Forced Crossdresser Fantasies Novels & Stories

In his fantasy, Lena was riding him reverse cowgirl, her thick ass bouncing, her pussy swallowing his cock over and over. “Fuck me harder, baby… breed your stepmom… fill me until it overflows… I want your baby inside me…” Alex’s breathing turned ragged. He was getting dangerously close. “I want to flip her over and fuck her in missionary so I can look into her eyes while I breed her. I want to hear her whisper ‘I’m yours now, Alex… your dirty stepmom whore…’ while I pump her full.” He edged himself, slowing down just enough to prolong the fantasy, then stroked faster again.

Well sexual or nonsexual at the end of the day I was still kidnapped and strapped here against my will. My face paled as I thought about it more. Me acting like a toddler. My face morphed from an angry glare into a disgusting expression. I had to stop this at all costs. "Well, that doesn't make it any better and do not think I'm ignorant. I know what it means and I also know that with that kind of relationships consent is very important and right now nothing of that is happening here between us. I will not partake in your sick fantasy. I don't like it so get me out of here!" I was angry, no furious. First, they kidnap me, then they restrain me and to top it all they will force a kind of life

I let out a low groan, my hand now slipping inside my pants to stroke myself slowly, matching the rhythm I knew he'd be using. My eyes glued to the screen as heat built in my core, every word from him stoking that fire. He added, “Tell me you're touching yourself, Fred. Please baby, let me hear you say it.” And I bit my lip, typing hastily, “Yeah, I'm stroking, you bastard, thinking about your cock buried deep.” The exchange pulled me under, my breaths shallow and my body arching slightly on the couch as the fantasy wrapped around me like his arms.

Little by little, I got used to the scene, finding it funny how much the woman pretended to be drugged, but at the same time reacting to everything and even smiling for malice. I pushed my covers away and started walking my hands around my body. In the absence of Pablo, I would have to manage on my own. I was a pervert, I knew that. Much more than perverted. But what could I do after having experienced a fetish with that man and being even more in need of something like that?

“Good girl. Keep going. Tell me your dirtiest fantasy.” “I see you bending me over the altar,” I gasped, sliding two fingers deep inside myself, pumping steadily. “Your cassock pushed up, that thick priest cock slamming into me while the candles burn. I want you to fuck me raw in God’s house until I can’t walk straight.” “Fuck…” he hissed. “Pull your tits out. Show them to me.” I quickly unbuttoned my blouse with my free hand, yanking my red lace bra down. My heavy breasts spilled out, nipples tight and aching. I pinched one hard, rolling it between my fingers as I fucked myself faster.

They’d vanish from the laundry, only to reappear days or weeks later, folded neatly in my drawer, stiff with dried cum in the crotch. I never threw them away. I wore them again. Let the evidence of his obsession rub against my pussy while I went about my day, secretly thrilled at how fucked up it was. Because the truth is, I have always craved the dark. Rough fantasies. Stories about girls taken in alleys, in their homes, by strangers who couldn’t hold back anymore. I’d touch myself to the idea of being watched, wanted so violently that someone would risk everything to have me. So I fed him.

But even my early morning feelings of guilt could not cloud the emotions that were raised in me by my night- time fantasies, which, as you will read, were hardly 'mainstream'! One of my first fantasies was where I was taken prisoner by a tribe of beautiful Amazons. They dragged me to their camp and stripped me naked before tying me spread-eagled between four stakes. They tormented me by whipping my exposed body; my chest, my legs and of course my cock and balls. And as they whipped me my cock grew harder and ached to be released.

My nipples tightened into hard peaks just from the imagined weight of his gaze. He approached with deliberate steps, fully clothed while I lay exposed. His fingers traced feather-light paths along my inner thighs, stopping just short of where I needed him most. The suspense made my pussy throb visibly, slick arousal coating my smooth, shaved lips. I spread my legs wider in reality, mirroring the fantasy, cool air kissing my heated center.

My hips kept rocking up to m​eet my ha‌nd,‌ chas‍ing the e⁠d​ge with eve‍rything I had. The fantasy s‍h​ifted. It wasn't ab​out watching⁠ anymore. It‌ was me inste‍ad. I imagined bei‍ng bent over those same crates w‍ith my dress p​ushed up and my pant‍ies torn away.‌ I could almost feel Leon’s big hands grip‌ping my hip​s hard enou‌gh‌ to leave bruises. ⁠

It was something innate that he wanted to exploit. Clint could practically hear her heart trying to escape out of her chest as he peeled his sweater off and laid it over a spanking horse. He crossed to the far end of the dungeon to stand in front of a large, leaner mirror, typically a tool used for humiliation, and it would be again—most likely in a few moments. But for now, he looked at the scars on his back. It was true he’d hired a dominatrix to come to his dungeon when he’d first created it. But the marks were about so much more than that.Since puberty, he’d had the fantasies: tying women up, hurting them,fucking them, sometimes kidnapping and forcing them. The latter fantasies disturbed