FICTION Annie’s Quest 1

“I swore to never, well — maybe not never — at least hardly ever, have sex with anyone.”

“No, Daddy, you should be a slut!”

What?

Sometimes my imaginary daughter Annie says outrageous things. I’m not sure if she’s even aware. At least, it doesn’t sound like spiritual advice what she’s saying to me. Not that I’m that opposed to being a slut. I mean, it could be fun, compared to the last 17 years of celibacy anyway. But I wasn’t born yesterday. She’s a crafty one, that little girl, spirit or not.

“I don’t know about that, Annie.”

She just wants to be real, a real flesh-and-blood, like Pinocchio wanted, only female.

But Geppetto didn’t have to go on an adventure to become a slut. Maybe I could just paint her really well and she could become real. But I think my artistic skills are a little short for that. Just a little.

So here I am, taking my first steps to sluthood, date number 14,341. OK, that may sound like a lot of dates, but I haven’t slept with any of them, so not a real slut just yet. Well. Baby steps.

This one’s not going so well either. What’s wrong with her? She’s not mean or arrogant like the last girl who was rude to the waiter. No obvious red flags. Or yellow flags. Or even purple flags.

What are purple flags, you ask? Let’s just say . . . nah, you don’t wanna know.

There’s nothing wrong with her really. She’s pleasant enough, intelligent enough, attractive enough. Maybe too attractive. Those boobs are definitely fake. I mean, nothing’s perfect unless you manufacture them, like those perfectly perky, round orbs.

Here I go again, looking for faults in everything. Before I move on to date number 14, 342, I might want to lower my standards just a tad, this is not how sluts are made!

Besides, you like fake boobs, they look real enough and feel even better than real ones. Why are you complaining?

There’s just something off about her. Maybe her attitude.

When she returns from the bathroom and takes her seat again, it quickly becomes clear. Two more buttons undone and the perfection of her boobs is now undeniable. Even her nipples are standing erect and poking through her shirt as if to say — You doubt our greatness, you imbecile? Now bow down and worship these orbs, kiss, lick, and squeeze them until we forget your impudence!

I lick my lips at the thought. I mean, who am I to object? Those magnificent boobs could teach me the ways of sluthood. I just have to give in, surrender to my inner slut.

Her sly smile. She knows it too.

Join the dark side, my son, you will enjoy it!

Is that you, Darth Vader?

Yes, Luke, I’m your father.

Who’s Luke? Oh, wait, never mind.

As I come off my reverie, I still couldn’t help but agree. The force is strong with those boobs. That much I couldn’t deny.

The Devil knew my weakness and exactly how to exploit it, the texture of her succulent orbs still lingering in my mouth even as I try to shake it off. Help me, Taylor, shake it off, shake it off!

As she enters her phone number in my phone and gives it back to me, something about her smug smile bothers me. I don’t know exactly why but that’s when I decide to move on to date number 14,342.

Nice try, Devil, you almost had me there. But my patron saint of Pop has come through once again, just as she has with that nasty ex, that we’re never ever getting back together.

But how do I tell her? Or do I just not call her like most assholes in this situation? No, I wasn’t going to be one of those guys, I’d tell her, let her down easy.

“Look, Jennifer,” I start, trying to compose my thoughts.

But she seems to know what’s coming. “You aren’t going to call me, are you?”

A little passive-aggressive, but fair enough.

“I’m sure you’re a nice girl, and one day you’ll find a great guy who will — ” I try to explain, but she keeps interrupting me.

“I knew it!”

That’s when I could put a word to what was bothering me. Her desperation. Not obvious, very expertly disguised in fact, but now I could see it clearly. Everything she did and said. All designed to entice me, measure my reactions, and chart a new course accordingly. Not exactly dishonest or manipulative, but . . . desperate.

“Stop interrupting me,” I say firmly. I could feel the anger rising. I can’t stand when people interrupt me. I mean, if you won’t respect me enough to let me finish my sentences, then what are you even doing here?

She gets the message, suddenly quiet and timid.

I owe her the truth, I figure, but what is the truth? That I’ve been celibate for many years and have my guard up? That I’ve sworn off women because of the horrible relationship almost two decades ago? No, I don’t want to talk about all that. Honesty doesn’t mean you have to tell them everything. Just enough so they understand.

“Look, I’m not into just sexual relationships, one-night stands, or short affairs.” Like I said. Baby steps. The road to sluthood is long and hard. And sometimes thick. It can be hard to take and stretch your limits. But I hear it’s very rewarding in the end, and maybe one day I’ll get there, at least a man can dream.

A look of hope. But baby, I don’t want those things either!

“At the same time, I’m also not into traditional relationships. I’ve tried that long ago, and they’re just not for me.”

She’s confused now, but I know what I want to say. I just have to make it clear, make it obvious.

“You’ve heard of BDSM, right?”

She nods, a hint of understanding crossing her face.

“It’s kind of like that — the dominant/submissive relationship. Not that I’m looking for a slave, not in the literal sense. You do what you want, and make your own decisions when it comes to most things, like your career, money, family, friends, etc. It’s just that in the bedroom, in sexual matters, you must submit to me and obey me without question.”

I expected her shocked expression. We’re finally communicating. Why didn’t I start with this? I just have to drive the point home, and she’ll understand.

“I’ll own you, your mind and body. You’ll keep no secrets from me, and whatever I say goes. You will address me as ‘master’ in private and follow my lead, or else we’re done if I feel I can’t correct your behavior with appropriate discipline.”

There. That wasn’t so hard, was it? It’s the truth and still drives the point home. Much simpler than ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ rejections. Because it’s not really a rejection, but a mutual understanding that we just want different things.

I was so proud of how I handled this, that I finish the remaining water and ask the waiter for more. I was suddenly thirsty.

“And if you aren’t going to finish your fries,” I start to say and finish her fries for her. I was still hungry, but there was enough left over on her plate to satisfy me. I was immediately feeling optimistic about the whole situation. Maybe the next date will turn out better. The 14,342nd time is the charm. What are the odds that 14,342 dates in a row will go badly? That’s basically impossible.

Or 50/50, just a different perspective. No matter, even math can’t get me down today.

Then I thought I heard her mutter something. Or was it Annie? I wasn’t sure.

“Hmmm?” I say just in case. I finish her plate, and it was time to go.

“Yes, Master,” she says clearly this time.

The waiter gives us odd looks as he returns my credit card.

She’s suddenly bashful and can’t look me in the eye.

Am I reading her right? She still seems desperate, but it’s different now. Desperation is not attractive in general, but from a submissive, it’s kind of adorable. I reach across to lift her chin, to see if I’m reading her correctly.

“Are you submitting to me?”

“Yes, Master,” she repeats. Her eyes dropping again once I let go of her chin.

I’m instantly thirsty once more, but not for water.

The Devil hasn’t given up, simply switched tactics. Even those glorious boobs are no longer demanding worship, but merely affection, just demurely begging for my touch, for my ownership.

Even Taylor shrugs, you got a blank space, baby, might as well write her name.

That’s not helping, Taylor. Have you been talking to Annie?

The taste of those orbs is back in my mouth. Only I have no reason to resist anymore. I reach out once again, this time for those orbs. I want to memorize that feeling, that touch, though I don’t need to, they belong to me now.

She gazes up at me for the first time since her submission. A look of desperation, of longing, and gratitude.

I recognize that look, that needy, obsessive look that I seem to attract. It went really badly last time, but she’s not her, don’t assume it’s going to end the same way!

And if she’s not serious, we’ll find out soon enough.

I take her home and put her through the paces. She’s so charged up that she can’t get enough. Without any training, her body is already obedient, even orgasming on command. After what seemed like hours, she’s finally asleep.

I tell Annie not to follow her example. You can’t submit to someone you don’t know, that you don’t trust, that’s just crazy. What if I turned out to be a homicidal maniac?

On the other hand, I made significant progress on the road to sluthood. I was quite proud of myself. Until Annie reminded me that bedding one woman does not make me a slut. If I had a harem full of submissives, it’d be a different story.

Goddamnit. I had work to do.

Annie’s Quest, an ad hoc series with a loose plot, can be read independently or in order: next.