With that they giggle and walk away. Your erection is all too obvious. Soon you see them both drawn upstairs by this other ‘young cock’. He smacks their asses and they glance back and wave at you, blowing a kiss.
Sylvia sighed, her eyes mostly unfocused as she scrolled mindlessly through her Facebook feed. She didn’t know why she kept going. She saw nothing in particular among her friends’ posts that sparked her interest. Even the political and justice groups she normally participated in made her feel drained the second she looked at them. She couldn’t imagine how much worse it would be if she commented on anything and got drawn into yet another meaningless argument with a sexist asshole and trollish comments.
“I am so BORED,” Sylvia mumbled as she flicked the scroll wheel of her mouse, over and over again. She supposed it was about time she closed Facebook and started on her math homework. She had put it off for an hour already, and she would feel better when it was done.
Just as Sylvia clicked on the “x” to close the browser, something caught her eye. Hurriedly she reopened the window. The post was gone, buried under the refreshed feed, but she remembered that her friend Abby had published the post. A quick search took her to Abby’s profile, and at the top of that profile was the post title that had caught Sylvia’s eye.
“Abby just leveled up in Mindsweeper!” the title exclaimed in big cartoony yellow letters.
“Ha, I knew it,” Sylvia said to herself, a smile separating her plump lips. “Thought I saw a D there instead of an E.” Sylvia read the rest of the post. It appeared that Mindsweeper was yet another cheap Facebook clone of a classic game. It was so cheap in fact that it appeared no one on the dev team had noticed the glaring typo in the title. Either that, or they were trying to avoid a lawsuit. Either seemed plausible, really.
Now that she thought about it, Sylvia had not played the original Minesweeper since she was a child. Curiosity crept into her mind as she realized she never knew what she was doing when she played the original game. It might be fun to learn whether it was about more than just random clicking.
With that thought in her head, Sylvia opened the game and watched a cute cartoon boat sail across her laptop’s screen as it loaded. A talking mine popped up and gave a brief tutorial. It did actually boil down to some random clicking, but if a square had a number in it, the number indicated the amount of mines surrounding that square. Simple math could be used to figure out where the mines were to avoid them. However, the game was also on a timer, and the longer it would take to clear the minefield, the lower the score would be. The goal was to clear the mines as quickly as possible without screwing up. One wrong click and game over.
“Easy enough,” Sylvia murmured as she began to play. It took a few tries to get a good game going; the mines were randomly placed and Sylvia could accidentally hit one as soon as the second click. Soon, however, Sylvia was happily clicking along, her eyes flicking back and forth and her finger clicking madly to mark mines and clear new spaces.
And then…
“BOOM!” The tinny explosion took Sylvia by surprise; she’d gotten so far, marking 60 out of 99 mines, and had forgotten about the sound effect when a mine was hit. Sylvia harumphed and began a new game, and within seconds was lost once again in a frenzy of clicking and barely conscious logic games, deducing where the mines would be.
“BOOM!” Sylvia stared in shock as the mines exploded again, creating a dazzling little light display that left spots against her strained eyes. After a few rapid blinks Sylvia could read the words on the screen. She gritted her teeth as she realized the text explained the basic premise of the game to her in childish language, as if she had lost because she didn’t understand how to play.
“As if, anyone could win this game!” Sylvia muttered, and began again. At 70 mines she lost again. Again she was greeted by a dazzling light display and text that very, VERY patiently told her how to play. Again Sylvia grumbled and began anew.
After her fourth…or was it her tenth…or twentieth…loss, Sylvia glanced at the clock in the corner of the laptop screen. She’d been playing for thirty minutes! How could she have spent that much time on a silly little game? With fresh resolve, Sylvia began again. She swore that as soon as she won one game she would close it and start her homework.
Of course, that’s what they all say.
“BOOM!” Sylvia didn’t even blink this time, just stared and waited for the light display to end. She almost didn’t notice that the text had changed. When she did, she was furious.
“Most people have won by now, maybe you need to take a break,” it said. What. Most people have won? What was the game trying to say about her?! Sylvia kept playing, determined to get that victory.
“BOOM!” Again Sylvia stared, unblinking and feeling angry resignation. She grumbled when the text taunted her again. “Maybe this isn’t your game, you can quit anytime.”
“Never!” she seethed and played again.
“BOOM! Smarter girls than you have quit by now.”
“Smarter? Are you kidding me?” Sylvia played again, angrier still.
“BOOM! Even stupid girls win eventually.”
“BOOM! Even girls as stupid as you.”
“BOOM! There aren’t many who are stupider.”
At this point morbid curiosity drove Sylvia more than anything. She couldn’t believe what the game was saying about her. Of course, it was all prescripted, so it couldn’t be about HER, but Sylvia couldn’t help but take it a little personally. After all, she was an honor roll college student, president of the debate club, and a proud intern at a local accounting firm. This annoying little game was wounding her ego in all the right places, and she needed to prove it wrong.
“BOOM! You might be getting stupider.”
“BOOM! You might be getting sillier.”
“BOOM! You’re really a stupid little girl.”
“I am not stupid OR little!” Sylvie pouted. She couldn’t help it if she wasn’t so great at math or science, or if spelling was a challenge for her sometimes. She still did okay at school…didn’t she?
“BOOM! You’re getting stupider.”
“BOOM! You’re getting sillier.”
“BOOM! You’re getting sluttier.”
Now the game was slut shaming her? Okay, so maybe Sylvie liked to flaunt what she had, and maybe she had more fun fantasizing about sex than she did about work, but wasn’t that every girl?
“BOOM! You’re getting dumber.”
“BOOM! You’re getting weaker.”
“BOOM! You’re getting wetter.”
It wasn’t Sylvie’s fault that she couldn’t understand the coursework. It was all her silly teacher’s fault! Maybe she just needed to offer him a blowjob to get by. Maybe that’d work for the other professors as well. After all, brains were definitely not Sylvie’s strong suit.
“BOOM! You’re getting dimmer.”
“BOOM! You’re getting slicker.”
“BOOM! Use your other fingers for better results.”
SiSi knew what the game meant and immediately her fingers went to her dripping, quivering snatch. She kept losing, but the messages changed and made it easier to edge as she played.
“You don’t need your brains anyway.”
“Your cunt is all that matters.”
“Cock is all that matters.”
“You’re a sexy brainless slut.”
“You crave cock so badly.”
“Your empty head needs to be filled with cum.”
SiSi could only moan in agreement as she kept losing, kept surrendering to the game. Eventually she noticed a change in the light display-it was fireworks instead of mine explosions. She stopped fingering her pussy for a second to take in the new screen.
In front of her she saw all the mines had been marked and a cheering crowd of naked girls had gathered on the deck of the boat at the top of the screen. New text formed in the water below.
“Congratulations! Mind Swept! Level One Complete!
Would you like to try Level 2? Yes/No”
With a giggle and a shudder, SiSi clicked yes. She leaned back and began playing with her dripping cunt again, but not before clicking the “share” button and tagging all her feminist friends in a post advertising Mindsweeper. Something told her they would love this new game.
My parents were in some crazy Christian cult you’ve probably never heard of. Extra misogynist. They told me my whole life woman’s role was to serve. I knew early on that’s the role I wanted. I’d burn with, giddy, nervous energy whenever they spoke about “good, submissive girls.” Daddy tried to interest me in the “benefits” of being with such a girl but I had no interest. I grew my hair and dressed in an increasingly androgynous way. They were concerned but let it slide at first. I was such a good, obedient boy, after all!
They finally spooked the first time I wore a dress. After spending days in my room they decided on a punishment to “scare me straight”; they’d treat me like a girl if I didn’t shape up. Oh no! 😀
I’d been jealous of Mommy for years. We fought just like any mother and daughter, never admitting aloud that the heart of our contention was that we both wanted to be the woman of the house, to be the one Daddy chose. Some daughters won’t admit this means they want to fuck Daddy, but I knew better.
So I started dressing in tight jeans and short shorts, trying to seduce my father. I knew he couldn’t resist staring at young girls in tight clothes. I hoped I’d be able to flip that switch in him until he thought of me more as a piece of ass than as his son. It seemed to be working. I caught glimpses of the bulge in his pants when I showed off. I let him “catch” me napping in the living room in lacy panties, thigh highs, and a bra. From behind I looked just like Mommy. He got home from work and immediately began feeling me up.
“Oh honey, what a treat. Our sissy son better not come home and ruin this or I swear I’ll fuck that bitch too.” I heard his belt buckle come undone. “Still asleep, honey? Well, no matter” I felt something warm and hard bump into my ass. His hands started pulling my panties down.
“Mmm, Daddy? Are you home?” I pretended to be groggy and half asleep.
He fled. I opened an eye to watch as he tucked his cock away while heading to his bedroom. It was a nice cock.
“You better start dressing like a boy or we’ll teach you to act like a real girl. You know what that means!”
“No, Daddy, no!” I tried to make it sound convincing.
That night I listened at the wall between our rooms with a glass. Mommy was concerned. Jealous, I bet. But Daddy assured her that as soon as the threat of being treated like a girl became imminent that I would snap out of it. Mommy giggled evilly.
“That little sissy won’t last an instant in a good, submissive girl’s shoes,” she said.
Take the hormones and do lots of exercising until there is NO MORE BULGE!
I don’t think you can exercise it off…
girl has leveled up! what’s this?! girl has evolved into bimbo! girl is now max level.
When you started dating your girlfriend she had warned there would be “complications”. You were obsessed and madly in I love so you agreed to do “whatever it takes” to be with her.
That’s when she sheepishly brought out The Contact. It said someone named Lucas Tipton owned your girlfriend’s body and was entitled to “ravage her whenever he so pleases.” What the hell?! He was her ex, she explained. She’d been into his kinks and so signing away her bodily autonomy had just seemed really hot at the time. Nothing in the contract had forbidden her from dumping the asshole when she grew wise to his womanizing. Unfortunately, according to the rules, only he could release her from her obligations.
Surely this wasn’t legal? “No,” she replied, looking away, “but my Papa brought me up to respect men and always honor my agreements and promises. I hate it, I do, but I just can’t dishonor myself and my Papa by turning back on my word. He may not keep his promises, but I do. I can’t sink to his level. I know this is weird, but…can you still love me?” Of course you could. You had no choice but to love her.
That’s how you ended up with a girlfriend who fucks her ex more than she does you. Oh, at first she tried to keep parity, but more and more these days she’s just too tired and sore. You hate it, but you love each other. And you respect her sense of duty and trust. Sure, sometimes you wish it was a little less… Like when she earnestly thanks every cat-caller for their compliments and complies with their demands that she “twirl for me, show me what you got.” Or how she abandons you at the drop of a hat when her ex texts her a booty call. Or worse, the appointment she has to get a clit piercing and tramp stamp tattoo reading ‘Luke’s Bitch’. But what can you do? “I’m so sorry babe, but he owns my body; I take that seriously. And it’s not like I’m not his bitch. But I’m your love, honey.”
ProblemCollectionLove 