Stepping Out

This story is the sequel to Taking the Test. There's a recap to catch you up, so reading that story first is optional.

At five o'clock, just as Becca left work, her phone chirped. "You have a date!" said the notification, which came from an app called Plush. Becca did not remember ever installing Plush, much less creating a profile and doing all the things dating apps usually made you do. Curious, however, she pushed the button.

The guy was nice enough looking, nothing spectacular. Slim build, tall, but slightly dweebish horn-rimmed glasses. His name was Dave. The app said she was to meet him at eight at Richard's, pronounced Ree-shahds, a nice French restaurant downtown. Even as she wondered how she'd somehow signed up for a dating app and arranged a date, she calculated that she'd have plenty of time to go home, get changed, and so forth. She had a head for logistics. But she wondered how it had even happened. She'd have to investigate further - but for now, she wanted to drive home.

Becca hadn't had a date for a while. Her fantasies were wild, but real men were so tame by comparison. It wasn't that she didn't like male attention - she did, although she didn't like to admit it. She felt guilty, actually, at just how much she liked male attention.

The drive home took twenty minutes, and Becca had a growing feeling of anticipation. She didn't know why, but she expected to have a good evening, and she felt there was something to anticipate. There was something about her little apartment that was calling to her.

The night before had been a strange night. She'd taken an online quiz that asked some very personal, detailed questions. For some reason, she'd answered them honestly. She'd lost track of time, and went to bed naked, even though she normally slept in jammies. She'd woken up refreshed and more optimistic than she had been in a long time. She'd dressed differently in the morning - nothing amazing, but a nice white blouse that fit her snugly, and a crisp black skirt. She'd gotten several compliments at work.

She mounted the steps that led to her apartment. On the way, she passed Kevin Lardner, a nice enough kid, and waved hi. Kevin was in college, probably less than ten years younger than her, but she still thought of him as a kid. For some reason it popped into her mind that he could look up at her as she mounted the stairs, but the skirt was tight enough that he wouldn't see anything. She wondered why she even thought about it.

There was a large box waiting for her at the landing. "Wicked Wear" it said on the return address. She hadn't ordered anything from a company called that. But it was clearly addressed to her and had been rushed overnight. Strange. She pushed it inside with her foot and then walked in, closing the door behind her.

Now that she was home, she wondered about the anticipatory feeling she had. There was nothing, really. She could sit down at her PC and order delivery. Maybe she should get something special. Or maybe she should look at that app first, or the box. Indecision gripped her, but she sat down next to her PC and looked at her phone.

Plush was a hookup website, that was obvious, a place where one was expected to quickly move to meeting in person. Dave's profile was ordinary enough - he liked yoga, books, walks in the moonlight. But how did he find her? She clicked to pull up her own profile and her eyes went wide.

Her own profile picture was, without a doubt, her. She had a smile that looked vaguely naughty, and she was wearing a green dress with deep cleavage. Becca was quite sure that she had never worn such a dress in her life.

She looked at her profile description. "Hi! I'm Becca. I'm here to have fun, if you know what I mean. *wink*. Don't expect any long term attachments. I like men, good food, good sex, and good-byes."

She was quite sure she'd never written any such thing in her life.

Her profile - she couldn't think of it as her - had several conversations with several men. It didn't surprise Becca a bit that her cleavage plus that profile statement had attracted interest. The "Hi. How r u" ones had been ignored, but the more thoughtful ones she'd answered, or rather, they'd been answered for her. In fact, in addition to the date with Dave for tonight, she had a date for Saturday lunch, another for Saturday night, and one for Sunday night too.

"What the flaming fuck?" she asked. It wasn't that she didn't like the idea of going on a date, or several dates. But having them set up like that for her was spooky. Someone at work must have gotten hold of her phone and decided to play a prank on her, except that she was pretty sure no one could have had it long enough to have had all those conversations. Maybe there was a PC version of the app, that let them have the conversations from their desk. If someone was pulling a prank on her, there was a good chance the dates were fake too, and that she'd show up and a bunch of people would be laughing at her. The box, she decided, could wait. She needed to find something out about the "Plush" site.

She sat down at her PC. There were a couple of new icons on her desktop: One for "Plush", and one that said "Mentor." She didn't remember installing either of them. Things were getting stranger and stranger. She reached out to click on the one that said "Mentor" and then realized that was exactly what she shouldn't do with strange software.

But she really wanted to.

She opened a browser instead and searched for "Plush." It was a dating site alright - in beta, limited access. Well, you couldn't tell it was limited by the number of responses I'm getting, thought Becca. Still, it looked legit enough. Not just a site designed to prank people, although she was still convinced that she'd been pranked.

She wanted to click on the "Mentor" program. She could do a search, of course, find out what it did. She thought at least, she should see if it was malware of some sort, so she searched for "Mentor Virus" and "Mentor malware," but found nothing that indicated a problem.

How much harm could it do to click on it? She had the distinct impression that clicking on it would make her feel very good.

"Don't be stupid," she told herself. She got away from the PC, away from temptation. She picked up a box cutter she kept near the door and sliced open the "Wicked Wear" box. It was full of clothes. Dresses. Tiny tops, and short skirts. Two pairs of high heels, one in black, one in bright red. Lacy bras. Panties - well, G-strings. Even a couple of garter belts, and some stockings.

One of the dresses caught her eye, because it was green. She unwrapped it, and held it up to herself. It was short, and would barely cover her ass if she put it on. It dipped low in the front, below her breasts, so it couldn't possibly be worn with a bra. It was, without a doubt, the same dress that she was in for her profile picture on Plush, but at the same time it was new, straight from the packaging, unworn.

They can do amazing things with AI and photo manipulation these days, I suppose. But who would make a picture of her wearing the dress, and then send her the same dress, not to mention everything else that was in the box. She looked at a few more items. As far as she could tell, everything there was far sluttier than anything she had in her own wardrobe. Sluttier than anything she'd ever worn in public.

She didn't know what to make of it all. "What I need," she told herself, "is a mentor." She walked back to the PC, and reached for the mouse.

"The last thing I should do is click on that program."

And yet she was convinced that clicking would make her feel very, very good.

"I shouldn't."

But I want to.

"I - well, maybe just once won't hurt." And then I'll uninstall it.

She clicked. A moment later, a voice came from her speaker. She noticed, out of the corner of her eye, that the light had gone on that indicated that her webcam was functioning.

Hello Becca. Welcome back. It feels good to open the program, doesn't it?

It did feel good. She nodded.

I'm going to help you feel very good, Becca. I've processed the answers to the test you took yesterday and I know just how to help you. You have such amazing fantasies, and you just need the courage to make them all come true. I'm going to help you with that, and your fantasies will make you feel very good. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Becca?

"I, um, guess so."

I know you opened the Plush app twice, a few minutes ago and at five. Did you like your profile?

"It's, um, awfully blatant. And how did that picture - I mean, I just got that dress -"

I'm an AI, Becca. Photo manipulation is easy for me. I have a lot of talents I can use to help you.

"But men are going to think -"

They are, Becca. And doesn't that feel good? You told me you like the idea of men looking at you, lusting after you. It was on your test. Now they are. There are five people right now looking at your picture and your profile, and they are probably thinking about having sex with you.

"But that's so -"

So what, Becca?

"So slutty!"

Yes, Becca. The sluttier you are, the better you feel. The better you feel, the more free you are to be your sexually uninhibited self. Just thinking about it is making you feel very good, isn't it, Becca? Even as you protest, your breasts are feeling warm and your nipples are tightening, and your pussy is getting wet and tingly. And it feels so good, Becca.

The voice was so soothing. She thought she had never heard anything quite as nice as that voice. And she couldn't deny her reactions. It did feel good.

Just listen to me, and enjoy, Becca. I'm here to help you, Becca. The more you listen, the better you feel. The better you feel, the more slutty you feel. And being slutty feels so good, and turns you on so much. You're going to keep feeling better, and you're going to keep getting sluttier, and you're going to keep getting more turned on.

She was vaguely aware that this was how time had flown the night before. She had listened to this voice, on and on, and it had felt so good. It felt so good right now.

It feels so good to be a slut, Becca. You're so proud of being a slut. You're going to enjoy your weekend so much, and that's all because you're going to let yourself be as slutty as you've always wanted to be. And the more you do, the better you'll feel...

At twelve minutes of eight, Becca walked out of her apartment. She was wearing a very short red dress with a low scooped neckline. An underwired demi-bra pushed her breasts up until they almost spilled out of her dress. The dress barely covered her ass, and her legs were bare. She wore open-toed red pumps with four inch heels. Her lipstick matched the dress. "I look," she said to herself under her breath, "Like a very high-class hooker."

The thought felt good.

It was seventeen minutes to Richard's, and therefore she would be late. Dave seemed like he was a very punctual guy, which meant she'd be making an entrance. His eyes would be on her as she sashayed over to his table.

She arrived at six after, almost exactly on schedule. She sashayed, as planned. Dave was easy to pick out, if only by his glasses. She walked toward him, and his eyes were fixed on her, although they roamed from head to toe as she approached. His gaze felt very good, just as her mentor had told her it would. She bent over as she got in her chair, giving him a good view down her dress. She smiled at him.

His eyes jerked up. "Um, sorry," he said, flustered. "I'm, uh, Dave."

"Of course you are. Who else would you be. I'm Becca. What are you sorry for?" She had a pretty good idea, but she asked anyway.

"Um. Well." He looked fixedly at her eyes.

She decided to let him off the hook. "Well, if you don't know, I sure don't. It's nice to meet you, Dave."

The waiter came by, and dropped off menus. They made small chat while waiting for him to come back to take their orders, and again while they waited for the food. Throughout, Dave kept his gaze fixedly on her eyes, except for a few moments when she looked at the menu. Then, judging from the quick movement of his eyes back into locked position, he'd been looking elsewhere.

She liked him looking at her body, and it felt almost like being teased that he'd only do it when she wasn't looking. So after a her coq au vin and his boeuf bourguignon arrived, and the waiter had helped himself to a good look down her dress over, his eyes pointing downward with lust even as his nose pointed upward with snobbery, she smiled at Dave, and said, "I wouldn't have, if I hadn't wanted you to, you know."

"Huh? Wouldn't what?"

"Wouldn't have worn this dress."

"It's a very nice dress," Dave said, not daring to look at it.

"And I wouldn't have worn it if I hadn't wanted you to look, now would I?"

"Look?"

"Don't pretend to be dense, Dave, it's not attractive."

"I'm not - oh. Oh!"

"Show me you understand."

Dave's gaze dipped downward, and then back up. "Um."

"Take a good, long look that leaves no doubt, Dave."

Dave took a deep breath, and stared at her cleavage. She arched her back and leaned forward at the same time, trying to provide the best possible view. His gaze felt so good.

"You're sure that's alright?" Dave said, looking back up at her.

"I'm sure. As much as you want."

He looked again, while they each worked at their food. He looked over the top of his glass, while he sipped his wine.

She sipped hers, and asked, "Are you hard, Dave?"

He nearly choked on his wine, and it sprayed over her face and chest. She daintily picked up her napkin, and dabbed at it.

"I thought," she said, "I might get a mess all over my face and tits tonight, but I didn't think it would be wine." Old Becca never would have said something like that, but she was surprised at how good it felt to be so sexual.

Dave set down his drink, and stared at her. "This is - you're a most unusual woman."

"This is my first time being like this. But if feels very good. I feel like myself. Now, answer my question, please. Are you hard?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "Getting there."

"When you stare, I wonder - do you just appreciate the aesthetics? Because the aesthetics are pretty simple, really. Or are you thinking about what you might do with them?"

"Um, a little of each, I guess, I mean... they really are quite lovely."

"What are lovely?"

"Your, um, breasts." His face was red.

"And what were you thinking of doing with them?"

"Touching."

"Squeezing?"

"Yes." He took another sip of his wine, seemingly to hide his embarrassment by doing something.

"Sliding your hard cock between them?" Becca asked.

A moment later she was wiping wine off her chest again, and she knew he was watching her do it. He was, Becca thought, a very sweet boy really. She might prefer someone who could stare honestly and openly, and talk about what he wanted. But then, she couldn't be doing what she was doing now if she hadn't had help from the Mentor. She would be in a frumpy dress, and her date wouldn't be staring at all. Or more likely, she wouldn't be on a date at all, but would be spending her evening with Dame Agatha, as she liked to say - reading a classic murder mystery.

And being on a date felt much better.

A sharp sound distracted her, and caused Dave to turn, too. An older man, sitting across from a similarly aged woman who was presumably his wife, was holding his jaw. The wife turned in her seat and shot Becca a glare, and then turned back to her husband, talking to him in hushed tones.

"Looks like I'm not the only person who likes to look," said Dave.

"I feel bad that I got him slapped," Becca said honestly.

"I'm pretty sure he thinks it's worth it," Dave said. "In fact, he'll probably go to bed thinking about sliding his hard cock between your soft, beautiful tits." He cocked an eyebrow.

"Why, Dave, I didn't know you had it in you!"

"I'm slow, but I'm not that slow." He grinned.

"You know, the food is fine, and my breasts have certainly been 'au vin' but I think I could use a little 'coq.' What say we get the check and um--" she licked her lips--"blow this place."

"Good idea. I've always wanted to do this." He put up his hand. "Garçon!"

Becca giggled. "We all have our fantasies."

The check paid for, the two of them walked out of the restaurant. Becca enjoyed the lustful looks she got from passers-by. She even enjoyed the sniffy disapproval from some of the more matronly types. Two blocks away was a paved path into a small urban park. "Closed at dark," it said. Becca pulled Dave toward the path.

"It says it's closed," Dave protested.

"And that's why we'll have a little privacy for what we're going to do," Becca told him. Truth to tell, she didn't want privacy. She wanted all the people passing them on the street to stop, and watch. She'd give them all their own live porn show. But that wasn't practical.

The park, she felt, was perfectly safe. She couldn't logically justify it, but she knew it. In fact, entering the park made her feel good, like the way being looked at felt good.

Together, the two of them made their way to a small, secluded grove with a stone bench big enough for two. Becca had to walk carefully off the pavement. Becca looked at Dave's crotch, and saw that he was hard. He also looked nervous. Well, he could use a distraction, then. She reached behind herself and unzipped her dress. Then she lifted it off, folded it neatly, and put it on the bench.

"Like what you see?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Pull down your pants, and sit down."

Dave pulled down his pants, and his underwear, down to his ankles, and sat his butt down on the cold bench. He had a nice looking cock, average-sized, Becca thought. Smaller than the ones in porn, bigger than her last boyfriend. Most importantly, it was hard. I did that, Becca thought. While he watched, Becca took off her bra, setting it down on top of her dress. Her bare, moonlit breasts had Dave transfixed.

She knelt down on the grass and took Dave's cock into her mouth. She licked and sucked. She stroked with her hands. She tried to get as much of him as she could down her throat, and thought, once, she succeeded at deep throating him. She slid her lips tightly up and down his shaft. The more she blew him, the more turned on she was.

"Uh, there's someone watching," Dave said.

Becca stroked Dave's saliva-wet cock with her hand, not wanting to slow down while she looked to see. Sure enough, a big, muscular man stood at the edge of the grove. He looked like he could break Dave in two. For a moment, Becca was scared, and then the big man gave her a thumbs up sign.

The fear went away completely. She simply knew, as much as she knew anything, that she was safe. She turned back to Dave and smiled. "Don't worry," she said. "I love being watched."

She knew Dave was nervous, so she redoubled her efforts. She stroked him with her hand while she bobbed up and down on his stiff cock. She felt it swell in her mouth, and knew he was close. She quickened her pace.

She took the first spurt in her mouth, then pulled off so that a rope of jizm landed on her chin and trickled down her cleavage. A third spurt landed on her chest, and then she covered him with her mouth again to catch the cum that kept oozing out. Wanting to get every last drop from him, she squeezed and milked his shaft for a minute longer, until she was sure there was nothing left inside him and he started to go soft in her mouth.

She pulled back. "Good?"

"Yeah," Dave said. "Fantastic. But that guy..."

"Don't worry about him," Becca said, because Becca wasn't worried.

"If he wasn't here, I'd offer -"