FEMDOM FORCE FEEDING

femdom force feeding

A femdom force feeding solution to last-minute birthday problems.

Femdom force feeding wasn’t on the “official” birthday “menu,” but I was hungry for something more than birthday cake. Just kidding, I wasn’t hungry at all. Neither was my new roommate, Sera who had just hopped into town on freight. I hadn’t seen her for years and they had been on the road for a while. We needed a perfect birthday meal.

She seemed hungry but not hungry for a conventional meal. Sera seemed famished for vigilante justice.  We had an appetite for something else it seemed. That’s when we saw the next-door neighbors drunkenly walking by stumbling as they talked about the fucking Distillers saying Coral Fang was “the best album.” Ugh. How disgusting.

Sera and I simultaneously pressed our sharply manicured claws into each other’s arms. The contempt I’d felt for What’s His Name/”Neighbor #1″ all year needed no explaining.

Something I’ve always loved about Sera is her initiative. Most people don’t have this — or, often, have what I call “Princess Syndrome,” i.e. reverse initiative.

Why piss away more precious time debating ultimately meaningless bullshit when you could have already slit his throat?

I’d hardly realized her hand was no longer in mine before the slow gurgling of Neighbor #1 was almost audible to the other neighbors across the street.

“Oh shit,” Sera half laughed, half scoffed. “He’s already dead.”

“Seriously?” I ashed my cigarette into his spluttering, gored, perimortem mouth.

“Weird,” we said in unison, shaking our heads.

Of course, just then neighbor number #2 started to drunkenly pull up in big silver Subaru. I would have panicked thinking we were “out of time,” but I knew for a fact he would sit, idling, another 7-30 minutes on his phone in there. Gas is cheap to that type. Their Kroger’s fuel points wouldn’t help them now. Plus the Krogers in town didn’t even have a fucking gas station. God, I hated that stupid fuck, too. Whether he was just his usual sloppy white boy wasted or drunker, it wouldn’t matter. We were going to work up his appetite.

Like all (What’s The Other What’s His Name/”Neighbor #2″) peckerwood loser bitches of the world, he fancied his dick forever on the verge of getting wet. Well, how convenient that despite giving him no attention really whatsoever, he was eager bait for my not very deep red herring ruse of saying just a simple “hi.” Meanwhile, of course, Sera was dragging Roommate #1’s freshly deceased (thank fucking Goddess) corpse into the backyard.

It was femdom force feeding birthday barbecue time.

These tired meatheads made my stomach churn. My blood ran cold every time I felt either of their beady eyes looking at me. Their half-open tiny cocksucker mouths always seemed so desperately hungry, foul. All their delusions of eating anything besides what Sera and I were going to dish out were . . . well, just not on the menu.

I batted my eyes coquettishly at #2 as he scrolled, his glassy eyes covered in the blue refracting on his ugly hipster glasses. Or maybe he was swiping right on Tinder. Whatever. Same difference. He seemed to slowly almost look away from the phone screen as I heard a loud thud, probably Sera dragging #1’s heavy, sloth-like body over the threshold. But, somehow, #2 just couldn’t look up from the screen for another 10 minutes. Talk about a doofus! I bet was so deluded, so dumb, that he fancied his interests some kind of taboo phone sex. Ha.

By the time I’d easily duped #2 into inviting me in (of what, I know he was smugly sure was his own volition, the boys’ dirty dish-laden, beer can strewn “kitchen” area had become a butcher shop bloodbath.

“What the . . . ” the second roommate gulp/gasped out halfway, almost starting the “f” sound before my hands closed around his throat. As I squeezed his hog-like neck with one hand, my other pressed down until the injection of mystery sedative needle was empty.

“What part is this? I think it’s the hip. Fuck you hipsters. You are what you eat. Open up, mother fucker!”

I pried #2’s mouth open with bear trap strapped to my fanny pack. You never know when you might need one.

Sera dangled the freshly slaughtered fatty flank of What’s His Name #1 above the (now wide, WIDE open) watering mouth of #2. Is it femdom force feeding if you’re drooling?

“He-eee waaa-s aaaa . . . niiiiice g-g-g-guuuuy . . . ” #1 splutter-stuttered out, sounding like a dying man baby.

“Oh, yeah, we know he was nice guy!” Sera’s deranged grin grew wider as she pounced back, dangling his “seconds” with gruesome playfulness.

TO BE CONTINUED — PART TWO — FEMCAN FETISH

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