O Fiction

This is my fiction, which is generally erotica I’ve written, etc…

A Femdom Cuckolding Story

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Sorry guys, Friday’s fiction is being put off on account of life reasons. Instead, here’s a little short story there’s no market to publish! Yaye, Femdom cuckolding

David looked at himself in the mirror. This was his bathroom, the condo, despite housing two people, was overly gifted in the subject thanks to the current fashion in interior design to build houses with more toilets than asses in residence, giving him the second largest of three. Laura had taken the master bath for herself with a little snort of amusement, and proceeded to fill it, floor to ceiling with all the vast arsenal of femininity, plug in appliances for torturing hair; bottles with chemical lists as long as they were incomprehensible; and things with the word “spa” in the branding. This was on top of her appropriation of most of the bedroom, for a lovely little vanity table with massive mirror and yet more chemical bottles, and a full closet that displaced most of his limited wardrobe.

David, by comparison, restrained himself to cheap cans of shaving cream and semi-disposable razors, though his lack of care meant that more often than not the shaving cream with nicked from Laura, bearing the soothing suggestion of sensitive skin friendly vitamin E and squirting out of the can in an alarmingly bright violet tinted gel. When they had first engaged in the business of making a couple, cocooned into the sticky, gooey months of first love, she’d bought him a full kit, badger hair brush, mug and soap, and a straight razor, but these sat in their box, used twice and disregarded as an idea nicer in theory than practice. Foofery, even the male kind, generally was beyond David’s patience.

If he had to think about his relative masculinity, which he generally tried not to, it was there in full presence in the mirror: Lantern jaw, big calves, bigger shoulders, just the touch of thinning hair. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful. Although the time in the gym was born more out of evasion of a genetic tendency to type II diabetes and the positive effect it had on his mental health, in the twenty-three hours of the day that was not devoted to his sexuality, being a big, healthy looking man was definitely preferable to not being able to shift his end of the couch, and Laura, with her time steeped in gender studies, was happy to point out the nice was the contractors working on their condo jumped when he said frog, and the clients and underlings at work expected and respected steady assertiveness from him.

For the hour a day life was about sex, more of an average than an exact description of his schedule, since he and Laura did the usual vacillations between six hour Saturday morning romps and ten minute self gratification sessions typical in any couple, David pushed a huge part of his self awareness out the window. Balls deep and knowing Laura was enjoying the sensation of fullness did not preclude bedroom talk that ran on the theme of “You piece of shit, why do you think a tootsie roll like that is going to make a woman happy? Don’t you fucking dare cum, you limp dicked fucking pansy!”

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Friday Femdom Fiction: That Extra Shove

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“I don’t know, Boss, I don’t think it can fit.” His eyes had widened when she pulled the plastic package out of the plain red shopping bag. The company that made the toy was know for its reliable quality and ethical manufacturing- but like everything of that nature bore the warning that it was “for novelty purposes only”, at least if you bought it in those states that gave you a criminal record for doing the naughty with an object explicitly designed for that reason.

This was Canada, so she’d bought the big black butt plug with complete impunity, and talked with the clerk for a good fifteen minutes about anal sex first. Broaching the edge of the plastic bubble pack with a pair of scissors, she sawed and crunched.

“I would work better if you used the can opener,  Boss.”

“Shut up, Sweetpea,” she said affectionately, prying the plastic apart like a stubborn clamshell. The hard edges bit at her fingers, but she persisted until she wriggled out the entire, solid and heavy black silicone plug and thumped it dramatically, flared bad down, on the table.

He looked at the heft of it, and tried to imagine it inside him. “I still think it’s a bad idea, Boss.”

“It was on sale!”

“Yeah, for how much?” It’s not that she couldn’t afford it, but she was always trying to downplay the effort when she got him a gift. He thought it was cute.

“Fifty bucks. Down from sixty,” she looked pleased and a bit defensive. “I consider it a goal for you. Besides, it’s only a smidgen bigger than my fist.”

He made a hand waving gesture over his shoulders, “You’re the Boss…”

“Don’t you forget it, Sweetpea.”

She did try the toy, over the weekend, but found that he got hung up on the widest point. Not one to be perturbed by a challenge, she gave him a break, until presently he forgot about it, the toy living in its own ziplock bag. They played with other things, over the weeks, fucking and fisting and strapon sex, and other normal couple things until one Saturday night, cozied up together, she decided it was time…

The swishy, latex dipped, double bamboo cane was another acquisition from the same sex shop, bought several months ago at a post Valentine’s clearance event. She loved how easy it was, and he loved to hate it- it hurt like a bitch, and was just on the cusp of too much in one go, but of course a part of him craved the excessiveness. This feeling of horrible-wonderful was of course only helped along by the fact that his nuts were now connected, via well wrapped rope, to a little metal hook in one of the big heavy ceiling beams, something she had attached, through the loop, to his big toe, so he was standing like a particularly uncomfortable flamingo. On a piece of plastic waffle mesh that was ever so slowly imprinting his other foot with grooves.

To make things more interesting, from time to time the cane would zip down against calf, or thigh, or worse, his upturned sole. She was looking for the misery point, herding him there.

“I can’t Boss, I c-can’t…”

“Would you like to sit down?”

“Yes,” he said, small voiced.

“Okay, you need to wait for another minute.” She loved that quiet admission that she had broken him, but she wanted done with him. “I’ll count it off for you.”

He whimpered and nodded, and she made sure he could hear her run from sixty, letting him see she wouldn’t cheat. When she unhitched him, he sagged like a puppet with cut strings, limping on his tenderized feet.

“Com’ere Sweetpea, time to sit down and get the weight off.”

And then he saw the chair set up, with the plug sat in the middle of it.

“Oh, fuck no, Boss…” he said, weakly.

She had the pharmacy brand KY in her hand now, “How much of this I let you use is entirely determined by how much shit you give me, Sweetpea.”

“Yes, Boss.” He caught the lube clumsily, made sure to use as much of it as he thought he could get away with. Usually he was lucky if she let him have a pea sized dollop, which meant she was serious. Still a little pain drunk, he sat down.

The blunt tipped wedge of the plug opened him, like a foot in the door or her fingers on the plastic package, pushing and hurting, but also have a certain pleasurable intensity. Gravity and his own efforts forced it in further, and despite the lube slickness, pulled wet tears up in the corners of his eyes.

It was easier, at least, than before, but he still stuck at the widest point. He whimpered.

“Now Sweetpea, I want to see your butt touch the chair,” Her voice was all fake stern, her face lit with a sadist’s empathy.

“Boss!”

“I know you can do it. I’ve seen you take more, you greedy little slut!”

“Bosssss…” He was crying properly now as the widest point slipped in, giving him incredible fullness. She took a step back, watching him.

“Hurts, doesn’t it? It’s nice.”

—-

This particular piece is stitched together from my own and other people’s experience. Let’s just say I have cool friends.

500 Word Friday Femdom Fiction: Pent Up

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When they went to the couch, he automatically took a place with his head in her lap, his favourite spot. And her fingers combed through his hair, before setting in a curl that rubbed the sensitive spot at his hairline. In the kitchen, the dishwasher swooshed and squirted, cozy evening noises after dinner.

He was naked, but she was not, and he scrubbed his face happily into the velvety corduroy ribs of her pants. His cock was spending a lot of time erect this week, but the thickness had resolved itself at half mast after dinner’s teasing session.

Under the table, her feet had wandered, bare and squirmy, into his lap and she’d rubbed and teased just enough to get his attention. It was a particular kind of torture because he wasn’t allowed to talk about it. No begging, not even a thank you, not since Monday. It was Sunday now and she’d been keeping him from coming all week long.

It wasn’t the first time they’d done denial games, and even when he was free to touch and rub himself as much as he liked, she loved to find ways to tease him. She knew he loved the look of her in cotton panties, so she was always finding reasons for him to see up her skirt, sliding his hand up there or even, memorably on Thursday night, leaving a pair at the bottom of the lunch she made him for work, neatly ziplocked in their own bag under the snacking cucumber and ham sandwich on rye. And he hadn’t even been allowed to take them into the bathroom and edge himself to almost there. Or even text her the frantic feelings that had popped up as surely as his cock had started shoving against his khakis.

She brought a novel to the couch, but although she opened it to her place from last time, “Hard to believe that it’s been a week, hasn’t it?”

“Mmm?” He pressed his lips together, remembering how firmly she had told him not to comment. She told him she’d liked watching the struggle in his face.

“You may talk about how much you want it.” She laughed, “It’s printed in your eyes. But you know, I almost sort of miss seeing the way you usually grope and touch yourself. So, stand up!”

The instruction was punctuated with a nudge from her thigh, hinting he needed to get off the couch. He was up and in front of her, hands hesitating, his whole posture begging to touch. He hadn’t been allowed to for any reason but hygiene, and since they showered together a lot of the time it meant she’d been taking over even the opportunity for something furtive had turned into another tease from her he had to moan and squirm his way through without saying a word

But now her hands reached out, cupped his balls, balls that had ached to empty, and looped her index finger and thumb around the root of his cock’s shaft. After many months of cohabitation fuelled sex romps, she’d gotten really good, stroking and tugging in ways that could stretch the delicious torture out until his voice was pushed high up out of its normal range in desperation.

“Miiiiiisssss!”

She liked the velvety feel of his cock in her hand, liked the man-musk-smell, clean but deep and heady, and loved the slippery precum that beaded up. There’d been a lot of precum this week. Her smile widened, giving that little wrists twist that she knew he liked, letting the hood of his foreskin slide, slippery against the head of his cock.

“Miss! Miss! Please! Miss!” He was getting increasingly more incoherent, no longer able to keep his knees unbent.

“That’s it, kneel down, slut,” she said with mean-affection wrapping her voice into a purr. To get closer to her work, she was off the couch now, novel somewhere on the floor. “Go on, come for me!”

The hoarse burst of a thank you marked the end of coherence, as her hand tightened just enough to drive him over the edge and past the point of no return.

Hot cum, pent up, milky, half clear and half opaque, in glistening ropes shot up. It struck her chin and startled, she did react more than to turn her head as the second pulse landed half on the corner of her mouth and half above it. She laughed.

“Come kiss me, slut.”

500 Word Friday Femdom Fiction: Slap

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He’d spent forty-five miserable minutes sitting on the couch while she paced and slammed cabinet doors harder than she needed to, and got herself under control, and now it was time for the reckoning. The anger was gone, and it its place a certain sort of stern-hurt. In some ways he preferred the anger, but she never, ever punished in those rare moments when her temper surfaced, making him wait.

“I know you’ve though about what you said, and contrite as you are, you don’t really mean to take it back. Not yet. So I’m going to punish you.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“I want you to stand for this. And think about what you said to me and why it was wrong.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Now relax your jaw a bit.”

She waited, watched to see he did as bid and her palm swung out and caught his cheek. “What you said was unacceptable.”

“I’m sorr…”

“Not another fucking word, you little cunt.”

For her there was a sort of dreamlike drift, her hands batting into his face, alternating cheeks: right, pause to see his jaw and neck were alright, left, pause, right, pause, left pause.

She could see he was contrite, but still stubborn, saw the hurt in his eyes and felt the slight sting in her palm. He thought she was being kind and didn’t understand why she was insulted and hurt, “Do you even know why you are being punished?”

“Because… I said a bad thing, Mistress? I won’t do it again if it bother you.”

“If it bothers you?” She echoed. “Bothers? What was it you said? You can never be what I want? You’re a loser, that I’m so together and I know what I’m doing while you will just fuck everything up? What sort of fucking bullshit is that?” She spat the words out like they were bullets.

She saw his head was still disagreeing, that he would lie to please her and reached out. “You are special.” Slap. “And beautiful.” Slap. “And mine.” Slap. A handful of hair on the back of his head made the handle she used to drag him into the bathroom, in front of the mirror. “What do you see?”

“It’s me, Mistress?” His reflection showed back a face strained with pain, his cheeks blushing from the slaps.

“Who does that… person in the mirror belong to?”

“You, Mistress?”

“Good. And do you say shit about anything else I own in my life?”

“No, Mistress, but…”

“Who accepted your submissive self?”

“You did, mistress. I’m really grateful that you…”

Her grip on his hair tightened again and her voice got loud in the small confines of the bathroom. “I’m not running a fucking charity. I don’t own you to martyr myself. I own you because you are special and precious to me. I don’t mind humiliating you. I like it.  But don’t you ever think for one minute you’re some burden I shouldn’t have.”

He was shocked out of further speech.

“Now you listen to me. No matter how bad it gets, I’m here for you.  and if you’re really grateful to be my slave, the least you can do is respect my authority on what I do and do not want. And we’re going to train you until you can honestly say you feel as worthy as I judge you to be.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

~

This is a bit more clumsy, but sometimes in a D/s relationship it’s not just about silly bedroom fun, but about really loving the person and making it part of your communication. Different ways to say I love you for different people.

Friday Fucking Femdom Fiction: Ass Tease

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His eyes were on her upturned ass, but, bending and twisting in front of him, she felt the pose in her stomach and the small of her back, in the muscles that stabilized her just slightly spread legs. Her hand swept the fall of her loose curls from where they poured over her face and continued the stroking motion over the small bumps of her breasts, giving a lust shiver.

She couldn’t see his face like this, not with her back to him and him tied to the chair, but she heard the noises he made and could imagine what he saw, knew her body well enough to know that her ass was, in her estimation pretty awesome.

She wondered if he focused on the fullness, because with her hips it was wide and heavy. If he wasn’t restrained, he could take it in his hands, one on either side, and dig his fingers in and fill his hands, fingers sinking in just a little. Or, perhaps he paid more attention to the contrasts, the way her waist bit in and then suddenly belled out below, like an invisible corset had cinched her in around the middle.

Or maybe he liked to see the cleft between the halves of her ass and the way the split led down. Putting he hand on her hip she thrust her ass out higher, pulling slightly to spread herself. She wanted him to look at her, to desire her, and, holding him captive this way, she teased herself as well, imagining he was loose from the cuffs that locked his arms behind his back. He would stroke the feathery hair on the vivid pink slash of her cunt, find the sticky dew that gathered, and pet with two fingers until her cunt welcomed and engulfed them.

She liked it, liked giving him liberty that way, to feel his hand smack into the unblemished white of her ass cheek,  just enough to tingle, and feel herself devouring more fingers. Sometimes he talked, speculatively and teasingly, of the day her cunt would eat his hand up to the wrist.

And sometimes, more carefully, when he had her humming with desire, his fingers would wander to her ass again, and tease their way inside. The intensity of just one or two would always pushed her orgasm to somewhere beyond the usual realm.

But, right this moment, it was her own fingers playing with her cunt, opening herself for him to look but not touch. It was clumsy at this angle, but, his little intake of breath was worth it, as was the creak at he pressed himself back into the chair.  Coyly, she pivoted to look over her shoulder. “I’m going to sit in your lap now.”

She settled herself with more than the necessary amount of wriggling, aware of her bare ass pressing against his cock. The width of her hips filled the span of his lap, nestling her snuggly into the space where his arms were bound to the chair. Resting her own arms on top of them, she sighed contentedly and then began to swivel about on the spot, grinding and rubbing up against him.

“What,” she smiled, “Is it worth to you to be inside me?”

500 Word Friday Fucking Femdom Fiction: Summertime With Femdom

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She bumped the double fold of her cunt against his crotch, feeling the comfortable tautness in her thighs as she straddled him, kneeling and squirming on top of his supine body. Somehow, in the bump and crash of stripping and making out between the door and the bed, they’d ended up that way, him on the bottom the way she liked.

He was naked, except for the black band of the collar at his throat and one sock, and she was stripped down to her skin, smooth, sticky with summer sweat but clean. They were both touched by the heat, his short hair in spikes, her longer hair haloed by summer curls. The fan turned its face like an indecisive sunflower, fighting the early August weather and failing to cool anything off.

His hands reached for her hips, and were captured by the wrists before he could do more than brush his fingers against them. She slammed them down against the mattress, even though his strength could easily brush her away like a gnat. But she wanted him there, and wanted him to feel at her mercy.

“Fuck me, bitch.” She hissed it, daring him. “I’ve been wet all day, waiting for you. On the bus, thinking about your cock. Craving it. So, fuck me.”

He bucked his hips, feeling the slickness on the head of his cock, the tight curls on her labia. It was a natural trick of anatomy that, rubbed together, things fit. Inexorably, all the wriggling, their struggling and then he fingers seeking the painful places on his body where he could be hurt worked to couple them together.

Inside her, his cock made itself a space, nestled up so the hardness was engulfed. She grunted, feeling its presence, making herself clamp down so the ringed muscle inside drove a tingle through her. She raised herself to a squat the planted her feet on his upper arms, still trying to trap them, and he looked up at her, seeing the stretch and shift in her torso, the way her breasts moved with her and the impacts. Balance made her release his arms so she could make their pelvises kiss better, but he kept his arms still.

“Lazy, fucking, slut.” She panted between thrusts. “Help me.”

The bed slid a bit, badly anchored as he added the bounce of his hips. She kept talking, low, her voice holding a little edge of loving malice, “Give me your fucking cock. Harder. Harder bitch. Harder, you little whore…”

Her slap was clumsy, but she followed it with more clever pain, fingers jabbing armpit, finding the tuck into the collar bone, and skittle coloured painted fingernails leaving white scraped lines and fast puffing rose runnels. “You made me wait all day for this. I wanted you in the morning, but lazybones. You fucking slept in, you little bitch.”

“Ah, ma’am!”

“Shit. The thrusting got clumsier when she found her clit, and he was the sole lifting force in their fucking. “Don’t you dare wimp out until I cum.”

His forehead beaded up with sweat, but he forced himself to please her until she dug her orgasm out, between fingers flicking and the stretching and stuffing and devouring of her cunt, her words getting less and less coherent until they dissolved into lingering curses. “Ah… fuuuck!”

Her cunt homed and hilted on him as she came, hugging around the shaft, but it was just as much the rawness in her thrown back face, the flush and the open mouth that fired his balls. “Ma’am?”

“Fuck. Yes. Cum.” She sort of sagged, the sex tension pulled from her, her loose hair hanging in her face as she gave him permission to finish.

—-

Yes, it’s a bit longer than 500 words, but I haven’t written any erotica lately. And I’m horny.

Catamite Pt. 22

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The large hall of the shooting range was empty except for six people, giving it an eerie ghost town calm. It was one of the places where Landfall taste was at war with the practicalities: no carved wood and patterned wallpaper, just dull, unreflective ricochet tile on every surface, swallowing every sound, before it could reverberate. The range was lit by bright beaming, ugly shatter proof lighting. By size alone, the room should have been echoing and instead it was stifling, and everyone looked grey skinned and more strained than they were.

They’d left the exclusive residential district of the Harrington townhouse and gone to one of the new but respectable suburbs of the city.  Phillip had found he was half dozing, carrying the damage to his body quietly, sitting on the floor or the car. Annette stroked his head distractedly and her two closest guards stayed alert in their seats, expectant. He felt slightly feverish and very tired.

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Catamite Pt. 21

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Annette took the day for herself, to assemble her feelings back to their proper state of reserve. Despite what she had said to her pet gentleman, Mikhail had not lied to her about his visit length, but been unavoidably detained, and was probably not anymore enthusiastic to find himself in the midst of the Constitutional Crisis than anyone else on the planet. She didn’t want to hear anything more about it, and yet, because of her husband, all the women she worked with on her committees made every excuse to give her a call and ask.

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Catamite Pt. 20

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“Please Ma’am, it hurts,” Phillip said, speaking to Maria from his position bent over the hassock in the parlour. It was her second visit to the house, and this time she was here for a light little dinner party welcoming Patricia back to the capital. The previous day Maria had been relatively gentle with him and confined herself to light humiliations, pinching and stretching his skin and massaging the afternoon fresh welts, but this had evidently not been enough to satisfy her, because getting her hands on him seemed to be her first priority.

She had him mostly naked, except for one sock, and that only because she’d lost patience while he’d carefully undressed. Under Annette’s guidance, where there was an audience he’d learned to make it a slow process, designed to show off his body, but this didn’t please Maria, who slapped his face for taking so long.

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Wait And Touch (Stockings)

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I asked, to a free drawing prompt: “How about a gentleman in the process of pulling off a stocking of the leg of an indulgent woman with his mouth, while his arms are bound?”

He waited with his head dipped, about a foot or two from the widest sweep of the door’s path, so it could swing open (unlocked) without running the edge into his bare feet or bashing the corner into him. He was folded over into something resembling a collapsed Z, knees bent, head down, sort of meditating with his back to the door, feeling the uneven hardwood boards, where they had buckled and warped from a few century of tenants, and not seeing much, courtesy of the blindfold.

It was one of those kink shop deals, with the dark leather look, and a careful shape to stop any light to come pouring in around the edges. He owned a hood, much better for sensory deprivation, but this was a gift from her. For now, he was tucked up small, listening fro the noises of the building. In the about thirty minutes since he had parked himself, naked but for undershorts and with his arms held behind his back as if by invisible ropes, he’s gotten familiar with the little creaks and thumps of a weekend afternoon.

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