Submit — say 'Mistress' and accept the name Trixie.

Pandora's Box Costume Shop, Birch Street, at 1:25 AM on Thursday October 31st, 2024

"Mistress," I say.

The word falls from my lips like a stone into still water. It doesn't feel forced. It doesn't feel like Trevor saying something degrading to survive. It feels like breathing — like the first exhale after holding your breath too long. My crimson eyes lock onto hers and something inside my chest clicks, a lock tumbling into place, a bond deepening from gossamer thread to iron chain.

"I belong to you, Mistress."

Pan's breath catches. Just for a moment — a flicker of genuine surprise beneath the theatrical confidence. Then her lips curl into a smile so wide it shows every one of those too-sharp teeth, and her fingers tighten on my jaw.

"Say the name," she commands. Her voice resonates through the walls, through my bones, through the void in my chest that's screaming for her cock. "Say who you are now."

"Trixie," I whisper. And then louder, because it feels right — because the hunger is eating me alive and this is the key that unlocks everything. "I'm Trixie. Your Trixie."

The gemstone embedded in my throat pulses — a deep, throbbing crimson that matches my eyes — and heat floods through my entire body. Not pain. Completion. Like a circuit closing. Like a soul finding its socket. The void in my chest doesn't disappear but it shapes itself around Pan's presence, forming a hollow that only she can fill.

"Good girl," Pan breathes, and the words hit me like a physical blow. My pussy clenches so hard a spurt of slick shoots from between my thighs, splattering the tile. My wings shudder. My tail coils around my own leg, spaded tip trembling. "Such a good, obedient little pet."

She releases my jaw and grips my hair instead — both hands, fists tight, pulling my head back until my throat is exposed, horns scraping the air. Her cock presses against my face, the hot shaft dragging across my cheek, leaving a wet trail of precum from my jaw to my temple.

"You know what happens now, Trixie?" She's stroking herself with one hand while holding me immobile with the other, her cock inches from my open mouth. The scent is overwhelming — thick, musky, intoxicating. My feeding channel opens involuntarily, pulling at the energy radiating from her skin. "Now I breed you. Over and over. Until dawn. Until you can't remember ever being anything else."

She tilts my head forward and pushes her cock between my lips without preamble. No gentleness. No teasing. She shoves all ten inches down my throat in one brutal thrust and my esophagus stretches around her girth, my nose pressed flat against her pelvis, her heavy balls resting against my chin. I choke — wet, gagging sounds filling the fitting room — but my feeding channel opens and golden energy pours into me like molten honey.

"That's it," she groans, beginning to fuck my throat with slow, deep strokes. Each thrust bottoms out, her cockhead pushing into the tight channel of my throat, and I can feel every vein, every ridge, every pulse of her heartbeat through the thin latex of my transformed body. "Swallow me down, Trixie. Feed on your Mistress. Get yourself nice and wet for me, because when I'm done with this pretty mouth..."

She pulls back until just the tip rests on my tongue, then slams forward again. My eyes roll back. Drool and precum spill from the corners of my stretched lips, running down my chin, dripping onto my massive latex-sheathed breasts.

"...I'm going to breed that hungry little cunt until you're dripping with my cum."

The hunger surges. The void expands. And somewhere — buried so deep it might as well be a dream — Trevor screams.