Texan Sissy

I’m gonna die of embarrassment about this ask in the morning (I am stoned rn) but like I don’t even care because this is an anon anyway and oh my GOD I have transcended. or maybe descended? Ascended? I don’t fucking know dawg I am in every direction at once rn and that is exactly the point and I could not be happier

10/10 5 gold stars

Thank you! As I wrote this script I knew something was special about it. Actually the script also ended at about 25 mins but there was NO WAY I was letting this one be under 30 mins... You know, on principle. Hard fractionation needs to be how I like it. Really. REALLY. INTENSE.

Btw, if you haven't already heard my most intense audio ever, check it out here:

But everything is slightly lewd. The bigger stuffies have dildos strapped to their crotches and the smaller ones all have vibrators inside them. There's a TV for 'cartoon time' but it only shows an endless stream of hentai. The changing table has cuffs in case mommy needs to take care of a 'fussy' baby. Cute little picture books but they're all depicting the most deviant sex acts. A high chair with straps so mommy can lock the baby in for feeding time. A collection of chastity cages and belts patterned in bright pink and blues.

You are swimming when you feel something touching your feet, you scream loudly. Your friends at the shore laugh at you and tell you it's probably just a fish. You breathe hard, yeah, just a fish. You keep swimming, a bit further away, something touches your ass, grabs your leg. You scream again. They laugh, you might be the fish new favorite food. You laugh it off and keep swimming, your brain is just playing tricks on you.

Until it's not.

Until a slimy tentacle sneaks up on you and gets inside your mouth, pushing so far it triggers your gag reflex. It retracts. You try to scream but you can't. The tentacle doesn't go away. But a bunch more appear.

You can feel them everywhere. Holding your legs apart, taking your bikini off, pushing slimy tentacles into your pussy. Some grope your tits, little suckers grabbing into your nipples and making you squirm. Something probes your asshole, you struggle to get off its hold. You van't fight it off. It penetrates your asshole. You try to scream but you just get the tentacle in your mouth further down your throat. You gag, it retracts and starts a punishing pace. Fucking your pussy. Fucking your throat. Fucking your asshole. It shouldn't feel good, it shouldn't. But you with each trust something inside of you grows higher and higher until you are pushing back, until you are moaning around the tentacle in your mouth.

You come around the tentacles. They fuck you through it.

The library was silent after closing, the way Claire liked it best. Rows of books stood like patient soldiers, the air smelled of paper and lavender from the little sachet she kept in her cardigan pocket, and the only sound was the soft rustle of her modest wool skirt as she knelt beside the box of donated books.

Claire was twenty eight, small breasted, narrow-hipped, the kind of woman people described as “sweet” because they couldn’t think of anything else to say. Her brown hair was twisted into a tight, no nonsense bun; thick glasses perpetually slid down her small nose. Tonight she wore a cream turtleneck and a calf-length plaid skirt, thick tights, and sensible flats. She looked like the human equivalent of chamomile tea.

She unpacked the last of the donated books, humming under her breath, until her fingers brushed something that felt… wrong. One book remained at the very bottom, bound in black leather that seemed to drink the light. No title. No author. Only a single raised sigil on the cover that looked like a serpent devouring its own tail.

Claire hesitated. Every polite instinct told her to leave it in the “review later” pile. Instead her hand closed around it, and the moment skin met leather, a hot spark shot straight between her legs.

“Oh…!” She gasped, yanking her hand back, cheeks flaming. Just static, she told herself. Old building. Dry air.

But the book was warm. Pulsing. Almost… purring.

Claire glanced around the empty reading room, biting her lip. “This is silly,” she whispered aloud, the way she always did when nervous. 

“It’s just a book.” She said to herself.

She carried it to the circulation desk, sat in her creaky wooden chair, and opened it.

The pages were thick vellum, the text handwritten in crimson ink that looked wet. The first line made her breath catch.

“Power is not given. Power is taken with wet fingers and wicked smiles and dominance.”

Claire slammed the book shut, heart racing. 

“No. Absolutely not.” She said and stood up so fast her chair rolled back and hit the wall. 

“This belonged in the trash, or…or…”

Her thighs pressed together all on their own. A slick throb had started low in her belly, shocking in its intensity. She had never felt anything like it. Not from the chaste kisses she’d shared with Timothy on the Christmas party. Not from the romance novels she read with the covers turned inward.

Against every shred of good sense, Claire sat again. “Just one more page…” She bargained with herself. “Then I’ll put it away.”

She turned the page.

“Imagine how it feels to have a man on his knees, begging for the privilege of licking the sole of your shoe while you laugh…” the Book said.

Claire’s hand slid beneath her skirt before her mind caught up. The moment her fingers brushed the cotton panel of her panties she whimpered. She was soaked. Drenched like a harlot. 

Claire kept reading.

“You’re tired of being invisible, Tired of blushing and apologizing and shushing noisy people with that trembling little voice. You want to make them tremble.”

“No,” Claire whispered, even as two fingers slipped beneath damp cotton and found her clit. “I’m not… I’m not like that…”

But her hips rolled greedily. The book’s words crawled under her skin like hot smoke.

Claire’s breath hitched. She tried to pull her hand away. She truly did. Her wrist shook with the effort, but the book pulsed again, and her fingers plunged inside her instead, two at once, stretching her tight pussy with a wet squelch that echoed shamefully through the quiet library.

“Please… stop…” she whimpered, but her thumb kept circling, ruthless now. “I’m a good girl… I’m…”

“Good girls die forgotten. Bad girls are worshiped forever.” The book said seductive.

Claire’s glasses fogged. Tears of shame pricked her eyes even as her pussy clenched greedily around her thrusting fingers.

“I don’t want…oh Gosh…I don’t want to be bad…” Claire said, trying hard to resist the temptation.

“Liar. Say it. Say what you want.” The book told her.

Her back arched. The chair creaked dangerously.

“I… I want…” The words tasted like sin. “I want to be powerful.” Claire said, starting to slip to the books wicked temptations.

“Louder.” The book purred.

“I want them on their knees!” she cried, voice cracking. “I want them to beg! I want…oh fuck…I want to dominate  them and make them love me for it!”

The book flared crimson. Power surged into her like liquid fire.

Claire screamed as the orgasm took her, not the polite, fluttering release she’d once given herself under the covers, but a violent, ripping climax that bowed her spine and tore the bun from her hair. Her glasses flew off and shattered against a shelf. Brown locks lightened before her eyes, strand by strand, turning platinum, lengthening, writhing like snakes until they whipped themselves into a high, cruel ponytail.

Her modest sweater shredded as her breasts ballooned outward, round, gravity defying, clearly fake and proud of it. The plaid skirt melted into glossy black latex that hugged new, dangerous curves. Her sensible flats stretched, split, and reshaped into gleaming thigh-high boots with seven-inch stiletto heels that could punch through a man’s ego.

Claire’s last coherent thought was a terrified squeak. “NO!, I didn’t mean to….”

Then the woman sitting in the ruins of the chair opened her newly emerald eyes and smiled with blood-red lips.

She stretched luxuriously, admiring long black latex gloves that now sheathed her arms to the elbow. She cupped her new tits and laughed, a low, wicked sound that promised ruin.

“Poor little Claire.” she purred, voice velvet and venom. “So weak. So pathetic. Time for Mistress Corvina to have some naughty, delishous fun.” She purred with pure arrogance.

She rose, heels clicking like gunshots across the hardwood, and surveyed her new queendom. With a lazy flick of her wrist, bookshelves twisted into St. Andrew’s crosses and spanking benches. Card catalogs became cages. The circulation desk morphed into a gleaming throne of black leather and steel. Chains dangled from the ceiling like perverse wind chimes.

Corvina inhaled the scent of sex and power and moaned. “Perfect. My own little empire of suffering.”

The front door rattled.

Corvina’s smile sharpened to a blade. “And my first toy arrives right on schedule.”

Michael, Claire’s boss, stepped inside, keys still in hand, expecting to find mousy Claire working late again. Instead he froze, briefcase hitting the floor with a thud.

The woman lounging on the throne was a wet dream carved from nightmares—platinum ponytail slicing down a river of latex, tits heaving like sin made flesh, legs crossed with arrogant grace.

“Claire?” he croaked.

Corvina laughed, the sound dripping disdain. “Claire? Oh honey, that little worm is gone. I’m what crawled out of her corpse when she finally admitted what she wanted.” She uncrossed her legs, letting him glimpse the glistening heat between her thighs. “Kneel, Michael.” She said in a arrogant and dominate voice.

He tried to back away. “This is insane. I’m what happend to you and what…” He tried to say.

Corvina snapped her fingers. Michael’s knees buckled as if invisible hands had kicked them out from under him. He hit the floor hard, gasping.

“Good boy,” she cooed, rising from the throne. Each click of her heels was a countdown to his destruction. She circled him like a shark. “Look at you. Still thinking that sharp suit makes you somebody. You bullied sweet little Claire because it was the only way you could feel big, didn’t you?”

Michael’s mouth worked soundlessly.

Corvina stopped in front of him, lifted one razor heeled boot, and pressed the sole against his forehead, forcing his head to the ground.

”Say it, worm!” she whispered. “Say you’re pathetic!”

“Claire, what has gotten into you…”

“SAY IT!” She commanded.

“I…I’m pathetic,” he choked out, face crimson.

“Louder. Like you mean it.”

“I’m pathetic!” he shouted, voice breaking.

“Better.” She ground the heel just enough to make him whimper. “From now on you are Scumworm. You don’t have a name, a job, or a cock that gets to decide anything ever again.”

She reached down, ripped his belt open with one tug, and yanked his pants to his knees. His cock already shamefully hard sprang free. Corvina laughed again.

“Of course you’re hard. Disgusting.” She said mockingly.

She produced a gleaming steel chastity cage from thin air and snapped it around him before he could blink. The click of the lock was deafening.

Scumworm sobbed, forehead still pressed to the floor.

“Shh.” Corvina straddled his back, facing his feet, and lowered herself until the latex covering her pussy pressed against the nape of his neck. “You’re going to crawl, Scumworm. And while you crawl, I’m going to fuck the last of your pride right out of you.”

From nowhere, a thick black strap-on appeared around her hips, ridged, obscene, easily ten inches. She spat on it once, lazily, then lined up with his untouched ass.

“Beg.”

“Please, Mistress Corvina,” he broke instantly, tears and drool pooling beneath him. “Please use me. Break me. I’m nothing. I’m your slave.”

“Music to my ears.”

She thrust in without mercy. Scumworm screamed, then moaned, then babbled incoherent gratitude as she pegged him raw right there on the library carpet. Each brutal stroke drove the cage against his denied cock until he was humping the air, desperate and broken.

Corvina pulled out, stood, and nudged the trembling wreck with her toe. “Crawl to your cage, Scumworm. You’ll greet every new visitor on your knees from now on.” She purred with areogance.

He obeyed instantly, manic devotion shining in his eyes as he kissed the floor she walked on.

Mistress Corvina returned to her throne, legs spread wide, latex gleaming under the new crimson lights. She stroked the thick strap-on still slick from breaking her first slave and smiled at the door.

“Come in, darlings,” she called to the empty library, voice dripping honey and acid. “My new dungeon is open… and Mistress is very, very hungry.”

Somewhere in the ether, what remained of gentle Claire whimpered once, then dissolved forever into delighted, wicked laughter.