erotica

A Small Cell, A Slab And Sappers [Necromancer Femdom Story] Pt. 2

by
Content Note: This story is non-con femdom. Pt. 1 of the story is here.

Over time, restrained in one position, there was pain simply from his own weight against the stone and the inability to straighten his body, either to lie flat or stand. There was the sensation of wetness from what lingered of the oil she had used on him, and an ache that twinged inside. He had slammed his wrists, repeatedly against the altar to try to break the manacles and tugged until the skin was raw. Neither had freed him.

The shuffle clunk continued, behind. He practiced turning his head from side to side, and could see the shambling bodies of the dead on patrol when their path looped by him.

Foul things. He had fought them before, with the will of the Purifier and with a sword. He interspaced escape attempts with prayer, that the dead would be out to rest again, that the Necromancer would be annihilated, and that his cowardice and weakness to temptation would be forgiven. When he thought about her it was now with a shared mixture of rage, shame and desire. 

She had somehow corrupted him, drawing a response from his flesh. And yet if she was so confident she could leave him alive to toy with, he believed he could use that to break free. Sooner or later her guard would slip.

Hours passed. He allowed himself to sleep, uncomfortably, belly down on the altar. It was the shallow kind that left him fatigued and twitchy. Presently, as the light filtered through the tinted glass panels in the roof showed dawn was there, he woke. More time followed. 

She arrived again at what he thought to be mid-morning, her voice cheerful, “Hmm, someone’s a messy boy after his first fuck.”

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Friday Femdom Fiction: Silent Trance

by

The fan whirred and bought a gentle breeze over their bodies at each turn of its tall, slim cylinder body. The light was filtered through curtains, bright and searing outside, muted through shades to give the white walls a grayness. She took him by both hands from his desk, led him to kneel in front of her, and settled comfortably against the rustling beanbag chair. Her own back was against the side of the couch, the fat upholstered armrest and less stuffed but still padded straight flat part below it feeling good against gym tugged muscles.

He sat on his heels, like in a martial arts class, comfortable, already starting to relax. Trance was a routine, a habit you slid into when certain cues presented themselves. He couldn’t not start to drop now, when the context came up.

She put her finger to her lips, the easy to understand gesture that made the “shhh” command evident without needing to utter it. His attention was fixed firmly on her, particularly her eyes, but also her slender, long fingered hands.

She didn’t bring any props this time, not one of the watches or pendants from where it hung in their bedroom, not the plastic clicker, nor the toys from other sides of their dynamic: plugs and rope and cuffs and things that made his skin and the flesh beneath yield a little more with every strike. She was dressed for summer, t-shirt, shorts, much the same, but with the stubborn male habit of wearing long pants even in the hottest weather. 

By gesture, only, she showed him to disrobe, pulling his shirt up and off, and the fly of his pants open to pull them down his thighs. Of course he was turned on already. Her attention was betwitching enough, on its own to draw that out of him. He could feel his breathing start to slow. She, in turn, knew that to hypnotize was a mirror. The pleasure in playing him down was to follow him into the state of float yet focus. 

Indeed, as she raised her left hand so he could see it clearly, curling and uncurling her fingers to get his attention, she went along with how she commanded.

Breathe. 1-2-3-4-5. Her hand pulsed the beats to take that intake through his nose, her own chest swelling with an audible scoop of air. 

Hold. 1-2-3-4-5. She clenched her fist in tight little spasms, saying nothing, watching him obey.

Release. 1-2-3-4-5. Her hand uncurled now in the same fashion, slowly, letting him drain out completely. Already, his shoulders were held a bit less tight, his face softer.

She repeated that loop twice more, resetting him, emptying his head of everything but the task at hand. Her willing subject let the pleasure of the resulting looseness let him slump a little more into the beanbag behind them. 

Delicately, counting on the tingle that would result from only the most feather light touches, she let only her middle fingers touch her forehead, brushing them along from the midpoint below her parting to where they nudged blonde bangs from her temples. He anticipated this command perfectly, quickly raising his own hands to mimic. 

She took her time to explore her face, circling all the nerve rich areas, around the edges of her scalp, along the orbits of her eyes, over her lips. Teasingly, she circled around and around, feeling the slight texture difference of her own lipstick. To him, he saw a mouth ringed in an almond-pink, close to natural. For her, she saw a copy, a thick small pout with a fair bit of colour. No lipstick, but oh so eager to mimic her fingers, now sliding into her own mouth.

His cock didn’t give her many cues. He tended to get hard and stay hard, so she measured the electric extra contact via the other tells, how his eyes briefly closed and savored the silent command to suck. She waited until he naturally opened them again, before moving on, down her neck, to her shoulders and looping around over her breasts.

She made three turns there, before mischief returned and she pinched both her nipples, trading what was entirely pleasure for her for what would be a little bite of sharpening discomfort for him. The intake of his breath was her reward and she moved on, caressing her own stomach, so he could follow, watching her lushness, as she watched him touch muscle under olive skin. From there, to her lap, over her thighs, down to her knees. He remained obedient.

When she finally made the gesture that let him know he could touch his cock, he was on autopilot, the whole entirety of his thoughts gone and only the need to intuit her commands there. She circled the air and stroked, up and down, up and down.

It amused her that, while he was by no means small, her own gestures exaggerated presence. She had no cock, unless she strapped one on. So, her hand wrapped around the air would travel up as far as above her breasts or just down to the fold of her lap, clear, visible and to be perfectly replicated in miniature.

She took her time with it, swoop and stroke, pacing herself. From time to time she would switch the beat, adding a twist into her wrist or a swirl of her palm up to show he must glide it over the head of his poor cock. Even this extra jolt of stimulation did not break his compliance. She could do it over and over again, knowing he wouldn’t let the flinching make him stop.

There was a paradox of erotic hypnosis: did one obey hypnotic commands because one desired to submit or did one desire to submit because one was hynotized? 

Trance was trained into him, patterns grooved deeper and deeper into his psyche, bringing him down a little faster every time. She was able to command him like this, without a word or a sound louder than a sigh, because she had done this many times before. To be seduced and hypnotized by her was a memory he could play back for her with only the most minimal reminders.

Thus also, she found it got easier for her every time, stepping into patter as easily as she might her own home, knowing instinctively where to find his levers and vulnerabilities. She supposed that he reflected himself back onto her, the pliancy she found as much about his own talent to subsume himself into her wishes.

Through her puppetry, his face gained a certain returning tension where he had previously held it slack. His torso stiffened, particularly the two visible chords of muscle of his abdomen. Nonetheless, he was still fixated on her and her every motion. Closer and closer. Were this a command she made while he was fully able to speak without being spoken to he would start trying to signal that the point of no return was imminent.

He knew, normally he could not come without permission, but he was on this ride at her control, and if she decided that was what was going to happen, he would. This time she hesitated, enjoying the potential of that outcome and then brought her hand up quickly, her palm smooth and flat. Stop.

His obedience was immediate, but she enjoyed the lingering, instinctual twitches, hand wanting to seek back to where she had removed it. He was almost there. Just a bit more and he would have come. If, in her next gesture, she sent him back to pumping his cock for her she knew any restraint was gone and he would spurt, helpless, in scant more than two or three strokes.

Instead, she pivoted her wrist and SNAP. The pop was middle finger striking thumb, audible, breaking their silence even as he slumped down in front of her, dropping the rest of the way to bask in the relaxation of his complete trance.

—

Alas, I couldn’t post this one early for my dear Patrons because erotic hypnosis content remains on the no-no list for what patreon will permit. Nonetheless. if you don’t want to wait, most Friday Femdom Fiction is posted there first. It also helps support the site, so you really should consider signing up!

Friday Femdom Fiction: Rubber Ducking

by

Water roared, white noise in a white bathtub, silver tap spouting full blast and warm. The fan, hidden somewhere in the ceiling, churned the air to knock down the steam, though the door was still flung wide, keeping the climate matched to the rest of the house. 

Kai saw the space with the wholeness of her attention, the flat rectangle tub with beveled edges, solid sheet tile, behind on the wall and beneath, slightly tinged silicone guarding the gaps. A line of bottles, his and hers, filled the far ledge, against the wall, promising conditioning, moisture and soap without ever saying soap. Her victim was stripped bare, but then sheathed in skin mimicking latex, body unresisting despite the padded cuffs that suggested otherwise.

Jon’s crotch zipper was pulled, and he was erect, but this was to be taken for granted. Polar Bear. Kai called him that, teasing him about baculums and two week long hump fests until he broke. Something about her and her cruelty brought that out in him, and there was no need to coax more. The rubber was black, her own white, some evolutionary mimicry of a nurse in the last century. That is to say it was more cream than snow, but glossed under his obsessive attention. Earlier, she’d kicked off her white patent heels, though the cap was still discreetly bobby pinned into a nest of her curly hair.

There was a game afoot, themed, to a point. Kai had ran spiked wheels against his palm, yanked his cock to the edge several times and pushed an inflatable plug into him, acting with feigned detachment like the balloon inside him was some sort of pulse reader. This segue to another room was an impulse, but good housekeeping made it smooth. Everything was where she needed it. Lube, toys, gloves, nose plug.

She folded the towel on the bathtub rail, set just so where Jon would rest his body. There was a frisson of the danger they embarked on, hovering over their play. 

It takes only a few drops of water to drown. Her brain told her, nudging. Are you confident you can revive him?

Kai put that thought in a central place, even as she continued. He was obedient in her positioning, as she undid the back zipped of his hood, folding it up. Blunt clips, meant for swimming, pinched his nose, pragmatic, not sexy. They left a slight bump in the latex she smoothed back over them.

Jon knew what she intended to do. He was the one that bought the nose plugs, after all. Creative sadism was what she provided, he made sure the logistics improved on it.

The tub reached the level she wanted, and she checked the temperature with a bare forearm. The surface holding the light from behind them, where it flanked the mirror over the sink and flowed out from the overhead fixture. Where water splashed on her it made perfect beads, hydrophobic material casting it out, sealed under a silicone sheen.  He stayed as she wished, spreading his legs for her so the zipper splitting his ass could be peeled open a bit more. It parted like it was eager to, always a fight to seal him in and then jubilantly letting the parts of him spill out with the smallest tugs. 

Kai put her gloves on. He was still lubricated from earlier, and the slick inside the suit that made it possible to fit himself inside. She pulled a bit more and his erection was squashed where she could torment it from behind, even as she added a bit more lube to his hole. She liked the discomfort when his cock was so hard it caught on the rubber, not easily fitting through the gap of whatever he was wearing. “How are we doing?”

“Ok Mistr… Nurse.” Jon caught himself. It was too easy to break character in their games, since ultimately, not matter the sensations, she was the one reliable common factor of his perversion. He heard her murmur her approval, nudge one, then two fingers into his ass.

The hole, from her perspective, reminded her a bit of the nub whorl where a tree had lost it’s branch. Barely different in shade, above a landscape where, beneath, the space between that and his hanging balls had an inviting bulge. She liked the almost medical-lore feeling of pressing there to feel the way his cock and testicles were only part of more, inside. Finding that spot, behind his cock, with two fingers, was like knowing a secret.

That her mind would wander in sex didn’t displace her own arousal, even if she had learned to keep real medical lectures to a minimum. She liked knowing the physical spot on a body spots, archived them in her head with pleasure. Hit here, to do the Heimlich maneuver, count these beats, here to keep a heart going, and push here, like a gameshow contestant hammering a button to knock him into an abject aroused vulnerability. Her grin, unseen by him, moved her face even as a third finger introduced into his ass stretched him to accommodate.

He was where she wanted him, the next step a matter of escalation. “Ready?”

Kai waited for it, before her other hand pressed him under the water. She had to lean a bit, losing some of the good angle of his ass to begin to terrorize him. Her whole body was tuned to his latex wrapped one, reading each twitch, carefully. There was an art to this.

Beautiful panic, over and over again, hammering away at what his body couldn’t control. She wanted to push it just past the point he tapped out, but not so much that he’d accidentally suck in water in a desperate breath. 

His eyes were closed. In theory he could pull his torso up at any point, or squirm free, but he wouldn’t. That was the submission he was giving, though his arms were trapped together, the strength of his core was meekly surrendered to her fuckery. 

She checked his mask, being sure the extra variable of the hood wasn’t somehow throwing off the safety of her complete control, and,confirming all was well, traded three fingers for stout, bulbed, silicone. The combination of playful drowning and penetration was making him into the best kind of mess. Warm water splashed them, small drops further decorating their impenetrable, implacable costumes. The toy she was forcing into his ass had three bulbs of graduated size, the final one enough to intimidate.

She told him that she wouldn’t let him breathe until it was all the way in, managing the juggling act, crooning to him to take it. Air deprived panic made him tense, more sensation for him, more joy for her. He hitched at the last wide part, but just when she thought she might have to cry off for his sake, his ass closed again on the slimmer neck before the disk-flare of the bottom of the toy.

He gasped, and Kai teased him. “So full for me, and still rock hard. Getting off on your water cure?”

He was two muddle headed to come up with a reply that made sense, so she let him settle before resuming, fondling and stroking to fill the time. Water, latex and silicone oil made a unique texture, her own fingers pruned on the hand she ducked him with. When she could be sure he was fully lucid to her torments again, she didn’t warn him, but plunged him back under.

He was surprised, no air in reserve, quick to break, but even as the first warning buck told her he was at a limit, she fumbled the vibe into his groin. It was clumsier than she liked, but good enough. He got the message even as she relaxed her hand to let him surface. Go down, get pleasure. Come up, she pulled the vibe away.

“If you can cooperate with the cure long enough to come, you have my permission.”

Jon took a deep breath, by way of reply, and her hand on the back of his hooded head pressed him under again.

Friday Femdom Fiction His Sacrifice

by

No candles or altar, just the buff carpet under foot and the grey slab of the bed. That was soft, not the carved stone her imagination summoned, but there were strong straps to hold him fast, so that would serve. In her hand, she had a knife, but it was shielded in plastic and not meant for his skin, a tiny, wicked edge snap off sharp for slitting boxes.

He was dressed for her, magnificently, the buttons of his suit open so the lapels of his jacket lay splayed. His tie was only a little crooked, pulled that way by her hand, earlier. Her feet felt the tilt of her heels, toes adjusting in tall stockings. She had dressed for herself, though for what she was to do, perhaps instead she needed silk or flax or wool in white and unstitched, or maybe a robe, draping her with ominous authority. She was instead, in garters over panties, a longline bra, all a black mesh.

Looking at him, he was denied the opportunity to do the same to her, by an eyeless, red satin mask, stuffed full of little beads so its weight made a seal that blocked most light. She considered that he was also dressed for himself, the pride he had in his clothing. Suits tailored to fit, picked from floor models and matched with fabrics hung on racks in dark tones and the occasional grey or clean white. If she took his jacket off, she would find a half dozen little touches of quality, symptom of wealth.

Inside, she remembered, in those lapels, as well as a hidden pocket, little red hand finishing stitches. Running her fingers over those had been deeply intimate. What was it of masculinity, to put your colour only on the inside or in safe places, the glance of ankle, demure restraint of a pocket square or a scant slash of a tie? It was just another hint of the immense vulnerability she saw in the so-called opposite sex. She wanted sacrilege and a sacrifice. She wanted to tear all that away.

Her hand on his chest told her that there were more layers beneath the buttoned shirt. They had played these games long enough she had guesses at what: lace, straps, mesh. He loved that opportunity to peacock, no shame in what was most close to his skin. Soon it would be exposed.

While he was still blind, she kissed him, her hands moving to press on his pulled apart arms, poking at his helplessness. Thus, then, a clean kiss under his control and sliding off the blindfold, leaving it discarded next to his head. She had his full attention. How could she not, straddling his body, rubbing against him even as he pushed back towards her, against the limits the cuffs on his wrists and ankles permitted.

To play was not to take on a mask, but to take it off. It was a cold-water dive, exhilarating, her sadism popping out to satiate itself. She smiled and found her true desire. “Last chance to beg off.”

He couldn’t, she knew that. She watched him, hawk like, always, when they played, checking for those tells of the edge of where he could go. He didn’t mean to be dishonest to his capacity, muffled by the real desire to give her everything. Still, she trusted him, for the same cruel instinct obliterated much of the barriers between them. She could read fine from not fine perfectly well, overriding even this to hold to his limit.

He was troubled, but not unwilling. It wasn’t actually the last chance, but she was reassuring herself of her power, girding herself before her hands grasped at his collar and yanked hard.

Some buttons popped, some loosened at the sudden wrenching tugged and opened to the waist, his shirt. That was fixable, so far. White t-shirt gaped underneath, soft and flowing over hints of straps. She smiled at her own audacity. It was unclear if this was a transgression against him or her own frugality. Hurting his flesh was easier.

The shirt cost more than she made in an hour, the suit a quarterly bonus for him. The fly of his pants, wrapped around to a button on one side, was soon popped and pulled, the first hint of mesh. Despite the carnage, despite holding no place in his own fetishes, he was still faithfully hard for her.

She would never bruise his pretty face, but here she was doing something that felt just as forbidden. The knife in her hand was comfortable, enticing her towards the next step.

“Hold still,” she warned, thumbing out a blade barely the length of her thumbnail. Cutting was a two-hand job, one to hold the fabric taut, one to stroke it through the fibres.

Split fabric made a beautiful noise. With his body bound there was no way she could fully undress him any other way. But everything he was and owned was hers to use or discard as she wished. She loved good wool, loved to run her hands over the smoothness of his jackets hanging in their closet or feel the weight of it in her hands. And yet the hardest part of its mutilation was an act of will.

Further, it was not an orgy of slashing and stabbing. Every cut, still straddling the warmth of him, was careful, planned. “Measure twice, cut once.”

His face had fear at the blade. She kept her attention on that too, even as ribbons of what was once the work of hours by a tailor were casually tossed away. Revealed, bit by bit, a few threads still littering the bed beneath them, she admired.

Straps, crisscrossing, mesh framing his cock, giving other textures to contrast his naked velvet-and-butter. Beneath the suit he’d dressed as much to be admired, lingerie cut for his body. It was a piece she’d picked out for him, saved her own money to afford it.

Their eyes met and she caught that moment of mutual understanding, her power over him giving them that wonderful connection where she saw his pride in being considered, wanted and consumed. They kissed, again, and then she hooked her thumb into one of the black bands of the body suit, considering: should she cut this free too?

Yikes! Can you believe this story has been sitting unwritten, because I psyched myself out, for the last 8 months? At some point this year I convinced myself all my writing was terrible and crawled into a shame spiral hole. But, here you are, and hopefully you enjoy it as much as int inspired me. <3

Friday Femdom Fiction: A Domme’s Gratitude Journal

by

Gratitude is relevant to clinical psychology due to (a) strong explanatory power in understanding well-being, and (b) the potential of improving well-being through fostering gratitude with simple exercises

Alex M. Wood; Jeffrey J. Froh; Adam W.A. Geraghty; “Gratitude and well-being: A review and theoretical integration”; Clinical Psychology ReView; March 2010

November 1st

I am grateful for the morning, the warmth of the bed I don’t want to escape and the consolation of the coffee he brought to me.

November 2nd

I am grateful for the way he knelt down last night and kissed the toes of my boots all playful, until I swatted him away squawking he needed to wipe them down first.

November 3rd

I am grateful for the nudge of his hard cock against my ass, even if we are both too groggy from last night because of it. I get to have impromptu sex on a week night, when I want. Even if I am tired and hate everything right now.

November 4th

I am grateful for the three selfies he sent me of edging in the accessible/unisex single user bathroom at his work, and in knowing he wore the plug I hid in his glove box for four hours.

[ Entries missing and space covered with stickers.]

November 9th 

I am grateful for the way he looks in a collar, on all fours and for putting up with going out two nights out of three this weekend. Although I forgot to do my journal.

November 10th

I am grateful for the bagel with sesame and cream cheese, even if he forgot and apologized it wasn’t poppyseed because he couldn’t remember if it was sesame or poppyseed I prefer. It’s sesame. He called me on his break from work, just to apologize because he wasn’t sure.

November 11th

I am grateful for him being supportive about my step brother being gone, even if we weren’t really that close, and for understanding why I made us late by being on the phone with my mom all morning.

November 15th

I am grateful for him remembering to tell me I seemed loopy and asking if I had been taking my ADHD meds. I hadn’t. Whose bright idea was a disability that takes organization to keep up with, that makes you disorganized?

November 16th

I am grateful that he drew me a picture of my worst customer as a sulky troll and also that he doesn’t mind eating me out takes 20 minutes, and that even then sometimes I can’t get off.

November 17th

I am grateful for how fun it is to edge him over and over again. And the really good deal I got on bananas.

November 18th

I am grateful he got precum on my good work skirt and it came right out with a little water. Him being messy is sexy!

November 19th

I am grateful for him bringing me a Starbucks holiday cookie while I was doing cert practice exams and letting me use his testicles as a stress squeeze ball.

November 20th

I am grateful for him finding my gratitude journal behind the bed. And for not making me feel bad about being so upset it was missing. And being ok that I told him I wasn’t up to an elaborate scene tonight and then changing my mind and plugging him and keeping him in the sensory deprivation hood for an hour and a half while I hit him with a crop intermittently and played chinese opera through headphones in his ears.

November 21st

I am grateful for the fact that he managed to write “Take your Meds” on his ass, but he did it crooked so it says “Tak3 your m3dz”. And for alluringly mooning me for a spanking after serving breakfast in bed.

November 22nd

I am grateful he drew me a picture of Troll-Robert being hit by a palette of express shipped orders and being squashed flat and for letting me cradle his head lovingly and slap the shit out of him. And for reminding me to put the bananas in the freezer before they go bad.

November 23rd

I am grateful for KISSES.

November 24th

I am grateful for a really heartfelt letter about how proud of me he is doing certification AND working full time, and how he imagines what our future is going to me like and how my voice makes him drip.

November 25th

I am grateful for him helping my mom TS her computer because he knows I find trying to help her with stuff infuriating, and letting my Dad tell him how to deep fry a turkey and then helping stop my dad from starting a fire when he got distracted. And head in the car home.

November 26th

I am grateful for him catching my laptop when I accidentally kicked it off the bed. I HATE CERT PRACTICE EXAMS.

November 27th

I am grateful for that wet big eyed, helpless on his knees look he gives. And for the little grunt he makes every time I jerk the harness up.

November 28th

I am grateful for him freezing all the bananas I forgot to, and being able to make them into a breakfast smoothie so my adhd meds don’t give me a stomach ache.

November 29th

I am grateful for saying nothing, dropping to his knees and worshipping my pussy when he saw my face after I got home tonight. And telling me not to worry about Robert complaining to my boss again about the order.

November 30th

I am grateful for his submission and his love and getting me sushi to celebrate when I passed my MOTHERFUCKING CERTS. Also that he didn’t mind when I missed and hit his balls during spanking.

A note of real life femdom gratitude:

I would like to thank my supporters at Patreon and the unstintingly generous help of a reader for their technical support. The latter got my site operational again after something permissions related dramatically borked.

Becoming a patron helps me keep my content free, and means the world to me. And being the person who helps with my frantic AHHHHH emails after I fuck over something with a plugin/permission is it’s own great gift.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Edging Experiments in the Bedroom Lab

by

“No Nut November is a good enough reason to test this, isn’t it?” Her phone was open to a page on Amazon, looking at the selection of lab coats available. They were more expensive, in her opinion, than they had any business being.

“You are band wagoning.” He was naked, except for a t-shirt that was pulled off his neck but not his arms, and his socks, which they never seemed to remember to take off. Despite the bravado heavy sarcasm in his accusation, he was helpless, spread eagled in the white bed by straps taut, Velcro cuffs snuggle wrapped around his ankles and wrists.

“You are band wagoning, Doctor,” she corrected, emphasis on the last word. “For the duration of the month you are in this clinical trial and you will conform to every step on the protocol.”

“Yes, Doctor.” He cringed, meekly.

Ridiculous or not, anything said in a stern tone got him somewhere in the hind brain and delivered up that I’ve-been-slapped-please-do-it-again face. She smirked, feeling that flash of extra horny when she looked down on him. The heavy vibe-wand felt comfortingly official, with a turgid density that always reminded her of an erection. Or a weapon, as she felt you could do a reasonable amount of damage with a good clonk.

The buzz of the wand turning on sent tingles though her hand, down her arm. At its lowest setting, it was still enough to make him test the strength of the straps. Pressed to his cock and lazily inched along its length, he would move a little, realize he was denying himself the sensation he craved and then remember to hold still.

“The subject was introduced to the equipment for the test.” She purred, “and showed marked responsiveness. Further investigation found he was most sensitive on the ventral side, except directly below the head, and which point the sensitivity remained the same for dorsal and caudal contact.”

“Motion that was proximal or distal showed equal efficacy in introducing a response, and for consistency a gliding rather than rolling technique was used to establish moving stimulation. Pressure, of course, had a high variability.”

“Increasing the power of the vibrations and contact with the underside of the head of the subject’s cock produced similar non-verbal vocalizations. It will require further testing to determine if they are equivalent in the perception of the subject… or…” She bore down a little more, her grin going wide, “The subject is just being dramatic.”

“No, I’m not…” He shook his head. “That’s…”

She withdrew the wand sharply, and he heard the wine before the pop of electricity discharged into his thigh. He yelped. It was technically a cattle prod, even if she wasn’t sure how a hand-held device like that was used in a stock yard. But it did the job, warning with the pitch of a mosquito before the contact was made. Sometimes all it took was the noise itself to quell him perfect.

“I’m not being dramatic, Doctor!” The correction was blurted out a few seconds later.

“Better. I would rather think by your tone you are. I have seen you take more.”

“No, Doctor. It builds. But, over time I get more numb.”

“Yes, subject, that’s the point. If, by the end of the month you become immune to edging or not, and if you require significantly more stimuli or less, to respond.” To underline this, she nudged the wand back up against the root of his cock, tracing from his balls all the way over the head.

“But, all of November, Doctor?”

“Yes, the trial will run from November 4th to November 30th.” The dates alone weren’t a threat. “I know from the control month of Locktober you can handle no stimulation what so ever. Let’s see if the use of daily, escalating stimulation is any different, hmm?”

“Have you been planning this all along…” He paused, then remembered himself, pressing his hips up to chase more of the wand’s buzz. “Doctor?”

“Well, not really. Only since last week.”

The wand glided back down again, keeping a pattern. There was an interesting technical challenge for her, making torturing him almost meditative. Keep the motions similar, and not give into her own sadistic urge to go as hard as possible all at once.

Steady was its own reward. Despite how natural medical vocabulary came, she knew there was more wanton desire than meticulous art in her use of him. Something about his vulnerability inspired her to devour. She counted the strokes of the wand out loud. “…three, four, five…”

His eyes stayed fixed on her, not relaxing into surrender, but yielding with a focused attention.

“… Eight, nine, ten…” After a few more passes she pressed a little harder. There was that hip buck of his. “… thirteen, fourteen…” His fingers curled and uncurled. She decided not to give the wand more power, keeping it that way.

It took longer, but the edge arrived nonetheless. His belly contracted, as did his balls pulling closer to his body, his mouth making an o while his eyes squeezed shut. Incoherent words warned, no matter his sass, he was obedient to the fact that he was forbidden to come, always faithfully warning her.

She gambled, and gave it a few seconds longer. Another few more.

“Ah!” Only when that desperation started to truly look like he was bracing for an inevitable impact did she yank the wand back, leaving him gasping. 

Her grin would have done the Cheshire cat proud, carrying a buzz of her own between the technical satisfaction of the topping and that in her chest aroused joy of knowing he was completely in her power.

“There now. The Subject will tell the experimenter exactly how that made him feel.”

Femdom Review: Roar of Thunder

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redmaskRoar of Thunder by Gia Dawn

Roar of Thunder is what I’d describe as a Switch Romance- a story where both characters are competing to dominate the other. From my personal perspective I like a little competition in my dynamic and I don’t mind the idea of mutual thwacking. Switches are also extremely under-served.

And goodness, is this couple fighty and switchy. I emphasize this is a romance novel because the couple, Grace and Ty, do stuff that only makes sense in the weird rules of the genre- for example in the book, shoving someone and shouting “get out!” sans context of consent being simply high drama, not reason to call everything all off and see therapists. Grace and Ty roll around together on the pages like a pair of razor clawed roosters in a cock fighting ring, each trying to take big bloody slashes out of the other. That is, when you don’t have heavy dose of romance novel derp- where the hero inevitably has to talk to his best guy buddy because he doesn’t know how to talk to women, while his sister in playing cupid with the female lead.

But if you’re like me, and you like things turgid and non-con, as well as liking a comforting HEA, the formulaic structure works well with the contents, providing reassuring grounding to something that otherwise shoots my eyebrows up to my hairline as far as unsafe behaviour, while the foofy aspect is balanced by the nasty to avoid being unreadable. This is not a SSC book, indeed its barely RACK, even if it does use the setting of a BDSM club, with all the vocabulary and expectations that go with it. If you don’t like inappropriately pushy people, this is not for you. If, like me, negotiating the boundaries of it being acceptable for your sub to take a swing at you seems like it could lead to sexy results, you might actually have fun.

Now, about the story: Ty, the hero, is your bog standard ex soldier with a troubled mind waiting around to be soothed. Our heroine, Grace, had started as a sub, had a horrifically abusive relationship and couldn’t handle subbing, but her internal monologue makes it unclear if, indeed she’s suffering from “haven’t met the right man yet” syndrome. Grace, and all the various people in Ty’s life, get the idea that what Ty really needs is a dominant to cure his erectile dysfunction and deep seated PTSD problems. I was bracing myself for Grace doing the tumble into submission that so many romance novel heroines do, but I was pleasantly rewarded that all her dominance was most definitely not just for show. Its part of a “Red Mask” series, but you really don’t need the other books to know what’s going on.

You probably aren’t reading this for the plot though, so regarding the sex: When Gia Dawn found out I was doing a review, claimed to lack experience with the real thing (maybe she meant as a dom?). Honestly, it doesn’t show. She likes her butt stuff on the side of chaff-y and painful, but the beating and bondage are erotically constructed into something fun and ouchy. Grace is a caretaker, and her scene control is fun to observe. One thing I wish the author had explored more- Grace was an abuse survivor and decided that subbing didn’t make her feel safe. Ty in no way acted safe, leaping in with full bore jealous/controlling tantrums- I wasn’t sure if enough weight was put into her transition to acknowledge why Ty made her feel comfortable.

Still, about the only critical point I might make is a few “WTF” moments- the characters are supposed to be French, and Ty is mentioned as being ex French Foreign Legion. I think the author meant to place him in the Commandement des Opérations Spéciales (French Special Forces), the Legion not being for wealthy natives of France, but exclusively for non-natives. As a person living in French speaking Canada the French injections into both character’s dialogue felt a bit forced- but honestly, its not her fault her fetish sultry French stereotype fell flat with me- us quasi bilingual readers are not heavy on the ground.

All in all, a solid bit of erotica, whose best quality is the sex. And, if something fairly mainstream friendly makes femdom look hot as she managed, I only hope Gia Dawn writes more.

Category: Erotic romance
Rating: o~o~o~o (4/5)
How I got it: Bought it!
TL;DR: Switches Ty and Grace try to get over their issues by her dominating him.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Meeting Her Slave

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She hit the cafe a full half hour early, despite walking from two bus stops away in heels after she’d gotten distracted and over shot where she was supposed to get off. She realized, as she slipped inside and scanned the room, that she was giddy.  Among the patrons: some students with a pile of notes on their table, and older man with a book and a young woman pecking something out on a white macbook, nobody met the description she expected or matched the picture she looked at on her phone.

[I want to be your slave. Oh, I know, I want to get to know better your first, and obviously that’s a big thing to ask of you, but, I wanted to make my intentions clear. And, if you’re not interested I respect that.

I just haven’t met someone quiet like you before. You’re clever, and funny and mean.]

He was smiling, the picture, a kind of goofy, self conscious grin, but a real smile that half closed his almond eyes. His black hair stood up a little stiffly- he’d taken the photo this morning and was holding a sign with a picture of a hand drawn penguin on it and one word: “SOON”

She knew he worked somewhere near by, admitted it when she picked the venue. The cafe was nice enough, nothing particularly

She ordered a mint tea, trying to pick were to sit. Near the window? She suppressed the urge to bounce on the spot like an impatient child. The cafe chairs were dark varnished and vinyl seats- choosing one so her back was to the wall, she self consciously fiddled with her skirt hem and the clip of her garter on her stocking through her fabric. Was it dishonest to dress this way? It turned her on to know under her dark blue cotton summer dress, everything was soft lace and secret elastic. She told herself the extra confidence couldn’t hurt.

It had happened in a whirlwind month. An offhand positive remark on his part, a polite thank you, a conversation that had spun from teasing into cybersex. They’d crawled off the fetish website, where their pictures were both anonymous headless torsos, his bare with nipples like brown thumb prints, hers corseted in severe black silk, and onto instant messaging, where suddenly seeing a cartoon penguin avatar with a green circle next to it made her heart skip a beat.

If he was truthful, on her online orders, he’d come three times that month, once of his own volition after their first session- her pushing as far as she could as a ‘wicked priestess’, him the explorer who’d stumbled into her secret temple.

*i feel the hard stone slab beneath my back, wonder how many men have perished, tied to the altar this way. i pull hard against the roeps*

(ropes)

*The Priestess holds the dagger high for another moment, teasing your with your helplessness before she brings it down to strink, but stops short of your heart. Instead the razor sharp obsedian point is moved to hook under your collar and slit you shirt open, then moving lower to slash away at your clothes until you are completely naked.* “The Goddess Demands a Different Kind of Sacrifice.”

(arrrgh!, strike, obsidian) 

She never worried before that much about her typos. And yet for all her fretting she was not found wanting. She had been the one to shyly ask him if he wanted to take this offline. And his enthusiastic affirmation at once tied her stomach into knots and made her skip about her apartment like a maniac, singing and drumming on the counter tops until her normally tolerant roommate was rolling her eyes.

Now her phone bleeped with a friendly alert. She thumbed the picture away, checked the text- her roommate and say call: [Any sign of lover boy?]

[Too early!!!!! :P] She thumbed back.

Her tea was too hot to drink and taking forever to steep. She tried to distract herself in a book. Every five minutes she checked her phone. A message

[on my way! might by a minute or two late] It was still five minutes early. She took a nervous sip of her tea. Every time someone came through the door she would perk up and then feel a little stab of disappointment when it wasn’t him.

Oh. There he was. Her tongue took that moment to faint in her mouth as he stepped through the door.

He was wearing a loose green polo and slacks, office clothes, as she’d been told to expect. A cross body strap from his bag put a diagonal bisection against his torso. There was a small stuffed penguin under his arm.

She giggled, remembering a webcam session that had started erotic, and then by afterglow had taken a turn for the adorable. “Is that from your bed?”

He lit up with a wide smile when he saw her.

“Mr. Pepperton wouldn’t let me leave him behind this morning.”

She found her words. All the sensible thoughts she’d had about sitting down and talking practical things went out the window when she spoke in the *voice*.

“Well then, let’s take a look at you.” She let her head roam from his cowlick to the laced brown leather shoes on his feet. He’d stopped abruptly, with a tension that showed even his breath had slowwed. She could tell he was nervous, guessed what he was thinking. “Oh, no, we’re in public. I wouldn’t.”

“Sorry… ”

“Go get yourself something.” She pointed at the counter.

“Okay. Would you like…”

“N-Yes. Another mint tea.” She slid her mug forward. Yes, yes this was going to work very well.

~~~

This is what it looks like in real life, folks. Giddy, silly and happy- and more than a little be awkward

 

Femdom Review: Penthouse Variations On Oral

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coverartsPenthouse Variations On Oral (erotic stories of going down) by Various Authors.

My first trade paperback blog swag!

Penthouse and I go pretty far back- pubescent me got introduced to the subject of erotica thanks to vintage “Forums” kicking around the house, with all the expected consequences of getting your sex ed from fiction pretending to be true confessions of every day people. There’s some fun stuff under the umbrella of their publishing house (Wildcard is particularly fond of a story in which a cheating husband got a sound naked thrashing with his prize fishing pole), so given the opportunity I took a chance on this.

Now this is a femdom blog, and all the sex here is vanilla, but I’m always gungho about trying new things. You would think that given my unadulterated love of blow jobs, however, I’d be lapping it up regardless. Unfortunately… nope.

This was chockablock with stories, bursting at the seams with confessions about how mouth met moist bits. I was hoping for a tongue tingling ride, but unfortunately this was very much a quantity over quality deal that suffered from a bit too much repetition for something promising to be “Variations”. One too many times using “sexy” as a primary adjective and half the authours seem to have decided oral sex is a perfect time to make food service a plot point, giving us an inside look into the sex lives of coffee shop baristas getting naughty after the afternoon rush and restaurateurs eating out each other.

To its credit, there were a couple that got a warm and buzzy feeling going between my legs. Specifically I’m going to look for more stuff by Maria King after reading her An Erotic Feast. You should consider this a sampler- you’re not going to like the taste of everything between its covers, but you will get blasted with a lot of writers which my google searching tells me, may be a first time for many of them.

Get it from the publisher at Cleis Press, or the inevitable Amazon/B&N online retailers or ask your local book shop for ISBN 978-1-62778-093-3.

What’s my final verdict?
Category: Erotic Anthology
Rating: o~o (2/5)
How I got it: Review copy, through post
TL;DR: Lots and lots of oral sex stories. Not very inspiring of masturbation.

Friday Femdom Fiction: That’s a Wrap

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First, there was a penis. Although it was neither erect nor otherwise distinguished by anything to draw attention to it, such as decorative ribbons or fancy sparkles, it stood out among the cross-wound layers of brightly coloured vet wrap that held his legs together and his arms to his side. Where the wrap was in bright primary shades, it was the one organic thing, flesh tinted, natural and exposed. Adding to the lurid effect, she’d left a folded throw blanket beneath him in bright blue and yellow fleece, extra padding and protection for the rug.

For his part, he was completely helpless, mummified on the floor, with her bare feet resting on his stomach and thigh. From time  to time she would move them, using her toes and the soles of her feet to tease him, gently rubbing against his cock or lifting it, so the shaft was cupped by the sides of her feet.

From her perspective, there was a certain sort of silliness to the whole affair, him, dehumanized and muffled so he was reduced down to nothing but his cock, the wrap capped with a hood that kept him quiet and only able to hear her properly when she raised her voice or spoke close to his head. It was a pity it was hard to do sensory deprivation without him looking utterly ridiculous, but his reactions made it worth it. She watched him wriggle about, testing against the tightness of the wrap by trying to flex his shoulders enough to move his arms, or curl a leg, and finding he couldn’t. This wasn’t bondage that he surrendered to, but something that made him yield, whether he felt like it or not.

Because it was warm in the cocoon, she kept the room chilled, and only her naked legs were poking out of the big fluffy comforter when had wrapped herself in. The effect was not lost on her, a woman all bundled up into a cloud of fluffy pale grey, tormenting a rainbow. Her feet grasped at his cock again, gently pressing it between sole and instep and rolling her foot so the stroking would gradually work him erect.

She liked the feel of his cock, the skin so soft and warm. The only parts of his body that was that smooth were his eyelids and lips. The vet wrap itself was a very fine mesh with a slightly tacky feeling, something that breathed and stuck only to itself. She’d wound him is several different rolls, from his slender neck, to the wide shelf of his shoulders, emphasizing the taper as she immobilized his arms and then worked her way down his legs and she knew he wasn’t getting free until she peeled if off.

As her feet continued to tease, she heard his groans through his hood and saw that he was wriggling some more.  A trickle of precum told her that he was quite helpless to resist her gentle tugs and firm control of his cock. She smiled.

“Do you want to come?”

“Mmmmmfffsss!” Said her mummified victim. “Mmmm!”

She withdrew her feet, and the wriggle he made towards the air made his disappointment clear even if she couldn’t see his face. She giggled and temporaily shrugged the blanket off, feeling the cool air on her naked torso. Leaning, she pulled off the hood, exposing his head. He looked up at her, frustrated, a little curve of the knit-cotton of her wadded up panties peeking out of his mouth. She reached down and retrieved them by hooking a finger into the exposed edge.

Because he was playful, when she’d half dragged them out, he clenched down suddenly with his teeth. The damp elastic stretched.

“Ah-ah-ah…” She tugged. “Give!”

He narrowed his eyes a bit and turned his head to the side, feigning a growl.

“No. Bad. Do you want me to put the hood back and leave you like this?”

He seemed to consider this for a moment, and seeing she was serious, he dutifully opened his mouth so she could retrieve them and drop them next to his head. “Ahhh…Plah!”

“So, I’ve decided you can cum, but only if you do the work.” She announced, as if she had reached some grand conclusion. “Do you still want to?”

To punctuate the choice her feet found his cock and started to play with it again until he was nodding eagerly. So, she slithered off the couch onto the floor with him, wearing the comforter like a cape and kneeling beside him. She could see he was looking at the bits of her that stuck out, and smirked as she carefully rolled him over onto his front. Flipped, he began to grind himself against the floor, arching his head back to keep his face out of the carpet. A fleece blanket wasn’t the most satisfying thing to hump against, but he was desperate.

Feeling merciful, she shoved a cushion under her chest, before settling herself back into the couch. Watching him writhe and buck desperately was starting to have an effect on her, particularly his frustrated determination and the way his tight, square ass is moving up and down. The sadist in her briefly used her feet to pin him, before she gives into temptation and her own hand snakes between her legs.

With the hood off, he can hear her panting, and the abrupt changing in her vocalizations when she comes.  That’s about all it takes for him to baptize the blanket beneath him, adding his noises to hers.

~~~

The writing prompt here was to start with a penis. Which I did. 😀

Back to the archives of more femdom stories.