F/m

Female on male dominance.

“The Admiral’s Acquisition” by Luna Gold [Femdom Book Review]

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The Admiral's Acquisition by Luna Gold F/m, Digetic & Non Digetic BDSM, Dub Con, Non-con, Fun plot, great characters #2026 Femdom Book Review Project

This one is another favourite, an 100% for dommes F/m delight about a gruff space admiral (Kira) and the ruggedly handsome slave (Mak) she rescues and then comes to love and appreciate. I think what I enjoy most about this book is that it’s not only completely focused on wish fulfillment, and not afraid to go absolutely off the deep end into the background grim, but that there’s a sort of amusing self awareness about things that bug dommes. Additionally, there’s enough plot and worldbuilding to keep things interesting between scenes of the characters making gooey eyes at each other and hopping into kink, so much so that even if this was somehow closed door I’d still find it fun. Gold tells a good swashbucking space yarn, but it also has the rare distinction of a character in a leadership role who is given a lot of on page time to show why they are a good leader. 

A lot of books don’t do that. Be it royalty or a titan of industry, the day to day of how the character is awesome is made as vague as possible. They might work long hours with paperwork, close amazing deals or be narrated as giving stirring speeches, but ultimately things are pretty handwaved or worse, gives rather the opposite impression. As a reader who has complained of other books with queens being all tiara, no tax policy; or that make the supposedly business savvy characters feel like failsons and saps, I can’t emphasize how much I enjoyed seeing Kira take charge thoughtfully.

It’s a workplace romance of sorts, where the workplace just happens to be a hypercapitalist libertarian, slave owning space dystopia and where BDSM is just the normal recreational activity. I am not even sure this society has a concept of vanilla, even among consenting parties. 

Otherwise, as far romances go, The Admiral’s Acquisition leans to incredibly horny insta-lust, with a very rapid escalation into sex and both diegetic and non-diegetic BDSM aplenty. Obviously you can expect a happily ever after, and this one does a pretty good job of letting the sub show they are useful without making them the main event. While the story is told from a dual perspective, it also has a very unusual technique of running scenes a second time through the viewpoint of the other character, rather than using the jumps between Kira and Mak just to advance the external plot. The effect is almost like when you play with someone and then you get them to run back with you how much they enjoyed it during aftercare. 

I flagged earlier that non-digetic BDSM makes a big part of the setting (and the resulting conflicts that follow from it). That’s worth an additional caveat for some readers that Kira will be threatened by odious coworkers (though she defends herself well) and nearly everyone in this universe is bisexual and very comfortable with public sex between any combo of genders, consenting or not. Kira is a bit of a stick in the mud for her society, and rejects what other people get up to, but if you don’t want to see male dominants with female subs, even depicted negatively, consider yourself forewarned. And if the idea of the book that almost immediately shows you a very graphic, on page M/m sexual assault is distressing, consider this flagged as well. Mak’s need for rescue is lingered on enough that it’s clear it’s there for titillation as much as extra emphasis. I liked this because I like the rougher stuff, you might not find that your cup of tea.

And, if you are a strict nothing but un-caveated consent person, ditto this might not work, because the power imbalance between the characters remains consistent even to the ending. Nevertheless, I think Gold’s emphasis on Kira being an actually good boss also helps here. It’s not just that she doesn’t whip her crew or do the other awful things villain characters are depicted getting up to, but she also sets crew up for success and independence, a mindset she’s clearly also applying to Mak. In the various ways we might try to tell a BDSM romance with non and dub con while still leaving the dominant character sympathetic, the twin tropes of “oops I accidentally a slave” and “my society is worse than me by comparison” remain the most tried and true ways to gently elide around the reader’s sensible moral scruples and let one just be indulged by a fantasy. This, in itself, is nothing new, but Gold does a good job of not letting her privileged character be lazy about their moral obligations, which books also don’t always do well.  You get a sense that some of the meta-point here is that the massive social inequality is getting in the way of the D/s the couple would naturally prefer. Mak doesn’t want to be chattel, and Kira doesn’t want to be objectified. 

Kira, the dominant lead, also grapples with both a fair bit of sexism around her role as an Admiral (in this case meaning the commander of a large combo cargo/combat ship with a fair bit of other authority in her society) and in navigating the way other people tend to project their own fantasies onto her, both a a challenge or expecting her to play the admiral with them in her personal life. Mak, our sub, was submissive in the kink sense before he was thrown into slavery bombards her with a fair amount of idealized hero worship, but part of his arc is about rediscovering he can enjoy submission again in a (mostly) consenting context.

All told, this one remains on my top 10 lists, probably even top 3. About the only thing I can really complain about it that we probably aren’t getting a third book in the series, but as this is also clearly a labour of love, I am going to count myself luck with what we got.

Where to Buy

Where to Find the Author

I cannot locate so much as a defunct twitter account, but if anyone has anything better than an Amazon author page I would love to update this.

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!

“Preferential Treatment” by Heather Guerre [Femdom Book Review]

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"Preferential Treatment" by Heather Guerre

I think there’s some note of consistency that although I am much more likely to drop a less known work as a review on my blog, inversely precisely because a thing I have read is popular I assume that I have reviewed the things that people are more familiar with in the genre of femdom romance. I liked Preferential Treatment when I read it, enough so that I regularly list it in a top 5 recommendations when people ask for a femdom romance book. I am not the only one who makes this suggestion either. 

In actuality it looks like I hit What Was Meant To Be, but not this one yet. This is a pity, because the book isn’t merely a great read, but also, in my opinion, the last word needed in the genre of Billionaire Romances. And by this I mean that it’s a beautifully constructed reply from a population that’s getting awfully sick of oligarchs and the power differences they represent. 

For doing so the book gets some negative reviews as “preachy”, which I think says more about the reviewers than its protagonist driven rejection of what that kind of wealth represents. Most billionaire romance heroines aren’t comfortable with the sheer gravitational pull of the hero’s wealth, but this one at least can articulate the problems she has clearly. 

And for all the lead is introduced as a more traditional meet cute through a chance encounter, it is remarkably realistic for the rest of it. The book gives you a happy ending, but it doesn’t flinch in how it constructs how people behave when massive amounts of money are on the table. 

Specifically, a major theme running throughout it is the complicated relationship poverty gives you with money, but also the conflict inherent in ones aesthetic preferences towards symbols of opulence, versus your actual coping skills as you try to escape that state of deprivation. Growing up in what passes for poor in Canada, there was also more of this book that personally resonated with me for non-femdom reasons to boot. I don’t just recommend it because it’s entertaining, but because it’s an incredibly genre savvy response to a lot of the problems in both romance and how we imagine femdom works versus how it actually works.

This is despite the how the premise and the male lead’s attitude to the woman he is into are possibly as far from an ideal starting place for a healthy relationship as you can get. Russian Billionaire Mikhail Volkov decides that his low level worker has the makings of a good domme when, not knowing who he is, she responds to his entitled behavior with firm pushback. To get her interested he gives her access to his near limitless resources, an offer that the heroine, Kate Pasternak is desperate enough not to turn down. She’s in a rough place in her life right now with a bunch of lingering medical debt, but there’s really never been a point when she’s been able to enjoy any financial stability. This is a lifeline, a chance to finally clear a hurdle between a net worth in the negatives and maybe have an emergency fund or start saving for retirement. Kate’s ambitions are incredibly modest.

A typical billionaire romance would then have the kink be forced gifting, where the heroine dub-con whines and blushes her way through the hero’s largess, protected from ever having to confront being perceived as greedy by his forceful choice to shower her with his largesse. This fantasy is probably as old as dirt at this point, a tension produced by suppressing your appetite for material things that’s enforced by social norms almost as strict on women as the one around sexual purity. The act of being a dominant unavoidably evokes three vices women are not supposed to have on our own behalf: aggression, overt sexuality, and selfishness. Thus being a domme is not just the archetypical bad girl, she’s the worst girl. All dommes have to deal with this, one way or another. 

Findom, as it is popularly understood, has sins two and three particularly emphasized under its umbrella automatically. I have said before that it exists because there’s few things women can do more transgressive than express ambitious ingratitude. We are supposed to permit men to be our social superiors and then be rewarded for loving their inner selves, not treat their sexual and romantic attraction to us as an overt vulnerability to extract from. Even sex work isn’t free from this, perpetually victim of the fictional construction of the woman who despite her job has a heart of gold, as if being someone’s paid worker was inherently implying blackmail of the client. Findom generally says fuck that, gimme. And people tend to feel at best ambiguous. 

Yet, most women like stuff and money, as a symptom of being human. Everyone needs stuff and money to not die. And the stuff and money, historically and currently, is disproportionately gated in the hands of men. You can try to earn your own stuff and money, but the people who have the majority of it did not earn it through sheer hard work. And then of course there’s a severe social penalty for asking for stuff or money for being female even in wage negotiations. 

If that wasn’t enough, of course, humans are preternaturally attached to the Cinderella myth. That’s the idea that it’s viable for women to do some sort of extreme cross class marrying into money if you are just that good, either through your virtues or strategic gold digging. The reality, of course is that marriage statistics do not show that happens at all. Marrying into money is not very common, and particularly not gender linked as a man is as likely to do so as a woman is. 

Findom exists as a result of both the belief money can be easily finessed from men and a male anxiety that in a rigged system they will never truly be loved for themselves, only what they can offer. 

And for its sins, the salt people hurl at it is legendary. In day to day interactions with the internet, more kinky people can be counted on to be critical of findom than pretty much anything else, even the stuff that plays with much more noxious taboos, like rape. Every bad stereotype people can make about women is dusted off: deceptive, seductive, addictive. Men, inversely, are cast as sweet naïfs, wistfully lured in by pure hearted loneliness. 

Green And Gold, another exploration on Findom, dealt with that stigma by drowning the dominant in reassurance. Nothing she desired was capable of being outside of what her two eager male leads wanted to give, and her primary power was rooted in simply gatekeeping her ability to receive. To an extent this is true to real life power exchange. Florid fantasies not withstanding, it’s ultimately bordered by the limits of your submissive partner. In an ideal world that’s bordered by your limits too and you have a balanced dynamic. Nevertheless, that assumes a circumstance without conflict, which is great in practice but not ideal for a story. 

I think Preferential Treatment is also about escaping the other, very real life problem of simply ending up being someone’s fantasy fulfillment version of power. 

This is a problem for all dominants, but I think femdoms even more so. You learn pretty early on that the intersection between human nature and misogyny means a culture where men generally say they want women who are lively and assertive. The most macho cultures, be paradox, seldom actually prize total submission in their women, instead idealizing women who defer to them but also otherwise behave as if the symbols of masculinity they prize were also more valuable to them. 

As a dominant this leads to a vexatious category of men who pursue you because they think you are actually some sort of extra complicated brat, or your inclinations are simply a defence mechanism that makes you extra choosy. But external to the fetish aspect, you still need to navigate an assumption on the part of many sub dudes that firecracker or ice queen, you are ultimately still his to channel or receive on his terms and not the other way around. Mikhail, the book’s Billionaire hero, is very much of that mold. He is certainly happy to have her dominate him in very closed circumstances, but his proposition comes with NDAs, a great deal of ambiguity and the real world power imbalance that even if she did object to anything he did or want other than what he wants she has no real ability to counter him.

Kate is otherwise sketched out as how dommes actually are, in really sharp contrast to how most men who fetishize us imagine us to be. This includes the limits of the common bitch-in-heels over achiever stereotype dominants are awarded. There’s this tendency to assume sheer gumption can overcome systemic issues, and that you are some sort of heroic, magnetic figure where assertiveness or confidence are the limitless scaffold you build around people so they cannot but help going in the direction you choose. 

Kate is not unflappable at all. She’s all flap, barely held down, her appearance of cool-headed boundaries and absolute accident based on Mikhail reading way more into their first interaction than is there. By pure luck, his silly, fetishized stereotype actually leads him to find a lifestyle domme with a knack for improvising with his rather lousy material and enough cynical insight to notice the limits of how much he is actually willing to submit. 

A blind read through left me angrily screeching at the book on her behalf while he continued to suck, while simultaneously deeply invested in her getting some sort of happy ending. It’s almost ironic most readers were prepared to overlook his consistent selfishness while calling out her critical and vocal socialism. 

Which, side note, here is another place Guerre is being clever with her use of tropes. While most Russian male leads are chosen exoticism largely based on emphasizing social biases about people on the borderline of whiteness (about as yikes as you are thinking), Guerre has done two things here. Firstly, her female protagonist’s surname is also Russian, making it clear we aren’t going there. Secondly she’s put her timeline that her male lead grew up in the worst sort of deprivation during the transition of the fall of the Soviet Union. If you are going to have at least a semi serious discussion about socialism, someone familiar with the way authoritarianism poisoned things, and the additional complexity of the immigrant experience gives you much more interesting fodder here. 

Likewise on the subject of poverty, Guerre gets across not just the foundational parts being systemic, familial and long lasting, but also the cultural alienation when you are confronted by wealth. Wealth is a foreign country. 

I occupy an awkward place, a rich man’s unexpected, youthfully created bastard, born to a bohemian mother from the sort of gnarly intergenerational situation that layers queerness, neurodiversity, intellectual brilliance and an interlude with, I am not making this up, MKULTRA. This means that I have this odd experience of growing up in what passes for poverty in Canada but occasionally getting dunked into the world of people who live sublimely comfortably. And you wouldn’t believe the guilt and sense of constant anomie that produces. 

Likewise there’s something in Kate I could vividly feel, the way her curated vintage aesthetic was a bridge, as all alt fashion is, outside of easily code readable class markers. Which works until you hit exposure to something actually expensive that has hidden infrastructure. Or something that was, for you, unthinkable. I cannot review this without talking about how this book ended up being deeply personal in this sense. 

I married a nice, upper middle class software engineer from the Midwest, who is not, as far as humans go, at all extravagant, particularly not for his social class. But there’s always little moments where the sort of diagonalization of our overlapping cultural pieces, the creativity, the kink, the nerdery do not entirely obscure the nice straight lines of his world compared with the turbulent ripples of mine. 

There’s a point in the story where Kate starts coming unglued, revolving around a piece of luxury cookware. The overt language of her meltdown is that she has determined that despite coveting it, she has no idea how one even integrates such a thing into one’s actual cooking. The underlying issue is that this temporary exposure to wealth isn’t helping her actual problem of living with lifelong instability, and the debt that’s put on her, in knowledge but also an ability to trust. Mikhail, for his part, is mystified. He is doing nice things, getting to give as an act of service and all it is doing is making his dominant cry. 

Their way through is a fundamental truth about making BDSM work for the long haul, you both have to be who you actually are with each other in a way that is immensely vulnerable. For this couple, it is about dismantling the wall his money has put between them. It is also about transitioning from serving his idealized Kate, a person he needs to be implicitly impressed by and endorsing of his status to feel safe with, to offering himself to real Kate. The person who he wanted at the start of the book, who when confronted by an entitled peer doesn’t back down. 

Because this is entirely told through Kate’s perspective, Mikhail’s transformation is a bit of a cypher, and he never really gets a scene where he articulates to her why he is able to go along with the change in direction she wants. But, I think Guerre has given us enough ground work we can take this as a matter of show don’t tell. What carving away his real billions is about is acknowledging that these are actually getting in the way. 

If you judged by the cover and blurb Preferential Treatment sounds like it will be yet another silly escapist bit of Cinderella fantasy fluff. Yet, what you get is something so solid it stands distinct in its own genre. It manages to understand and respect the tropes it is working with (romance land Russians, wealthy male leads, femdom), but in combining them, comes through with something wholly unique. And I think it speaks to something else as well, that the femdom part is probably what most made this possible. 

While all billionaire romances see their heroines eventually find some sort of comfortable equilibrium with the menace their lover’s wealth presents, the taboo breaking aspects of femdom becomes, through its inherent potential for iconoclasm, a way to pass through one of Romance’s more tricky barriers. A cardinal rule is that all stories must have a happy ending, but more often than not, books where the male lead has a huge advantage over the female lead require us to leave him that way and count on the strength of his love to abrogate it. She will always be more exposed than him, by class, by sexism, by being the one who married into the money, but trust me bro, he loves her, so that’s fine. 

Sometimes that can be enough, but sometimes it is nice for the heroine to say all the quiet parts out loud, and to strip the hero truly naked in the process. 

Where to buy: Barnes & Noble

Author website: HeatherGuerre.com

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Friday Femdom Fiction: Silent Trance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

Friday Femdom Fiction: Rubber Ducking

by

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Years Eve, A Sub & A (First) Kiss

by
kiss me for the first time with my hand on your throat in cursive script above a pattern of fireworks

Silver sits, stiffly, in a chair in a circle of the first comers to the party, and stands between the protection of a tall fan, and the edge of the television, his back to the wall. He is immersing himself in the gathering like a too hot bath, with the lure of my presence to bait him out and across the long drive over the border.

I promised him his first ever, real kiss, for New Years Eve. I wasn’t planning on moving that fast, still covered in Brick dust, still reeling from by what at turns was ripping off a bandaid and putting a kitten down, but when you find out that you have a perplexing puzzle box of a guy who is at once about the same level of perversity as you, has pursued it, and… has made it four decades without a kiss on the mouth, the Aesthetic demands sacrifice.

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Friday Femdom Fiction: Personal Sex Doll

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A yup, sponsored story posts help pay for the cost of hosting. This time it’s SexDolls.com helping pay for all the porn you folks love and enjoy.

I want a coin operated boy.“Don’t move except when I move you, don’t speak.” She held a finger to his lips, looked into his eyes.

They were sitting on the edge of her bed, double sized, blankets tucked and made, just enough room for two. She smiled, a little unsure at first of her idea, but with anticipation of getting what she wanted.

He didn’t nod, just immediately complied, putting away words and letting himself take a blank affect when she started to strip him. She admired his unresistant weight in her hands, twisting and pulling, shirt off, pants off with a bit of rolling and pulling, socks, boxers. He neither helped nor hindered, letting her decide where this was going.

When they were done, and she was clothed and he was naked, she fussed about a bit, deciding to tie a thick blue ribbon about his neck, reminiscenct of kittens and puppies, gentler than a collar and pleasant against the cream of his skin and the blond shine of his hair. Things to play with and cuddle, but helpless things, to be trained.

When she kissed him, he almost kissed back, but caught his own twitch of the lips. Instead her tongue darted out in a lick against his and her fingers stroked along his leg, keeping him seated while she explored along his jaw and nipped his ear. Still, he held fast.

She remembered her awakenings, slow, stories, the Steadfast Tin Soldier, dedicated to death to his Ballerina, the Ken dolls that found their way into the old budgie cage she was let to play with when she visited her grandmother. She imagined puppets and marionettes and porcelain mask faces.

And then she took both shoulders and pushed him onto his back, swinging her leg over. Her fingers dug in and her confidence in control grew, a lightness and a sense of connection deeper than she ever found in conversation. Hers. Hers. All hers.

The very subtle reaction to her weight straddling him, and the effort to keep his face composed, at her order. Nonetheless there were all the hall marks of arousal in the warming of his skin and the slight tautness in the line of his throat, surely and out of his control as a clockwork wind up. She grinned with full teeth and ground against him.

She knew that maneuver often drew protest from the pushing, but this time he was stoic and inscrutable, as she ground her crotch to him, ending up pressed to his thigh as her cunt told her that it had taken a hint from the images in her mind and the intimacy of the moment.

She put her hand on his cock, pulling and tugging what was half hard into the shape she wanted to use, getting her tights and panties off, but not bothering to get the rest of the way undressed. Her other hand cupped her own breast, thinking more of her pleasure than his. If he was finding something erotic from the view, she didn’t particularly care, finding her fantasy in seeing him purely as her fuck doll.

She nudged and eased him inside her, enjoying that he still obeyed, not moving, although she knew taking at her pace was maddening to him and all to often, in their coupling, he set the rhythms to satisfy the hunger of his cock. Now, engulfing him to the root, she tilted her hips just so and rode him like a dildo.

“Ah. Fuck!” the utterance wasn’t for his benefit, the sex much quieter when is was an act of personal gratification. As she did with her toys, she pressed at her clit until the orgasm she wanted was on the cusp of happening and then let the unconsciousness release happen, groan from her throat and gush.

She drenched him, and he didn’t move a muscle. instead she waited a few moments to let the wild pounding in her chest recede and roll-dismounted to the bed next to him. A heavy sigh escaped her chest on impact. “Ohhhfff.”

He was still unmoving. She smiled, not cuddling him in the heat of afterglow, but letting the back of her hand stroke over his chest. “Good boy.”

Friday Femdom Fiction: Toys For Good Boys

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sex toys for boys are the best“It’s too hot to fuck.” She was clad only in panties, sprawled so they just touched, arm to arm and her ankle layered over his. In her perception is body was radiating heat, and she’d broken off their kissing to escape it.

His boxers were covering about 3/4 of an erection, enough to keep her interested, predatory and playful, while the cuffs wrapped around his wrists and ankles held him, immobilized and spread, on display.  She had planned it out differently, tease herself and him until he was full-hard, then ride him, but three minutes of making out had put an end to that. Summer was getting in her way.

He looked disappointed, but not like he disagreed with her logic.  “Ok, Miss…”

“Hmmm.” Although the fun of denial had its merits, it wasn’t what she wanted this time. She screwed up her face, setting herself to a new course of action. “Do exactly what I say, and don’t move.”

She stooped over him, pulling the velcro loose from his right wrist, safety first. “Stay.”

She left the room knowing he was safe, getting herself a tall glass of ice water, adding a straw with a sense of whimsy. As her demand, when she returned, he was still lying in place, band of the cuff still neat under his wrist. She smirked, refastening him. “Good boy.”

A moment later an the toy box was dragged from beneath the bed. “I was thinking I was going to make you into my fuck toy, but instead I think I’ll fuck you with some toys instead.”

There was what she needed, and more she didn’t inside. The cuffs and straps always lived on the bed for when she wanted him bound, but the rest was a buffet she lingered over, picking just the right accessories: the lube in its plain packaging, the plug, tapering from blunt point to fat flare and then its skinny neck and second wide ring, all silicone, and the canister with its supple sleeve lining the barrel. There really wasn’t a good name for it. Pocket pussy, onnacup, fliphole. Flesh Light. This one was an offbrand, bought at a sex shop, plain white plastic outside, pale beige inside.

When she’d picked it out, she’d tested it with her finger, penetrating it, and imagining what it might feel like. It was so soft, yet the pliant sleeve inside had a strength she looked forward to testing.

He got a glance at what she’d picked, and lifted his shoulders a little off the bed, stretching to try to see more.

“Hey!”

He let his shoulders fall, looked guilty.

“I should punish you, I never said you could move.” She took a sip over her water. “Be good.”

“Sorry Mi…”

Casually she dripped her fingers into her water and flicked them at his torso, startling him with the sudden motion. He flinched. She grinned.

“Ha.”  She fished an ice cube from her drink and looked over her target. His skin was pale, blotched pink at the least pressure, his chest and stomach marked but not hidden by hair.  The line of his collarbone made an excellent target, playful, leaving a melt trail as she pressed it to his flesh and slid the ice along.

He gave a little sigh as she circled the ice around his chest, around and then the lightest nudge against his nipples.

“That’s better you’re staying put now.”

He was biting his lip, curious to see where she went next. The ice went quick, melted down into almost nothing and she flicked her tongue across the melt-trail, tasting salt and feeling the contrast of hot and cool skin. He whimpered.

“More?” Her other hand cupped his groin through the fabric over them, then tugged at the elastic, sliding them off his hips, only to realize her mistake.

She made a tsking noise at herself, stopped from further undressing him by his bound legs. “Ha. Didn’t plan everything.”

A quick rip noise and she freed his leg long enough to get him completely naked. “You’re in for a treat, slut. I want you full.”

Even in the summer heat the slick, clear lube was cool on her fingers, glossy and viscous. She squeezed the bottle to ease out a little more, then set it aside.

Her fingers hooked in a come-hither motion, the longest one pressing and coaxing him to relax, spreading the lube and pushing it inside him, then caressing the plug, rolling it in her hand to coat it. She didn’t force, instead using an insistent pressure to push it, until he yielded, swallowing it up, first the tip and then the widest point.

As the swell of it slipped inside him he gave a grunt of accommodation, and that yielding gave her a little thrill that traveled from her cunt up her core. “Do you know what happens next, slut?”

She’d played with him, with the toy before, but it was still a novelty for both of them as she popped the cap off the cup, feeling the petal softness of the inner sleeve before filling it with a generous helping of lube. With the same casual ownership she handled the toys she grabbed around the root of his cock, pumping her lube slick hand up and down, once, twice, three times, before guiding the head of his cock into the narrow constriction of the sleeve.

His reaction was instant, a sort of tension that jerked his hips up at the first hilting slide and squared his shoulders. At first she took her time, hearing the wet, sucking sounds as the sleeve-and-cup did its work, nubs and ribs hidden from view but teasing the length of his cock. “Just right, hm? Tight but not too tight so you can’t feel it?”

As he always did during sex he had gone almost non-verbal, but he managed a quick nod, albeit a little shakey.

“Well look at that,” she purred, enjoying the perspective that let her watch as she engulfed him again and again. “You get that extra kick of hard when I use this, don’t you? But the best part is that it stays.”

He had his eyes closed, but his hips were making little thrusts from below. To punish him, she lifted her arm up a little, pulling the strokes back out of his control, while her palm rested on his stomach. “Nope, you will come when I want you to.”

He made another moan, but she took her time, building and reducing, until she could smell the mix of sweat and lust in the humid air. “Ready?”

A slight twist, skillful and a speed up were all it took to finish building. With a certain degree of satisfaction in her craft, she saw his breath catch and his balls tighten, getting him just about to the point of no return before her verbal consent sent him over.

“UNGH.”

She gave a chuckle. The sheets were soaked and his hair was glued to his forehead. Even the exertion of working the toy had left her fanning herself in the aftermath. He panted, open mouth, at the last little spasm.

“Shower time. Then my turn.”

 

Once again, a friendly fan offered to support a post to make sure that you guys get some extra smut. I’m usually overly busy on stuff that pays the bills,  but they meet all the criteria for a good relationship. In this case they are purveyors of blowjob machines, and I think I’ve been pretty upfront about how much I support men getting to enjoy sex toys.

Me, I took the time to write something as realistic as it was erotic. There’s not enough examples of normal people sex, with those pauses, unplanned oops and extra details like lubing it up or rolling on a condom.

Femdom Spanking Practice

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Wildcard and I have a more or less weekly thing, Punish Tuesdays, set up to make sure we have some sort of anchor for our dynamic. Last Tuesday was spanking practice, a well needed session for me as well as him. He’s been complaining lately that I still have a habit of going from 0 to 100, warm up or not. What better way than a lesson for both of us, lots of practice for me and an extra long hand and belt spanking for him.

I started by having him strip absolutely naked, not even a collar, and lie face down on the bed. I started bare hand, alternating right and left, building up an even blotch of pink. It didn’t take too long to get the area toasty, but rather than switching straight to heavier toys I decided to go for an endurance run.

Of course, naughty boy that he is, Wildcard started humping the blanket under him, all furtive. I don’t think he thinks I noticed him wiggling just a little.

Some times when I spank him, I have him on all fours and reach around to milk his cock with my free hand. I like the sensation of control and how velvety soft he is under my smack-warmed hand. Other time he goes over my lap and I trap his package between my thighs. There’s no hiding when he starts to hump then!

I think I set a record for longest warm up yet, but after I’d maxed out the weight and hit of palm strikes I still wasn’t done abusing his poor bottom and it was time to get some serious swatting practice in on his bare behind. I selected his more supple belt, the thick one without the extra ridge, because although its gentler last play party the main problem I had was the belt twisting during swing.

This time there weren’t any edge strikes, just a merciless rain down on his cheeks. I was feeling extra cruel, so I couldn’t resist lightly striping his thighs as well. Every time I struck, he kicked, but he knew he was helpless to whatever I decided to do. I’m the boss, after all. >:)

We have a rule that I instituted: If you miss, you have to give it another shot. Since Wildcard and I are both of unusually nervous dispositions, it helps to have a re-enforcement to get you to be confident enough to try again when you inevitably do a wrap around strike or pop them somewhere unintentional but tender. A couple of miss-strikes on his tail bone got me thinking and I grabbed a pack of washable markers and started documented the stroke count on his back… and drew a heart shaped pattern on his lower back to identify the nono zone.

I didn’t stop hitting until I was confident that I’d gotten in all the practice I could that day. After his behind was a deep shade of red- but no bruises, shows what a good warm up can do. He squirmed around a lot and then looked at me with big, hopeful eyes. Could he get a reward?

Sweet almond oil is my lube of choice for handling him, but no sooner had I stroked him into a proper erection but he was begging for more. A slim little plug for his extremely tight ass, lubed up and shoved home. Yum. Stuffed and hard, that didn’t feel like enough, so I brought out the hitachi for extra omph. Pressed up against him, I took my time with his cock until he was screaming and swearing when he came. Someone gets quite the naughty mouth when it’s good.

After, he was just sprawled out, totally drained, while I snapped a few pictures of him for my private gallery: body flopped, sweaty, plug still in his ass and his cock still thick and fat on his belly in a puddle of cum.

We finished up Tueday with bath time, putting him in the tub and using the shower hose to wash him all clean, soaping and scrubbing until we were ready to snuggle up under the covers and sleep. Me, I can’t wait until next spanking practice session. What do you think guys, more quality time with the belt, or shall I work on my riding crop?