[Patreon Exclusive] Creating Sissies: Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Studying human behaviour wasn’t just my job, it was a lifelong passion. Of course, I’d been labelled a pervert many times. And many, many people had told me, “It’s not very ladylike to be talking about sex the way that you do.” But I didn’t care about any of that; I was interested in the things that I was interested in. I’d been in that profession for nearly thirty years, and the topic of sex still got me excited. It was still a very unexplored topic, and there was still so much to know.

I still got excited when the first day of a semester rolled around. I loved seeing the reactions of the new students. I loved trying to create theories based on their body language, and then I would spend the next few weeks trying to decide if I got it right. How many people can say that they’re lucky enough to make a career out of their passion?

Well, there was one other perk that came with the job, and I might get myself into some trouble by admitting this, but it’s vital to the rest of the story. Give me a moment to explain.

I already explained to you that my class was easy, that it attracted students who wanted an easy A+ to boost their GPA. Well, as you can imagine, the reason that many of them wanted that GPA boost was because they were on the verge of flunking out of college. Many of them truly needed that A+ to keep their GPA in the safe zone. So of course, I got the occasional delinquent. I got the occasional shiner. I got plenty of frat boys who needed to maintain a certain GPA so they could stay in their fraternity and continue their party-boy lifestyle. I got students who were desperate to have a certain grade average to avoid the wrath of their strict parents.

Long story short, I got a good number of very desperate students—and some of them truly needed an A+ to survive (I had a number of students beg me to raise their A to an A+). And with desperation comes… opportunity.

Now, this is the part that I shouldn’t be telling you, but like I said, it’s vital to the story I want to tell to you. I was passionate about studying sex, but there are certain laws and moral standards that make the study of sex particularly difficult. I could get fired so easily from that job, so I had to be very, very careful with what I said in my classes. And then, with seventeen-year-olds being allowed to sign up for my class (the university had rules stating that all classes had to be open to all students), there were things that I had to be careful not to say for legal reasons. The teacher who taught the class before me spent a month in jail for showing a particular video when there were minors in the room.

And I’d done things that could have gotten me fired; I’ll admit it to you, though I would never admit it to my peers or superiors. Allow me to tell you a little story about the first time it happened.

It was my second year on the job and that reputation was already starting. “Is it really true that we’ll get an A as long as we show up?” one student asked on the very first day of class.

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. “More or less,” I said. “I mean—I expect that you’ll do the work and apply yourself to the thought experiments. But this won’t be the hardest class you’ve ever attended.” I watched as a few of the men in the room gave each other high-fives.

A week later, I gave out my first ‘quiz’. It was a two-question quiz: two simple thought experiments, and I was looking for a single paragraph response to each. One of the questions was a moral question. ‘Scientists have created a biological animal that has no internal thoughts or conscience. It cannot feel pleasure or pain. Should it be illegal for a human to engage in an act of bestiality with this animal?’ The question was intended to shock the student, as I’m sure it’s shocked you reading it—but it’s also supposed to force them to consider sexual morality, and what exactly makes an immoral sexual act immoral. Is it animal abuse if the animal is incapable of feeling ‘abused’ emotionally or physically? And if it’s not abusive to the animal, what’s the moral dilemma?

Well, I got some interesting responses to the question, but one student’s efforts were less than inspirational. ‘Is the animal sexy? And does it have a tight pussy?’ He was trying to be funny, of course. And honestly, I didn’t mind when students put in a bit of humour, as I said earlier. But this particular student lacked some fundamental spelling skills, so fewer than half of the words in his ‘paragraph’ were spelled correctly. And I had outlined that a paragraph needed to be at least three sentences, while his was only two. So I gave him a B. Face it: that’s remarkably generous given his answer.

The student came to me after class. He put his test down and scowled, saying, “I don’t understand why I didn’t get an A. Rich got an A and his answer was even stupider than mine.”

“Are you saying you intentionally submitted a stupid answer?” I said, looking into the boy’s eyes. He darted his gaze down to the desk, suggesting that he was a bit insecure with maintaining eye contact, which was a clear sign that he lacked confidence. A moment later, I noticed him taking in a deep breath and holding it: something many men did subconsciously when they were near women, to look stronger than they were.

“I mean…” he said. “I think the question wasn’t clear enough. I wanted to know more details.”

“Do you actually need to know if the animal is sexy, Brian?” I said.

“Well, think about it,” he said with a frat-boy grin. “If the animal is sexy and men actually want to fuck it, then that’s a different story than if it’s like a walrus or something.”

“The question is about morality, Brian,” I said with a smirk. “I appreciate your cute reply, but I think you’re capable of a more reasonable answer. Whether the animal is sexy or not, should a person be allowed to engage with it sexually.”

“I don’t get the question,” he said, shaking his head.

“What don’t you get?”

“Nobody wants to fuck an animal.”

“That’s not true,” I said with a little giggle. “When I was working at Harvard, we did a whole study on bestiality, and I interviewed a number of inmates who were doing time after being caught.”

“What!?” he said. “Caught with an animal!? That’s disgusting.”

“Yes,” I said, nodding my head. “It is disgusting, but it’s a real phenomenon, and it’s actually one that’s growing in popularity. Most people would agree that it’s wrong because it’s abusive towards the animal; an animal can’t consent, and non-consensual sex can have both physical and emotional impacts on both humans and animals; it’s well documented. But let’s say that the animal completely lacks a conscience. Let’s say that it can’t be hurt and it has no thoughts, so it can’t be affected mentally. Well—we have a whole population of people who want to fuck animals. Could these people be… satisfied using this hypothetical scientific creation, so they don’t go abusing animals? What are the moral implications?”

He stared at me for a long time before saying, “Are you actually telling me that there are people who want to fuck animals?”

I laughed again. He was truly naive. “Bless your heart, Brian,” I said. “I can bring you up to a B+ if that would make you feel better.”

“Well, I actually need an A. I have two strikes with my frat already. Omega Omega—we have the highest required grade average on campus.”

“I can’t give you an A, Brian. That wouldn’t be fair to the other students who followed the guidelines. You only submitted a two-sentence answer when I made it clear, on the board, that I required three sentences.”

“Please?” he said. “I’ll do anything. If I get kicked out of the frat, then I have to move back in with my parents, which means I have to tell them about flunking my last two tests.”

I stared into his eyes. He darted his gaze to the ground once more. “Would you consider taking on an extra… assignment?”

“Anything,” he said.

I smiled. I had a bad idea in my head, but I’d had a strong curiosity lately about a study that I was part of years earlier: a study that got cancelled because of some grey zone legal issues.

It was a study on the male brain in particular. The man who ran the study, Ethan Powers, had some very interesting ideas about what he called ‘the power of sexual energy’. He was very, very interested in spirituality, but he was somewhat of a psychological genius. He believed in some crazy stuff, don’t get me wrong; he was convinced that he could see ‘auras’, and he often went for palm and tarot card readings. In fact, he wrote a very famous and published study on the unexplained phenomenon of tarot cards, though, as you can imagine, it was highly criticized.

Well, Powers had these ideas about ‘sexual energies’. The idea came from this Buddhist idea of semen retention; the monks believed that retaining semen could give a man something like ‘super powers’. One year without ejaculating would make a man smarter, stronger, wiser, and so on… Well, Powers had done his own study with one-hundred participants. He studied them closely, ensuring they weren’t ejaculating. Only fifteen of them made it a whole year (many failed because of wet dreams). But the fifteen who made it actually tested higher on IQ test, physical endurance tests, and pretty much every other test that Powers tossed at them.

Powers believed that a man didn’t just shoot cum when he ejaculated, but he also released a certain amount of this sexual energy. He’d written whole books on this hypothetical energy, how people could harness it, and how it could be manipulated. In fact, he believed that many sexual deviants (and controversially, he included homosexuals on this list) got their kinks and fetishes from a manipulation of their sexual energy.

I’ll try to keep the explanation brief; Powers wrote multiple books on the topic, so it would be impossible to go over everything without boring you to death. But basically, much of a man’s potential is stored in this energy. When saved up, a man can focus his sexual energy into a task: not just a sexual task, but any task: painting, writing, studying, and so on. Powers believed that this energy could help a person to absorb information at twice the speed of his peers, make him stronger to complete physical tasks, or give him clarity to problem solve. He tested this on mathematicians and one was actually able to solve a one-hundred-year-old math problem after one year of semen retention; he thanked Powers in his award acceptance speech.

But Powers believed that a man was extra vulnerable when his sexual energy levels were high. He believed this is why men did stupid things when they were horny—including rape (he did a very big study on rapists in prisons). He believed that this energy, while it could be used for tremendous accomplishments, acted like a sponge that floated around a person, making them vulnerable to new ideas, good or bad. He believed that sexual energy was responsible for political extremism, that people were more susceptible to extreme ideas when they were under the influence of this energy; he often compared it to using a drug like an amphetamine. Amphetamines can greatly increase stamina and focus, but when abused, people can become violent, or engage in downright criminal behaviour.

Powers got into trouble when he suggested that homosexuals were attracted to men because they were abused when this sexual energy was particularly strong, at a young age: sexual contact with another man during what Powers called ‘absorption’.

It was this idea of absorption that he used to explain sexual ‘sicknesses’, like bestiality and necrophilia: a man’s exposure to these concepts during heightened periods of absorption. He believed younger people had stronger sexual energies (explaining why they were hornier more often) and therefore, more susceptible to absorption of negative fetishes. Powers even created a device that he used to measure someone’s sexual energy level (he called sexual energy Mana, though this term got him ridiculed in the scientific community, and I myself refused to use it, even when talking about him specifically in class. The term honestly belittled otherwise interesting work). He never explained how the device worked, or how he made it, but he demonstrated it many times, baffling people like myself. He would hold it to the crotch of a young man to get a numerical reading, on a scale from one to four-hundred. He would almost always get a lower reading on an older male. And with a male practising semen retention, the number was huge.

“So somehow, the device is measuring how much semen is being stored in the subject,” suggested one curious researcher.

“No, that’s impossible,” said another. “A man maxes out his seminal value after just a few days of retention. This device is proving a discrepancy between ten, twenty, and even one-hundred days of retention.”

“It’s fake,” said a critic. “It’s a glorified magic trick. He’s pulling bunnies out of hats and calling it science! Powers is, and always has been, a hack!”

Well, Powers retired, but he adored me, so he left me with one of his devices. It was like a radar gun that a police officer might use to catch a speeder. I always enjoyed using it, though I was never too certain of the results. If I held it up to my own crotch, it read zero. If I held it up to the couch, it would read zero. But held to a man’s crotch, I would get a reading. How was it possible? I don’t know and I’ll probably never know. And as long as the device’s methods remained a secret, only known to Ethan Powers, then those results weren’t useful in a real study. I could never publish those numbers to support any of my own theories.

Getting back to my story—

I convinced Brian, the desperate student, to come to my office after his final period of the day. I told him to lock the door behind him, and then I asked him to promise to keep this between us. Just to be safe, I took away his phone, ensuring it was turned off and not recording. My heart was racing fast, even though I’d done similar experiments my whole career; this was different; Brian wasn’t a voluntary test subject—he was just a student.

“What happens here, stays between us. Okay?” I said.

“Okay. Whatever,” he said. “What is that thing?”

I was now holding the PMR: the Powers Mana Reader, but I refused to call it that. “I’m going to take some readings,” I said. I hadn’t used the thing in ages, and I’d never had the chance to use it on someone who wasn’t involved voluntarily in a study. When we used to use it, it was always on people who signed up, who signed endless contracts, and who knew more-or-less exactly what they were getting into. But Brian was oblivious; he didn’t know who Ethan Powers was and he didn’t know what a PMR was. Hell, he didn’t even know who I was or what I was now doing: he was the perfect subject.

And all I was really doing was seeing if the thing still worked. It had been in my desk for the better half of the decade, collecting dust.

First, I stepped up to him and held that gun to hit crotch, pulling the trigger before he could gasp as I pressed the device against his manhood. I didn’t want him to be aroused before I took that first reading—even though readings weren’t quite accurate through clothes.

“67,” I said.

“What’s that?” he asked. His voice cracked slightly, letting me know that I could no longer get an accurate pre-arousal reading from him. Maybe he wasn’t squirming with an erection, but the idea of sex was now in his head… or maybe it had been in his head since the moment I locked my office door.

“I’m just getting a reading,” I said. “Now take off your pants. Quickly now—before it’s too late.”

“Why?” he said.

“I want to get another reading. Just play along, Brian.”

He hesitated. He turned red all over. I put the gun to his crotch again and now that number was at 77. “Damn,” I said. “I wanted to get a clear pre-A reading.”

“Pre-A?” he said. It stood for pre-arousal, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

“Pants off, Brian.”

He closed his eyes and parsed his lips. He finally undid his belt and slid down his pants, exposing his shaved manhood. I giggled, not surprised that he was shaved. The stubble suggested he’d shaved three days earlier: Friday night, probably right before some party where he was hoping to get lucky. I pressed that gun to his crotch, just under his ball sack. “101,” I said. And as I said it, it jumped to 105.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“It means you’re becoming aroused,” I said bluntly. “Can you tell me, Brian, what is making you aroused right now? Is it the idea of being naked in front of your teacher, or did you consider the possibility that we might have sex?”

“What?” he said, turning an even darker shade of red.

“Please just answer the question honestly,” I said. He still wasn’t getting an erection; that didn’t usually start until a reading reached 130—what Powers called the Stimulation Response Reading (with older men, it was around 140).

“I—I don’t know. I’m not aroused,” he said.

I took another reading. 109. It was probably a spike from me saying the word ‘sex’. “Try to relax,” I said. “I want, if possible, to get a resting reading—though that’s probably impossible now. Sit down and take out your homework from your other classes. I want you to work on it for a while.”

“Is this… detention?” he asked with a small laugh. He started pulling his pants up.

“No!” I said. “Pants stay down. Just do some homework, Brain. Ignore the nudity. I don’t care about nudity, Brian. I’ve been studying naked people for thirty years.”

He stuttered, blushed, and then he took a seat. He slipped out a feminine studies textbook. “Why are you taking that class?” I said. “You don’t strike me as the type.”

“I heard it’s an easy A,” he said.

“Are all your classes easy-A classes?”

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “My GPA took a hit last semester. I need to get it back up.”

“What’s your major?”

“Engineering.”

I shook my head. Talk about wasting your time; oh well, that wasn’t my business. I took a seat and started working on logging the scores from the quiz into the portal. After fifteen minutes, I quietly stood up, snuck up to Brian, and I took another reading, making him gasp.

But now, it was higher. “115,” I said. “Brian—be honest with me, because it’s important. Are you thinking about sex?”

“What?” he said. “No!” Then I saw his textbook. There was a picture of two female protesters, topless, and he was reading a section about ‘Free the Nipple’. I groaned.

“That’s the homework you pick?”

“What?” he said. “It’s the only homework I have!”

“Okay,” I said. “Never mind that. Stand up for me.”

He stood up. I went over to the small TV that was on the AV cart. I had the intimate video from my class on it, but I couldn’t get it to turn on. I wanted him to watch the girl rolling around in her lingerie… but the TV was on the fritz. “Oh, of all days!” I said.

“What is it, Mrs. Franco?” he said.

“Never mind that,” I said.

I turned to Brian. “Brian—are you straight?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“You like women?”

He nodded his head.

“Good,” I said. So I pushed the straps of my top over my shoulders and I tugged my top down to expose my red lace bra. His eyes turned wide and he looked away. “Look at them, Brian,” I said as I reached around back to unclip the bra. I let it fall to the ground so he could see my perky breasts. He gasped.

“Are you coming onto me?” he asked, voice cracking again.

“No, I’m just taking another reading,” I said. I took a reading. “126. You’re about to become erect.”

“What?”

And sure enough, his cock began to throb. He tried to cover himself, but I pushed his hands away. “Don’t worry about that.”

“I’m usually bigger,” he said. “It’s really cold in your office.”

“Okay,” I said.

His cock was growing and his reading was going up. I waited a minute, until he was rock-hard, and then I took one more reading. “138,” I said. “It seems like this still works.”

“How high does it go?” he asked.

“Six-hundred.”

His eyes became wide.

“Is that an orgasm?” he asked.

“No. An orgasm usually occurs around three-hundred.”

“So how do you get it higher?” he asked, seemingly perplexed. It was actually nice to see him taking an interest in the study of sex, even though I had a feeling he didn’t really care about the numbers.

“I’m going to touch you to stimulate a response,” I said. Then, I gently rubbed the tip of his penis with the tip of my finger. His cock twitched and that number shot up to 170. Then, I took out the tripod that was built for the PMR. I set it up and told Brian not to move off of it, so it could keep taking readings, hands-free. I stood back up. “Now watch me, Brian.”

I did my best to put on an arousing show, grabbing my breasts, letting him watch me as I fondled myself. I caressed my own body: all of the things that women in those videos generally do to seduce men. His number increased steadily, reaching two-hundred.

“Are you a virgin, Brian?”

“No,” he said firmly.

“How many sexual partners have you had?” I kept squeezing my breasts for him.

“I don’t know. Lots,” he lied.

“Tell me the truth, please.”

“I don’t keep track,” he said, biting his bottom lip and grabbing at his neck. I was guessing one or two partners.

Now, his reading had plateaued. I decided to see if it was because of me or if he just had low sexual energy. I shimmied down my pants and my panties. I lifted my foot up onto my desk and I stroked my pussy for him to see. I moaned gently. “How badly do you want to fuck me, Brian?” I asked in my best porn-star girly-girl voice. “How badly do you want my pussy, Brian?”

He decided that was an invitation to come towards me, trying to grab me to kiss me. “Go back to your spot, Brian. I didn’t say to move,” I said bluntly, making him turn red all over. I wasn’t actually trying to seduce him. I was trying to get a reading and my TV wasn’t working.

But that number was still plateaued, not moving much from that 203 number, suggesting that he’d masturbated at least twice in the past forty-eight hours.

I commanded him to stroke himself. That number stayed about the same. I let him watch me while he did it. I stroked myself and talked dirty, imitating a porn star. I kept an eye on that reading. It suddenly shot up from 205 to 295.

“You’re about to come,” I said. “Please do it into a tissue.” I slid the box to him and he groaned, grabbing one quickly. A moment later, he ejaculated. He groaned loudly and trembled all over. I made him sanitize his hands before we continued.

He was red all over. Now, he was reading at 4. He eyed that number. “So that thing tells you when someone’s about to come? I could have just told you,” he laughed nervously, blushing all over.

“I didn’t care about that number,” I said. “I know a normal person ejaculates around three-hundred.”

“So what was that all about?” he said.

“I was just seeing if it still worked,” I said as I pulled up my pants and tucked my breasts back into my bra. “And it seems perfectly functional. Now, I want to see you back here in a week. And in that time, you can’t ejaculate. No masturbation.”

“And no sex?” he asked.

I just laughed. I knew he wasn’t going to be getting laid anytime soon, so I wasn’t too worried about that. “Just come back to my office next Monday afternoon.”

I was disappointed in Brian a week later when I conducted the experiment. He came in reading higher, around 90, and then, once he was aroused, his reading reached 220. “You’ve been masturbating,” I said to him. “I told you not to.”

“No, I haven’t been!” he lied.

I shook my head. “Brian. You’re lying to me. I can’t raise your grade on that quiz if you lie to me. My request was simple.”

“How can you possibly know that I’ve masturbated? I mean—maybe I had, like, a wet dream or something and didn’t even notice.”

“You’ve ejaculated at least once in the past forty-eight hours, and probably a lot in the past week. A full week of semen retention should get higher numbers than this.”

He was red all over when he said, “Well maybe that toy is broken.”

“From now on, I want you in my office every day—including Saturday and Sunday. I’ll take a reading every day, and we’ll see what happens.”

This time, he did better. The next day, he reached a pre-ejaculation reading of 250 (of course, I stopped him before ejaculating every time, otherwise the test would have been ruined), then, on Wednesday, he reached 280. By Friday, he was reading over 300 before ejaculating, which is the zone that Ethan Powers called the Pre-Absorption Zone (310-350). Then, on Sunday, Brian came in and was reading 220 before ejaculating. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

He blushed, this time admitting failure. “I’m sorry. It was a moment of weakness. The desire was just so… strong.” I liked that he was being more open with me, letting his guard down, ditching that frat-boy phoney confidence.

“The desire gets stronger and stronger as the days go by,” I explained to him. “You need to learn to harness that sexual energy into other pursuits.”

It took a full week before Brian was back into the Pre-Absorption Zone, and then a few days later, he reached an Absorption reading. “We’re going to try something different today,” I said to him.

He was brighter now, glowing, sitting upright, smiling with the smile of a truly confident man: not that phoney grinning nonsense. He told me about a test in another class: one of his actual engineering classes, and he scored a perfect A+. “My head has been so clear lately,” he said, without even putting two and two together.

“Focus, Brian,” I said, turning my computer towards him. Now, I had a special video lined up for him.

It was a girl talking dirty to the camera, dressed like a schoolgirl. She was touching herself all over, still clothed. Brian’s readings went up and up as he watched the video, reaching close to 400, well into the Absorption zone. He kept watching, intrigued. I told him he could stroke himself gently. “But don’t come,” I said.

“O—Okay,” he said, blushing all over. He was still shy, even though he’d stroked himself a dozen times in front of me before.

I got him some lubricant, and I gently massaged his shoulders as he watched, trying to get that number as high as it would read. “402,” I whispered. “That’s high.”

Then, a man entered the scene on the video. He kissed the girl, and then the girl bent the man over and spanked him on the bum. Brain’s heart rate jumped, along with his PMR reading: 409. Then, the woman pulled the man’s pants down before flipping up her skirt and revealing a stiff boner.

Brian laughed nervously, looking away. “Fuck, she looked so convincing. You got me.”

“Keep watching. Don’t look away. And don’t stop touching yourself, Brian.”

He was hesitant, but he wanted that A+, so he did it. He reluctantly stroked himself while watching the petite trans girl mounting that man. “I want you to imagine that you’re the man in the video, Brian,” I whispered. “Stand up.”

He stood up with trembling legs. I had a dildo ready: a small toy, coated with lubricant. I made Brian bend over while watching the video. He closed his eyes and groaned. He told me that he didn’t want it, but he wasn’t putting up much a fight; it’s not like I was forcing him to be there—though he didn’t have much choice if he wanted me to adjust his grade.

I penetrated him slowly. I guess you could say that I sodomized him. I forced him to watch the video while I watched his reading. It fluctuated, dropping slightly upon penetration, but rising again when I reached around and teased his shaft with the tips of my fingernails.

“Oh God,” he groaned loudly.

“Eyes on the video, Brian,” I commanded. I made him stare at the scene while I sodomized his tight asshole. Then, once his reading was high again, I commanded him to jerk himself hard and fast. “Make yourself ejaculate, Brian.”

When he came, his reading was high, close to five-hundred. I’d only seen readings that high a few times in my career. A sexual energy reading that high suggests a very vulnerable level of absorption.

I helped him to clean up and then I sent him on his way; he didn’t say anything as he left, and I will admit that I was terrified he was going to tell on me. This was definitely something I could lose my job over, and maybe it would get me into some trouble with the law. But I really was doing it for science. I really did just want to test Ethan Powers’s theory on sexual energy and absorption.

I gave Brian a week off. I let him have his A+. Then, I brought him back in to do some testing, which he accepted voluntarily. He was silent when he came in, still embarrassed about the sodomy incident. I sat him down and told him to keep his hands off of his crotch while I did a number of readings. I played a number of videos for him, taking note of the numbers that came up. It was clear that he’d been masturbating again, because he was testing in that low-200s range again—until I put on a video of a girl with a big, hard cock: a trans girl stroking herself and coming onto her own chest. Suddenly, Brian’s reading spiked at 280, and then it went back down when the next video came on: lesbian extreme anal.

And the next day, I had a series of questions for him. When I asked him if the thought of crossdressing made him aroused, his answer told a much different story than his reading. So the next day, I brought him in and told him to put on a little outfit that I’d brought in. When he put it on, not only did he get an immediate erection, he was instantly reading close to 300 on the PMR.

I couldn’t help but let a small grin slip; the readings were either suggesting that he’d always had a sexual fascination towards crossdressing (though his previous readings didn’t suggest as much) or that the absorption test was successful, and that a fetish was indeed something that could be inherited.

But one subject wasn’t enough to verify the theory; there were so many variables to consider. If I was going to come to any conclusions, I had to expand my study.