The Slutification Of Susan

SUSAN

She had just arrived at the university on the coast whose very campus had a bigger population than the small prairie city she'd grown up in. Susan was supposed to be starting first year Nursing, as pre-med, with the eventual goal of becoming a GP in Family Medicine; but, at the moment, she was overwhelmed. Too much, too fast, too soon. She suddenly felt she wasn't in complete control of her life and circumstances, and she wasn't used to that. She didn't like that feeling one bit.

Susan Montrose had been an honour-roll student throughout senior high; a top athlete in several sports; and valedictorian--as well as working as a part-time barista at the downtown Kaffeehaus. Her parents were very successful lawyers in corporate law; retained by several multinational corporations, despite being headquartered in their relatively small prairie city. So, Susan, an only child, had been born, if not exactly with a silver spoon in her mouth, then a silver-plated spoon; meeting her, you would never have suspected it--she exuded such a wholesome innocence.

She could have easily afforded off-campus digs--she had, in fact, got a generous education trust fund from her great-aunt, enough to live on for her entire degree program: tuition; books and supplies; an apartment; and living expenses--food, clothing, entertainment, and mad-money! For a student, she was exceedingly well-off. She chose, however, to live in student residence in order to get the full college experience, although, she had to admit, to herself, at least, that it was also something to do with having someone else prepare her meals.

In any case, Susan arrived at Burrard Towers student residence all wide-eyed and straight-laced--innocent, virginal, and naïve. She was taken up to her floor, and shown her room by a student volunteer from the check-in desk. While she was introduced to some of her new floor-mates, who were, themselves, just moving in, most of them were too flustered and focused to offer more than a brief hello; however, Susan was very much relieved when a slightly older--and, apparently, immensely more worldly--fellow resident offered to take her under her wing, and show her the ropes, as it were. "Welcome, Frosh!" she said, in a soothingly seductive voice, as the placement volunteer left. I'm Benedicta, your next-door dorm-mate."

"Nice to meet you, Benedicta. I'm Susan."

"Okay then, Sue. Call me Dicta!" Susan sputtered, a bit rattled. No one who knew her ever called her Sue. But, she figured, now was not the time to correct this person, who, so warmly welcoming, picked up her bags and began helping her move in.

Susan immediately liked her larger-than-life neighbour, and gladly accepted the advice and assistance offered by the veteran. She admired her frank, no bullshit, attitude. Dicta revealed that she was a third-year Psychology student, with, coincidentally, similar goals to Susan--intending to follow up a Bachelor of Psyche with med school--eventually specializing in Psychiatry. When asked where she was from, she responded with a vaguely dismissive, "From the 'burbs'," before changing the subject.

Over the next days and weeks, Susan continued to be impressed by her confident and charismatic new friend. In Susan's eyes, Dicta was a fascinating, worldly non-conformist--her current idiom was sort of Goth-ish: black hair, black lips, black eye make-up; black Doc Martens beneath severe black and white clothing. Susan continued to be awed whenever she was in Dicta's presence, experiencing an odd and unfamiliar tingling growing in her core.

While Susan had been sweet on one or two guys over the last couple of years, she had not made time to form any meaningful relationships with them. She had figured there was time enough for that later on, so, as she suddenly found herself tongue-tied and goofy whenever she was near Dicta, she didn't recognize the classic signs of serious infatuation. She was blindsided by an intensity of emotion she had not only never experienced but never thought possible. 'Love at first sight' seemed such an inadequate description of what she felt. Her awareness had quickly become absolutely dominated by thoughts of Dicta, especially when in her presence. Dicta, it seemed, possessed an almost supernatural abundance of charisma--a sort of emotional or spiritual magnetism.

The speed at which Susan's self-reliance, indeed, her individuality was overwhelmed--blotted out--frightened her. Objectively, she felt her sense of self melting away, to become a gelatinous mass on the floor of her psyche; her will crushed under the weight of Dicta's easy confidence and personality.

DICTA

I've known about my--what would you call it--talent ever since I was young. It wasn't like it was a Gestalt moment or anything, but, when I was about five, I became aware of my ability cast a spell over others--turn on an irresistible charm at will. Of course, it wasn't all roses. I was raised in a series of foster homes, and I pissed a lot of people off when I got seemingly undeserved favours; notwithstanding, I learned, early, how to use my gift judiciously. It serves me well.

My name's Benedicta Alexis Calevecki, but I generally go by Dicta. The current version of my history--the one I've maintained so far through university--is that my parents had been Croatian Gypsies--killed by the Serbs near the end of the Croatian War of Independence. I was a very young orphan, rescued off the streets of Zagreb, adopted by a well-meaning, devout North American couple, from whose home I later ran away, to become a child of the streets once more. From there I usually leave the details up to the imagination of whomever I'm speaking to.

A truer version of my heritage, which I deduced during my years in foster care, is: that I was probably born somewhere on the east coast; my birth-mother was too young and unable to care for me--most likely a teenage crack-whore. My first run-in with the law was at age thirteen--a B&E. Eventually, after a few more, I was labeled NPD--narcissistic personality disorder, and, subsequently, was institutionalized for much of my remaining adolescence. So it goes. At eighteen, having aged out of juvie, I was declared borderline sociopathic. And, I admit, I can be vicious and mean or sweet and charming or anything in between depending on the situation. I'm no different from anyone else--just playing my part, looking out for number one! I mean everyone--every sane person, basically just looks out for themselves; incidentally, I once scored 160 on a standard IQ test, for what that's worth. Just words, it's all just words. Nowadays, I try to stay social--and not give the appearance of being a loner. To that end, I'm usually accompanied by a few of my, for lack of a better term, disciples--a side-benefit of which is that I never the need to dirty my own hands.

It's been said that people often get into fields that deal with their own problems or quirks or idiosyncrasies, and that is probably true in my own case. Not that it really matters; still, I'm not adverse to a little honest self-awareness.

Our new dorm-mate is certainly a cute, young thing--though, obviously too innocent and naïve. I've deliberately turned on the charm with her. We'll see how far we get, lol!

Already, I noticed that the first few times I introduced Susan as Sue to the crew--some of the girls already under my thrall--she winced ever-so-slightly. Surmising--correctly, as it turns out--that Susan doesn't really like being called Sue, I've continued to do so, just for fun: to see how long it takes her, or, indeed, if she will ever get up the nerve to complain. I know..., it's a bit mean, just a tiny bit, but I do so enjoy these little fragments of surreptitious power-tripping. Anyway, I see it as a sort of psychological experiment in relationship-building: nurture a fierce love or infatuation, then see how much humiliation and mortification will be accepted; how much power-mongering can I get away with; how far will Sue go before she refuses and rebels. How far and how long can I maintain this developing dominance and submission relationship?

SUSAN

Susan noted, as she meticulously observed, how effortlessly Dicta seemed to attract a following, like bees to a particularly colourful blossom. It occurred to Susan, during a moment of clarity, that Dicta, not only could be, but, effectively, was, a cult leader. She routinely exercised a kind of hypnotic hold over her disciples and sycophants. There were two second-year girls, Patsy and Dot, who seemed to always be flitting and fluttering around Dicta, as if they were captured by some sort of ethereal curiosity. "Quite different," Susan deluded herself, "from me--and my profound attraction to Dicta." The truth was their--what? 'Mutual attraction'?--their interaction, in any case, was almost completely one way. Dicta commanded Susan's attention: Susan listened. Dicta coaxed: Susan complied.

Still, Susan was pleased when Dicta invited her along to visit her friends--'the posse', as she put it--at the off-campus apartment of one of them. So glad to be included, Susan overlooked the fact that Dicta introduced her to everyone as Sue--a nickname she had never liked. They were an almost frightening bunch: loud and lewd, raucous and boisterous. The first few times she met them, Susan, felt so completely out of her element, she found herself literally sputtering like a fish out of water. It was--they were--more or less alien to her. Yet, ever so gradually, she realized that they had all accepted her, that they had become, as odd as that was, her social circle--her peer group. Then, as the weeks and months passed, and the first term slipped by, and Susan was just one of the gang--no longer considered 'Frosh'--she realized that she had been subtly welcomed into the inner circle, Dicta's small core of disciples. Susan felt honoured, and proud of her elevated status.

Susan had never been much of a drinker, but white wine was her libation of choice. "Geez," Dicta complained, "Wine, especially white is for old biddies and wimps! If you're gonna hang with us you gotta drink beer!" For the first few cans, she had to be coaxed, but as she started to get tipsy, they went down much more easily. And she watched with a giddy grin as the others began to tickle and poke one another--and the bit of grabbing and groping, became tussling and rough-housing, and full-on wrestling. Although Susan's attempts to join in were somewhat contrived, and, she felt, embarrassing, she was soon laughing uncontrollably, verging on hysteria. Interestingly, a back corner of her mind observed, physical contact with 'the posse' only tickled and provoked, but any contact with Dicta absolutely thrilled her. More inebriated than she was used to being, she still decided it was best to keep that tidbit of truth to herself.

Of course, Dicta was quite aware of that, anyway. It was all part of a sequential step by step process--deliberately moulding Suzie. When she thought about it, Susan let herself believe that Dicta was just grooming her for something or other; notwithstanding, she either didn't realize or she just wouldn't admit to herself, that, more than being moulded, her will was being crushed inexorably out of existence. She was being indoctrinated and held in sway under Dicta's firm dominance. Indeed, it was blatantly obvious on close inspection, to any objective observer, that, within her sphere of acquaintance Dicta was the Alpha-dog. So, competing with all and sundry for Dicta's attention, Susan actively sought to keep her current position--status--as Dicta's bitch. There was, for Susan, an intense satisfaction in submitting to Dicta's demands. She took great pleasure in doing exactly as she was told--following directions to the letter, without question, and delighted in Dicta's low-keyed praise, and the simple, 'inadvertent' touches that accompanied it.

In patiently cultivating her, subtly exploiting her, she, Dicta, had quietly assumed ownership of her pet--overwhelming Susan's self-reliance, without her even noticing. This became very apparent when, a while later, sitting around having a beer, Dicta said, "Sue, get me another brew." Not a request; a demand.

Susan hesitated, thinking briefly, "What did your last servant die of, eh?", but wisely choosing not to say it aloud. For an instant, she saw Dicta's eyes narrow, just as she rose to fetch the drink.

Then, in a rather sarcastic, but menacing voice, Dicta hissed, "Jump to it!" Glaring at Susan, she added, "Hey! Who owns you?"

Susan paused, slightly confused, then, deducing the expected response, she whispered, "You do?"

"What?" Dicta looked to gathered gaggle. "We didn't hear you."

Blushing, Susan raised her voice. "You do!"

Dicta flashed her an encouraging smile, before goading her once more. "I do what?"

Completely flustered, Susan almost shouted, "You own me!" Then she lowered her eyes, mortified, as Dicta put an arm around her shoulder and gave an affectionate squeeze to the smattering of applause from the other girls.

After that, instead of calling her Sue, Dicta began to refer to her in the more diminutive-- Suzie. Again, Susan had never been a Suzie; but that didn't matter--or, more precisely, that was the point. In any case, Susan didn't dare correct Dicta.

The beer incident was just the beginning; Dicta's off-handed demands progressed subtly. She quietly sent Susan off on all manner of errands: fetch this; do that; go pick me up some... whatever. And Susan faithfully complied. In fact, she saw it, not so much as caving, but as pleasing--pleasing her girlfriend, pleasing her mentor, pleasing her mistress, and though she responded as if they were orders, she fooled herself into believing they were requests.

"Get me a drink, will ya?" "Bring me some snacks." "Massage my calf muscle." "Gimme a backrub." Before long, Susan found herself anticipating 'requests', offering to run and get stuff; giving Dicta a neck-rub without being asked. And, like Pavlov's dog, basking in simple praise--"Good girl!"--or the occasional kiss, or double cheek peck, as sufficient reward.

DICTA

I was quite pleased with Suzie's progress--classical conditioning at its finest. She deferred to anything and everything I said; so, I figured, why not go for it? At my 'suggestion,' Suzie bought us each a membership in a Ladies' gym, which we began to regularly attend. It was plain that she reveled in our time alone together--just the two of us, and I must admit that I really enjoyed it, too. We would share a cubicle to get changed, where we incrementally explored our growing intimacy. I started with Suzie helping me get my boots off, and, of course, rubbing my feet.

I got her to touch and caress frequently--at the drop of a hat, and for all of the most ridiculously contrived reasons--giving guidance throughout: rough or delicate; butterfly touch or heavy-handed massage. Right away, the kisses I gave as rewards migrated from cheek-buzzes to lip-pecks. Touching and kissing and caressing sporadically, with constantly fluctuating intensity, kept Suzie just slightly off balance--never quite sure what to expect--how to act. I loved the genuine pleasure she displayed at my rationed attention, but, in an admittedly perverse way, I fed on her discomfort, the way she was never quite sure if she was 'doing it right,' or even doing the right thing. At that time, I began deliberately working on a paradoxically subtle, yet full-court press seduction. Our kisses evolved through French kisses, to full on tonsil-hockey.

The gym change room gave us plenty of opportunity for fun and games. The cubicles were large enough to accommodate two, and the semi-public aspect of playing in them added a titillating element of risk to our fiddling. I started the ball rolling by turning to face Suzie and grasping her boobs through her clothing. As I swirled my hands over her high-beams, my eyes hold hers fast, I whispered, "You do me."

Her hands flew to my breasts with a barely contained eagerness, and, when I began playing with her nipples--pinching and tugging and twisting--through her tee and bra, she let out a dreamy, "Mmmmm," and closed her eyes. At that, I dropped my hands from her chest and backed away. Suzie's eyes snapped open, apprehension sweeping through her visage. I smiled in reassurance, as I pulled off my tank-top and unsnapped my bra.

Cupping under my now unrestrained boobs, I let Suzie's gaze drop from my eyes to my chest. Bouncing them casually, I said, "Will ya just look at my nipples! Stiff little buggers, eh? Really standy-uppy!" Then, dropping them gently, I reached for Suzie's fingers. "Feel them." I guided her hands up to cover my bare breasts, giving them a squeeze before leaving them there. "Feel that tit-flesh, getting hot and firm. Ooooh, they like that." After a moment, I continued coaxing. "Roll my nipples--between your thumb and your forefinger. "See how erect they get? Are yours stiff, too?" Suzie lifted off very slightly, but I held her hands in place. "I'll do it."

I carefully, deliberately--slowly, almost although I was afraid of frightening her--reached in and flipped up her tee. Pausing an instant, I, then, casually unfastened her bra, letting it hang. With a quick touch on her tits, and a brush of her nips, I covered her hands with mine, hissing, "Keep at it! Pinch and twist; squeeze and roll." Confident she was on board, I grasped her tits gain, and held them passively while "Ooohing," at the attention she was giving to my own nipples. "Like pencil erasers, eh?" Suzie's persistent manipulations generated an erotic energy that swirled and crackled through my chest, sporadically snapping up my spine to sparkle in my brain, or down my spine to glitter in my twat.

Removing my palms for the moment, I moved my hands to her shoulders and applied just the gentlest pressure. "Give 'em a kiss." I felt her body stiffen ever-so-slightly. "C'mon, girl. You can do it. Kiss my tits!"

Gazing at me, eye to eye, Suzie slowly descended, her fingers staying active on my nubs, until her eyes dropped from my stare. Moving like an automaton, she slid one hand aside, and fastened her lips to my breast, sucking hard on my areola, while swirling my bud with her tongue. She was a natural! "Ooooh, yeah! That's right. Suck and lick." After a bit she changed sides. Gawd, it felt great! "Mmmm.... Give it to me--tongue and lips. Let me really feel them! Work 'em..., oh...."

Finally, I let go of her, allowing her boobs to hang free, in front of her loosened bra. A bit of spiteful mischief suddenly came over me, and I flicked one of her pert little nipples--flicked it hard with my fingernail, like I was trying to flick something off. Then I did the other side. Back and forth. Each flick a sharp sting, I could tell by the little squeaks Suzie emitted in the back of her throat each time. But, to her credit, she never paused in her oral ministration, until, eventually, I pushed her away. Clasping her cheeks, I smiled at her. "That was lovely, my dear. Now, let's work out." I started rifling through my gym bag, ignoring Suzie's apparent bewilderment. "Pass me my sports-bra. And get changed. Come on. Hop to it. I'm going to get you to spot me at the weights-station.

And, just like that, it became the norm--nearly every visit to the gym I coerced Suzie--it really didn't take much--into fondling me--a bit of dressing-room-cubicle grab 'n grope as we changed into our workout gear. I gotta say, here, I just love the feel of Suzie suckling my breast: latching on with strong suction; holding my entire areola within her mouth; moulding and caressing my nipple with her tongue. Yet, at that time, I stayed resolute: stingy with praise, I was downright miserly in my reciprocity; limiting it pretty much to the odd touch or passing caress.

That being said, while I rarely touched her, I regularly cajoled her into touching her own nipple, while she sucked on mine. In that way, I played with Suzie's arousal. conducting her torment. I'd watch her getting agitated, then stop her; getting her visibly worked-up then leaving her hanging and unsatisfied as we commenced working out. Often, I'd insist we go home in our workout duds, quickly gathering our belongings and heading out, not allowing Suzie any relief before exiting the change room.