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

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.”

Read more

A Necromancer Breaks Her Captive Paladin

Content Note: F/m, Noncon of male

His lean blond body was stretched over the altar, shackled with the heavy manacles. He wondered how many had bent before, to the corrupted god of this shrine. He knew their rites favoured scourging, bringing about a holy trance within their chosen vessels as they were pushed to the brink of their endurance.

He wondered if she thought that he too could be made into an instrument. Would it be knotted rope, a braided cane or thorn branches? Regardless, he knew he could take much before succumbing. That his skin was largely unmarred was more a credit to the healers of his faith than a life lived without injuries.

This temple had fallen before the Necromancer and her army, its crypt seized to fill out her forces. As a Paladin, he had been drawn to this taint, discovering it all too late. Now he knew her to be a cancer in his homeland, growing strength in this ancient backwater. He believed his days were numbered, soon to become another victim. He prayed the people of the nearby village would notice he hadn’t returned, and not send a search party, for nothing they could muster would be stronger than him, but send word back to the temple or the royal guard. Anyone who could hope to stop her before she grew too strong.

In the room, once a place of worship but now little more than a half crumbling ruin on an ancient crypt, the shuffling clunk of her foul undead thralls patrolling was the only sound. If he had his sword, if his strength would let him break free, he would purge this place or die trying. But he had been stripped and restrained, body bared, and left with his back exposed vulnerably, hld so all he could see was the sleek feet of the shrine’s statue directly in front of him.

It was Nari, god or goddess, depending on the language and what they considered the neuter pronoun. They of the slim, sexless body, neither male or female, with skin that glistened like black tar in the light. Not his deity, not the three faced Purifier, whose name was so powerful that it was not uttered careless by even its most devoted. tHe Purifier commanded the dead be placed on pyres, lest they become, as those buried here had, more tools for a foul purpose.

“You are the very model of the pretty Paladin, are you not?” She, the Necromancer, had been there for his binding, cruel and imperious, dressed in black silk-satin slit to the thigh more daring than a courtesan and glittering with ornate silver jewellry  to be the envy of any noblewoman. Her mouth was a berry of blood, mirthful, her eyes gloating. She had commanded them, the undead that had overcome in such numbers even his righteous gifts could not turn them all. Even with their crude movements they had managed to drag him and click the manacle in place.

Then she herself had peeled his armour and the clothed beneath from his body. Where they could not be unfastened, she’d cut, precise and relentlless.

“Posterboy. I suspect they paraded you out on feast days, had you stand guard when your high priest petitioned the court,” Her fingers hard run over his flanks, cool but alive, feeling the scrape of the points on the intricate metal gauntlets she wore. Soul Rippers, a profane instrument  to weave and pull at the dead as she wished.

Read more

Femdom Fiction: Supermale VS Amazing Amazon

One Month Ago

“It’s really better if you didn’t visit, Mark.” Her hand reached up, lingering on his cheek and he saw the hesitancy in her face, but then her familiar expression of determination locked in place, banishing that hint of wistfulness. “I’m transferring to The Gothton Times because I need a change.  I need my own space.”

“But what if you got into trouble? I’ll still be watching.” He looked around the small apartment, already half packed into neat cardboard boxes,  unsure if he believed the permanence of what was happening, even as Lola Lean pulled journalism award plaques off the top of her crowded bureau and haphazardly into a box marked ‘Bedroom #3’ in a nearly unreadable scrawl. “Here, that’s too heavy for you, let me take that.”

“Don’t. And don’t worry about me. Your place is here, in Megacity. I need to leave precisely because I can’t live the rest of my life in the shadow of the Man of Steel. It’s great that I can always know you’ll catch me if I fall, but I need more than a super powered safety net if I’m going to grow.”

“But you’re a wonderful journalist, Lola Lean. Much better than me.” He reached for her arm, only to watch her pull away, hugging the box to her chest, shaking her head at him. “I remember how you used to fight to cover the stories that everyone else was too scared to touch.”

“I know, but that’s just it.  I used to write about predatory payday lenders and crooked lobbyists. Since Supermale came to the city I haven’t written about anything else other than the next big monster tearing up the streets.” She pointed out the apartment window, in the direction of the noisy construction going on outside, the latest rebuilding. “Sure, they run my stories on the front page, week in and week out, but I’m not a serious journalist anymore, I’m your PR girl.”

“But what if something happened? What if… When you’re away from me someone attacked Gothton city and…” He found himself reaching for these scenarios almost hopefully. “Besides, that city is full of maniacs! ”

“And there are plenty of competent heroes in Gothton. You know it’s Man Who Dresses like a Bat’s territory and anyway, Gothton needs investigative reporting much more than shiny, happy perpetually demolished Megacity and it’s endless Obviouslyevilcorp press releases. The Gothton Times might be another Wain Industries puppet, but they promised to let me write whatever I wanted, which is much more exciting than Parry chasing me to get another exclusive interview with you. God, I’m sick of asking you the same stupid non-questions and I could write those starry-eyed post calamity gratitude columns in my sleep by now…” She stopped abruptly, seeing his stricken face. “I’m not being fair, you’re right, Megacity has every reason to be happy you are here to protect them. But Megacity needs you, I don’t.”

“Lola!”

“I think we need to take some time apart, otherwise even with me moving away it’ll be too easy to just have you swoop in and have the whole story be about you.”

Two Weeks Ago

A giant metal hulk crashed through the side wall of a bank.  A streak of blue and red landed on its chest, and there was a brief twisting motion before the piece of metal tore away, and then the colourful blur lunged, dragging a struggling body out of the exposed cockpit and tossing.

The body starfished out as it flew through the air, limbs splaying just in time to impact a big shop window across the street. The view then abruptly pulled back to the now collapsing robot, as the blue and red streak launched itself back into the air, and then cut to another scene, in front of the Megacity police main headquarters. This time security cameras caught a collision perspective as the red and blue blur exploded through the doors, tossing three unconscious and battered men onto the tile. Anxious police rushed from their desks to the scene, only to see Supermale gesticulating angrily and pointing.

A third clip showed explosions at the dock, and a flying figure dropping heavy barrels and crates onto a boat approaching the harbour.

“Clarence Ripper will probably walk again, but he’s going to need heavy rehabilitation and he’s lucky that rescue workers were already on hand to save his life. Meanwhile Supermale forcibly detained Mr. Manheim and two of his associates repeatedly until the Megacity police were willing to take him into protective custody, since they have yet to actually prove Manheim’s connection to Intergang strongly enough to justify issuing an arrest warrant. Obviouslyevilcorp is now suing the port of Megacity for damages to their holdings, alleging that although they had no knowledge that ship contained illegal cargo from El Sebra, leaking that information to Supermale, not the police, was a breach in ethics that led to millions of dollars of property damage.”

Two people watched the screen, a man with vivid green skin and a woman with lush dark curls and strong shoulders.

It was the man with vivid green skin who spoke first. “It seems like in the last few weeks, our fellow Law Union member has taken it on himself to completely overturn the city that is his beloved home.”

Dianthe listened, letting her compatriot finish speaking. A slight furrow in her fine Adriatic brow marked her concern as she considered the situation, letting her wisdom check her immediate reaction, but admitting, “That is not the Supermale that I remember. That is no principled warrior.”

“He has grown erratic.”

“And arrogant. Despite his increase in activity he gave us no notification. The Flash reports refugees ”

“It is perhaps understandable for an outsider to become detached from his adopted culture.”

“I do remember your own struggle H’onn, and we all lose our path sometimes. But you decided to take some time away from our work. Supermale… he is on a dangerous journey.”

“Perhaps his friends should step in. I am sure the Man Who Dresses like a Bat already has a plan in place.”

“No, I think this is something that I should take care of.”

“Perhaps, but do you feel the rest of the team should be involved?”

“You empathize with his position as an outsider, but Supermale is also a warrior. Whatever scheme the Man Who Dresses like a Bat has concocted would be more focused on neutralizing him, than helping him, and I do not think Supermale will take a direct appeal to reason in his current state. And, none of you have the aptitude to match him in a field of battle alone, but as a team he would see our collective actions as further justification for his alienation.”

“Very well.” There was a rustle of a blue package, as green fingers retrieved a chocolate and white cookie from the plastic sleeve. “Let us all hope you succeed, for his sake.”

Now

The alarms were subsonic, but the thief knew he was already in trouble. pelting out of the First Megacity Bank at high speed, he hoped against hope that the bag of cash he was holding under his arm was free of dye bombs.

Dianthe took a post on a third floor balcony. The alarm was an irritating whine to her heightened senses, and she knew it was going to work as well as a dog whistle on her quarry. Sure enough, she saw the red of his cape as he swooped down towards the fleeing felon.

Her sharp eyes calculated the trajectory, and saw the outcome before it happened. Carelessly, Supermale had done nothing to check his momentum. Mere property theft stood a good chance of costing the thief his life. Reacting with quick reflexes, she dove, trusting in the gift of Hermes to carry her aloft in the right path. She caught the thief in a mid section tackle, rolling him out of the way of his danger.

Where Supermale hit the ground, the asphalt cracked. Briefly startled, this gave her time to scoop up the thief and run, with the ski mask wearing robber in a fireman’s carry.

She cut a path to a battle ground she had already scouted out, a section of collapsed building, still bearing the imprint of the super powered conflict that had demolished the block months before, properly uninhabited.

“Amazing Amazon!” Supermale’s voice was impatient. “If this is League business, you should tell me who this man is.”

“This man is nobody more important than any other person.” Slung over her shoulder, the thief whimpered, ignored. “It’s you I wish to talk to you.”

“Very well, hand him to me and I’ll deliver him to Justice and then we’ll speak.”

“No. You will probably hurt him.” Bait or not, he was still a person and she wasn’t going to let him get killed in trying to reach her fellow league member. “I’ll turn him in.”

“He is a thief and this is my city. Don’t tell me how to keep the streets safe!”

She let her captive squirm down behind her, but the felon was too terrified to run and stayed put, cowering at her back. She squared her shoulders, issuing the challenge she had intended all along. “Supermale, I will offer you a deal.  Spar with me, and you may take this man. If not, I will bring him in.”

“Spar? You’d lose.” He looked her up and down with his uniquely piercing gaze. She knew while her heightened senses gave her perception far beyond a normal mortal, for him, he could see through her. Physically, at least. Mentally, she knew his mind was clouded by some secret pain.

“Don’t be so sure, Farmboy. I’m a warrior trained in the Amazon way,” she sensed a little hesitation and added, “Or is the ‘world’s strongest hero’ afraid his reputation is a lie?”

There was still hesitancy on his part when they circled each other. The felon, fearing and not understanding, escaped only as far as a piece of fallen brick wall, where he cowered in its cover.

A long time ago, when they first met, she had already sized him up as a possible opponent, and her first impression wasn’t altered now. He had an imposing, perfect physique, shoulder spread optimized to his height and weight so that no part of his anatomy unbalanced another. His handsomeness came from that same optimized ratio, with a square jaw, unblemished skin from a lifetime free from disease and accidents, and a distinctive dip in the front of his hair curling. And yet, despite his physical confidence, she saw a country boy bashfulness. She could guess what he was thinking and planned her attack accordingly.

He saw a woman with wild dark curls, held from her brow by a diadem that owed more to the design of a helm than a fantasy crown. Bold scarlet for her bodice, and gold at her bust and belt, an eagle’s wings spread across her breasts. Blue for her hips, with silver stars, the same metal for the bracers around her wrists. Boots that rose to her knees, red and fitted to the elegant taper from muscular calf to feminine ankle. [1]

She noted his eyes finding the tanned swell of her powerful thighs and hid a smirk. Femininity meant strength to her, but outside the island of her upbringing, she knew men saw womanly as fragile. The first attack was up to her, because something in his upbringing had taught him not to expect it. His reaction was clumsy, but blocked her, to her expectation, and the fight was properly engaged.

She was lithe for a woman of her stature, and squirmy. Whenever he thought he had her held in place she would shift a little, using his weight and momentum against him. The truth was that, fine male specimen or not, Supermale’s invulnerability had left him sloppy.

“Did your mother never teach you how to box?”

The fight took to the air, caroming off each other and  only to end up twined together. This was pankration, no holds barred unarmed combat. And while her opponent’s childhood featured cornfields and idyllic games of baseball, hers was spent in dirt ring arenas with her sisters in arms, sweating and fighting for every little advantage among the most gifted women in the world.

Gradually, ever so gradually, as Supermale would pull himself out of a pin, or wrench out of the grip of the same legs he had been admiring, she wore him down. It took eleven long, dirty hours until she was confident enough to reach for her lasso.

The golden cord let her bind him hand and foot in the girdle of Aphrodite. Hog tied, she hoisted and despite his continued struggles, lifted him up. She spoke softly so as not to be caught by the media cameras and microphones of the Megacity news crews trying to make sense, tender now, and careful of her captive’s vulnerabilities. His secrets were still precious and not to be shared with anyone, just because she bested him.

“Why are you being so rough? So arrogant with the trust that has been placed in you to preserve life, peace and safety?”

He struggled, and she saw many conflicted feelings pass through him, but the rope pulled the truth out, surprising even him, “I feel alone. I am the best this city has to defend it, but it brings nobody close to me. I yearn for someone whose strength of will can match my strength of body.”

Even as the words left his mouth, she saw a peace come over him.

“You long to submit?”

“To a woman who respects me but does not fear me. There was once a woman that… that I loved and could press her will against mine, but she is gone. I feel like everyone will go and that nothing I do will be good enough.”

“You have friends. Isn’t that enough?” But a half smile hinted she knew what he was going to say next. “The League will always be there for you. and even if we disbanded tomorrow, I’d still look out for you.”

“I want to be loved. To belong.”

“To be owned?”

“…Yes.” His blue eyes were wide.

“We will go where we may be alone and we will talk about what it means to belong to an Amazon.”

They lifted off together, still facing each other, blue and red into the evening sky. Her hand took his, leading the way.

Two Hours Later

The room was flanked by columns, white marble, curtained, a part of a pocket sized villa edged into a mountain top. She’d told him about how the developer had been inspired by the architecture of Themiscyra as they’d landed on a balcony. She said the breezes blowing off the Pacific reminded her of home, and gave him a kiss on the cheek, before leaving him in what turned out to be a comfortable but sparely decorated bedroom.

He was a different sort of helpless, utterly confused by what he was supposed to do next. She told him that she was going to refresh herself and for him to wait. Perhaps a half hour later she returned, with her dark hair made inky with traces of moisture and her armoured costume traded for the loose folds of a traditional peplos, the whisper soft saffron and royal purple fabric caressing rather than clinging to her body.

“Your submission is a surrender, and you must give it to me.” He wondered, though he was the taller of the pair, how she managed to impose. “Take off your cloak, your boots, and all other things that hide you nakedness from me.”

He swallowed reflexively, and presently, peeled from his body, his costume was puddled on the floor between them. Casually, one sandal clad foot kicked the pile of fabric away and she took her time visually inspecting his body.

“Among the girls at Themiscyra, it was not unusual for our games to play with power.” Her smile was impish. “I soon learned where I wanted to be in those games, but also that I wanted more than the company of my own sex.”

Her fingers touched his shoulder, and he blushed, as if this was his first time he’d been with a woman. Lola Lean had been uncomplicatedly enthusiastic, as demanding as she was simple in her tastes, but the best abstinence only sex education offered by the public school system in the state of Kansas and Ma Kent’s bedside copy of “Outlander” left him with little internal script of what was expected of him.

“There’s no shame in wanting to claim someone, but that means no shame in wanting to be claimed.” He could feel her fingernails now, testing. “Male bodies are fascinating. So like and yet not like the bodies of women.”

He saw her hold a thin piece of metal band. “You will show me you are worthy to carry my mark of ownership. It will be taken willingly, but I must know by how you act that you are committed to serving me.”

Her touch on his body got more forceful, slapping, pinching, exploring. “There will be no secret places, no hidden resistance. You will be like a perfect slave to me. You want that, don’t you? And you will satisfy me. That means fuck me how I want it.”

Farmboy innocence left him stammering, feeling at once very male as his penis crept up, and unmanned by the complete lack of control. A bit of guilt nagged, telling him that he should somehow be able to take the lead and know what she was talking about.

“You’re covering yourself.” She made a snorting laugh and her hand met his face, with no cushioning to the slap. She didn’t need to hold her strength, and he felt the full force. His hands lifted, leaving the prim clasp over his bare groin, but he checked his defensive parry, only to hear her next command.

“Kneel.”

His knees thunked into the stone floor, as solidly as if she’s sweep kicked the back of his legs.

“Already hard for me? Do you know how to edge yourself?”

His hand found his cock again as she gathered the hem of her peplum gathered to her waist, he could see the dark triangle of her pubic hair. “Let’s see what you can do with that mouth on my cunt. Oh, look at that, you want it don’t you?”

He nodded.

“Say it. Say how much you want to taste me.”

He begged.

“Lick me, lick my aidoion.” The wet, tucked and vivid pink folds of her labia were a welcome point of focus. He hoped he knew what he was doing. Lola Lean generally didn’t ask for this unless she was at least a little tipsy, and then she preferred feather light touches. He put those assumptions about women out of his head when he felt her roughly yank his hair, grinding against his face.  “Bite!”

“Mmmph?!” She had him on his back now, head pinned with her thighs, sure he misheard her.

“Show me your strength. It belongs to me now, my big slave, so use it!” She was smothering him, cutting off his air even as she pleasured herself.

Aggressive nips with his teeth only seemed to inflame her. They ended up in another more intimate wrestling match, this time with her goading him on. His face was all wet with her, her taste in their kisses, her nails raking down his ribs, and in turn, his hands getting tangled in the soft fabric of the peplum until it tore and she laughed and slapped his chest hard, unpinning it from her shoulders.

Her cunt slid against him, so slippery against his body, moaning letting the natural motion of their bodies struggling together guide it. Again, she spoke what he was thinking, teasing him about how he was clearly burning up to get inside of her.

“But don’t you dare come!” She chided. “Your seed belongs to me and I decide when you spend it.”

He gave a whimper as he felt himself slip in, and the grip of her cunt engulf, and the guttural groan. He noticed that, as her thighs made her hips slide up and down. more snatches of old, old Greek mixed in with her love taunts. “Ah… fuck.”

“I’m not going to be able to… to”

“No!” She stopped moving, letting him scramble for composure. “You belong to me, I say when.”

With maddening, self focused motivation, she would stop and start, teasing and building her own crescendo. He could feel the intense grip of her strength and she seemed to like angling her hips just so, breathing getting more ragged, using him until her cries turned into an intense gasp and then more strange words in her own language that he took at prayers or profanity.

At her reaction he clenched his jaw, before adding some blasphemy of his own, “Oh my god! Please can I come? Please!”

“No, we just started, my silly slave boy.”

48 hours later

He didn’t want to take the collar off. It was nestled snuggly about his neck, the metal circlet she’d folded into place with her bare hands. It was comforting, as comforting as the strength in her arm that still held him to her, even as she gently tended to him in the aftermath.

“You know, there’s a precedent for this.” She said, voice a little hazy and still cozily swathed in the glow fading from her sixth and final orgasm.

“Really?” All of him was sore, but bits of him most pleasantly, reminders. Pain was such a rarity is was nice to be able to feel it. He remembered her hands, slapping, pinching, and her pinning him repeatedly, never letting him forget that although he was stronger, she was still in charge.

“Heracles and his twelve tasks. When he lost his first wife, Megera, he went a little mad. The Gods, in their wisdom gave him twelve tasks.”

“The Aegean stables and the bit with the lion?” His face nuzzled against her naked belly, memories from J-school electives coming back.

“His twelfth task. Defeating miscellaneous monsters was heroic, but the point was to teach him humility. He was already a half god, only half mortal and the strongest man to walk the islands.”

“What they make him do?” Dianthe had an almost intoxicating natural scent that made him wonder if it was some god-gift like the rest of her talents, or just part of her beauty. It came out best when she exerted herself.

“He was sent to serve Queen Omphale of Lydia for a year.” Her fingernails dragged gently over his skin, soothing where she had just recently slammed him into the floor hard enough to crack the marble. “She made him a slave, to serve her and her handmaidens.”

“What happened after a year?”

“Well the legends vary, but most accounts say after the year was up, she took him for keeps.”

Any similarity to characters belonging to publishing companies is covered under fair use parody laws. 

This story was commissioned by a blog fan who kindly offered to have me share it with everyone. To order your own BDSM & femdom stories, send me a message via my handy contact form or send an email to [email protected].

Free Femdom Story Give Away

yellow-orange-mapleIn celebration of fall, the most romantic season of the year for me, I’m offering a chance to get one of my bespoke BDSM or femdom stories.

Three lucky winners will get a completely free 500 word short piece of fiction of their choice. It’s the same deal as my regular custom story system- you pick the theme, I give it my own unique spin.

I get lots of requests for ideas that people wish someone would write about, so now’s your chance to get that special kink you really wish someone would cover. Winners get stories in a .pdf and .doc format, while everyone else gets to enjoy them here.

Leave a comment for your competition entry with your idea for a story- one entry per-person. Winners will be announced September 30th, contest ends September 29, 2014.

Not familiar with my work? Check out my archives for an ever increasing supply of femdom stories and BDSM erotica.

Want to increase your chance of getting your own story to 100%? Why not bite the bullet and order yourself one through the contact form right here?

Rules and Other Stuff after the jump!

Read more