feet

Friday Femdom Fiction: Getting to Know Mistress At the Goth Shop

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Rows of sleeves visible on racks, shirts and dresses lined up chest to back in a tightness that emphasized the cramped warren of the space. At the door, a display of corsets were rectangles without a body to fill them, showing a liquid warmth in satin, brocade and pleather. From time to time a pattern caught her eye, or the shape of a piece of trim and she would nudge the garment from the press of its neighbours to examine it more closely. It was its own kind of intimacy, accompanying the woman he wanted to possess him while she shopped.

When she brought something out for more scrutiny, the metal hooks scraped in protest against their poles, as if they didn’t want to be singled out. She was fussy and ruthless, checking size tags and materials, but also the attachment of trim and buttons, pulling on seams a bit. He stood a respectful pace away from her, even though she kept him magnetically focused, without much to say to interrupt. Behind him, he was intimately aware of the display of shoes and boots, shining on glass shelves. Most had their own platforms, some as tall as the width of his palm. One pair stood at an impossible angle, spike heels supporting it on its toes. She was wearing something that was a reminiscent echo, Doc Martens beat to hell and back, then polished to smooth the nicks and dimples of regular wear. She had told him, the first time he kissed the toes, they were plastic masquerading as virtuous leather, and the era of when they were good boots was long gone.

Mistress cared about things intensely, and noticed fabrics and stitches. When they were alone she treated his body with the same scrutiny and an attraction that stole the breath out of his chest. He was unsure he remembered being noticed that much, ever.

They were one of the few shoppers at 10 AM on a weekday, casually watched by a woman with a ring through each of her thin brows, her hair a fresh fire engine red/black combo that had the odd lengths of an undercut half way to grown out. A faded t-shirt for a band he only vaguely recognized was held together by safety pins, slit and ragged in an intentional fashion. It was clothing perfectly suited for the milieu, conveying a chic creativity, but also a louche lack of enthusiasm that carried in her slouch. This shop minder had been easy to shake off, not even insisting to run them through the sales litany, but letting them pace themselves. 

There was another scrape as some possible treasure was lifted up. He nervously touched the collar she’d put around his neck, when they had met up earlier that morning. “I am not collaring you in the formal sense,” Mistress had said. “This is simply a reminder and decoration for me to admire.”

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Friday Femdom Fiction: Sweat & Service

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She took the stairs slowly, feeling the burn in her thighs and up into her hips. Her chest felt the press of the sprints she’d just completed, and shook her head, letting her loose, long hair sway, trying to cool herself, holding the elastic she’d pulled from her sleep and sweat tangled hair and the coiled up cord of her headphones.

First the front steps, up a story, the door, with it’s glass panels, and the inside steps, all the way up again, to the inner door. She was tired.

He was waiting there, at the top of the steps, his legs folded under him in a prayer pose, head bowwed and palms flat on the floor, long arms a little forward, as if in supplication.

The slight askewness in the way he was kneeling that said he had heard her coming at the first rattle of the door and got into position. She guessed rushing from the bedroom, or maybe he’d lumbered from his bed as far as the kitchen.

“Mistress!”

She smiled, stopped and rested her hand on the wall, plucking her phone from the taut pocket made by the tight grip of her sports bra and dropping it, keys, cord and elastic onto the hall stand.

His fingers went for the laces of her shoes, sensible trainers with white, honeycomb mesh and big white soft plastic, like rubber and panels of bright colours in purple and neon and reflective grey. She always put a double knot in the bow and laced her feet in tight, like it was a corset.

He kissed her then, on the crossed lace strip of her right instep, peeling her shoes off to reveal the padded grey ankle socks she was wearing underneath. Her feet were damp, clean sweat, fresh, and she smiled as he hooked a finger into the band of her socks and peeled them off, feeling him lifter her foot to kiss at her soles and then her calf and thigh.

He tasted salt, tongue darting our, delicately, seeking up the creamy inside of her leg until her hand pushed him away. “Fetch me a glass of water. No ice”

When he got up, she followed him into the kitchen, where he took a glass from the shelf and ran the tap for a moment to be sure the temperature was cool. She finished it in big gulps, plunking the spent vessel on the counter and lazily making her order an announcement- “Undress me.”

He knelt again, to pull down her brief shorts, black knit, drawstring drawn all ruffled to sit on her narrow waist but stretch fabric filled by the swell of her wide hips. She stretched, pointing her toes as she stepped free of the discarded garment, and he saw the jut of her hip bones beneath the thin fabric of her cotton panties, and the dark shadow of her groin.

He kissed and licked her pale belly, tongue making a trace to her rib flare, where his lips nipped at the bone, before moving behind her. The sports bra was a tight stretch of black elastic, pressing her small breasts, tight as he pulled it up, and she indulgently let her arms move up, making it easy. He got a rich waft of her smell from her smell, intoxicating, pheromone laden.

“Touch me.”

She didn’t need to explain what she meant, caressing her body, around to cup her bared breasts, kissing the back of her neck, and reaching around, palm sliding down her stomach and finger finding the furred fold of her labia, playing, getting a wriggle and then a pleased noise. Her hand crept behind her, making explorations of her own. “Serve me.’

His mouth traced from neck to shoulder, even as his fingers returned to her back, finding all the placed he knew she liked to feel him press, then cleaving to her sinking lower, back down to kneeling as he nuzzled the fullness of her ass. Hand and mouth, and then she let a giggle escape as his impish nature tempted him too much to nip at one perfect rounded cheek.

“Bad boy, serve your Mistress and go set up a shower.”

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.

Feet & Other Things You’re Not Supposed To Be Into in BDSM

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I like feet and I’m a dominant woman. This has occasionally surprised people. It’s actually relatively easy to slide under the radar as a female foot fetishist, embarrassingly so because getting quasi-orgasmic over women’s foot gear, while seen as a perversity in a man, is almost mandatory for full on gender conformity as a woman. But I’ve never been able to wax lyrical about SHOES, anymore than I ever enjoyed cheesecake (the ewwww food, not the pin ups).  I like male feet more than female feet. True I also have stocking/sock fetish, but the only people I have for company are the foot fetish guys.

When did the fetish crop up? I remember, as a kid, being at a parade and watching soldiers march and having a real interest for the shiny black boots. It was before I had much in the way of sexuality, so it was more of a symbolism/texture thing than anything erotic. At the same time I got really obsessed with learning to give foot rubs. I’m not unique, but like most women if I want to indulge this desire I’m forced to head for gay porn. Unfortunately, when it comes to ostensibly straight porn- the female gaze, when you get pandered to, is assumed to be from a kneeling position as the default.

It’s easy to develop a chip on your shoulder. Especially if you talk about how you want some good fem-dom erotica and the stuff that gets tossed your way is Sardax… which is fine if you’re a submissive male into those particular fetishes. It’s not just that the market assumes that as a female consumer you’re not into porn. The ‘romance’ section panders to female sexuality rather doggedly. But for a genre that happily hits all the fem sub bases, from 50 Shades to all the Pirate and Scottish Laird and hunky FBI agents abducting you for your own good… if you’re lucky she will get the drop on the hero once, as a plot device. And then he will be all stiff and prissy and not really take the situation very seriously. And usually escape and often turn the tables.

People pipe up that there’s lots of ebooks if I want to plunge into the sordid world of erotic romance niche porn. And there is. Probably, because I’m not that special of a snowflake. But… there’s absolutely no way to tell if it’s eyeball bleedingly bad or not.

Then there’s my masochism. I like pain. No sensual rose petal hippy sex for me. It can be a little awkward, not from a self image perspective, but getting across that I don’t want to submit, I just enjoy it if the sexual beatings between people I trust and I go both ways. Plenty of people are all liberal and tolerant and preach happily that you can call yourself a dom while caressing your own bruises, but again unless you’re in some sort of hierarchy household with alpha subs or the “head training mistress who serves the house master” trope… you’re going to be an outlier.

Anyway the point I wandered in here with is that I don’t feel like it’s straight forward when you’re unusual in the fetish clusters. You know the sort of thing I mean: sub dudes + strapons +face sitting + nasty talk or dominants + elaborate rope bondage + taking yourself too damn seriously + photographing a tatty bedspread full of knives and sex toys. Dominant woman + feet + masochism or even hell, dominant woman sometimes, if you’re not half asphyxiated in a corset and stiletto thigh boots and only interested in cunnilingus, can be a lonely little kingdom.

And somewhere out there is a stompy leatherdaddy master type into small penis humiliation  So it could be worse.