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“Daughter of the Blood” by Anne Bishop [Femdom Book Review]

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In composing lists of books with femdom in them that might appeal to women, the Black Jewels series used to be a regular recommendation on people’s top 10s, but perhaps because it’s on the older side I haven’t had it pop up recently. Nevertheless it’s been on my to-be-read list for years, even well before I started exploring my kink identity in any meaningful way. I even have distinct memories of stumbling into it in a book store as a teen and considering getting it. And there’s definitely femdom. I am told by Silver that it even used to be one of the things people would roleplay on chat rooms during his teenage years, alongside other staples like the Witches of Dathomir. 

Unfortunately matriarchal witch queens with magic cock rings of control that they inflict on pretty male sex slaves cannot save something that reads like if you combined the aesthetic approach to the gothic of “My Immortal” with that scene in Dragonball Z where a character shrieks “over 9000!!!” to indicate just how much stronger a character someone is than any of the already overblown cast. 

Otherwise it is very much of its era, a loosely gnostic fantasy world where hell is a revered place of power and the two male leads are named Saetan, and Daemon. The writer is very smug about that and even has one of the characters remark what a nice name one of them has incase we didn’t get the reference that he’s king of hell. Women theoretically rule by right of gemstones that mark their rank and can control similarly distinguished males up to two levels more powerful than them, but the story is inordinately preoccupied with virginity and the damage one’s first time going wrong could be to ones magic. If one is a woman, that is. For the men their magic is so phallically over the top that not only is the act of sex occasionally violently described as “spearing” but so are the channels by which they communicate telepathically with each other, even if they can also access the more feminine “webs”. 

Of course I think to criticize the work written in the late 90s just for sounding like the apex of fluffy gothic paganry is unfair.  There are many works that, in hindsight, are intensely of their era that still hold up. The Lost Boys and the first Matrix movie these days are unmistakably 80s and late 90s to no detriment. The parts here that do not age well are not necessarily just backwards sex politics, or the fact that it’s a bit of a fawning hagiography of a Mary Sue in heavy eyeliner. And, to its credit, it’s excessive obsession with trying to sell you on the intensity of its magic system calms down but the midpoint. 

It’s just hard to get past all the paedophilia.

Daughter of the Blood is about the early years of a Chosen One (Jaenelle), destined to have the world and all the men in it fall at her feet, should she come into her true power. As a framing device we never get her perspective directly, just everyone reacting to the immense gravitational pull of a seven-to-twelve year old little girl and what their role in her life is going to be. Unfortunately, with a magic system so built on female virginity, the result involves everyone fretting that someone is going to fuck the magic child and stop this from happening. Or in the case of Daemon, deal with the fact that he can’t fuck the magic child until her late teens as a sort of fated mate. At the same time the characters are faced off against a cabal of evil paedophile men, so cartoonish in their exploits they wander from being part of the banality of evil to being part of the larger decorative lurid backdrop of eroticized cruelty. At the same time even one of the heroes, for all he talks about the idea of doing it with a child as disgusting, spends the second half of the book wrestling with her allure and their mutual chemistry. All while the character of focus is no more than twelve and the narrative also makes sure to remind us how small, delicate, innocent and childish she is. And with the vast majority of male characters agreeing that forbidden or not, nothing is more plausibly hot than the many, many underage victims. That, alone, makes it an uncomfortable read and most people will nope out on that aspect alone. 

But what about the femdom? I love a good decadent world where everyone is preoccupied with hedonism and intrigues. And in theory there’s lots of frankly exciting ideas, men being held in thrall to please. Reluctance of outright defiance being broken. Mixed enjoyment, humiliation and rage to being stripped and whipped. For the late 90s it even had an unusually positive approach to the idea of male beauty and men as the object or even the victim of desire. And yet, in practice all female sadism is not only narratively condemned, but almost immediately corrected with bloody mutilations and horrible deaths. You can enjoy the non-con titillation bits, but the rape-to-revenge part is going to be pretty immediate for the male main characters.

And to get even these you are going to have sit through a lot of graphically bad things happen to bystander men in the line of castration, and to all the female characters, who are awarded much less ability to fight back. The cabal of paedophiles I mentioned is a larger symptom of a world that while technically female dominated, gives powerful men enough leeway that the average woman must fear men. Of the female rape victims, revenge is a lengthy process with a lot of victim side casualties, and the two perspective female characters, Tersa and Surreal, needing significant help to achieve anything approaching justice.

Of course the book tells us that a good enough witch will get the willing and eager submission of powerful men lesser women cannot truly force. But then on page it makes it pretty clear that what that means is going to be fluffy pillows and experienced and manly lover being experienced and manly. There’s a really cringe scene near the end where Jaenelle expresses misgivings about how living eventually means more of the bad sexual experiences she has had with men and she’s coaxed to give life another chance with the promise that she might actually enjoy it in future via showing her a literal silk sheets and cushion strewn bed. So there’s a power fantasy of women ruling here, sure, but between  the gender essentialism and the undermining of anything that’s not being joyfully girlish or earnestly sweet, the femdom parts really suffer for it. It’s the very depressing idea women are potentially morally better than men, but ultimately also responsible for misogyny in the world through catty infighting .

Thus as a book, the only merit here you are going to find is a nostalgia read, a pretty good snapshot of what was cool with the spooky and alt people when I was young. But if you are under the age of 30 I somehow doubt you will be able to extract even that much value. It’s stuffed full of moments that might inspire you to run off and write your own version, but while we are starved for femdom books, I think this one can be left behind where it came from.

Where to Buy:

bookshop.org

Author Website: Anne Bishop

Liked this review? Check out more titles in my 2026 Femdom Book Review Project!

“What Fury Brings” by Tricia Levenseller [Femdom Book Review]

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What Fury Brings by Tricia Levenseller

In a Greco-Roman fantasy world, various gods award their client populations gifts. For the country of Amarra, that’s to be stronger than any (cis) man, a fact that has led to a warlike society of Amazons with a distinct man shortage in their upper caste, causing them to have a practice of forced marriage harvested from their neighbors. Meanwhile everywhere else is a sea of ultra machismo masculinity.  In reaction, the Amarrans are also hard, harsh and violent, including our protagonist, Olerra, one of the leading candidates for the (elected) throne of her country. She’s hoping that she can leverage her status as general to impress her electorate (a small council of noble women), and in service to that she decides that nothing but the hand of a neighboring prince will do. 

Amarra’s’ most immediate rival a people who worship the god Brutus and therefore are known even internally as Brutes.  It is known that Brutes get higher than average fecundity thanks to their deity, but turn around and use that to create a culture of very fragile patriarchy, where the most powerful treat their wives and daughters as non-entities, but live in terror of their sons. For me I was a lot more curious about the fertility gift. We established that the Amarran strength wasn’t limitless as the King of the Brutes could still fight off multiple warriors, is the fertility a gender based blessing? What are the limits here? The King has multiple children but nothing unusual for someone having a lot of sex sans birth control over several decades. We hear about his five sons, of which the male protagonist is the eldest, and a daughter, while a reasonably determined person can get into the double digits if they keep at it most of their adult reproductive life. My grandfather, for example, is the youngest of 10.

When we learn Olerra’s darkest secret, that she lacks the strength awarded to all cis women of her society, I had suspected the actual truth would be that nobody in the society had real magic and it was social constructs the whole way down. You can still take that reading here as correct, but that’s not where this story goes. 

Instead it’s warrior/warrior, abduction and forced proximity plus fake romance, with a liberal pile of femdom to glue it all together. Olerra conspires to abduct a husband from the heart of her enemy’s kingdom and grabs the wrong brother, Sano, the crown prince. Sanos decides, for strategic reasons, not to correct this misunderstanding up front and then they slowly come to fall in love as Olerra does her level best to “housebreak” her captive into the more demure model of Amarran masculinity and he comes to appreciate her pure hearted sincerity. 

The way to read this is to turn your brain off and enjoy the ride. Up front, any nitpicking of the world building comes at the expense of the dubcon femdom. Likewise, a book which gives you an on page reason to refer to men as Brutes is not trying to be subtle and realistic. And in doing relax and enjoy approach, it also needs to be said that there’s nothing here that, gender flipped, would be remarkable in a romance about a male warrior-noble abducting a bride. Romance heroines have been slowly chipping away at their hot blooded ambitious warrior captors until they mutually surrender to the bonds of true love since forever. And they have done so on looser premises than this. 

It is true that somewhere in the back of What Fury Brings you can see the DNA of Wonder Woman, in the idea that a society under loving female authority would be largely utopia, but unfortunately somehow men get in their own way of accepting that. But this is also a sort of gender flip Gor, for despite being liberated for 500 years, the glue that holds Amarran society is the humiliation and subjection of men. Amarrans are inordinately obsessed with that, particularly the nobles, with lots of stories about how terribly rapey men are amidst a brutal culture of female on male rape. Again, take this as a feature not a bug. 

Probably because of that aforementioned clause that deity gifts are still beatable by exceptional individuals, Amarra really leans into restrictions on their men well past even the strictures of even an actual historical roman slave.  Even fighting back to the point of drawing blood from a woman is a death sentence and the murder of one noble woman, Olerra’s mother, lead to a purge of all adult noble men. 

Timelines get a bit hazy here, as the husband kidnapping is described as a tradition, but the massive gendercide that’s made it more popular happened within Olerra’s lifetime. The absolute trauma of everyone else’s father, adult son, brother or grandfather being murdered is not something that ever comes up, even though every adult noble woman you would interact with in the story would have lost multiple loved ones to a purge that made even some of the more out of hand European witch burnings seem restrained. You really have to just accept this is a convenient man shortage. 

Still, what is difficult to put your finger on is just how much this is a matter of unreliable narrators, how much is plot convenience and how much is a society that really, really hates cis men to the point of undermining its own modern feminist inclinations. What point do you need to be, after all, to overreact so wildly you are murdering everyone from 85 to 18 under suspicion of conspiracy to rebel? And what does this end up saying to the idea that “if women were in charge things would be different” when they are objectively worse? 

The book gives the on-page explanation this is what fury brings, but 500 years is a long time to stay mad, a timeline under which, for example, the real world went from medieval to space exploration (or if you want to stay Greco-Roman, the Athenian heyday to the advent of Christianity in the Roman empire). This has nothing to do with fury and everything to do with an intersection of fantasy clichés of excessively long timelines. The geography is pretty handwavey too, with the capital of Amarra and Brutus a short carriage ride from each other, yet different enough in climates to justify one character needing sun protection. Again, the parts of Northern Italy and Southern Italy where you can get that much genetic and climate drift are still considerably further apart. But will we let errors in cartography get in the way of pornography?

I only flag the nitpicks in the end, not because I think the book is bad for its flaws, but because the audience for femdom romance is excruciatingly selective. Forewarned means that you can go into this without a common response I find in our reader circles of getting your hopes up and then feeling particularly betrayed. I obviously can’t flag everything you the reader might personally find irksome, but I do these reviews to help people get an idea of what might be worth taking a risk on. 

And, ultimately everything is just here as a premise to justify the kidnapping of the male lead and make him more special. This isn’t a story about a woman trying to reform her society because her brother’s life was made forfeit by a deeply violent society, it’s one where the heroine being middling bad (for no reason other than random chance) in a society of terribly bad is a ray of reforming hope. 

Of course, lest you worry this is a TERF paradise, the opening glossary makes sure we are aware the Amarrans have a queer positive culture, with trans, non-binary and same gender couples galore. This is unlike the Brutes, who expect this to keep on the downlow.  Unfortunately though, it’s the sort of trans positive culture where any gender non-conformity to the binary firmly lands you in third gender status. The goddess gift of strength doesn’t work on trans women, yes, but they don’t get it, and it also does not work on trans men. I am going to give the writer the benefit of the doubt and say there’s no reason to assume their deity is perfect rather than that it’s an endorsement modern trans people are less valid.

The other part that’s very much a symptom of the modern era is what’s *not* included in the trigger warnings. We hit the ground running in a battle to take down the King of the Brutes, whereby the solution to his behaviour was to live capture, tie him to a chair, gloat a bit and then release him to his people stark naked to humiliate him. The King then goes home and strips his adult sons stark naked to flog them. Four chapters in and the fetish counter is making constant dinging noises, but none of this is being interpreted as vaguely sexual for purposes of warning the audience. 

This is really a problem about fetish stuff versus social norms about content notes. Because much of what is kinky is not inherently sexual, it means that it exists in a context of plausible deniability. But neither is the dubcob being flagged. The book depends heavily on body betrayal syndrome, and the male lead being aroused by something to make it clear surprises are ok. Things like tying the lead up and fingering his ass, without him realizing that was a possibility, are ok if he expected to have some sort of non-PiV sex. The trigger warnings demurely say the sexual assaults are off page, but every facet of this story is relentlessly horny.

Which is probably the books most winning feature. Every single part of it is twisted itself into the sole purpose of offering you more attempts at femdom for women and theorizing about a masculine friendly version of F/m. Want not men doing naked oil wrestling for your amusement? It’s got that. Sex markets where you can get a skilled man into what really gets you off? It’s got that too. Lovingly lavish descriptions of male fashions to simultaneously emphasize masculinity and make the man into a delectable and beautiful object of desire? It wants you to have that. 

But for me, my biggest personal nitpick (outside the recent voluntary gendercide being handwaved as more inconvenient than traumatic) is probably the part where Sanos comes to internalize Ammaran social superiority. There’s a reasonable conversation about the limits of trying to protect your kin from sexism versus social reform, but the point he is won over is that common men in the street seem happy in their subjugated position. There’s some contrast here in that while Amarran nobles are absurdly decadent in their harems, whereas there’s implication that commoners don’t have time for thirty men to exist in entirely decorative subjugation, but enough context clues to know that men are so constrained in this society they aren’t really out without female escort and they aren’t handling money. 

This is generally held up to being what Sanos and Olerra both see as ok. They don’t want all the grooming and domestic violence in either direction, but they are nobles and their concept of the world is not one where hierarchies are flattened, only softened. 

But there are moments where that background assumption gets a bit messy, never more so than the self congratulatory attitude around the penis guillotine scene. It’s presence is framed as being used to punish the worst of the worst, a man who raped a child. The idea is that it tells you that Amarra is harsh but fair, at worst a little preoccupied with certain risks over others. 

In actual impression it comes across that there’s such an appetite for seeing bad things happen to men that Amarra, lacking enough villains in their own borders, imports criminals from other countries so people can come and watch an evil man get his comeuppance. And our female protagonist gives our male protagonist a little lecture about how it helps with the inherent make tendency to rape…despite our introduction to her culture involving a paralytic toxin that leaves you with an erection used on consorts who misbehave, the villain openly being known to being likely to force an underage member of her harem to consummate and another character being considered unremarkable that she has a harem of entirely children. The book lets us know she is actually running a clandestine orphanage not a grooming operation, but apparently Amarra is so anti man that keeping a couple of dozen boys as consorts in training is less weird than openly running a school for under privileged boys. 

Meanwhile a lot of dialogue between the characters repeatedly confronts Sanos with his hypocrisy. Olerra is supposed to be the one who thinks bigger than him, but from an audience perspective, we are able to see her blind spots but he can’t. Inversely Sanos is not so far behind her as Olerra acts. She calls out his tendency to use chivalry in place of systemic repair, but he has something that’s much harder to discard in misogynistic cultures, the belief in fundamental inherent gender equality. Sanos somehow manages to avoid all the usual baggage that women are dumber, more cowardly, manipulative, etc.. that goes with real world sexism. 

So the guillotine becomes one of those moments where I can’t tell if this was supposed to be porn or praxis, but mostly it was a moment of the book trying to have their cake and eat it too. I base this on the fact that Amarra also uses voluntary eunuchs as high prestige servants  for unclear reasons. These men, it is made clear, are not being punished, but if you want a job in a noble household as a man it’s a mandatory requirement. Why? No reason given, so I think Levenseller just likes castration as a fetish. But the narrative also wants to have some moral line and it does ask you to give them more but in that I can here. 

Finally, in trying to bridge that problem of making members of a monstrous society sympathetic, the tactic deployed is that we are shown much worse people. The king of the Brutes abuses his sons, and Olerra’s rival to the throne is (most disgusting of disgusting vices)… a sadist!!!    

Sadism here is depicted as impossible to exist in a context of consent. It has to be the violent mishandling of unconsenting men, and is contrasted with the mainline Amarrans way of controlling their men, keeping them physically restrained and sexual tease and denial. It’s a sort of tyranny of gentle femdom, which as a story is supposed to let you relax your moral calibration to sample your edge fetishes as bad things and have your main ones as acceptable. As a premise it is understandable, but it also puts you in an awkward position that your happily ever after creates a line where half the stuff you enjoyed as a reader is going to arbitrarily be put in the shameful category. 

Thus penis guillotines are for good women to get off to bad men being chopped. Abusing your sex slaves is for good women to be titillated by but to ultimately condemn.  Other things are made arbitrarily ok, but ultimately when good triumphs in this story most of the stricter and more cruel fetish parts are to be swept up off the stage like discarded lingerie after a burlesque show. 

And I think the part of the ending that might make at least some potential audience give it a hard pass is in the HEA. After Olerra has fought many times over and won due to a combination of sheer skill, cunning and purity of heart, and after Sanos has learned to trust her and let her lead; they are cozy together as a couple discussing the future. And Olerra mentions they might switch sometimes. As character development it’s her learning to trust men and be vulnerable, as a Domme it was the disappointing inevitability of how tied to the situation a lot of the kink was. Olerra wasn’t constantly restraining Sanos because it was her fetish, she was frightened of him having the upper hand. When she loses that fear, she loses her justification to tie him up. 

For most people that’s going to be enough, but I know some of you would find a hint of switching would make you feel entirely undermined, so I think I need to mention that. 

But, caveats aside, I actually liked it. I liked the sex scenes. I liked the slow mutual understanding. I liked Sanos being an object of display and the almost fourth wall breaking internal observation he made about how shocking it was he got to be beautiful. I even liked the premise that the most popular brothel in Brutus as a make-believe version of Amarra because while the narrative through Dani’s perspective implied it was just to humble powerful women, I think it also pointed to how miserable men in ultra patriarchy are that they can’t help yearning for something else. It also delivered something a lot of femdom books struggle with, two leads I liked and thought suited each other. It even evaded one of my least favourite femdom tropes that submissive men in particular have to be inherently feminized to occupy that role. 

And, ultimately, even if the leads end with the shy possibility of switching on the table, it’s also notable that in a book which is incredibly open about sex, did not see fit to write that.  Sure, it’s there to let us know femdom doesn’t have to be compulsory, but you never get the vibe you as the audience were being told you had to endure some male dom as turn about. 

Which, review-wise, it’s good. It hits everything most people who want more femdom romances are looking for. While some books are a chore to get through, I knocked this one off in two binge read sessions, entirely entertained the whole time.

Where to buy: 

Author website: Tricia Levenseller

Liked this review? Check out more titles in my 2026 Femdom Book Review Project!

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

 

Friday Femdom Fiction: She Ties Him Up And Uses His Cock

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The rope threads in and out, criss-crossed clean cotton clothesline, harnessing him in cruciform against the headboard.

She’s biting her lip in concentration, pulling him a little bit back and forth as the cord laces him into increasing immobility. This doesn’t stop her from admiring the lanky lines of his arms and the way she can see the muscles of his wide shoulders move under his skin as he flexes. His struggles become more serious the more he’s restrained.

He’s naked and his cock is half filled by her wriggling against him and the promise of what’s about to happen. She’s still in pyjama pants, but her breasts are uncovered, blush pink nipples pointed, softness of her chest brushing as she leans in.

“There now!” She takes a step back and considers her handiwork, and he responds by giving one hard wrench, a lurch forward that confirms he’s stuck. The whole binding his held by a simple knot in the centre of his chest, slightly to the left. “Now I get to play.”

Her fingers are, at first, just light brushed and then the rake of her nails on his skin, her hand capturing his chin to force him to take a kiss. “Mine.”

She takes her right hand between his legs, nudging them apart with a hip check so he’s completely exposed to her. She starts her grip at the base of his cock, pulling him erect, alternating fingers curling tight and sliding, find the sensitive spot at the head of his cock until she’s drawn him fully upright

His eyes become wide and seeking, his mouth softened. She continues with brisk strokes, base t just below the head, now grabbing his neck. He freezes and she makes him meet her gaze, holding the moment until at last she see the flinch of submission is making him pull away.

For that she redoubles the tugging, bends and slides the head of his cock into her mouth. Her tongue curls, teasing hand holding it firmly on target as her lips make a wet seal. She likes the warmth and the texture in her mouth, and the imperceptible taste, something of him she cannot fully articulate when she tries to concentrate on it.

He’s getting desperate now, all slick with her saliva and her body squirms, hips shifting in a rocking motion. She brings him almost to the edge and breaks off the stimulation, letting him feel the frustration even as she aggressively kicks her way out of her pants. He should know what’ll happen next when he sees the dark of her cunt. She strokes two fingers between the livid curl of her inner labia, sliding the moisture from the whorl of her vagina to the projecting pout of her clit in its hood. Opening herself with those two fingers, she caps his cock and then pushes, her hand resting on his shoulder now.

He has his legs together obediently, and she’s straddling his lap with him engulfed all pleasant and pinned by the rings of muscle in her cunt, but he warns her, as she begins to lift herself up and down, that he doesn’t know how much endurance he has.

She laughs and promises him, whispered in his ear – “No love, you’ll come when I want you to.”

“Don’t Make Me Come!” AKA Forced Orgasms

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slavestatueSo Wildcard and I continue our happy domestic little nest of kinky libertines together.

Recently Wildcard had a mild fuck up while we were playing that left me slightly pouty. This being conduct unbecoming of a Gentleman Nemesis, a forfeit was in order. And I picked a favourite of mine. Endless edging, for a week. Every night, until he literally is begging and pleading for me to stop and he worries for the structural integrity of his cock he gets teased. And used. And teased some more. And I don’t “let” him come, I force him to, in big shudder-y orgasms that leave him convulsing and weak.

It’s so bad he’s coined the term ‘orange balls’ for the opposite of sexual frustration. But there’s a dirty little trick I have hidden up my sleeve.

You see, Wildcard loves non-con. He’s not the sort of guy you degrade and reject. I’ve made no secret he’s a decorative- my sex slave not my domestic help (or my wimpy source of income like a weird porn cliche). So as long as he has no choice I can make him get horny. He has no control- I can use him how I see fit.

Of course you know limits and safewords and yadda, yadda. We take care of all that mutual loving respect stuff just dandy. And then… he’s a toy I get to torment on my terms. And I adore seeing him come as much as I like edging him. So he begs. And he pleads “Please don’t make me come! Stop! Stop!” and sometimes I just don’t listen.

Sometimes I use him with my cunt, forcing him rock hard- he’s always a bit to big for me- even when I’m wet onto my thighs it’s a tight squeeze. But I like it that way and I like how he simply can’t control himself inside me. Sometimes I use my mouth, letting my tongue and nerve rich lips enjoy him while he has to keep his arms out of the way and all he can do is plead.

But much of the time my hand ends up around his cock. Sometimes still slippery from my mouth, sometimes slicked with a palm full of sweet almond oil, so I can make it last.

The head of his cock gets so tender, even touching it makes him gasp. And night after night for the last week I play, sometimes taking my hand away at just the right moment while he struggles to compose himself and his cock pulses- often he’s tough and fights for control, the first few times just getting to the edge. But I don’t just use my mouth to suck and lick. All those dirty thoughts and fantasies you guys enjoy reading come out, coaxing him into squirting all over his thighs with my words alone.

And sometimes, when he’s finally too sensitive to take much more, I bear down and I squeeze with my hand, forcing a real orgasm out of him, even as he pleads for it to stop.

He thinks one of these nights I’m going to milk him so much he comes dust.

Friday Femdom Fiction: She Tells Him The Terms of Surrender

by

You want to belong to me, don’t you?

You want that sensation of connectedness- you know I’m lovely, beautiful- I light up the room when I enter it. You’ve seen me naked, moon pale, lips and cunt slashes of petal pink. You’ve seen me in tight black, perched atop spike heels, wide hips swaying.

You’ve seen me look over my shoulder at you, belly down on the bed, your borrowed t-shirt not quite reaching to the full swell of my ass, draping loose around my little body. You’ve touched me. Tasted me, been inside me. Nobody knows my body better than you now, other than me.

Now you get to see me come through the door every day, get to press your face into my lap whenever you need a pick me up with my warmth and female scent.  You’re hooked.

But you know you could never, never own me. You’re afraid of that, afraid of watching my perfect ass for the last time as I leave for work. Afraid of how I make you feel, all weak inside, because you crave me in a way that borders on a real addiction.

We both know if you wanted you could wall yourself up. Go all tough guy and cold, cut of your nose and spite your face and walk away yourself. But you don’t want to. You want to make me stay. I make you force yourself to tell me all your dirty little secrets and tender places.

You want to wake up to feeling my hand on your cock, to fall asleep next to my warm body wriggling in under your arm, the little yelp and pout as you tweak one erect nipple though my tank top. You want to feel my tongue on your balls, lips around, nibbling, nuzzling.

You want to feel my hand on your throat, the cuffs on your wrists, spreading out splayed on the bed. You want to feel my cunt eat every inch of you as I straddle your lap. You want me to force you to meet my eyes, even as you try to look away.

It’s something I know you crave. You want to be vulnerable to me, kneel for me, take pain for me. You know nobody else is capriciously loving and cruel, can make you hurt with a smile and then kiss you like she means it.

We’ve been playing these little games for a long time, haven’t we? Every time the stakes get a little higher. Remember the first game I made you play where you traded one hard spank to get to kiss my breasts?

Or remember the day I told you I loved you? You were sitting tender for a week, but you got lured in when I told you I had a secret and then you just had to beg to know.

But this game is bigger than that, and it’s got a forfeit. What are you going to give to have me for keeps?

You know the answer- there’s a price to pay for your pleasure. You have to submit to me. Completely.

Three BDSM Collars for Two Men

by

BDSM collars with leash custom made collarI’ve given two people collars in my life, both times not at a real symbol of forever, but as a symbol of something transient.

One was blue, and made of a pretty braided loop, the other one was a deep brown leather and studded all over. The last one isn’t really a BDSM collar in the sense most people would think of, even if it goes around the neck.

There were other games of course, with that black dollarstore dog collar that it seems like every teenage goth had in the early 2000s as a fashion accessory. But that was a toy with nothing attached other than fun.

For An Experienced Submissive

I gave the first one to a man who was a submissive mentor or sorts- while we were not compatible for a long term thing, he opened a lot of possibilities for me and was very patient with a naive new femdom. That was a parting gift, ordered at a leather and kink shop in Montreal and snuck into his hotel room with a plate of homemade cakes. I picked the colour and design because he was Swedish, and bound to return home across the Atlantic, and because he wasn’t a hard, harsh person.

I don’t know, in the end, if he kept it. We mostly lost touch and it’s not important, because the relationship is going to symbolize different things for him. He left behind a scarf and a few letters that are well hidden away, just about forgotten for me- I think more about the positive impact that it had on my confidence, more than anything else. That collar was almost like an attempt to lock all the good memories of the time we had together into the narrow confines of its loop.

For Hope And a New Submissive

The second one was a Christmas gift for Wildcard. We were still so new that it was not even official, and I knew that these things might not last, and that it was too early for any smart person to answer anything other than “maybe”. And I didn’t want anything more than that, then, but I wanted to give him something that was about possibilities.

A leather working friend made me that collar- and I gave it to him with a big pile of little mundane vanilla gifts, shyly telling him it was a play collar. It actually took two incarnations to get it right- the first, of vegan leather, was a little too stiff, but the second is still around. I picked  brown because it was a colour he wore a lot, and asked for it to be masculine but not butch, set with a heavy duty fastener in the front to weigh it so the buckle sat in the back and I could still attach a leash.

At the time, I down played it, shy he’d take it as crazy talk, like some sort of overly attached girlfriend. I must have down played it too much, because Wildcard, a switch and a brat, reacted to the gift by declaring that hey, he could try it on me!

I gave a strong reaction, flustered, insisting that NO! It was for him! And it’s come out to play several times since then, but mostly it lives in a bag under the bed with all the other toys. He doesn’t think about it or its implications, which is not something that bothered me- it makes me smile and it was a good stepping stone for working out what we wanted.

The Collar That Is Not Quite Your Usual BDSM Collar

And then there is the third collar I make myself. Pulled out of the sewing box, bright, thick satiny ribbon to go about his neck, we use that regularly, and I tie it in place, telling him that this means he’s a pet, and pets don’t get to feel guilty. I like to look after my submissives more so than to receive service by default. When we play, and connect, it’s about bridging that barrier we keep up, between ourselves and the world.

Kink is about opening up, as much as it is about playfulness. This will never be serious business for me- BDSM collars can be sentimental, but valuable in the way I stole and wear one of Wildcard’s sweaters. But there’s a vulnerability even in the silliness and the banality of real life because it’s basically letting yourself be a sort of real you don’t share with most people.

I don’t know if a ribbon will always be the collar we default to. Maybe someday I’ll order him a replacement from a craft working friend again. Maybe I’ll take up awl and leather and make him one myself, or beads, or maybe never. But each collar has in turn served its purpose.

While there’s a lot of snark about velcro relationships- slave today, free tomorrow, I think that a BDSM collar doesn’t have to be forever to serve its purpose. They just have to work in the moment.

Femdom Fiction: Supermale VS Amazing Amazon

by

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].

Friday Femdom Fiction: Makeup Sex

by

“Please punish me!” He was naked, his arms folded over his chest with the elbows drawn in, and his mouth beseeching, hoping. Vulnerable.

When they’d had the actual argument, voices hadn’t been raised. She’d touched him, and wept. She wasn’t a person to whom loud rage came easy, just emotions compressed inside herself until her core became clogged with unsaid, over self analyzed complaints and only raw honesty could dig her out. She’d said all she needed to say, and he’d listened, now he was left with the guilt she hated to place on him.

“I’m not… I’m still angry.” She had her fists half balled, her shoulders squared but her face half turned away, her mouth holding the signature of the pain she was feeling in the way she curled her lips. “I don’t want some sort of big display to show you’re sorry. I want you to give me what I need, not just today, but every day, when I actually need it. And I don’t want you to do this because you want to prove something and then get distracted tomorrow.”

“Please. Please Jane. I fucked up. I love you.”

“I know you do, baby. But wanting me isn’t the same as being good for me.” He body ached to take him, to put him under her hands and back in his place. “You fucked up, but you’re still mine.”

“Please…”

She took a deep breath. “You’re not going to feel better until I punish you, aren’t you?”

His expression told her the answer was yes.

She touched her tongue to the roof of her mouth, behind her teeth and reached, hands pulling his arms from where they were covering his body, exposing him. “Very well. Go take a shower and then come back to the bedroom. Dry yourself off properly and do not dawdle under the hot water. Bring a towel with you.”

His lanky body stretched as he got out of the bed, limbs leading, eyes still stickily focused on her until he left the room and she heard the bathroom door swing shut.

She got up, took the elastic from her wrist and pulled her loose hair into a tail next to her ear, keeping it out of her face. She wore the garb of early fall, high socks reaching to white thighs, ass hugging shorts, a sweater that was half way into dress length and made up for a modest body by tumbling off one shoulder. She drank a glass of water and the mirror told her that the tear stained redness had started to fade from her complexion.

She heard the water of his shower as she gathered her dominance from it’s dissembled places, putting willpower with love, and letting herself trust again enough to loose her sadism. The light in the bedroom was already off, but she rose to extinguish the one in the hall and set candles on the dresser, calming and giving everything a softness. On the bed, patting the duvet into flatness, she laid out the studded leather strip of his collar, the many stranded flogger of stretchy rubber, the slim, sharp crop in its nylon sheath, gloves and lube.

The shower noises stopped, and she waited the next few moments until he emerged, wavy hair tossled all over the place and dark with residual moisture, towel held to half curtain his nudity. She took it from his hand and raised her brows, letting a hint of the command enter her voice, “I hope you did a good job getting dry. Otherwise this is going to really hurt.”

He had an aura of nervous anticipation. She knew that the shower had both let him center himself and unsettled him, never completely sure how far she’d go. He’d seen her fully released, letting loose on a borrowed masochist and the joy in her face as she made the man scream. It turned her on that she intimidated him, liked that letting him watch gave her another lever of control.

She smirked put her hands on him as if she owned him, first his arm and then cradling his testicles, liking their weight in her hand and the sense that his body was entirely in her control. “Kneel.”

Abruptly, he went from almost a head taller than her to having his face level with her belly. She made him hold his head just so, in submissive supplication and slid his collar about his throat, pulling the tabbed end through the buckle so it say below his adam’s apple. her fingers ran through his hair and then grabbed a handful at the back, pulling up.

Without much choice, he followed her command and ended up belly down on the bed. She’d left his towel crumpled on the floor while her palm cupped his bare ass and began to spank.

She built up the sensations while teasing him that she hardly thought he deserved a warm up. His guilt broke the path easily, letting his submissiveness burst out, horny, hungry, unable to do anything other than take what she wanted and be grateful,

With a warm glow in the cheeks of his buttocks, she struck until her own palm stung, reminding him he was being punished. “Inattentive. Lazy. Flirt.’

When she saw he needed more she brought the flogger from the foot of the bed. “Close your eyes!”

She swung the tool in flicking strikes, landing the rubber ends with soft splats, noting each gasp as she intensified her strikes. The red grew and blossomed, and she let the whip fall over his back, remembering her lessons- let it fall like she was painting wings, always in control, always letting weight and momentum fall where she could force him to endure. his skin darkened, flushed and his head moved. “Slut!”

She let another slash land across his raised buttocks, noting his cock had climbed to rock hard. “Does thinking about what a bad boy you are turn you on?”

He whimpered, past further comment and she responded with the crop, sharp pain, her choice of head-strikes or white welts from the shaft. She knew he would bruise up purple after this, looked forward to the days of marking and redoubled her efforts until she’s scouraged away the guilt and brought him to an abject, animal place.

Admiring the fresh marks, she caressed and scooped the towel, tapping his hip by way of indicating he should lie belly down with the fabric under his legs and hips. He knew what was coming, even as she drew on the black rubber glovers and made her fingers shiny with lube.

She made him accomadate her, inside and out, probing fingers stretching and making him completely exposed. She watched as she found secret spots inside, pressing until he ground himself into the rough nap of the terry cloth under him. She saw as his hips shifted, that his erection was standing rampant. Nothing got him harder than being completely used and teased. He began to beg.

Her cunt was wet, soaking through her panties. Clumsily, she shed her gloves, told him that he was going to be her toy and fuck her. The button and zipper fly on her pants came apart with quick yank, shedding her tight shorts down her legs in one smooth motion with her dripping panties. She let her bare fingers wiggle over the split lips and drenched dark curls. “You are going to fuck me. As hard as I want, and you won’t come.”

He nodded, making a little mewl of acquiescence, face tense with supressed desire, until she made him mount her, positioned in front of him so he saw the unblemished swell of her pale, round ass and the vivid, enflamed warmth of her cunt, making him work his cock into her.

She gave a little gasp, accommodating its size and then engulfing completely, inner muscles gripping, showing him that all his size was nothing she could not control and use. he began to thrust and the noises she made came from deep in her chest, raw lust, loving the power that made him do this. Her fingers slipped between her legs, once, twice, almost too slicked up to find purchase and tease her clit.

He made little noise, all his concentration going to hold back and resist the barrage of stimulus as she insisted, “Don’t come. If you do I’ll flog you raw.”

Her threat became a gasp as she came, almost squeezing him completely out with the violence of her contractions, and he gripped at her hips, sheathing the way she liked to give her something to use. When she could draw steady breath, she heard him beg again and said, softly, “Yes. Yes you may.”

His orgasm came with a scream, louder than her, as the intensity of everything finally was loosed, throwing him into a final spasm that sent a pulse of hot semen deep into her. He collapsed, first over her back and then sprawling, onto his back, too drained and lost to give more than little body jerks as she curled up beside him, stroking and smiling until he could reach for her again, seeking a different kind of release in the comfort of her arms. Knowing he was forgiven.

~

This week’s Friday Femdom Fiction is brought to you by XXX Sex Guides – a dating site for kinksters, who kindly offered to have their story enjoyed by everyone- and then left what I wrote up to me- which meant something real, raw and very much taken from life.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Out of Her Hand(cuffs)

by

“I’ve decided you have too much independence most of the time and that’s interfering with your ability to submit. So I’m going to take that away.”  She gently moved him into the position she wanted him to be in, admiring the lines of his bare back as she stood behind him.

The ratchet made a click every time they tightened. On his wrists, slim as they were, that meant cinching them in close, squeezing the metal, satisfyingly, until his hands were captured behind his back in two loops of shiny steel.

He had held his arms for her, obediently for once, while she locked them into place.  Of course as soon as they were on and she let go he was testing against them, feeling the metal. She’d made him strip to the waist, and she could see the muscles shift under his skin as he figured out how much liberty he had.

“You’re going to spend the next four and a half hours with your arms like that,” she reminded. “From now until bedtime.”

5:22 PM

He looked up at her from the floor, where she’d shoved him down to kneel, expectantly.

“No, this isn’t about me playing with you for kinky fun time.” She frowned, shaking her head.”This is about reminding you that you’re helpless.”

He looked confused, but she shrugged and moved the pillow to the small of her back, making herself comfortable on the couch, going back to looking at the television. Her legs crossed at the ankle, tight, soft black knit rubbing against black knit. “You can stay here with me if you want, or go do something else on your own. Up to you.”

He knee walked over, putting his head into her lap. Her fingers combed through his thick, soft hair, but her eyes stayed on the screen at the other side of the living room. He focused on the feeling of her nails on his scalp, on the warmth of her thigh and the velvet nap of the couch upholstery.

6:13 PM

“Can we please take these off?”

“Are you safewording?” She looked at his face to gauge his level of discomfort, checking to see if he was genuinely in distress or simply irritated. “Think about this. Do you really need me let you go or are you just sulking because you want this to be about you?”

He seemed to consider it, weighing his tolerance to the consequences. “N…no.”

“Then tough it out.” There. That was the hard part, that little bit of guilt that not letting him have fun would have repercussions for her, the other half of the lesson she was teaching herself with at the same time she reminded him of his place. In the spirit of that, she pushed those thoughts aside, and the trailing resentment that went with them, focusing on the moment. “Submit.”

He looked ashamed and she smoothed out her skirt, reaching for her laptop and thumbing the lid open. He watched her click the keys, halfway between touch typing and two fingered button pushing.

6:58 PM

“What shall we have for dinner? Hm, is it takeout night or am I going to cook something?”

“Uh…” He looked uncomfortable about being asked. He never liked to directly pick what they ate, always preferring that she made a suggestion. “Whatever you want is fine.”

“A big plate of spaghetti for you to bury your face in? So you get covered with sauce?” Her finger lightly caressed his cheek. “Smeary red?”

He hesitated again, thinking about the texture mashed into his skin and how it would smell.  She watched his expression, still admiring his bare chest and the way he flexed his shoulders, still uncomfortable in the grip of the handcuffs. She smirked.

“How about pork fajitas? The pork needs to be used up.”

“Okay, but I want you to help me, you’re the one who knows how to make it better.”

“You could just uncuff me and I could make dinner…”

“No, I don’t think so. You can kneel on the kitchen floor and I’ll ask you if I have any questions.”

7:36 PM

She kept him there while she put together dinner, crisped pork shreds wrapped in cornflour shells,  garnished inside with confetti-fine shreds of lettuce and spicy, sweet salsa and green and garlic sharp guacamole. He’d felt fidgety and frustrated, watching the outline of her ass and the way the slight stretch in the fabric of her pencil skirt cradled it.

He thought about other things to go do, picking up his phone and poking at the screen or curling up with his computer, but both weren’t options.

“There, two for me, three for you, with a squirt of lime.” She turned, crouched and smiled. “Come on, we’ll eat on the rug.”

She sat mermaid style, and he knelt, trying to figure out how to eat the food she’d put in front of him. He leaned forward, trying to take a bite and succeeded in making the tortilla unroll, spreading the blended contents on his plate and getting guacamole on his nose.

She giggled and took a bite, savoring the crispness, and the mixed flavours. “Having trouble?”

He frowned and she reached out with a finger, scooping the green off his nose before popping it in her mouth and sucking. “Mmm…”

“I can’t eat like this.”

“Well, that does sound like a problem. You’re going to be hungry if you don’t think of a solution.”

“Can… can you help me eat this?”

There was a satisfied smirk, as if she was waiting to hear that, and she picked up the fajita, retucking it together and holding it in his reach. He took a big bite.