Your Place or Mine, Chapter 3
I sat alone on the couch in her apartment, compelled to remain in there by yet another choice she laid out for me. It occurs to me now that there’s no adequate way to explain this state of being compelled, not in a world where spells are not known to exist. The second a condition of hers was chosen my actions were completely severed from my will. I wanted to leave, I could stare at the door, I could even make a motion toward it during my housecleaning routine, but the ability to reach for and turn the door knob was simply beyond me. My physical actions were entirely robotic.
Ah yes, my housecleaning routine. Before she had left she told me that I could either spend the time motionless on the couch, or clean her apartment efficiently when I grew tired of sitting. Fitting I suppose, given my complete French Maid ensemble. She also told me that I could shit or piss myself, or go to her bathroom when needed followed by the immediate re-insertion of a rather large butt plug. You’d think I enjoy this given my newly implanted love for her strap-on, but I guess it fell outside the parameters. The act of automatically, inexorably cramming that thing back in me after relieving myself only presented both the physical pain, and the mentally painful reminder of my condition.
The one time I had done so I took the opportunity to glance at myself in the bathroom mirror. It would be a brief opportunity—as soon as I’d placed the plug back in I’d robotically return to the couch as chosen. I stood in a bow-legged position, the black panties with white trim down just above the knees (I was incapable of dropping them beyond them without her order), nearly resting upon the black bows that were affixed to white fishnet stockings, the matching shoulderless dress looking embarrassingly out-of-place with my lack of a woman’s body but also humiliatingly appropriate given my status. She’d essentially transformed me into a freak, with the promise of embellishing the situation. I couldn’t deny the undercurrent of arousal that accompanied my shame, powerlessness, horror, anger and hatred. I suppose she’d tapped into a submissive side of me I’d repressed through her method of rape. My head sank as I finished placing the plug back in me, and I immediately walked back to the couch, taunted by the clicking sound of my own heels.
It would be all too understandable to wonder, “Why me?” in this situation, and I certainly did my share of it that afternoon. Whether coincidentally or through her own intuition, she had managed to pick a guy who’d entertained submissive fantasies from time to time. But the more interesting question to ponder was, “Why her?” And “how” for that matter. Why and how did this demented, ruthless, narcissistic woman with no scruples become endowed with this incredible power? I could easily imagine her becoming a villain with it—a sexy villain, sure, the sort you’d certainly fantasize about being conquered by, but still a villain and ultimately a dictator. Why didn’t this power fall into the hands of someone who’d use it towards greater means, like righting social wrongs or fighting corruption while only seldom succumbing to the temptation for sexual gratification? Why not somebody more... vanilla, and less like a monster from a Twilight Zone episode?
I heard footsteps approaching the door. I couldn’t tell but it sounded like they were generated by more than two feet. As I heard the jingle of keys outside I turned around, kneeled on the couch and buried my face in my arms against the back cushions. I chose this action over wearing the blindfold she’d left on the end table, admitting to myself that I hoped a fucking would result from this position while belatedly acknowledging the possibility that it may not be her administering it.
I could hear the door open, then close, then the sound of someone breathing short, frantic breaths. I was very doubtful that it was her.
“Well hello Isaac,” she said with malevolent cheer, the way a James Bond villain might while deliberating his fate after capture. “Very happy to see the choice you’ve made, though I DO like that blindfold.” I heard her approach the end table. “Please take it from me and put it on. There, that’s better. So, Chris works for the Seattle Police Department. He caught me speeding on the way home and, well, one thing led to another and I cajoled him into joining our little party.”
I heard a slap of what sounded like a hand on a naked ass, followed by a laugh.
“I guess I also figured another gun couldn’t hurt,” she added.
“So I got Chris to be nice and honest with me, and I asked him what he feels about sucking a stranger’s cock. Not surprisingly a macho guy like this thinks it’s disgusting and homosexual. I’m curious to see how far he’ll go before he caves and does it. He’s far less of a submissive bitch than you are Isaac... no offense.”
“Please,” I said, “Don’t do what I think you’re going to do. Please...” I wanted to say her name but realized that I didn’t even know it.
“Well I don’t see anyone else around here with a cock!” she responded. “It won’t make you gay. It just means you’re what I want you to be, that’s all. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes,” I responded with my newfound honesty.
“Anyway maybe Chris here would rather do anything else. Chris, would you rather kneel on your knees or return to work naked like that? There, that’s nice.
“So that over there is Isaac. His cock isn’t very big, and he’s dressed like a woman... going down on him would be much easier than some other guy I could find from a construction site. So you can just do it now and get this over with, or...”
My heart sank.
“...you can shove this up your ass.”
I have no idea what “this” was, but to my relief, it was clear that he chose it. She must have removed his ability to make much of a sound for I heard no grunting, but his breath began to quiver in a way that expressed horror and pain. Plus, I didn’t feel lips on my cock.
“Nicely done,” she said. “Wow, you’re really trying to make a point aren’t you? Unfortunately, I guess I’m just not patient enough for this kind of game after all, as Isaac knows.”
The thought had crossed my mind. I helplessly began to place this in perspective and realized that I’d much rather be in my position in his.
“Would you rather go down on me passionately until I tell you to stop, or Isaac?” Well that’s a simple fucking choice I thought, but to my surprise and dismay I felt lips wrap around my cock. And the word “passionately” certainly wasn’t lost, because within seconds the friction and speed intensified to, I must admit, very pleasurable degrees. I arched my back against the couch, stretched my legs out.
“Oh that’s it,” she said. “Wow, he’s good at this isn’t he Isaac?”
“Yes.... mmmmmmmm.”
“Does it feel just as good as when a woman does it?”
“Better,” I said to my shame, but it was obviously true. This was a fucking good blow job. I’d probably have come within 2 minutes if I’d had the ability to.
“Do you want to come Isaac?” she asked.
“Yes, please...”
“In a little while,” she said. I heard her exit the room, leaving the two of us to our condition—him unable to stop, me unable to come but desperately wanting to.
She returned a few moments later and told Chris to stop. I felt a light tough on the top of my cock, followed by her voice, “You can come now Isaac.” And I did, explosively, presumably all over Chris’ face.
She removed the blindfold from me as I lay recovering. I was staring at the ceiling, splayed out on the couch. “I want you to look at Chris,” she said.
I obeyed, wondering whether she’d ever have to present a choice to me to bend me to her will again. I slowly raised my head and to my infinite relief, Chris was not a man after all. Instead I saw a red-headed woman of average build and attractiveness kneeling near my feet, her face coated in my dripping cum, appearing to sob hysterically while not making a sound. Her hands were behind her back, likely locked together by her own handcuffs. The crucifix around her neck comprised her only clothing—the rest was in a pile by the door.
It occurred to me that she very likely had something rather large still crammed up her ass.
“Surprise!” she said, and I was yet again grateful to her. “I wasn’t completely making shit up though. Chris is quite homophobic, which I imagine is why she chose to go down on you instead of me. Even though you’re barely a man at this point anyway.” She pinched my cheek and shook it. “Awww, aren’t you now my little cock-loving sissy?“
“Yes,” I agreed meekly.
“That’s right. Now you, I’m just fucking with you because I can. But Chris actually did something to piss me off. I was only driving 8 miles over the speed limit and this BITCH pulls me over.” She kneeled behind Chris and angrily fondled whatever was in her ass. Chris’ eyes clamped shut and her crying magnified. “Not only that, but I gave her the choice of writing me a ticket or letting me off a warning. Guess what she chose! But of course I stopped her before she could.”
She bent over Chris again, their faces only inches apart. Chris’ soundless crying intensified and she looked down, defeated.
“I guess you’ll regret choosing that ticket for the rest of your life,” she said with genuine, terrifying sinisterness.
“You two can sit there still and quiet and think until I get back, or I can tattoo ‘slut’ on your foreheads.” We both chose the former.