The Natural States of America
Prologue
Emma needed to clear her head.
The words on her computer screen weren’t just hard to read, they were practically buzzing in front of her eyes. Mondays were always a trial, but they never felt this impossible. Now, after two coffee breaks and a failed meditation session, her third attempt at cleaning up her inbox was turning out just as badly as her first two.
It didn’t help that her assistant, Miranda, had quit the previous week. Though, to be fair, Emma should’ve seen it coming: a lot of the young women on staff had been handing in their notices the past few days. Curiously, many of them cited starting a family as the main reason, Miranda being no exception. It was odd: the fresh-faced red-head had always talked about her dreams of advancing in the firm and becoming a partner before she turned 30. Why would she throw that all out of the window just because she had met a man?
Maybe it was some sort of fad. At 32, Emma often liked to think that she was still tuned into what was trendy, but maybe homemaking had become hip among “the youth” without her noticing. Who would’ve thought?
Not that she didn’t see the appeal, she mused, absently toying with a strand of hair that had fallen from her customarily tight ponytail. Work had been absolutely hellish recently, even before the rash of resignations. Cases and clients that had once energized Emma now seemed like ordeals, and the corner office she had coveted for years felt like a glass prison, its sunny view mocking her for being trapped behind a wall of paperwork.
Wouldn’t she rather be in a little house on the rolling green hills in the distance? Wouldn’t it be nice to open the windows, feel the spring breeze against her tan skin, and know that she had plenty of time to primp and prime before dinner? She pictured her husband pulling into the driveway, a man she always imagined with dark, wavy hair and strong, supportive arms. She could see herself waiting by the door, pretending to dust the while bending over so her dress clung just right to her plump, luscious ass, ensuring it would be the first thing he saw when he walked through the door. As much as she played modest at work, Emma knew how much men loved her big brown eyes, full lips and curvaceous figure. It wouldn’t take much to make her hypothetical husband put dinner second on his tasting list and…
Emma growled and pulled the band from her hair, massaging her scalp as her soft, chestnut locks fell free. She was never going to get through her emails at this rate. She needed to find something else to do. Something to clear her head.
After debating whether to go for yet another cup of coffee, Emma settled for browsing news sites online. She was an entertainment lawyer, so skimming the trades still technically counted as part of her job. Even if she found herself reading more coupling rumors than business mergers these days.
Inevitably, her aimless wandering lead her back to The Video.
Why that was, Emma wasn’t sure. The first few times it happened, she told herself it was because it was so outrageous. So scandalous. So completely revealing of the latent sexism she had long suspected still lingered in the hearts of men.
But now…it was more of a habit than anything else. Comforting, in a weird way. There was something nice about the familiarity, something that distracted her from her stressful job, her depressing love life, and the news stories about the upcoming election and the resurgent Natural States party. The Video always there, at the top of her suggested searches; just one click, and the YouTube page would appear, the now-infamous audio already playing through her earbuds.
“EXPOSED: PROGRESSIVE PSYCHOLOGIST’S SECRET SEXIST SCREED” read the title. It had only been a month since the closed-door lecture had leaked, and its view count was already over a billion. Emma wondered idly how many of those were hers.
She put The Video on full-screen, settling into her chair as the shaky, hidden-camera footage focused on a tall and slender man, known now to be Dr. Paul Abrams. He stroked his salt-and-pepper beard as he paced the lecture hall, scanning the shadowy audience with fiery green eyes. Despite already knowing what he was about to say, Emma found herself leaning forward slightly, staring at his mischievous smile, waiting for the moment his lips would part and reveal their secrets.
“Now, what I’m about to tell you might be rather shocking,” he said, his voice smooth as velvet. “Well, to some more than others.” This got some muted laughs from the audience, and an eye-roll from Emma. As if she could find anything in The Video shocking anymore.
“So to prepare ourselves,” Dr. Abrams continued, “I’m going to ask that you all do a little breathing exercise for me. Just to make sure we’re all relaxed and centered for what comes next. Can you all do that? Good. Now. Inhale…and exhale,” he motioned with his hands, conducting the audience through a series of deep, soothing breaths.
The first time she had watched the video, Emma had laughed at the absurdity, the naked salesmanship of dressing up your research like some kind of core-shaking revelation. But today, the exhausted lawyer found herself following along with the exercise, her chest softly rising and falling in time with the doctor’s commands. She had to admit, it did feel relaxing, so much so that she forgot to close her lips after the final exhale, her mouth now hanging slightly open as the lecture began in earnest.
The opening bit was always the most boring, as Dr. Abrams rattled off jargon-filled descriptions of his research practices, framing and justifying the various methodologies he employed to assemble his findings. In the past, Emma would usually skip this bit, but recently she found it kinda nice to let it play through, to just tune out and let the words wash through her, more like music than coherent statements.
It suddenly felt a little warm in her office. Emma took off her blazer and unbuttoned the top few buttons of her blouse, but the strange heat still lingered. She briefly considered closing the blinds but The Video was moving on, and it seemed so bothersome to stop it and get out of her chair. Better to just relax and keep watching.
Relax…keep watching.
“And then at last, I had the answer to the question every man asks: ‘what do women really want?’” Dr. Abrams held up a lone finger. “As it turns out, it all boils down to a single, perfect word.” He pressed the clicker in his hands, and the projector screen behind him flipped to a white slide, emblazoned with a single word in bold black font:
S.L.U.T.
The doctor spread his arms wide. “What do all women want? Why, to be S.L.U.T.’s of course!”
This got another chorus of laughs from the audience. The first time Emma had laid eyes on the acronym, it had felt like a slap in the face. Now she just yawned, her eyes unfocusing slightly as they moved across the familiar letters. S. L. U. T.
S…L…U…T.
Dr. Abrams motioned for quiet. “This word may seem reductive, but, like the female brain, it is at once both incredibly nuanced, and exceedingly simple. Each letter points to an innate characteristic of feminine psychology which, when embraced, will lead to a happier, fuller life for any given woman.”
He paused, flashing a smile that Emma had once found condescending, but now just elicited a matching grin from her. It was all so silly. How could he be so confident, so intelligent, and yet say something so ridiculous as if it were true?
Maybe…no…it couldn’t…
His eyes sparkled. “Let me break it down for you,” he said, advancing to the next slide. “The ‘S’ stands for ‘submissive.’”
The projection now displayed a big, bold letter S made from an image mosaic, which gently pulsed and cycled through various pictures as he spoke. The odd angle of the camera made the individual photos hard to parse, but Emma could easily make out glossy shots of doting maids, dolled-up waitresses, and devoted housewives.
“Though women can of course inhabit leadership rolls,” Dr. Abrams explained, “my research shows it is far easier, and more pleasurable for a female-oriented mind to find itself in a position of servitude and submission, more primed to carry out orders than to formulate them.”
Emma blinked. Something about the images in the mosaic suddenly seemed different. If she squinted just right, she could almost make out other, more bizarre pictures hidden in the mix: images of women on leashes, in cages, or bound with rope, always naked and on their knees, either staring up in wide-eyed adoration looking down with meek, docile surrender.
Had those always been there? How had she not noticed them before?
“So say it with me:” Dr. Abrams prompted, “being a S.L.U.T. means being…”
Submissive.
“‘Submissive.’” the doctor nodded. “That’s right. Very good.”
Emma’s lips pursed, her brow furrowing as she realized she had just mouthed the answer along with The Video. A twinge in her gut told her that should be concerning, but the majority of her brain was already moving onto the next letter, filling in the words she knew the doctor would say next.
He clicked the clicker. “The ‘L’, of course, stands for ‘loving.’”
Another slide, another image mosaic. Here, Emma could make out the many portraits of maternal and matrimonial bliss, all happy mothers, expecting couples, and glamorous wedding shots.
“It’s practically common knowledge that women have a great affinity for nurturing and caretaking. But in this case, I’m also referring to ‘loving’ in the carnal sense.”
Once again, the pictures on the projector screen suddenly seemed different. It was an almost imperceptible shift, but she could’ve sworn she kept catching glimpses of cocks and cum, of jizz-splattered tits, orgasm-addled eyes and splayed, dripping legs.
“In fact, the female libido in many ways exceeds that of the male. And it is for this reason that in addition to being submissive, a happy S.L.U.T. must be—say it with me…”
“Loving,” Emma murmured along with the crowd. She had hiked up her skirt to dispel some of the heat wafting up her legs, only to now find her fingers absently circling the soft, black fabric in between. She noticed, with mild surprise, that her panties were soaking. When did that happen? And why?
Emma tried to stop and think, but her hand seemed to move with a mind of its own, dispelling her concerns with wave after wave of hot arousal. Maybe the doctor did have a point. Maybe her body and brain really were biased towards loving.
Loving…
Submissive…loving…and…
Dr. Abrams rubbed his neck sheepishly. “For the last two letters, I admit I may have cheated a little. Though, given how many laws of polite society I’ve just violated, perhaps you’ll forgive me for bending the rules of grammar as well.”
The crowd laughed again, and this time Emma giggled with them, her fingers now stroking her soaking snatch with purpose. There was something about The Video this time, something about the way the doctor’s voice sounded or the way the images on his projector moved—it made her head feel all fuzzy. It was like there was a faint buzzing in her brain, continually drawing away her thoughts and making it impossible to concentrate on anything but the next words in the lecture. Which, of course, she knew by heart.
“In any case,” Dr. Abrams pressed on, “the U and T stand for…”
Unburdened by Thought.
“‘Unburdened by Thought.’” He clicked to the next slide.
The image mosaics of the final two letters faded into view, each an all-women collage of ditzy giggles and open-mouthed stares. Emma found herself strangely captivated, her head lolling and her jaw relaxing, as though she were trying to mimic the photos on screen. The subjects all seemed so pretty and happy, so carefree. As Emma stared, she suddenly felt as though the images were glowing more and more the longer she looked. She couldn’t tell if it was really happening or just her imagination, but at this point, she didn’t care. She felt so horny and dizzy—it was much easier to lay back and let The Video massage all her concerns away.
That was why she watched it, right? To clear her head.
Dr. Abrams smiled and raised his hands. “Now I don’t mean to suggest that women are brain dead, of course. But my studies have shown that, on a basic, instinctual level, the female mind is much better equipped for feeling, rather than thinking. They’re more in tune with their bodies, more able to act on impulse than intelligence. Or, to put it more crudely: a happy woman trusts her pussy, not her brain.”
It was at this point that Emma usually got the angriest, but now that rage seemed like nothing but a distant memory. Dr. Abrams, on the other hand, was overwhelming present, his honeyed voice dripping into her ears, his eyes seeming to capture hers even as he looked around the room.
“That’s not to say women can’t reason through problems if they really try,” he said. “But the fact is, they would be so much happier if they didn’t. So much happier if they just relaxed, and stopped trying to think. Stopped trying to fight. Stopped trying to resist.”
A thin line of drool ran from Emma’s lips, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She didn’t want to stop watching. She wanted to be relaxed. She wanted to be happy. She wanted…she wanted…
“Stopped fighting their natural state, and gave in to their deepest, most primal urges.”
Emma’s fingers slipped down her panties and into her aching pussy. She let out a gasp, surrendering to desire, to the mind-melting arousal pumping through her body. She gripped her armrest as the waves of pleasure crested higher and higher, her inner voice still following the doctor’s words perfectly, until his lecture and her thoughts were indistinguishable.
“I don’t suppose there are any women in the audience today,” sang the chorus in her head. “But if there were, this is what I would say to them: I know you feel defensive, but what I’m saying is true. Clear your mind and really listen to my words. You’ll feel so much better when you do.”
Emma gasped and massaged her clit, moaning with ecstasy she grasped her tits with her free hand.
“You can be happy. You can be fulfilled. All you have to do is just let it happen. Let yourself be submissive.”
Emma was submissive.
“Let yourself be loving.”
Emma was so, so loving.
“Let yourself be unburdened by thought.”
Emma was…Emma was…
“Let yourself become a S.L.U.T. It’s easy. It’s simple. It’s what you were made to be. Don’t think, just follow. Do what comes naturally. And you’ll find that ultimate pleasure comes too. Just…like…that.”
Dr. Abrams snapped his fingers, and Emma felt the vibrations pulse through her body as she came. She shook in her office chair, a dripping, dribbling mess, completely lost to the cascades of bliss splashing deep inside. And all the while her new thoughts kept repeating in her head.
S.L.U.T. Submissive. Loving. Unburdened by Thought. Relax. Don’t think. Follow. Trust pussy, not brain. Easy and simple. Natural state. S.L.U.T….
When the orgasmic throes finally ended and her eyes rolled back into place, Emma found herself feeling oddly refreshed. Despite having cum harder than she ever had in her life, her body felt airy and light. Especially her head.
The computer screen was playing an ad now, The Video having ended. Emma put a finger to her lips, trying to remember what it was she was doing before. But she gave up with a giggle. It all seemed so silly and trivial all of a sudden. What was she doing behind this desk, surrounded by all these boring papers and heavy books? It was a beautiful, sunny day! Only a real dumb-dumb would spend her precious life cooped up in here. She should be outside, looking for a man to take her away her troubles and fill the needy, aching emptiness inside of her. Maybe if she played her cards right, he would marry and breed her like a good girl—then she wouldn’t have to think about papers or books or emails ever again. In fact, she wouldn’t have to think at all!
Emma stood and wiggled her ass as she slid her panties down her legs. She tossed them aside and skipped for the door, humming a happy tune. Her boss wasn’t gonna be happy to hear she was quitting. But maybe he’d give her an extra special exit interview before she left…
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