P
purrfection
Guest
Adriana stands in front of the long full-length mirror in her residence, one of several dozen six-figure mirrors adorning the walls, doors, and ceilings. She loves her reflection, herself, everything about the immense beauty she and she alone possesses. Her vanity has always felt like a right—her destiny manifested since she was a teenager and the world began its devoted worship of her genetic superiority.
There is a smell—distinct and masculine—filling her nostrils. You have entered the building. She has smelled it before—backstage at a show where she saw You take her friends and make them Yours—and the effect on her the second time has her pussy already moist and warm. In her tight, strapless, backless green gown—layered with emeralds all around its plunging neckline, a tight black diamond-encrusted chain wrapping around her tiny waist—her erect nipples are clearly visible.
The fact that she is not wearing a bra is a necessity for the cleavage-baring dress, but her magnificent tits show no sag. The fact that she is not wearing panties is less necessary for the dress, but necessary for You--she has heard many rumors, many accounts, and has prepared accordingly for weeks now.
Her hair is a long, dark, shimmering mass of pure cosmic night, pouring down one side of her gorgeous face and draping over her tight, toned shoulder in heavy slick waves. Bright green eyes shine like emeralds, highlighted by the draping black diamond earrings, the black diamond-and-emerald collar decorating her throat.
She is ready for this. She can do this. In the sitting room behind her—extravagant and lush, Eames sofas, a burning fireplace, tall ebony-hardwood walls and marble floor—there are three whimpering, muffled masses, each with their forms covered. One is draped with a thin, silk throw, outlining the clearly feminine form beneath resting on top of a thick, comfortable, outlandishly expensive fur. The other two are draped in potato sacks, resting naked beneath them on the hard, cold marble floor.
Worthy, unworthy. The difference is clear.
Sacrifices have to be made for power. Adriana has always understood this. They are gifts for You. She hopes they are enough.
She hopes she is beautiful enough. It is not a thought she has often. But even if no one else will say it, she has noticed the cracks in the armor of her divine beauty—a slight, easily coverable wrinkle here, a touch of drooping there, no longer so easily correctable by long hours in the gym. Working out and moisturizing and clean living only go so far, and age is catching up with her.
But it doesn't catch up with You or the women in Your Service.
She opens the front door and is not shocked to see You behind it, nor the two Elite Beauties on either side of Your Massive, Muscular Form.
Alessandra and Kelly grind against You in their tiny black dresses like You're the Only Man Alive, The Real Fucking Deal, the Only Game In Town. Their HotSickSupermodelShit, bodies so TallTightThin and Smooth and Utterly Dedicated to You, slick and saccharine with PureAdoringLove, push against You with everything They Have. Their hands conjoin in a loving grip around Your Cock, its monumentally erect form easily visible through your thin, luxurious suit pants.
The suit is custom, of course, as is your shirt, your shoes, your belt, your Everything You Fucking Own, because You Deserve It and Money Is No More An Object To You than Envy.
Envy would require You to Want Something You Can't Have. That Shit Is Like A Campfire Horror Story to You—unbelievable and designed entirely for children.
Kelly and Alessandra's eyes light up upon seeing Adriana—after several seconds of continuing to stroke You. When they do notice Adriana, they stroke You harder.
“Auntie Adriana!” Kelly exclaims, rushing in for a brief, tight hug.
“Sister!” says Alessandra, joining Kelly.
Their cunts are heated and sopping wet—Adriana can feel the slickness dripping down their legs as they wrap against her, each with a foot popped up and sliding around, knees pushing urgently against her sculpted ass.
Alessandra is 35. This is a fact. But she doesn't look now a day older than twenty-two—better than she's looked in years, and she has been the closest approximation to the Perfection of Adriana for the better part of a decade. Kelly, already so gorgeous and young, looks exponentially healthier than she did just months ago, her hair more voluminous, her tits larger and feeling against Adriana's body like they are swelling with heated, sweet-smelling milk. Both appear taller, thinner, hotter.
Backstage at the Fashion Show just a few weeks ago, Adriana watched behind a curtain as You entered Alessandra. You fucked her on top of the broken, destroyed corpse of the man calling himself her partner. At the same time, You forcefully, brutally, gripped Kelly with one massive hand by her tiny elegantly decorated throat, keeping her in place, forcing her to watch up close the violation of her friend.
Adriana watched, cunt dripping wet, as Alessandra's cries changed from pain and pleas for cessation to begging for more, more, *more*--and to do the same to Kelly. Her mind—and will—became Yours.
Now Alessandra is younger and more beautiful than ever. From Your Seed. Your Fucking. Your Will.
Adriana is not Alessandra's sister—but this hasn't stopped Alessandra from texting Adriana and calling her “Big Sis” for days now. Alessandra is not Kelly's mother—and all the same, she and Kelly look like a mother-daughter pair as they slide off from Adriana back onto You in their matching outfits and adoring grinding of Your Impossibly Hard Body.
Your Power is Absolute Over Them.
Adriana hopes that she is strong enough to resist—to take Your Seed and still become Younger and More Gorgeous Forever without being brainwashed like they are.
But if it that is what it takes for eternal beauty—if she has to be the mindfucked servant of a trillionaire Alpha Hunk God that You Are—so be it.
If she has to Give You Other Models—those huddling masses in the sitting room—to prove her seriousness and her worth—so be it. If You Rape The Special One and Enslave Her too? So be it. If You Murder the other two because they are affronts to the Superior Nature of Supermodels, if they are Insults To Her Own Genetic Superiority, and Yours as well?
So. Be. it.
Only Her Beauty Is Important.
* * * * *
None of this has anything to do with reality, and that's what makes it fun. Your Cock is So Powerful That by Raping Supermodels (Kelly and Alessandra, in this case), You've Convinced Them That They Are Mother and Daughter—and That You Are Their Living God Who They Must Worship In Every Conceivable Erotic Fashion.
You're The Ultimate Alpha Male: Impossibly Rich, Incredibly Handsome, Stupendously Built, Massively Virile, and Impeccably Refined in Your Taste. Your Cock Has Power.
I would Play Adriana. She's a Fave. I'd also write the other models, though they're more for both of us to move around and place as we desire.
The Central Plot Line Here Would be something like—Adriana begs You for immortality; You tease her a bit with the implications; her arousal takes over her better judgment; she offers up the girls in the Sitting Room to You; you press her for her sincerity; the two of You fall deeply, madly in Sick, Twisted, Wicked Love when it becomes transparent how Power Hungry and utterly Obsessed with Beauty and Living Art both of You Are. Or something. Plans can change.
You can read other threads of mine for a more thorough examination of my kinks—my desires run deep but are not particularly varied; I Am Obsessed With This Fantasy or permutations of it. Gorgeous, Impossibly Beautiful Supermodels Worshiping You For Being The Ultimate Male, Letting the Id off of its Leash and Indulging in Cruelty, Humiliation, and Murder of Inferiors While Shamelessly Celebrating Those Worthy Enough To Adore Your Greatness.
I don't want Your Women to be “sluts” or “cunts” or “cumrags” or any sort of dumb or any kind of whore. In a Very Real Way, it's Not About Enslaving Them (though “slave” is what they will be in the end)—It's About *Freeing* Them to Indulge in the **Absolute Demonic Arrogance** they've been forced to Hide For Their Whole Lives. They Are Refined, Elegant, Delicious, and Righteously Vain—that's why They Are Worthy of You. At any rate—they are individuals, and they each have their own brand of service.
It would be great if You Talked Like A Person. Don't put on airs. Authenticity Is Key for me.
I have some ideas about who I would Love to be for the Huddled Masses in the sitting room. All three would be supermodels—one whom I particularly adore, and the others whom I think have no business on the runway. You can Make Your Own Suggestions from any knowledge you have of the supermodeling world (particularly Victoria's Secret). You can ask me for my ideas, as well—or, even better, you can do a [little bit of digging](https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=victoria%27s+secret+fashion+show+hd) about the shows that I so desperately fetishize. It's hot women prancing about in lingerie, hooray! Have fun.
I would love to hear your ideas, thoughts, or just a reply in medias res. Don't be shy. If this is up, I'm still looking for a partner, so send me a message!
There is a smell—distinct and masculine—filling her nostrils. You have entered the building. She has smelled it before—backstage at a show where she saw You take her friends and make them Yours—and the effect on her the second time has her pussy already moist and warm. In her tight, strapless, backless green gown—layered with emeralds all around its plunging neckline, a tight black diamond-encrusted chain wrapping around her tiny waist—her erect nipples are clearly visible.
The fact that she is not wearing a bra is a necessity for the cleavage-baring dress, but her magnificent tits show no sag. The fact that she is not wearing panties is less necessary for the dress, but necessary for You--she has heard many rumors, many accounts, and has prepared accordingly for weeks now.
Her hair is a long, dark, shimmering mass of pure cosmic night, pouring down one side of her gorgeous face and draping over her tight, toned shoulder in heavy slick waves. Bright green eyes shine like emeralds, highlighted by the draping black diamond earrings, the black diamond-and-emerald collar decorating her throat.
She is ready for this. She can do this. In the sitting room behind her—extravagant and lush, Eames sofas, a burning fireplace, tall ebony-hardwood walls and marble floor—there are three whimpering, muffled masses, each with their forms covered. One is draped with a thin, silk throw, outlining the clearly feminine form beneath resting on top of a thick, comfortable, outlandishly expensive fur. The other two are draped in potato sacks, resting naked beneath them on the hard, cold marble floor.
Worthy, unworthy. The difference is clear.
Sacrifices have to be made for power. Adriana has always understood this. They are gifts for You. She hopes they are enough.
She hopes she is beautiful enough. It is not a thought she has often. But even if no one else will say it, she has noticed the cracks in the armor of her divine beauty—a slight, easily coverable wrinkle here, a touch of drooping there, no longer so easily correctable by long hours in the gym. Working out and moisturizing and clean living only go so far, and age is catching up with her.
But it doesn't catch up with You or the women in Your Service.
She opens the front door and is not shocked to see You behind it, nor the two Elite Beauties on either side of Your Massive, Muscular Form.
Alessandra and Kelly grind against You in their tiny black dresses like You're the Only Man Alive, The Real Fucking Deal, the Only Game In Town. Their HotSickSupermodelShit, bodies so TallTightThin and Smooth and Utterly Dedicated to You, slick and saccharine with PureAdoringLove, push against You with everything They Have. Their hands conjoin in a loving grip around Your Cock, its monumentally erect form easily visible through your thin, luxurious suit pants.
The suit is custom, of course, as is your shirt, your shoes, your belt, your Everything You Fucking Own, because You Deserve It and Money Is No More An Object To You than Envy.
Envy would require You to Want Something You Can't Have. That Shit Is Like A Campfire Horror Story to You—unbelievable and designed entirely for children.
Kelly and Alessandra's eyes light up upon seeing Adriana—after several seconds of continuing to stroke You. When they do notice Adriana, they stroke You harder.
“Auntie Adriana!” Kelly exclaims, rushing in for a brief, tight hug.
“Sister!” says Alessandra, joining Kelly.
Their cunts are heated and sopping wet—Adriana can feel the slickness dripping down their legs as they wrap against her, each with a foot popped up and sliding around, knees pushing urgently against her sculpted ass.
Alessandra is 35. This is a fact. But she doesn't look now a day older than twenty-two—better than she's looked in years, and she has been the closest approximation to the Perfection of Adriana for the better part of a decade. Kelly, already so gorgeous and young, looks exponentially healthier than she did just months ago, her hair more voluminous, her tits larger and feeling against Adriana's body like they are swelling with heated, sweet-smelling milk. Both appear taller, thinner, hotter.
Backstage at the Fashion Show just a few weeks ago, Adriana watched behind a curtain as You entered Alessandra. You fucked her on top of the broken, destroyed corpse of the man calling himself her partner. At the same time, You forcefully, brutally, gripped Kelly with one massive hand by her tiny elegantly decorated throat, keeping her in place, forcing her to watch up close the violation of her friend.
Adriana watched, cunt dripping wet, as Alessandra's cries changed from pain and pleas for cessation to begging for more, more, *more*--and to do the same to Kelly. Her mind—and will—became Yours.
Now Alessandra is younger and more beautiful than ever. From Your Seed. Your Fucking. Your Will.
Adriana is not Alessandra's sister—but this hasn't stopped Alessandra from texting Adriana and calling her “Big Sis” for days now. Alessandra is not Kelly's mother—and all the same, she and Kelly look like a mother-daughter pair as they slide off from Adriana back onto You in their matching outfits and adoring grinding of Your Impossibly Hard Body.
Your Power is Absolute Over Them.
Adriana hopes that she is strong enough to resist—to take Your Seed and still become Younger and More Gorgeous Forever without being brainwashed like they are.
But if it that is what it takes for eternal beauty—if she has to be the mindfucked servant of a trillionaire Alpha Hunk God that You Are—so be it.
If she has to Give You Other Models—those huddling masses in the sitting room—to prove her seriousness and her worth—so be it. If You Rape The Special One and Enslave Her too? So be it. If You Murder the other two because they are affronts to the Superior Nature of Supermodels, if they are Insults To Her Own Genetic Superiority, and Yours as well?
So. Be. it.
Only Her Beauty Is Important.
* * * * *
None of this has anything to do with reality, and that's what makes it fun. Your Cock is So Powerful That by Raping Supermodels (Kelly and Alessandra, in this case), You've Convinced Them That They Are Mother and Daughter—and That You Are Their Living God Who They Must Worship In Every Conceivable Erotic Fashion.
You're The Ultimate Alpha Male: Impossibly Rich, Incredibly Handsome, Stupendously Built, Massively Virile, and Impeccably Refined in Your Taste. Your Cock Has Power.
I would Play Adriana. She's a Fave. I'd also write the other models, though they're more for both of us to move around and place as we desire.
The Central Plot Line Here Would be something like—Adriana begs You for immortality; You tease her a bit with the implications; her arousal takes over her better judgment; she offers up the girls in the Sitting Room to You; you press her for her sincerity; the two of You fall deeply, madly in Sick, Twisted, Wicked Love when it becomes transparent how Power Hungry and utterly Obsessed with Beauty and Living Art both of You Are. Or something. Plans can change.
You can read other threads of mine for a more thorough examination of my kinks—my desires run deep but are not particularly varied; I Am Obsessed With This Fantasy or permutations of it. Gorgeous, Impossibly Beautiful Supermodels Worshiping You For Being The Ultimate Male, Letting the Id off of its Leash and Indulging in Cruelty, Humiliation, and Murder of Inferiors While Shamelessly Celebrating Those Worthy Enough To Adore Your Greatness.
I don't want Your Women to be “sluts” or “cunts” or “cumrags” or any sort of dumb or any kind of whore. In a Very Real Way, it's Not About Enslaving Them (though “slave” is what they will be in the end)—It's About *Freeing* Them to Indulge in the **Absolute Demonic Arrogance** they've been forced to Hide For Their Whole Lives. They Are Refined, Elegant, Delicious, and Righteously Vain—that's why They Are Worthy of You. At any rate—they are individuals, and they each have their own brand of service.
It would be great if You Talked Like A Person. Don't put on airs. Authenticity Is Key for me.
I have some ideas about who I would Love to be for the Huddled Masses in the sitting room. All three would be supermodels—one whom I particularly adore, and the others whom I think have no business on the runway. You can Make Your Own Suggestions from any knowledge you have of the supermodeling world (particularly Victoria's Secret). You can ask me for my ideas, as well—or, even better, you can do a [little bit of digging](https://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=victoria%27s+secret+fashion+show+hd) about the shows that I so desperately fetishize. It's hot women prancing about in lingerie, hooray! Have fun.
I would love to hear your ideas, thoughts, or just a reply in medias res. Don't be shy. If this is up, I'm still looking for a partner, so send me a message!