Friday Femdom Fiction: Toys For Good Boys

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.

The Crown & Home Cooking

It was a Tuesday, but not a #PunishTuesday.

I came home and I don’t think he’d left the bed since I went to work that morning. It’s his vacation and I want him to rest, but like many humans with a streak of perfectionism, idleness is deleterious to his emotional well being. As a person with a chronic physical ailment, not having the energy to do things is an all too common experience for him.

For myself, my mood has slipped a notch since the last week of October. What is generally the favourite part of the year for me has been marred by a heavy measure of frustration, anxiety and sadness over various things. It’s given me less time to notice that Wildcard’s been a bit droopy too.
He’s not been on the outs, health wise, but my persistent battery at the norms of looking the other way in the Montreal BDSM scene when someone is (allegedly, always ALLEDGEDLY) sexually assaulted has been his burden to carry as well as mine. It’s really hard, you push and push and people call you a hysteric, a liar and a monster.

I mad November about inaction and self care.  If he was too under the weather too cook I’d let him rest. I’d bought piles of vegetables the night before and went about sorting out the long skinny egg plants, enoki mushrooms, bright crisp carrots and all the appropriate other things for putting together a stir fry. By the time I was sectioning the eggplant into neat diagonals, he’d rallied.

I still helped him, asking questions every step of the way, while he added other things to the process, mincing and mashing garlic, creating two bowls of fresh and savoury vegetables and tofu on rice.

Afterwards, we cuddled up on the couch for Netflix & “The Crown”

I’ve been watching The Crown, and intensely self-indulgent Netflix series about the early reign of Queen Elizabeth II. It is of course, very obviously one of those made-by-math stories, like House of Cards was a product of looking at how popular Kevin Spacey and the original series was. I am being pandered to with lush, vintage sets and darling but relatable female characters.
Someone crunched the numbers regarding who was spending their time on The Kings Speech and Downton Abby, and decided that what we needed was to feel intimately the challenges of a woman who wears fabulous clothes, is waited on hand and foot and wants her husband to kneel to her.

I do not mind. It is good to be pandered to.

I think that the series occasionally suffers from attempting to worship everything it touches with a reverence that occasionally shades to the absurd. I also feel a little odd being presented with a real (living) person’s life, as an object of objectified and packaged desire. But there hasn’t been any sharp notes from the Queen’s press office about depicting her husband as a fuck object, so I can assume she is unruffled by this love letter to the monarchy even if the Royal Consort’s body is being showcased as a perk of the job.

It is not a femdom story with whips and chains and beatings. But it is a meaningful examination of women and power, and this is something missing from contemporary femdom. Everyine talks about making your sub happy, but very little time is taken to look at a femdom’s personal complexities and vulnerabilities.
That night’s episode was about feeling empowered and rife with little femdom hat tips and jokes, as we watch the new Queen get a measure of control in her intimate life and the subtle yet central role she plays in sustaining her government. For a while we forgot our respective black moods, and the post show cuddling turned to kissing and giggling.

Femdom life is like that. I don’t know anyone who really has orderly protocol 24/7. I know FLRs where she has ultimate say, but even so, there is more of moody cooking and cuddles on the couch than titles and slave positions.

It’s a good life, if you can find it.

A Sex Shop Date With Wildcard

sushiLast Saturday, Wildcard identified my doldrums as needing fixing, s we went out to watch Dr. Strange and then gorge on sushi, the latter activity almost  meaning a visit to the nearby sex shop, called “Romance“.

Every relationship has its rituals. I have an undying love for salmon, particularly raw or smoked. Wildcard has a tradition of eating his feelings in delicious all you can eat buffet omnoms. Having a favourite fishing hole, and being fond of me, he shared the location and now we make monthly pilgrimages. Faces get stuffed, then we invariably go sex toy shopping.

At first the shopping trips were an accidental extension of geography. The store just happens to be between us and where we always park. Honestly, showing up there started with very little expectation other than having a giggle at the hilari-bad porn DVDs.

This branch is open absurdly late, which was probably the first draw.  Plus, in addition to the breast shaped macaroni and strawberry flavoured lube (euch), they have an upstairs BDSM and fetish section. It’s an Adult Novelty style shop, but it is more than dick hats and copies of Pink Eye 2.

Still, why pay the markup?

You might wonder our motive for being there. After all, it is never going to be as cheap as shopping online. No brick and mortar store is going to beat a fresh-from-the-warehouse site like pinkcherry.ca in cost. If I want a bouquet of a half dozen riding crops,  I will never argue meatspace is cheaper.

I keep going back to Romance, because they beat even my favourite online retailers in immediate customer engagement. The staff cares about and is knowledgeable about all their stock. And, while online sites offer reviews, at a certain point you can’t beat actually touching the merchandise.

Going Hands On

Does it bounce well in the hand with a fleshy weight? How strong are the stitches in the leather? Can you slap it against your thigh to feel the thud or the sting? How does it stand up to my personal tastes? You can tell right away what will and won’t work for you.

For example, this time I wanted a cock ring for Wildcard. We’ve basically maxed out on vibes and insertables, but I wanted to take my teasing game a little further and make his erections more persistent.

Sure cock rings are a cheap grab. They seldom cost more than $20, unless you are moving into the territory of elaborate gilded ornaments. Still, I could have bought multiples online for the price of the one I got.  I paid the store markup because I wanted to actually handle the products properly, and get Wildcard’s immediate feedback. After all it was his penis about to be cinched.

At Romance, anything is available for reasonable in store testing, and I had six or so different sizes and models to play with and figure out which was best. Otherwise, I would either need to borrow a friend’s personal items (assuming I knew someone who did have one), or try my luck with buying before I try. Why gamble and create waste?

Curation Matters

Romance doesn’t stock the super high end, gold plated luxury brands, and while they have a few of the lower quality toys, they are carefully screened for skin safe material. The quality and price point runs a range, but nothing will cause a rash. They have recognizable brands, like Tantus, and various versions of the standards in less recognized brands: glass, masturbation sleeves, bullet vibes, etc… Nonetheless they have their share of the cheap quality stuff.

However, what makes me trust in the quality of their offerings are how they handle duds and poor purchases and how they constantly make purchasing a conversation.

corsetback

For example last shopping trip, I impulse bought a Music Legs branded corset back fishnet tights set. That’s not a band I’d expect much from, but even so, the quality was terrible, neither matching the claimed colours on the package, nor coming laced. Indeed the wretched things gave you your lace as a single length of uncut ribbon- unacceptable for an item fragile enough that the first wearing was likely the last.

Online shopping, you write an irate review, and maybe process a return with shipping at your own expense. The smaller ones have time to address you complaints, but there’s a lot more time and distance involved. Here, you get the immediate feedback and from the staff, checking if it was a one off and pulling the defective product, as well as making a note to discuss the problem with the supplier.

And their relationship building also works in the opposite direction. I admit a certain degree of entertainment in getting a post purchase inquiry into the effectiveness of other toys. As much as they are ready to take unsolicited feedback, when you shop they ask questions- and if they know you bought something in the past, they ask you about what your experience was.

So in all, I might buy most of my toys online or seek out pervertables from cooking supply and hardware stores, but the post sushi sex shop date isn’t going to stop any time soon.


Disclosure: I affiliated with pinkcherry after I realized I was giving them a bunch of business from simply bulk ordering cheapo toys and talking about it. Romance and Priape offer no compensation for being mentioned. The sushi pic is free stock photography from clker.com

 

Friday Femdom Fiction: Her Hooded Fuck Toy

Fuck me.

There was an intense urgency to her command that carried through his hood. He could not see her body, couldn’t smell or taste her, and all sound was filtered through the leather.  He was laced in and then the D rings at the back of his head had been locked together with little padlocks. There was no way he was getting out unless someone else undid things for him or he somehow found a knife and slit it off.

But he could feel her. His hands were unbound and he located her legs and the smooth squish of the warm skin, felt the chill of her foot brush against him, before blindman groping his way between her thighs. She was slick enough the coarse curls were soaked, the lips feeling like little folded tongues as lined himself up.

His cock was erect at her command. In the hood he had nothing to do but kneel on the cushion and edge, feeling the plug lodged against his prostate, and keeping himself on a cycle of sensitivity. when she left him like that he lost track of time, lost track even of how many times he’d had to hold off short and get his breathing under control.

The room was very cool, almost uncomfortably so, to make prolonged hooding bearable. Even so it was almost too stifling to be covered like this and do his best to breath through the mesh of pinholes over hid mouth and nose.

She helped him get properly lined up and in- even voraciously aroused her cunt constricted. Dutifully, desperately, he made pumping thrusts. He hoped she didn’t ask for more as between the edging and the plug he wasn’t sure how much he could hold off. Of course this was no barrier to her. Her fingers tug into the muscle of his butt and she repeated herself again.

Fuck me.

She looked up at the almost featureless hood, seeing the sweat bead on his skin. The mask had a slight protrusion over his nose, while the regular pattern of tiny breathing holes gave him a permanent look of blind surprise. Without her ability to see him, he was no longer her boyfriend with the sun spatter of freckles and the dark coiled up hair that always tangled if it got longer than an inch, just the pumping engine for the cock that she’d engulfed.

She grabbed him, inside, with her thighs, fingers scoring his bare back,”Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!”

His chest pulled up away from her even as his hips ground against hers. She was always so shy about her desires until the hood went on and the locks snapped shut. Earlier, when they were shy new lovers, she had baffled him that someone so outspoken in their faily life needed the lights off, and kept so quiet in bed. But now, in control, the lights were blaring bright, letting her admire the long lined of his body- crevice, muscle, vein, dark, but not as dark as the black leather of the hood.

With a guttural noise, she spurred him harder, with the casual lack of care she’d switch her vibrator to a higher session. Let him worry about holding off orgasm, all she wanted was the spasms of coming around him over and over again.

By the third time she came, and she knew that even through the hood, he heard her screaming, he was fighting her, fighting to stop before the building tension sent him past the point of no return. But it was too late and a spatter of warm and wet burst free just as he struggled out of her cunt, hitting in a messy clump on her lap. She laughed. “Ooops.”


I have more free femdom stories here, link keeps you on the site. Lots of loving couple stories, with a few harder tales of harsher domination!

 

Busting the Burglar

It was (punish) Tuesday again, and I’ve been itching to try something. Usually, I’ve taken these preplanned interludes to practice my topping skills. They end with Wildcard in shuddering convulsions, the sign he’s taken his limit of cruel, hard hits. It’s very rewarding in its own way, the warm up, the steady pattern of ever increasing intensity and then finally the painful pulverization. He always asks to have his wrists bound and I tease my masochist when I check in, to see where he’s at, asking “more weight“, the defiant last words of the only sane man in Salem.

But it wasn’t a night for that. I could read, mostly from his desultory masturbation, that his stamina was limited. I had a long day too, and after spilling my guts at a therapist was in no mood to build a carefully accommodating psychological trap to compliment whatever implement I was going to pulverize his butt with.

I got him to put on all his clothes- he has starting in just a shirt. He didn’t know what to expect, although he knew I was taking control.

Then I ordered him to pick up his laptop and stand by the window, as if trying to escape.

While he had dressed I’d found a plastic water pistol, the safe, orange kind designed to not fool passerbys into a panic, and armed myself to defend against the “home invader”. I held him at gunpoint and berated.

He took a moment to understand, looking puzzled, but back in the day he was captain of his college improv club, and we met at a LARP, so he’s a quick study. Honestly narration comes easier than dialog- I’m impressed with myself too. I took the lead and he fed off my “reactions”, making himself into the scared thief I wanted.

I threatened to shoot him and made him put the stolen computer on the bed. Considering my prey, my talking turned from briskly intimidating to giving him glimpse of hope. By appeasing me and stripping, I made him feel he could escape the police or worse, a bullet. He was forced to accept my examination and fondling, play with himself until he was hard enough to meet my satisfaction.

I pushed him up against the wall by his throat and nudged his balls with the muzzle. I told him about my neighbours who would love to take advantage of a naked man in this bad, bad neighbourhood. I bent him over the bed and bare handed spanked him. Whenever he started to lose the least little focus, the gun was there as a reminder, pushing him into compliance. I needed to believe that I could scare him enough to make his strength stay suppressed.

In the two years since we started dating, Wildcard has put on muscle and confidence. I’m a good girlfriend and a good dom- campsite rules apply, and he’s better than when I found him- although I admit the work has been his and I’ve merely made a supportive environment for him to grow into. The change is that the man I’m dating now is not the sick, skinny and shaken person I could pin and lift and beat in a physical fight. I no longer have to worry I will steamroll him by simply expressing myself. Hence the orange plastic gun is a fig leaf, a symbol of the sincere submission and surrender he is giving, and I hold it in my hand with a great deal of joy.

I threaten him, pushing him all the way into the vestibule until he’s close enough to the smoked glass to see through the fog and pick out details on the street. He’s just a little terrified, like a roller coaster makes you think you’ll fall, he’s able to see the risk of being shoved out the door for everyone to see his nakedness, and feel like it’s real.

I talk up the risk. Through my words he knows that there is an involved, aggressive “sorority” down the street, an invention based on the female neighbours in my own past college residence, who reacted to a real, harassing flasher by rising together to prepare for battle. I’m keeping things light even as I talk about killing him, layering on the erotic with an eye to how his fetish for exposure gives me leverage.

There’s two tracks of dominance- one where there’s an angry woman blackmailing a burglar, and one where Miss Pearl knows every one of Wildcard’s buttons and just how to push them.

Bu the time the scene ends, and I give him only his shirt back, to cover himself in a clutched grip before banishing him to whatever fate awaits him on the street, he’s full of happy energy. In the vestibule, freed, he picks me up and bumps his crotch to mine, both of us giggling as he almost tipped over and dropped me on the floor. This is love.

A Perfect #PunishTuesday Spoon Spanking Session

Seventy-Three Demerits. He’d earned them over the course of the week, fifty from an orgasm sans permission (it might have been a forced orgasm on my part, but I’m a cruel, capricious Mistress when I want to be). The rest are for little misdeeds: broken rules and bratty behavior. And ok, after a major flu that left me poached and miserably stuffy, this wasn’t *actually* the right day, but the health related rain check. #PunishTuesday is the concept I hold to, no matter if “Wednesday” is the actual word on the back of my cute days of the week panties that evening.

With the heath related holiday, when the actual day came around, he was already excited. Blame it on days of teasing, and reminding him about his mounting sins and the punishment he was due for them. Even so, I sent him out of the room to get into the right head state.

Getting Ready & Setting The Scene

While he was gone, I took the time to prepare my space by cleaning. True, dozens and dozens of sub people will blow raspberries here- he was off relaxing and I was corralling the forest of water glasses and tea mugs that accumulate in the bedroom, stuffing the loose laundry into the hamper and making the bed. I know this is not the standard BDSM fantasy. I know someone is already typing up “but a TRUE sub would…” Nonesense. I like the control it gives me to clean and make a space orderly. It’s meditative and it makes me feel like all the parts of the space are ready to respond to my needs. And I wanted to get my head right too.

I don’t believe dominance is a put on, or a fake thing. But, for most of us, the so called lifestyle is not a 24/7 all on all the time experience. 50% of the population is kinky, but we hardly all build our relationships around that one facet. Sure, I need Wildcard to be into kinky sex to make things work, but it’s just as important he can empathize and enjoy the other things I value. And for us, as with most couples, there are hard boundaries on where my power eclipses his. This is how we take two separate, independent people and put my power over his.

I make the bedroom look how I wish, getting the covers smoothed flat; checking the ready to go restraints; plugging in the pretty fairy lights that serve as a lamp; and putting out toys on the bedside table. Then prepare myself. I take off my clothes and step into white heels from my collection, glossy, with a platform in the toe that makes me taller. Indoors they don’t feel like hobbles, they feel like power, nor is my nudity a vulnerable exposure.

I do my eyes with a stroke of black and my lips in a bold matte red. As a last touch, (because if you can’t be yourself in the boundaries of you sex life, where can you?) I dash off a little heart on my left cheek.

It begins.

He is naked, except for the brown stripe of collar around his neck, already sporting a swinging erection. His ‘preparation’ was clearly touching himself and I take advantage of that, leaving the overhead light on to catch every bit of an intense self edging session on camera. Only when he’s so intensely close to exploding his face is in a rictus of intensity do I let him ease off, but the video goes in my little library, to be enjoyed at my leisure.

“Do you think you deserve to be tied up?”

It’s important for me to get him to state preferences. I don’t like black hole or starfish subs, who passively flop into the scene and expect this to do down like I’m some sort of housekeeper cleaning a particularly warm carpet.

I also make him ask for the cuffs that extend from under the mattress, holding him around the wrist, face down. It’s just your basic under bed system by Sports Sheets, versatile, safe and above all idiot proof, but once the velcro hooks he’s no more going to go anywhere than if I used locks and buckles. I like the medical/mundane nature of it, just like how washable my strapon harness is, all nylon and straps. It’s better than half assing it- that’s the problem a lot of the fetish stuff has, trying to take you into another sort of world with hints of high end fetish wear, and all you get is cracking, fraying pleather or whips that shed their caps on one hit.

This is real, and he’s about to feel real pain, so he gets a warm up. I’d made him ask for that too, escalating a patter of hits to rise the blood in the firm rounds of his ass. He’s very male, furred without vanishing into the pelt, coloured a little golden, like wheat seeds. He loves the cuffs on his wrists, and I can feel that they are bringing him into a state of accepting relaxation (dare I invoke “surrender?” or is that too cliche?) even as I pick out the wooden spoon.

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Femdom Life: Getting What I Want

Dear reader, tonight was Punish Tuesday, our pre-organized kinky sex night, and I just got my brains fucked out.

I also did what I have never done before. And it wasn’t something you would easily guess. No, seriously!

One hour of foreplay for me. It sounds so improbably vanilla, right? The sad truth is that life isn’t like those bdsm stories where the dominant always gets her needs met. The reality is that either sex has worked for me or it hasn’t. Now Strong could be a generous enough lover, but we had so little time as a couple that he can be considered out of the discussion.

But it is almost embarassing that I’m almost a month shy of my 30th birthday and I’ve gotten so used to compromising what I needed that for all I can beat a man purple or tease his cock for an hour, asking for turn around physical attention was a taboo fetish.

So I stripped him and he and I cuddled up on the couch. One set timer later and he went to work with my body all lips and tongue and touching

Somewhere along the way, long before I appeared on the scene, Wildcard learned to work a woman’s body, with the same studious and attentive perfectionism and passion he puts into his cooking. But instead of rendering the fat of the roast chicken he’s salted and dismembered, he’s finding little spots between my fingers to nibble and zones on the back of my thighs to stroke.

And then as everything in me opened, he liesurely fucked me while I took that delicious sensitivity into an orgasm so loud I suspect the neighbours heard it through his desperate muffling hand. Apartment life.

Afterwards, with his erection lingering and my cunt having none of the freight train he likes to pretend is his penis, I filled his ass and gave him a slippey hand job – it mus have been intense because he was practically flapping his unrestrained arms.

 

Femdom Life: Fingering, Negotiations & Ruined Orgasms

Friday night, we have sex.

He reached for me, nestling the length of his body into the roundness of mine. Even when he’s no longer the skinny boy I started dating, and has filled out into muscle and robust health, he’s still made of stiff lines and delicate details, like an origami figure someone folded out of starched silk. Now there’s a solid weight to his arms and legs that I find pleasing. I liked it when he was so light that I was the heavy one, but I like this new sign of remission in his health problems.

Thursday night I was unbridled honest with him, even more so than I ever am with you, dear reader (of course you get a curated window into my life, but you know that). I asked for things put aside between our move and his many hobbies. You cannot mandate desire but you can make people aware of your own wants. So now, Friday night, he seeks for me.

He feels for my cunt, touching either side of the furred lips, not tor hard, not too soft. Fingering, remembering that my genitals and my pleasure are not some sort of buried secret that takes a cave diving expedition of plunging and rooting about inside. There’s a whole zone of sensitivity, inner thighs, vulva, buttocks, brushing, pressing just with the pads of his fingers. I feel arousal as the motion of tiny muscles and an awakening in nerves that I’m usually only subconsciously aware of.

Earlier we’d played all silly, miming tying me up so I could pretend my outrage, promising dire things even as I held my arms still to maintain the illusion of the invisible ropes. When he was done, his fingers flipped a switchblade made of nothingness and slit the bonds. Make believe demands support. Playfulness is a key thing I need in a partner.

I don’t let him control things, even if I can play at it. I don’t want to lie back and be pleasured, I want to rip off his armor and expose his vulnerabilities for me to play with. I lean up from my nest of blankets and roll over, pinning him down. I tell him precisely what I’m going to do to him, how I’m going to tease him as restrain him and toss him about like a rag doll.

He asked for that, to not rely entirely on my whims, but know what to expect when I take control. It is a challenge. Dominance for my is embracing the capacious moment of my fickle fancy, but I will not let that get in the way of enthusiastic consent. If he needs more scene pre-planning, than it can only expand the submission he can do with me.

Pinning him down I find his cock, already mostly stiff, and with a right palm slathered with sweet almond oil, lathe the root to the tip with curl fingered, dragging strokes, all the while shoving my hand over his mouth and sometimes pinching his nose. He knows he’s not going to come, knows exactly how far I’m going to go, and can rely on that certainty.

Tuesday night, similar to this, I threw him straight out of his comfort zone by staring intently at him. I’m past feeling self consciously silly about my so called dominant aura. It might be cliche, but when I wish I can pull up that cloak of control. And yet… indomitable Miss Pearl terrifies him, leaving him paralyzed and rattled. I’ve never had to deal with it before. I’ll never claim to be some master Mistress who can make a man into a puddle with a look, but in my near decade in a half of fucking around with kink, I’ve never dealt with someone trying so hard to run towards me while desperately trying to run away.

This time though, no hitches. Just saliva and oil making a slickness, alternating spidering my fingers up the ribs and the side of his stomach. I see him slip into a better place, until I’ve tugged and teased him straight into one of those ruined orgasms that are intense enough I worry I mucked up and made him cum.

When he gets his bearings back, he keeps trying to roll towards me and I keep inching away. Groin to chest is a splatter of semen that I hardly want squashed into my body in the middle of the night. I’m amused as he plays out the part of mobile wet spot, earnestly trying to please me by going back to touching me.

I do not want an orgasm. 

I have had way too many orgasms, because I was supposed to, because it was expected of me, because my partner’s ego demanded it or even for the entertainment value. I don’t want to relive those choices. I am not ready to come yet, not relaxed enough. The threads of arousal are there, but the weight of duty to reassure him with one snaps them, and I gently puts his hand on his chest where it isn’t gloopy with sex leftovers.

Neither of us come. It’s funny, I feel more in control without one, while he feels more out of control when he loses the option. Again, among his limits, no long term orgasm denial. It’s unusual, usually men are wild to be denied or get no pleasure from it, nothing of this in between wanting and not wanting.

So, always negotiations, always touching and dancing around the meta narrative of our sex games, where we are still two incredibly contained people. Some people fuse into one in a relationship- we’ve both learned to recoil from that. Instead everything is two little boats bobbing about in a big ocean, nudging our hulls, neither sure enough to abandon our craft and jump ship.

It’s not the story that sells, dear reader, not where I know that people are here for the ruined orgasms, not the psychological intimacy puzzles. But it’s the truth, so there you are.

Friday Femdom Fiction: A Submissive Husband Consumates

They woke up around 11 AM, muscles aching from dancing, mouths dry from drinking toasts in their honour. He came to a little before her, his new wife nestled up against his side, as she tended to roll in her sleep. Their bedroom was strewn with the by products of the previous night, including a four thousand dollar white dress currently being worn by the rickety little chair he’d had since college. Sliding out of her sleepy grip, he started their daily routine: a cup of coffee for him with extra sugar, green tea made neat for her

As he set their old drip-brew to work, he remembered amusedly there was a brand new coffee machine on the living room table. There were a lot of gifts because they both had large, giving families, but they’d only gotten as far as getting half of them out of the car, before, laughing and as drunk on exhaustion as she caught him under the arms and gave him a little hoist over the threshold, still in her snowball explosion of taffeta. He’d kissed her and they’d peeled out of their finery and she had done her best to melt the mask of paint on her face in the shower, before they fell into the blankets and into unconsciousness.

When he came back to the bed with a tray holding her tea and a slice of cashew butter toast, she was sitting up with all the pillows wedged behind her and a satisfied look on her face, as serene and regal as a queen on a throne. He took a moment to admire the way the curtain filtered light cast over her bare breasts, full, firm and high, nipples the tint of coffee and cream, her skin olive-gold.

“We did it.”

He nodded, knowing what she meant. The gallop up until the wedding, with two enormous families coming together in joyful if chaotic union, all the little bits and pieces managed and assembled into one great blowout a year in the making.

“But we have one more thing.” Her mouth pursed, serious. “We never properly consummated our marriage.”

For as long as they had been seeing each other, even from the first date, she had controlled his orgasms, and their sex life, deciding how things would be carried out and what she wanted. It worked for both of them- to the outside world they were any normal couple, but at home, in the private intimacy of each other’s exclusive company, he was Hers.

She didn’t need to order him what to do next. He knew to set the tray down on the bedside table and stand with his arms behind his back, posed in reach as she began to cup and massage his groin through his boxers. This sort of teasing was normal, just as much as the fact that she’d taken charge of his orgasms from even the first date. Sometimes she locked him into a cage, sometimes she let him free and counted on her power over him to keep his hands away. He’d spent many long hours on his back, spread eagled, her teasing, or bent over with the thick girth of a strap on fully hilted in his ass.

He wondered what she had planned.  She was inventive, imaginative and more than that, completely in control of him and his desire. This time, the first thing she did was make him spread out the covers flat on the bed and blindfold him, leaving him in a vulnerable slave’s pose: kneeling on the bed with his face pressed into the blanket and his ass tilted up, leaving all his most tender and delicate bits where she could reach.

Sometimes that was a precursor to a beating, or a milking session. Instead, she left him like that, waiting with a strong awareness that any minute now he might feel the slap of her hand, or a paddle; or the teasing flutter of her fingers and the cold wet slide of lube as she prepped him to be fucked. He could feel himself relaxing into that submissive place, just being in the moment awaiting her will. Already his cock was starting to stir.

When she came back to him it was a good twenty minutes later, by his reckoning, maybe longer. She took off his blindfold and made him look at her.

To say he was surprised would be an understatement. There she was in the lovely sheer white lace and satin bands of a bridal set, something that hid, and revealed with equal measure. He didn’t know where she’d bought it, but it as perfectly chosen for her, from the white silk stockings clipped with garters at her thighs, delicate bralette that loving held but did not bind her breasts, satin ribbons instead of clasps, and the same at her hips holding the ruffled wisp of her panties together.

It was not the clothes she’d worn under the wedding dress- that confection was made possible by an under armour of steel bones and spandex- but bridal wear like in magazine shoots, where everything looked soft and touchable. This was the first time he’d seen her in white like this. Most of the time she wore black: leather boots, shiny, tight, every bit the Mistress. There was something almost extra perverse about seeing someone he knew as his cruel goddess in such innocent fare.

“Touch me.” Her voice was a whisper, but no less a command. “It’s time for me to claim you completely. So please me, make me ready to take you.”

Reverently, he reached, feeling her soft warmth. No sooner had his hands brushed her curves, but she was on him, aggressive and almost feral, biting, nipping, forcing her into the bed. He fought back, not against her, but to please her, finding all the places he’d learned on her body. She never let him be inside her, instead, he was well trained with mouth and fingers and tongue. Sometimes she let him use a dildo on her, putting his shoulders into pleasing his Mistress while her fingers reached and scratch bloody lines into his shoulder and arms with the force of her orgasm.

He found her cunt was hot and wet, her scent, the scent of sex soaked into the diaphonously little slip of fabric that covered her crotch. She made him press his face against her, nuzzling, enraptured, and nibble until in a frenzy she just about growled and shoved him away, mounting his body. The bed was always ready, cuffs permanently installed on the foot and headboard, so it was easy for her to restrain him. Then she straddled him, making him watch as her fingers pulled at the ends of the bows at her hips. The panties came loose, but rather than letting them drop, she gathered them up into a wet fistful and crammed them into his mouth. Now gagged, and tasting her, she settled with her legs spread, sitting on him so his almost painfully hard cock was trapped under the swell and ripeness of her ass, and her watched her spread herself, saw how her arousal had turned the slash and curl of her cunt a deeper pink, left it shiney and hungry as first two, then three fingers slid inside her.

“Oh my god,” he moaned, so in tune with the moment and her whim that each plunge inside her up to his knuckles made an overwhelming sypathetic impact on him.

She gave a little noise, half giggle, half growl of desire, and then grasped his cock firmly by the base, smearing her wetness on him. He was alread beading with a start of precum, but her grip warned him that coming was not an option. Calling upon all the months of discipline she’d taught him, he held back the impulse for release and then…

Smooth and sure, she lined him up and he felt the grip of her tightness grab and claim him, taking him inside for the first time. Every bit was in her control, engulfed and held with the same confidence she’d shown when she’d grabbed him moments before. Now she was raising and lowering herself, using him, making herself sigh and catch her breath in her throat, splashes of pink rising in her face until the rhythms of her hips crushing into his and her muscles, inside, swallowing his cock again and again brought her to a satisfying climax. He was entranced, lap drenched with her arousal, body straining against the restraints. It was only his desperate desire to please her that held back exploding, until, resuming her focus after the spasms of her orgasm, she leaned forward and whispered in his ear “And now my cunt is going to take your come.”

On command, that was all it took like a flood gate breaking. It had been a month’s denial, first intentional, then pushing the low priority of his sexual release aside to deal with the demands of the wedding, but now he gave himself to her completely, letting go into simply, being Hers. Her submissive husband, taken, used and drained dry of every drop of cum.


This story was made possible by the generous participation of Perth escorts. They wanted a story like “Pleasing Her Cunt” but wanted to share with everyone. I’ve been playing with the theme of a submissive husband lately (and reading a lot of erotica on the subject) and this is my spin on it.

If you liked this, there’s a full archive of my free femdom stories here. Here cums the Bride! 😉

Spank, Ruin His Orgasm, Make Him Scream

The hickey made a trail up my neck, a line of purple-red dots showing where an evening of pure pleasure for my body had left a very obvious and unprofessional mark on his Miss. Wildcard was in trouble. Big trouble.

We’d had a lazy, sexy Sunday evening, and I only discovered the result the next day in the office bathroom. At the time I warned him to be careful, so spotting the marks, my urge was to take down his pants and paddle him pink as soon as I got home. Nonetheless, I decided to save it up for his official punishment day, to give him a chance to anticipate. And of course, give Wildcard time to contemplate his own fate and you can cue the smart mouth. I think it’s instinctual, since this is the guy who can end up in the hospital with internal bleeding and crack jokes with the nurses. Nevermind, more things to ‘punish’ him over! >:)

He likes it best when it feels like he deserves the spanking. I’d never actually hit him if I was genuinely upset, but we play with funishment, mock scoldings and unavoidable consequences. “It can’t be helped, rules are rules!” is his kind of dirty talk.

But when Tuesday happened, despite an ever increasing aroused warmth in my genitalia, his backtalk was gone and he was a little small feeling asking for pettings first, that’s not a bad light ramp into a nice dominant buzz. I’m opportunistic- I don’t need to beat the crap out of someone to feel in charge. A little snuggling and some positive affirmations and the sass was back. He actually swatted my butt! That was the last straw. I shoved him face down on the bed and began to wallop him, pulling down his black boxer briefs.

I intended to make this a long session, so I started light, escalating until even my palm was starting to burn, switching off hands for maximum coverage. You can go two ways with a spanking, vicious and hard for something quick, or a gradually building heat. I wanted to really get his attention and leave a lasting impression, so I aimed for the latter.

With a good warm up, his bottom needs a little extra encouragement. After he’d got a rosy glow going, I switched to the concentrated snap of a crop. That pink in his cheeks became a decided red, and his customary insolence was, for once, silenced.

After the wicked punishment on his ass was done, I made him stand in the corner with his underpants around his ankles while I snapped pictures of him on my cell for some extra humiliation and some later nostaligic enjoyment. While catching some close ups, I noticed he seemed a little inflamed, and because I’m a nice femdom it was time to do a little care and restoration.

I made him get on all fours and put his pert ass in the air on display, to rub a palmful of cool baby oil oil onto his griddle hot, reddened ass. Of course his dangling cock and balls became too difficult to resist and very quickly I had him spread legged and milked erect until he was moaning. Every time I noticed his breathing getting heavier I taunted him that he could lose control, but I would only ruin his orgasm for him.

What’s a ruined orgasm, femdom fans? That’s when the cum spurts but the stimulation is cut off, leaving the victim still horny, often with a long wait until they are desensitized enough to come again (or at all). I made Wildcard lie on his back with his legs hanging off the bed, to give me better access to his vulnerable body. I have a technique I developed: just as he tenses up, I take my hand away and then spider them up his stomach and ribs.

Alternating tickling fingers and brisk but slippery stroking I managed to not only get him so rampantly erect he’d put a porn star to shame, but milk his thick (sorry guys, no sph here!) cock into spurts of cum all over his belly- ruined orgasms without the wait between. By the time I finally gave him his release he was screaming, drenched in his own semen and completely and utterly drained dry.

And that was a perfect #PunishTuesday. Yum.