Boy Next Door by Lance Edwards
For Claire, a repressed housewife living a sham sex life, the boy next door offers an opportunity too good to pass up. Raised by religious zealots in an ultra-conservative enclave, Claire’s shyness and low self-image have led her into a dreary “camouflage’ marriage with a closeted gay man.
Still a virgin at twenty-five, she masturbates to vengeful fantasies about the schoolboy studs who always ignored her. Imagine her mortified surprise to find that her hunky eighteen-year-old neighbor has his own secret life! Seems he’s a peeping tom, a voyeur long obsessed with her! While he’s been doing lawn work, he’s been spying on her! The ungrateful pervert!
However, all this makes the hapless Brian a perfect candidate for some creative payback by an eager Claire. She confronts the boy with what she’s learned about his secret life, and so begins an incredible clandestine affair ” one devoted exclusively to Claire living out her angry fantasies. Trading incremental intimacies for punishment, she explores her emerging sexuality while addicting her willing slave to discipline and submission.
In the course of this dalliance with dominance, Claire begins to shed her repressive upbringing. Her appearance improves ” she’d pretty damn sexy now! And her confidence grows. But can she develop the self-respect to stand up to her judgmental parents and peers? She’d better. For the far more radical changes in the once-star running back next door are becoming impossible to ignore!
This consensual adventure features bondage, discipline, humiliation, orgasm denial, CBT feminization, hogties, hoods and clothespins, pee-play, cuckoldry, and some really serious pegging.
Nothing in my maddest fantasies, my darkest fears, my most tremulous expectations could have prepared me for this. My perversely superb world has been turned upside down, my dream relationship with the exhilarating older woman I’ve hungered for since my first sexual awakening changed to a nightmare in under an hour.
Mistress has executed a masterstroke of the most insidious subjugation imaginable.
I’ve been undermined and mortified beyond belief, my innately masculine conception of myself crippled irreparably. And there’s nothing I can do about it but accept the disastrous consequences to my self-image. Yet the worst of this is the way my imprisoned cock throbs insanely on in response. The part of me that epitomizes all Mistress has taken from me yearns more insistently than ever in its hopeless impotence. Even as it damns me as a man it compels my compliance far more effectively any of the videos my owner holds over me. Even as I totter about on my toes in shoes that are already killing me, dressed and made-up like the most flaming homo imaginable (far worse than the guy I earlier derided), branded a she-male and sissy and forced to do the most demeaning manner of maid’s work, I have to confront and accept the appalling knowledge that my acceptance of this hideous situation is still voluntary.
Mistress’ allure is irresistible, her cruelty and control more erotically necessary than ever. Even as I weep in despair at what’s become of me, and in terror of what she might require of me next, I crave her mere company with an addict’s intensity. Turned on even by being ruthlessly robbed of my manhood, I am lost beyond all possible recall. All I can do is try to please her so completely that she will smile at me, let me touch her heavenly breasts and – oh my Goddess yes – interact sexually with me in whatever carefully circumscribed way she might offer. Beyond the thrill of being disciplined and degraded that is the only thing I have left to live for.
I can’t even cry properly for fear of smearing the makeup that so stigmatizes me. Fighting a constant struggle to suppress my tears, repeatedly betraying my inexperience at performing housework, I bumble clumsily though the debasing drudgery I’ve been assigned.
Whipped for every little misstep, I try desperately not to disappoint my owner’s demanding expectations. Yet every time I fall short I can’t help but welcome that corrective slashing of the whip. Hating what I’ve become and despising myself for being aroused by it, I crave punishment with a lunatic need that exposes my earlier masochism as a mere dalliance. Yet Mistress is unfathomably insidious in her emasculating machinations. She begins to beat me for any lapses in my enforced femininity as well.
Any mannerisms or even habits of posture and movement that smack of maleness to her earn me swift and vicious agony. If I need to speak I’m required use a breathy falsetto. Despite my unfamiliar apparel and those torturous shoes I’m expected to move with grace and fluidity and adopt down to the least gesture a carriage and body language that is utterly foreign to me.
Thanks to that chastity sleeve I’ve already been peeing sitting down for several weeks. By the time my birthday arrives I’ll have been trained so comprehensively in female affectations I’ll likely find it impossible to behave as a proper male.
Forget about hiding my welts and chastity sleeve; how will I ever conceal this evidence of my enslavement? I may as well wear dresses and a placard proclaiming that I’m gay. Even if those videos of me never come to light, the devious woman I’ve wronged will have effectively ruined me anyway. And so I clean, and weep, and mince about in my emasculated new persona and revel in the growing agony in my feet and ankles and in every searing stroke of that whip across my ass. Then as I’m bent over making the bed I get a new and even more consummately depraved terror and assault on my innate sexuality to contend with.
Mistress approaches me from behind and grips me by the hips. As I start to straighten up she growls at me with a passion that both chills me and sets my heart to racing madly.
“Don’t move, girl! Stay just like this! God, you look so sexy, I don’t know how I can possibly wait another six months!”
She presses against me from behind. Then just as she did when she had me against the wall and threatened me with a cavity search, Mistress begins to hump my bum. Only this time it’s even worse. Some hard cylindrical object, unmistakably phallic, is sandwiched between us.
Mistress has slipped her vibrator into the front of her panties so that it juts out and up from her crotch. Now as she rubs against me this slides up and down the juncture of my buttocks, only the single strand of that g-string separating us. She slips it down lower then, where the big blunt head nudges against my anus, and gasps excitedly as she feigns buggering me. Her hands leave my hips and slide up under my lingerie. Twisting the pins from my nipples Mistress pinches and pulls these suddenly screaming erogenous spots, humping me harder and again nearly making me swoon with the obviousness of her eventual intentions.
Ah, Goddess, my cock is throbbing so hard it’s in agony even as I shriek silently in denial. Every iota of my deliberately undermined and eroded masculinity rebels even as I feel myself press helplessly back against her. How could I possibly be responding this way? Despite my forced feminization I am most emphatically not gay! Yet suddenly confronted with the fact of previously only uneasy portents, my body acts for me, responding to that suggestive prodding by eagerly offering itself. What on Earth has she done to me?
Suddenly Mistress shoves me down onto the bed. She falls atop me and continues to simulate buggery. Her breasts have slipped out of the bustier and mash against my back; her hands slide under my arms, cup my shoulders and anchor me against her rhythm. She gasps again, rocks more urgently atop me and laughs softly in my ear at the way I rear up to meet her.
“Oh yeah, you want it as much as I do, you shameless she-male slut! You’re going to be one ripe and eager birthday girl, aren’t you Brianna?”
With that Mistress suddenly climbs off me and slashes my ass with her riding whip.
“Put your tits back on and get back to work, bitch! Play time is over for now.”
Oh, heaven help me, I’m so confused and upset! My insides churn like I’m going to be sick. Is this what she means by losing our virginity? Will I ever actually get to fuck my beautiful goddess? Earlier she spoke about me emptying my balls. I’ll just have to pray that she still means to allow me that, and put off any consideration of this hideously anathema (yet unconscionably evocative) other threat. Hurriedly I clip those clothespins back onto my stinging nipples. I rise and finish making the bed, trying to keep my mind concentrated on this mundane task. Then mincing and swinging my hips girlishly (as is now required of me), I make my effeminate way to the bathroom and begin cleaning in there.
For the remainder of the afternoon I clean the entire upstairs. After that I make dinner: broiled fish filets, baked potatoes and coleslaw, this last fortunately already prepared – I know little more about cooking than I do housecleaning.
Mistress eats at the table while I’m instructed to kneel in the corner and set my plate on the floor. Cleaning the kitchen afterward takes me nearly an hour: obviously Mistress hasn’t lifted a finger in here in anticipation of my visit. I’m about to start on the living room when my beguilingly smiling owner forestalls me.
“That’s enough, Brianna. You can finish the housework tomorrow. Let’s see if my budding young lesbian is any good in bed.”
She takes me by the hand, still carrying that whip in the other. My heart finally soaring after so much misery, Mistress leads me back upstairs to her torture chamber.
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