Stormy Night Publications Publishers of BDSM and Kink Erotica
I let out a helpless little cry as he did as he had promised. He put his hands on them, over them, turned a little to the side so that his finger went underneath. Mr. Thring’s hands were big enough that they could still comfortably hold all of my breasts, but I had a sensation very different from what I had experienced with any man before. For the very first time I felt someone heft my… my…
Boobs. I have boobs. That thought by itself made me chew on the inside of my cheek because my hips had just jerked and, most distracting of all, my pussy had just clenched, hard.
I’m sure that a lot of girls would have said that, technically, I had had boobs before. The little protrusions that had represented my excuse for breasts from the age of nineteen on, however, had never seemed to me a good fit for the word. I had always felt certain that no man would ever describe them that way.
Now I knew for sure that Mr. Thring, when talking to a billionaire friend about how he had bought a girl for his pleasure, maybe even to take to the altar and ensure she would remain in his bed as long as he pleased, might well tell him about her big boobs… her…
Another word floated into my mind… rack. He might tell his friend that his new Selecta Arrangements girl had an incredible rack.
I heard a little whimper emerge from my throat. Mr. Thring moved his thumbs underneath the satin bow that covered most of the chest of the babydoll nightgown. I gasped as they brushed over my nipples lightly and instantly stiffened them even more than his mere touch had done.
I didn’t feel certain about it, but I wondered suddenly if something had happened to my nervous system as well as the tissue of my chest and backside. Did my nipples feel more sensitive than they had felt that morning?
“The treatment has heightened your responsiveness,” Mr. Thring murmured, the depth of his tone seeming to vibrate into my body through his fondling hands. “They say that’s a psychological thing rather than a physical one.”
My breath had begun to come and go in little pants between my open lips. I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly seeming to flood with a wetness that to my dismay I realized probably mirrored what had begun to occur between my thighs.
“I…” I said, and then I had to swallow again. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”
“Hush,” said Mr. Thring, and I felt in that new place deep in my mind that he had spoken, or really breathed with a bit of pitch, that sound in the lower register, in the voice of authority. My brow puckering, I tried reflexively to speak again, and I found I couldn’t—that he had indeed stilled my voice within me.
The command hadn’t stopped me from sobbing, though, or moaning, and I did. First a sob and then a moan as I reacted down below to the very idea of the voice, combined with the feeling of his hands. His touch felt muted by the fabric of the nightgown, sheer as it was, and I suddenly had the desperate urge to beg him to put his hands underneath and to touch my new boobs that way… to touch all of me that way… to feel my bottom too and tell me if he liked it.
“I think it means,” he said, and the serious, level tone of his words made me raise my eyes to meet his chocolate gaze, “that you’re feeling more, sexually, than you’ve ever felt before, because the physical changes are unlocking your submissive fantasies.”
At that I tried with all my might to speak, to deny it. I don’t have submissive fantasies, you asshole. I don’t. I… DO… NOT.
The defiant part of my brain yelled it and kept yelling it. My forehead worked with the effort. My lips twitched.
I couldn’t say it, and I understood more clearly than I had yet—than I had yet imagined I could understand the horrid voice—that I wasn’t able to talk because some part of me didn’t want to talk.
Because Mr. Thring had told me not to.
I let out another sob, closing my eyes against the overwhelming sensation of his hands on my breasts and the need between my thighs.
“It’s time for us to come to an understanding about our arrangement,” he said, his fingers moving gently, so gently on my big breasts. “Open your eyes.”
He didn’t use the voice, but I obeyed, because all of me knew I had to listen to him—had to figure out whether all the parts of my mind and heart could agree. Whether despite the strangeness involved, and the terror, really, all of me could at some level accept this man’s sponsorship.
Sponsorship? The word had seemed applicable to my two previous sponsors. Such nice men… even, I had thought at the time, a little, you know, daddyish. Face it, someone on the forums had written once, you wouldn’t be in SA if you didn’t have a bit of a thing for men who liked to take charge.
BUT THAT’S NOT… NOT…
“You’re going to agree to do as I say,” he told me. “And I’m going to take care of you. Really, that’s all.”
Oh god.
His eyes… kind, but also… strict, somehow.
“Selecta is giving you the body you’ve always wanted.”
But… no… that couldn’t be what had happened…
“I want that body too. I want you, Isabella.”
As he spoke, he moved his right hand down, put it boldly under the hem of the nightgown, and thrust it between my legs. The wordless command of his strong fingers made me shuffle my feet apart, so that he could touch what he wanted to touch.
I cried out. My hands flew up to hover between us, poised between pushing him away and trying to hug him.
“I want this,” my sponsor… my master… said.
His two middle fingers entered me, so roughly that I lost my balance with the overwhelming sensation, the instant, cataclysmic descent to the brink of orgasm.
Mr. Thring’s left arm wrapped around my back to keep me upright. His long fingers probed inside, curled up to touch a place I knew must be my G spot although I had never until that moment believed in its existence. My whole body seemed to spasm in his grasp, and the climax—the tremendous, irresistible feeling I hadn’t even known until that morning—seemed to reach up for me, but then just as suddenly his right hand pulled out and away.
I sobbed yet again, throwing my head back and trying with all my might to press toward him, against him, into him. My hands had gone up into the air as I felt myself falling, and now I put them on Mr. Thring’s shoulders, a shudder gripping my limbs at the mere touch of the fine wool, the contrast with the thin, lascivious silk in which he had dressed me.
My new sponsor’s right hand hadn’t gone away completely, though: I felt it come around behind me. I felt his fingers, slick with my shameful need, brush against my upper thigh as he brought them up under the lacy hem of the babydoll again. I felt him touch me there.
There. In my fleeting, mortifying fantasies, that part of me played a bigger role even than my breasts. I had focused on my chest, my new boobs, because they rose to my attention—literally—much more prominently than my backside did, but always at the back of my no-longer-trustworthy mind had lain my… my…
My ass. Just as I had never thought I would have boobs, I hadn’t thought I could possess a true ass. Yes, I could use the term for my backside, and I acknowledged that indeed everyone has an ass of one shape or another, but… the heart-shaped, shapely, firm but prominent as a girl walked away kind of ass… the kind men look at…
The kind men like to spank and to…
He held my ass in his right hand, and I knew that until an hour or so ago he would have been able to take hold of the whole thing. Not now. Mr. Thring let out a satisfied little grunt as he took hold of the center of my bottom, where Joe the security guard had spanked me—where he himself, I knew, would enjoy disciplining me if I stepped out of line. Only the center because I had grown there just as I had grown up top.
“And this,” he growled into my shoulder, where my movements had pressed my body against his face.
The rumble of his voice itself sent another thrill of need shooting out from the pussy his hand had left aching. It took me a moment, though, to connect his words with what he had said before. He wanted me… my pussy… my ass… I bit my lip hard.
His middle finger pressed inward between my ass cheeks.
“Oh no,” I sobbed.
He touched me there. The naughtiest place. The smallest place—still the smallest despite the changes in my body.
“And this,” he said softly as the fingertip probed into the tiny flower of my anus.
I thought he would take it out—that he wouldn’t insist on my understanding this most shameful claiming of his property. But instead he pushed in further, so that my hips bucked and I tried to move forward and away from the invading digit. I succeeded only in leaning against my sponsor more heavily, as he punished my attempt at escape by impaling me even further on his finger.
“Yes,” murmured Mr. Thring. “When I think you’re ready, here too. An ass this delectable is going to need regular fucking.”
“Oh my God,” I breathed. “You… you… can’t.”
“I can, though,” Mr. Thring replied. The finger moved a little, in and out, and I felt my face form into a humiliating erotic pout. “I will. That’s part of the understanding I want you to have.”
“Oh…” I whispered. “Oh… no… please.”
“Do I need to make it plainer to you, Isabella?” he asked, a little sharpness coming into his tone. Then he spoke in the lower timbre that had already begun to make my heart jump whenever I heard it, even before my brain had processed the command he would give.
“Turn around and go back to the bed and bend over it,” he said in the voice of authority. “Raise your nightgown around your arms, then reach back and spread your ass for me. Show me where I’m going to fuck you when the time comes. Show me both those sweet holes where my cock goes.”
I took a deep, sobbing breath. For a moment I thought I wouldn’t be able to obey, because Mr. Thring would keep holding me in place, and a little shoot of joy seemed to spring up in my heart. I had supposed the thing about how really, I wanted all the things he would make me do would fade into the background of my consciousness—that I could forget about it, like some obscure piece of scientific knowledge you hear once and then lose forever.
No. As my sponsor released me from his arms and pulled the mortifying finger out of my asshole, as I turned like a robot to do as he had told me, I became fully aware of the terrible depth of need that made me obey. I didn’t like it, but also, bizarrely, I took an abject kind of pride in doing as Mr. Thring said despite the utter degradation of his command.
I turned to the bed and took a step forward. I bent.
“Feet shoulder-width, please,” he said, not in the voice this time. “So I can see everything.”
And I did it, even though he hadn’t used Selecta’s horrible little trick. I did it because the man who had said he would take care of me wanted my knees apart. I moved my feet even as I pulled the nightgown up to my breasts and felt the silk brush luxuriously, erotically against my huge, dangling tits.
I reached back and took hold of the two round halves of my bottom, and I gasped as I felt how they had grown, and how unexpectedly firm they were. With a whimper of submission, I pulled them apart.