Presenting Herself For Master

Earning Those Grades

We all know that you can't do simple algebra, but you've got to pass my class somehow, so you know what to do.

Danni Meow

Libby Powell

Lindsey Pelas

MY CAR, MY RULES: PART 4 OF 4 by Pan

“Girls?” I said, startled. Seeing my wife like this when I’d returned home the previous day, that would made sense, but my teenaged daughters…I had absolutely no idea what to make of it.

Just as startling, though, was how little the sight surprised me. Somehow, it felt absolutely right. These girls were mine. They were my daughters, and I was the head of the family.

In the same way that I knew my wife was mine, and I was certain that the barely-dressed girl sitting in my car awaiting further instruction was mine, these girls were mine as well.

“Hey Daddy,” my youngest said. “We have to tell you something.”

I stepped inside and shut the door.

“Where’s your mother?”

“She went out,” one of the pair eventually replied, but there was a worried-looking glance between them first.

I’d deal with that later.

“What are you doing, girls?”

Again, there was a glance, but this time it wasn’t worried.

This time, they looked proud.

“So we were thinking…” one of my girls started, and after a brief hesitation, the other one continued where she’d left off.

“…raising a kid is expensive.”

“Really expensive.”

I nodded. They weren’t wrong.

“And so, well…we were thinking.”

“We owe you.”

“Big time.”

“We want to pay you back for all that you’ve done for us over the years.”

“Please.”

The pair shivered at that last word—it was quickly becoming clear what had happened. I knew that they’d listened to the tape about being subservient. But there was no reason that would inspire them to make an advance on me, their father.

No, it was obvious that their mother had shared the most recent tape with them. The one that taught them all women were whores, that all women shouldbe whores.

My little girls wanted to be whores. They wanted to pay me back for bringing them up, and the tape had taught them that the best way for any woman to do that was by offering her body.

And looking over the two of them, that was one hell of an offer.

My eldest daughter was dressed in the sheerest black crop-top I’d ever seen. It wasn’t transparent, but it was so form-fitting that I could not only tell exactly where her nipples were, but the exact size and shape of her areolae as well. Aside from that, she was only wearing pair of stripper heels, and a denim skirt that was so tight, I could tell now that she was going to need help standing up again.

Her younger sister was wearing a top that was barely anything more than a belt around her boobs, and a pair of short shorts that rode so high, the edges of her labia were clearly visible. It looked like it was going to chafe, but it also looked like she didn’t care—when she saw me looking, a flush spread across her whole body.

She wasn’t wearing anything other than those two pieces of cloth—as she knelt before me, barefoot, I couldn’t help but start getting hard.

I couldn’t let them do this. Could I? On one hand, they were my daughters—my baby girls, who I’d raised, been there for their whole lives. I’d seen them grow up, I’d helped them become adults.

On the other hand, they were right. I’d poured money into their upbringing for almost twenty years now, and what did I have to show for it? I deserved this. I deserved to take their bodies, use them however I pleased. I had made them—I’d brought them into this world, and I’d shepherded them through it for their entire lives.

They were mine, and some part of them had clearly realized that. The two of them had worked out the best way to show their appreciation for all I’d done for them.

My daughters were grown women now, and they wanted to pay me back. They wanted me to fuck them…and who was I to say no?

I didn’t say anything as my eyes moved over my daughters’ bodies. The bodies that I was about to take.

The bodies that I deserved.

They trembled with anticipation as their father blatantly checked them out, and it didn’t take long for me to make up my mind.

“Follow,” I said, striding past them, and the two of them hurriedly tried to follow me—one having to help the other stand up.

The click-clack of the stripper boots followed me down the hall, into the master bedroom.

The Master bedroom.

I’d fucked my wife on the hallway floor the previous day, and while I’d certainly enjoyed the spontaneity of it, I didn’t really want to make a habit of it. My knees would never forgive me.

“Bed,” I said, and the girls quickly obeyed, almost tripping over each other in their attempt to obey my commands. The tape in my hand quickly made its way into my wife’s stereo, and I hit “play”, the addicting music from the final tape filling the room as I turned back towards the two teenage temptresses sitting on the bed.

Their eyes filled with lustful anticipation as I commanded them to strip, and in their efforts to obey, they almost tore the (very expensive-looking) clothes that my wife had bought them earlier in the week.

No, I corrected. That I bought. Every cent my wife spent was my money.

These girls were my property. I owned them, and I owned everything that they owned, a thought that made me smile. I was going to have complete control over what they wore from now on. Not that there was anything wrong with their choices so far, of course, but there was something erotic about the level of power I realized I had over them.

These girls were mine. Everything they did, everything they wore, everything they ate and thought and said and felt—it was completely under my control.

The music played, its throbbing beat filling my ears, filling the room. The girls were already subservient little whores, but I wanted to make sure that they knew our arrangement—that all women needed a master, and that I was theirs.

It was clear from the look in their eyes that a part of them wanted me to hurry up, to take my cock out and fill them with it, so that they could start to repay their debt, the debt that we all knew they could never fully pay back. But I was enjoying the anticipating of taking them for the first time, and so I spent a few more minutes standing above them, looking down and appreciating their nudity.

My youngest daughter had fuller breasts—as she breathed, they moved up and down slightly. Her nipples were rock-hard (as were her sister’s) and I wondered how much fun they’d had the previous night, on their dates.

I wondered if it had been enough of a good time that their dates would pay to go again…but that was a thought for another time.

My oldest daughter’s breasts, while not quite as large as her younger sibling, were significantly more pert. Her pink nipples were turned up, something that she had clearly inherited from her mother (although, sadly, my wife’s nipples have felt the effect of gravity over the years, and haven’t peered up at me for a while now). Her legs were longer, too, and beautifully toned.

Their pussies were both beautifully shaved, leaving just a small, neat triangle of hair. I smiled at the sight of the teenage pussies, winking at me, dripping with wetness and anticipation. I could tell from their engorged lips how much they were looking forward to me entering them, taking them.

Taking what I owned.

Yes, I thought to myself with a satisfied sigh. We raised two beautiful girls.

And now it’s time to reap what I have sowed.

* * *

When my wife came home an hour later, she was shocked by the sight in front of her. I’d cum twice already, and so as a breather, I’d asked the girls to get each other off for my entertainment. She must have heard the sounds of pleasure the moment she’d opened the front door, and following them to the Master bedroom, been totally stunned to find her youngest riding the face of her oldest child, moaning and pinching her nipples all the while.

“Sit down,” I ordered, pointing at the chair in the corner of our room. I could see the hesitancy on my wife’s face, but she couldn’t fight against the effects of the tape, and after a few seconds she obeyed me, sitting and watching the show.

She was wearing a large trench-coat. I couldn’t tell if she was wearing anything underneath, but that was a question that could wait to be answered until we were done, until the final tape had finished.

The sight of my daughter quivering with an orgasm brought on by her older sister was enough to get me ready again, and a cough was all it took to get my girls’ attention—at the sight of my erection, their faces lit up, and they quickly got into position, one of them licking each side of my cock. Occasionally their tongues would meet in the middle, and lightly caress each other.

The sight of my cum coating both their faces a few minutes later was more beautiful than I could have ever dreamed it would be.

My first orgasm had been like this, the two of them bringing me off with their mouths, and my second had been inside my oldest daughter, after a full fifteen minutes of pounding her into the mattress while she sucked on the tits of her younger sibling, who was enjoying three of my fingers pistoning in and out of her repeatedly.

“Know your limits,” I muttered, and decided that my third orgasm would be my last one of the night. The tape ran out, and I looked over at my wife, who was becoming increasingly flushed at the sight of her husband cavorting on the bed with her two daughters.

“Be a dear and turn that over for me, would you?” I said to her with a smile, and she practically leapt out of the chair to obey my command.

Once the music started up again, I instructed my daughters to get my cock nice and wet.

I had decided to be the first one to fuck my youngest daughter’s ass. Neither of them were virgins, which was a pity, but at least I would be the first to take one of their beautiful holes.

She grunted with pain as I entered her, but it wasn’t long until she could accommodate me, and soon she was loudly moaning with pleasure at every stroke.

Glancing over at my wife, I could see that she’d moved from worried shock to accepting arousal, and her hand was twitching like she wanted to reach under her coat and play with herself.

“Go and get your mother off,” I grunted at my eldest—she was sitting back on the bed, stroking a finger up and down her pussy as she watched us. She immediately did as I asked, and soon I found myself reaching orgasm as I watched my own daughter perform cunnilingus on the love of my life.

I lay back, panting, enjoying the sound of pleasure coming from my wife’s mouth, and the incredible songs that came on my mail-order tape. Finally, when I’d regained my energy, I sat up and gathered everyone together.

“There’s going to be some changes around here,” I said, and the three of them nodded. “Outside in the car there’s a woman called Rhonda. She’s going to be living here from now on—treat her as a maid if you like. We own her now.”

Again, they all nodded. It was clear that the last tape had been completely effective—none of them so much as blinked an eye at the idea of their Master owning another.

“Honey,” I said, turning to my wife, “where were you today?”

An embarrassed look came over my wife’s face.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I know I should have asked, but…”

“But what?”

“…well, I couldn’t get that thought out of my head all morning. What you said, about being a maid. My friend Joanne—you remember Joanne?—her sister’s friend was involved with one of those nude maid services, and I thought…I thought about what you said about making some extra money.

“I went for an interview at lunch, and they signed me up on the spot. I had my first client today, and when he saw me, he got hard, and I…I couldn’t resist…”

A single tear slipped down my wife’s face, and I prompted her to continue.

“He fucked me. I begged him to. I charged him fifty dollars, and he fucked me, right then and there.”

“Oh, honey…” I said, my voice dripping with disappointment.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated, throwing herself at my feet. “I know, I should have asked you. You should have been the one to decide what I did, what I do with my body. You control who I fuck, I just…—“

“Sshhh,” I interrupted. “I’m not angry, I’m just disappointed. Fifty dollars?

“You’re worth far more than that.”

A look of comprehension slowly spread across my wife’s face, and she managed to force a teary smile.

“You’re not mad?”

“Of course not,” I said with a smile. “But from now on, how about you let me set the prices, okay?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.”

“Now, how much do you think we could get for all three of you at once?”

A broad grin spread across all of my daughter’s faces as they realized what I was suggesting. I sent my older daughter to go and fetch Rhonda from the car, so that we could start brainstorming this new business idea in earnest, and turned to my youngest.

“Now, honey, are you still part of that cheerleading squad at school?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Great. Next time you have a practice, there’s a tape I want you to play them, okay?”

MY CAR, MY RULES: PART 3 OF 4 by Pan

Chapter 3: I Was Gonna Be Her Man

When Rhonda got into the car that evening, her makeup was smeared and her hair was a mess. She smiled groggily at me as I pulled up outside her building.

“Get in,” I said. I wondered if I should feel bad about what she’d been through, but I had to admit—she looked happy. No, happy wasn’t quite the right word for it…

Satisfied. She looked satisfied.

As she got in the passenger seat, I recoiled. The moment the door closed, my entire car—just like Rhonda—reeked of cum.

It wasn’t unpleasant, although I was hardly about to race out and buy a cum-scented deodorizer. I turned on the music and started the car, pondering on how I felt about it. It wasn’t as though I liked the smell, it just felt…right.

Rhonda was doing exactly what she was born to do. My plan was working—I was giving her a purpose in life, a purpose that I wish every woman could have. For the first time in her life, she was going into work each day and reallyearning her keep.

She was silent on the way home, just sitting back and taking in the music. It was clearly working—she spent the first half of the trip with her hand on my leg, and when we got on the freeway, she unzipped my pants and started idly running her hand up and down my erection.

As I pulled into her driveway, it was clear that I was about to cum, and so Rhonda leaned over and swallowed my cock, taking me in her mouth and allowing me to pump my seed deep into her throat.

“Thank you,” she said demurely, and when I gave a curt nod in response, shivered with pleasure, taking her hand out from between her legs and licking it clean.

As she gave my cock one last, hungry look and walked away, I couldn’t help but wonder if what I was doing was wrong. Not the tapes—those were for her own benefit. But letting her suck me off—was that cheating on my wife?

No, I quickly decided. After all, it wasn’t as though it was for nothing—I was giving her a lift home each day. I deserved something for my efforts. And if my wife did somehow find out and complain about it, I’d just tell her it was what I wanted, and she’d soon agree.

As she should.

With a satisfied nod, I tucked myself away, zipped up, and drove home.

* * *

As I walked into my house, the main hook of the fourth tape still stuck in my head (even without Rhonda with me, I’d been unable to resist listening to the end) I was delighted to find that my wife had gone shopping once more.

She’d apparently interpreted the order to be subservient in a slightly different way, because she was standing in front of me wearing a French Maid dress which left her shoulders completely exposed, emphasized her curves, and ended mid-thigh, a few inches above her black stockings.

When I opened the door, she was kneeling in front of it, and I wondered how long she’d been there, waiting patiently for me to come home.

If this is what she’s like now, I mused, I wonder how she’ll act when she thinks I’m her Master.

I quickly pushed that thought out of my head—I could never do something like that to my wife. No, the first three tapes, it made sense to share those with my family. They weren’t really about altering someone, but about revealing what they always were, what they should have been all along.

Using the last one on my darling, loving wife? That would just be wrong.

“Girls!” I called out, “Go to your rooms!”

My wife was so hot, so blatant in her desires…it would have made sense to find somewhere private to fuck her, but I didn’t want to. This was my house, and if I wanted to fuck my wife in the hallway then damn it, I was going to fuck my wife in the hallway.

“They’re out,” she whispered in reply, a smile on her face. “They’re both on dates.”

I hope the men pay, I mentally noted. My girls are worth it.

Before I could follow that train of thought any further, I realized I was letting myself get distracted when a perfect walking fucktoy was kneeling in front of me, non-verbally begging me to fuck her mouth and coat her with my cum.

Despite Rhonda’s thanks earlier, I was hard and ready to go again. I may not be a teen any more, but when someone as gorgeous as my wife is around, I’m definitely able to provide what she’s so desperately craving.

Let me tell you, I’d thought our romp the previous day was good, but this was incredible. The more I ordered her around, the more I told her what to do, what to say, what to think, the more turned on she seemed to get. It was over an hour before I collapsed against the wall, almost too exhausted to order her to clean up the mess we’d made.

As I sat there, watching her licking my cum off the hallway floor, I got to thinking. My wife sits around the house all day with nothing to do—I’m the primary breadwinner, and when we’d had kids it had been a no-brainer to let her quit her job and take care of them.

But our kids were all grown up now (their clothing choices of the last few days had shown me how grown up they were) and watching my wife leaning over and exposing her pert ass, her shaved pussy-lips, watching her breasts threatening to bulge out of her top…

“Honey,” I said casually, “I love your outfit.”

“Thanks,” she said with a blush, quickly followed by that grin I’d fallen for so many years ago. “I thought you might.”

“It’s a shame that I’m the only one who gets to see it.”

Clearly unsure of what I was getting at, she stayed silent, and so I pressed on.

“You know, if you wanted some extra money, I’m sure that a lot of people would pay to have someone as foxy as you cleaning up their place.”

Again, I was met by silence. I instinctively knew that if I pushed it, my wife would go along with anything that I asked of her, but this is the woman I love—I didn’t want her to do anything she didn’t want to do.

I wanted her to want it.

* * *

As soon as Rhonda got into the car, she slipped off her top, unbuckled my belt, and began enthusiastically fellating me. We weren’t even out of the driveway yet—for a brief moment, I was worried about someone catching us, but I quickly realized that no one was going to complain. She was just doing what she was born to do, after all.

Plus it was Friday. Who’s going to report someone for starting the weekend with a blow-job?

Watching her walk towards the car had quickly made it clear that Rhonda had decided to go all-in on the “whore” costume today—her now-discarded top was pink and incredibly skimpy, and she was wearing a leopard-print mini-skirt and long, black, fuck-me boots.

She didn’t say a word as we drove to work—occasionally I would gasp out an instruction or two, but she never responded, just implemented my advice immediately. The only other sound that could be heard was the final tape, subconsciously seeping into Rhonda’s mind.

Most of the time I had one hand down, pulling and tugging on her large brown nipples. As well as glasses, I’m a real sucker for boobs, and Rhonda’s were every bit as fine as I’d imagined they would be.

The whole trip, I couldn’t help but marvel at what a difference I’d made. With one hand buried between her legs, she would occasionally shiver in orgasm as we traveled—such a stark contrast to the uptight, constantly-complaining shrew that I’d drive around for the first two weeks.

I’d done so much for her. She owed me, not only for driving, but for changing her, improving her, bringing out her best.

She owed me, and it was a debt that she’d never be able to repay.

That thought stuck in my head all day.

Rhonda’s timing was impeccable—as soon as she felt me pulling up outside her work, she redoubled her efforts, using her tongue and hand in perfect synchronicity to get me off, and then swallowing down my cum as quickly as I provided it.

As she redressed and went into work, I couldn’t help but wonder how long those clothes would stay on.

When I dropped by her office to pick her up that evening, I’d come up with a solution to Rhonda’s debt. To my surprise, she didn’t reek of cum as she had the previous day—perhaps she’d found a shower, and used it before coming to find me—although it was clear from the bow-legged way that she approached the car that she’d spent her fair share of the morning taking men inside her and rewarding them what she felt they were owed.

What they were owed.

Of course, it was nothing compared to what she owed me. I’d taken a broken, prudish, unhappy woman and given her purpose. I’d given her satisfaction in life, showed her how she could spread happiness to everyone around her.

I’d created her. She owed me everything and the payment for that debt was obvious:

I deserved her. Mind, body, and soul. I deserved to own her.

As soon as she entered the car, Rhonda instinctively reached for my fly, but I swatted her away.

“Uh uh,” I said, and to her credit, she didn’t ask for an explanation at all, just sat there listening to the music as we drove.

“Um,” she said, as we zoomed past her house, but when I didn’t invite a response, she fell silent again.

I knew what she was going to say. She was going to ask why we weren’t stopping, or where we were going, or some other ridiculous question that didn’t deserve a response.

What she didn’t know was that her house wasn’t her house any more. Just like her, it was mine. And since she was mine, my house was her home from now on.

She was my property, and I wanted her somewhere I could keep an eye on her.

Pulling up in the driveway, I was forced to face the reality of what I was doing. Rhonda needed a master, I knew that. On some level, all women do, but the tapes specifically had molded her into someone who needed taking care of.

And as the one who knew the exact process she’d been through, the exact process I’d put her through, I knew that I was the perfect man for the job.

But convincing my wife and daughters to see it that way…that was going to be a whole other problem.

“Stay here,” I said curtly, and Rhonda nodded. I couldn’t say for sure, but I suspect her shiver was another orgasm, just from the decisive way I was talking to her.

This was exactly what I was talking about. If I let her into the world like this, who knew what would happen to her? She was better off in my hands; I knew how to deal with her. She was a woman, the purest woman I’d ever met.

All women should be like her.

Exiting the car, I pocketed tape number 5. The easiest way, by far, to break this to my family would be to gather them into the den for a meeting, and play them the tape as I explained the changes I was going to be making around the house.

Opening the door, however, the sight that met me pushed all thoughts of Rhonda out of my head. In front of me, barely dressed and kneeling submissively, in the exact same position as my wife had been the previous day, were my two teenaged daughters.

“Hello Daddy,” my oldest said, looking up at me earnestly.

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

MY CAR, MY RULES: PART 2 OF 4 by Pan

Chapter 2: You Look So Fine (Look So Fine)

On the third day, I was amused to see Rhonda wasn’t alone as she left the house. The second tape had clearly worked—she passionately kissed the lanky fellow before sending him on his way and jumping in the car.

Today she was wearing a tight pair of jean-shorts, and a button-up shirt that only barely buttoned up. She’d gone bra-less, and the shirt was tied up right below her unrestrained tits, showing a generous amount of midriff. The whole outfit was enhanced by the black leather fuck-me boots she was wearing.

“Who’s he?” I asked mischievously as I put the third tape into the car and hit play.

“His name is Phil,” Rhonda said, rolling her eyes. “I met him last night.”

I couldn’t help but sigh—although she was certainly far more pleasant to look at than she had been pre-tapes, Rhonda’s personality was yet to change. She launched into a rant about his (innumerable) shortcomings, and if I hadn’t been driving, I would have shut my eyes and just tried to drown her out.

Fortunately, today’s tape was going to help with that. Day 3—“All women should be subservient.”

As much as I could, I kept an eye on Rhonda to see if the tape would have any immediate effects. By the end of the trip, her rant had started to slow down…but it was impossible to tell if that was because of the subliminal messaging, or just because she’d run out of steam.

I did notice that she was continuing to glance at my pants every few sentences. Apparently yesterday’s tape had really left its mark (and today’s was helping to reinforce the message) and whatever her and Phil had gotten up to last night hadn’t been enough to satiate her cravings.

Unfortunately for Rhonda, I’m a happily married man, and so I ignored the subtle signals she was sending out, and just focused on surviving the rest of the trip to work.

As we got in, I paused the tape, and realized tape #2 wasn’t anywhere to be seen—my wife must have nabbed it.

I was a bit annoyed that she’d taken it without permission, but then a smile crossed my face.

So my wife is going to be craving my cum? I can think of worse things that could happen…

The previous night, my girls had returned from their shopping trip, humming the incredibly catchy song from the first tape. I couldn’t help but admire their choice of clothes—my wife had decided to go in a sort of sexy housewife direction, and was wearing a red polka-dot dress that ended way above her knees, and showed off plenty of cleavage to boot. When she bent over, one would expect it to show off her panties—but to my delight, she wasn’t wearing any.

My daughters, bless them, had taken a much less subtle route. Being teenagers, I suppose they don’t really need to worry so much about what other people will think. My youngest was wearing a short pink flippy skirt, and as she bounced into the room it quickly revealed the black thong she was wearing underneath. Her tits were prominently on display in a pink mesh top, which she wore with nothing underneath. Her nipples were also pink, so it made them a little bit harder to find, but after a few seconds of staring I was able to locate them pretty quickly.

But my other daughter’s outfit really took the cake—she was just wearing a blue bikini top (one that looked like it was half a size too small) and matching blue panties. She was almost scandalously underdressed; the only saving grace were the black fishnet stockings she wore, ensuring that the entire outfit looked deliberate (and not like she’d been locked out of her closet while still getting dressed).

I thought they all looked great, and as we ate dinner that night, my wife and I beamed with pride at the two little gems we’d raised. I wondered if they had boyfriends—I knew what young women were like, and I wanted to make sure my baby girls were being taken care of.

Of course, I reflected, dressed like this, it won’t take them long to find what they need.

* * *

The afternoon of the third day, Rhonda wasn’t at our regular meeting place. I waited for a few minutes, listening to the irresistible tunes of tape #3, but after a while I got out and stormed to her office.

“Hello?”

She was panting when she answered the door. She didn’t invite me in, just opened it a crack, and I immediately worked out what was happening.

“Get dressed,” I said through gritted teeth. “And meet me in my car in two minutes.”

“Of course,” she said, wide-eyed. I didn’t even care what I had interrupted—I’d made a deal with Rhonda, and I was suddenly furious that she’d defied me. Here I was, doing her a favor—did she not know her place?

Just moments after I’d returned to my car, Rhonda opened the door and practically leapt into the passenger seat.

“I’m sorry,” she said, unable to make eye-contact. I softened slightly, and reached out to pat her hair comfortingly. “I was…dealing with a subordinate.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Just…don’t let it happen again, yeah?”

“Of course,” she said, and for the rest of the trip, neither of us said another word, just enjoyed the rhythmic sound of the third tape.

When I arrived home after dropping Rhonda off, my wife practically jumped me at the door.

“Come here, stud,” she said with a grin, and at the sight of the outfit she was wearing—a black, translucent night-gown…with nothing underneath—I was immediately hard.

“Hey girls,” I said casually as we passed the living-room. They casually waved as I dragged my almost-naked wife to the bedroom, and proceeded to give her what I knew she so desperately craved—what all women so desperately craved.

It was different than usual. I don’t want to go into too much detail—a man’s bedroom life is private, after all—but I think my wife was surprised by the extent with which I took charge. I twisted her into any position I felt like, and the few times she tried to get on top or decide what to do next, I slapped her hands away, and covered her mouth with my hand when she tried to object.

“Please,” she begged, when I was starting to approach orgasm. “I want it on my face.”

I considered denying her (just to emphasize that it wasn’t her decision to make) but I didn’t want to be cruel, and so I pulled out and aimed for her mouth. A look of bliss came across her as I sprayed my seed into her open mouth and exposed tits.

I love my wife: we have such an amazing connection. After I was done, I held her close for a few minutes, before slapping her on the ass and telling her to go make sure dinner was ready.

After a brief nap (what can I say? I’m not the young man I used to be) I redressed and wandered into the kitchen. My wife had rounded up our daughters to help her with the meal, and they were listening to what I quickly recognized as the second tape. The three of them were wearing aprons, heels, and nothing else.

My youngest daughter blushed slightly when she noticed me checking out her pert backside, but she didn’t say anything. I’d raised such good kids.

* * *

The next morning, as I went to change the tapes over, I noticed that tape 3 was still in the machine. I stared at it for a few seconds.

On one hand, I’d bought the tapes for a very specific reason: to help Rhonda. My wife listening to the first two had been an added bonus. But…

It was surprisingly easy to justify to myself. After all, she’d listen to it eventually (the tunes were genuinely phenomenal). And I had to be honest, I couldn’t help but be tempted by the idea of my wife being a trifle more subservient. It just seemed so…right.

What could happen?

Returning to the car, I started playing the fourth tape, a broad smile on my face as I listened to the catchy beats. When I arrived at Rhonda’s house, I was delighted to see that she was waiting on the curb, and from the way she was shivering, it looked like she’d been waiting for a while.

She’d clearly taken yesterday’s lecture to heart.

Her outfit today had a strong secretary theme; she was wearing black glasses, a pencil skirt that barely covered the cheeks of her ass, a black top that managed to show both the top and bottom of her boobs, and—to top it all off—a white, stand-alone shirt collar with a tiny black tie.

As she got in the car, I couldn’t resist asking if anyone at work had said anything about it yet.

“Yes,” she mumbled submissively, apparently unable to make eye-contact. “My boss came to talk to me about it yesterday. I had a one-one-one meeting with him at lunch though, and…

“I think we came to an agreement.”

Over the years, I’d met Rhonda’s boss a few times. Nick, I think his name was—he’d always seemed like a nice enough sort. Maybe once I’d finished running the tapes on Rhonda, he’d be a suitable new master…

The rest of the trip was spent in silence. I turned the heater on, and Rhonda quickly stopped shivering. As the pulsating music seeped into her brain, I noticed her hands would occasionally twitch, like she just wanted to reach out and grab my cock, milk it of the cum within.

Even as we drove, I couldn’t help but pity her. I had hoped that the tapes would make her happier—after all, they were designed to unlock her natural impulses. Dressing like a slut, craving cum, being more subservient—these are all the way women should be. All I was doing was coaxing her into correct behavior.

Having a master was the only one that wasn’t already a natural part of the female condition, but I found it so hot (and figured it would help with the first four) that I didn’t really have an issue with it.

I’d been hoping that by helping her reconnect with her true self, I’d see an improvement in her attitude. Nope. She wasn’t vocalizing her issues any more (thank God) but she was certainly still looking just as miserable as ever.

Still, ending the program now could be disastrous—it would leave her adrift, a subservient whore who craved cum…without anyone to look after her. Better to complete the tapes and hope that the final one—giving her a need for a master—gave her the life satisfaction she so clearly needed.

“Thanks,” she muttered breathily when we arrived at work. “If…if there’s ever anything I can do to thank you, then please…just…let me know, okay?”

As she spoke, one hand reached out and slowly started traveling up my leg. I just stared at her, slightly shocked.

“Uh, thanks, but…I think I’m good. Thanks, though.”

With a sad look, she left, giving me a great view of her ass as she slinked away in the pencil skirt.

It was obvious what had happened: the fourth tape had told her that all women should be whores, and she’d taken it literally. Rhonda had decided that she needed to trade sex for the lift I gave her each morning.

She’d flagrantly offered me sex. She was probably inside right now, justifying fucking all of her superiors—after all, they were responsible for paying her. It made sense that they should at least get a piece of her ass out of the deal.

That made sense, and wasn’t the part that worried me.

What really worried me was how tempted I’d been to accept.

Better make sure the family never hear that tape, I told myself as I drove the extra distance to my own office. The last thing I want is to be the head of a family of whores.

Isn’t it?

MY CAR, MY RULES: PART 1 OF 4 by Pan

Chapter 1: Help, Helping Rhonda

When Rhonda first approached me about carpooling, I didn’t even think twice about it. She was happy to pay for half the gas, she actually lived on the way to work and—I’ll be honest—the fact that she was easy on the eyes certainly helped make the decision an easy one.

Rhonda was in her mid-thirties, about ten years younger than me. I’d always had a weak spot for girls in glasses (ask my wife!) and Rhonda was just the tiniest bit flirtatious when she asked me.

I knew I would never stray, of course—in almost twenty years of marriage, I’d never even once thought of cheating on my wife. We have two beautiful daughters together, and our marriage was solid as a rock.

But there was no harm in spending half an hour each morning with a flirty co-worker, right?

Well, that’s what I’d thought.

It turned out that once she got what she wanted, the flirtatiousness disappeared. I was still friendly to her—it’s in my nature—and for whatever reason, Rhonda took that as a sign I was interesting in hearing about everything that was bothering her in life.

Everything.

Her personal life, her family, her job—Rhonda worked in marketing, a whole different area of the company than me, and so presumably she saw me as a safe person to vent to about her creepy boss, her useless subordinates, even the annoying way the sun hit her desk. Within two weeks, I seriously wondered if there was ANY part of her life that Rhonda was happy with.

Now I’m a pretty easy-going guy. When my youngest daughter turned eighteen, she asked if she could have some booze at her party. Most Dads would be the last person to talk to about this kind of stuff, but I’ve always tried to be as approachable as possible—probably why Rhonda saw me as a suitable target for her endless venting.

Anyway, I bought my kid and her friends a few beers, and since they were drinking in the house, no one got totally wasted or busted by the cops or anything like that. Win-win, hey?

But even I have my limits, and after two weeks of putting up with Rhonda’s bitching, I’d had enough. I figured I had a few choices: I could ask her to stop carpooling with me, or…I could do something to change her behavior.

I should probably warn you: from here, what I did gets more than a bit unethical. I wish that I could say that I sat down with her and had a chat about what we talked about in the car…but, well, I didn’t.

Instead, I pulled out a magazine that I’d bought a few years ago. I’m not a hoarder or anything like that—normally after I read a magazine, I put it straight into the recycling. But this one had a page of ads at the back, and for whatever reason, one of the ads had caught my eye.

CHANGE THE PEOPLE AROUND YOU, it read. ALTER THEIR MINDS AND THEIR THOUGHTS AND TURN THEM INTO YOUR FANTASIES.

I never, ever intended to have sex with Rhonda. I’m going to clarify that again—I love my wife, I love my family, and I was never going to do anything that would risk breaking them up.

But here’s the thing—Rhonda was pretty clearly unhappy. As I’d learned over the past few weeks, she didn’t have a boyfriend, family…from the sounds of it, she didn’t even have any friends. She lived to work, and based on how much she was complaining, she didn’t even like her work that much.

This ad had been sitting in the back of my closet for years now. It had gotten into my head, and I’d never been able to bring myself to throw it out. Obviously I’d never use it on anyone I knew, but I think I’d kept in just in case I met someone as unhappy as Rhonda. Just to change their lives for the better.

I swear.

* * *

It was about a week before the tapes arrived, and man was I glad when they did. Firstly because I was deathly curious about whether they’d work as advertised, but mostly just because I was sick to death of Rhonda’s bitching.

My politeness never wavered, but the complaints after complaints were starting to get to me. There was one positive thing about them though: they assured me I was doing the right thing. I wasn’t destroying a perfectly happy person, or making a happy person unhappy. I was…

Well, you’ll see exactly what I did, and you can judge for yourself.

I played the first tape on Monday morning. Rhonda was just telling me about how her cat had just died (I didn’t even know she had a cat! Rhonda only seemed to acknowledge things in her life after they went to shit. Seriously, spending an hour a day with her was more draining than the rest of my life put together) when I put the tape on.

“What’s this?” she said, her scowl suddenly gone. I had to admit, the music was pretty good—it’d have to be for the tapes to work, I guess.

“It’s a new band,” I lied. “Someone at work lent it to me.”

“It’s pretty good. What’re they called?”

“I don’t know, sorry,” I said. “I’ll try to find out for you.”

I was currently playing tape one of five. It was pretty simple: each tape had a different message, subliminally encoded underneath the music. It was just a single sentence, looped over and over again, and after about an hour, the person listening would accept that simple sentence as an absolute truth.

The next day, I’d play a different tape. It would reinforce the message of the previous day, locking it in as a fact, but more importantly—it would include a new message.

By the end of the week, Rhonda would be a changed woman. A happier one, I hoped.

And certainly a sluttier one.

That’s the thing—they didn’t have an option for “Stop complaining about your life and be happy with what you’ve got.” It wasn’t that sort of magazine. And this is where it gets a bit unethical…the messages on the tapes were direct and unambiguous:

1) All women should dress like sluts.

2) All women crave cum.

3) All women should be subservient.

4) All women should be whores.

5) All women need a master.

I’m sure you can work out what kind of magazine the ad was from.

The last one, that had been what swayed me. Firstly, if I’m being honest, because it was an absolute fantasy of mine—a woman needing a master…or even better, a capital-M “Master”. I’ve never been able to mention it to my wife—she’s not the kind who would take kindly to being dominated, believe me. And again, I had no intention of BEING Rhonda’s new master, but the idea of transforming her into a whore who needed one…since I’d ordered the tapes, the thought had rarely left my mind.

But the last one had been important for Rhonda’s sake as well. I couldn’t just transform her into some kind of scantily-clad whore: no, by using all five tapes, it would ensure that she went and found someone to take care of her.

I’m not a monster. By the time I was done, Rhonda was going to be a happy, slutty whore…complete with a master to take care of her. Her constant complaints would be gone—I was giving her a purpose in life, something that would (I hoped) quell the feeling of dissatisfaction I suspected was the cause of her unhappiness.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the trip, just sat there, listening to the music. As we did, I wondered what sort of clothing Rhonda would wear the next day—something skimpy, I hoped. She normally dressed quite austerely, so the difference would be easy to spot.

It would be a welcome change—her body looked like it was built to be shown off. Of course, being a man, I thought that all women could afford to bare a little more skin. I just hoped Rhonda wouldn’t get into too much trouble at work—for my plan to work, I only needed to continue carpooling with her until the end of the week, when I figured she would likely start looking for a new job.

* * *

The drive home that day was uneventful. As soon as Rhonda got into the car, I started playing the tape—noting that her top two buttons were undone—and we didn’t speak again until I dropped her off.

“Thanks,” she said as usual—for all her unpleasantness, Rhonda was at least polite.

When I got home that evening, I made an observation to my wife that she should go clothes-shopping with the girls some time.

“Why?” she asked.

“Summer’s coming up,” I told her. “You should get them something a little more airy.”

The girls were watching one of their favorite sitcoms (Unhappily Ever After) and I gestured to the screen to clarify.

“Like what that Tiffany girl is wearing.”

In response, my wife just looked at me strangely.

“Sure thing, honey,” she eventually said, with the tone of voice that told me ‘no chance’. I didn’t bother continuing the conversation: it had just been a passing thought.

* * *

The next morning, I arrived at Rhonda’s house early, excited to see what she would be wearing for the ride into work.

I was not disappointed.

She’d picked out some black shoes, long white schoolgirl socks, a plaid skirt ending way above her knees, and a white button-up shirt. She’d clearly put it on as soon as she’d gotten out of the shower, and so it had stuck to her wet torso, outlining her braless breasts and showcasing her long pink nipples.

“Wow,” I mouthed before she got into the car. I suspect that she saw me. Rhonda looked amazing.

I wish my wife dressed like that, I couldn’t help but think. I’d considered bringing that up the previous night as well, but I’ve been married long enough to know that’s an argument I didn’t want to even think about getting into.

In fact, I couldn’t think of any woman it wouldn’t look good on.

When she got into the car, I didn’t say anything, just put the tape in and started playing. The music really was incredible—it felt like no time at all before we arrived at work.

* * *

“What’s the name of that band you’ve got in the car?” my wife asked me when I got home that day.

The trip home had been interesting—the second tape was clearly starting to work, and I’d caught Rhonda staring at my crotch more than once. It had been hard to mask my erection—a scantily-clad, obviously-horny woman staring at your cock is something hard to ignore, and I’d been tempted more than once to just pull over and let her suck the cum right out of me.

Something about it just felt so…right.

Not that I ever would, of course.

“What band?” I replied, startled. “When did you drive my car?”

“Last night, after you’d gone to sleep. I remembered that I had to pick up milk before the girls got up in the morning. The tape just said ‘1’, but it’s really catchy. I listened to it all day at work today.”

I had been so excited at the sight of Rhonda’s new clothes when I was inserting tape #2, I hadn’t even noticed the first one wasn’t in the car.

Now that I was paying attention, my wife’s choice of attire was far more revealing than she’d normally wear. I hadn’t even been aware of a difference at first—the skimpy outfit she’d chosen really suited her.

“I’m not sure what they’re called,” I bluffed. “A guy from work put me onto them.”

“Well, if you find out, let me know. Okay?”

“Sure thing, hon.”

“Now, I’m going to go and take the girls shopping. You were totally right—summer’s coming up, they’ll be stifled if they keep wearing what they’re wearing now.”

Don’t let them listen to the tape, a part of me wanted to say…but for some reason, I didn’t. So what if my daughters started wearing fewer clothes around the house? All women could afford to wear something a little more form-fitting, from time to time.

What could possibly be wrong with that?