Part 3: Greedy Gretchen

Gretchen awoke in an unfamiliar bright white room, strapped to a chair, wearing a white jumper with a brass zipper down the front. It was not an outfit she owned. And she didn't seem to be wearing anything underneath it. She struggled against the bonds that held her head, arms and legs in place as memories came flooding into her consciousness.

Memories of depravity, of degradation, of tickling.

Oh God, what had they done to her? Where was she?

"Oh! You are awake?" came a thick Dominican accent.

Gretchen tried to turn towards the voice but her head was held fast. From the corner of her eye, she saw a dark haired woman with enormous breasts squeezed into a latex nurse's outfit.

"I will tell Mr. Warren," the 'nurse' informed her, then left her field of vision.

"WAIT!" Gretchen begged. "Let me out of this thing!"

But there was no answer. Gretchen had never felt so helpless, so terrified.

"Ah, Gretchen!" came a disturbingly calm and cheerful voice. "So glad to hear you've awakened! We've got a lot to do today!"

A portly man with a mustache came into view and took a seat at the desk in front of her.

"My name is Mr. Warren and I'll be helping you make sense of your rather shocking behavior last night." He informed her. "When a woman behaves the way you did for the first time, she is often confused as to her own motivations. As a councilor, my job is to help you work out the internal drives that lead to your exhibitionist actions."

"They drugged me, you bastard!" Gretchen spat.

"Well, yes," he conceded, "But that hardly explains your behavior now does it? I mean, sodium ditzolin does tend to relax a person, lower inhibitions, perhaps even increase libido. But a simple pharmaceutical could hardly make you engage in any of the complex behavior you engaged in last night. No, that must have come from you, I'm afraid. A drug might make you happy, but you choose what to do about that happiness.

A drug might make you talkative, but you decide what to say. A drug might make you warm, but you decide when to take your clothes off. I understand that you were the first of your group last night to remove your top."

He tapped his console and the screen behind him lit up with a five-times-larger-than-life picture of Gretchen lifting up her shiny green top, displaying her small breasts and a big, toothy grin.

Gretchen blushed furiously. Something at the base of her skull buzzed softly. She was so confused.

"No one made you loose your top, Gretchen," Mr. Warren insisted. "No one even suggested it. The gas lowered your inhibitions slightly and your own innate, powerful exhibition streak took over.

You wanted to show your tits. The gas just helped make it easier for you to do what you wanted to do."

"No," Gretchen denied, filled with doubt. "It, I... the gas did it."

"Now that's just silly, Gretchen," Mr. Warren insisted. "You're smarter than that. You're your own person, strong willed, maybe even a little headstrong. No one could make you do anything. You wanted to do it. All of it. Just look how happy you are up there.

How proud of yourself. You remember how good it felt, don't you? Having everyone look at you? There eyes focused on you?"

"Um, well," Gretchen hemmed. "Yes, but..."

A wave of well being flowed through her. Ithadfelt good. Very good. And she felt good now.

"That's right," Mr. Warren continued. "It fills a deep need in your psyche to show off your body. You crave attention. You always have. That's what this whole protest thing was about, wasn't it? You wanted to be the center of attention. The leader. The person everyone looked to."

"Look at this one," he said, and up flashed an image of Gretchen straddling Jerica's face, grinding herself on the pink-wigged lesbian. Gretchen's hands were clasped behind her head and she was grinning at catcalling men who threw the occasional dollar bill at her.

Gretchen was confused buy the conflict of her current revulsion and her remembered elation. She had been so proud of herself.

"No one put you on top of that girl," Mr. Warren reminded her. "You climbed atop of her of your own accord. If anyone is being violated here, it's her by you!"

"No!" Gretchen protested. "She wanted me to! She asked me to!"

"Oh, so you admit that you girls were in control of yourselves," Mr. Warren countered.

"Or we're all of the other girls you molested capable of giving consent and you were the only one not responsible for your own actions?"

"No... I mean yes, but... but I mean that... that..."

Gretchen was so confused. The buzzing and throbbing at the base of her skull made it so hard to think... so hard to reason...

"Jerica may have asked to eat your pussy, Gretchen, but you're the one who pushed her down and mounted her face so that all the men could see you better. So there was no doubt that you were dominant. You know, for a feminist, you have some very misogynistic tendencies. Of all the girls you had sex with last night, I can' help but notice that you were always on top, always the most visible to the audience."

The picture of Gretchen riding Jerica's face was replaced by one of Gretchen sitting on a chair with her legs wrapped around April's head. Gretchen was screaming out in ecstasy as April struggled to breath.

Another picture came up with Gretchen still on the chair, this time with Tabitha bent over her knees, the Asian girl's ass being paddled by Gretchen's hand as she grinned wickedly.

Another picture then, a pile of naked girls, almost impossible to tell which legs and arms and butts and heads belonged to each other, except of Gretchen, who straddled the top of the squirmy pile of female flesh like a bull rider, swinging someone's thong around above her head.

"You don't even care how you humiliate your sister as long as you stay in the spotlight, do you Gretchen?" said Mr. Warren. "You're Greedy! Greedy for attention. You want everyone focused on you. You aren't a feminist because you want to help women. You just want to help yourself. Greedy Gretchen wants everyone looking at her. Greedy Gretchen wants her face in the paper. Greedy Gretchen wants to be the leader. Greedy Gretchen wants to be on top. Greedy Gretchen wants to be in the spotlight. Greedy Gretchen wants to be the center of attention. It's not at all surprising that your exhibitionist tendencies came out last night. Everything you've done in your entire life screams 'Look at me! Look at me! Look at Greedy Gretchen!'

"I... I don't... I mean, I didn't mean to... I mean, I just... I... I don't know! I don't know why I... I..."

She couldn't think. She was overcome by confusing, conflicting emotions.

"You'll never be happy, Gretchen, until you embrace your true self," the councilor advised. "You must admit your needs if you're ever going to fulfill them."

Gretchen nodded as much as she could in the head restraint. It was true. She was so confused and she didn't want to be. She wanted to be happy. And Mr. Warren seemed to know how to help her.

"So let's try a little exercise," Mr., Warren suggested. "Let's just have you say out loud what you want. Just admitting it out loud can be very therapeutic. Now, repeat after me: I want to be the center of attention."

"I want to be the center of attention," Gretchen admitted, and a wave of relief washed over her, causing a brief respite from the confusion.

"Good" Warren praised, and the praise felt so nice. "Now say 'I want everyone to look at me."

Gretchen wasn't sure about this, but it felt so right admitting she wanted attention, and it did sort of follow, so she repeated "I want everyone to look at me."

Again, the confusion cleared, her head tingled. Everything was simple and true and good.

"Very good, Gretchen," Mr. Warren praised. "Now admit that you like people to watch you."

She was starting to figure out how this worked. She agreed with Mr. Warren and she didn't have to be confused anymore. She felt good. And what he was telling her seemed so true.

"I like people to watch me," she admitted, and it felt heavenly.

"You like people to look at you," he continued. "You even like it when they stare at your tits."

Her nipples seemed to perk up at their mention. That wasn't true, was it? But the confusion started closing in around her, oppressing, suffocating.

"Admit it, Gretchen," the therapist pressed. "You want people to stare at your tits."

Gretchen grabbed the lifeline he threw her.

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Yes! I want people to stare at my tits!"

The confusion cleared, the euphoria bubbled and Gretchen came like she had never come before. The orgasm shuddered through her, leaving her squealing and trembling.

She panted in her chair, eyes darting, not sure what had just happened to her. She saw the man smiling at her and blushed, terribly embarrassed.

"I... I mean, I don't... Not really..." she stammered quite unconvincingly.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Gretchen," the therapist assured her. "It's natural.

Biological. You're proud of being a woman, right?"

"Yes," she agreed, and agreeing felt so good. "I'm... I'm proud to be a woman."

"Then why be ashamed of your body?" he reasoned. "It's your body that makes you a woman, right? You should be proud of its womanly features! Hiding your boobs, your hips, your cunt, your feminine ass, that's just hiding, and shaming, your womanhood! By showing off your body, you're shouting to the world 'I am woman! Hear me roar!"

Gretchen was so confused. What he was saying made so much sense, but it contradicted so much of what she had believed.

Mr. Warren nodded to his assistant who came up to Gretchen. The Hispanic woman's breasts were so prominent, so proud, so womanly.

"I am Woman!" she said in her thick Dominican accent. "Hear me Roar!"

It wasn't a roar. More like a purr. And it absolutely dripped with sex in a way that sent a ripple from Gretchen's clit, up her spine to the base of her skull where something continued to buzz.

"Try it!" ChiChi encouraged.

Trembling, Gretchen did as she was told.

"I am woman," she said. "Hear me OOOOOOaaaaaaah!"

Her roar came out as a moan as she came and came and came, the world turning to jelly around her. ChiChi giggled at her.

"It feels good to be a woman, doesn't it Gretchen?" Mr. Warren asked.

"So... so good..." Gretchen agreed, panting.

"And you want everyone to know you're a woman, right?" he pressed.

"Uh-huh," she agreed.

"ChiChi, can you tell for sure if Gretchen is a woman?" Mr. Warren asked.

The Dominican bimbo stared appraisingly at her.

"I'm not sure Mr. Warren," she admitted.

The confusion closed in again on Gretchen. How could they doubt she was a woman?

"Why aren't you sure, ChiChi?" he prompted.

"All her woman parts, they are covered up," said the half-naked bimbo. "The bumps on her chest, they may be boobies, perhaps. But how can one tell?"

"But, I do have boobies!" Gretchen insisted.

"Then you should show them, silly!" said ChiChi, and grabbing the brass ring at Gretchen's neck, she unzipped the jumper down to between Gretchen's small breasts.

Fireworks went off in Gretchen's head and everyone of her erogenous zones.

"See, it's good to show off your womanhood," Mr. Warren instructed. "Showing your tits proves you're a true woman. It makes you feel so good, so proud, so sexy, so womanly. If you don't show off your body, you might as well be a boy! Now, would you like ChiChi to lower the zipper even more?"

"Yes!" Gretchen declared. "Yes! More!"

"What did I say about you being greedy, Gretchen?" Mr. Warren said with a chuckle.

"Greedy Gretchen always wants more! Very well, ChiChi."

The latex nurse lowered the zipper down to Gretchen's navel and again Gretchen was propelled to a sweet, orgasmic nirvana, full of pleasure and pride and fulfillment.

"So, what do you want to do, Greedy Gretchen?" Mr. Warren asked when she came down enough to listen. "Do you want to hide your womanly body from the world, or do you want to show your tits?"

The answer was clear.

"I want to show my tits!" she declared.

"What was that?" Mr. Warren asked.

"I WANNA SHOW MY TITS!" she proclaimed.

Then ChiChi pulled Gretchen's jumper wide open, freeing her oppressed titties, and sending her into a five minute spasm of pure ecstasy. When she came back to consciousness, her eyes were wide and dazed; her skin was electrified, her jaw was slack, and her mind was open to anything Mr. Warren had to teach her.