We Do It To Ourselves by The Weaver

We Do It To Ourselves by The Weaver

Postby Philbill » Tue Jan 21, 2020 12:04 pm

Hello I have had a few people message me about sharing the stories written by the Author, The Weaver. I have been hesitant due to the fact at one time these were paid stories only visible by his Patreon however I believe not only has that been shut down his email in order to contact him has been as well. So I will share his stories here and let people see his or her work. I do not own these stories and if requested I will take them down. Side note there is over 250 chapters and stories so this might take awhile to share them all.

For some strange reason, I suddenly feel like I’ve been staring at my computer screen for so long that it’s gone blurry on me. Struck with a feeling of weird and woozy, I push away from my desk and stumble awkwardly out of my cubicle and toward the women’s room. I splash cold water on my face to fight off the “off” feelings but it doesn’t help. What is wrong with me? I look at a face in the mirror, but it isn’t my face at all.

The woman in the mirror has permanently puckered bee-stung lips and long flowing jet black hair. She wears a latex outfit painted onto her body that looks like something more suited for a comic book than the real world. And her body? Oh, her body. Curves that would give ten out of ten teenage boys an instant erection, regardless of their sexual orientation. She’s tall and made all the taller by shiny knee high boots with chunky high heels. This woman doesn’t belong in an office, she belongs in a dungeon, beating and berating those who don’t please her. I coo at that particular thought and the woman in the mirror matches with her mouth. I wink and she winks. I blow a kiss and she blows a kiss right back at me. Somehow, she’s me and I’m her and I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.

I started today as, admittedly, plain and mousey all around. A slight figure with no real curves to speak of. Lifeless hair. Average face. Average height. Average. I don’t know how it’s remotely possible I became some tarted up supervixen. Body swap? Alien interference? My pop culture mind seems intact, random bursts of arousal notwithstanding. Not in the slightest. I pinch myself to wake up from this weird dream but all it does is send tingles up my arm.

The tingles of pain affect me oddly, sending my brain to fantasy land. I think how it would be so easy to take one of these fingers, now capped by a long candy red claw-like nail, and push it up under the short skirt to start rubbing. The women's room is a fine place to do that. If another woman were to stumble in and even so much as turn her nose up, judge, or accuse, I would debase and break her immediately and have her under my thumb, in all senses of the phrase. And that sounds so appealing. I look in the mirror and my reflection does indeed have that finger up her skirt and her eyes are pinched and loving the sensations, just like I am.

What the fuck?

I extract my hand upon the awareness of its presence. I'm at work. I'm in the company's restroom. This is not appropriate behavior. I haven't lost my mind and I don't plan on ever losing it. I am in control.

But I don't just think it, I say it aloud, "I am in control." Like a mantra, I say it again, “I am in control.”

Just saying it raises the heat in my body to an undeniable level. If I stay here, away from prying eyes, there's no way I can stop myself from frigging off to multiple orgasms. I choke that thought dead. I'm getting out of here.

I burst from the bathroom and head back to my cubicle to grab my purse, only to find Ray standing in my way. He looks confused at my appearance. Good, buddy, because that makes two of us.

“Katie?” he questions.

“Yeah…” I relent.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

My anger boils over. Is he somehow responsible for what’s happened to me?

"Didn't know what, Ray?" I growl out the question, my body now much bigger than his, and push him back against the cubicle. It creaks with strain of my force and his face flushes a deep red.

He blabbers out, "I didn't know it was real. How could it be real?"

His fear excites me, as does my clear physical advantage over him. Entranced by that excitement, I start to grind my pussy down against his hip, loving every minor movement and every ounce of control.

"Tell me," I command, my voice low and sultry even without trying to be. "Tell me what's going on or things will get very bad for you very quickly."

He sweats, dripping his salty fear down his forehead and cheek. I catch it on his cheek with my tongue, enjoying its savory taste before I bite down hard on his earlobe and softly whisper, "Are you going to tell me what's going on, Ray? Or will I have to beat it out of you? I don’t have a problem with option A or option B."

Somewhere between the grinding and my absolute control of the situation, I feel an orgasm building within me, ready to push out of me with such a force -- something intense beyond anything I've ever experienced. Right here. Right now. In the office, nestled amongst the cubicles. A tiny morsel of fear of that kind of public exposure and a lingering bit of self-awareness pair up to stop that from happening and, frustrated, I toss Ray against the opposite wall like he were a discontented child’s toy. I’m so pleased with my immense strength and ability, that the orgasm I tried to stifle nearly bursts out regardless of my attempts to quell it.

Flushed and desperate for release, I grab my purse and head to the elevator.

In the parking garage, I can’t find my car, making me frustrated on a whole new level. It’s not where I parked it and, on investigation, it’s nowhere else on this level. I only ever park in two spots and usually the first because I’m typically the first one in and get the first choice. I dig my keys out of my purse and click the panic button, triggering unfamiliar horn and lights on an altogether unfamiliar black sportscar. I click off the alarm and it stops. Not only have I changed, but somehow my car’s also changed as well. Its license reads “CTRLFRK.” I get in and the key in my hand starts it, removing any doubt that this could not be my car. The engine roars to life with audible power. The engine also provides the entire car with a pleasant and welcomed vibration. Just enough to be pleasant, but not enough to put me over the edge. I toss my purse on the passenger seat, only now realizing that it’s not the old me’s purse -- it’s not Katie’s purse -- but it perfectly matches the new me. I stop thinking of myself as Katie altogether. She’s a thing of the past, to be forgotten. I’m Katherine now and I slowly pull the car around the garage with the intent of opening it up and seeing what it can do once we’re outside.

It feels good to bury the needle and pass by the lowly other people on the streets. I don’t know how I’m not pulled over or arrested, but maybe I’m lucky and I just didn’t pass any cops en route home. Or I’m just above it all. I prefer to think of myself as being above the rabble.

Arriving at my apartment, I rush inside and tear the outfit from off my body, sprinting to my bed as fast as my longer legs will carry me. All of the vanilla thoughts I used to have during “alone time” -- a cute man, a happy life -- do nothing to stoke my fire, but dragging my nails down that cute man’s back despite his protests does. Slapping him across the face does. Whipping his ass until it’s black and blue does. As this abused man screams out in my fantasy from the torture I heap upon him, I scream out in a shaking orgasm.

My head clear for a moment, I realize that my apartment has changed from just a tiny studio to taking up the whole floor. Naked, save my boots, I decide to go exploring.

Looking around, I imagine that this is the kind of home a multi-million jackpot winner with no sense of the value of money lives in -- all lush, exquisite, and expensive-looking.

The kitchen is equipped with both a full-size refrigerator and a full-size freezer. eight gas burners, and all of the pans, knives, and accessories I could ever dream of using.

The entertainment areas equally equipped with all the latest and greatest technologies.

The shower in the oversized bathroom could accommodate a small sporting team and has handrails for... balance or extracurricular activities that don’t involve getting clean. The hot tub is equally immense and likely for the same purpose.

The last room provides me with so much potential. It’s a room dedicated to absolutely wrecking someone. Whips. Chains. Everything needed to tie a man up or tie a woman down and to muffle any errant screams, though, seeing as everything in this apartment is designed to perfection, I wouldn’t be surprised if this room was also soundproofed. There’s also a whole assortment of sex toys that could be for me or could be for any guests that come to visit.

The doorbell rings. Even its sound is luxurious. I march to the door to see who dares interrupt my tour.

Looking through my peephole, I see Ray. He looks different, but I can’t quite place how. He somehow senses me behind the peephole and starts to profusely apologize like a worm. I drag him inside my apartment with nary a care that anyone might see me naked. They should be so lucky.

Even staring at my perfect form, he continues to just repeat “I’m sorry” over and over. Pathetic worm that he is, I let him know what his future entails. “I’m going to tie you up--”

“Please!” he begs, falling to his knees and nearly kissing my boots.

“-- and I’m going to beat you good.”

“Please! Yes!” his enthusiasm propels me forward. He begs me like I want to be begged and I’m so excited to use my newly discovered “wreck” room, I carry him there, under my arm.

Once I rid him of all of his clothing and secure his wrists to some hanging restraints, I start to slowly spank the sides of his ass with an immaculate gilded hairbrush. It’s never been pulled through hair because that’s not its purpose. Its purpose is to turn a man’s skin red with each hit and I adore the red it’s leaving on Ray. I have to shush some mewing out of the worm with a harder hit directly to his cheek. He should understand by now, he doesn’t have my permission to make noise. All he has permission to do is stand there and take it. Despite the weak verbalizations, I see that his dick came to play -- engorged with blood with an angry purple head to match the growing bruises on his body. I rub it with my hand. It’s big enough to not even be dwarfed by my large fingers. This amuses me. I stroke him with one hand and stroke myself with my other. “Your cock is hard for me, but my pussy isn’t wet for you. It’s wet for me as well. Do you know how lucky you are to even think about servicing a goddess?”

I reach up above him and pull a handle, sending him spilling to the floor with a loud thump. I straddle him, using my powerful thighs to run my slick womanhood up and down the length of his hard manhood. “Your goddess appreciates your hard cock. If you even think of cumming before I’m done with it, I’ll rip it off and mount it to my wall. I think it would look good on that wall, actually, so don’t try me.”

I start to thrash against him, hard, and wonder if I could actually bruise his dick. Not caring if I can, just wondering. It feels so good to see him there, solely for my amusement, that I cum and squirt as I do. I’ve never squirted before. I love watching it rain down on his stomach.

Something about the apologetic look on his face, brings me back to earlier in the day. “Remember when you apologized to me earlier? What was that about?” He remains silent so I let him know, “It’s alright for you to speak now. You have my permission.”

His words come out in a burst, like water from a hose that’s been stepped on and then released. “In my pocket, it answers everything. I printed it directly from your screen.”

Curious, I find his pants on the floor and extract paper from his pocket. It’s a screen grab of his desktop.

“There was this site, online, you could create a totally new bio for yourself -- a new path for your life. I thought it was just some self-empowerment thing, but it wasn’t. I sent it to you because you were always so sweet, so lovely, so overlooked. I just wanted you to have something positive in your day. I wanted to see your sweet smile. And, of course, I didn’t know who or what was lurking below your still surface, waiting to come out.”

Lurking? I don’t know if I like him using that word with regards to me. I see more pain in his future. A lot more.

I read my revised biography and see the truth of its contributions to the transformation toward the woman I’ve become.

I want to be in control. Undeniably in control and powerful. Powerful like a hero, but with the unchallenged determination of a villain. Rich, with nothing in this world existing outside of my means. I want to live a life of delicious torture, devoted to inflicting lovely pain upon those who want it and get off on it. And I will get off on even just the idea of it. Doing it will take my body, spirit, and mind to rapturous heights. I want to embody the archetypal Dominatrix, almost as if pulled from a comic book page -- impossibly tall, raven-haired, and beautiful. Undeniable. Closets of costumes. Drawers of toys. An unbelievable home with a room built just for my purposes of inflicting. I want to be the one who uses. I want to be the one who decides. Me. Always and in every way me.

It rings true. I am that and that is me.

That printout isn’t alone -- it’s a half of a pair. Before I can scan the second page, I tell Ray that I notice this, “There are two pages here.”

He blushes deep red and I can’t tell if it’s embarrassment or excitement. “I used the link myself. After you left. I printed that out as well. I wanted you to see what I wrote for my transformation.”

I look down and see that it reads, quite simply -- Whatever Katie desires.

“Good boy,” I say, gently rubbing his sweat-drenched hair from his face. Only then, with that blessing, does he finally cum for his goddess.

I smile and let him know, “You should be the first to know… It’s not Katie anymore. It’s not even Katherine. It’s Goddess, now and forevermore.”

He groans in divine rapture. He’s exactly what I want right now -- someone to torture and reward. A follower. An acolyte. And now that I know how this is possible, and that he’s delivered the very means to my fingertips, literally nothing can stop me from owning whatever and whoever I desire.

I cum again, just imagining the possibilities he’s delivered to me as tribute.

“Very good boy…”
Philbill
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