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Lilly Lace rated it really liked it Dec 03, This story hits all the right buttons, as a young man finds himself caught in a whirlwind of events, and seduced into femininity. The fear he must feel knowing that his deepest hopes are coming to fruition. Mar 24, Jeff rated it really liked it. I think the idea for the setup is a lovely way to coerce our man into the world of fetish! Taking What He Wants She knew it was so wrong but she couldn't help wanting him. I will be testing the information you provide me with for confirmation. Gauging whether they want to play with the idea of a non-consensual relationship, or whether they want you to go all out can be challenging.
The Fab Four on parade! The light was so bright now, and Monica moaned…. The light was normal now, less charged and hot. Her left hand had stopped midway to her mouth, carrying a palmful of come to her lips, and her right was struggling to rub her burning cunt through the soaked denim. William chuckled, already buckling his belt. Monica dropped her hand, overwhelmingly mortified, and William shook his head. Keep cleaning yourself up like you were. I like watching you. Her spirit broken, Monica resumed her hand-to-mouth self-cleaning. William retrieved his jacket, eyes never leaving her as she carried out her assigned operation: Wish I had a camera.
Monica looked up in shock, but William was already heading for the door. Of us, I mean? William laughed out loud, incredulous. Her, I want to date; you I just want to fuck. You, on the other hand, are a plaything. A cock-teasing princess, playing at being special when all she really needs is to be fucked stupid, over and over. A sex-toy, for men to play with when they want an easy lay, then set aside for the next guy. A big rack, soft lips, and a hot cunt, nothing more.
He took her silence as a reply, and opened the door. Look for your instructions between now and then, and clear off your schedule for that evening. Monica watched him go numbly. Why is this happening to me? Why does his come taste so good? She stood groggily and slumped onto the couch, nearly exhausted. She came less than five minutes later, rocking and crying and shuddering and sobbing and… and… She came hard, heart hammering double-time, biting the meat of her palm to keep from screaming out.
It was good, but not nearly as good at the one she had in the shower fifteen minutes later. On Thursday, Monica was actually relieved to find her envelope during her lunch hour — anything to break the suspense. Latex or lace, your call, but I want it done full-out. Biting her lip, Monica sat at her kitchen table and began to jot down some hurried notes on what she needed to get. Monica stirred her drink and glanced around the room anxiously, trying to look for William while avoiding eye contact with anyone else.
William was late, probably on purpose, leaving her to fend for herself in a nightclub full of preeners, posers, and what looked like genuine Children of the Night. There seemed to be three cardinal rules to the look: Easy enough; a pair of side-tying black satin panties and some slinky thigh-highs worked perfectly. The latter would stay up on their own, but Monica had tied red ribbons on the tops of the stockings, giving the illusion of an old-fashioned garter.
It was trimmed with red ribbons, and lifted her already-sizable breasts up and in, giving her a truly amazing amount of cleavage. Next came the skirt, a breathtaking layered number, the folds all in different shades of black and dark red. A secondary layer of crinoline puffed it out and away from her legs, modestly falling a few inches below the knee. Fashionably Victorian, it narrowed tightly in the middle, giving her an absurdly tiny waist when the corset was cinched in.
Monica loved the rustling noise it made when she walked, reminding her of dead leaves on an autumn night. Monica waffled for a while on footwear, unable to decide between stiletto heels and boots. High-laced, they came up to mid-shin, leaving a playful expanse of stockinged leg between hem and boot-top. And finally, the accessories: Oddly, the makeup had been the hardest.
Monica struggled to apply the layers of foundation, heavy eyeliner, and dark eye shadow her role required. She had already received a lot of compliments and more than a few passes from the club denizens who roamed around her, male and female alike. Another look around the club, and she made her way through the press of bodies towards the bar, needing something to do. She leaned over the bar to make herself heard, and put in her order. The bartender took her money without a word and turned to make her drink, taking her order well ahead of several others waiting.
Must be my charisma, she thought.
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I might have to visit here again… under different circumstances. Monica turned, startled, to see a beautiful woman sitting beside her. With a knockout figure, captivating green eyes, long red ponytail, and a shiny all-black micromini, the newcomer would have stood out in any crowd, even this one.
The redhead took a swig of her drink and clucked her tongue. I saw you come up to the bar, saw so many people watch you go. Maybe someone… like me.
But things were different here, now. Her voice dropped to a thrilling whisper. Like a slutbunny gone astray. Like a little lost slave, looking for someone to master her, to own her. A slave who needs something very, very badly. Her fingers were having their desired effect on Monica, already lubricating at the unprovoked assault. I think you want this, little kitty.
I think you like this a lot. I think you want it. Want me to do it. Or are you still waiting for someone, my sweet little pussy-cat?
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He was dressed simply, in a black t-shirt and blue jeans, but his face held a protective wariness Monica was glad to see. Monica suffered a moment of confusion, not knowing what to do, where to turn. Everything seemed so crazy, so upside-down and mixed up! But her befuddled mind recognized William, for what that was worth, and she spoke without really meaning to.
Rose Red, at your service. Sometimes I pet her while she laps up her cream. Rose let out a sparkling laugh, unfeigned delight. I thought she looked domesticated. Does she enjoy licking as much as she enjoys her cream? She seems so affectionate. That gives me an idea.
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No one gets to play with you but me. You act, speak, and look the part, no matter what it is. Monica nodded rapidly; she would do anything to not get loaned out. If that meant compromising what little dignity she had left, so be it — it would only be with one man, after all. Nearly an hour went by, and Monica was getting antsy. William seemed to be enjoying himself, drinking, dancing, generally having a good time.
Monica put on her best face, mimicking the crowd around her to put on a convincing show of having a blast. When he danced, she danced as sensually as she could, on display for his gratification, shouldering aside memories of her earlier high-energy debut. When he moved close, she ground her hips into his, sighing when he groped her in full view.
When he moved away, she teased him, mock-pursuing or pretending to be momentarily attracted to any nearby female dancer. When they rested, she gave herself over to his advances, making out like a schoolgirl in heat. As time went on, something strange came over Monica. Something stirred in her, something sexual, hot and mammalian and irrepressibly female.
The music seemed to carry her, guide her, awaken every nerve in her milky skin. She felt alive, electric, magnetic and irresistible and so very aroused …. She needed to leave, and soon. But to no avail; an hour of constant arousal had frustrated her to her breaking point. Monica felt her pussy clench up at the word, a telling statement about how turned on she was.
Her loins ached, throbbing with need, and she nearly plowed headlong into a large group of people on her way out. God, look at me! That was no act. I need him to fuck me, now! As her Master turned the key in the ignition, she craned her neck to see if there was enough room in the back seat to accommodate them both. Monica clambered over to mount him, kissing his face and neck in urgent distress.
Her hands were tugging his manhood free as he untied her panties, soaked through with her desire. She raised herself up as high as she could in the cramped confines, hitching up her skirt and fumbling to position him right… there! Monica sank herself down on his sweet cock with a feral growl, seizing his headrest in both hands for support. She held him inside for a moment, breathlessly savoring the sensation of his hard maleness. His cock felt enormous, threatening to split her in two with its unbearable breadth and length. Monica could feel every inch of him in her, every vein and pore as she plunged on it over and over, impaling herself on that sublime, heavenly cock.
Oh, God, Master, yes! William had taken hold of her hips, gripping them for dear life as the girl went wild, fucking herself with wanton abandon. Her eyes were closed, her mouth shaping wordless syllables of lust as she brought them closer to orgasm, closer and closer, until…. His seed shot into her and she hung, transfixed at the moment of orgasm until his second spurt sent her over the edge.
Her howl of liberation joined his own, and she collapsed onto him, body wracked in spasms of release Monica opened her eyes. They all saw us, they saw me fucking him and coming and ohmygod… She stared out the window, paralyzed. Monica scrambled off, trying to conceal her face without looking like she was hiding. Mortified, upset, and powerless to do anything about it, she rode home in silence, taking the well-earned photo from William when he dropped her off without a word. He came quickly enough, and Monica walked back to her room with the taste of his semen intermingling in her mouth with her own juices.
For what it was, Monica admitted to herself, it was beautiful. For what it was. William had obviously put a lot of thought into her costume for the day; she had little doubt it would fit her perfectly. Even though last week, I… no! Forget how you looked, forget what you did. Forget what he did to you, how he made you come all over his… Stop it. Just get through today. She drew on the stockings first, a pair of wide-meshed fishnets with gathered seams running down the back.
The lace garter belt held them in place, already adjusted perfectly for her height. Of course he knows my size. Next came an intricately-patterned pair of black lace panties, French-cut of course. She put them on over the black satin garter belt, reasoning she might need to remove her panties well before the belt, if she ever took her stockings off at all. The material felt strange going on, gliding smoothly over her freshly-shaved pudendum, another specification of her instructions.
Monica soon determined why they felt so strange: For all their apparent elegance, the panties were crotchless. The matching black bustier was snug in the back, but a few adjustments to the straps made it bearable. The bottom was even more restrictive than the top, compressing her ribcage several inches, at least as far as she could tell. Better not get out of breath in this thing, Monica thought, Feels like a flight of stairs could wind me!
The dress itself was black silk, with white lace trim. No maid, French or otherwise, ever worked in such a getup, at least not in any domestic capacity. The back was similarly low-cut, leaving most of her smooth back bare, discounting the ornamental ribbons holding it closed. Only as she was tying the costume in place did she notice the last, and most dramatic, alteration.
Lace trim abounded, naturally, but the skirt part had taken it to extremes. The crinoline how do I know what to call it? Monica wondered was starched and reinforced, pressing the skirt out at almost right angles to her legs. Since the hem had only came to mid-thigh to begin with, the final effect was quite… pronounced, especially when walked; the whole thing had a tendency to sway from her hips, moving as a unit and exposing her with every step she took. Monica had expected cheap fabric held together with glue; instead, the lace and silk were soft, the stitching well-concealed and surprisingly strong.
Someone spent a pretty penny on this, Monica surmised. A few items remained on the bed, hidden until now under the dress, and she donned them with meticulous care. A delicate pair of fingerless lace gloves, clasped at the wrist. A black ribbon choker, unornamented but for the lace trim.
Dangerous-looking three-inch stiletto heels, the patent leather shined mirror-bright.
Patting the useless headpiece into place into her perfectly-coiffed hair, Monica took a long look at herself in the full-length mirror, making the necessary last-minute adjustments. It was about as revealing as it could possibly be and still be recognizable, cut far too high here and way too low there. There was no way she could ever wear it in public, not even as a joke or at a costume party, but it somehow managed to avoid being completely trashy.
The girl in the reflection looked vulnerable, docile, sexual in her implied servility. I guess it fits, though. She turned sideways, noting how flattering the archaic uniform was on her.
I can see why men dig it, she mused. Monica heard the key turning in the lock, and was in position, front and center, by the time her Master made his entrance. She was the very epitome of the erotic French maid: Naturally, a French maid had to speak French. The appearance, the feel of her role was more important than the actuality; it was unlikely that William would be asking for a scholarly discourse any time soon. As if to confirm her thoughts, William stepped behind her lifting her abbreviated skirt to inspect his prize domestic. Monica inhaled sharply as an inquisitive finger dragged across her shorn mound, withdrawing after a momentary caress.
Stepping back in front of her, his lips held a glimmer of a smile. Still feeling his gaze on her, she bent over a few steps away, picking at a non-existent piece of lint on her shoe. She dawdled a bit, just long enough to stretch the credibility of the moment before recovering, smothering a private smile.
She understood her role was to tempt him until he had to have her, and that was exactly what she planned to do.
As much as he can take, as many times as he can take it… or me! She spun, cheeks reddening, and tried to compose herself. Monique turned and closed the lid to the washer. What a fine ass you have, ma cherie. Her eyes closed while his hands roamed freely, lovingly kneading her rear. And then he stopped. The silk of her uniform slid easily on the slick finish, but she managed to finally find a perch without completely losing her balance.
Her hands gripped the front edge tightly, and she looked at William, questioningly.
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In a sitting position, the stiff petticoats held the bottom of her dress out at a steep angle from her thighs, giving her Master an almost unobstructed view between her legs. Monique gasped involuntarily as the washer abruptly switched itself into spin cycle. Further and further she exposed herself to his gaze, until she bolted suddenly upright. As before, the shift brought her labia in almost direct contact with the thrumming washer, separated from its vibrating surface by nothing but a gossamer-thin layer of fine lace. Monique reluctantly obeyed, not wanting to lose what little control she had over her situation.
And I think you know what I mean by that. And right now, my desire is to watch you come all over a household appliance. It took a long time.
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William stayed and watched the whole thing, only stirring himself to restart the washer when it ran down. William helped her down, wiping the bright afterimage spots from her eyes, then instructed the weak-kneed girl to change her panties before resuming her duties. Monique set the pot down on the drying rack and dried her hands on a dishtowel. The mountains of dishes still waiting for her attention remained considerable: Turning, she saw William put down his teacup, quietly reading the paper. Tugging from the front, for example, brought her creamy breasts more sharply into the foreground, while tugging from the back gave her Master a diverting garters-and-panty shot to relish.
Under his guidance, she leaned back into a semi-recline, supported by her elbows. Her pussy pulsed dizzyingly when his warm breath rolled along the expanse of nylon on her legs, and up further caressing her bare thighs. Hazily, Monique realized she was still aroused from her strange climax only an hour ago.
The parties and boys seemed to blur together. She barely felt his strong hands, pressing them apart, keeping her exposed, open, vulnerable, his. And she was on her knees on the linoleum, still shuddering with after-spasms, her sight blotchy and blurred. Monique dove onto it eagerly, suckling his hot member like a starving woman. She was a French maid, a sex-toy dressed up to tempt and tease and taunt, and William was her Master.
She had already come twice today, came when and where and how he told her to, and he had watched her do it, watched her writhe and squeal and call him Master. She would play for him, with him, take it any way he wanted her to take it. She would suck him off, suck him dry, take that beautiful gorgeous delicious cock between her lips and thighs and asscheeks and make him come …. She was sobbing again, the throes of a small but real orgasm making its way through her nervous system. Brush your teeth, fresh makeup and panties, then meet me in the bathroom. Monique changed and freshened up briskly, and was ready with a towel when William emerged from the shower.
She stole a long look as he dried himself vigorously, willingly risking potential punishment for this first chance to see her Master in the nude. I wonder why that is? His girlfriend is one lucky woman. Maybe as lucky as….