Office domme
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TheVagabond (Talk | contribs) (Created page with 'Author's note: This is an erotic prose CYOA which I would consider "no limits." What does this mean? It means that there is nothing you won't do. Options that lead to content tha…') |
TheVagabond (Talk | contribs) |
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You turn to Breanne, and... | You turn to Breanne, and... | ||
| - | [[Office Domme | + | *[[Office Domme|Comment on how pretty she is]] |
| - | [[ | + | *[[Office Domme|Kiss her]] |
| - | [[ | + | *[[Office Domme|Let her get business over with so play can start]] |
Revision as of 02:37, 30 October 2011
Author's note: This is an erotic prose CYOA which I would consider "no limits." What does this mean? It means that there is nothing you won't do. Options that lead to content that may be considered extreme, graphic, or disturbing will be marked as special with this identifier: *S*. Fairly be ye warned.
And now, the story proper! Enjoy. And remember, I do not support sexual violence or debasement of females. This is a FANTASY ONLY. Keep it kinky, readers!
NOTE: There is currently only one slave option, female. You are, by default, a bisexual female Dominant. As time passes and I can edit this article, other options will come into existence, but for now, it's pretty basic :\
The Office Domme
Your lips tug into a smile as you look at the city below, glowing gloriously orange as the sun creeps towards the horizon. Your city. Your family owns half the buildings in the core, and, with the recent retirement of your parents to some island in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, the empire is yours now.
The Empire. You like the sound of that. You also don't mind the several billions of dollars it pumps into your personal account every year.
Focusing your eyes back a bit, you look at your near transparent reflection in the glass. Long, raven black hair, pulled back into a simple ponytail. Fierce, sensual green eyes. Lips full and moist, gleaming with dark red lipstick. Armani suit over blouse, the top buttons undone to show your ample and creamy skinned cleavage. Italian heels that cost more than some of your employee's cars, the stilletto's on the bottom 3 inches and deadly.
"Miss?" an innocent, slightly nervous, beautiful voice sounds out behind you. Looking at another part of the window, you can see the reflection of your personal assistant, Breanne. You can see her holding a pile of file folders close to her chest, pushing her breasts together and up, popping slightly out of the top of her own blouse. Her short skirt shows almost all of her stocking covered legs, and her shoes, your gift to her yesterday, are gleaming, polished perfectly and expertly. A shake of her head clears a strand of her luxurious blonde hair from her face, and you meet her eyes in the reflection for but a moment, before she demurely casts her look down. Just like a good servant.
Glancing back out the window, you see the sun creep beyond the horizon. Night time. YOUR time.
You turn to Breanne, and...
