The Mentalist: Part II — The Wardrobe
Cabin 712 is not a cabin.
It's a suite. Two rooms connected by an arched doorway, deep carpet the color of champagne, a king bed draped in cream linens, and a sitting area with a velvet chaise where the morning light pools like warm amber.
The porthole is a window, floor-to-ceiling, and beyond it the sea stretches endless, blue and indifferent.
You stand just inside the doorway, clutching the strap of your bag, trying not to gape.
"Close the door, sweetheart."
Her voice comes from the bedroom. You close the door. The lock clicks with a sound that feels final, though you don't know why.
Laurie is standing in front of an open wardrobe. The wardrobe is the size of a small room — floor-to-ceiling, dark wood, filled with garments on padded hangers.
She's wearing a silk robe, deep burgundy, tied loosely at her waist. She looks like she just woke up, or like she's about to go to sleep, or like she exists in some timeless space where morning and evening don't apply.
She turns when you enter. Her eyes travel over you — the uniform you ironed three times this morning, the shoes you polished, the nervous way you're holding your bag.
"Good. You're early. I like that."
She gestures to the wardrobe.
"This is your primary responsibility for the next seven days. Do you know how many costume changes I have per show?"
"Three. Sometimes four, depending on the act. Plus dinner with the Captain. Plus cocktails with guests. Plus whatever else I'm scheduled for."
She runs her hand along a row of hangers. "That's twelve to fifteen outfits per day. Each one needs to be pressed, steamed, organized, and accessible. Each one has specific undergarments that go with it. Each one has shoes, accessories, jewelry."
She turns to face you fully.
"I've never had a male assistant before. I'm told men are hopeless with this sort of thing. Are you hopeless?"
"No," you say. Then, more firmly: "No. I can learn."
"Good answer." She smiles. "Let's start with the foundations."
She opens a drawer. It's filled with underwear. Not the kind you've seen in department stores or catalogs. These are delicate, intricate, made of lace and silk and things that look like they cost more than your rent.
"Go on. You need to know the difference between them by feel, not just by sight."
You reach into the drawer. Your fingers brush against something so soft it barely registers as texture. You lift it — a triangle of black lace, so small it disappears in your palm.
"That's a thong," she says. "Minimal coverage. Worn under anything fitted. No panty lines. Do you know why that matters?"
"Because when I'm on stage, every line matters. Every seam. Every shadow. The audience doesn't know they're looking at a thong. They just know something is right about the way I look. That's what you're responsible for. The invisible things that make the visible things work."
She pulls out another piece. This one is higher cut on the leg, with a wider band at the waist.
"French high cut. Creates the illusion of longer legs. Worn under evening gowns. You'll need to know which gowns call for which cut."
She holds it out to you. You take it. The fabric is smooth, cool, expensive.
"Now this." She pulls out a third. No lace. No seams. A smooth, flesh-colored triangle with adhesive strips. "C-String. No straps, no bands. Worn under the most revealing gowns. One wrong move and it slips. You'll need to check it before every entrance."
You're holding three pieces of her underwear in your hands. Your face is burning. Your cock is stirring, despite every effort to control it.
"You're blushing, sweetheart." Her voice is warm, amused. "That's fine. This is all new to you. You're going to learn a lot this week."
She closes the drawer and opens another.
"Bras. You need to know the difference between a balconette, a demi-cup, a full coverage, a bralette, a sports bra, a push-up, and a plunge. Each one creates a different silhouette. Each one goes with a different neckline. I'll test you on this later."
She pulls out a black lace bra, holds it up. "This is a plunge. Worn with deep V-necks. The cups are angled to push everything inward and upward. Creates cleavage."
She hands it to you. The lace is soft, delicate. You can smell her on it — a faint, clean scent, like soap and something warmer underneath.
"Now the skirts and dresses." She moves to the main wardrobe, pulls out a garment bag. "This is my opening number. Red sequins. Fitted. Floor-length slit. The undergarments for this are a seamless thong and a strapless push-up bra. Remember that."
She unzips the bag. The dress catches the light, sparkles, breathes.
"It's beautiful," you say.
"It is. And you're going to help me into it."
"Now." She turns her back to you. "The robe first."
She reaches back, finds your hand, guides it to the tie at her waist.
Your fingers fumble. The silk is smooth, the knot is loose, but your hands are shaking. You manage to pull it free. The robe parts. She shrugs it off her shoulders and it falls to the floor in a pool of burgundy.
She's wearing nothing underneath.
You see her back. The curve of her spine. The swell of her hips. The way her waist narrows and flares. She's naked, standing in front of you, and you're holding her robe, and your cock is painfully hard.
"Don't stare, sweetheart. You'll have plenty of time to look. Right now, I need the bra. The strapless push-up. From the drawer."
You turn. You find it. You bring it to her.
You do. She turns around. Her breasts are full, pale, with dark nipples that are soft, unaroused. She steps into the bra, and then she waits.
Your hands are at her back. The hooks are small, delicate. You've never done this before. You fumble, miss, try again.
"Breathe," she says. "Slow down. You're rushing."
You take a breath. Your fingers steady. You hook the bra on the next try.
"Good boy. Now the panties."
You find them. The seamless thong. You hold it out. She steps into it, one leg at a time, and pulls it up. The fabric disappears between her cheeks. You can see the shape of her ass, perfect, framed by the thin straps.
You unzip the garment bag fully. The dress is heavier than you expected. You lift it, hold it open. She steps into it, pulls it up over her hips. The sequins catch the light. The fabric molds to her body like it was made for her.
The zipper is at the back. You pull it up. Her skin is warm beneath your fingers. The dress fits her like a second skin. She looks incredible.
She turns to face you. Her eyes drop to your crotch. The tent is obvious. Unmistakable.
"Already?" She smiles. "We've barely started."
"I'm sorry," you whisper.
"Don't be. It's charming." She steps closer. "You're very responsive, sweetheart. I like that about you."
She reaches out, touches your chest, trails her fingers down your stomach, stops just above your belt.
"Your little guy is eager again today. Did you sleep well?"
"Did you play with yourself last night? Thinking about me?"
"Good. I told you to." She steps closer. Her body is inches from yours. You can smell her perfume, her skin, something warm and intimate.
She reaches behind her back. The zipper of her dress whispers down. The red sequins part, and she shrugs the dress off her shoulders. It falls to the carpet in a shimmering pool at her feet.
She steps out of it. Turns her back to you.
Now she's wearing only the thong — that thin black triangle, the delicate straps disappearing between her cheeks. Her bare back curves into the swell of her hips. She looks over her shoulder at you.
"I think we need to take a minute," she says. "To train your little guy. He's been running things long enough, hasn't he?"
"Good. Then let's start."
She turns fully to face you. Her hand finds yours, guides it to her hip, rests it there against her warm skin.
Your fingers find the waistband of the thong.
"Go on and take it off, sweetheart."
You sink to your knees in front of her.
The fabric is warm against your knuckles. She shifts her weight, lifts one hip, then the other, and you slide it down her legs.
The scrap of lace and silk comes away in your hands. You hold it for a moment, stunned by how little it is, how intimate, how hers.
You do. You press the thong to your nose without thinking, without deciding.
Her scent is concentrated here — that same musk you caught earlier, but deeper, richer, distilled by hours of wear. You inhale. Your eyes flutter closed.
"That's right, sweetheart. Breathe me in. I want you to know my smell better than any other smell in the world."
You can't stop. Your lungs fill with her. The fabric is soft against your lips, your nose. You nuzzle it like it's her, like you're already pressed against her, like—
You hand it back. She drops it on the chaise. Then she steps closer. Her thighs are inches from your face. The dark triangle of her pussy is bare, exposed, glistening faintly in the morning light.
"Now come here. Properly."
She parts her thighs. You lean forward. Your nose touches her. Warm. Soft. The scent hits you like a wave — stronger than the thong, more alive, more her. You inhale. Deep. Desperate.
"That's it. Nuzzle me, sweetie. Like my little puppy. Just… take it in."
You press your face into her. Your nose moves through her folds, finding the crease where her thigh meets her body, the soft heat of her opening.
You snuffle against her pussy like you're searching for something buried. Her scent fills your lungs, your head, your entire world.
Her hand rests on the back of your head. "Good boy. Just like that. Breathe me in."
You nuzzle deeper. Your lips brush her. Your tongue flicks out without permission, tasting her — salt and musk and something sweet underneath.
She doesn't stop you. She doesn't encourage. She just lets you explore, lets you need, lets you drown.
Minutes pass. You lose track. Your world has shrunk to the space between her thighs. Her scent. Her warmth. The soft sounds she makes — a sigh, a hum, a murmured "that's it, sweetheart."
"Now, I want you to show me your penis."
The words cut through the fog. You pull back, dazed. She looks down at you, patient, amused.
"Go on. Take it out. I want to see him."
You fumble with your belt. Your fly. Your cock springs free — hard, aching, leaking against your stomach. The tip is dark, swollen, desperate.
She looks at it. Her expression softens.
"Oh, sweetheart. Look at him. He's so eager. So hard for me."
She doesn't touch it. She just looks. And somehow that's worse — that's better — that's everything.
"He wants to cum, doesn't he?"
"He wants to be inside something. He wants to feel warmth around him. He wants to push and thrust and bury himself somewhere soft and wet."
She crouches down, bringing her face level with yours. Her eyes are warm, knowing.
"But he can't go inside me, can he? We established that."
"No. He can't. But he can still feel something. He can still be close."
She shifts, extending one leg. Her calf is smooth, bare, inches from your cock.
"Come here. Between my legs."
You shuffle forward on your knees. Your cock brushes her calf. You gasp.
"That's it. Position yourself."
You move until your cock is nestled between her calves, the soft skin pressing against you from both sides. She closes her legs slightly, trapping you there.
"Now hump, sweetheart. Hump my legs. Breathe in my smell. Let yourself go."
You start to move. Slow at first. Experimental. Your cock slides between her calves, the friction soft and maddening.
Her scent is still in your nose, still flooding your lungs. You press your face against her thigh as you move, inhaling her, tasting her skin.
"That's it. That's my good boy. Just hump my legs like the little puppy you are."
Your hips find a rhythm. Your cock slides back and forth between her calves, slick with your own leaking. It's not enough — it's never enough — but it's everything. Her skin. Her smell. Her voice.
"You're so hard, sweetheart. So desperate. Can you feel how much you need this?"
"Can you feel how close you are? How your little guy is twitching, begging, ready to explode?"
"Please — I need — I can't —"
Her hand finds your hair. Strokes. Gentle. Soothing.
"Can't hold it — I'm gonna —"
"Are you ready to give him to me?"
You look up at her. Her eyes are steady, certain.
"Your penis. Are you ready to give him to me? Completely? No taking him back?"
"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, please, take him, he's yours —"
"Say it clearly, sweetheart. Say 'I give you control of my penis.'"
"I give you control of my penis. I give him to you. He's yours."
She smiles. Warm. Triumphant.
"And I accept. I am now the manager of your penis. His pleasure is mine to give or withhold. His erections are mine to authorize or deny. Do you understand?"
"Yes. Yes, I understand."
"Good boy. Now keep humping. Keep breathing me in. And listen to my voice."
You move. Faster. Desperate. Your cock slides between her calves, slick and hot and aching.
"I'm going to count to ten. And when I reach ten, you're going to cum. You're going to cum harder than you've ever cum. You're going to cum because I let you cum. Do you understand?"
Your cock throbs between her legs.
Her hand in your hair. Gentle. Claiming.
You're trembling. Every muscle tight.
Her scent. Her voice. Her warmth.
You're close. So close. Hovering.
A whimper escapes your throat.
Your hips are rocking. Uncontrollable.
Right on the edge. Waiting. Begging.
It rips through you like a wave. Your whole body convulses. Your cock pulses between her calves, spraying hot against her skin, against the carpet, against your own stomach.
You moan into her thigh — a sound that's half sob, half prayer — and she holds your head, strokes your hair, murmurs "good boy, good boy, that's it, let it out."
You collapse. Your forehead rests against her shin. Your breath comes in ragged gasps. Your cum is cooling on her legs, on the carpet, on you.
She steps back. Looks down at the mess.
You lower your head. You lick her calf. You taste yourself — salty, bitter. You lick the carpet where your cum has splattered. She watches, patient, still.
When you're done, she smiles.
"Good boy." She touches your cheek. "I hope you enjoyed that, sweetheart. Because that's the last erection you'll have without my permission."
"Your penis is under new management." She says it gently, as if explaining something obvious. "He belongs to me now. He won't get hard unless I say so. He won't cum unless I allow it."
"No cage. No lock. Nothing physical." She taps your forehead. "Just your mind. You gave him to me, and now he's mine. He'll only rise when I call him. He'll only squirt when I give the word."
You look down at your cock. It's soft. Limp. Satisfied. Useless.
"Don't worry, sweetheart." She bends down, kisses your forehead. "I'll take good care of him. You'll see."
She straightens and smiles down at you.
"That's enough for today. You're free until seven tonight. Dress rehearsal. Same place. Don't be late."
You stand on shaky legs. Your trousers are still undone. Your cock is soft, surrendered, hers.
You tuck yourself away. You zip your fly. You walk to the door.
She's standing in front of the mirror, adjusting her hair, not looking at you.
"Thank you for your service."
The words land like a benediction. Like a receipt. Like proof that something has been exchanged, something irrevocable.
"Yes," you say. "Thank you."
The door clicks shut behind you.
And somewhere, deep in your chest, a part of you that you didn't know existed whispers:
This is the second in a new series about a mentalist who sees what men hide, a cruise ship that becomes a cage, and the seven days it takes for a virgin to learn exactly what his little guy is for — one whispered confession, one sealed envelope, one devastating prediction at a time.
Previously: The Mentalist Part I
Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.
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