Your Place or Mine, Chapter 2
As I was kneeling on her couch with my ass exposed to her, having chosen to kneel on the left side instead of the right, my mind kept wandering towards the gun.
As advertised, she’d proven clever enough not to include using the gun on myself as a choice, a tactic I figured she’d use to force me into performing whatever alternative. But would I choose the alternative? Would I actually choose the gun and the final freedom it would provide over what threatened to be a lifetime of slavery?
It was hard to tell. I found that I couldn’t quite place the logic or process behind many of the choices I’d made. It was as if her propositions often spoke to my subconscious, for in most cases I answered before having ample time to ponder them on any conscious level. Some decisions were easy to make after conscious consideration, but some were made without consideration at all. It wasn’t as if I’d considered, “Well, I don’t really want to wear panties but I bet those nipple clamps hurt, and actually the idea of being dressed in panties by this attractive woman is kind of kinky, so I guess I’ll go with the panties.” My responses were usually immediate and made by some sub-process of my mind when my own conscious mind was left stunned by the choices she laid out for me, as if a time limit were in effect that would be met by my subconscious if my conscious thought process wasn’t expedient enough. And that time limit was incredibly brief. I imagine that if I didn’t immediately choose suicide over another terrible action presented to me, whatever part of me responsible for the decisions would opt for the latter merely out of an instinct for self-preservation. Or perhaps that part of me could override my own impulsive decision regardless of how decided I was on the matter.
A sharp smack to my ass brought me back to the moment. “I’ve been wondering what people think about while this is happening,” she said. “And I can tell you’re a little lost in thought. Will you share what you’re thinking with me and answer all my questions candidly, or would you rather suck my cock after I fuck you with it?”
“I’ll share what I’m thinking with you and answer all your questions candidly,” I responded, answering the question in her preferred manner as always. “I was wondering what I’d do if you gave me the choice to shoot myself, especially now that I know I might become your slave forever.”
“There’s no might about it,” she said nonchalantly as I felt the tip of the dildo ease into me again. I groaned, more from having my fate definitively yet casually spelled out for me than from pain.
“So what do you think you’d do?” she asked as she began to move slowly in and out of me.
“I... don’t really know, because I don’t know what part of me is making the decisions. It’s not always like I think equally about both options you give me.” I answered her with the same sort of disembodied, reflexive obedience as I performed one of her choices with, and I realized that her condition of me answering all her questions candidly was, as usual, no trivial addition—it would very likely inform my responses to her every time. For the rest of my life for all I knew.
“Interesting. You know, this power is still kind of new to me. I’m still kind of figuring it out... how it works, how powerful it really is.” She laughed. “It’s been a hell of a lot of fun for me, that’s... for... SURE!” She punctuated each of the last three words with a particularly hard thrust into me.
She stopped, her dildo still buried in me, and leaned until she was pressed against my back. I could feel her breath on the back of my neck. She reached around to my chest and tugged the nipple clamp chain slightly.
She fondled my nipples as she continued, now whispering in, I admit, incredibly erotic fashion, “About three months ago, I passed by this well-dressed business woman on the subway and whispered to her, ‘Would you rather quit your job, or finger your pussy right here, right now, right under your skirt, until you orgasm in two minutes?’ It was the first real test of the power I was discovering I had that was a sexual, non-consensual act, and it was the first time I really didn’t know what choice the person would make or how long it would take to make. And it took her less than a second to put her hand up her skirt. I stood on the other side of the subway and watched. She couldn’t stop. She looked around in horror as she finger fucked herself until she came. People started to notice but she couldn’t stop. And after she came she sat down and started crying. I wonder what happened to her. Does that turn you on?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I thought so. Anyway, what I’ve wondered about is whether there was some side to her—and to other people—that WANT to do these depraved things. I’ve wondered if that’s the part I’m speaking to and liberating. I mean in the time it took her to decide, she couldn’t have really weighed the pros and cons of each choice. It makes me wonder what it feels like to be them. Part of me almost wants to be a victim of my own power, just once.”
Her lip brushed against my ear lobe.
“There’s a part of you that’s loving this, isn’t there?” she asked in the sexiest whisper I think I’ve ever heard.
“There is. Oh God...”
“You wouldn’t use that gun on yourself, would you?”
“No,” I said, and I guess I had my answer.
“I can make you like being fucked by me. Do you want me to?”
“Yes.” I suppose my answer was influenced by the fact that I knew she’d fuck me anyway. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway.
“I will... but you have to ask me.”
“Please...”
“Please what?”
“Please... stop! Please just let me go!”
She laughed. “You’ve surely figured out I’m not that kind of person by now. Knowing that, what do you want to ask me?”
“Please make me like...”
“Yes?”
“...being fucked by you.”
“Up the ass?”
“Yes... up the ass.”
“I like to fuck hard. It’s the only way I can come when I fuck you. Do you want to like that?”
“Yes.”
She gave me a violent and painful thrust.
“ASK IT!” she yelled into my ear loud enough to startle me.
“Make me like it hard! Please make me like being fucked hard up the ass by you!!”
“Okay, are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to make the right choice?”
“Yes!”
She pulled away from me. “I want you stand in front of the couch and look at me. Do that, and I’ll give you the choice.”
I assumed the position she asked of me. She had removed the robe entirely since the last time I’d had a chance to see her. Her black leather harness was complimented by a matching leather bra that nicely accentuated what I realized were full and gorgeous breasts... at least a C cup. The bra cups were fastened together by a small metal ring. Her long, dark pony tail had fallen over her left breast. She was taller than average, probably five eight or so, still shorter than me by a few inches. Yet, she seemed to tower over me. My gaze moved downward to admire her black stockings—also leather, by the look of them—held in place by a garter belt.
I swallowed hard and prepared to decide another aspect of my fate. And did I look forward to it? I think I did.
“Would you rather hate it when I fuck your ass, which you know is going to happen a lot? Or do you want to love being fucked up the ass by me?”
My reply was delivered with almost breathless urgency: “I want to love being fucked up the ass by you.”
As soon as the final word escaped my lips I became cognizant of my decision’s effect. The best way I can put it is that I felt it build within me, as if I inhaled it deeply. I gazed at her dildo with newfound lust. I was aware this lust was the result of her magic, but this knowledge did nothing to diminish it. If anything, it enhanced it. She had given me a love that coincided with one of hers. I knew she’d fuck me often, or at least, I hoped she would. The thought of her not fucking me when I needed it was now far, FAR more terrifying than the threat of her fucking me had ever been. How had I ever not wanted her to stuff my ass repeatedly and vigorously? It seemed impossible. It was now impossible.
It occurred to me for one second that I thought she’d merely make me like being fucked by her...
“Thank you,” I said to my surprise.
She marched towards me authoritatively and, before I knew it, had spun me around and shoved me against the couch. She looked like a fit woman but she couldn’t overpower me if I’d resisted. But of course, I hadn’t resisted. I knew what was coming. I felt my back arch as I thrust my ass into proper position, braced my arms against the back of the couch, looked over my shoulder at her, and said, “Hurry. Oh my God, please!” I was embarrassed, humiliated, and that made my desire all the more powerful. She had been cruel to me at times up to this point, but the cruelest thing she could do now would be to let me linger in this position of readiness and desperate wanting.
I felt her spread my cheeks apart, and a few second later she was in me, my emptiness mercifully eliminated. I breathed deeply as she entered steadily. I felt my face go lax in ecstasy, imagining myself wearing the expression of a female porn star. That turned me on even more, and I began to moan in unison with her thrusts. The moaning made it feel even better... so I did it louder. I wanted her to know how much I loved what she was doing to me.
Kneeling there, taking it, being topped by her... I had never felt anything this good during any sexual act in my life. I began driving myself into her, beside myself in ecstatic need and humiliation.
She quickened her pace and amplified her thrusts, and I winced.
“Oops, did I forget to add ‘hard?’” she teased. “Ohhhh, I did, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but...”
“But you still love it anyway?”
“Yes!!!”
“Yes, you. LOVE. Being. FUCKED. Like. THIS. Don’t you?” she taunted, the sentence heavily punctuated with hard thrusts.
“God yes!” I sighed.
Time lost meaning. All I know is that she fucked me longer than I’ve been ever been able to manage in her position, and more than once I felt incredibly impressed by—and grateful for—her stamina. She had made me come twice without ever touching my cock.
I knew there would be more choices to come, that some would result in unpleasant acts. I figured that if I were her, I’d do the same thing. But I came to realize that her power over me definitely presented benefits.
She finally slowed, then stopped, then withdrew from me with delicious patience. I collapsed on the couch. I heard her breathing heavily.
“What are you thinking,” she finally asked.
“That you’re not going to need that gun,” I said, which really was what I’d been thinking. Obviously, since I couldn’t lie to her.
She laughed, which made me feel good.
“You’re not off the hook yet. I’m still going to make you do fucked up things, because I get off on it.”
I exhaled. “I know,” I said with some resignation.
“How does that make you feel?”
“Humiliated. Helpless, submissive and weak.” My euphoria was fading, but I still added, “And turned on.”
She paused. “Do you want to continue loving being fucked by me, or would you like to return to normal?”
This was a choice I actually considered in the brief amount of time I had to respond. “I want to continue loving being fucked by you,” I said, despite being aware of the various connotations of the word “fucked.”
“Fascinating,” she said between heavy breaths, her approval obvious. “I have a French Maid’s outfit in that trunk over there. Put it on.”
I wasn’t compelled by her power to obey a direct command like that. “Now?” I asked, still resting.
“Yes, now.”
I walked to the trunk and opened it.
“I suppose you might as well know what turns me on, not like you can do anything about it but take it. Obviously and conveniently, mind control. And you know about my strap-on fetish, and you’ll take and suck bigger and bigger cocks. But I also love to feminize men, make them wear sexy lingerie for me, so you’ll never wear men’s underwear again. I’ll be tying you up at some point and paddling your ass. Your face will get to know my ass very well. I’ll... oh I know! Orgasm control and chastity!“
My heart sank as I began to put on a pair of black panties with white lace.
“Would you rather only be able to orgasm when I say you can? Or would you rather...” she hemmed a moment. “...require Presidential consent to orgasm?”
“I’d rather only be able to orgasm when you say I can,” I replied as I fumbled clumsily with the bra that matched the panties I’d put on. The implications of being her plaything were made clear once again. She would fuck me, and I would love that at least. But she would do all sorts of other things to me that I would not love. Such was my fate.
She continued listing things she’d fantasized about. I definitely didn’t like the sound of forced-bi.