Muffin's Change in the House of Flies
Nerdy Nadine doesn’t know it yet, but her English professor has discovered her secret blog, filled with sexy tales of submissive fairy-tale princesses. Posing as a fan of her blog, he initiates an explicit Dominate-by-text relationship with her, pushing her further under his control with each buzz of the phone. To take his Dominance to the next level, he sends Nadine for a makeover and to a party at the Phi Lambda Upsilon frat house, the House of Flies, where he continues to push her, directing her to undress in the kitchen, blow a frat boy while another watches, and to go upstairs to the chapter president’s room. Nadine does everything she’s told, like a good sub, but when Professor Thompson reveals his identity, will she continue the relationship? Or will Evan, the FLY chapter president, get the girl in the end?
(Nadine’s transformation was inspired by the Deftones’ song “Change in the House of Flies.")
The footman was a beast—muscular with a long, angular face and huge hands. He ripped her dress over her head, tearing the fabric in several spots. For a moment, Cinderella feared the fairy godmother’s reaction to having her dress returned as tattered as the one she’d replaced, but the lust she felt for the footman swept away her apprehension. Standing in the garden in just her bodice and pantaloons, self-consciousness edged in until the footman placed his hands at her bosom and ripped the garment open, exposing her perfect breasts, her rose-colored nipples taut and ready.
He bit them, causing a stab of pain to shoot through her chest to her pussy. His teeth left deep marks in her skin, darker than the color of her areolae. The pain was sharp, invigorating, and it brought a rush of moisture to her pantaloons. “Please, Sir. Take them off,” she said to the footman. Why she called him “Sir” was not clear to her, but at that moment, he knew he was in charge. She was but a servant, a slave, even to this humble servant of the household. This time, the tearing sound excited her, and soon she found herself completely nude except for the one glass slipper remaining on her foot.
She was aware that she and the footman were not alone, and it mattered not. Lust clouded her judgment, and even though she knew she was surrounded by her friends—mice, the dog, even the evil cat—she stood proudly in her nakedness, hoping all her friends watched her. The footman grabbed her by the wrists and bound them tightly behind her back with the pumpkin vine he found next to the coach. “Please bend at the waist, Cinderella,” he commanded politely as he pushed her halfway into the coach, with her torso draped across the velvet seat. As she did, his boot separated her dainty feet, kicking her legs apart to allow his access.
“Please, Sir. Go gently,” she begged.
“Oh, Cinda,” the footman replied. “You know that isn’t what you want.” He lined his cock against her dripping slit and he forced himself inside. “You see? You like it rough.”
Her high-pitched, rhythmic squeaks affirmed his declaration, and he pumped into her harder and faster as she bucked back against him, meeting his sharp thrusts. “Fuck me,” she said breathlessly, wanting him harder and faster until the pain turned to pleasure. “Spank my bottom, Sir.”
“That is not your decision to make, princess,” he said with a smile, but he complied, and with each crack of her ass, she cried out, raising his arousal with her own. He fought to hold out, to keep from spewing his seed inside of her until she’d reached her own climax, but her yelps were such sweet music to his ears, he knew he couldn’t last.
“Come for me, Cinda,” he rasped into her ear. “Come for me, princess. Come on my cock.” With that, he thrust his middle finger into her tender, exposed asshole, surprising Cinderella coming right then. She emitted a series of sharp sounds, similar to those a Bichon Frisé makes when he sees a squirrel, as wave after wave of pleasure overtook her cunt. Each spasm brought her higher off the ground until she heard the chime of the clock tower, the one the fairy godmother had warned her about.
“Oh, my god,” she gasped. “The fairy godmother. She’ll see. She’ll know!” Cinderella knew that her intended for the evening was the prince, but he spent his evening eyeing up the king’s advisor, a giant of a man with a snarl to his lip. Cinderella couldn’t blame him; the advisor looked as though he could tear her in half. Just what she craved. She needed a man who wouldn’t be afraid to tie her to the bed and shove his cock in her—
“Ah-yuh,” said the footman. “It’s been a good ride, princess.”
The change came at the fourth chime. The footman’s huge cock slipped from her pussy and his finger disappeared, leaving her feeling empty and cold. The coach dissolved into thin air, and Cinderella’s torso dropped to the ground, leaving her breasts to plop on either side of a pumpkin stem. The cold flesh of the pumpkin aroused her nipples even more than the cool, night air, but her knees hitting the dirt jerked her to reality.
Behind her, something cold and wet brushed her left buttock, and when she turned to look, she was startled to see an enormous, lanky plough horse nosing—
Sexcerpt (XXX if available):
They called her Nerdy Nadine for good reason. Mousy brown hair fell over her face, creating a curtain behind which she hid from other people. The book in which she perpetually stuck her nose was her shelter, protecting her from life outside her own head. Her clothes were too big for her body, making her appear chunky rather than pleasantly curvy. It was all a disguise, hiding the woman inside, but he was her English professor; he read her writing. He knew what lay beneath the surface of Nadine’s cold, prudish exterior, and he planned to bring it out.
Professor Nate Thompson discovered her secret by accident, during a random check for plagiarism. He Googled the second paragraph of her composition about the impending tuition hike, not expecting to find a match. She was neither a slacker nor an overachiever, and he’d never had reason to suspect she would cheat. His jaw dropped when the search page loaded. The first item was from a blog, called Spank the Princess, and the preview paragraph on the Google page was identical to the sample from Nadine’s essay. He clicked, ready to fry her for copying from the Internet, but when the page loaded, he recognized immediately that Nadine Crowley was the author of both the essay and the blog. Her blog avatar was a photo of her backpack, complete with her collection of Disney pins, which he’d noticed in class and had silently mocked.
It amused him that she had recycled her own blog post from months before to complete the assignment he’d given days earlier. It was a good essay, but there was so much more on her site. His curiosity piqued, he continued reading, setting aside the rest of the papers he needed to grade. The blog entries were an odd mix of rants about life in the dorm, book reviews, liberal-leaning letters to the editor (of what, she didn’t say), and short fiction. Her stories were shocking, and Nate was glad he was alone in his townhouse as he read them, lest someone see the reaction in his pants.
The oldest of the stories was a twisted version of the Beauty and the Beast fairy tale. Nadine had turned the Beast into a whip-cracking Dom in an enchanted castle with anthropomorphic vibrators. Belle was his submissive slave. Nate chuckled at the story. Nadine needed a lesson or two in how BDSM really worked, but it was well written and erotic as hell.
Another told a modern-day, lesbian version of the Little Mermaid starring nude women with dolphin tails swimming with goldfish in a giant aquarium and a King Triton who favored spanking to control his unruly daughters. There were several more, making the rounds through the Disney stories, turning princesses into whores and talking snowmen into sex toys. He made a mental note to keep an eye on those Disney pins and grinned at her depravity.
Just as he’d decided to go jerk off in the shower and call it a night, the “tag cloud” caught his attention. He glanced through, wondering what other treasures hid in her head. The label “flogging” jumped out and grabbed him by the balls. He clicked, bringing up three short scenes of hard-core BDSM, all posted recently. Her writing was evolving from nasty fan fiction to stunningly mature erotica, and even outside of her fiction, her blog posts detailed an interest in receiving a good flogging matching Professor Thompson’s own interest in the delivery of said flogging.
He had to have her.