S.L.U.T. Ep. 01

The Adventures of S.L.U.T.

(Sexual Liberator/Underwear Therapist)

Episode 1 – In Which S.L.U.T. Cures an Alien Abductee's Stubborn Erection

Leslie Manfried, psychologist, controversial sex therapist and best-selling author, sat as guest of honor at table's far end at the Upper Eastside apartment of Leonard and Biennale Kravitz. Leonard sat opposite at table's head while his wife sat to his right. Leslie's then-boyfriend Peter, a fledgling actor over ten years her junior, sat to the doctor's left while the other seven places were taken up with guests Leslie only vaguely knew, if at all. A Grand Cru Bordeaux had just been poured, into glasses of heavy cut Czechoslovakian crystal, as accompaniment to a main course of beef Wellington and small potatoes. And some other obscure roasted vegetable melange including baby carrots.

Leslie, a connoisseur with a five thousand bottle cellar of her own in her Riverview mansion, had just sampled the wine (good but served five degrees too warm) when she felt a curious but familiar vibrating sensation just north of her lace-pantied vagina, imbedded in her old-school, bushy-black pubic hair. Picking up the phone at her elbow and pretending like IT, in silent mode, had just buzzed, Leslie hurriedly excused herself from the table explaining, "I have to take this."

In the privacy of the Kravitz's ornate bathroom, where an apple-and-cinnamon candle burned atop a gold commode, Leslie raised the skirt of her evening dress while pulling the narrow vee of her panty down. It was signaling her all right, the embedded, blinking chip. Picking up off black marble her ostensibly run-of-the-mill iPhone 18, but one specially hacked and modified for her unique purposes, Leslie brought to life the main screen. It said Alert! in red across the top, and below that a name and address. A message pulsed below: "Your Services Needed At Once! Your Services Needed At Once!..."

At the very bottom of the screen Leslie punched the "Copy" button followed by the adjacent one labeled "Call!" The phone would take care of everything else. Recomposing herself, and making sure her $8,000 Dior gown did not betray any untoward wrinkles, Leslie reentered the main apartment and approached the table of hungry guests, every one of whom lowered their fork and looked up.

"I'm so sorry," Leslie said, forcing a smile. "That was Belleview General. I have an emergency. One of my patients..."

From table's head, frowning sympathetically, Leonard Kravitz wiped his mouth and said, "I'm so sorry, Leslie..."

Meanwhile, to Leslie's left, Peter had jumped up, mouth already wiped. Who would have ever guessed that his tight little bottom was striped red from last night's bondage therapy session with Leslie? "I'll drive you!" he offered.

Leslie found her strappy Fendi purse on a nearby stuffed chair and waved her boyfriend off. "No, thanks. I've already called an Uber." Leslie flashed a smile: "Stay here and entertain our hosts. Tell them that joke you told me last night..."

"Which one?"

"A man and a dog walk into a bar?"

"Which one?"

"He tells jokes?" Leonard inquired, at last showing interest in his guest of honor's most recent dumbshit boytoy.

"I'm not just an actor. I do standup too," Peter, retaking his seat, explained.

"Do tell!" Biennale said, taking in, well behind the tall seatbacks otherwise in her line of vision, a last look at Peter's muscularly round, just-planted ass.

By the time Leslie descended in the elevator and the doorman, in his regal uniform, had opened the building's gold-framed glass doors for her, the famous psychologist's ride was pulling up at the curb. If it had been an Uber, or Lyft, or RideMe, the specially modified all-electric Prius would have been the most expensive cab in the world. Or at least outside of Abu Dhabi. The Prius had three labeled driving mode buttons: Econo, Normal and Sport. Below this trio was a curious unmarked fourth button. Once engaged, the homely, unassuming though aerodynamic Toyota, specially modified by a former patient of Leslie's, Elon Musk, could hit a top speed of over 200 mph and do the quarter mile in under nine seconds. Not that you could ever reach a quarter mile's distance in Manhattan without first hitting a stoplight or pedestrians in a "Safe Crossing" zone. Fuckers!

A driver about Peter's age (but much better in bed) jumped out of the Prius to open the rear door for Ms. Manfried. His name—the codename he went by—was Bluejay. Shortened to Jay. Jumping back in the driver's seat Jay roared (well, silently) off, the destination address already loaded into the car's GPS. They were 17 blocks away. At this time of night, flashers on, they would be there in four minutes.

In the heavily tinted car's backseat Leslie hurriedly, but efficiently, dressed. Or rather undressed. Against her firm, pale skin she wore the same "uniform" whether posing as Leslie Manfried best-selling author or, by night, transitioning into the city's mystery sexual problem-solver, a woman who went by the acronym of S.L.U.T. I.e., Sexual Liberator & Underwear Therapist, as she had been strategically leaked it to the media once upon a time.

S.L.U.T.'s uniform was simple, elegant, tasteful, sexy. A black-lace push-up bra (Victoria's Secret had come on board as one of her tacit sponsors), matching bikini panties along with a matching pair of lace-topped thigh-highs, which she now tugged up in the backseat, slender but shapely legs crosswise in the footwells. Yanking off her brunette wig, S.L.U.T. revealed her true self: a platinum-blonde, curling dyed hair to the shoulders. A dash of ubiquitous red lipstick, applied in a lighted mirror in the back of the customized passenger seat headrest, completed the look. Or not. There was still, after all, the black Zorro mask to pull on. S.L.U.T. blew a kiss—at her mirrored, duplicitous, hidden self—before emerging under her own steam from Prius's rear door, wearing uni's last touch: a fuchsia cape that buttoned at the throat and covered her legs to mid-thigh, below the gluey lace grip of thigh-highs. As for cape's brazen front, S.L.U.T., depending on mood and situation, either had to hold it shut in a tight fist or...flaunt it, baby!

"Look! It's the S.L.U.T. lady!" shouted a small boy walking along the opposite sidewalk with his parents, as Leslie ran under building's damp awning to the occupancy roll, and attending buzz-in buttons. There was no doorman. Meaning...the place was a Lower Eastside dump. The mother gently thumped the back of her son's head.

"Don't say that word, ever!"

"But that's her name!" Such had S.L.U.T.'s fame grown to this point in the Great City.

A man answered the building's intercom call. "Who is it? What do you want?"

Leslie rolled her eyes. "It's S.L.U.T. Did you or didn't you apply for help?'

"I did. But..."

"But what?"

"How do I know it's really you?"

"Who else would arrive at your batshit apartment building at nine o'clock in the evening on a rainy night less than ten minutes after your cry for help with a Grand Cru Bordeaux on the table?" You asshole! S.L.U.T. wanted to add.

She was buzzed in, finally. His apartment was on fourth floor. No elevator. Stairs. S.L.U.T. climbed them two at a time. She trained at her gym five days a week. She had the body of a women's mixed martial arts fighter and the stamina of a marathon runner. This was nothing, these bullshit, underlit stairs in a middle-class (which is to say lower-class in Manhattan) apartment building. I could climb to the 110th floor, no problem! S.L.U.T. assured herself.

Leslie, I mean S.L.U.T., didn't have to use any of her magic tools to force open the lock(s) or jimmy the door. Or simply bust it down with her powerful leg kicks and fists. The guy was waiting for her, face filling the frame like an ugly Jack Nicholson in The Shining. He was unattractive—but that was part of the trade. A bloated, ruddy face, thinning hair. Forty-something. He was wearing a thick white cotton robe, probably stolen from a decent hotel on a business trip.

A typically disappointed S.L.U.T., still grasping her concealing cape at the center, at her pierced navel, let the silky thing fall open, the fuck looking her up and down with widening eyes.

"Are you S.L.U.T.?"

"What's it look like?"

The man blanched, swallowed. His name was Horace according to the urgent message received in the Kravitz's bathroom.

"Look! It's S.L.U.T.," someone from down the darkish hall said.

"No," the attending woman said hoarsely, a lifetime of cigarettes, "it's just another one of those women he invites over." Women in quote marks.

"No it's Her!" the husband persisted. Where were they going, at this hour? Probably to take the trash out. Just imagine: living in a building where people in uniforms don't arrive at a prescribed time to carry your smelly trash downstairs. Or to walk your designer dogs for you. Or...S.L.U.T. shook her head. Pathetic. These fucks.

She was in the guy's apartment now, door locked behind her, cape flayed open.

"God you're sexy, S.L.U.T.," the man now admitted. "Mind if I take my robe off?"

"No. Let's be completely open with one another. Mind if I...lower my cape?"

"Oh, baby," he laughed, uncontrollably, reflexively, a hiccup. "I can't believe I'm here alone with you."

"You called."

"I know but. Goddamn..."

"OK, you have an erection. So what?"

Horace demonstrated with both hands, meaty palms turned out, flanking the tall, thick, ugly, overly veiny thing. "But look at it!"

"I see it."

"I haven't been erect like this since I was like...18. Look!" The man tried to bend his erection down but...it resisted—sprang right back up. It wasn't only parallel to his flabby belly but, for lack of a better description, hugging it. Like a lamprey on a Great White's flank.

"And that's a bad thing?" S.L.U.T. asked. She was feeling deflated. Another loser. More bullshit. Why did she, late at night, do this? What was her philanthropic purpose? "I don't see the problem here..."

Horace, however, wore a concerned, hopeless, even frantic expression. "You don't understand, dear."

"Don't call me dear. I'm not your friend, or lover. I'm here strictly to solve your sexual issues. What's the problem?"

"The problem is I was abducted by aliens a few weeks ago," Horace claimed. "True! God's word! I don't know for how long...lost track of the time...All I know is my rent was past due when I returned."

"What do you mean returned?"

Horace shook his head. He appeared, despite his code 10 erection, to be close to despair. "I woke up here...finally. Back in my bed."

"You're telling me aliens abducted you?" an incredulous S.L.U.T. asked. And further: "This is what I do in my spare time? For THIS kind of shit?"

Horace was nodding. "I was hiking upstate...Sometimes I go there on weekends, on the bus. I reached the top of the mountain and...There was a bright light! Next thing I knew I was in some kind of alien spacecraft."

"A saucer?"

"No. It was more, I think, cigar shaped."

"A cigar," S.L.U.T. said doubtfully. Of all the heartfelt requests Leslie's alter-ego had received...this one took the cake. In fact they were probably serving cake now—at the dinner party she'd been pulled from. Cake with gelato, the fucks.

"No, look. I'm sorry but...hey," reaching under and lifting his pathetic pair of balls, loose in their sack. "They drained me for, like, 18 earth days straight."

"What do you mean drained you?" And what other kind of days were there, aside from "earth days"?

"Feel 'em."

S.L.U.T. came forward, tentatively, not that she was shy. She reached, fondled her patient. They felt like—his balls—like two little marbles in a leather sack.

"You see?" he said. "There's nothing left. "They hooked this thing up, the aliens did, and pumped all the sperm out of me. Day after day after..."

"It'll come back," S.L.U.T. said, unbelieving, optimistically. "Give it a few days."

"But look at my penis!"

"I am," S.L.U.T. admitted.

"It's been like this for days, ma'am...even after they released me. It's been like this for over a week. I can't get it down. Can I call you ma'am? I think they gave me some kind of drug, the aliens."

"Call me S.L.U.T.," Leslie looking upwards from the man's bare, reptilian splayed feet to his spent balls to his irremediable erection to his pasty face. Doubtfully, S.L.U.T. asked, she'd been caught up in a similar lie like this before, once, "Are you sure you didn't just take an ED drug and been jacking off ever since?"

"There's nothing to jack off!" Horace said, hands in display again. "They sucked it all out of me! Gave me drugs! Look at my cock! It's standing...straight up! I can't even..."

"Relax," S.L.U.T. advised. "Calm down. There's a solution..."

"There is?"

S.L.U.T. was removing her black lace panties. "Let's go in your bedroom."

"Huh? Gladly..."

"I want you to lie on your bed, on your back. Just lie there..."

"Yes, dear," Horace said, having not learned his lesson.

"I'm gonna lie on top of you," S.L.U.T. advised. "Belly to belly."

"Oh, great."

"I'm gonna put you in me and we're gonna fuck in that position. I'm gonna put a condom on you."

"No, no!" Horace protested. "I'm healthy."

S.L.U.T. ignored him. "And you're gonna cum in me...in the condom, and your problem will be solved. Just watch. Believe me."

"But—"

"After all the aliens? Believe in me," S.L.U.T. repeated semi-Biblically, to the dumb fuck.

S.L.U.T. , on top, keeping her face averted, fucked her charge belly-to-hairy belly, generating her back-and-forth motion via slightly raised knees. It was an epic performance. It was, thankfully, all over quickly, the most likely explanation, an excess dose of some kind of herbal ED med gone bad, compounded by delusions of unknown origins, perhaps other unrelated drugs, producing in S.L.U.T., our hero, a dick so suddenly limp as to be nonexistent. Wilted.

"Did you cum?"

After removing the thing from him she held the condom up, with its teaspoon at most of sperm lightly weighting the receptacle end. "See? You still got it in those tiny balls."

"But—"

S.L.U.T., pulling her black panties up and reattaching her fuchsia cape, announced, "Enough! You're cured. Congrats!"

"You're so special, so beautiful!" an adoring Whatshisname said, producing as if out of thin air a twenty dollar bill, preparing to tuck it, as if at at a classy gentlemen's club. A haughty S.L.U.T. turned back:

"I tip car attendants more than that, dude."

"You don't want it?"

"Save it. Buy yourself a decent ED med. Haven't you ever seen the ads? For an erection lasting more than four hours...?"

"I was abducted! Will you," swallowing, "come back?"

"Why should I? You're cured! I just cured you."

They were at the apartment door nearly, S.L.U.T. fully wrapped now in her cape. She took a defensive martial arts stance as Howard, I mean Horace, tried to move in on her. He claimed, backing away warily:

"Listen. There were women on the spaceship too. I walked into a...a room once by accident. It was like a surgery room...or autopsy. A woman lay on a stainless steel table, her body split open down the, um, middle. They were harvesting something, the aliens, down below. But her heart was still beating, I could see it! She was alive! Fully conscious! I think they wanted her—"

"You've been reading too many Stephen King novels," S.L.U.T. said, with a roll of the eyes.

"No! I really saw it! I swear! It was horrible! I—"

The door closed on Horace—slammed. Number 417.

Jay, silent motor idling, was waiting for his boss/patron's/lover's return. He ran around to open the door for her caped, ducking entry. Once both were ensconced Jay looked around and asked:

"Back to the dinner party?"

"Fuck those morons!" Leslie said, half-leaning in the Prius's back seat. "I need a warm bath. And a glass of Perrier Jouet. And a decent fuck."

"Of course, ma'am!" an eager Jay replied. He was gazing, smiling, at the otherwise Leslie Manfried, semi-naked in her black underwear, visible in the Prius's rearview camera.

"Take me to the S.L.U.T.-cave," she commanded. "Step on it!"