Femboy Traps Novels & Stories

"Trust me, what I have in here is going to make your body quiver." She moved towards me, staring down at the case. I snapped open the metal clasps. She shivered as I opened it up and revealed the assorted collection of toys I had here. Each one was held in black foam perfectly cut in shape for the toy. There was a surprising number of them held in it, and more than one layer of foam. I pulled out the top one. She gasped at the sight of the double-headed dildo that dominated much of the next layer. "Oh, my, I don't need something like that," Mrs. Holiday said as I pulled out the next tray. The bottom one held the small stuff. Butt plugs. Clit rockets. And a nice set of ben wa balls.

Experts say women should spend more time looking at muscular men. It was hard to argue with that, especially when it was said by real experts. And I wasn't even freeloading. I was helping the guy gain traffic, too. At midnight, my best friend, Bridget Poe, sent me a thirst-trap video from an account named "elaire" and demanded a full review. I tapped the video open. The room was dim, lit by a single mood lamp behind him.

“Awesome, I hate those traps!” The Fay traps, one between each checkpoint. We never allowed them to join our mate hunt, especially since the few girls being born are fay, and they shield them from the rest of the world. Why would we share? However, the traps are an ancient peace agreement. If a girl falls into one, she belongs to the fay court. It doesn't happen often, but I remember the year before I could attend for the first time, 4 out of 9 girls became fay court property. A sad year indeed.

I’m Jasmine, a 19-year-old femboy, and this is the story of how I became Ren’s submissive plaything. It all started when Ren and I met online, bonding over our shared interests in BDSM and strap-on play. We clicked instantly, and before long, we were planning to meet up and take our virtual fantasies to the real world.

Still, it doesn’t feel like a coincidence. Kai gestures at the trap again. “In any case, you’re right about one thing. The trap … It’s unique. Look here.” He points to thick, broken springs near the base. When I ripped the trap out of the ground, they must have snapped under the strain. “What am I looking at?” “The mechanism. Traps like this store energy in the springs. Step on the trigger, the springs release, and the jaws snap shut. But these aren’t normal. They’re made of the same metal as the teeth.” He taps one with a fingernail. “Bigger, too.”

There definitely must be some inferior motive. Maybe it's just me, but like I said before, I'm having a hard time believing in people nowadays. No matter how I see it, I can't let myself believe he is doing all this out of humanity. Why would he take the risk to free me when he could get him in trouble? At the end of the day, he is involved in illegal stuff and I can easily go to the police and report their names. A part of me still believes that they are trying to trap me and this is all a scheme. Like I have seen in so many movies where shit like this happens and, in the end, it just happens to be a trap.

It was this maniac’s tactic to offer chicken soup to his mates to divert their attention in keeping an eye on her so she could get out, but that was all his plan. When she was out of the building and out of everyone’s eyes, it was his time to do all that he had been thinking of doing to her even from the first moments she had become a detainee in this hell place because all this time, this old pervert demon was fantasizing about her!

I passed Polly in the hallway. She was pushing a handcart piled with ten or so boxes, arms trembling. Seeing me, she stopped and lowered her head to let me pass. "Distribution going okay?" I asked. "…So-so," her voice hoarse. I nodded and walked on. After a few steps, I glanced back. She was still there, hands on the cart, shoulders slumped. The snowlight outside cast pale shadows on her face—white, almost bloodless. The next day, my assistant mentioned casually while dropping off documents, "Mr. Bassett… the employees secretly created a group chat. They call it the 'Cherry Victims Alliance.'"

I sat on his couch, and he went to pour me a glass of water. His hands would not stop shaking. “Dr. Shipp, someone came to you to have a paternity test forged, didn’t they?” He could not meet my eyes as he held out the glass. “Yes.” “The copy I have in my hands is the real one, isn’t it?” He said nothing, and I set the glass down. “Five years ago, someone brought you a fake report and paid you a large sum of money to certify it. Is that right?” Dr. Shipp closed his eyes and nodded.