Friday Femdom Fiction: Rubber Ducking

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.

Friday Femdom Fiction His Sacrifice

No candles or altar, just the buff carpet under foot and the grey slab of the bed. That was soft, not the carved stone her imagination summoned, but there were strong straps to hold him fast, so that would serve. In her hand, she had a knife, but it was shielded in plastic and not meant for his skin, a tiny, wicked edge snap off sharp for slitting boxes.

He was dressed for her, magnificently, the buttons of his suit open so the lapels of his jacket lay splayed. His tie was only a little crooked, pulled that way by her hand, earlier. Her feet felt the tilt of her heels, toes adjusting in tall stockings. She had dressed for herself, though for what she was to do, perhaps instead she needed silk or flax or wool in white and unstitched, or maybe a robe, draping her with ominous authority. She was instead, in garters over panties, a longline bra, all a black mesh.

Looking at him, he was denied the opportunity to do the same to her, by an eyeless, red satin mask, stuffed full of little beads so its weight made a seal that blocked most light. She considered that he was also dressed for himself, the pride he had in his clothing. Suits tailored to fit, picked from floor models and matched with fabrics hung on racks in dark tones and the occasional grey or clean white. If she took his jacket off, she would find a half dozen little touches of quality, symptom of wealth.

Inside, she remembered, in those lapels, as well as a hidden pocket, little red hand finishing stitches. Running her fingers over those had been deeply intimate. What was it of masculinity, to put your colour only on the inside or in safe places, the glance of ankle, demure restraint of a pocket square or a scant slash of a tie? It was just another hint of the immense vulnerability she saw in the so-called opposite sex. She wanted sacrilege and a sacrifice. She wanted to tear all that away.

Her hand on his chest told her that there were more layers beneath the buttoned shirt. They had played these games long enough she had guesses at what: lace, straps, mesh. He loved that opportunity to peacock, no shame in what was most close to his skin. Soon it would be exposed.

While he was still blind, she kissed him, her hands moving to press on his pulled apart arms, poking at his helplessness. Thus, then, a clean kiss under his control and sliding off the blindfold, leaving it discarded next to his head. She had his full attention. How could she not, straddling his body, rubbing against him even as he pushed back towards her, against the limits the cuffs on his wrists and ankles permitted.

To play was not to take on a mask, but to take it off. It was a cold-water dive, exhilarating, her sadism popping out to satiate itself. She smiled and found her true desire. “Last chance to beg off.”

He couldn’t, she knew that. She watched him, hawk like, always, when they played, checking for those tells of the edge of where he could go. He didn’t mean to be dishonest to his capacity, muffled by the real desire to give her everything. Still, she trusted him, for the same cruel instinct obliterated much of the barriers between them. She could read fine from not fine perfectly well, overriding even this to hold to his limit.

He was troubled, but not unwilling. It wasn’t actually the last chance, but she was reassuring herself of her power, girding herself before her hands grasped at his collar and yanked hard.

Some buttons popped, some loosened at the sudden wrenching tugged and opened to the waist, his shirt. That was fixable, so far. White t-shirt gaped underneath, soft and flowing over hints of straps. She smiled at her own audacity. It was unclear if this was a transgression against him or her own frugality. Hurting his flesh was easier.

The shirt cost more than she made in an hour, the suit a quarterly bonus for him. The fly of his pants, wrapped around to a button on one side, was soon popped and pulled, the first hint of mesh. Despite the carnage, despite holding no place in his own fetishes, he was still faithfully hard for her.

She would never bruise his pretty face, but here she was doing something that felt just as forbidden. The knife in her hand was comfortable, enticing her towards the next step.

“Hold still,” she warned, thumbing out a blade barely the length of her thumbnail. Cutting was a two-hand job, one to hold the fabric taut, one to stroke it through the fibres.

Split fabric made a beautiful noise. With his body bound there was no way she could fully undress him any other way. But everything he was and owned was hers to use or discard as she wished. She loved good wool, loved to run her hands over the smoothness of his jackets hanging in their closet or feel the weight of it in her hands. And yet the hardest part of its mutilation was an act of will.

Further, it was not an orgy of slashing and stabbing. Every cut, still straddling the warmth of him, was careful, planned. “Measure twice, cut once.”

His face had fear at the blade. She kept her attention on that too, even as ribbons of what was once the work of hours by a tailor were casually tossed away. Revealed, bit by bit, a few threads still littering the bed beneath them, she admired.

Straps, crisscrossing, mesh framing his cock, giving other textures to contrast his naked velvet-and-butter. Beneath the suit he’d dressed as much to be admired, lingerie cut for his body. It was a piece she’d picked out for him, saved her own money to afford it.

Their eyes met and she caught that moment of mutual understanding, her power over him giving them that wonderful connection where she saw his pride in being considered, wanted and consumed. They kissed, again, and then she hooked her thumb into one of the black bands of the body suit, considering: should she cut this free too?


Yikes! Can you believe this story has been sitting unwritten, because I psyched myself out, for the last 8 months? At some point this year I convinced myself all my writing was terrible and crawled into a shame spiral hole. But, here you are, and hopefully you enjoy it as much as int inspired me. <3

Friday Femdom Fiction Pure Sadism

I am going to hurt you, because your body in pain inspires me.” 

The cuffs were padded leather, rope run through the rings and around two pillars. The room was a long rectangular shape, where these floor to ceiling columns were load bearing, on either side, spanning the halfway point. There, the rope always lived, for convenience, but today it was taut, holding him stretched out. He was naked except for his collar, his cock stirring but not standing to its full extent. She liked that, knowing even the preparation had his interest piqued, pulling him toward that full kind of rampant erection, a tell he couldn’t hide when she turned him on.

How odd, to be a man, and be able to conceal nothing! Her own arousal even surprised her, sometimes. Sure, she would feel the energy and the tight warmth, but all too often she wouldn’t realize the full extent until she touched the curls and folds of her cunt and her hand would come away sopping wet. Then again, the “topping” she liked best sucked her full attention from her own body, to his.

She never started these games turned on. That came later, immersed in the joy of it. There was an urge to do unkindly, but it was a sort of romantic foreplay, the actual heat arriving in the midst of her control and his reactions. Cunt slick and ready to devour took a path through her power over him and some sort of apex of sensation inflicted on him.

Nonetheless, he was naked for her pleasure. His clothing remained piled up on their bed, in the other room, where she pulled it free from his body. She hadn’t dressed up, lazy in a t-shirt and black jeans, bare feet stepping over the carpet, considering her first attack. 

(More after the jump)

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Friday Femdom Fiction: A Domme’s Gratitude Journal

Gratitude is relevant to clinical psychology due to (a) strong explanatory power in understanding well-being, and (b) the potential of improving well-being through fostering gratitude with simple exercises

Alex M. Wood; Jeffrey J. Froh; Adam W.A. Geraghty; “Gratitude and well-being: A review and theoretical integration”; Clinical Psychology ReView; March 2010

November 1st

I am grateful for the morning, the warmth of the bed I don’t want to escape and the consolation of the coffee he brought to me.

November 2nd

I am grateful for the way he knelt down last night and kissed the toes of my boots all playful, until I swatted him away squawking he needed to wipe them down first.

November 3rd

I am grateful for the nudge of his hard cock against my ass, even if we are both too groggy from last night because of it. I get to have impromptu sex on a week night, when I want. Even if I am tired and hate everything right now.

November 4th

I am grateful for the three selfies he sent me of edging in the accessible/unisex single user bathroom at his work, and in knowing he wore the plug I hid in his glove box for four hours.

[ Entries missing and space covered with stickers.]

November 9th 

I am grateful for the way he looks in a collar, on all fours and for putting up with going out two nights out of three this weekend. Although I forgot to do my journal.

November 10th

I am grateful for the bagel with sesame and cream cheese, even if he forgot and apologized it wasn’t poppyseed because he couldn’t remember if it was sesame or poppyseed I prefer. It’s sesame. He called me on his break from work, just to apologize because he wasn’t sure.

November 11th

I am grateful for him being supportive about my step brother being gone, even if we weren’t really that close, and for understanding why I made us late by being on the phone with my mom all morning.

November 15th

I am grateful for him remembering to tell me I seemed loopy and asking if I had been taking my ADHD meds. I hadn’t. Whose bright idea was a disability that takes organization to keep up with, that makes you disorganized?

November 16th

I am grateful that he drew me a picture of my worst customer as a sulky troll and also that he doesn’t mind eating me out takes 20 minutes, and that even then sometimes I can’t get off.

November 17th

I am grateful for how fun it is to edge him over and over again. And the really good deal I got on bananas.

November 18th

I am grateful he got precum on my good work skirt and it came right out with a little water. Him being messy is sexy!

November 19th

I am grateful for him bringing me a Starbucks holiday cookie while I was doing cert practice exams and letting me use his testicles as a stress squeeze ball.

November 20th

I am grateful for him finding my gratitude journal behind the bed. And for not making me feel bad about being so upset it was missing. And being ok that I told him I wasn’t up to an elaborate scene tonight and then changing my mind and plugging him and keeping him in the sensory deprivation hood for an hour and a half while I hit him with a crop intermittently and played chinese opera through headphones in his ears.

November 21st

I am grateful for the fact that he managed to write “Take your Meds” on his ass, but he did it crooked so it says “Tak3 your m3dz”. And for alluringly mooning me for a spanking after serving breakfast in bed.

November 22nd

I am grateful he drew me a picture of Troll-Robert being hit by a palette of express shipped orders and being squashed flat and for letting me cradle his head lovingly and slap the shit out of him. And for reminding me to put the bananas in the freezer before they go bad.

November 23rd

I am grateful for KISSES.

November 24th

I am grateful for a really heartfelt letter about how proud of me he is doing certification AND working full time, and how he imagines what our future is going to me like and how my voice makes him drip.

November 25th

I am grateful for him helping my mom TS her computer because he knows I find trying to help her with stuff infuriating, and letting my Dad tell him how to deep fry a turkey and then helping stop my dad from starting a fire when he got distracted. And head in the car home.

November 26th

I am grateful for him catching my laptop when I accidentally kicked it off the bed. I HATE CERT PRACTICE EXAMS.

November 27th

I am grateful for that wet big eyed, helpless on his knees look he gives. And for the little grunt he makes every time I jerk the harness up.

November 28th

I am grateful for him freezing all the bananas I forgot to, and being able to make them into a breakfast smoothie so my adhd meds don’t give me a stomach ache.

November 29th

I am grateful for saying nothing, dropping to his knees and worshipping my pussy when he saw my face after I got home tonight. And telling me not to worry about Robert complaining to my boss again about the order.

November 30th

I am grateful for his submission and his love and getting me sushi to celebrate when I passed my MOTHERFUCKING CERTS. Also that he didn’t mind when I missed and hit his balls during spanking.


A note of real life femdom gratitude:

I would like to thank my supporters at Patreon and the unstintingly generous help of a reader for their technical support. The latter got my site operational again after something permissions related dramatically borked.

Becoming a patron helps me keep my content free, and means the world to me. And being the person who helps with my frantic AHHHHH emails after I fuck over something with a plugin/permission is it’s own great gift.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Edging Experiments in the Bedroom Lab

“No Nut November is a good enough reason to test this, isn’t it?” Her phone was open to a page on Amazon, looking at the selection of lab coats available. They were more expensive, in her opinion, than they had any business being.

“You are band wagoning.” He was naked, except for a t-shirt that was pulled off his neck but not his arms, and his socks, which they never seemed to remember to take off. Despite the bravado heavy sarcasm in his accusation, he was helpless, spread eagled in the white bed by straps taut, Velcro cuffs snuggle wrapped around his ankles and wrists.

“You are band wagoning, Doctor,” she corrected, emphasis on the last word. “For the duration of the month you are in this clinical trial and you will conform to every step on the protocol.”

“Yes, Doctor.” He cringed, meekly.

Ridiculous or not, anything said in a stern tone got him somewhere in the hind brain and delivered up that I’ve-been-slapped-please-do-it-again face. She smirked, feeling that flash of extra horny when she looked down on him. The heavy vibe-wand felt comfortingly official, with a turgid density that always reminded her of an erection. Or a weapon, as she felt you could do a reasonable amount of damage with a good clonk.

The buzz of the wand turning on sent tingles though her hand, down her arm. At its lowest setting, it was still enough to make him test the strength of the straps. Pressed to his cock and lazily inched along its length, he would move a little, realize he was denying himself the sensation he craved and then remember to hold still.

“The subject was introduced to the equipment for the test.” She purred, “and showed marked responsiveness. Further investigation found he was most sensitive on the ventral side, except directly below the head, and which point the sensitivity remained the same for dorsal and caudal contact.”

“Motion that was proximal or distal showed equal efficacy in introducing a response, and for consistency a gliding rather than rolling technique was used to establish moving stimulation. Pressure, of course, had a high variability.”

“Increasing the power of the vibrations and contact with the underside of the head of the subject’s cock produced similar non-verbal vocalizations. It will require further testing to determine if they are equivalent in the perception of the subject… or…” She bore down a little more, her grin going wide, “The subject is just being dramatic.”

“No, I’m not…” He shook his head. “That’s…”

She withdrew the wand sharply, and he heard the wine before the pop of electricity discharged into his thigh. He yelped. It was technically a cattle prod, even if she wasn’t sure how a hand-held device like that was used in a stock yard. But it did the job, warning with the pitch of a mosquito before the contact was made. Sometimes all it took was the noise itself to quell him perfect.

“I’m not being dramatic, Doctor!” The correction was blurted out a few seconds later.

“Better. I would rather think by your tone you are. I have seen you take more.”

“No, Doctor. It builds. But, over time I get more numb.”

“Yes, subject, that’s the point. If, by the end of the month you become immune to edging or not, and if you require significantly more stimuli or less, to respond.” To underline this, she nudged the wand back up against the root of his cock, tracing from his balls all the way over the head.

“But, all of November, Doctor?”

“Yes, the trial will run from November 4th to November 30th.” The dates alone weren’t a threat. “I know from the control month of Locktober you can handle no stimulation what so ever. Let’s see if the use of daily, escalating stimulation is any different, hmm?”

“Have you been planning this all along…” He paused, then remembered himself, pressing his hips up to chase more of the wand’s buzz. “Doctor?”

“Well, not really. Only since last week.”

The wand glided back down again, keeping a pattern. There was an interesting technical challenge for her, making torturing him almost meditative. Keep the motions similar, and not give into her own sadistic urge to go as hard as possible all at once.

Steady was its own reward. Despite how natural medical vocabulary came, she knew there was more wanton desire than meticulous art in her use of him. Something about his vulnerability inspired her to devour. She counted the strokes of the wand out loud. “…three, four, five…”

His eyes stayed fixed on her, not relaxing into surrender, but yielding with a focused attention.

“… Eight, nine, ten…” After a few more passes she pressed a little harder. There was that hip buck of his. “… thirteen, fourteen…” His fingers curled and uncurled. She decided not to give the wand more power, keeping it that way.

It took longer, but the edge arrived nonetheless. His belly contracted, as did his balls pulling closer to his body, his mouth making an o while his eyes squeezed shut. Incoherent words warned, no matter his sass, he was obedient to the fact that he was forbidden to come, always faithfully warning her.

She gambled, and gave it a few seconds longer. Another few more.

“Ah!” Only when that desperation started to truly look like he was bracing for an inevitable impact did she yank the wand back, leaving him gasping. 

Her grin would have done the Cheshire cat proud, carrying a buzz of her own between the technical satisfaction of the topping and that in her chest aroused joy of knowing he was completely in her power.

“There now. The Subject will tell the experimenter exactly how that made him feel.”

Friday Femdom Fiction: Cucked by the Zeitgeist

“Oh, I was going to fuck you, but then #forcedbirth legislation swept the US. Now I am going to cuck you with this big, thick silicone cock. But, because I am being fair and I love you, you can watch and masturbate. However, no draining those naughty unsnipped breeder balls until I say you can!”

The length of silicone balanced on its flanged base, standing erect in anticipation of the service it would be put to. His own equipment made a similar performance with less lucky expectations, but while the fake cock was marble swirls and muted shine, his was the warm mottled matte tones of skin.

He could smell the back of the nose lift of her arousal, hindbrain triggering, impossible to pretend. She grinned. “Of course you turn me on. That’s why I want this. It was so hard to find just the fit that matched your shape. But you understand, right?”

“C-can’t we just use condoms?” he asked weakly. The cock cage was lying next to them, key still in the lock, a tight squeeze to cram himself into with the sexts she’d been sending him all week. Now, here in here presence, she said she wanted a good, safe fuck, and nothing else.

He gave her a pleading look, hoping for a reprieve. Being inside her was wonderfully intimate. Her eyes would lock with his and she would straddle his lap, riding while he stayed in careful control, helping her come without letting himself ruin her pleasure by coming. Not this time.

“Oh no baby,” she was practically purring, a decided arch in her back that thrust her breasts out, clearly turned on by his suffering. Her fingers stroked down her own thigh. “If I am going to ride a piece of rubber, we are going to do it right, and we both know accidents happen. A condom could fail.”

He watched her spread herself, fingers seeking, pushing. He pressed his own mouth closed to push back a whimper. “Please? I want to be inside you.”

“I know, it must be driving you crazy. I am so very wet, and it feels so warm and tight. Don’t think I am going to let you get a vasectomy either. You are much too pretty not to make babies with you… when I am ready.”

He filled his palm with a squirt of clear, sleek lube, but a reach to the root of his cock got a hand tap. “No! Not until I have hilted, darling!”

Hesitating like a dog balancing a treat on its nose, he watched her nudge the rubber up against her pussy, one hand playing with a nipple. She had perfect breasts, halfway between heavy and full, responsive and soft. She wasn’t even letting him touch her.

The toy slid slowly into her. For a moment the affectionate but sadistic patter she teased him with stopped and her saw the unmistakable look of pleasure wash through her. Her lips made a pout, eyes going out of focus. Sliding down the toy, his rival, she let herself enjoy every inch.

He eagerly slicked up his own cock from the root to tip, beginning to stroke.

“Slower baby, in time with my pleasure. This is about me, and what your cock can’t do.”

Obedience made it better, and he matched his pace to her drag of her hips, up and down, squats pushing herself to the base of the toy and mid way up. “Don’t you wish that was your cock inside me?”

“Yes!”

“It feels so good. You are so perfect.” She was smiling, though it was crooked with the exertion and the distraction of what she was doing. “Isn’t it great you can still serve me this way?”

“Yes, Mistress.”

She gave a huff, jiggle in her breasts and thigh with each fresh stroke. In his groin her sped pace was posing a danger. Building. Slick, tight.

“You don’t get to be inside me. You don’t get to come. You’re going to get locked back up after I do, and…”

“Nnnh…” He had to stop pumping his hand.

“Almost?” Her grin was wider, seeing his desperation. “You don’t need to cum. Not until I decide to breed you. You’re property. And I sumply cannot afford an accident, so this big, thick toy is going to take your place.”

“Mistress!”

“Hand off your cock.”

He gasped a thank you.

“Oh really? You know your place as a denied breeding slut?” She shifted to sitting, legs sprawled open, working the dildo out at the speed she liked before she came. “Say thank you to my rubber cock too. Thank it for doing what you can’t.”

“…Thank you to Mistress’s rubber cock.” Leaning forward, he made himself commit to the clumsiness of his phrasing. “Mistress deserves pleasure. Mistress deserves to come. I don’t matter. I’m only for breeding. I don’t get to come. I…”

The yell was a sharp exhalation, built tension pushing air from her lungs with quick burst of coming. Her eyes snapped shut, one last thrust jamming into just the spot that tipped her over. “Yes!”

Friday Femdom Fiction – Hypnosis and Stockings

woman on couch uses watch to hypnotise non binary masc, she has stockings visible
Art commissioned from: Izzy of @dikedig  (insta: @dikedig )

Imagine two people seated on a couch in a small sunny apartment on a Sunday afternoon: Marianne and Charlie are not quite a couple, but they have started to weave an intimacy through Charlie’s ever willingness to submit. Marianne has given them permission to call her Ma’am, and is starting to weigh her feelings between ‘Mistress’ and ‘Domina’.

This occasion is already planned, the terms and activities decided before Charlie arrived. They know they will be hypnotized, and that Marianne will make them worship her feet.

And whether this happens before, during or after, Charlie knows those feet already have them completely captivated.

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Friday Femdom Fiction: Doggy Style

She rolled back, butt towards her heels, arms unbending so her head is low and her hair pooled on the floor. She looked back over her shoulder, at the anonymous effect of the leather mask on his face, and the line of the lead pulling taut from his collar.

He was hard for her, want etched across his body, her posing holding him enthralled, tighter than the lead. She’d stripped him, earlier, teasing him about his eagerness to rut, telling him he was like a dog that had scented a bitch.

“And I am just the Bitch to breed you, aren’t I?”

That was a loaded word. Bitch for her: harsh high and unfeeling. His occasional wearing of the label: lowly, desperate and needy. This time she taunted him at how much he wanted to fuck, told him he was little more than an animal even as she jerked his cock.

Words tugged at him as she squirmed against him and crooned in his ear to admit it and say it out loud, that he was her dog, nothing but an animal, brainless, desperate, and her cunt convulsed as she pressed her thighs together.

She made a show of presenting the mask to him so he could see the black snout and pointed ears, a shape she thought was more doberman than anything else. She liked the fit, the way he looked at her through its eyes, hungry, humiliated and yet wanting more.

She made him pant for her. No barking, she didn’t like the abrupt sounds, but growls instead of groans while she buckled the collar and led him, from the chair, across the room.

He saw her shed her clothes, what little she had been wearing when they started playing and the revelation of high, small pointed breasts, and a heavy roundness to her ass that tapered to the tight pinch of her waist. 

Tugs to the leash pulled him closer before she settled into position, dropping to her knees with grace, and then all fours with her elbows bent. When she caught his eye the pose extended…

…And he had a direct view of the split of her body, shameless in her power. She giggled, “Caught my scent, did you?”

Her cunt was a wet dark slash. Brown lips around dark pink, glossy. The leash tug told him what to do next and the mask let him tilt his head to press his real mouth to her. It was more nuzzle than lick, at first, getting himself marked with her.

She smelled of musk and tasted of lemon and salt, but soon this treat was pulled away from him and his leash was yanked.

“Mount me.”

He knew his part and her intent, hands to her sides, cock pressing, letting her own back writhe and the slick home it to hilt. Hot, just the space for him and not more.

His fingers dug into the softness of her hips and her command encouraged, “Fucking rail me.”

And she used him, devouring that energy as he drove into her.

She didn’t count the thrusts, making cries into the floor, welcoming triumph. “Harder!”

Her taste was still in his mouth and his sweat starting to bead. Her hand hand slid to reach back and tweak her clit.

“I’m going to c..” He tried to warn. Wild pounding thrusts gave him little leeway, her clear enjoyment even less

“Dogs don’t talk!” She grunted. And then her attention was elsewhere as he felt the clench and squeeze of her coming. Something about the spasm of muscle pushed him out and her forwards, but then he came in a single spurt he couldn’t stop, and a second pulse, a white line across her back and another dripped from him and across her sprawled thigh below him.

From the floor, in a c curl, with him collapsed nearby, she took a breath and sighed out, “Good boy.”


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Friday Femdom Fiction: Acting Cagey At the Grocery

“Darling, what has gotten into you?”

She was pivoted to take a picture of the large display of autumnal gourds in the giant bin in front of the grocery store and he, under the guise of a particularly passionate hug, pressed himself closer. There was always a way men changed their posture when they did that, imperceptible if you looked, but with a tilted tension that made you aware of their body line and the pull of their groin. And a scent that had no scent, that, in only a little bit of shared warmth, drew out the tight yet melting sensation of her own arousal.

Only this time there was the hard little nub of plastic poking, nudging up against her too.

“Aww, you are pretty desperate, aren’t you?” She cooed, letting her hand caress the side of her hip, even as a slight shift of her own pose made the contact with his caged cock deliberate. “What day is it?”

“It’s October 9th, Mistress.” He swallowed.

“How many days until the end of the month?”

There was a pause of mental math. “22, not counting today, Mistress.”

Her finger teased the ribbon peeking out of the collar of her sweater. She could feel the key, warmed against her skin, slide a little. “That’s a lot of time. What has you so het up?”

“I want you, Mistress.” There was both a smallness of vulnerability in the confession, but also a matter of hopefulness, as if this longing was a gift in itself. “The cage hurts. I need to edge.”

“Aww… Well, we still have to finish grocery shopping.”

He pulled away, husbanding his willpower. She smirked, aware that he was still reacting to the way she had chosen to dress on the expedition. True, she was draped in a cozy sweater, but below it, the dull shine of leather, skin tight, clinging, skirt hugging her to mid thigh, where it met a band of bare skin before her stocking tops resumed a more autumnal practicality.

“Mistress…”

“Yes, Puppy?”

“Nothing, Mistress.”

She thought for a moment, then began to pull the key over her head, handing it over. “I’ll tell you what. The grocery store has a single stall public unisex washroom by the deli. It’s pretty private. Go there and use your phone to film yourself edging, then cage back up, all on camera. You have until I am done shopping to meet me by the cash.”

He nodded took the key, and giving her one last lingering look, dashed off to complete the task, while she found and wrangled a cart.

The fresh smell of the bakery and the produce hit her nose and she began to shop. A picture hit her phone, him kneeling on tile, having placed down a couple of pieces of paper towel under his knees. She grinned. His eyes were very big, and his face flushed and embarrassed.

She let the aroused heat she felt in response suffuse her for a moment, before giggling and going back to selecting apples.

As she did the sweep of the dairy section, she glanced back at the Deli and smirked again. Not done yet. No time.

She went the rest of her zig-zag serpentine. Crackers; tea; canned goods; nutmeg; backtrack and get chicken stock; flour, nutmeg, pasta, hamburger and a lamb, sale; browsed the greeting cards; impulse bought a bulk pack of batteries; and rounded through frozen foods with peas, perogies and a pint of vanilla ice cream.

The line up wasn’t too bad, but all the queues were pretty much the same. She took one at random and let herself be carried by people momentum. He wasn’t back yet.

She shook her head. The line went at its own pace, items on the belt, scanned, points card, paid. Just before that process she texted him. “I’m leaving without you.”

She did not, in fact, do so, but lingered past the door with the cart, enjoying the string of panicked texts, before he appeared, wild eyed and spattered down with water.

“I couldn’t get it back on!” He made a gesture at his groin, helplessly. “It wouldn’t go down enough to force it.”

She chuckled. “Well, I can think of a lot of ways to punish you when we get home.”

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Friday Femdom Fiction: Gagged, Arched and Edged

“I like it when you suffer for me.”

The gag cinched into the corners of his mouth, doing more to render him muffled than to completely silence the sounds of the whimpers he was making. A slick of lube on her palm, viscous and clinging, made each stroke of her hand glide easy on his cock.

“That’s right, baby. You love being this helpless, don’t you?”

He was completely naked, back bent so he could hold onto his own ankles, a display arch that was marred by shivers and gasps. She could read the desperation in his body: in the way his hips tried to rise to meet her grip; in the way his belly flexed and contracted; his shoulders shifted; and the tightening of the way he struggled to keep himself in the pose.

She knew he wanted to be on display for her, wanted to keep his muscles as flexed and hard as his cock. That was a little vanity of service, an awareness that she found him attractive. She gave the root of his cock a harder squeeze, letting the upwards glide pull her fingers over the flare of the head.

She saw the shine of the wetness at the corner of his mouth where the gagged robbed him of the ability to hold in his drool, and just where his chest met his belly, a thumb print sized drip. Meanwhile, the slit at the tip of his cock offered up a line of pre-cum like the strand of a cobweb.

“You are always such a clean, tidy boy, but, only edged three times and look at you! Losing all control. Filthy!”

She let her thumb brush over that ooze of precum, enjoying the texture and noting the contrast. Her own panties were stained with her desire, seeping through the cotton. There was a temptation to mount him, hilting his desperately hard cock inside her, but she kept her restraint, making him endure.

A few more fast pumps of her hand around his cock and he started looking panicked, building and building. She reminded him not to cum, even as she teased him closer and closer. As his balls began to pull into his body to loose a spurt of cum she smirked, pulling her hand away with a flourish.

“Not yet! You don’t have permission.”

His eyed met hers, pleasing with his eyes, making wet squeaks.

“Not yet. Catch your breath and we start again.”