Content and Contentment

 13/25

Matty glared at his tablet screen with disgust. One of the OnlyFemmes chicks he subscribed to was a guy!? What the hell?! Is was called OnlyFEMMES for a reason?! Not only that, she…he had put some kind of bounty up asking for people to sissify him. Matty took one last look at the most recent post and wanted to throw up. Sissify…that?! Why not hire someone to paint the sun yellow too…

He quickly unsubscribed and thought about all the times he had jerked off to that profile as bile curdled in his stomach. He needed to act fast to top up his masculinity and now he had an empty spot in his roster of digital side-chicks.

Quickly, he pulled up the chart of most popular creators and pulled up the highest ranking one he wasn’t already following. A profile for a girl simply known as “Emi” filled the screen and the image of an elegant latex clad beauty with severe bangs splashed across the top. All other pictures on the profile were greyed out until you subscribed so Matty was unable to tell precisely what kind of content she produced, but already he was enthralled by her swanlike grace and powerful slender figure. He pressed subscribe and was presented with two options - $8 “Be a voyeur”, $10 “Emi will make you Content”. It was a no-brainer, he thought selecting the second option. As his membership status changed to Pending, he turned his tablet off wondering just how content the content Emi made him would make him.

Matty didn’t have to wait long to find out. He awoke in the early hours of the following morning to find himself completely naked and his bedsheets pulled back. A latex gloved hand fondled his exposed cock, squeezing gently to bring him around. “What the f…” he groaned groggily, his eyes following the rubber arm gleaming in the moonlight up to a sternly framed yet gorgeous face. “You…” he was cut off as the hand suddenly tightened its grip turning his words into a yelp. Its partner appeared from the darkness and snapped something metal around Matty’s genitals.

Things moved quickly after that. Matty immediately recognised the intruder as the woman he had admired from his tablet screen the previous day and his body tried to respond in kind, yet his budding erection was thwarted by the confines of its cage. Emi had set up a camera tripod and opened a small black trunk. His heart hammered as he realised what “Emi will make you content” had really meant. When he opened his mouth to protest, Emi calmly pulled out a small keyfob and pressed it. White hot electricity shot out of the device between his legs, instantly silencing him.

Matty was powerless as Emi removed items from the trunk and forced him to put them on. Anything less than complete obedience was countered with pain. First came a pair of white satin panties that hugged his stinging testicles like clouds. Next came a French Maid’s outfit that fit him like a glove and an extra high pair of stiletto heels. Emi took her time carefully applying makeup and dressing his hair up with a ribbon, sparking him every time he moved or caused her to make a mistake.

When her work was finally complete, Emi looked around the room. Appearing satisfied, she removed the camera from its tripod and used a suction mount to attach it to the ceiling in the corner of the room. She turned, her trunk held under one latex clad arm, blew Matty a kiss and left.

Exhausted from all the zapping of his tortured genitals, Matty scooted on his backside to rest against the sofa and look up at the camera. He had a nasty feeling what those greyed out images on Emi’s OnlyFemmes page would show paying subscribers. He also wondered if the paying ‘voyeurs’ had any kind of access to the device cradling his crotch. Nausea washed though him as he remembered he had paid for a six-month subscription. Six months of this?! He kicked off the heels in frustration and white heat enveloped his genitals.

What the Hell Happened to...? (Over My Dead Body)

  The original caption is here

She found me after the funeral. I’d been pretending to mourn beside people who would never guess the truth, when I felt her hand — dry, soft, and deliberate — rest on my shoulder. “You wear it well,” she said, her breath faintly sweet, like decayed fruit. I dumbly looked down at my black latex dress – Dana's black latex dress.

I wanted to run, but Dana’s legs betrayed me, rooted to the spot as if they remembered her better than I did. “You did this to me,” I hissed.

The old woman smiled. “I saved you. You were dying without purpose, so I gave you a new home. You should be thanking me.”

I almost laughed, but the sound caught in my throat. “You put me in her. She murdered me.”

Her eyes glittered. “And yet here you stand, breathing through the hands that ended your life. A perfect circle. A second chance. But the circle must close again, when the time comes.”

Before I could ask what she meant, she turned and slipped into the mist like a wisp of ash, leaving the scent of damp earth behind her.

That night I dreamt of my body — or rather, the one that used to be mine — clawing at the inside of its coffin. The sound was muffled, desperate, rhythmic, like fingernails on wet wood. When I woke, the sheets were torn and my hands bled. The soft curves of my new body were wet with perspiration under a pair of Dana's silk pyjamas. How could I possibly go on like this?

I didn’t dare sleep again. I padded into the bathroom where I had removed the mirror, as I had done with every other reflective surface in the apartment. I couldn't bear to catch sight of myself from the corner of my eye. Every time I had, that moment where Dana had bore down on me knife in hand flashed in the back of my skull. However, I did have a sliver of silver that I kept handy for when the curiosity got too much. Such as now.

Dana’s reflection looked back, a face full of makeup that I had not bothered to wash off after the funeral, her features twitching as if she were trying to wake up beneath my skin. I whispered, “Are you still in there?” The glossy red lips in the mirror curled into a smile that wasn’t mine.

Now I understand what the old woman meant. Salvation was never about saving the soul. It was about recycling it.

And I can feel her coming back — clawing her way up to finish what she started – but not from the dirt, from inside of me...

Ace at Bass

 My Gloria Honeypot captions are in no particular order but they now have their own section on my index page

“That's it, Babe, just lean your arse back on the sofa and strum the guitar a bit. That's it! Lovely!” The record company scout barked orders at Finn and the photographer simultaneously – his grating British accent spreading around the penthouse apartment like a rash.

“It's a bass,” wanted to scream. “It's a fucking bass.” Not that there was any love lost with his instrument. He wanted to throw that cursed thing through the 47^th floor apartment's floor-to-ceiling windows even more than he wanted to do the same to the indomitable Mr. Gilbert. Yet, it sat glued to his grasp as it always did – inseparable from its prize.

Looks will get you a long way in the music industry. Even before what followed, Finn was an attractive specimen. His slender build and delicate features captured the attention of women every time he took the stage. It didn't matter that he couldn't play for shit and that the rest of his band only kept him around because his ability to draw in the local ladies was 90% of what got them booked. Two songs of him fumbling awkwardly around with his bass and you could bet your life a pair of panties would be thrown. Now the panties are already on stage, Finn thought bitterly...

The problem started when Finn made the foolish decision to try to improve his musical skills. Like any bad workman, he blamed his tools, and set out in search of a new bass. Gloria Honeypot's Emporium of Fun and Folly had seemed like as ideal a place as any – its endless shelves holding a menagerie of treasures to be discovered. The bass guitar had hung from the back wall and Finn had bought it without even a test drive.

He did actually improve at bass. However, the instrument wanted so much more. He couldn't explain why, but he felt compelled to have it with him at all times – or maybe it was the other way around. Yet, the bass was not just satisfied with a dedicated player, it demanded magnificence. Finn didn't remember when he started to wear the makeup, or to wear mini-dresses while he practised. He didn't even remember when he started the hormone treatment. His instrument demanded perfection of its craft and it was sculpting the musician it wanted to play it. By the time he got the breast implants, lip fillers and hair extensions, his bandmates were too caught up with all their new-found male fans to care. So, what if Finn was a woman now. He was hot and that was making them money. They didn't see that their bassist had been enslaved by his cursed instrument.

“We're almost finished here,” Mr. Gilbert waved his hands. “I almost have everything I need to the team and make my recommendation. Almost...” The man started to unbuckle his pants. Finn felt the bass hum in his hands and he knew then it would have him do whatever it took to get to right to the top.  

This Caption Sucks

 This is a commission I did for DeviantArt

There was an almost PTSD nature to the way Paul balled up the silky hair behind his head in re-enactment of twenty minutes earlier when he had given his first ever blowjob. The guy was in the shower now – he could hear the spray from the hotel bathroom and the sound of running water made him suddenly desperate to wash the taste of cum from his mouth. He had swallowed, of course, and that was a shame that would live with him forever even if we was able to escape from the prison of this female body. There was a chance he could forget the feel of the satin thong as it chaffed his bubble butt with his own juices, there was even a chance he could forget the guiding hands on the back of his head and the streams of clumped mascara from his bug-eyes. But he would never forget the shame of feeling another man's seed dribbling down into his stomach.

“They won't all be that gentle, you know?” The gentle feminine sneer came from the corner, and by now, Paul knew better than to ask how June had managed to get into a locked hotel room. For someone who could transform him into the curvy beauty whose body he now occupied, teleportation or astral projection or whatever trick she was using was probably child's play. “Some will use your pretty little mouth like the fleshlight it deserves to be. They will drive their cocks relentlessly into the back of your throat until you gag and crush that cute little button nose into their pubes until it feels like you are breathing their sweat. That's if they want you from the front. Some will be more creative. Has your nose ever been in a man's asshole? If you are a super lucky little bitch, he might eat you out while you drain his balls...not that you deserve it!”

Paul bowed his head, unable to meet her stare. The resolve to resist the urges of his new body formed and then quickly crumbled as he once again tasted the mouthful the man in the shower had given him. If only he could keep his mouth shut. If only he had kept his mouth shut... June was the new office junior at his firm, and on her first day he had asked her out. She had politely declined, so in a spiteful rage, he had spread rumours she was a slut. When June found out, she had shown him exactly what she was – a powerful witch with a cruel temper. With a snap of her fingers, she had transformed Paul into a walking wet-dream – a form he would keep for one week. Unfortunately for Paul, that time reset every time he gave another man a blowjob and June had nastily given him quite the appetite for doing just that.

The shower clicked off and the large man who had shared the bed exited the bathroom. Paul felt a guttural pang of disappointment at seeing the towel wrapped around his waste. The shame was back and he glanced to where June had been to see she was now gone. It didn't matter. He knew she knew and that she was probably enjoying his humiliation all the same. The hunger was already returning, pushing the shame into the back of his mind. This was truly going to be the longest week of Paul's life.

The Capitalist (Bimbo Note)

 12/25

You can find the rest of my Bimbo Note captions on my index page

Azalea loved visiting the racetrack. She didn’t give a damn about horses, but it was full of rich idiots doing careless things with money. It was the perfect place to dress up, push her tits out and take home some lovesick dope with an overstuffed bank account to buy her a new fur coat or some leather boots. Half the time she didn’t even have to let them put their dick in her – a few strokes of the wrist was enough to get these fools to shoot their loads and become smitten. After all, they didn’t bet on horses because they believed in delayed gratification…

Azalea didn’t like to gamble, she liked sure things, but seeing men place their bets was the easiest way to tell who had cash to splash and who didn’t, and so she obliged. It was a sunny Saturday and she was leaning at one of the provided stations filling out a slip. She was betting her usual – the track minimum on the favourite. A well-dressed man with a moustache at the stall next to her appeared to glance over her shoulder and scoff. At first she thought he was looking at her tits, but no one scoffed at her tits, so she surmised that her wager was the source of his derision.

“Alright then stud. What have you got?” She scowled. The man held up his betting slip and Azalea saw that he was planning to bet a thousand bucks on a rank outsider. “Well, good luck with that…” she snorted noting to herself that she didn’t care if he bought her a tiara, no way was she bringing sexual gratification to that weasel face. They both placed their bets with the teller and went to watch the race.

Twenty minutes later and Azalea was waiting for her prey by the betting office. Few punters had opted for the apparent no-hoper ‘Sod’s Chance’ and the moustachioed man was one of only a handful to come and collect winnings. Seeing her, he grinned smugly, holding up his betting slip just as she had hoped he would. She made a mental note of his name written at the top of the slip. She would be making a physical note very shortly.

It didn’t take Azalea long to spot her latest creation. Most women who came to the track were in groups – Prosecco sipping bachelorette parties, who, while often slutty, did not resemble the kind of airhead that the Bimbo Note produced. She saw her target standing alone staring blankly out at the track – big plastic looking jugs bursting out of a figure hugging jacket and a large purse bulging with stacks of bank notes sitting at her feet. Azalea walked over and scooped up the purse before any would-be thief could do the same, and gave the babe a squeeze on the backside.

“Come with me,” she cooed, “enough of those boring horses.” The woman looked at her blandly as she surveyed the people around her. A Rolex peeked from a jacket sleeve. “Here we go!” Azalea guided her over to an expensively dressed man while expertly inching down the zippers on her new bimbo’s jacket and her own catsuit to reveal maximum cleavage. “Hey there!” She bit her lip seductively. “How’d you like to take home a sure thing? You can ride this one all you want…” Azalea snaked an arm around her waist, “…and she doesn’t care where you finish!”

Whatever Happened to Rhys? (Black Friday)

 The original caption is here

Rhys found himself playing with his hair again. The long locks were dry from the sun and had loose ends from the humidity – just as real hair would. This was the longest he had ever worn the bodysuit and he was still finding things to be astounded by. Just the fact he was tottering down a Hawaiian beach in a bikini, turning the heads of surfers as he passed should have been enough – yet the way the sun beat down on the synthetic skin, the way it produced sweat that trickled down the small of his back leaving tiny tickling trails as it went all the way down to the perfect ass that had parted many a Black Friday crush over the years.

This is the least I deserve, he thought as he sipped a rum cocktail from a hollowed out pineapple. This was his just desserts for donning this ridiculous bodysuit every November to retrieve whatever trinket his sister desired this year. He didn't care that he had to enjoy it as a woman. Luxury was luxury.

Ten years ago Rhys had broken his sister's leg in a drunken bike prank gone wrong. Confined to the sofa with her limb in plaster, she had demanded that he put on a ultra-realistic female bodysuit she somehow had and brave the Black Friday crush to purchase a console game she was desperate for in lieu of revealing the true cause of her fractured leg to their parents. To this day, Rhys couldn't even remember what the game had been.

It certainly hadn't helped his memory that his sister had not called it one and done when it came to his new alter ego. Rather she continued to hold the bike incident over him like a dangling guillotine and made it a tradition to gleefully drag out the bodysuit every year for him to put on in place of his dignity. New phones, consoles, even an air-fryer one year, they were well into their twenties by now and due to the challenges of modern life, both still living with their parents. Rhys didn't know what his Mom and Dad would do after all these years if they found out what he had done to their daughter, but for the sake of the roof over his head, he dared not find out.

And then there was this year... His sister had sent him out as usual, this time to buy some super-light weight luggage for a girls' trip she was planning in the new year. He had gone to the checkout, the familiar feeling of shame behind his eyes as the shop assistant scanned the items...and then her face lit up. Rhys had won some kind of promotional prize from the company selling the luggage – a winter sun vacation to Hawaii.

The cocktail tasted extra sweet as Rhys thought of his sister. It was her passport that was tucked into the zip of the luggage that had won him his escape and she would likely find out what he had done when she took her own vacation in the new year. But, hey, what she going to do? He considered, grinning across the surf. Blackmail him?

The Legend of Harlot's Creek Part 4

 

The woman in black stood over them, studying them like they were zoo animals. She tilted her head first to one side, then the other, a wide satisfied smile cracking her beautiful face. Finally, she raised both her arms up and Mikey and Patrick were drawn to their feet before her. They weren't identical creatures – Mikey was curvier and had darker hair, but their outfits, leopard print catsuits that hugged their new feminine bodies, matched perfectly.

“Two!” The woman grinned cruelly “Oh, it works so much better like this. Two mirrors of desire, reflecting one another for eternity.”

“What...” Mikey's caught his tongue before he could say any more. He couldn't bear to listen to the girlish lilt of his new voice. Turning to face his friend, he found himself drinking in the curves of Patrick's body stretching out the spandex outfit. “Oh...” His mouth was dry and he realised that the nipples of his new breasts had become engorged and pressed painfully against the tight material. “Ohhhh...” This time there was no mistaking it – a fully-fledged moan and Mikey watched in terror as his hand involuntary reached between his legs. His mind registered shock as he realised he still had his cock and it now bulged firmly in his slender hand, but his body betrayed him, stoking his throbbing erection as drool dripped from between his soft pink lips.

“There's no use trying to fight it!” As long as you are horny, you are mine. “Men always have been. Only this time there are two of you. Two sexy muses to inspire each other's untold debauchery!”

“Ohhhh...” By now Patrick was also a passenger in the body that wasn't even his save for his stiff dick. The more he tried to fight it, the less he wanted to as desire rushed through him. Desire for the girl that held Mikey like a prison, desire for the raven haired woman - their gaoler, desire for his own voluptuousness. Was it he who dropped into a squat or the alter-ego that was his desire possessing him? Was there even a difference? His delicate face was inches from Mikey's powerful round ass and he imagined burying his nose between those cheeks – he imagined burying his cock between those cheeks, and he knew before the night was over he would do both.

Mikey's mind was drunk on pleasure. He desperately needed to find how to remove the catsuit. The other girl's face was almost exactly where he needed it but that stretchy material was in the way. He imagined crushing her button nose into his ass as he reached ecstasy. He would ride her face and then she would ride his ass and then the sorceress would ride them both – just as she had done the Scarlet Harlot all those centuries ago. As she would continue to do so for eternity. And by night, they wonder the creek, searching for others to bring back here. Searching for more toys for the mistress to play with...