The Capitalist (Bimbo Note)

 12/25

You can find the rest of my Bimbo Note captions on my index page

Azalea loved visiting the racetrack. She didn’t give a damn about horses, but it was full of rich idiots doing careless things with money. It was the perfect place to dress up, push her tits out and take home some lovesick dope with an overstuffed bank account to buy her a new fur coat or some leather boots. Half the time she didn’t even have to let them put their dick in her – a few strokes of the wrist was enough to get these fools to shoot their loads and become smitten. After all, they didn’t bet on horses because they believed in delayed gratification…

Azalea didn’t like to gamble, she liked sure things, but seeing men place their bets was the easiest way to tell who had cash to splash and who didn’t, and so she obliged. It was a sunny Saturday and she was leaning at one of the provided stations filling out a slip. She was betting her usual – the track minimum on the favourite. A well-dressed man with a moustache at the stall next to her appeared to glance over her shoulder and scoff. At first she thought he was looking at her tits, but no one scoffed at her tits, so she surmised that her wager was the source of his derision.

“Alright then stud. What have you got?” She scowled. The man held up his betting slip and Azalea saw that he was planning to bet a thousand bucks on a rank outsider. “Well, good luck with that…” she snorted noting to herself that she didn’t care if he bought her a tiara, no way was she bringing sexual gratification to that weasel face. They both placed their bets with the teller and went to watch the race.

Twenty minutes later and Azalea was waiting for her prey by the betting office. Few punters had opted for the apparent no-hoper ‘Sod’s Chance’ and the moustachioed man was one of only a handful to come and collect winnings. Seeing her, he grinned smugly, holding up his betting slip just as she had hoped he would. She made a mental note of his name written at the top of the slip. She would be making a physical note very shortly.

It didn’t take Azalea long to spot her latest creation. Most women who came to the track were in groups – Prosecco sipping bachelorette parties, who, while often slutty, did not resemble the kind of airhead that the Bimbo Note produced. She saw her target standing alone staring blankly out at the track – big plastic looking jugs bursting out of a figure hugging jacket and a large purse bulging with stacks of bank notes sitting at her feet. Azalea walked over and scooped up the purse before any would-be thief could do the same, and gave the babe a squeeze on the backside.

“Come with me,” she cooed, “enough of those boring horses.” The woman looked at her blandly as she surveyed the people around her. A Rolex peeked from a jacket sleeve. “Here we go!” Azalea guided her over to an expensively dressed man while expertly inching down the zippers on her new bimbo’s jacket and her own catsuit to reveal maximum cleavage. “Hey there!” She bit her lip seductively. “How’d you like to take home a sure thing? You can ride this one all you want…” Azalea snaked an arm around her waist, “…and she doesn’t care where you finish!”