The Mentalist: Part VII — The Inversion
The summons comes just before midnight.
Not a knock — a steward brings a note, folded once, Laurie's handwriting on the inside: Come to my suite. Now. Bring yourself.
Meredith is already there when you arrive. She's sitting on the edge of Laurie's bed — the real bed, not the narrow ship bunks but a queen with a duvet the color of cream — and she's bouncing. Actually bouncing.
Her knees together, her hands gripping the mattress, her whole body vibrating with something that can only be described as delight.
"There he is!" She jumps up. Grabs your hand. Squeezes. "Oh my God. Oh my God."
Laurie is standing by the porthole, a glass of wine in her hand, still in her silver dress from the second show. She hasn't changed. Her hair is still pinned. Her lips are still painted.
"Close the door, sweetheart. Sit down."
You sit. Meredith doesn't sit — she paces, circles, returns to the bed, bounces again. She can't contain it.
Laurie sips her wine. Watches you with those eyes — the ones that see through clothing, through skin, through the layers of resistance you've been building since the night she first whispered in your ear.
"Every cruise," she says, "I host a private show. One night. Selected guests only — invited by the Captain. Twelve couples. No cameras. No phones. No record of any kind."
She pauses. Lets the words settle.
"These shows are… more intimate than what I do in the theatre. More uninhibited. The guests are close — near the stage, near the performers. They're encouraged to unwind. To let their passions take them."
She smiles. Warm. Patient.
Meredith squeals. Actually squeals — a sound so bright and girlish it doesn't seem to belong in this cabin, in this conversation, in this life you're living now.
"It's a sex show," Meredith confirms, as though you might not have understood. She grabs your hands. Her eyes are shining. "And Laurie wants us to be in it. The performers."
"Performers," Laurie repeats. She sets her wine down. Sits across from you in the armchair by the window. Crosses her legs. The silver dress catches the moonlight through the porthole.
"You and Meredith. On stage. In front of our guests."
The room tilts. Your hands are still in Meredith's. Your little guy is resting in the cotton boxers you put on this morning — the plain ones, the ones that feel like a cage — and he doesn't stir.
He hasn't stirred since the countdown, since the carpet, since your own cum pooled on your tongue.
"You want me to —" You swallow. "To have sex. With Meredith. On stage."
Meredith giggles. Laurie smiles.
"Sweetheart," Laurie says, and her voice drops into that register — the warm honey, the slow current — "your little guy isn't designed for sex. We've established that. You know that. He knows that."
She nods toward your lap. "Don't you, little guy?"
Your cock twitches in response to her voice. Obedient. Faithful.
"So yes," Laurie continues. "You'll be having sex. But not in the way you're imagining."
She leans forward. Her elbows on her knees. Her eyes locked on yours.
"I've been working on something new. A performance I've never attempted. I call it Inversion."
The word hangs in the air. You don't know what it means. You don't ask.
"I need you to trust me," Laurie says. "Both of you. I need you to love each other, and I need you to trust me, and I need you to say yes."
Meredith is already nodding. Fast, eager, certain.
"I love him," she says. It's simple. It's true. She says it the way she'd say the sky is blue.
"I trust you," you whisper. And it's true too. That's the worst part. It's true.
"Good." Laurie stands. "The show begins in one hour. Meredith — there's a wardrobe in the bathroom. You'll find what you need. Go get ready."
Meredith kisses your cheek — quick, warm, electric — and disappears into the bathroom. The door closes.
"Are you afraid, sweetheart?"
The lounge is small. Intimate. Twelve couches arranged in a semicircle around a raised platform — not a stage, exactly, more like a bed. A large bed. White sheets. Soft lighting from sconces on the walls, amber and warm.
The guests file in. Couples. Older, mostly. Wealthy. The women in cocktail dresses, the men in jackets without ties. They take their places. Wine is poured. The lights dim.
The Captain and his wife sit in the center.
She's the woman from last night — the one who lowered her asshole onto your mouth in the dark. You would recognize her from her scent alone. She sees you. Her lips curve. She doesn't speak.
"Good evening," she says. Her voice fills the room without effort. "I'm Madam Lorien. And tonight, I'm going to show you something I've never shown anyone."
She pauses. The room is silent.
"Tonight, I introduce you to my protégé. A young woman I'll be taking on and training. A woman who is going to learn, tonight, what it means to take control."
She extends her hand. Meredith steps onto the platform.
She's dressed differently now. A black silk robe, floor-length, belted at the waist. Her hair is down — loose, blonde, falling past her shoulders.
She looks older. Commanding. Beautiful in a way that makes your chest tighten.
"This is Meredith," Laurie says. "And this —" She extends her other hand. You step up. The light finds you. You're in a white robe, thin, nearly transparent. Your little guy is visible beneath it — soft, small, resting in a pair of silk panties Laurie selected for you. "— is our assistant."
Laurie turns to the audience. "Tonight's performance is called Inversion. I've never attempted it before because I've never had a male assistant before. But tonight — tonight, we're going to do something transgressive."
She looks at you. Then at Meredith. Then at the audience.
"Inversion will swap their sexuality. Where he once saw himself as the man, he will now see himself as the woman. And Meredith, who has always been the woman, will now see herself as the man."
A murmur ripples through the audience. A woman in the front row leans forward. Her husband's hand tightens on her knee.
Laurie turns to Meredith. She whispers in her ear — something long, something low, something you can't hear but can feel, a vibration in the air that makes the hair on your arms stand.
Meredith's eyes change. Not all at once. Slowly. A shift in the set of her jaw. A widening of her stance. Her shoulders square. Her chin lifts.
She looks down at you — and the look is different. Not Meredith's look. Not warm, not girlish, not soft.
A man's look. Hungry. Certain. Possessive.
Laurie whispers in your ear.
Your cock — your little guy, resting in his silk panties — is gone. Not gone. Transformed. Where he was, there is something else. Something smaller. Something softer. A warmth. A wetness. A pulse that isn't his.
You reach down. Your fingers find the silk. And beneath it — not a cock. A clit. Small, swollen, sensitive. And below that — an opening. A pussy. Your pussy.
"Good girl," Laurie murmurs. Only you can hear. "Don't be afraid. This is what you were meant to feel."
Meredith steps toward you. She unties her robe. It falls open. Beneath it — a harness. Black leather straps around her hips, her thighs. And between her legs — a cock.
Not a dildo, not to her. To her, to the woman whose eyes have changed, whose stance has shifted, whose jaw has set — it's real. It's hers. It's hard.
She strokes it. Her hand wraps around the shaft and she pulls — slow, confident, the way Bobby must have stroked himself before he fucked and split her open on the bunk that smells like him.
"On your knees," Meredith says. Her voice is different. Lower. Commanding. Not unkind — never unkind — but certain. The certainty of someone who has a cock and knows what it's for.
You kneel. The platform is soft beneath your knees. The white sheets are cool against your skin. Meredith's cock is in front of your face — thick, dark, the head swollen and glistening.
"Mmmmmph—" The sound is muffled. Your lips wrap around the head. The shaft slides over your tongue. You can taste it — salt, silicone, something faintly musky. Your mouth fills with her.
"Nnnngh —" You gag. She pulls back. Pushes in again. Deeper. Your throat opens. Your eyes water.
"That's it," Meredith says. Her hand finds the back of your head. Her fingers grip your hair. "Good girl. Take it. Take my cock."
She fucks your mouth. Slow at first. Then faster. Her hips rock forward and the cock slides in and out — over your tongue, past your tonsils, into your throat.
You breathe through your nose. You swallow. You try to keep up.
In the audience, a woman drops to her knees in front of her husband. She unzips him. Takes his cock into her mouth. Another couple follows. Then another.
"Gggghh — nnnngh —" The sounds from your throat are wet, raw, desperate.
Meredith holds your head and fucks your face and you take it — you take all of it — because this is what your mouth is for. This is what you were made for.
She pulls out. Your mouth is empty. Your chin is wet. You gasp.
Meredith looks down at you. Her expression has shifted — not Meredith's expression anymore, not the warm, girlish smile. Something else. Something heavier.
Her eyes are half-lidded, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. She's looking at you the way Bobby must look at her. The way men look at women who are on their knees.
"Look at me, sweetheart," she says. Her voice is low. Soft. The way a guy talks to a girl after she's done something that pleased him. "Look at me."
You look up. Your eyes are watering. Your lips are swollen, slick with saliva. You feel — small. Pretty. Something you've never felt before. Something that has nothing to do with being a man.
Her finger finds your cheek. Traces the line of your jaw. Runs across your lower lip — slow, deliberate, the way you'd trace the edge of something delicate.
"You're such a good little cocksucker," she murmurs. The words are sweet. Tender. She says them the way someone might say you're so beautiful or I'm proud of you. "That's it. That's my good girl."
Your face burns. Your stomach flutters. Not your cock — he's still sleeping in his silk panties, untouched, irrelevant. Something else. Something deeper. The place that Laurie opened, the place that isn't a cock anymore.
"Give it a little kiss," Meredith says. She tilts her cock toward your lips. The head is wet, glistening, flushed dark. "Just a little one. Right on the tip."
You lean forward. Your lips find the head. You kiss it — soft, gentle, the way you've never kissed anything before.
Not a mouth, not a cheek, not a girl. This. This hard, warm, swollen thing that belongs to the woman who used to be your girlfriend and is now — something else. Someone else.
"Good girl," she breathes. Her hand slides to the back of your head. Her fingers thread through your hair. "Now open."
She pushes back inside. Slow. Deep. Past your tongue, past the resistance, past the place where your throat tries to close — and then deeper, all the way, until your nose is pressed against her and your throat is full of her and you can't breathe, can't think, can do nothing but hold still and take it.
She holds you there. Her hips pressed against your face. Her cock buried in your throat. She looks down at you — and her expression is something you've never seen on Meredith's face before. Pride. Ownership. The look of someone who has claimed something.
"You're so pretty down there," she says. Her voice is barely above a whisper but it fills your skull. "On your knees. Sucking your first cock. Such a pretty girl."
"Gggghh —" Your throat vibrates around her. Your eyes are streaming. Your hands grip the sheets beneath you — white-knuckled, desperate, holding on.
She pulls back. Lets you breathe. You gasp — a ragged, wet, shuddering breath — and she pushes in again, and again, and the rhythm builds, and you're not choking anymore, you're sucking, your cheeks hollowing, your tongue working, your throat opening like it was made for this.
"Good girl," Meredith says. "Good little cocksucker. Take it all."
She strokes your cheek. Her thumb traces your lower lip. "Now. On the bed. On your back."
You lie down. The sheets are beneath you. The audience is above — faces in the amber light, watching, touching, fucking. A woman two couches back is riding her husband, her head thrown back, her mouth open.
Meredith climbs between your legs. She reaches for something on the bedside table — a bottle. She pours it onto her fingers. Warm. Slick.
Her hand finds you. Finds the place where your little guy used to be — the place that is now wet, open, aching. Her finger circles the opening. Presses. Slides inside.
"Aaaahhh —" The sound that comes from you is high, breathless, feminine. Your back arches. Your legs spread wider. Her finger is inside you — inside your pussy — and the sensation is unlike anything you've ever felt.
Not the tight pull of your cock, not the sharp pulse of your own hand. Something deeper. Something warmer. Something that radiates outward from the place where she's touching you and fills your whole body with light.
She adds a second finger. Stretches you. You moan.
"Nnnnngh — oh — oh God —"
"Does that feel good, baby?" Meredith's voice is low. Her eyes are on yours. She's watching your face the way Laurie watches — reading every flicker, every tremor.
She adds a third finger. You gasp. Your hips buck against her hand. The wetness is pooling beneath you — your wetness, your pussy's wetness, soaking into the white sheets.
In the audience, a woman is on all fours. Her husband is behind her. Another woman is beneath her, mouth on her breasts. The room is filling with the sound of sex — wet, rhythmic, the slap of skin on skin, the chorus of moans and gasps.
Meredith withdraws her fingers. You whimper at the loss — the emptiness, the ache.
Then you feel it. The head of her cock. Pressing against your opening. Wet with lube. Warm.
"Tell me you want it," Meredith says.
"Tell me you want me to fuck you."
"I want you to fuck me. Please. Please fuck me."
"AAAAHHHH —" The sound tears from your throat. Your whole body seizes. The cock fills you — thick, deep, relentless — and the sensation is beyond anything.
Beyond the countdown. Beyond the carpet. Beyond every late-night fantasy in every dark room of your life. This is what it feels like. This is what you were missing. This is what your little guy was never meant to give you.
She fucks you. Slow at first. Then faster. Her hips drive forward and the cock slides in and out — in and out — and each thrust hits something inside you, a spot, a button, a place that sends sparks through your spine and into your skull.
"Nnnngh — nnnngh — oh — oh — oh God — oh Meredith — please — please don't stop —"
"Good girl," she breathes. Her hands grip your hips. She pulls you onto her. "Good girl. Take it. Take all of it."
The audience is fucking. The room is a symphony of bodies — couples tangled, moaning, gasping. The Captain's wife is on her knees, her face buried between another woman's legs. The Captain is behind her, his hands on her hips.
And you — you're on your back, your legs in the air, your pussy full of Meredith's cock, and your little guy — your real little guy, the one who's been sleeping in his silk panties this whole time — is twitching. Stirring. Rising.
Not because anyone is touching him. Because of what's happening inside you. Because of the button Meredith is pressing, the spot she's finding, the place that makes your whole body sing.
Your cock hardens. Strains. Leaks. It juts from your silk panties — small, rigid, desperate — and no one touches it. No one needs to.
"Aaaahhhh — I'm — I'm going to — something's happening — something —"
"Let it happen, baby," Meredith says. She fucks you harder. Faster. The cock slams into your button with every thrust. "Let it come."
Your whole body tightens. Your back arches. Your pussy clenches around her cock and your little guy — your poor, faithful, sleeping little guy — erupts.
"AAAAHHHHH — oh GOD — oh GOD — ohhhhhhh —"
The cum shoots from your cock without being touched. Hands-free. Pulse after pulse — thick, white, arcing through the air, landing on your stomach, your chest, your chin.
Your pussy spasms around Meredith's cock. Your whole body shakes. The pleasure radiates from inside you — from the button, from the place you never knew you had — and it fills you, floods you, breaks you open.
"Nnnnngh — nnnngh — mmmmm — oh — oh — ohhhhhhh —"
You collapse. The sheets are wet beneath you. Your cock softens. Your pussy still pulses — aftershocks, tremors, the echo of something that has rearranged every cell in your body.
Meredith pulls out. She lies beside you. Her hand finds your cheek.
"Good girl," she whispers. And then, softer: "Good boy."
Laurie takes the stage. The audience is still fucking, still moaning, still lost in the world she's created. She doesn't stop them. She lets them have it.
She takes your hand. Takes Meredith's hand. Leads you both off the platform, through the lounge, past the tangled bodies and the wet sounds and the amber light, back to her suite.
The bed is still warm. The duvet is still cream-colored. The porthole lets in the moonlight.
Laurie lies on one side. Meredith on the other. You in the middle. Their bodies curl against yours. Their hands find your stomach, your chest, the place where your little guy rests — soft, spent, faithful.
"You were wonderful," Laurie whispers. "Both of you. The best I've ever seen."
Meredith's breathing slows. Her hand rests on your cock — gentle, protective.
Your eyes close. The taste of cock lingers on your tongue. The phantom of a pussy still pulses between your legs. Your little guy is quiet, soft, empty.
This is the seventh in a 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 | The Mentalist Part II | The Mentalist Part III | The Mentalist Part IV | The Mentalist Part V | The Mentalist Part VI
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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