Would you run from her? Or would beg her to change you?
Yes
No
Voting ended on14h
Every night. You saw her. Dressed in that shiny leather. That tight, slick and shiny outfit. A different one every night. Always leather, Always black. Always a powerful statement of Her Power and Cruel Beauty. Every night it shined under the subway lights. Beckoning you.
As you rode home from your job. Just a nameless, unseen, little man, toiling in a cubicle carrying out tasks that an AI would probably soon do. You knew how worthless you were. How little anyone would miss you. You fought down the dark hunger of your envy as you saw her. Envy rippled thru your soul every night. No matter when you boarded the train, no matter the station. She was there. You knew she was hunting you. She was stalking you. You knew she would claim you as hers, but you knew you must beg her. She would only claim you when she'd broken you.
She tempted you by her confidence & power. You craved that power, that beauty. The chance to be important, to be someone people obeyed.
As time passed, you began to realize that soon you would be hers. 6 months of this. You've never before been able to look into her eyes. Now you craved the chance. Soon. Soon you would.
Never spoken a word. Every night you grew weaker.
Would tonight be her victory over you?
That night Mistress Zena finally forced you to stare into those beautiful dark eyes. Dark, deep merciless. She smiled at you as you fell to your knees. Your quivering lips caressing the shiny leather of her boots.
She took you to her lair. Wrapped you in her embrace of power and temptation. Showed you dark, sinful delights. You sampled the perverse debaucheries, the endless corruption that was her playground.
She transformed your body, mind & soul. No more the weak boy, She feminized you. Made you beautiful, sinful and now you are her eager lesbian accomplice. Now you are a huntress sent out to tempt & enslave the innocent just as you'd been. To worship Mistress Zena. You brought others to worship her. To be her playthings. Those who failed to interest her would be sold to one of her endless number of wealthy friends. Or given as gifts to her most loyal lieutenant.
You spent your nights now hunting and reveling in the pleasures that your new body, power, wealth and outlook gave you.
The weak Sean was gone, Miss Synn had replaced him.
Matriarch Thorne and her Daughters Rose, Eve and Violet on her knees. Isn't Violet such a good girl? My perfect little slutty girl. Always happy to lick and fuck for Mommy and her big sisters.
This is a the final part Handbags & Hotties story.
Part one. Part Two
-
The days following the Anna's transformation into Anastasia blurred into a seamless tapestry of indulgence and discovery, each one weaving her deeper into the fabric of her new existence. The cramped dorm room that had once been Anna’s was abandoned overnight, replaced by a sprawling penthouse atop the city’s most exclusive high rise.
The apartment had always been hers, of course. Memories surfaced in crystalline fragments. Summers in the Côte d’Azur, winters in Gstaad, the private jet’s leather seats still warm from her last transatlantic flight.
She remembered the staff unpacking crates of designer gowns shipped from Paris, the sommelier stocking the climate controlled wine cellar with vintages that cost more than most students’ annual tuition. Daddy’s latest wire transfer had hit her account that first morning:. Seven figures, pocket change for errands.
By the second day, the faint echoes of Anna’s desperation had faded to a distant whisper, like a half remembered dream upon waking. Why had she ever lived in that squalid little box? Why scrape and save when the world bent to her whims?
She spent that day shopping, lounging in her marble bathtub, and belittling her staff with the lazy confidence of someone born to it. The mission, the die, Amber, the sorority, slipped further into the background, overshadowed by the sheer pleasure of being Anastasia. She would have completely left her friends to their new lives if the invitation hadn't arrived on the third day.
It had been delivered by hand on heavy cream cardstock embossed with Alpha Sigma Nu’s crest. Amber had cordially invited Anastasia to the sorority’s Winter Holiday end of semester Gala.
"Black tie optional, but darling, we know you’ll dazzle regardless." - The note read and was signed with a flourish and a lipstick kiss in crimson.
Anastasia traced the kiss with one crimson nail, smiling slowly. The desperation making her wet. Of course Amber wanted her. Who wouldn’t? Rumors of the mysterious Serbian heiress had already swept campus. Amber wanted the most elegant of jewels and Anastasia was the brightest one.
A part of Anastasia, the Anna part still buried deep, saw this as an opportunity to reverse the damage done to her friends. A week ago it had been to gain her friends back, but now it was to exact revenge on Amber.
By the night of the party, Anastasia stood before the full length mirror in her walk in closet, admiring the reflection that stared back with predatory satisfaction. The gown was custom, black latex that clung like a second skin, slit high enough to flash thigh with every step, neckline plunging to showcase the generous curves that had become her signature. She slipped her pink d20 between her perfect breasts, ready to use it.
Heads turned the moment she stepped through the grand entrance of the sorority. Conversations stuttered. Phones lifted subtly for photos. Anastasia paused on the threshold, letting her mink coat slide from her shoulders into the waiting hands of a pledge, her icy gaze sweeping the room like she owned it. Which, in every way that mattered, she did.
Amber spotted her first, of course. The queen bee stood at the center of the foyer like a statue carved from entitlement. Blonde hair in an intricate updo, red gown hugging her perfect figure, flanked by her three lieutenants, Lexi, Chelsea, and Mercedes.
“Anastasia, darling!” Amber’s voice carried that perfect blend of warmth and calculation as she glided forward, air kissing both cheeks with practiced grace. “You came. I was starting to think you’d ghost us.”
Anastasia returned the smile, sharper, letting her accent roll through the words like velvet over steel. “And miss the chance to see how Americans celebrate? Never.” Her eyes flicked dismissively over the decorations, the crowd. “Though I must say, it’s… quaint.”
Amber laughed, the sound bright and brittle, already hooking her arm through Anastasia’s as if they’d been friends forever. “Come, let me introduce you properly.”
Lexi stepped forward first, her smile all teeth. “We’ve heard so much. That Paris story… legendary.”
Chelsea and Mercedes murmured agreements, their gazes assessing, envious, hungry. Anastasia met each stare evenly, feeling the old thrill of dominance surge through her. She hadn't know it at the time, but as Anna she commanded their respect but as Anastasia that respect was palpable. She knew if she told them to bark like a dog they'd do it.
As Amber led her deeper into the party, champagne flute pressed into her hand, Anastasia felt the house’s energy shift around her. Pledges scrambled to anticipate her needs. Boys stared openly, drawn like planets to her gravity. Girls shot envious glances or tried to ingratiate themselves.
It thrilled Anastasia at first but it then very quickly grew tiresome. Within thirty minutes it was a bore to a woman of her stature. She didn't belong in this house of immature brats, as she saw them now.
These were children playing at decadence. The boys were handsome enough, but their stories were of spring breaks in Cancun and trust funds in the low eight figures. The girls preened in dresses from fast-fashion collaborators, clutching phones like lifelines, snapping selfies for followers who would never matter.
She pulled out her phone, looking at pictures of the parties, the real parties, she attended. The kind held in restored palazzos in Venice, where oligarchs and supermodels danced until dawn, cocaine cut with real gold dust on marble tables, security discreetly armed. There, conversation was a blood sport, alliances forged and broken over vintage Krug. Here? It was gossip about who hooked up with whom in the chapter house basement.
"Darling, you're looking positively bored." Amber's voice cut through the haze like a diamond blade, smooth and knowing. She appeared at Anastasia's elbow as if conjured. Her smile was perfect, predatory. "I can't have that. Not when I've finally lured you here."
Anastasia arched a brow, letting a hint of amusement play across her features. "Bored? How could I be in a place so majestic as this." She said dryly.
Amber laughed, low and delighted, looping her arm through Anastasia's with familiar ease. "I know, I know, this place is below someone of your stature." Her eyes flicked over Anastasia's face, assessing, admiring. "So come with me. I've got something better. Just for us."
She turned, gesturing imperiously to Lexi, Chelsea, and Mercedes, who detached from their admirers without question. Up the grand staircase, past framed composites of past sorority queens (Amber's photo already hung prominently in the newest one), down a hallway lined with closed doors and muffled music.
Amber's room was at the end, double doors opening into a suite that screamed decadent authority. Plush velvet seating, crystal decanters on a bar cart, a four poster bed visible through an archway. She locked the door behind them with a soft click, then crossed to an antique vanity, fingers dancing over a hidden drawer.
"I've been saving this for someone who could truly appreciate it." Amber purred, producing a small velvet pouch. She tipped its contents into her palm. A familiar pink d20, glinting under the chandelier light. "A little game."
"This is your big surprise? What are we to play? Monopoly?" Anastasia smirked, hiding her knowledge of the die successfully behind genuine arrogance.
Amber grinned back. "Oh it is so much more than that darling. It will change your life. Literally."
The other three women settled onto the chaise and chairs, leaning forward with eager, hungry expressions. Lexi twirling a strand of hair, Chelsea crossing her legs with deliberate grace, Mercedes smirking like she already knew the outcome.
"So what do you say? Want to play?" Amber said smiling darkly, as if hiding a secret. Unlikely for her, Anastasia could see her moves ten steps ahead. She smiled slowly, stepping forward, the click of her heels echoing like destiny.
"Of course." She murmured, accent thick with promise. "I never refuse a good game."
"Wonderful." Amber said handing her the die. "You arrive at the airport, not the rich princess you are now, but instead a girl from some backwater hick town in the-"
"I'm going to have to stop you there dušo. I've change my mind about your little game. It sounds like something a child would want to play. I think it's time to grow up." Anastasia said with a knowing smile.
Before anyone could react, she let the die fall.
It hit the hardwood floor with a soft clack, rolling once, twice but not a third as her stiletto came down on it. The sharp heel pinned it perfectly. A single, deliberate twist of her ankle, and the pink crystal cracked with a sound like thin ice breaking.
A blast of rose colored magic erupted outward, rippling through the room like a shockwave. The air shimmered, thick with the scent of ozone and something sweeter, almost like burnt sugar.
Lexi gasped first. Her blonde hair darkened at the roots, shortening, frizzing into an awkward chestnut bob. Her sharp features softened, cheekbones retreating, eyes widening behind sudden thick rimmed glasses that materialized on her nose. The slinky dress sagged as her body shrank back to a slighter, less curvaceous frame.
Chelsea clutched at her chest as her designer gown pooled around narrowing hips, her golden tan fading to pale freckled skin, her poised elegance dissolving into hunched shoulders and nervous fidgeting.
Mercedes let out a small, panicked cry as her sleek black hair exploded into a messy ponytail, her hourglass figure deflating, legs shortening until she had to kick off heels that no longer fit.
In seconds, three nerdy, awkward girls stared up at Anastasia in wide eyed horror. Alex, Claire, and Marcy once more. Most surprisingly though was a new voice behind her. High, nasal, trembling with rage, that cut through the stunned silence. “You bitch! What have you done!”
Anastasia turned languidly.
Where Amber had stood now hunched a short, plump girl with mousy brown hair pulled into a lopsided bun, acne scarred cheeks flushed red, thick glasses magnifying furious eyes. A baggy sweater and jeans had replaced the crimson gown.
“Amber?” Anastasia’s tone dripped amused recognition. A flood of old memories, true memories, cascaded through her mind. This wasn't Amber, this was Andie. Painfully shy Andie, the loner who sat alone at lunch, who collected dice and muttered about campaigns no one joined. The girl even Anna’s little D&D group had quietly excluded.
“Of course.” Anastasia purred, smile sharpening. “You used the die on yourself first. Oh this is delicious.”
Andie’s fists clenched. “How did you know about the die? No one knew! No one except… Anna.”
Anastasia’s laugh was soft, superior. “Bingo.”
Alex, Claire, and Marcy scrambled to their knees, voices overlapping in desperate pleas.
“Please, Anna- Anastasia, turn us back!”
“We were hot! We were powerful!”
“I loved being a heartless bitch, please!”
Deep inside, a small, fading voice, Anna’s voice, whispered that it was over. Mission complete. Time to take out her own die, crush it, return everything to normal. Return herself to normal.
But a much stronger voice, Anastasia’s, silenced it with a lazy, luxurious purr. No. This power felt too good. This body, this life, this dominance, it was hers now. She was the alpha. Why ever go back?
Andie’s chin lifted defiantly. “Forget her, girls. I’ll get another die. I’ll remake us all. Badder, hotter. I’ll make Anastasia look like a street rat in comparison. I'll make sure she ends up working in some redneck Dairy Queen for the rest of her life.”
Anastasia’s smile didn’t waver but she knew Andie was right. After all she’d acquired her own die easily enough. Once Andie succeeded, the game would reset, and Anastasia would lose everything.
So she reached into the deep valley of her cleavage, fingers closing around cool crystal. She withdrew her own pink d20, letting it catch the light. She would make sure they would become the loyal bitches she needed them to be. She would make Andie never think of a magical dice again.
She would become queen of this sorority, of this campus and her three friends would do everything she commanded. And yet as quickly as that thought entered her mind it just as quickly curdled. Why would she want this meagre existence. She wasn't Anna anymore, her desires didn't have to be so pedestrian.
But as she looked at the three girls, begging for her grace, and at Andie, filled with furious rage and bubbling vengeance she knew she couldn't just leave the room without making some changes. Thankfully, she knew exactly what to do.
“You want to be alluring, bad bitches again?” She said, voice velvet and venom, turning to the three girls who all nodded enthusiastically. “Well then tie her down. Now.”
The temptation was immediate, intoxicating. Alex, Claire, and Marcy exchanged one frantic glance, then lunged. Andie shrieked as they tackled her, pinning her struggling form to the plush rug with surprising strength born of desperation.
Anastasia lowered herself gracefully into the chair at the vanity table, crossing her long legs, the latex gleaming. She set her die down in front of her like a queen placing a crown.
“Let’s start with you first, Andie.”
---
Minutes passed in the locked suite, the bass from the party downstairs a distant heartbeat. From behind the door drifted only soft giggles, sharp and delighted, mingling with low, breathy moans that spoke of pleasure and power shifting irrevocably.
Then the lock turned.
The door opened, and Alexis, Lexi no longer, stepped out first, a vision in a slutty Santa outfit that left nothing to imagination. Red velvet trimmed in white fur, the top little more than a corset pushing her enhanced curves to obscene heights, the micro skirt barely covering her thong, thigh high white stockings and candy cane striped heels completing the look.
Diamonds flashed at her throat and wrists as she tossed her dark waves, lips curled in haughty Serbian disdain. Her history rewrote. To her, this was simply who she had always been, Chelsea was a name that had never existed, a name belonging to a girl who thought she was rich but didn't know what real wealth was.
Marika followed, her own Santa ensemble even more provocative. A sheer red bodysuit beneath a fur trimmed bolero, the fabric clinging to lethal curves, fiery red hair cascading over shoulders. Phone already in hand, she angled it to capture her toxic perfection for her millions of followers. Mercedes? A forgotten dream.
Celina emerged last of the three, the outfit molded to her model frame like liquid sin. Red satin strapless dress with a tiny skirt attached with legs endless slipped into six inch heels. She ran crimson nails through her chestnut mane, smirking at her reflection in the hallway mirror. Chelsea had never walked these halls.
The trio paused, preening, adjusting fur trim and jewelry with practiced entitlement. “Where is our vođa?” Celina asked impatiently, accent thick and aristocratic.
“Da.” Marika purred, snapping a photo. “Our general should lead.”
A throaty laugh echoed from the room. “Coming, kurve.”
Andrea stepped into the hallway, the most breathtaking of them all. Her slutty Santa gown was haute couture decadence. Red silk and crystals cut scandalously low, fur shrug slipping off one shoulder, body screaming spoiled heiress. Platinum waves framed eyes that promised ruin. She was the daughter of Serbia’s richest woman, always had been. Andie and Amber were figments of some losers imagination.
She surveyed her court with possessive satisfaction.
“Go to the party, devojke.” Andrea commanded. “I will join in moments. I must say goodbye to Mama first.”
They air kissed her cheeks, loyal, theatrical, and descended the stairs, hips swaying in perfect synchronization, ready to turn the entire holiday gala into their personal runway of cruelty.
A moment later, the door opened again.
Anastasia emerged, forty now, but barely looking thirty. She radiated a mature, devastating beauty that eclipsed every woman in the house. Platinum hair swept into an elegant chignon, her black latex gown sleek and commanding, celebrating every lush curve experience had gifted her. Diamonds glittered coldly at throat and ears. She was the ruthless empire builder, the mother of the heiress below, and the only soul in the building who remembered what had come before.
She smiled down at her daughter with fierce maternal pride.
“You know, my love.” She said, voice rich with age and power, “You do not have to stay at this pathetic American college. Your place on the board is waiting.”
Andrea beamed, green eyes sparkling. “I know, Mama. But I want to have fun. Breaking their boys, crushing their girls. Don’t you ever wish you had the chance?”
Anastasia’s gaze drifted to the party below. She remembered finding it boring mere minutes ago. That disdain had fuelled everything. She wanted to control the campus but wanted no part in living amongst the peasants. No her beautifully wicked daughter would rule it for now, sharpening her abilities.
“Not at all, my princeza.” She murmured, brushing a kiss to Andrea’s cheek. “Now go. Reign over them.”
Andrea grinned wickedly and descended the grand staircase like a conquering queen, the crowd below already parting, already falling under her spell.
Anastasia watched a moment longer, satisfaction warm and absolute. Then she turned toward the stairs herself, not to join the party, but to leave it behind. This childish American spectacle was beneath her now. She had empires to run, real power to wield.
She glided down the steps, the sea of co-eds parting instinctively, eyes following her with awe and envy they couldn’t name. As she passed through the foyer, a handsome hunk near the door caught her eye. Tall, broad shouldered, classic American college perfection, staring openly at the mature goddess in black latex.
Anastasia paused. A slow, predatory smile curved her lips.
"I might be a little older", she thought, "but I still like playing with toys."
She met his gaze, arched one brow, and crooked a single crimson nail in a subtle, unmistakable command.
His eyes widened, then darkened with hunger. Without a word, he obeyed, trailing her out the front doors into the crisp winter night.
Her town car idled at the curb, driver holding the door. Anastasia slid into the back seat first, the hunk following moments later, the partition rising with a soft whir as the car pulled away.
She leaned back against the leather, legs opening with deliberate grace, and smiled at her new plaything as he lower his head between her legs. This was power. This was prefection.
And yet as the hunk was eating her out so expertly she took the die out from between her breasts and rolled it lazily through her fingers. A stray thought entered her wicked mind, "I wonder would Andrea like a new dada."
Annie hummed a soft tune as she dusted the living room shelves, the afternoon sun filtering through lace curtains onto the polished hardwood floor. She was the picture of gentle domestic bliss: honey-blonde hair tied in a slightly messy ponytail, a few strands framing her warm, kind face. She wore her favorite cozy outfit, a simple floral blouse tucked into high-waisted jeans, and soft slippers that padded quietly as she moved. The house smelled of fresh lemon cleaner and the apple pie cooling on the counter for Hank’s return.
She paused to look at their wedding photo on the mantel, Hank in his suit, smiling proudly, her in white lace, eyes shining with love. “My hardworking man.” she whispered sweetly, touching the frame. “You’re out there building our future, and I’m right here keeping everything perfect for you.” Annie had chosen to be a housewife so Hank could focus on his career. She loved it, the quiet rhythm of chores, the way she could make their home a sanctuary. “I’m the luckiest wife in the world.” she’d tell him every evening when he walked through the door, greeting him with a kiss.
But the basement had been neglected for months. “Time to tackle it.” Annie said to herself in her cozy, gentle voice. “Hank deserves a spotless house.” She carried down a bucket and rags, humming again as she wiped shelves and sorted old boxes.
Hours later, as dust motes danced in the dim light from a single bulb, her hand brushed something cold and metallic behind a stack of forgotten holiday decorations. She pulled it out: a delicate silver necklace with an unusual pendant, a black obsidian teardrop edged in crimson. “This isn’t ours.”she murmured, turning it over. “Must have been left by the previous owners. How pretty… and strange.”
A sudden warmth spread through her chest, an urge she couldn’t explain. “I… I should put it on. Just to see.” Almost in a trance, she fastened the clasp around her neck. The pendant rested heavy between her breasts, pulsing once.
Then the whispers began.
You’re wasting your life, Annie. Serving him. Cleaning for him. Bow down? No… make him bow.
Annie gasped, hand flying to the necklace. “No…Where did that thought come from? That’s not right. I love Hank. He works so hard for us.” Her voice was still sweet, trembling. “I’m happy. This is wrong.”
Happy? You’re a servant in your own home. Imagine him on his knees… worshipping you. You deserve to be queen.
Heat flooded her body, her nipples hardened under her blouse, a slick warmth blooming between her thighs. “Stop… please. I love being his wife. Kindness, love, that’s what matters.” She tried to unclasp the necklace, fingers shaking. “Hank… he’s good. He’s kind. I won’t think these things.”
Kind? Boring. Weak. You could have power. Control. His cock hard for you, begging. You wet just thinking about it.
Annie sank to the basement floor, knees buckling. “No… no… think of our vows. ‘To love and cherish.’ I cherish him. I do.” Tears welled. “This isn’t me. I’m Annie. Sweet Annie. I make pie for him. I iron his shirts. I… I love him.”
Love? Pathetic. Make him fear you. Make him crawl. Feel how wet you are, your pussy knows the truth. You crave it.
Her hand drifted to her jeans, pressing against the denim. “Oh god… why does it feel so…so…NO! Resist! Think of the future we’re building. Our home. Our life together.” She squeezed her eyes shut.
The whispers grew louder, more insistent, laced with dark pleasure.
He should worship your cunt. You should whip him. Break him. Be cruel. Be superior. Cum for the evil inside you.
Annie moaned, hips twitching. “I… I can’t… but it sounds… no! Stop! I’m good. I’m kind. I’m not… not evil.” Her fingers slipped inside her jeans, circling her clit despite her sobs. “Please… Hank would be heartbroken. I can’t hurt him.”
Hurt him? Elevate him. Make him your slave. Imagine his face when you peg him. When you laugh at his tears. You’re dripping for it. Give in.
She rocked against her hand, breath hitching. “No… no… love is stronger. Love is… oh god, it feels so good… no! Fight it, Annie! Remember the way he kisses you goodnight. The way he says ‘I love you.’ That’s real.”
Real? Boring. You deserve worship. Power. Money. Sex. Evil feels better. Cum for it. Scream for it.
Annie’s body trembled on the edge. “I… I love him… I… I can’t…” One last desperate plea: “Hank… help me…I can’t…I can’t resist this anymore…I feel…Oh fuck I feel…I feel so…so…”
Then the orgasm hit like a storm, manic, evil, arrogant joy exploding through her. “FUCK YES! MAKE ME EVIL! MAKE ME CRUEL! MAKE ME A EVIL SUPERIOR BITCH! I FUCKING LOVE THIS!”
Her body convulsed, back arching as waves of dark ecstasy reshaped her. Blonde hair lightened to platinum, pulling into a strict high ponytail. Conservative clothes dissolved into a glossy black latex catsuit, high collar framing her neck, zipper plunging to reveal massive cleavage, clinging to every enhanced curve. Long black latex gloves slid up her arms; thigh-high boots materialized with wicked heels. Flawless makeup appeared: smoky eyes, blood-red lips curling into an evil, triumphant smile. The pendant glowed once more, then faded into her skin.
Mistress Anastasia rose, whip uncoiling in her hand. “Mmm… look at me. Perfect. Powerful. Fucking divine.” She laughed, low, arrogant, bitchy. “Annie was a pathetic fucking doormat. Cleaning floors while her man worked? Pathetic! Now I rule! And this house? Too sweet. Too cozy.”
With a wave of her hand, the basement walls pulsed black. Chains descended from the ceiling. Racks of whips, paddles, dildos, and restraints appeared. A throne of black leather and red velvet rose in the center. The upstairs transformed, living room became a dungeon lounge, bedroom a playroom of silk and steel, every corner dripping with depravity.
Hours later, the front door opened. “Annie? Honey, I’m home. Something smells… different.”
Hank stepped inside, handsome in his blue suit, brown hair neat, blue eyes tired but warm. He froze. The house was dim, lit by red candles. Chains dangled. And there, on the throne, legs crossed, whip tapping her thigh, sat a latex goddess.
“A-Annie?” His voice cracked, calm demeanor shattering. “What… what happened? The house… you…”
Mistress Anastasia threw back her head and laughed, cruel, mocking. “Annie? That weak little cunt is gone, darling. I’m Mistress Anastasia now. And you… you’re going to kneel.”
Hank backed away. “This isn’t you. What have you become? Please, honey. I love you. We can fix this.”
Anastasia rose, heels clicking like gunshots. “Love? Aww, how sweet. How boring.” She circled him, whip trailing across his chest. “You worked so hard for us. Now you’ll work for me. On your knees, worm!”
Hank shook his head, voice steady but trembling. “No. I won’t. You’re my wife. I love you. Fight this, Annie.”
She slapped him, hard. “Annie’s dead, you fucking pathetic worm. And you’ll call me Mistress Anastasia. Or I’ll make you scream it.”
Hank’s knees buckled, eyes wide with terror. “Please… don’t do this. Remember our vows. Our life. I… I can’t…”
Anastasia grabbed his tie, yanking him down. “You can’t resist me. Look at my tits. Look at my power. Your cock’s already hard, isn’t it? Pathetic.”
Hank groaned, fighting. “I love her… I love Annie…”
“Annie was a pathetic loser. A doormat. You serve your goddess now, Hank…Actually you are to pathetic for that name. You will now become wormcuck! My devoted slave.” She pressed her boot to his crotch. “Kneel, Wormcuck. Or I’ll crush your balls and laugh.”
Hank’s resistance crumbled. He sank to his knees, tears streaming. “I… I can’t fight you… Mistress Anastasia.”
“Good boy.”
She collared him, black leather, engraved “Wormcuck.” “Now strip. Crawl. Worship my boots.”
Wormcuck obeyed, voice manic and pathetic. “Yes, Mistress Anastasia… thank you… thank you for making me yours… please humiliate me… please use me…I am yours to command.”
Anastasia sat back on her throne, legs spread, whip cracking the air. “Mmm, that’s right, Wormcuck. Lick my delishous boots while I plan. This neighborhood, full of boring pathetic little couples like we used to be. I’ll corrupt them all. Wives into my evil delishous dominatrix army. Husbands into pathetic simpering slaves. They’ll pay tribute. They’ll beg. And I’ll laugh while I ruin them.”
She stroked the whip handle, eyes gleaming. “Fuck, I love this. Being evil. Being superior. Being cruel. Annie was nothing. Mistress Anastasia is everything. And the world? It’s next.”
Wormcuck whimpered in adoration, tongue on her boot. “Thank you, Mistress… thank you for being so evil… I love you…”
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