A new king on the throne
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The Many Roles Of Throne free porn video
THE MANY ROLES OF THRONE by Throne
He couldn't believe this was happening. Thalia (formerly Throne) stood
there by the front door while his wife Brunhilda watched from the comfort
of a wingback chair. Throne was short and far from manly in build. His
hair was now shoulder length, dyed bright blond and styled into bouncy
corkscrew curls. His face was made up with plenty of cosmetics, all
applied in a way that gave his features the appearance of a doll or
cartoon figure. His upper body was inadequately covered by a short,
lavendar quilted bedroom jacket that he had no way to keep closed, and a
pair of high-cut black panties. His dick, small enough to begin with, was
prevented from getting any bigger by a pink chastity tube. The panties
were black so that what was under them couldn't be seen and was pushed
down enough that it might be mistaken for a female pubic mound. Throne's
legs were shown off by red fishnet stockings and his feet were encased in
shiny black shoes with two-inch block heels and pretty plastic bows.
Brunhilda took a sip of her white wine and smiled at her spouse's obvious
discomfort. He hated these evenings, which was one reason she loved them.
Another reason arrived as the front door was unlocked and opened. It was
her lover, Max, who naturally had been given his own key. He stepped
inside and stood there, a tall robust man in a bomber jacket, black T-
shirt, worn jeans, and motorcylce boots. Throne cowered. His wife
grinned. She was a full-figured beauty, her shape shown off by a short
nightie that was teasingly semi-transparant. Max grinned back at her. He
stepped inside, closed the door, and grabbed Throne's slender upper arm.
Max said, "Come on, Thalia. Let's go and see that sexy woman over there."
The feminized husband piped, "Yes, Sir. Yes, Master," as he was dragged
along.
The big man tugged down on Throne's arm, signaling him to sink to his
knees, which he did in obedient silence. Max bent over to give the
cheating wife a long hard kiss. She reached out to cup his bulging crotch
in one soft hand. Throne could only stand there and try unsuccessfully
not to whimper. Max helped Brunhilda to her feet, admiring the way her
full bust gave a slight bob as she stood. He wrapped his strong arms
around her and they kissed once more, wetly and noisily this time.
After they broke off the kiss, she nuzzled her lips against his neck and
stage-whispered, knowing her spouse could hear it, "I missed you so much.
I can't wait to feel your big cock inside me again."
He let out a deep rumbling laugh. "Sweetheart, it's only been two nights.
And you always have your wimpy husband to eat your pussy when I'm not
around."
She sighed. "But that's not the same. Though I do love it when you blast
a load of cream into me and the next morning I make him lick me clean at
the same time he's giving me an orgasm." She rubbed her boyfriend's broad
chest. "But right now I want the real thing."
Throne tried to remember how all this had happened. He recalled the long
months of being made over into the sissy he now was. Of losing all his
rights in the bedroom, being teased endlessly and always denied, and being
giving spirited hand spankings whenever he dared to object to any of it.
But he couldn't capture the memory of what had first started him down the
path to being a feminized plaything for the horny couple.
There was no more time to think about that, however, as his bride was
already undoing Max's belt. Knowing what was expected of him, Throne
shuffled over, still on his knees, and looked up at them. In a faint high
voice he asked if 'Master Max' would like to have his boots removed.
"I'll get them myself," the smirking man told him. "But if you'd like to,
you can kiss them. Only if you want to, of course."
Well of course Throne DIDN'T want to kiss those scuffed dirty boots. But
as his wife watched him with an unforgiving gaze, he did what was expected
of him. Feigning happiness, he thanked Max profusely and then brought his
face close to the floor, puckered his lips, and kissed the leather uppers
fervently. When he glanced up for approval, both of them were peering at
him sternly. They wanted more. He extended his tongue, let them see that
it was far out of his mouth, and then bent once more to lick the unclean
surface of the Bull's footwear. Max tilted one boot up, resting only the
back of the heel on the floor, and Throne had to kiss and lick the sole.
Then the unpleasant demonstration of submission to a superior man was
repeated with the other foot.
The couple turned away and Throne crawled after them, the unwanted tastes
of leather and dirt mingling on his tongue. He couldn't stop lusting
after his wife's wide full ass as she wiggle-walked away from him, toward
the bed that had once been theirs together. Now his half of it was
reserved for Mighty Max, as she sometimes happily dubbed him, and Throne
was relegated to sleeping on a little girl bed that was crammed into what
was meant to be a walk-in storage closet, but was now considered his
bedroom, decorated frivolously and lit by a high-wattage bulb hanging from
above and surrounded by a pink shade, so that the entire space was bathed
in that color of light.
As Throne crossed the threshold of the bedroom he saw the happy couple
undressing each other, their actions interspersed with plenty of kissing
and fondling. He hated to see Max's hands all over Brunhilda's well-
upholstered curves. But what could he do about that? Or about the
fabulous lovemaking they were about to enjoy, or the demeaning part he
would play during it and afterward? If only he could summon up the memory
of how this had all begun, maybe then he could do something to change the
nightmare that his life had become.
*********
Master Throne strode into the room and everyone turned to look up at him.
He was a towering figure, imposingly dressed in a snug black shirt and
tight jeans that showed off his manly form, a leather vest decorated with
metal studs that bespoke his authority, and black shoes, polished to a
bright sheen, which drew attention to his large feet, which were in
proportion with his large hands. Much about him was large. And those
shoes had been shined by one of the figures cowering respectfully before
him, one of the many sissies under his charge. It was good to be the
Warden of Johnsonville's notorious Sissy Prison.
He sneered down at the intimidated girly-guys who awaited his commands.
They were uniformly short, soft, and demonstrating feminine body language.
All of them lacked even a trace of masculine body hair. That was how he
liked them. Smooth. They all wore touches of make-up, but never enough
to be guady. Throne preferred that they be always reminded that they were
really men, condemned to be trained endlessly in the arts of acting like
fairies, being taken further and further from their male roots. In fact,
Throne thought in a moment of personal amusement, that was a good way to
put it, because their 'roots', by which he meant their penises, were all
locked away in tight chastity devices.
Throne snapped his fingers (which were suggestively long and thick) and
every sissy took one step toward him. The inmates were dressed in sexy
tops, panties, stockings, and a variety of girls' shoes. Their hair was
worn in cleverly chosen unisex styles, adding to their gender confusion
and at the same time making it impossible for them to relate definately to
their male origins. Throne walked toward them, passed between two of the
awed figures, letting his fingers brush against the hip of one of his
favorites, and sat in a wooden straight-backed chair. They all turned
dutifully so that they were again facing him.
He said, "I've had a report about poor behavior concerning several of you
bratty sissies. This is unacceptable. There will have to be
punishements. There will have to be..." He grinned wolfishly. "...
spankings."
A susurration of frightened words filled the air, words like 'Not me',
'Please, no', and 'My poor bottom'. Throne ran a hand over his full head
of thick dark hair, worn short but not too short. His weakling charges
were utterly under his command. After the spankings as a warm-up, he
would decide what sort of more personal attention three of four of them
required in his private quarters. He announced the name of the first one
to take their place across his firm thighs. The unlucky prisoner came
forward hesitantly and yet some might say that they saw a glint of desire
in the sissy's eyes. Perhaps?
"Shanna, isn't it?" Throne wanted to know.
The inmate, wearing a baby doll nightie, took the hem of that lingerie
between thumbs and forefingers, and executed a neat curtsey. "Yes, Master
Throne," he whispered.
"Well, Shanna, you have been lax in your practice sessions with oral dildo
training." He gave her a sly look and added, "Maybe you need to work with
the real thing." After that sank in he went on, "But for right now you
have twenty swats from my good right hand coming to your cute round
bottom. Assume the position, girl."
Shanna draped himself over those black-clad legs, feeling the hard muscles
of the warden's thighs. Throne lightly stroked his target, enjoying its
flawless silkiness. Shanna squirmed in anticipation, presumably from fear
but maybe with something else mixed in. Throne brought up his long arm
and delivered a loud spank, making the sissy kick his legs and yelp. More
followed, while the commanding man took special pleasure in having a
wriggling, yowling he-she over his lap, stimulating his crotch.
How had Throne been so fortunate to find himself in this job? What had
put him in this delightful position of power, with an endless supply of
pretty pixies at his beck and call? He was always happy but still
couldn't stop wondering about the elusive answer to that question.
*********
Thandy, who desperatly clung to memories of having formerly been Throne,
looked up from where she was waiting on elbows and knees. Her body had
been radically altered and her mind was being gradually reshaped as well.
Once she had been a typical male. Now she was smooth-skinned and pink,
with long hair in a thick braid that was wrapped up and pinned atop her
head. Her face was decorated with cosmetics -- permanant make-up! -- that
gave her dramatic eyes and overly full lips, the latter effect enhanced by
injections to make them larger in reality. Her body was shapely, with
cantalope boobs and a jutting round bottom.
The fix she was in at the moment was what really concerned her. And yes,
we must refer to the made-over Throne in the feminine way. Her once manly
cock had been pressed down and covered with a triangle of unyielding mesh,
which had been glued in place with some adhesive that could be removed
only with a special solvent. Over that had been placed an artifical
pussy, absolutley convincing, which had been attached in the same way.
Every time he looked at himself down there he couldn't help calling into
question his claim to still being, at some level, male.
But that fix. She had been put into cruel and effective bondage. Her
limbs were held in bent positions, almost doubled, but wide bands of
flesh-toned rubber. That was why she was forced to remain on elbows and
knees. And there was a thick plug jammed into her bottom, designed so it
could not be removed without outside help, which she didn't expect to
receive. From the anal intruder extended a length of some flexible
material which stood up and ended in a simple hook. One of the Dominant
Lesbians into whose cruel hands she had fallen gave her a nod. Throne
knew what that meant. She backed up, awkward in her bondage, and tried to
maneuver the hook into a waiting ring. While the scowling lesbian, a
stunning beauty who Throne would have lusted after in her male
incarnation, waited impatiently, the captive struggled to achieve her
task.
The lezzie, though gorgeous, wore her hair mannishly short, giving her a
bizarre appearance. She reached for her belt and took a rubber paddle
that was hanging there, then slapped it against her palm in warning. That
made Throne so nervous that her efforts became erratic and she just
couldn't get that hook into that ring. The paddle went up and came down
hard, with a loud smack, and the hobbled sexpot yowled. Three more
strokes and there were tears forming in her darkly outlined eyes. She
held her breath and fought to get the hook and ring joined but had to
suffer another dozen smacks before she was able to do it. With her
bottom blazing and the lez snorting derisively, (but also radiating lust
that said she would be partaking of Throne's services later, as so many of
the perverse females did so often) Throne inched forward on her hampered
arms and legs.
The loop she had finally hooked was attached to a drink cart, which she
now dragged forward, her progress slow but steady. As she passed through
an archway she came out into bright sunlight and onto the concrete apron
surrounding a swimming pool. Everywhere she looked there were lesbians,
of every shape, size and color. That wasn't easy for Throne to encounter.
Her former male self had been obsessed with women who loved women,
couldn't resist seeing them, always hoped to witness them in each other's
arms, making sweet unnatural love. Those facts came back to her, but she
couldn't recover the memories of how she had gotten from that deep
interest to this bottomless pit of servitude and abuse. She kept
advancing, boobs wobbling, with the weight of the cart making her butt
hurt terribly.
As she gazed at the many lesbians, she was wildly aroused. But with her
genitals so hopelessly trapped, the automatic attempt of her cock to
harden only caused her pain. It pressed against her imprisoned balls and
made them hurt. They were already aching from her prolonged period of no
sexual release. She still couldn't put herself in touch with her own past
and what had put her into this weird prediciment. It had been something
to do with wanting to be close to these women, on this forbidden island
where they congregated, at this unique resort where they openly flaunted
their sexual preferences. She had decided to have her male self altered
by experts, and had been wealthy enough to easily afford the expensive
procedures, so that she could pass for a lesbian herself. But she had
been stripped of her monetary and other assets and ended up here, a
plaything to perverts. She was getting closer to the truth when she was
startled out of her thoughts.
"Thandy! Get over here, you lazy bitch."
It was a muscular Black woman in a white string bikini, on a folding
lounge chair. Her expression brooked no hesitation on Throne's part.
Despite the additonal discomfort it caused her, the slave moved faster,
heading for the demanding woman. Next to the Black beauty's chair was a
standing slave whose body was devoid of hair, pink and smooth everywhere.
This one wore towering heels, mesh stockings, a chastity tube, and a
punishingly tight corset that forced the excess flesh of her chest up into
a pair of breastlike mounds. There was a collar around her neck with a
lead hanging down to a spot within easy reach of the Dominant Black
Woman's hand.
"It's me, Throne," hissed the captive figure. "It's Cee Cee."
There were rings through her nipples and they were supporting a small
metal tray at her waist level, on which were a pack of cigarettes, a
lighter, lip gloss and some snacks. Who was this fellow sissy and why
were they both in this hellish place? And how did she know Throne's true
identity? Why were they both there?
A fleeting thought flickered through Throne's mind. There was a writer
called C.C. on a web site. On Fictionmania. The outre scenario which
Throne (and Cee Cee!) now inhabited was very much like something from one
of C.C.'s excellently written and endlessly imaginative tales. Tales from
the Pink Side. Throne tried to hold onto that thought but it was already
changing and being washed away, like cheap make-up on the face of a
weeping sissy who's eating a very wet pussy. If Throne/Thandy could only
assemble the missing pieces of this puzzle she was certain she could break
free of this strange trap.
*********
Throne shivered. The night air was growing cooler and all he had on was a
tiny skirt and barely-there top, along with patterned stockings and hooker
heels. Why would he be wearing those shoes, he asked himself as he stood
on a shadowy corner in the seedy part of the city known as Ho Alley?
Considering that he had somehow grown a set of huge hooters and a wide
thick rump, it made perfect sense for him to be exactly where he was. Add
to that the small heart-shaped purse on a long shoulder strap, with the
raspberry beret perched on his short, blue-and-silver steaked hair, and
his location was quite resonable. But how had he, once a semi-popular on-
line writer of dirty stories, come to meet such a nasty fate? It was all
like one of the stories he used to write. Like one of his erotic epics
posted on... Fictionmania?
A car rolled up and pulled to the curb. Out got three tall men, one White
and two Black. They came close and penned in Throne.
"We're looking to have a sort of party," one said.
"More like an orgy," another clarified.
"For us and all our guys back at the club where we hang," added the third.
"And," the first picked up the thread again, "you're just what we need as
our sort of an Entertainment Commitee."
Throne said in a terrified voice, "I'm Tasty. And I'm available." He
almost went on to say that his wife had put him here, requiring him to
work at being a sissy slut whore until he earned three grand, the amount
she said would repay their account for all the money he had squandered
trying -- unsuccessfully -- to seduce one of her girlfriends. He strongly
suspected that he had been set up and steered into his failed attempt at
infidelity. But since his bride had forced him into getting treatments
that gave him this new shape and, to his absolute horror shrank his cock
to a mere nubbin, he had no choice.
"Well," he said reluctantly. This was only his first night on the corner
and he had hoped for something less... demanding. "Okay." Next he had to
say the unwelcome words his wife had told him were what would save him
from being discovered as a male in drag, and keep him from getting badly
smacked around. "But it's my time of the month, so you can only use my
mouth." He shuddered as he finished the rehearsed offer. "And my tight
ass."
The guys chortled and slapped each other on the back. "Sure, you piece of
dirty street trash. Get into our ride and we'll use you like you've never
been used before." To one of the other guys he said, "We'll have to make
sure we get first shot, before she's turned into a cum dump by all the
other guys."
"Yeah," said another one of them. "She'll be a mess. But it'll be worth
it by morning, when she gets to collect... her twenty bucks."
That was all? Throne/Tasty was dizzy as he went to the car and got in,
with rough male hands already pawing his heavy boobs through that thin
top. He tried not to sob as he anticipated the evening to come with
mounting dread. There must be some way out of this. He tried to think of
a solution and, as they rode along with the guys on either side of him
unzipping their flies and freeing their unwashed cocks, he came up with
something.
Of course. He knew what was going on. Throne had been writing and
reading too many stories on Fictionmania. He had been pulled in, possibly
from all the magical energy of stories with supernatural elements. But
now that he knew why he had passed thorough a prism of perversity into a
universe of twisted fantasies, forced to vividly experience them, unable
to tell them from reality, there was a way to get free.
He could leave these terrible (except for maybe that one where he was a
Master) trials, if he just wished to be released. It was that simple. He
had to WANT to get away from all this madness. But what if, somewhere
deep inside, he really DIDN'T want that? Then what would happen to poor
Throne-as-Tasty and all of his many other personas?
Think about that next time you read one of his overheated opuses. He
might be in there as you marvel at the doomed state of his protagenist.
He might be living what you're merely reading. Think about it and be
careful how much of this fiction you let your mania drive you to read.
You could be next.
Pansy
- 15.01.2022
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