The gripping tale of how I became a Breeding Bunny [F24/M35] [breeding kink] [oral] [teasing] [humiliation] [dom] [sub] [power imbalance]

What is a “Breeding Bunny?”

I’m glad you asked. Until six months ago I asked this very question. To put it simply, a “Breeding Bunny” is a sex worker. A sex worker who is paid handsomely for his or her services in exchange for indulging the fantasies of their client, which in my case turned out to be the CEO of a major law firm.

Breeding Bunnies specialise in submissive work. We’re expected to do as we’re told, do it well and if we really hate it, we can cry about it later (sometimes the client likes it when we cry about it just a little). We are to refer to our clients as “Daddy” or “Mistress” and wait on their beck and call. It is our sole duty to pleasure them in whatever way they see fit whether we like it or not because after all, we’re being paid a shit ton to do it. Since Breeding Bunnies take part in exclusively unprotected sex, it is our legal obligation to use birth control at all times. For some clients this may take away the fun, but most female Breeding Bunnies (like myself) are on the pill, so our male clients can enjoy raw pussy without any of the risk.

Bodywork [F/F 20s] [sex work] [masturbation] [oral sex] [orgasm denial] [fingering] [toys]

What is sexological bodywork?

I blink slowly at my computer screen, the blue light illuminating my face.

To put it simply, I help people focus on the erotic pleasure of physical touch, helping people become more aware of pleasurable sensations in their body while releasing shame and inhibition.

I scroll down the lengthy page of my clients list. I’m booked out for months, but I finally find what I’m looking for.

Jessica Morrows. 24. Suffers from poor body image and anorgasmia.

I chew thoughtfully on the end of my pencil, scribbling down notes on the paper in front of me. It’s not something I usually treat, but I’m willing to expand my repertoire.

I peer curiously over the desk as the door chimes in front of me, a nervous woman ghosting up to the counter. She places her ID on the counter, just as blue eyed and blonde as the real life counter part looking up at me.

“J-Jessica Morrows.” She says, meeting my eyes meekly before looking away. “I have the 3 o’clock.”