"Wear my clothes; assume the role and position, slut-boy."
(shorter version with more spanking and less use of strap-on)
You whisper darkly with malice and revenge in your (female) eyes to me. You watch my middle aged (male) blue eyes through my up-to-date trifocals open suddenly, wide as spilt coffee, as you come home unexpectedly on an earlier flight this summer vacation in an Class C RV and visiting old ghost towns like Bodie and discover me half-asleep in your queen-sized bed, completely cross-dressed as a French maid (made to obey?) or schoolgirl, your femdom pornography besides me and opened up to some choice stories or photos.
Now you know why whenever you have me house-sit your place, the bed always smells funny (a male smell?) as you directed me to sleep on the couch and your clothes and certain personal items seem a little "bigger" when you return. And it isn't because you are following your Weight Watchers® diet.
Perhaps you are a college educated, non-smoking, pleasantly plump (accepted) woman of any height or race in her latte 20's to 50's who fantasizes about dominating a man, sexually, mentally, emotionally, physically or has always wondered what it would be like to be a guy and rape and ravish some innocent virgin "boy-girl" everywhere as they beg you stop, but hope you won't.
Nevertheless, you haven't had the opportunity in small town in Puget Sound, Washington and wish you could meet someone, even a guy who would top from the bottom and show you the ropes. Alternatively, maybe you have done it before but haven't had the chance to do it again for fear of what the neighbors would think or say as you adjust your bra strap, cross your arms, brush away your long dark hair, and angrily look at me.
"Just what do you think you are doing, young man?" you exclaim as you place your hands on your hips and observe my reaction as I wake up. I brush my receding short ash blond-brown hair, feel a little stubble on my clean-cut naked face, try to adjust the uncomfortable black polyester skirt 3” above my soon to be bending knees, white DKNY button down blouse of yours showing off my A cleavage and more, and realize that you are home early, very early. You ponder what kind of punishment would be appropriate as you wait for the answer.
"Nothing." I slowly say. I try to cover myself up with the new comforter. I attempt to avoid your penetrating eyes, the way I would attempt to but never succeed avoid the principal eyes when I was caught playing hooky, the new female boss when I was caught viewing porno sites at work, or a policewoman as she was about to search me, everywhere.
"Nothing, what?” You exclaim in annoyance.
“Nothing, Ma’am.” I reply obediently.
"You call this nothing, you little cross-dressing slut-boy?" you exclaim as you pull back the comforter to expose my naughty behavior.
"I was just curious, Miss Brie." I stammer. I feel myself getting aroused at the result of being caught, wondering what was going to happen next, smelling your sweaty smell after a long day traveling in the room and your aroma in the clothing around me, and feeling your silk panties wrapped around my thunder thighs, the white demi bra cutting into my hairy chest, and your white innocent stockings around my hairy legs. I knew you might catch an earlier flight but decided to take a chance instead.
"I mean you have such pretty things and guys don't have such nice things to wear. And I didn't think you would mind. Honest. I just wanted to try them on, just this once. Honest."
"Just this once?" You ask with the look of knowledge in your eyes as you gaze upon my gulping Adam's apple. I know that you know.
"Well, I ..."
I never get a chance to finish my evasive sentence. Suddenly, like a Praying Mantis going after her prey/mate, you roughly grab my arm, sit down on the hard, firm bed like a silicone butt plug, and drag my slutty cross-dressed vertically-challenged (5'5") HWP Jewish Peter Sellers look-a-like body over your eager moist thighs.
"What are you doing?" I protest.
I try to struggle but suddenly like a snakebite, I feel the whoosh of air as your angry hand descends like manna from heaven to connect against my covered panty clad ass. Then a smooth pain like a flash flood quickly develops near my lower portion of my cheeks. Finally the pleasure message is sent to my brain as the blood rushes to the surface of my bodacious buttocks after the first stroke of your annoyed but firm, outstretched, hand.
“What are you doing, what? And I don’t want to repeat it, you little faggot!” You shout in anger.
“Ma’am, please stop, it hurts.” I cry.
“And what else do you say when you are getting a spanking,” you shout.
“You shouldn't be doing this?" I bawl. “I know that I’ve been a bad boy.”
“And what else?” You yell. “Haven’t you been a bad boy who deserves a spanking?”
“Yes, Ma’am, I have. May I have another? But you shouldn’t be doing this.” I wail.
’"Shouldn't be doing, what, young man?" You ask in disgust as you shake your hand, stinging from the fresh blow. It has been a while since you punished someone. But now the memory of the pleasure of giving bushmen (men who like lesbians) and cross-dressed slut boys begins to return and you feel that familiar buzz return in your loins.
"Spanking me, Ma’am. You have no right." I whine. I try to get up but you now have my hands restrained, perhaps tied together with some extra pantyhose against my back and I feel the hardness developing like your dominance and gender role reversal.
Like a lightning bolt or divine retribution from the holy one, blessed be she, another blow descends as my body twists and turns. Again, my voice fills the room with my pleadings that I have been naughty and deserve to be punished everywhere followed by the proper title.
You begin to quiz me like the stern teacher I had in fifth grade whose favorite activity it seemed was having me stay after school for lectures, interrogations about how I was a "bad boy", and spankings. It seemed like I stayed after school a lot. Sometimes, I wondered if I deliberately got into trouble so I could be punished.
"No right, what?" You query as you cover my virginal mouth with mouth and then your left, your sinister hand as I feel another series of strokes arriving close to my other gate of pleasure and hear me gasp in pain and pleasure. It seems like I have always enjoyed being spanked, interrogated, and molested later. I just didn't want to admit it. Eight more strokes follow, like the number of days during Passover, before you allow me to speak or rise slightly and look at you.
"No right to spank me, ma'am." I finally blurt out as I realize what you want to hear me say and submit to your authority.
"Very good, slut-boy." You reply in a sneering voice. Your hand doesn't descend this time. You look at me the way a hunter looks at its prey. It's not likely that I am going to complain to anyone. After all, I would have to explain what I was doing. But then as you think about it, you realize who is in control and submissives don't have the right to tell you what to do or top from the bottom (unless you're a novice at this). I think I have escaped another connection. I am wrong.
"Whack" goes your hand again like a Ronald Reagan caricature as you fill the room with the sound of domination and my cries flutter like butterflies in the softly lit bedroom.
"You don't have the right to object being spanked, faggot." You hiss harshly. "I have every right." "You wore my clothes without my consent, you little sissy. I think you liked it. From now on, things are going to be different, you little cocksucker."
Your eyes are aglow like a burning bush. Something has been awakened within you. Something ancient and evil? Has the spirit of Lilith (first wife of Adam, later banned from Eden for being independent and refusing to submit to the will of Adam) entered you?
"No, ma'am," I say as I nod in final submission. I realize finally that I don't have a choice in what is going to happen to me. I know that you have me over the barrel. And you can do anything reasonable and consensual that you want to do.
I wonder what is going to be different and what you are going to do next. Part of me is afraid. Will I be partially disrobed and exposed, spanked, interrogated, sexually used like a toy and perhaps raped and ravished by yourself and/or your male and female friends, molested with dildos and strap-ons in both sets of cheeks as you flip a coin and shout "Heads or tails!" before choosing what part of my innocent body gets molested or just by yourself. Will I enjoy every minute of it because I really am a slut-boy? Part of me has fantasized having all these things happen to me and loving every minute of it. Because all men are sluts.
Or will you first force me to handle your used and "smelly" underwear and sniff each one to make sure it needs to be cleaned before doing your laundry? Cook and clean for you wearing girl's clothes or just plain nude, teasing me with your body, bringing me off because you feel like it (or because it is going to be part of our play), or ordering me to service or serve you whenever you feel like it whether it be bringing tea, giving a massage, or drawing a hot bath.
"You can start with my bath," you mischievously grin feeling more aroused this time. You anticipate having me dress you like a guy, including the cologne, wearing the rough manly clothes, binding your breasts and massaging and licking them after I free them (or not at all if you really want to play the role (to the hilt)), lubricating your pussy and ass with my eager semi-long misbehaving tongue while teasing me about how I am nothing more than a lesbo slut muff diver, and finally having me mount the strap-on inside you and over your clit for our maximum pleasure.
Then as we walk to the bath, you begin to plan in your devious mind how you will rape and ravish me and hear me beg stop (but hope you won't, of course). You like to play the game of "The Intruder in Miss Rogers Neighborhood". You look forward to grabbing me (still cross-dressed and squeaky clean) from behind, fondling my titties and ass, spanking me, interrogating me about my sexual preferences and experiences, rubbing your body against mine, searching me everywhere, hearing me plead you to not do this and laugh at me, exposing my privates, undressing you, forcing me to give you a "blow-job" so I understand what it is like to try to breath while a firm, curved banana or dildo is inserted or shoved down, perhaps "roughly", down my throat ("now you know what it is like to be a girl", and finally showing me what it is like to be impaled doggy style or by straddling you by being on top (the only time!) by a half a foot plus one inch (7") "cock" as you feel the male power within you rise to the surface like true love.
Maybe, a male friend of yours will participate as you flip a coin to see who gets heads or tails. Or strip poker with certain cards representing which parts of the body get serviced.
And you know you won't be the one cleaning the sheets the next morning.
"Beg me 'stop' (writing kinky bedtime stories), hope I won't."
Copyright 2003-2006 by Switchable Yento of Seattle. All Rights Reserved.
If this got you wet and you would like to consider acting it out, please feel free to email me.
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