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?
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