Did you know that I have a force feeding fetish? You knew I was a dominant female, i.e. your Divine Mistress, the deranged slut of your wildest dreams and worst nightmares. And sure, you know I’m “twisted.” But did you know I’m STARVED for the meat of piggies like YOU?
I want to do a femcan fetish roleplay with you, my soon-to-be-fattened-up Thanksgiving turkey. In my fantasy, you’re my husband. We’re newly-ish weds, and to the outside world, our marriage is something out of a fairy tale. And maybe to you it even feels like I’m your perfect soul mate, innocent and pure. But the holiday season tends to get me “in a mood.” When it comes to helping out with all the cooking, gift-shopping, present-wrapping, and decorating you are worse than useless. You can’t even lift a finger to help me tie the ribbon on these packages.
Force feeding fetish phone sex is the meal you deserve for your helplessness this holiday season.
We’ll have to get started immediately since Thanksgiving is only two and a half weeks away. My side of the family is Catholic, of course, and so I have more aunts, uncles, and cousins than I can count. Your family will be there, too. Little do they know what they’ll be eating is fulfilling my force feeding fetish taboo phone sex fantasy.
Your lack of contribution to holiday meal preparation, historically, has been unacceptable. Remember when I asked you to whip the mashed potatoes? You stirred them pathetically for about a minute and a half. And when you had the audacity to serve them to our guests? Well, they weren’t “whipped” at all. Almost less blended than “smashed” potatoes. And do you remember the Christmas I asked you to just CHECK the ham while I was busy decorating everything by myself again? Yeah, you RUINED that tender, perfect entree I’d been SLAVING over all day. God, I hate you. All these years of (righteous) resentment = the fuel for my force feeding fetish femdom fire. Spitroasting over that fire VERY soon = your inevitable destiny.
This year during our femcan roleplay, you are going to be the Christmas ham.
I’ll sidle up to you while you watch whatever boring garbage you’re watching on TV. As usual, you’ll barely notice me. The most inane bullshit always seems to mesmerize you. The archetypal “doofy husband” from blender commercials is more competent than you, so my force feeding fetish plan doesn’t require any particularly sophisticated deceit or guile.
You’re not exactly “jacked” to begin with, so why not just embrace your weight gain potential?
I bring you a beer. You always drink the same watery, gross “All-American” crap. Gross. And of course, without even looking over or noticing the diabolical grin spreading across my beautiful face, your clammy, sweaty hands wrap around it. As usual, you don’t say thank you, you just make one of those disgusting non-verbal grunting noises you’re so apt to do. Ugh. Just a few more minutes of enduring your barbarism and finally, it will all be over. Well, it will all be over for me. Your force feeding fetish “torments” are just beginning!
The lights of that expensive, obnoxious, giant TV screen you got slowly dim, get fuzzy to your unperceptive, already half-drunk eyes. Before you can manage to splutter out anything resembling a word, it’s lights out.
When you wake up locked in a cage, I’ll smile and say: “Hi honey, Happy Thanksgiving!”
You’ll act confused, outraged that I’ve restrained you and adamant about how it’s not yet Thanksgiving. Oh, honey. I know how to read a calendar. What I meant is that at our house, Thanksgiving starts now . . . because I have to fatten you up as much as possible, as SOON as possible!
Open your mouth, here CUMS the foie gras tube. Force feeding fetish phone sex between you and me one of my favorite varieties of extreme accomplice play. What are you waiting for? Pick up the phone. It’s DINNER time!
1-888-792-6198
