Men Make The Best...
“So Michael,” Dr. Whitfield asked politely and pleasantly after she took a seat across from him, “if I were to ask you what brings you to my office, how would you answer?”
For such a simple and direct question, it was surprisingly difficult to answer. Michael imagined that was often the case with people who had a difficult time verbalizing their issue, but Michael didn’t suffer that problem. His difficulty was the result of absurdity. Even though he’d internally verbalized his predicament dozens of times since he’d booked his appointment with Dr. Whitfield, he found himself unsure how exactly to start, and he admitted as much to her.
“That’s not uncommon,” she replied. “But why not tell me, as simply as you can, what you’d like to accomplish by seeing me.”
“Well,” he said. “I guess you could say I have a certain condition, and I’d like you to remove it.” He wondered if his desperation were obvious to her by the tone of his voice.
“Okay, and you were thinking I could do so through hypnosis?”
“Yeah, I think...” he paused. “I think if anything can, hypnosis can.”
“Alright,” she replied. “So oftentimes people find that the most difficult part of the first appointment is to explain what that person wants. It can be hard to let go of the notion that you’ll be judged...” She paused as she noticed Michael shaking his head. “That’s not the case with you?”
“No, no...” he said and, to his surprise, smiled. “With me it’s just that what I’m about to tell you is...”
“Embarrassing?” she offered.
“No. Well yeah, maybe, but it’s more than that. It’s... impossible.” He paused, and then blurted, “I’m basically afraid you won’t believe me.”
“Okay, I understand. Well, sometimes it helps to explain it almost as if it’s a story. The telling itself often gives me a bit of insight into how to best treat you, but it also may help you realize that it’s probably not as absurd and unbelievable as you think when you verbalize the framework behind it. Does that make sense?”
“Yeah, and I think I can do that pretty easily.”
“Okay, well, let’s try that then. Just tell it like a story... don’t be afraid if you go off on tangents like you might if telling a story to your best friend.” She relaxed her hands into her lap and appeared ready to be a receptive audience. Michael likewise relaxed in her presence, while finally recognizing that the few Yelp reviews that jokingly referred to her as the Miss America of therapists were dead on.
“Okay, well...” he inhaled deeply and began:
“I went for drinks a few Fridays ago with four of my coworkers... all other men. I don’t often go out with them actually, particularly with one of them. His name’s Stuart, and he’s not really the kind of person I enjoy spending time with—really obnoxious, and kind of vulgar and embarrassing. But we’d just achieved a milestone at work and everyone was in a celebratory mood, and I felt it would have been rude not to. Come to think of it though I wish some of my female coworkers had joined us... actually, I think this whole thing wouldn’t have happened. But they probably didn’t want to drink with Stuart.
“Anyway, to my surprise I found myself having a decent time with them. Stuart was cracking us all up with various work stories and these dead-on impersonations of some of our other coworkers, especially our boss. Then he started talking about how he’s just sure that our boss has been bangi... er, having an affair with our receptionist. And then he started talking less about our boss and more about our receptionist, Lucy, who I’m actually very fond of, and I started feeling uncomfortable and sticking up for her. He laughed and said, ‘Oh, Lucy?? C’mon mate, she’s a slut! I mean don’t get me wrong, she’s a nice girl, but come ON!’ I started defending her again and Stuart interrupted me just by saying, “SLUT SLUT SLUT!” but he did it in this absurd, funny, low voice that kind of made it all a joke. Even I laughed and we just kind of moved on.
“So after a few hours they had all left the bar and I sat at the bar alone to finish my drink while watching the end of a basketball game. And after a few minutes of being alone this woman sits next to me and says, ‘I couldn’t help but overhear you and your friends talking about sluts.’ I looked at her and felt really embarrassed and started fumbling through an apology and she says, ‘No it’s okay, you don’t have to apologize. Maybe she is a slut, and who knows? Maybe she’s actually happy being that way. And I saw how you were defending her, and it seems as though you have feelings for her. Am I right?’
“I told her that she was, and she says, ‘But I’ll tell you the funny thing about sluts. In my experience, the biggest sluts I’ve met have all been men.’ I braced for a big gender argument or something and started to try to tell her about how it was my coworker who said the word and not me, and she says, ‘You want to know what I mean don’t you?’
“I said yes, even though I didn’t really, and just sat there ready to listen. She waited until she got her drink, then turned to me and said all of this. I swear this is word for word—I remember it more vividly than any other conversation I’ve ever had in my life:
’Some men have a lot of slut inside of them already, and they just don’t know it for a long time. It’s buried deep within them, but the thing is, it ALWAYS comes out eventually. What usually happens is this: he starts to suddenly develop an inexplicable obsession with panties. It sounds crazy but in my experience that’s how it often starts. At first he might not even make much notice of it, other than that he might suddenly be a bit more turned on by seeing a pair of panties than normal. Maybe he’ll see his girlfriend in them, or a character in a movie, or even just a mannequin in a window display, and he’ll pause just a little bit longer than he ever would have and think a little bit more about how nice those panties look, and he’ll get a little bit hornier than they’ve ever made him feel. That’s how it starts—it’s that one time where he notices that he feels a little bit differently toward panties than he ever has.
‘Well, as you can imagine, it starts to get a little bit more interesting and more intense from there. It starts to build. Every time he sees panties, his reaction is a bit stronger than the last. Eventually he starts to imagine them in his mind, starts to get distracted when he’s talking to women because he’s wondering what panties they’re wearing, what color, what fabric. And at some point soon he even starts to wonder what the panties she’s wearing feel like. He wonders if they feel a little tighter than the underwear he wears, how the fabric would feel against his ass, how sexy and smooth they are, how if it were him wearing them, he’d probably never forget that he’s wearing them during the day, not even for a second.
‘And sure enough, over time, he finds himself feeling compelled to wear them. He fights it, maybe because deep down he fears what might happen if he gives in. But the urge just gets stronger and stronger. It starts to transition from a curiosity, to a turn-on, to a strong desire, and of course, eventually, to an absolute need. Every time they see a pair the need increases, and eventually, the need wins. It always does. Some men have actually tried to lock themselves into their apartment until they accidentally see a pair on a commercial or a magazine, and then they’re out the door to buy some. I swear I’ve met men who fight it for a full month before they see a window display in a lingerie shop, rush into it, and put a pair of panties on right then, right there, in the dressing room. But a full month is actually a long time—it usually takes much less time than that. Hell, some men make the transition so fast they’re wearing panties after only seeing them twice... that’s how badly the slut in them needs to take over after being contained so long.
‘And that’s the most fascinating part. The second they put those panties on, the slut is loose. Pun intended, ha ha ha. But male sluts are different from female sluts. Female sluts can at least comport themselves and pick and choose who to be slutty with. They can say no. But male sluts, they CAN’T say no. First of all, they can’t take the panties off. Even if they wanted to put the slut back where he came from and live a normal life again, they can’t get the panties past their knees, not EVER... except to put on a different pair of panties. But the best part is how they’re so slutty they’ll obey ANY women who just might possibly gratify them sexually.
‘But wait, that would make them obey all women, you say? Well, not quite. One thing male sluts and female sluts have in common is, well, they have to have cock. A common misconception about a female slut is that she’ll do anything for cock, but in reality a male slut will TRULY do ANYTHING for cock. He’s sluttier than a woman could ever be. He prefers a cock worn by a woman but you never know, some go both ways. But once he thinks he’s dealing with someone who just might bend him over and fuck him, or who he can kneel before and suck her cock... he’ll do anything she asks. He can’t stop himself. Most male sluts—in fact, all of them really—they don’t really even like it, at least at first. But they just can’t stop, because that’s what makes them such sluts. They just. Can’t. Stop. And usually, in fact almost always, when a woman—even a vanilla or shy or even naturally submissive woman—sees one of these sluts in their panties, they want to see them and treat them as the sluts they are. Do you understand me?’
“I said yes.
“She leaned in close to me and whispered: ‘And you know what else? I think you’re one of these men.’ And then she smiled and left, and when she laughed I kind of laughed a bit to myself, thought she was nuts, and went on watching the game.
“Well... God, I can’t even believe you’re listening to this, I must sound crazy.”
“No, it doesn’t sound crazy, I’m listening,” Dr. Whitfield said.
“So... I remember when it first hit. It was the next Wednesday after we went out. I was getting off the subway and there was an advertisement poster for an upscale lingerie shop, and the model was wearing... something. All I remember are the panties. They were a light red, not quite pink, made of lace...” He stopped, put his head in his hands and breathed in deeply.
“Anyway, I felt it, what she was talking about. And I knew. I KNEW it was what she’d talked about. I just stopped and stared at them, felt incredibly turned on, felt myself really admiring the details, and really had to concentrate just to turn away. I walked back to work scared to death of what had just happened, because I started thinking about all the other things she’d said. God, I really should have made this appointment that very day.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought it was crazy, that it was impossible. But on my way back from my lunch break that same day, I went out of my way to go to the same station and look at the same poster. I must have looked like a lunatic, just staring at it admiring the panties. I went back to my office probably hornier than I’ve ever been.
“Anyway, this was two Wednesdays ago, less than two weeks ago, and it’s probably a hundred times worse than that now. Thursday was the first time I felt the other thing she’d talked about, the curiosity of how’d they’d feel and then, later that same day, the desire to wear them myself. The poster had been taken down but I passed by Amicie’s window display...”
“Amicie’s?”
“Yes, it’s a local high-end lingerie shop, on the corner of 2nd and Davenport. Anyway I passed by it in the morning and glanced at a pair of black panties, and found myself feeling that curiosity she’d described. But it was more than that... it was kind of an envy. I became conscious of how my own underwear I was feeling felt, or rather, how they didn’t feel, and I just thought about how those panties must feel, and worse, how they’d look on me, and whether I could hide them under my belt line or if people would know if I wore them... all these thoughts that I couldn’t chase away.
“Friday was the second day I saw a pair and sure enough, the curiosity had increased, and I found myself very tempted to buy a pair. Tempted is the wrong word I guess... I very much wanted to buy a pair. The woman at the bar’s words played over and over in my mind though and I was able to resist. But I also remembered her saying that resistance is part of the process, but that it eventually subsides.
“Well, yesterday, it nearly subsided. I was on the bus from the subway station back to my house and I caught a glance of a guy’s newspaper, and there was a lingerie ad facing me. I was suddenly overcome with a need I’ve never felt before. Have you ever had that weird feeling in a silent, crowded room or an event, like a play or ceremony or something, where you feel like you’re about to yell out something really inappropriate and you almost feel like you have to fight to stop yourself?”
“Me personally no, but I know the feeling you’re talking about. It can be a symptom of OCD or anxiety but it’s not unusual to have.”
“Well, this was like that feeling amplified by a million. I actually... I can’t believe this, but I actually was strongly tempted to offer 100 dollars to the woman next to me for her panties. So tempted, I actually looked in my wallet to see how much cash I had, and was disappointed when I only had 40 dollars.
“So that was yesterday, and I’m here because I know there’s no way I can possibly resist the next time I see a pair. There’s just... there’s just no way. I’ve thought about how this has progressed like she’d said, and I’m just sure that the next time I won’t be able to stop myself. I honestly think I could do something really embarrassing or even illegal if I even accidentally glance at a pair of panties. I can’t explain it. It’s like I lose consciousness in a way or something. And to make matters worse, Stuart stopped showing up to work last Thursday, with no notice or anything, which is making me wonder if the same thing is happening to him. But what really terrifies me is that if all of these things have happened like she said they would, everything else she said would be true too. ”
“You’re referring to the part about you turning into the slut she describes?” Dr. Whitfield said with impressive professional detachment.
“Of course, yeah,” Michael said. “She made it sound like I’d be a slave, under someone’s control, and even if that sounds supernatural and impossible... well, so did everything else. Anyway, I’m wondering if she just hypnotized me somehow, and if you could hypnotize all of that out of me.”
“Well, that’s... that’s definitely an odd story Michael,” Dr. Whitfield responded. “It could have been a form of hypnosis but a reaction as profound as yours would have to be the result of a desire within you in the first place, and you’d have to basically ask someone to hypnotize you and reinforce it as part of a fantasy you’ve had. So it’s okay, you can be honest... is that what actually happened?”
“No!”
“Michael, I can’t help you unless you’re completely honest with me.”
“I am, I swear! I didn’t ask anyone to hypnotize me, and I never met her or haven’t seen her before or since.”
Dr. Whitfield stood and walked to her desk. “I don’t really know what else to tell you other than that... I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can help you.”
“Well... wait a minute! Couldn’t you just try to hypnotize me?”
“I don’t think you have an accurate assessment of what hypnosis can actually accomplish,” she said as she looked through her drawers. “Surely, it’s not enough to prevent this from happening.” She tossed something with perfect aim onto his lap. He looked down to find a pair of plain white panties.
Dr. Whitfield sat and observed his reaction, but Michael did not notice. He stood and began undressing automatically, almost mechanically were it not for his heavy, urgent breathing. When he was naked, he put the panties on with equal urgency, then looked down to see what he had finally accomplished.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. He didn’t hear Dr. Whitfield whispering the same thing before activating her intercom and cancelling all of her appointments for the following day.
“I’m sorry those might not be as sexy as the panties you admired,” she told him. “But if you come along with me we can buy something a bit better, in addition to some... other things. You’ll do that won’t you?”
“Yes,” he said upon realizing what she had in mind. No, what she merely might have had in mind. It was true, what the woman at the bar had said: Dr. Whitfield’s mere innuendo was enough for him to obey her. It wasn’t quite a willful, consensual submission but it wasn’t quite like being a mindless robot either. It just... was. Like the woman had said, he just couldn’t stop.
“Get dressed then,” she said. He did.
“Did you know I saw your coworker Stuart last week?” she asked. Michael shook his head while putting his pants on.
“Well, I imagine it was him, unless there’s a really odd coincidence. He had a story very similar to yours where a woman approached him after your night out, but instead of wearing panties, he’d developed a growing urge to have a sex change and had already ordered female hormones and began practicing walking in heels, so in a way you got off easy. I tried my very best to cure him with hypnosis and got absolutely nowhere with him, so that’s one reason why I’m not bothering to try with you.”
“But the other reason,” she added a bit nervously. “Is having a slut of my own around could be really fun.” She had never really entertained much of a dominant fantasy and was surprised how naturally she was taking to it, how much she enjoyed it already, how creatively and actively she began to imagine all the things she would do to him, all the things she would make him do, to himself and to her. So many things indeed. Her heart began to race.
She looked at Michael to see if he was finished dressing.
“I think the best part,” she continued, “was how she thought to mention that male sluts never like it at first. It’s going to be really hot to know that while I’m... fucking you.” She was still a bit uncomfortable in her role, but she was growing more comfortable with surprising ease and speed. In fact, she’d already decided against buying a smaller dildo to ease him in, in favor of one with a weight she’d feel when she wore it. If he wasn’t going to like it anyway, why start small?
Michael wanted to utter a simple, “Please don’t,” but he just couldn’t.
They exited the cab after Michael paid the fare under her order and approached the fetish shop, or whatever they were called. Leanne Whitfield had set foot in it before briefly, but as she thought back on that experience she recalled being more turned on than she had ever admitted when telling her friends of her ironic visit. Or perhaps her current circumstance colored her memory? In any event, she walked through the aisles with Michael in close proximity, still feeling somewhat like a fish out of water, her heart racing when she imagined the possibilities presented by several items.
“Don’t speak to anyone but me unless I give you permission first,” she told him.
“Okay,” he agreed.
Am I being corrupted? she thought to herself. No doubt, she was. She didn’t harbor negative judgment towards herself for becoming increasingly aroused by the BDSM artifacts around her. She instead reflected on being corrupted by what appeared to be an absolute power over this relative stranger that she knew could only be supernatural. She didn’t know how many people in the world experienced something of this nature, how often experiences like this flew under the radar of ordinary, everyday people living ordinary lives. She imagined it wasn’t that many, while also feeling fairly certain she wouldn’t be the last to enjoy it at the expense of Michael. After all, she had no intention of keeping him around forever, all to herself. Well, I suppose I’ll keep an open mind about that she thought.
She approached a salesperson. “Excuse me,” she said. “Do you happen to have something like a changing room he and I can use?”
“Of course,” the clerk said. She pointed towards it. “If you’d like to keep wearing something you try on, just go ahead and bring the tag to me on your way out.”
She led Michael to the changing room and entered it with him. She had him undress and said, “You can replace those panties with this, which will of course have the same effect.” She handed him an item she’d spied near a mannequin dressed as a French Maid—a black lace pair of crotchless panties with white trim. He gazed at them with what looked like unwanted, helpless longing and then put them on meekly.
“Now I need to try something on,” she said as she began to take her shoes off. “You just sit there and watch.” She removed her dress and began to place a black leather harness on. She manipulated the straps until the fit was satisfactory, and then fed an eight-inch dildo through the front ring. He gazed at it with appropriate fear... it was, after all, more his master than even she was.
“Suck it,” she ordered, and he did not hesitate to obey. She watched, fascinated, as he slowly tried to accommodate it, stopping when his lips passed the halfway point. He then began to suck.
She laughed. “Perhaps too literal. What I mean is, give me a blow job. A good blow job. Like having that cock slide through your lips and down your throat is the best feeling you’ve ever had. You know, like a slut. There, that’s it,” she said as he began to pass his lips tightly up and down her shaft. He’d occasionally pause to lick the tip, but acted as though he didn’t like it being removed from his mouth for long. In fact nothing could be further from the truth, but the panties made his body betray him.
She grabbed the back of his head and began pulling him into her. Reflexively, he grabbed her by the ass and pulled her into him. He was aware of tears rushing helplessly down his cheeks.
Leanne was surprised by how satisfied she was, not only by the power she wielded, but by the physical sensation of having an artificial appendage being served and worshipped by him. She knew of course that he was creating some delightful pressure on her, but this was more than that. She could half imagine the sensation of his lips moving, of his tongue flicking seductively across her dildo, of even the warmth and wetness of his mouth. She smiled as she thought how she would surely make this happen often.
She had him suck her for a good 10 minutes, relishing in his impressive persistence despite his gags, before withdrawing from his mouth and telling him to stop.
“Point made?” she asked.
“Y-Yes,” he replied meekly through tears.
“And what point is that, do you think?”
“I’m... I’m a slut.”
“Well, you’re not just ‘a’ slut but you’re...” she playfully motioned for him to fill in the blank.
“I’m your slut. Please...”
“Precisely!” she said. She was tempted to bend him over and fuck him right there but felt she’d already tested the limits of the store’s dressing room policy. The woman who’d cursed him was right again—the sight of him in panties certainly brought out a side in her that had never been there before... and an irrepressible urge to make up for lost time.