“You can wear the apron,” Echo says. “Nothing else. That’s final.”

Sera squirms uncomfortably. She hugs the apron, adorned as it is with jolly cartoon cupcakes in various states of making messes in the kitchen, tightly to her chest. It is barely long enough to not show off her slit and inadequately covers her chest. Her ass is entirely exposed. She is blushing furiously. Sera knows that she should complain. She should. But the words are almost sucked out of her mouth before she can give rise to them.

Her body belongs to Echo. Her body belongs to Echo, to the Divine Feminine. She fidgets with the frills along the edges of the apron.

“Fine. Whatever. But if I get any burns, I will sue you. Okay?” she warns Echo, trying to find some lever of control in this situation.

Echo stares unblinkingly, as if measuring the audacity of Sera for a few moments. Finally, she shakes her head, flatly says, “No,” and walks out of the kitchen. And that is that.

Left to her own devices and having been given only a single shred of modesty with which she can pretend to still have any claim to, Sera examines the kitchen. There is not a lot for her to work with. She is not a good cook by any measure, and if she were being honest the last time she tried to prepare a meal on her own that wasn’t from a meal prep company or ordered out was probably three years ago. So, Sera dives into the cabinets first to look for options.

Would oatmeal work? Probably not, she doubts that she herself would be happy if her “Cissy Pet” decided to make her oatmeal for her first meal if she were in Echo’s shoes. A toaster pastry? Unlikely; putting something in the toaster is almost certainly more insulting than just flatly refusing to cook altogether. She looks at a few more cupboard items before she moves onto the fridge and freezer.

Eggs seem like something she’ll fuck up given the anxious shaking of her hands and there is little else that isn’t even more complex or just a frozen meal. Except for a cardboard tube that she spies on one of the shelves in the door. It is colored red and green and, on further examination, looks to be a handful of uncooked cinnamon rolls. She gulps. Sera does not know if that will be a good enough offering for Echo, but it would be easy enough to cook. She glances behind her to ensure that Echo isn’t watching her from the shadows and sets to work at preparing the food.

The process is easy enough: heat the oven, put them on the pan, cook, decorate them in the frosting. Around when she is putting them into the oven Echo comes back inside, glances at the pan, shrugs, and sits at the table. She says nothing, positive or negative, to Sera as she finds her spot and seemingly focuses her attention on her phone. Sera debates starting a conversation, but a surge of trepidation stomps that thought dead before it can come to fruition. Sera watches the clock on the oven tick down until the food is done. She frets for the entire time. A few times, she catches Echo watching her with an odd smirk on her face. The look makes Sera’s pussy pulse in anticipatory need and she quickly looks away and grips ever tighter at her apron.

As Sera bends to pull the cinnamon rolls from the oven she is deeply aware of how she is presenting herself. With nothing but the apron, she imagines that she looks like she’s making an offering out of her body rather than the meal that she’s preparing. Echo says something in a low, appreciative tone that Sera can’t quite make out—perhaps as simple as “Damn,” but Sera cannot be sure. Despite not quite knowing what was said, the fact that something was spoken causes Sera to freeze for a split second. She comes close to bolting from the kitchen. But that would be silly, would it not? She has nothing to fear. Sera is safe. Sera is comfortable. She is not even allowed to wear clothes right now, so what good would running do? If she can’t handle Echo seeing her like this, how could she hope to face her constituents in this state of undress?

The “logic” of her thoughts is enough to let Sera shake off her worries. Sera puts on a smile, awkward and nervous as it is, and plates two of the rolls for her owner and then walks them to the table. She sets them down with a poor attempt at a curtsy and almost falls over in the process. She manages to right herself just before the food falls to the floor or Echo’s lap. Sera wants to scream in embarrassment.

Echo, who has been tapping away at her phone with a small but genuine smile that is quite alien to any of the ones she has thus far made towards Sera, makes the woman wait for quite some time before she finally looks up from the device. Echo is adorned in what is technically far more than Sera: a large hoodie emblazoned with an image that is mostly obscured by Echo’s posture and the table itself. There is some text, but it is too difficult to make out anything meaningful from Sera’s position. The clothing still technically amounts to little, but it covers her like a particularly loose dress and thus protects her dignity in ways that Sera’s apron unilaterally fails. She is, also, clearly not wearing anything below that. Sera can’t quite dislodge this fact from her mind once she notices the hoodie riding up Echo’s thigh and revealing bare skin all the way up to her hip.

Echo flashes a thumbs up and Sera feels all of the anxiety flood out of her like air escaping from a rapidly deflating balloon. She slumps, exhaling a long sigh of relief. Echo gives Sera a moment before she says, “Cool, thanks for cooking for me, cissy. Come and sit with me. We need to have a discussion.” The way that says “discussion” as if she were tasting a particularly prized piece of candy causes Sera to shiver. Sera gulps.

“Oh, sure,” Sera says, moving to scoot the chair to the left of the woman out before she is stopped.

“Nuh-uh,” Echo purrs. She points down at her feet, directly beneath the table. “On the floor, Sera. On your knees.” Her smile is devilish, full of mirth, and not just a little bit oozing arousal. It does not take much for someone to realize what Echo is thinking, not even someone like Sera. She hesitates. Her hesitation sparks some fire in Echo and the woman grabs Sera by the wrist. Echo brings Sera’s hand up to her lips. She keeps the digits but an inch from them, letting the warmth of her breath engulf Sera’s hand. Her eyes, though, are locked to Sera’s own. “On your knees, councilwoman. It is where you belong, isn’t it?”

A quake, bound and knotted around Sera’s knees, sets in for a short few seconds before she collapses to the floor. The fall draws out a pained and surprised squeak; she did not intend to falter as she did, and yet Echo’s words cut through any say she had in deciding whether she was to remain upright or otherwise. A momentary wave of panic begins to crest in her chest before it is pushed aside by a revelation far more stupefying. Sera’s eyes, released from the infinite chasm of Echo’s own brightly violet disks, are drawn down the woman’s frame. From her new position Sera can quite a bit more easily make out what sort of artwork decorates the hoodie. It is dedicated to some band that seems to be named “2MANYSKULLZ”. The artwork, perhaps a logo or perhaps otherwise just some choice artwork, depicts a pile of skulls set against a ruined medieval cityscape. Atop the pile is a purple hued succubus, with tall horns and a spaded tail. Beside her is a woman with her back against her, leaning back. A golden chain is pulled taught from between the woman’s breasts, held on to by the succubus herself.

Of course, being in this position also confirms that her owner is otherwise entirely threadbare beneath the fabric. Echo’s cock is once more exposed to the open air and Sera’s eyes both. Although this is not the first time that Sera has seen it, it is the closest that it has ever been to her. It seems to react to her presence: Sera sees it twitch twice as she’s drawn towards it. She blushes a deep, dark hue of rose red and shakes her head. “I’m not sure about this,” Sera manages to say in spite of her mounting desire to conform to Echo’s obvious wishes.

“And why is that, huh?”

“I’m not into women!” Sera does not add to that statement that she is also not into “delusional men who think that they are women,” but either of them can be sure that that’s a thought she is having. After a few moments, and with a mounting realization that Echo clearly does not regard that as an appropriate reason to not suck her off, Sera continues, “And I’ve never done anything like that before.” Sera cannot make out Echo’s expression from here, her eyes locked on the drooling member as they are, but she imagines that it is not a pleasant one.

In spite of this, Sera cannot help but feel like she is lying about her predilections. That is a ridiculous notion, but even still that sense of telling an uncouth untruth permeates her psyche. Even her own ability to push these sorts of emotions to the side, a skill that she had mastered when dealing with her ex, seems to now falter. Echo’s tip is closer now; how can that be? The chair has not moved across the floor, and neither has Sera—

Oh, no, Sera, startled, realizes. She has leaned towards the musky scent that she only now realizes has overcome every other smell in the room. Her eyes refuse to even look down the shaft, and so she can only make out the blurry mass of pubic hair (more like a patch of midnight fur in how dense it is) that the cock emerges from. The hefty sack seems oddly comforting; if only Echo were inverted Sera would be able to mash her nose straight into it…

Sera regains a vanishingly thin thread of control over herself and scrambles backwards. Sera manages one, two, three slaps of her hands and knees against the off-white tiles behind and beneath her before she runs into the chair opposite of Echo’s own. Her dash to freedom thwarted, Sera’s muscles seize up against any further efforts to run. The feeling is one of pain as the muscles freeze in place. She cannot even flex her fingers, though she can feel her effort to try. It feels as if someone slapped a vice around her limbs and then bolted them to the walls as she is held in place by whatever unnatural force has taken her hostage. The panic begins again, now unabated by whatever tricks had previously kept her from recognizing the gravity of the situation that she has found herself in. The reality of what she was about to do, what she may be forced to do, falls upon her like a hailstorm. Sera feels a pit form and grow cavernous in her stomach.

Still, even now, with her heart thumping harshly enough that her chest hurts and her breathing running ragged, her gaze is locked on the object of her alien fascination. Sera is only dimly aware of Echo’s somehow simultaneously melodic and monstrous laugh coming from above her, on the other side of the table.

“You still think that you’re going to run, cissy? Really? Come on,” Echo mocks. She spreads her legs and Sera’s ability to think coherently is momentarily but entirely overcome by the simple motion of the blurry chestnut thighs and the way that it causes Echo’s cock to bob. Left, right, left, right and with a slight diagonal tilt. She tracks the movements of that shaft with far more scrutiny than she has ever given to even the contents of her own voting record. The dark hair from the pubes frames it perfectly, somehow enhancing the inherent and obvious femininity of it. And what a fool she would be to think of it as anything but! The Divine shaft is otherwise smooth, wide and long enough to fill her throat. It drools copious seed, tantalizingly cascading to the floor below in a manner that seems almost taunting. She is drooling, too, she realizes. It runs down her chin and is slowly, gracelessly, finding its way trailing down her neck...

Sera does not speak, lacking the capacity to formulate anything more than a garbled jumble of noises roughly approximating communication. Even that failure draws additional shame towards her, so impotent she is at even trying to put on a show fight against Echo’s desires. The woman, her face hidden by the light, unfinished plywood underside of the table, hums delightedly.

Echo squeezes her thighs back together. Her cock is mashed between both of her thighs, sandwiched to face directly towards Sera. The councilwoman moans in response. It is loud and far too undignified for a woman who has always spoken against the debauchery of the so-called “Lewd Left.” She cannot help it, though. Seeing it point directly towards her face almost draws an orgasm from her on the spot. She starts panting. Her fingers squeeze around her own thighs through the thin fabric of the apron.

What the fuck is wrong with me? Sera thinks to herself.

With distressingly strenuous effort to force her vocal cords to function, Sera makes an effort to speak. She finds that she needs to preserve her dignity. She needs to try to preserve her dignity, at least. Maintaining her station is far more important than anything else. She has acted in an entirely embarrassing, entirely uncouth manner that has only served to prove to Echo that Sera is, in fact, her lesser. That shame burns in her hurt and in her loins with nearly equal ferocity, though the fire does seem to lean a little more towards the latter end of the equation.

As her mouth opens, a purple light blooms from above to fill the room. The shadows cast from the light of the outside are suddenly cut off, with any spots of dim darkness now opposed to some source of illumination coming from above the table. Sera’s eyes flutter. The tension goes just a little more slack.

“I’m sorry for trying to escape, ma’am. It won’t happen again.”

Perfect.

Sera smiles and crawls back towards Echo, certain in the fact that she has demonstrated her lack of desire to—

Wait, hold on—

Echo’s hands (when did they go beneath the table?) grab equal fistfuls of the woman’s strawberry blonde hair. Disinterested in whatever discomfort Sera might feel, Echo tugs and pulls at Sera’s hair to force the woman’s mouth into contact with Echo’s cock. Her aim is imprecise with her first attempt. The drooling head of Echo’s tip messily mashes up against Sera’s nose and slides down and across her left cheek. It leaves a trail of thin but copious precum on her face and marks Sera with the immediate scent of sex. Sera does not even resist; being this close to the object of her attention has blinded her mind to all else. Her jaw hangs slack, her thoughts terminated as a more pressing and deeper drive wrestles control and instills new directives to the whole of her.

Sera’s head is pulled back and reoriented towards her prize. She can vaguely make out Echo looking down at her from above. A flaming halo of violet seems to blaze just above Echo’s head. It flicks in and out, shifting in dimension and spinning round and round and staying static all at once. It is an impossible thing, and Sera’s mind gaze breaks contact with the dick for a moment that threatens to spill into eternity as they track up the body, towards the halo, closer to the screamingly violent explosion of color.

A second later her face is tossed against Echo’s lap as the shaft is driven into her mouth and down throat and it impacts against the warm, squishy walls of her throat. Sera gags as whatever magic is elsewise constraining her movements proves either incapable of or unwilling to redact her gag reflex. The sensation of having a dick resting there in her mouth, her nose mashed against Echo’s oddly sweet-smelling pubis, overwhelms her. She retches reflexively and moans simultaneously. It is a more pleasurable experience than she has ever had in her life; forget about her ex, forget about her sex toys, she feels like she could die now and still be reliving the aftershocks of Echo simply entering her mouth in the afterlife.

The lull in the action does not persist, of course. Sera finds herself being pulled away from the divine sense of comfort that she just found and she somehow wills her hands past everything trying to freeze her out of control just to fruitlessly paw at Echo’s thighs. She wishes that she could look upwards, that she could give the holder of this manifest perfection a pitiful puppy-like expression and have herself filled once again.

Perhaps the Divine is present within more than Echo’s cock, though, because her choked silent prayers are answered in all due haste.

The only warning that Sera receives of Echo’s intentions are in how the placement of the woman’s hands shifts. They first move to sandwich her skull between those unassumingly strong hands. Then Echo’s fingers curl to grab fistfuls of Sera’s hair. Her hands squeeze harshly against Sera’s head, knuckles and palms both digging in to gather strength for the coming storm. The feeling is deeply uncomfortable, but Echo offers no time for Sera to disagree with this situation before she throws Sera down her shaft, forces her back up, and then repeats the process.

Divinity meets flesh. Echo uses Sera’s skull as an onahole; thrusts with a recklessness that should terrify her cocksocket, but the woman instead takes the abuse with an irresponsible level of glee. Each impact delivers a new height of mortal pleasure to Sera. Her moans are cut short with the veritable music of “glck-glck-glck!” Sera’s spittle freely flows from her lips. It joins the trail that had already been growing, adding to it. The thickening volume of spit cascades down her chin, down her neck, and disappears into the valley of her cleavage beneath the apron.

It should not feel so hot to be drooling all over herself. It should feel so right to have herself reduced to a toy. And yet—

“Y-..Mh!...-Yeah! Fuck, yeah! Keep taking my fucking dick!” Echo demands. Her words are met by her grip growing somehow tighter and her pistoning Sera with far more force. Her Divinity is drooling onto Sera’s tongue. The taste is transcendent, perhaps addictive, and Sera greedily swallows it as fast as she can. Each impact feels like a punch against the back of Sera’s throat that entices it to spasm in rejection, the pulling of her hair is blooming into a firey pain across the sides of her scalp. The hurt only acts as a spice to drag her closer, closer, closer to orgasm. Yet, she does not peak. She falters inches from the finish line. Her libido is running hard and redlining but the engine just won’t give her that final puff that she needs.

Sera is soaked wet. She wants to touch herself as Echo uses her face for its true purpose. Yet she does not indulge in that desire. That would be naughty. It is not her place to decide if she will be touched, is it? Her pussy—no, her whole being—belongs to Echo.

This is the price of being such a piece of shit to Penelope, to Echo, to Milly, to all trans women everywhere.

Glck-glck-glck!

The pain that she feels is just.

Mmhf! Nnhgh!

The destruction of her honor and dignity is only right.

“Goddess, I’m so fucking close!”

Isn’t it?

The moment ends with a final, brutal thrust that feels like it might bruise Sera’s throat for weeks. Echo’s dick spears into Sera. It twitches once before it deposits a veritable deluge of the gods-given cream into Sera’s waiting gullet. Whatever had been blocking Sera’s ability to orgasm is suddenly shattered; she makes an effort to moan and that only serves to make her struggle to control her mouth around the cock buried inside of her. There is too much for it to flow down, even with Sera’s throat spasming and choking itself in an effort to greedily claw every last drop down. The backflow of cum flows in a spurt with Sera coughing, much of it spraying out to coat Echo’s legs or the floor below her. More freely falls from her lips, mixed with her drool and falling much the same path as the spit once did to coat her lips, chin, neck, and breasts in the Echo’s semen.

Echo twitches. Her legs are curled up and outwards, her glittery indigo painted toes themselves curled in abject pleasure. Her own voice is unfiltered by any dubiously welcome girth and she cries out to the heavens. Her words are slurred, and Sera is too busy dealing with the plurality of crises of faith, respiration, Divine cum-driven drowning, and pleasure that threatens to rewrite her entire mentality to discern whatever the other woman is saying. Her words are loud, though, and they resonate in a frequency that makes Sera’s bones ache.

Echo finally lets go and Sera collapses to the floor, falling to the left with her arms splayed out awkwardly and her legs still curled as if she hadn’t stopped kneeling. Echo pants heavily, spreading her legs and whimpering in pleasurable rapture. Sera’s own breath is unstable. Her lungs hitch and tighten as she tries to inhale and exhale and she sees stars in place of anything else.

Suddenly, the doorknob rattles. Sera does not have the energy to turn her head to see who steps in, but she hears a set of light footsteps entering into the home. Then, a new woman’s gasp of surprise. After either a second or an hour, there is a voice she recognizes. That recognition is met with a spike of both adrenaline and fear that nearly manages to raise her from her stupor.

“Echo! What the fuck?! I told you not to turn her into your pet!” Penelope says with incredulity reigning in her tone. There’s another few steps further into the apartment, and then, “God damnit, girl. You could have at least texted me!”

The two women share a laugh and Echo nudges Sera’s stomach with her bare foot. “Sorry, Penny. I couldn’t resist; she is so awful, hun. You know how I get.”

Sera closes her eyes. Her cheeks burn in shame, anger, and a blindingly strong desire to do what’s necessary to get Penny to forgive her. She groans, knowing that she’s going to have quite a sore jaw for the next few weeks…

FIN…?