loving couple

Femdom Life: Fingering, Negotiations & Ruined Orgasms

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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

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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

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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.

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?

Perils (and Pleasures) of Dating a Switch

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Perils of dating a switch Wildcard is a switch

Switches get a bad rap in the BDSM scene, possibly for the same reason that some people (idiots) don’t know what to do with bisexuals. They get all the same myths and assumptions (switches need to be poly, switches MUST switch and can never be happy with a 100% dom or sub, etc…). I even had people explicitly tell me that Wildcard wouldn’t be able to make me as happy as a pure sub.

The open-ish bit in our relationship makes whether or not switches *need* to be poly a moot point. There are no shortage of cute little things wanting spankings to keep Wildcard happily satiated if switching was some sort of dual meter that needed to be filled. But it doesn’t really work that way because D/s orientations seldom fit into neat boxes to begin with.

Take any group of doms and there will be such a broad expression of how they do what they do and what lifts their luggage, that dominant is just a vague starting point. For example Ferns abhors brats, while Dee would like a sub who can second guess her with panache. Me, I’m a sadomasochist. “Aha!” a fool in the audience pipes up. “Clearly you just need a guy to show you how to submit properly, like all so called lady doms!” Well, no, sit down fool, and I’ll explain.

I’ve said this before. I like my violent bedroom romps, but I can’t sub properly. It rustles my jimmies. Its not been for lack of trying, but the closest I ever got was power-behind-the-throne style scenarios.

Nonetheless I seem to have a history of dating switch-y men. That is to say that for me, I prefer fighty, fiesty, etc… I like a dynamic that’s all high drama plotting and scheming- although in my day to day life I like cozy and simple, my erotic imagination demands flirting sword fights. That’s one of the things that first attracted me to my Gentleman, other than his good looks and well wound charm. So we romp and play in all sorts of ways.

On the other hand, Wildcard also expresses his switching on the binary. He can be all masterful domly dom; or he can be helpless and whimpering and craving being told what to do. Its all the same to him, really. For him, it’s therefore been an occasional challenge to deal with the fact that I can signal all quivery and whimpery, but my brain just doesn’t go to happy sub land. some of this fits into the psychological dominance thing- I like controlling guys with dom urges with seemingly vulnerable behaviours. I already told you about what I did to the Swede- finding it more erotic to “force” him to explore his dominance than trod the well traveled ground of his submission.

The peril, though, is not that the switch or the dom is not enough in the relationship, its that dominance is a really vulnerable state, and with Wildcard the biggest challenge has been unhorsing him mid-ride, knocking him into the metaphorical mud. Its a challenge for him to work with the fact that I don’t bend in the way a sub is supposed to. You know, you apply the right sot of pressure and it melts into yum.

Early on in our relationship, Wildcard discovered my ability to remove myself from the moment and take control again. This is not a dominance pissing contest about which one of us is more inherently dominant, its more the reality that I don’t think I’m inherently capable of releasing control anymore than I’m capable of finding fridges erotic. So one night, he was playing with my body, trying to get a rise out of me, and met the clamp of my control – laughter, carefully planned to bounce the pain of the game away from myself and stand, indomitable.

You can mark a change in his behaviour from that point on- I think its were he became aware for serious about the dom thing with me. For him beating a girl is a means to creating a reaction in her that he wants, and I don’t think he’d really cottoned onto the idea of using his needs for my own sake or even that the door that he thought led one place just connected him through to the same stairs as the other route we took. For me, whatever I’m doing, its about Me. He already noted that when he met me, I was refreshingly different in my reactions. On the other hand, his dominance is a real thing.

I’m not entirely sure how he thinks about my imperfect switching. For a while he would make jokes about it “no, collar YOU! heeheehee…” I sometimes feel that he half gets it- he understands not wanting to to be not dominant, but not so much my dogged instance that switch doesn’t feel right as a label. In any case its something that I think he internalizes as “Pearl’s odd but important limits” in the same category of not putting a wet finger in my ear- he doesn’t need to understand it to respect it.

But as far as the urges I can’t fill, that’s just part of the way the game is structured- we’ve both discovered that there’s things I like (eg face slapping) that feel very wrong for him. I don’t feel that his switching in any way is different than a sub partner that doesn’t want to do whatever their limits are or has fetishes you don’t share.

I guess the biggest “peril” is not the odd consensual spank, but rather working with his dominance in such a way as I can hijack it to get my kicks, without devaluing it to him. Nonetheless, dating a switch is still the best way to get the sort of behaviors I want to hijack in the first place, and that part is the pleasure part.

My Kind of Femdom Romance

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Tuesday: I walk home in the light drizzle of the late evening, stress of the day like a pack of rocks on my shoulders. I think bad, self pitying thoughts, feeling bereft, ignored and insignificant. My phone is an insistent white glare in my hand, as I truly to sort out someone’s problem for them. Up the front steps and into the entrance hall, the smell that envelopes me is warm and savoury. In the kitchen I hear a small thump, turn and see that he’s kneeling.

He’s naked on the tile, tawny and lean and male. I feel a little clutch of guilt, because I seem to enjoy poisoning my own happiness. I tell him I’m not that hungry- I ate earlier. I warn him I’m stressed, he might not get beaten. He takes it, accepting, pets me. I peel off down to my panties, white with rutching at the hips and tight little black bows, find something at fault with my body in the mirror and push aside my current obsession with the girth of my hips to put my attention back on him.

A flop heavy into the rumpled blankets into the bed. He makes me smile with his patience, makes up a plate of his own dinner and coaxes me to try some sweet potato from his fingers. Delicious. He talks self consciously about the sugar content, talking about his cooking knowledge. I steal another piece from his fork as he brings it to his mouth, walk to the kitchen and try little bites of the leftovers.

He finishes his meal and I push him back into the pillows, hands to his wrists. I ask him how he’s feeling.

He confesses his fantasies, describing how he’d thought about being left in a stand up cage, blindfolded, for any woman to enjoy. My voice becomes a lure and a lead, taking this thread and winding it about him. Very soon his eyes are covered and my hangs are roaming, pinching and exploring as I make the fantasy as real as possible.

My hand smacks almond shaped hand prints into the cheeks of his ass, and his cock is massive, head beaded with precum. I leave him blindfolded and tell him about how one of the women would tug him to the bars and pull his hard cock through the gap, as I take him into my mouth.

He wants to come. I make him edge for me instead, until I’m sure he can’t get any harder, until he’s panting with desperation. When he was blindfolded I already saw him writhing about, now his hang is gripping my soft thigh, hard.

Just before he comes I tell him “if you do I get to do whatever I want to you”. I like that extra little jolt of fear- he’s not sure if he’s heard me, but its past the point of no return.

His come ends up in my mouth, down my throat, and he’s already screaming before the spurting starts. He’s past coherence, past profanity, even sounding pained. Post orgasm, he’s a stunned mess.

The gusset of my panties is wet, soaked through. After he recovers he wants me to come, and uses his hands and his voice to help me. We have sex this way a lot- its very intimate, lots of touching and lots of control for me. When I come we end up tangled into a perfect cuddle.

I’m at peace, all the stress of the day washed away, wanting nothing more than to hold and be held by what’s mine.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Pleasing Her Cunt

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Her cunt was a pink slash in a tuft of soft brown. He’d watched as she’d revealed it, first lifting her skirt to reveal mesh panties and rubbing herself through the fabric, then hooking her fingers to pull the black knit to the side, revealing swollen lips, plump and petaled. Her fingers made an inverted V, spreading them.

“You want it, don’t you?”

Before this, she’d made him strip stark naked and sit on the couch, hands submissively placed on his lap with his palms up. It had been a full week since he’d come, but every evening she’d made sure to tease him until he thought he would crack. Every day, grinding, rubbing and edging without release. Even as she’d first ordered him into the collar for tonight’s game of pleasure he knew he was getting erect.

“Yes.” He didn’t deny his desire.

He’d never made her come. She’d come with him, of course, frigging her clit with rapid finger strokes while he petted and stroked her breasts and belly and neck, or plunged his cock into her. But he always knew that it was something she decided, and a journey she made for herself. “I’m not going to make it hard for you, i’ll let you know when you’re doing it right, but whether or not you please me is entirely up to you.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.” He swallowed.

“Oh, I’m not going to punish you if you can’t. Just the only way you get to come is when I make you , and the only way I’m going to to it is if you make me come first.”

“But…”

“I’m denying myself too, you know. I find you most attractive when you’re desperate and submissive, but I’m helping and leaving myself unsatisfied until you figure it out.” Her skirt was down now, her hands on her hips in a command pose.

“Could… could you come here, Ma’am?”

“Why?”

“I want to give you pleasure.”

“Think you’re up to it?”

He ran his hand under her skirt, up the creamy expanse where her stocking ended, starting above the slight dip in the softness of her thigh and stopping where the hem of her panties began. He saw the effect in a widening smile and the way she twisted towards him. “Yeah.”

“Brat.”

“Yes Ma’am” He took her hips with both hands, steering her gently so she knew he wanted her to sit on the couch. “Please Ma’am, let me please your cunt.”

Gathering her skirt up around her waist, he used the pads of her his fingers to press, feeling the raspy texture of the nylon weave, the heat and the way the cotton gusset was becoming saturated with moisture. Her breathing told him he’d found his mark.

He read her enjoyment in the way her pose shifted, spine developing an definite curve, hip sitting to get just the spot she wanted rubbed in reach. Presently, as her deeper breathing included muffled utterances, he stooped and eased her panties down to her knees and off onto the floor, bringing his face in so close that he could smell the musk of femaleness, and kiss and nibble.
She didn’t like the tickle of a tongue, and he knew directly touching her clit, no matter how obvious the location, was more likely to induce her to give him an involuntary kick in the head. Instead he nibbled and nipped and nuzzled until her thighs locked together, trapping his head.
“Ma’am!” He pulled back with some difficulty, taking it as a blatant command for more. With the pads of his fingers, he stroked along the slick furrow, that marked the separation of her labia until his digits were wet with her.
One finger inside, was not enough, neither was two. With three, he was impressed how hard she wanted him to fuck her. He’d worried about hurting her, but this was what his Ma’am ordered, greedy, engulfing, making him put the strength of his arm into it.
“More, pet! More!”
He realized that he would probably tire before she did. Her cunt was tight like a sucking mouth, and her body making involuntary convulsions. He guessed, took a risk to please her, and took his free hand from where he was using it to brace himself and brought it to her cunt as well.
Left handed, he feared for his clumsiness, but she was merciful and placed it just so, so it moved the hood that covered the hard knot of her clitoris without scraping the pearl-pink flesh.
Her breath came in three ragged, deep inhalations, and then she swore, marking the point of no return.
Her cunt and its satisfaction was his main point of focus, but from between her legs he could see that her head was thrown back, her mouth in a circle. She tended to hold her breath when she came, grabbing onto the tension to extend it as long as possible.
“Yes! Okay, stop… you can stop pet…” Her hands now prised him from her cunt and brought him to her, flushed face smiling. “You’ve earned your release.”
“Ma’am?”
“Yes pet?”
“Can I have another reward?”
“What, pet?”
“Can I pleasure your cunt again, instead?”

—-

Escorts and Babes, an Australian directory site, wanted you to enjoy a Friday femdom story. Because femdom fiction is awesome!

Wildcard’s Submission: A History

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So a couple of days ago Wildcard suggested that he was warming up to the idea of being my part time submissive. Our relationship has always not quite fit into people’s expectations of me, and for us, something that I’m okay with, but leads to no end of boggling on the part of people who think in terms of binaries and hierarchies. I spend a lot of time correcting people who ask “so he’s your sub…?” or lifting the jaws off of floors of people who see him in dom mode after seeing him as naked vulnerable man because a surprising quantity of people don’t believe in switches.

Wildcard broached the subject of a power dynamic when we first became a couple, as an assumption that he had that it was a requirement. Obviously *the* Miss Pearl needs a sub to be happy, right? And if he wanted to be a fixture in my life that was required and no asking for what he wanted either (because topping from the bottom!). I did the sensible thing and took him on a crash course on enthusiastic consent, veto-ing the whole no limits thing before it started. In the manner of pansexual people explaining their interests, I don’t fall in love with sexual orientations, I fall in love with people.

Some of his assumptions were understandable. Prior to me, while he was awash in submissive leaning ladies flirting at him, femdoms appear to be a coy bunch and the sum total of his experience was a professional dominant who did a bang up job of introducing him to impact play, but obviously couldn’t be expected to do more than that.

After a rough couple of weeks in that period, when I was caressing and holding him him after an evening of caretaking, he softly piped up that being my pet, you know… didn’t sound that bad. For me this wasn’t quite good enough. I like fake non-con, struggling, etc… but I sure as heck cannot handle real reluctance and told him that much. Actually I did the wibbly lower lip thing and sniffled, but you can pretend I had a non-emotional, frank and considerate discussion on power exchange like people seem to imagine I have.

Wildcard is happy in scene based, limited power exchange, and that’s been that. He made a few attempts to dom me and I utterly failed to to respond in a way he could work with, and the longer we’ve been together the more he’s had to admit that he just can’t see me as that sort of role. For me its surprisingly hard to give up a part of him, even the dominant part that I’m only dog in the mangering. Call it my control freak nature- I don’t provide that outet but it feels like a loss for me to not have access to it. But, for him he’s admitted that I make him feel submissive in a way nobody else does.

But of his own volition he’s now expressed an interest in more formalized submission in his life- still not 24/7, but certainly ever encroaching into what we do together. We shall see what will become of this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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