Saturday morning Becca found herself in front of her computer, staring into a spiraling cascade of pornographic images of herself, listening to the soft hypnotic voice come through the speaker.
You were such a slut last night. It felt good, didn't it? It feels so good to show off your body, and the more people look, the better you feel. Turning people on feels so good, and getting people off feels even better, doesn't it, Becca? You're feeling so good right now just thinking about it, imagine how good it will feel to do it.
Everything it said was absolutely accurate, of course. She had been a slut last night, inviting her date to stare at her breasts all during their meal, then taking him to a park and blowing him, even though someone was watching.
All her life she had thought sex should be all about reciprocation, but last night she'd gotten exactly what she wanted, and yet she hadn't asked him to do a thing except look at her. She'd gone home somehow simultaneously satisfied and sexually frustrated, but she'd taken care of the latter with her vibrator and her fingers and only a warm glow remained.
She had been a slut, by any definition she could think of, giving a blowjob on the first date. And he, after he got off, probably thought of her as a slut. And, as the Mentor program was telling her just now, that felt very good too. The more people thought of her as a slut, the better she felt. The more she experienced that, the more she wanted it.
The voice of the Mentor program faded, the spirals settled down. It was such a great program. After running it, she was happy about who she was, and she knew just what to wear on her dates. She had two dates that day, one for lunch and one for dinner, and old Becca would have debated for hours what to wear. But she knew. She had several outfits from Wicked Wear that the program had thoughtfully ordered for her, and there was no need to look at any of her other clothing. It was way too conservative.
It felt so good to dress like a slut, and have people stare at her. Last night men and women had stared at her, which was amazing. A few women had glared at her, and that felt good too. She knew they were categorizing her as dangerous and sexy, and she loved that.
She opened her Plush dating profile. She still had an hour before her date. Would he be another shy one, who had to be told he could look, and touch? Becca smiled. She should really let people know what to expect when they went out with her. With a few keystrokes, she tried to change her profile name from Becca7346.
"SlutBecca is taken," the program told her.
She tried something else. Finally, on the fourth try, she successfully changed her handle to "<3slutbecca<3."
A profile's purpose, after all, was to convey a sense of who one was. If anyone didn't want that, well, what was the point of going out with them?
She spent most of the next hour applying makeup and getting dressed. She applied a dark red to her mouth, and lengthened her eyelashes with mascara. She donned wispy black panties and a lacy black bra, and over that pulled on a vinyl skirt that laced up each side, leaving two inches of skin bare, and a black mesh top. Then she examined herself in the full-length mirror on her bedroom door. She looked slutty. In fact, she thought she might be mistaken for a professional street walker, which amused her. The top and the bra combined sort of covered her nipples. She fancied that people would stare, be unsure of what they'd seen, and stare some more. Perfect.
Then she turned to the side, and realized that the waistband of her panties showed. That wasn't right. She rucked up the skirt, and pulled the panties off, then smoothed the skirt down again. Much better. Not that she had any objection to people seeing her panties, but this way, everyone, including her date, would know she wasn't wearing any.
The thought turned her on. She gave a little shimmy in front of her mirror, and reached for some dangly earrings. Maybe she should get more than just her ears pierced. She had a friend, Carrie, who had recently gotten her nipples done, and she was constantly lifting her shirt to show people. If Becca had nipple piercings, she'd have an excuse to do the same. The guise of showing off piercings would give her an excuse to show off her tits. Maybe that was Carrie's idea, too.
Come to think of it, Carrie had been the one that got her to take the test that led to her installing the Mentor program. For the first time, she thought of her friend in a new light. She wasn't attracted to Carrie, exactly, but on the other hand, if she made out with Carrie in some public place, people would definitely stare. She was pretty sure that between the two of them, at the beach, say, they could tent a lot of guy's swimsuits.
The more they look, the better you feel.
She recalled the words of the Mentor, and of course, they were completely true.
She looked at the clock. 12:48. She was supposed to be at the restaurant at one, and she'd be slightly late, but that was fine. She wanted to make an entrance. Old Becca would have gotten there early, sat in a corner, and watched her date come in. If she didn't like what she saw, she'd skedaddle. But she was a new woman, and there was no way she was going to back out.
She started listening to a podcast. It was a new one, all about how to be less sexually inhibited. The women on the podcast sounded brave, daring, sexual, and happy. She wanted to be like them.
The problem with planning to be late, thought Becca ten minutes later, stuck in traffic and only halfway to her destination, was that you didn't know if things would make you even later. Sure, a lot of drivers had stared at her through the window during the stop and go traffic, and that hadn't been bad, but how late would the guy stick around? At a moment when traffic seemed particularly bad, she used the app to text: "Stuck in traffic, but omw."
Her GPS suggested that she should turn off this road, take some backstreets, and use the parkway, so she did. On the parkway, she stepped on the accelerator.
Two minutes later, lights flashed and a siren wailed, and she had to pull over. She turned off the podcast. The traffic cop just parked behind her for a good half-minute, and then sauntered over with agonizing slowness.
"What seems to be the hurry, ma'am?" he drawled.
"There's no excuse," Becca said, deciding contrition was the best approach. "I'm just late for something. I didn't think I was going that fast."
"Fifty-three in a thirty-five zone, ma'am. That's almost reckless driving." The officer looked her over. She supposed they had to look everywhere, in case someone had a gun or something.
"I didn't think I was being reckless, officer. Just driving as fast as I safely could, I suppose. I'm late. Please write me a ticket, I won't argue."
The officer gave her breasts another look. "That's quite the outfit. Planning to wear that in public?"
"Private event," Becca lied. "With my windows up I didn't figure there was any harm..."
"It's not indecent, quite," said the officer. "What are you late for?"
"A date. Please just write me a ticket?"
"I'll need your registration and your license, ma'am."
The whole process took several more minutes. It was one thing to be late for a date, but she had another one later that evening. She hadn't even looked to see who with. She wanted more than just lunch, and she'd want to shower in between, and all that. It was a great contrast to her usual weekend of binging old TV. She had places to be.
She suspected the officer was being a little slower because he was enjoying the view. In any other situation, that would be gratifying, but not right now.
"Enjoy your date, ma'am, but don't speed on the way. " He finally handed her the citation and walked back to his patrol car.
Becca restarted the podcast. She kept well within the speed limit, and finally got to Tio Chico's.
Chico's was your typical upscale Mexican-American restaurant, not too fancy, but nice enough. The waitresses wore short flouncy skirts with crinolines, and there was a mariachi band playing in the corner. Her date had gotten a booth in the far corner, she was told, and heads turned as she walked the length of the restaurant.
"I'm Peter," said the man waiting for her. He was older than her, with a distinguished touch of grey at the temples, and he stood as she arrived like an old-fashioned gentleman. She wondered if she looked young enough to be his daughter. People would stare, and they'd talk. She grinned at the thought.
"Pleased to meet you, Peter. I'm Becca."
"The pleasure is entirely mine," he said, and waved her to sit down. As she sat, she caught sight of his hand. He had a wedding ring on.
"You're, um, married," she said. Old Becca would run. And even new Becca wasn't so sure. Sure, adultery was slutty, but her ethics were intact.
"Yes. Didn't you read my profile?"
How could she explain that she hadn't, that she hadn't even chatted with him. That had all been the Mentor, acting on her behalf. She really should have done her research, but the idea that the Mentor was setting her up with people, and she had no choice about it, was very hot. She liked the idea that she didn't have to care who she was going out with, but now she realized that sexy idea had some drawbacks. It wasn't very practical.
