Slut Collars

Jeremy had a problem, and that problem was himself. He really, really liked slut collars.

Now on its own, this wasn't such a big deal. Most guys were fond of them, didn't even count as a fetish these days. The difference between Jeremy and those other guys is that they imagined collars clasped around some hot babe's neck. Jeremy preferred them around his own.

The collars had been around for just about fifteen years, and nobody had the slightest clue where they came from. Oh, everyone knew who manufactured them. There were no less than five different companies making them worldwide. The funny thing was, even at the companies, nobody could say where, why, or how they started making them. They were, quite literally, magic. So far as scientific inquiry showed, they were nothing more than the strips of cloth they appeared.

What an effect they had, though, science be damned.

In short the collars did two things. For a starts, every woman over a certain age had to have one. The mere sight of one worn by another woman would stir an obsession that could only be satisfied by wearing a collar of their own. In just a couple short years, the collars went completely unknown to a world wide phenomenon. What kept scientists up at night was the way this worked across print and television. There had been a cautionary news broadcast once, back during the early days, warning viewers about the suspicious craze. It had meant to help, but only wound up introducing the collars to millions of new viewers, half of whom immediately went out to buy ones of their own. Two new companies sprang up almost overnight, and to this day not a single person could tell you how they got started.

In almost no time at all, the collars became a fact of life, and so had their second effect. On hearing a certain random code phrase, something would trigger, turning the women into their perfect "slut self". Bigger breasts, slimmer waists, hourglass figures, and a wicked powerful libido. When it came to sex, the word "no" instantly vanished from a slut's vocabulary, adding a nigh insatiable desire to go looking for more if their needs weren't satisfied. The mental changes weren't permanent. Given a year or so, there wouldn't be anything left besides a moderately heightened libido and a year's worth of pleasant - if perhaps embarrassing - memories.

There were many different trigger phrases. Style Nouveau shipped a copy with every collar they sold, and even had a line of collars with the words embroidered across the front. Intimate Secrets never, ever released their words publicly, though they were always "leaked" online. Others took a middle approach. Some simply listing all the new phrases on their website every quarter, while another treated them as riddles, releasing coy hints throughout the year. No matter how, though, none stayed secret for long.

At first, everyone had assumed this only mattered for women. They were the ones who'd all gladly collared themselves. The ones who had to be on guard for trigger phrases.

As it turned out, that was not quite the case.

Jeremy could still remember the first time he realized this fact. He'd been watching a news broadcast, where a shocked world learned firsthand that a collared man could be triggered every bit as easily as a woman. In the space of a few seconds, the man had transformed into his "slut self", a sexy, horny babe that was, the report stated, completely female and eager for action. Jeremy had feigned horror and shock along with everyone else, but inwardly he'd had a very different reaction.

It was the hottest thing he'd ever seen in his life, and ever since that day, he'd been addicted to the thought of wearing a collar.

Jeremy pulled open the middle drawer of his computer desk and pulled out the "secret" stash. Inside were a trio of collars. Two of them he'd worn before. One plain, one with the former activation words written across the front. Both were inert, their magic faded, just as all collars would given time. The third, on the other hand...

To him, it looked and felt no different from the others. A sultry red ribbon with the letters S.L.U.T. emblazoned across the front, but nothing obviously mystical or magical about it. A woman would have been able to tell, she'd know at a glance which was a Collar, and which a mere strip of fabric. For Jeremy, there was no secret compulsion, no magic telling him to wear it. Just his own hidden perversion.

His "dealer" had promised that it was still good. Jeremy didn't need a dealer, really. They weren't illicit in any way. You could buy one in just about any store, or order them online from a hundred different sites. Jeremy was always too nervous for that, worried that they would somehow know why he was getting one. Silly, plenty of guys bought them for girls, but Jeremy couldn't even bring himself to ship one openly. Instead, he'd gone through Reuben, an old roomate who'd accidentally stumbled onto Jeremy's fetish and hadn't judged. He'd known where to get a couple used, inert collars, and he'd been Jeremy's go to source when he finally decided to try a real one.

It felt no different than normal, but the mere fact of what it represented drove him wild. He was vulnerable now, for real. All it would take was the right couple of words, and boom, he'd become a girly slut. This was something all women lived with, true, but for Jeremy it was a new and fascinating experience.

Slipping out of his pants, he pulled open his favorite transformation video and sat down to watch.

--

Angelo had a problem, and it was the four annoying troublemakers in his classroom. Today was his turn to monitor after school detention, so it was his turn trying to keep this group of seniors in some semblance of order.

At times like this, he couldn't help but think that he really, really ought to take up a sport. Busy with practice, the coaches were all excused from the rotation. Worse, much of the female staff was excused by virtue of their... condition. This being a school full of adolescent teenage boys, most of the teachers were sluts at any given moment. Leaving them to watch a room full of horny teenagers would have resulted in something very different from the intended punishment.

That meant the remaining men, and the few women who'd kept their phrases secret had that much more work to do.

Today it was his turn.

Scott was mostly a decent student, but he'd been caught sneaking off before the end of class. He'd finally gotten a car, and still had to get it through his head that this didn't mean he was free to wander off whenever he wished.

Best friends Tom and Tim were in here for fighting. Each other, of all things. Their "secret" before-school fighting ring had not gone over well with the administration. They were mostly good kids, but far too impulsive. Especially when around the fourth member of this little detention club, Vincent. The youth liked to think of himself as a class clown, and was in here for some recent prank. Something involving a potted plant, Angelo gathered, but he'd not gotten the full story.

"All right. This isn't your first time here, you lot know the drill. We will be in this room for one and a half hours. Stay seated, stay quiet, no sleeping. You have permission to quietly work on homework. Abuse that permission and it will be taken away. Any questions? Good, then sit down and get started."

After they had done so, the teacher took a seat at the desk and began grading papers. Between this week's quizzes and the last of their mid-term essays, it would be all he could do to get on top of things before the next test came around. When Tim and Vince snickered to themselves, his deathglare was enough to settle them back down. At least for a moment.

That gave me maybe ten or fifteen minutes of peace before Scott stood up and headed for the door.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Just gonna go take a piss," he said.

The teacher glared harder.

"I mean, I need to use the restroom."

"That's not how it works," he said. "Sit down, and I'll call the office for someone to escort you. This is detention. You don't get to wander off unsupervised."

Especially not Scott, who proceeded to open the door anyway.

"But I've really got to go," he complained.

Sighing angrily, Angelo got up and headed to the door.

"You are all adults here," he said, "Start acting like it. You had your chance before the detention started. Sit down this instant and wait like everyone else, or I won't let you go at all."

"Fine," Scott said, smirking suspiciously. "But first, there's something I have to tell you."

"What is that?" Angelo asked.

"Surprise!" Vincent yelled from behind as he pulled a collar around Angelo's throat.

--

Noah had a problem, and it was his wife.

"It's nothing wrong with you," Kelly promised him. "The truth is, I'm just not attracted to men. Never have been. I tried, sweetie, I tried so hard to pretend to myself, but it's just the way it is. I'm a lesbian, and I can't hide it any longer."

She'd come to him in tears half an hour ago. It had taken him ten minutes to calm her down enough to tell him what was wrong, and when she had he was completely blindsided.

How was this possible? They'd been together nearly twenty years. They'd been high school sweethearts, for crying out loud. Married right after college. They had a house, two wonderful careers, everything they could ask for. Everyone had said they were the perfect couple. So how could this be happening to him?

"It's going to be ok," he said, hugging her tight, "We'll find a way through this."

Was it wrong to hug her now? Should he leave her alone, not touch her? Noah just didn't know how to handle it. He didn't know how to handle any of this. His wife was a lesbian. How could this be possible?

Were there signs he had missed? True, Kelly hadn't always been the most passionate in bed, but he'd just taken that as part of who she was. He'd never even considered the possibility that it might be him she was not attracted to.

The strange thing was, Kelly didn't want to divorce, didn't even want to separate. No, she had a very different answer in mind.

"It wouldn't be such a big deal, really," she said, holding up the collar.

"Not a big deal? Are you crazy? You're asking me to give up my manhood!"

"But we'd be together," she plead. "I love you, Noah. It's just, I can't stand living with a man anymore. Please understand."

"You know," he said, "You could always-"

"No!" she yelled. "Never. I won't become some man's slut, I won't. Not even yours. I'm sorry."

"But you'd turn me into one?"

"Please understand," she begged, "I know I'm asking for a lot, I do. But this is who I am. I can't, I won't change it. I love you, Noah, I want to be with you for the rest of my life, but I can't. Not like this. Besides, I don't even know my words."

Noah did. He'd looked them up once in a pique of curiosity. A meaningless, doggerel phrase, but one that would turn his cute, pleasant, and apparently lesbian wife into a raging slut. He'd never admitted it, never shared them, never even considered saying them, but he knew them all the same. He knew it was something she was afraid of, and he'd never once brought the subject.

Just say them, and all of the problems go away...

No! He wasn't going to do that. Not ever. Not to the woman he loved.

The alternative, though. It was unthinkable.

"Just- just consider it, ok?" she said, pushing the black ribbon into his hands.

He promised that he would, too numb to really notice what he did or didn't say. She left the room, and he collapsed onto the couch, staring at the collar still cupped in his palm.

--

Martin shouldn't have had a problem. It was a beautiful, sunny day, he'd just finished orientation at his dream job, and even had a hot date lined up later tonight. Everything was going swell.

Carryout in the park was his own quiet way of celebrating, a simple indulgence on a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the grass was green, and there were people all around. Whistling tunelessly to himself, Martin walked the path along the lakeshore without a care for who heard or saw.

He heard the giggling adolescents behind him, but didn't think much of it until something sent him crashing to the ground. Without him noticing it, one of the pranksters had crouched down by his knees, a light push from a young girl caught him off guard. It wasn't hard, all things considered, but it sent him tumbling to the ground.

"Hey, get back here you brats!" he yelled as they ran off giggling to themselves.

"Kids," he muttered. It's not like he would have done anything had they stayed, except maybe the pranksters a piece of his mind, but it would have felt good.

Ah well, what can you do? They weren't exactly kids, mind you, and should have been old enough to know better, but he could remember what it had been like to be that age. Middle school, maybe early high school at the latest. Young enough that the girls had been bare necked. Kids that age could really be twerps.

Standing up and brushing himself off, Martin noticed that they'd done more than just knock him over. He reached up and felt the thin band of fabric now wrapped around his neck. Damned brats! One of the girls must have slapped a collar on him while he was down.

"Those little shits," he said.

For the sake of formalities, he reached up and tried to take it off, but wasn't surprised when it didn't work. Man or woman, nobody wearing a collar could undo the catch. Why this was so? Who the hell knows. Best guess was that whoever designed them wanted to make women just that little bit more dependent. Who'd do that? The same sort of person who, given this sort of power, would use it to make some weird fetish collar.

"So much for a quiet walk in the park," he muttered, immediately starting for his car.

In theory, any guy would do, so long as they weren't wearing a collar. There were any number of men in the park. He could easily walk up to one and ask. The jogger coming up along the path, for instance, or the two throwing a frisbee back and forth by the tree, or that guy reading on the bench. Any one of them could easily take it off.

They could also ruin everything for him with just a couple words.

It was a risk. Maybe they'd recognize the serial number and decide to take home a slut. There was cute couple holding hands just a ways up ahead. The girl wore a collar, of course, but didn't look like she had ever been a slut. Did that mean the guy was safe? Maybe, or maybe his restraint would not extend to a stranger. Or, for that matter, maybe she thought it was funny to see guys transformed.

He'd known someone, a friend of a friend, who'd been changed that same way. He'd met a hot girl at a bar and, thinking with the wrong head, had listened when she told him how hot it would be to fuck while he was wearing a collar. In her defense, she'd been telling the truth. She just hadn't told him she'd be activating the collar first. Turned out she just had a thing for transforming men, and he was hardly her first victim.

What can you do about it, right? It was, after all, perfectly and completely legal to activate someone's collar. Man or woman. Suspiciously so, he Martin sometimes thought, but that's just how it was.

No, he would not be trusting a stranger with his future. The safest route was to head straight for his car and find someone he trusted.

Truth be told, Martin couldn't quite bring himself to blame the kids, even if they had ruined his so far perfect day. He'd been about that age when the first collars had surfaced, and he could remember the giggling fascination they'd had with them. Especially the girls, still too young to be spellbound, but just old enough to understand what they meant. For girl that age, it must have seemed the height of humor to see a man forced to wear one, going through the same risk that they would once they became older.

On the other hand, there was one key difference to the risk he'd face. Once the mental effects faded, the most they'd get was a slight makeover. For Martin, there would be no going back. Not physically. Once a guy became a slut, their manhood was gone forever.

He had no intention of letting it get that far.

"Alright," he told himself, "Six blocks through downtown to get to the parking garage. I've got this."

Six crowded blocks. Full of people.

Wonderful.

It had felt like such a short distance before lunchtime. Not anymore.

Nothing to do except get started.

--

"Unless you want to spend the rest of your short lived academic careers in detention, you will remove this at once!" Angelo said sternly.

Usually that was enough to cow his students, but not today. Not while he was wearing that ridiculous pink band. At best, the students were smirking outrageously, but Tim was actually laughing so hard he'd halfway fallen out of his desk.

The teacher had tried to remove the offending garment, of course. It was the very first thing he had done, but for whatever absurd reason, it would not come off.

"Can't take a collar off if you're wearing one," Vincent told him.

So be it then. If threats would not work, he would deal with them later.

"All of you stay here. When I get back, I had better see you in your seats, writing an essay about why your behavior today has been completely unacceptable. Is that understood?"

He was never going to hear the end of this, but so be it. Who would be left in the building? Two custodians, Mr Hillmeijer running the AV club, two football coaches if he dared show his face in front of the entire team. There was also Ms Applebee, as well as two administrative assistants in the front office, but only if the boys were lying about how the collars worked. All three of the women would, of course, be wearing collars of their own.

"Hold on a minute," Tom said, shoving the door closed before he could slip through it. "I thought nobody was allowed to leave until detention was over. Isn't that right, MISS Ginello?"

"That is not what I said, and you will cease this disrespect immediately, or face the consequences."

"Maybe, or maybe frolicking paperclips compulsively yield."

"Oh. Really?" the teacher said wonderingly.

A tiny part of him protested that those words had been a bunch of random nonsense, but how could that possibly be true? Not when they felt so deeply, significantly meaningful. They woke inside him a profound sense of understanding, as if he had just unlocked some great secret of the world.

Evocative, that was the term he was looking for. Each a random, meaningless word on their own, but together they painted the most marvelous of pictures.

He could all but see it, caught in his mind's eye. The image of a woman. Beautiful, he was drawn to her instantly, knowing her more intimately then he knew himself. She was gorgeous, but could she be better? Could she be more perfect?

Yes. So very near, but there were changes to be made. A slimmer waist, that fine, pillowy ass could be just a bit bigger still. Her boobs were fine, though maybe they could be just a tiny bit perkier. Size was nice, though. She ought to have red hair, bright, eye catching locks that cascaded down to her ass in loose, flowing curves. The face was fine, a few tweaks here, slightly altered cheekbones there, nice plump lips, always ready to take a cock between them.

There. Just like that.

Now she was the perfect slut.

That was exactly who he should become.

--

"Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit," Jeremy swore over and over again as he tried to get out of the stupid collar.

Everything had been going great. Jerking off with a real collar on was fucking amazing. He'd gotten himself off what- three, maybe four times that evening? So intense, watching his favorite videos, imagining himself in the newly made girl's position, getting changed and fucked like a filthy slut. Absolutely incredible, but he was all done now ready to stop.