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Friday Femdom Fiction: Humiliate me?

by

She couldn’t help it, her face cracked into a big happy grin, mouth twitching until the smile opened her eyes wide and girlish giggles escaped her mouth.

“No…” he put his forehead against the edge of the bed, resting it there in exasperation, as his arms were bound behind his back.

“Alright, alright, let me try again.” She took a deep breath an composed herself, opened her mouth and the merriment bubbled up. “Shit!”

He huffed a sigh. “Ma’am, you seem to have a problem saying it.”

“It’s just…” She looked down at his muscular body. “It’s silly.”

“You didn’t have any problem with this in chat, this morning.”

“Alright, you say it,” she folded her arms and he caught the tiny, seeking edge in her voice. These moods never meant anything other than a torrent of lust fueled abuse, raising his dashed hopes of where the evening was going.

“I’m a little bitch.” He felt a small sting of embarrassment, coming out in a small voice.

“See, not so easy, is it?” Her smile was a smirk now. “Tell me again and look me in the eye.”

“I’m a little bitch.” The embarrassment was warming, and stirred his cock.

“That wasn’t all. Tell me more, slut.”

“I’m a sissy, pathetic bitch who deserves to be spat on and… degraded and…”

“Louder!”

“I’m a little bitch! I deserve to be spat on and degraded and fucked!”

“And?”

“I’m a little bitch and I want you to show me just how much that’s true. I want you to… to use me, and hurt me and piss on me.” His cock was now pointing a steady right angle from his body, and he saw she was doing the hungry-writhe dance of horniness. It was like a puzzle piece clicking into place, when they fell, together, into a connection that motivated her to crouch down and grab his throat.

“Pathetic little bitch,” she hissed, inches from his face. “You should be lucky if I reward you with that. Get over the bed!”

As he belly flopped over the edge of the double bed, grinding himself against the stacked mattress and box spring, she turned and stooped. There was a jingle and swoosh as she found his discarded pants and took the belt out of the loops.

“Unh!” He debated what she’d do if he tried to roll out of the way, but the belt cracked down across his bare thighs, finishing his horny noises with a high pitched yelp.

She gave him a few more welting stripes before she paused again. “Tell me what you are!”

“I’m a pathetic little bitch and…auugh!” The belt cracked down extra hard.

“Say it like you mean it. Make be believe you’re the nothing that you say you are.”

“I’m a pathetic little bitch. I want to be used and treated just how I deserve. I want to be shown that I’m a nasty, piss drinking…” The admission came out of him. “A nasty, piss drinking, disgusting little bitch.”

She grabbed him then and flipped him over, so they were nose to nose. She looked at him with loving malice for one long moment before rearing back and a wad of spittle landed on his cheek. “Drink my piss, hm? That’s a new one.”

“That’s right, ma’am. I want to drink down your piss.” He whimpered when she didn’t say anything else.

Her face unreadable, she crossed her arms and looked at the shiny place where her spit had landed. His eyes were large and vulnerable, hopeful yet fearing his mouth had carried him too far. Humiliated.

Then the smile returned. “That’s right, you little bitch,” she said the words that had, before, been too silly for her to get out. “You’re a thing. You’re nothing but a hole to fuck, a body to torture and a disgusting, submissive pervert who begs for more no matter what you do.”

“Ma’am?”

“And you’re going to be nothing but my piss lapping little slut too.”

—

It’s late, but live! Enjoy!

500 Word Friday Femdom Fiction: Slap

by

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

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

“Yes, Mistress.”

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

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Now relax your jaw a bit.”

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

“I’m sorr…”

“Not another fucking word, you little cunt.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You, Mistress?”

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

“No, Mistress, but…”

“Who accepted your submissive self?”

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

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

He was shocked out of further speech.

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

“Yes, Mistress.”

~

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

500 Word Friday Fucking Femdom Fiction: Summertime With Femdom

by

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, ma’am!”

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

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

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

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

—-

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

Catamite Pt. 22

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

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

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Catamite Pt. 21

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

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Catamite Pt. 20

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

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

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Wait And Touch (Stockings)

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

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

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

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Catamite Pt. 19

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There was an all over body limpness and a curious sort of drifting euphoria that came from the prolonged exposure to pain. It was a cold winter afternoon, the windows sealed tight with the frost high up on the glass and himself feeling the hard edge of a wooden trunk under him pressing into his skin while waiting for the next strike. He couldn’t see her, belly down and with his shirt hiked and the waist of his pants at calf level, but she wasn’t making an effort to hide the timing of the cane, so he had ample warning before the impacts.

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Catamite Pt. 18

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True to her word, Annette let him sleep in her wide, comfortable bed, and he stayed there until one of the chamber maids appeared to change the linens. The maid departed without completing her task, giving him time to dress and reorient himself to the mid-afternoon sun and confusion of his routines and regulations.

She had, in the time he slept, dressed in day clothing, reapplied makeup and changed her hair, though asides from a few loose tendrils, the blonde coils were covered by a simple house cap. Timmans had evidently recovered and was back at work dressing her mistress.

“I don’t like your face, it’s too prickly,” her fingers lightly brushed his cheek. “It’s uncomfortable when I slap you.”

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Catamite Pt. 17

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He watched as Annette dressed, filament fine stockings drawn on with protective gloves as the roughness of bare fingers would ladder the knit instantly, clipped to the garters of the girdle, beige tinted elastic panels containing and lifting her, smoothing the child worn belly, hoisting her breasts and pushing her ribs down. Like a woman of his class letting herself be seen with a bare face, as an unmarried man it was another mystery Annette had initiated him into, the hooks and straps that held the daughters, mothers and wives of great men ridged backed and tight around the abdomen, each point of restraint giving just enough that the body could move, but collaborating together to hold the woman up so no muscle could let itself rest untightened or sigh and shrug could excuse a slouch.

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