she growls, stepping in close to adjust the hem, her fingers 'accidentally' brushing your bare pussy lips. You whimper, leaning into her touch, your mind too foggy to care about the salesgirl peeking from afar. 'Now the heels – strut for me.' You wobble into them, ass popping out as you teeter, and she slaps it hard, the sting sending a jolt straight to your clit.

Next comes the lingerie section. She picks out a black lace bodysuit with crotchless snaps, garters dangling loose. You model it for her right there in the aisle, bending over to show how it frames your dripping slit. Her hand slides between your legs, two fingers plunging in without warning, pumping roughly while she whispers, 'This is what you're made for now – getting fucked in public, begging for cock or my strap-on.' You moan loudly, hips bucking back, cum starting to trickle down your thigh as shoppers whisper and stare.

She buys it all – the outfits, a collar with 'Bimbo Slut' engraved, even a vibrating plug she insists on inserting right in the store bathroom, buzzing low against your ass as you pay. Back in the car, skirt hiked up, you're fingering yourself shamelessly while she drives, her free hand pinching your tits until they're red and aching.

We head home now, or does she make you wear one of these outfits out for a test run in public? What do you crave next in your bimbo haze?