The Guru (Patreon)

Baxter Bull glanced out at the audience from backstage, and nodded. “Another full house,” he said.

“You do pack ‘em in,” His assistant, Debby said, clutching her clipboard to her chest. “You’re a rockstar.” Debby knew that Baxter required constant fawning and praise. That had not changed.

“I am,” Baxter agreed.

On stage, Mike worked the crowd, getting them hyped. Shouting, yelling while heavy metal guitars shrieked in the background. He glanced over at Baxter, who have him a thumbs up.

“Men!” Mike yelled as light began to swirl around the stage. “It is time!”

The men shrieked, sounding like a room full of tween girls at a Kpop concert.

“How do I look?” Baxter said, turning to Debby. She pushed his long, blonde hair back so his chandelier earrings would be sure to catch the light and sparkle, grabbed the plunging neckline of his tight little black dress and pulled it a little more open to give the audience a good look at his cleavage. “Gorgeous,” she said, touching him lightly on his soft little arms. “Perfect.”

Baxter nodded, feeling confident, strong.

“I give you now that man, the architect of the STUD system, the one and only, Baxter Bull! Mike retreated into the darkness as the men screamed. The ragged opening guitar lines of “Helter Skelter” filled the room, and as Paul McCartney growled, “Do you don’t you want me to love you?” Baxter strutted onto the stage, the light flashing off his earrings, his bracelets, his golden hair.

The men all screamed and shrieked, and Baxter strutted along the front of the stage, his image projected behind him as he flashed his million megawatt smile, shouting, “Do you want me to love you?”

“Yes!” The men screamed.

Slender hands shot up along the front of the stage, and Baxter reached down, letting his fingers brush against theirs. He smiled into the faces, with their big eyes, plump lips and little noses. Baxter moved back to a spot downstage but slightly off-center, planted a hand on his hip and waved for the audience to quiet.

They did. The music faded out. Baxter stood there in the silence, letting the tension build as all those pretty eyes stared up at him, waiting for him to give them the answers, the wisdom they needed to go on. He let the smile drop from his face. Got serious. Waited. Then, as he’d done a hundred times before, he “casually” tossed his hair and said, in a sultry voice, “I am a man.”

The men cheered and clapped.

“I am a real man.”

More cheers, more claps.

Baxter had spent hours learning to talk in a woman’s voice and not the buzzy tween squeak he’d been saddled with when he’d first changed. “I am a man, and some people don’t get that,” he said. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Cheers.

“Some people see me, THOSE people, in heels, a dress.” He gestured down at the little black dress that hugged his dramatic curves. “They see I am wearing mascara and lipstick, and they see THESE.” He gestured at his breasts.

Laughs, cheers, giggles of recognition.

“And they think— this gal is not a man. You’ve heard it. You know those people.”

Boos. Groans.

“Or, maybe they are just thinking they want to sleep with me!”

“Jerks! Boo!”

‘Oh, yeah. We’ve all been through it. We all know. Well, maybe I should just take off these high heels shoes.” He lifted one leg in a classic female pose, reaching back, grabbing the heel, but them he paused. “But, and you know this, I can’t.”

He lowered his foot, slipped a hand once more to his hip. “I can’t. We can’t. Can we?”

No! The audience shouted.

“Because it wasn’t enough for whatever witch that decided to give us a woman’s body, to give us a woman’s face, a woman’s voice. No. That wasn’t enough. Each of us has also been compelled to live in a world of lipstick and lace, stillettos and salons.”

Cheers.

“I could no more skip an appointment to have my nails done than I could choose to stop breathing. Anyone out there relate?”

More cheers. Shouts.

“Do you hate it?”

“Yes!”

“Do you feel sick that you can’t go twenty minutes without checking your makeup?”

“Yes!”

Baxter drank it in, then waved. The crowd grew silent. He revelled in the power, loved that he’d already trained them to grow silent at a wave from his hand. He lowered his head as if deep in thought, then began to pace. “Men, I have a confession. I have a confession to make to all of you, right here, right now.”

He paused in his pacing. “I don’t hate it.”

The room grew even more silent.

“Let me repeat that. I don’t hate it.”

He started pacing again. “I love bubble baths! I love yoga! I love shopping!”

No! No! Come on!

“And what’s more, you need to learn to love it, too.”

Rumbling. A mixture of confusion. Baxter knew his audience. “Some of you men knew this was the message, came here to hear it affirmed.” Some of the men in the audience nodded. “Others of you just came because you heard good things. You expected me to rant and rave about the unfairness of it all, because that’s where you are. That’s what you are feeling.”

“I used to feel the same way. I did. Let me tell you how and why I changed from a man, and I will say again that I am a man— let me tell you how I changed from a man who punched the mirror one morning after doing my makeup because I had to, to becoming a man who sits down everyday and LOVES doing my face.”

One man, Jim, sitting in the back row, arms crossed under his breasts, frowned. He had ribbons in his hair, and wore a frilly pinafore with lacy petticoats and patent leather shoes: Lolita fashion head to toe. “I’m actually supposed to embrace this?” He mumbled.

“Tell me about,” the man sitting next to him said. He looked like a 12 year old girl, and was dressed in tween clothes right off the Disney channel.

Baxter went on. “It’s judo, my friends, it’s a Jedi mind trick. She wanted me to suffer. She wanted me to feel humiliated. But, as the English poet George Herbert wrote, “Living Well is the Best Revenge.” I’m going to tell you how. I am going to reveal the secrets to being a Changed Man— trademark, me.

“But first, let me tell you my story, and how I went from a man who taught seminars on how to dominate women, to a guy who wouldn’t leave the house without making sure his purse matched his shoes.”

Chuckles.

Chapter Two

Baxter slipped on a pair of glasses— sexy, feminine, just the kind of glasses a slutty secretary would wear. He handed his microphone to a stagehand, who fitted him with a headset. “My first mistake,” he said, “was lying to my girlfriend.”

“Well, actually, my first mistake was actually having a girlfriend.”

The men giggled.

“Having two, or three girlfriends,” Baxter said, acting as if he was just now realizing it. “Yes. That was my first mistake. Three girlfriends, and a wife!”

Laughter.

“I did mention that I am a man?”

Laughter.

“My second mistake was lying. To. ALL of them. Yeah. I had an ego. I actually thought I could keep all these women in the dark, thinking they were the one and only. I lied to my wife. Telling her I was loyal to her. I lied to all my girlfriends, promising I would leave my wife, marry them.  The thing I forgot about was this little thing called the Internet.”

“Ohhhhh…” the audience said.

“Yeah. So, there I was on top of the world, making loads of money, keeping a harem. I had mansions, plural. I had five cars. Why? Because I didn’t want six. I hadn’t even heard of The Spell.”

Boos erupted from the crowd.

“Yes,” Baxter said, urging them on, the boos growing louder. “Who would have thought some ancient spell would surface, and woman would start to use it to do this?” He gestured at his curvaceous shape. “Sugar and spice, my ass!”

Once the frenzied crowd calmed, Baxter went on with his story. ‘So, I’m in Chicago for a seminar. It’s morning. I’m out for a walk, coffee, and I walk by this department store— and I stop. Why? I see this pair of heels in the window. And one glance at these shoes, and I am drooling, my face pressed to the glass. I have never seen anything so — perfect— as these high heels, and I want them. No. I need them!”

Their are chuckles and laughs as the men relate.

“What the hell is going on? I’m a man. A man’s man, and here all of a sudden, I am obsessed with shoes. I walk away. It takes all my willpower, but I walk away, thinking— how odd. How strange? And I think its just some thing, maybe I am tired, stressed, who knows? But I walked away, and I think I am done with it—

“Boy, was I wrong because I could NOT stop thinking about those shoes. All day long, they are locked into my brain, and I am like a junkie who needs a fix, and all day the need keeps growing, and all through my seminar as I am talking about dominating women and getting laid, I am thinking about high heels, aching for high heels. But there is no way, NO WAY, I am going to go and buy those shoes.”

“Guess what happened?”

“You bought the shoes!” A room full of pretty voices answers.

“I bought the shoes.”

Laughter.

“And five more pairs while I was at it.” Baxter sighed and brushed a strand of hair away from his eyes. “What’s a boy to do?”

“What I did was try to fuck my way out of it. I felt like I needed to reassert my manhood, so that night I called a couple hookers- oh, yeah, I go big— and some coke, and lots of liquor… and we got naked. Well, almost naked. I made them keep their heels on— cause that was my thing now.”

“Then, I started wearing my wife’s bras. And her panties. There wasn’t even any fight. I got home, and she went off to work, and I ran to our room and grabbed one of her bras, squirmed into a pair of her little lacy panties, and I did it because I had to do it just like I had to dig a pair of my heels out of the garage where I’d hidden them, and then I was sitting at my desk in my home office feeling— right, and yet so wrong.”

Baxter slipped a thumb under the straps of his dress, tugged at a bra strap so it “accidently” showed, black against his pale skin. “The way these things dig into my shoulders…”

Laughter and nods.

“You’ve all been there. I’ve been there. I didn’t understand what was happening, and even when I started hearing about this spell I thought— not me. No. Not me.”

“So, I’m wearing a bra and panties, doing my seminars, in agony because I won’t wear heels in public, and I feel so wrong in men’s shoes, men’s clothes, and I am trying to keep up the act, and I’m shaving my legs, my armpits, and I get waxed because my body hair seems gross and I want to be smooth, and it’s just what I have to do now, and my wife doesn’t seem to notice, and I am sure I can keep up the act until one night something very rare and amazing happens, and if you’ve been married very long you’ll get this: my wife wants to make love.”

More laughter.

“Yeah, right? And she wonders why I cheated.” Baxter looks at his nails. It’s another practiced gesture.

“We start kissing, and I am really into kissing all of a sudden, and we’re hugging and squeezing, and I push down my pajama bottoms and lay on my back, and she looks at me, kinda confused. ‘What?’ I say.”

She’s standing there in her bra and panties, looking so hot, her nipples poking through the bra… “You wanna be on the bottom?” She asks.

“I was never on the bottom. Never. And I suddenly realize that I’m being her right now, passive, laying back, waiting for her to take me, and the thought thrills me and scares me, and I say, “Something different?” And there’s this little needy uplift to my voice, and I cringe and yet I love it, it sends shivers down my spine.

She kinda does a shrug like, I guess, and she climbs on me, unsure, a little tentative because she’s a very sweet, submissive type who likes to be dominated, and my brain is changing, shifting, flashing with all this new me, and I say, “I want you to take control tonight. Please?”

“Just saying that, surrendering to this new need, makes me start getting hard, and she feels me and leans down and kisses me, then puts her hand on my chest, and I can see she just realizes I am smooth now. She kisses me, and I am not full on hard, and she grabs my junk and works it, but it isn’t full on, and she gets annoyed and says, ‘this isn’t working.’

“From somewhere deep within me come words I can’t believe I say. “Slap me,” I say.

“Ohhhhhh…” The crowd calls out.

“Yeah. My ex-girlfriend has a sense of humor. Bitch.”

“Slap me,” I say again. Because I need to be dominated, degraded, I want her to put me in my place. And she does. I feel my cheek sting as she whacks me in the face, and I stiffen right up, but I still say, “harder? Please?“

“What the fuck?” She mumbles, but she slaps me harder, annoyed and angry, and she has needs so even though this whole thing is disgusting her, she positions herself, and slides me inside her, and she starts to ride me and those words, terrible words just come out of me: ‘Call me a bitch.’ I hear myself say.

“Stop talking’, she says.She’s rocking on me, eyes closed, and I am looking up at her and I need her to call me a bitch so I say it again. “Call me a bitch! Tell me I’m your bitch!”

“Shut the fuck up,” she says, slapping me— and hard this time, and then she puts a hand over my mouth, pushing my head back, and she starts really bouncing hard, and I am in heaven because she is in charge, and she hit me and told me to shut up and this is what I need now.”

Baxter pauses, fanning himself. “I’m getting hot and wet up here,” he says.

Nervous laughter.

“I told you. I’m telling you everything. My wife was disgusted. As soon as she finished she climbed off and left without saying a word. I lay there full of self-disgust and embarrassment and confusion and— bliss. Total bliss, and confused and angry and relieved I started to cry, and that was like a punch in the gut because I was a man, and men don’t cry!”

The crowd murmurs and nods, agrees. They’ve all struggled with their emotions now as women, the biological reality that makes them as females more likely to cry, and the magic that makes it essential.

“These days, I need a good cry? I watch A Fault in Our Stars.”

Laughter.

“I own it. I own all of it. That’s part of why I told you that story because even though at the time it was one of the most humiliating experiences of my life, I have learned to love all of it. I can stand here in front of you all and say I love being dominated, and I don’t feel any shame.”

Baxter paced once more, as if thinking. The audience waited. For many of them, what he said made no sense. Many had been similarly changed, and they did not love it. “It’s very simple. It really is. I didn’t choose to have this Barbie bod. I didn’t choose to be submissive. I can be angry, embarrassed, or I can face it all like a… what?”

“Man?” Came a scattered, uncertain response.

“Men face their challenges head on,” Baxter said. “Men deal. And I deal. Want to make me submissive? Fine. I’ll love it. I’ll celebrate it. I’ll be a man about it. And you should do the same. Why?”

No answer.

“Because you are all men.”

Silence.

“I want you to say it. All together. “I. AM. A. MAN.”

“I am a man!” The response was still tentative.

“Louder!”

“I am a man!”

“Stand up! On your feet!”

The audience stood, and as Baxter raised a fist in the air four hundred perfectly manicured hands went up with him. “I am a man!” Baxter called.

“I am a man!” The men shouted back, and the chant started, led by Baxter, pumping his fist.

Jim did not stand. Did not chant. He seethed and checked out all the plump, perfect asses. This was all bullshit. He got up and walked toward the door, only to be intercepted by a petite woman? Man? Wearing business clothes with a badge around her neck. She ushered him to the lobby, but then took his elbow. “You okay, sweetie?” she said.

Jim looked up at her. He’d gotten used to looking up at pretty much all adults- and having them treat him like a child. “I’m not a little girl!” Jim shrieked, yanking his elbow free.

“Okay. Sorry. I know. That’s why we’re all here.” She spotted the name tag. “Jim.”

“This isn’t for me,” Jim said. “Thanks.”

“Just hear me out, okay?” The woman said. “I’m just asking for a moment.”

Jim huffed, looking longingly at the doors, the street beyond. But part of his change required him to be polite. He clasped his hands under his chin. “yes?”

“Stay for a break out session. They’re about to start. You can’t really make a judgement yet?”

Jim sighed. “I don’t know. I don’t see a lot of Lolita’s here.”

“Oh, we’ve helped so many. And we don’t use the term Lolita.” She put a hand on Jim’s shoulder and steered him toward the conference meeting rooms.

“What term do you use for this?” Jim said, plucking at his frilly dress.

“Man,” the woman said. “You are a man.”

Jim couldn’t help but smile. “Not too many see me that way anymore.”

“We do. I do. Want some bourbon? Scotch?”

Jim found himself reaching up and grasping the woman’s hand as he walked along with her. “Now you’re talking.”

Chapter 2

Baxter raised his arms and walked off the stage, an announcer told the crowd they had a 30 minutes and then the breakout sessions would start. Debby waited just off stage, and Baxter waited as she removed the headset, careful not to let it get tangled in his hair. “I’m so fucking horny,” Baxter gasped. “Man, controlling the crowd turns me on.”

He hurried past Debby, who kept her face blank, thinking, poor guy.

Baxter practically ran to the elevator, hurried down the hall to his room. As soon as he walked in the door he started to unbutton his dress, looking around. “Mike?” He called, his voice soft, full of need.  “Mike?”

Mike, who’d been hiding in the closet crept out, slipped an arm around Baxter’s waist and grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking Baxter’s head back. Baxter squealed and struggled, but Mike effortlessly lifted him off his feet, shoving a hand under the bottom of Baxter’s dress.

“Let go of me!” Baxter begged, but Mike had a job to do. He dug his hand deeper under Baxter’s skirt and into his panties, yanked harder on his hair, spun him around. Then, he threw Baxter onto the bed, climbing onto him, pinning his arms over his head.

“Not today,” Baxter said. “Just get off me. I don’t feel like it.”

Mike chuckled. “I don’t give a shit how you feel,” Mike said. “Shut your dirty mouth, you nasty whore.”

Debby, who had discreetly followed Mike, had her ear to the door. She loved listening to Baxter get fucked. He was such a bitch all day, she enjoyed hearing him become another man’s bitch in the bedroom.

Baxter sighed, half closed his eyes, bit hit lip. Mike’s words were driving him insane. He was so wet. He felt Mike’s rough hands against his soft thighs, pushing his dress up, yarning his panties down. He struggled. Whimpered. “Stop! No! Get off me!” But his body was saying, faster, faster and then harder harder as Mike rudely shoved himself into Baxter and then began to hammer at him like a bull.

Baxter grabbed the headboard and cried out, loving it, hating it, needing it. “Asshole!” He panted, then, “Oh! Omigod…” as he felt the heat rising in him, the tension building, climaxing…

He dug his long fingernails into Mike’s shoulder and ripped his flesh even as he felt an explosion of heat within him, followed by an echo of smaller tremors. Mike rolled off, putting his hand to his shoulder, finding blood. “Fuck,” he said. “I’m bleeding.”

Baxter was half lost in a post-coital fugue state, but his lust satisfied, he was coming back to himself, and that meant he was feeling a lot of hate and self-loading. Despite his preaching, he did not love being submissive. “Get the fuck out of here,” He said.

“Doll face,” Mike said, not realizing the game was over, reaching toward Baxter, thinking maybe this bad girl needed a spanking.

Baxter slapped him across the face. “Playtime’s over. Fuck off.”

“Okay. Okay,” Mike said, finding his pants, hopping, pulling them on as he headed toward the door. He knew better than to hang around when Baxter’s flip switched.

Baxter checked his phone. Ten minutes. Hardly enough time for a girl to really get off, but then again, he’d come to realize that the spell had made him get off on being dominated and humiliated, and that he had done plenty of in those ten minutes. He texted Debby. Hair and makeup. Then, he shimmied out of his dress, put on a fresh pair of panties. When Debby arrived with the girls from hair and makeup, Baxter was standing there in just a bra and panties.

The girls were all jealous of his body. How could they not be? He was the embodiment of female perfection— or at least, from a man’s point of view. Tiny waist, wide, birthing hips, long legs, and those breasts? Every girl in the room wished she had breasts like his, at the same time they were kinda glad because they knew Baxter had the worst backaches. Of course, he had a face literally like an angel, all soft and sweet and inviting, a face that to the subconscious minds of men promised a nurturing and maternal female.

Baxter was not that, but the combination of his looks made every straight man who saw him want to fuck him. He doubted he would ever get used to having male eyes prowling over his body as they mentally undressed him. His skin crawled each time it happened, and it happened. Even the guys at his seminars were constantly checking him out— and would he ever have gotten naked with any of them if only his girlfriend hadn’t made it so he was totally turned off by the idea of being with a woman.