Dora wins [Femdom]

“You fucking asshole!”

Dora stomped Bevan’s in-step under a heel. He collapsed with a painful cry, leaving her holding the precious sheet of paper. She kicked him in the side for good measure.

“Double-cross me, will you?!” She kicked him again. “We were meant to be in this together! You.” Kick. “Fucking.” Kick. “Promised!”

She ended her tirade by driving her leather-clad foot into his soft stomach. I gave her an appreciative golf clap.

Get it, girl!

Now, you might be surprised by this sudden explosion of **** from a timorous homebody. And while I’d love to claim innocence here, even I can’t keep a straight face through that lie.

You see, the millisecond Dora took sole possession of the contract, I was inside her head, throwing switches and cranking gears like a mad scientist on crack. Because here’s the fine print: while this glorified community-theater summoning ritual does technically bind me to her, a nineteen-year-old communications major going up against a succubus is like a toddler trying to survive twelve rounds with Mike Tyson.

I’ve been stuck in this gig for millennia. Learned all the underhanded tactics. Corrupted truly virtuous men and women. I’m not above biting some ears to take home the W.

So while Miss Anger Issues kicked six shades of shit outta Bevan the Beanbag, I was busy siphoning off all that lust for ****, ****, and retribution–only to feed it straight back into her.

There’s a technique to this. Think of it like reinvesting dividends. Sacrifice a little short-term payoff to reap larger returns later.

By the time Dora was finished with him, her aggression had reached a delicious boil. I used the excess energy to repair the damage behind her eyes, fixing the squint, and tweaking her libido a smidge. Nothing crazy. Just enough to warm her engines for what’s to cum–ahem, I mean come.

She faced me, hands balling into furious fists, breathing hard.

I gave her lungs a quick upgrade too, boosting oxygen intake to speed recovery. Then transferred the fat from her second chin and wobbly bingo wings to her mediocre chest purely for my own entertainment.

Hey, you take your fun where you can in this biz

Dora was so pissed, she failed to register the gradual swelling beneath her hoodie. Even when the zipper strained downward under mounting pressure, flashing the top of her pale cleavage.

The kneeling mooks hadn’t shifted from their hunched-over positions. But their heads were lifted, silently observing the proceedings.

“There.” Dora snarled, shaking the contract at me. “I’m in charge. Any more questions?”

“Only one, mistress.” I crooned, bowing obsequiously. Mortals always eat up the submissive act. “How can this lowly **** best please you?”

She faltered, exactly as I knew she would, knocked off balance. I was lodged squarely in her psyche, pulling strings like a puppermaster.

Pro-fucking-fessional, remember?

While I couldn’t override free will outright or rip souls from bodies–divine mandates prohibit such direct action–we succubi can toy with any mortal dumb enough to summon us.

Seriously, if you open the door to Hell, you don’t get to complain when we track brimstone across the carpet.

“I want to make him pay.” Dora said, buoyed by the wrathful fury I’d carefully cultivated inside her. She pointed at the mewling maggot curled at her feet. “I want all of them to pay. Every manipulative asshole who lies to women and treats them like garbage. I want them to realize that no matter how big or strong they think they are…”

She bared her teeth in a vicious smile. I straightened out her overbite as a sign of my approval.

“…girls are powerful too.”

Hot passion rolled off her like steam from a cauldron. I glutted myself on it, let it build up inside me as the invisible miasma blanketing the room thickened.

The coven members trembled and whimpered with carnal despair as spectral talons sank into them.

She was about to make a request or issue a command. You Neanderthals always want something. Why else would you risk enlisting diabolical assistance?

And it’s always something so big, so impossible, that even Craigslist can’t help.

Previously, Dora’s ambitions had amounted to some vague notion about dismantling social hierarchies or whatever other hippie-dippie rubbish she’d been parroting before Bonehead Bev shot his wad prematurely.

Now she was consumed with her lust for ****, plus a burgeoning desire for power I’d planted in her subconscious.

She’d better make her request soon, though. The emotional energy I’d been stockpiling was churning inside me, leaving me giddy. For immortals, concentrated mortal desire is basically champagne. Rich. Fizzy. Intoxicating.

And babes?

Momma was getting her drink on.

“Power, mistress?” I prompted, my nipples stiffening in anticipation. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

She had to say the words herself.

Out loud.

That part was of critical importance.

I needed this dame to damn herself with her own lips. Clear, deliberate, undeniable. Because when judgment day finally rolled around, there could be no confusion about intent. No loopholes. No tearful appeals to higher powers.

Culpability–or Mens rea features quite heavily in infernal contract law.

Honestly, Hell has more paperwork than you’d expect. We thrive on bureaucracy with miles of red tape. Our legal systems are so convoluted that a soul can be stuck in court for centuries.

Byzantine? Forget those ancient fucks. The OGs are down here in hell.

Dora didn’t miss a beat. She wheeled on me, eyes blazing, and stabbing an imperious finger toward the heavens.

Or, more accurately, toward the flickering bulbs hanging from the dusty basement ceiling.

“Girl power! The feminine mystique! Look at you.” The finger level itself at my gorgeous self. “I bet guys trip over their tongues trying to impress you. I want that. I want the power to expose them for the big, dumb meatheads they truly are.”

Her breathing quickened, her enlarged tits heaving within the overtaxed hoodie.

“I want them to pay for the petty disregard and cruelty they dish out so casually.” Her lips curved into a sneer. Razor sharp. I gave them a blood-red sheen for sinister effect. “And I want the satisfaction of knowing it's me doing that to them.”

Oh, now that was music to my ears.

My pussy moistened at the sheer vindictiveness in her expression.

Slay queen!

I stifled a gleeful cackle, schooling my expression.

“As you command, Mistress.”