loving couple

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

by

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.

Friday Femdom Fiction: She Tells Him The Terms of Surrender

by

You want to belong to me, don’t you?

You want that sensation of connectedness- you know I’m lovely, beautiful- I light up the room when I enter it. You’ve seen me naked, moon pale, lips and cunt slashes of petal pink. You’ve seen me in tight black, perched atop spike heels, wide hips swaying.

You’ve seen me look over my shoulder at you, belly down on the bed, your borrowed t-shirt not quite reaching to the full swell of my ass, draping loose around my little body. You’ve touched me. Tasted me, been inside me. Nobody knows my body better than you now, other than me.

Now you get to see me come through the door every day, get to press your face into my lap whenever you need a pick me up with my warmth and female scent.  You’re hooked.

But you know you could never, never own me. You’re afraid of that, afraid of watching my perfect ass for the last time as I leave for work. Afraid of how I make you feel, all weak inside, because you crave me in a way that borders on a real addiction.

We both know if you wanted you could wall yourself up. Go all tough guy and cold, cut of your nose and spite your face and walk away yourself. But you don’t want to. You want to make me stay. I make you force yourself to tell me all your dirty little secrets and tender places.

You want to wake up to feeling my hand on your cock, to fall asleep next to my warm body wriggling in under your arm, the little yelp and pout as you tweak one erect nipple though my tank top. You want to feel my tongue on your balls, lips around, nibbling, nuzzling.

You want to feel my hand on your throat, the cuffs on your wrists, spreading out splayed on the bed. You want to feel my cunt eat every inch of you as I straddle your lap. You want me to force you to meet my eyes, even as you try to look away.

It’s something I know you crave. You want to be vulnerable to me, kneel for me, take pain for me. You know nobody else is capriciously loving and cruel, can make you hurt with a smile and then kiss you like she means it.

We’ve been playing these little games for a long time, haven’t we? Every time the stakes get a little higher. Remember the first game I made you play where you traded one hard spank to get to kiss my breasts?

Or remember the day I told you I loved you? You were sitting tender for a week, but you got lured in when I told you I had a secret and then you just had to beg to know.

But this game is bigger than that, and it’s got a forfeit. What are you going to give to have me for keeps?

You know the answer- there’s a price to pay for your pleasure. You have to submit to me. Completely.

Three BDSM Collars for Two Men

by

BDSM collars with leash custom made collarI’ve given two people collars in my life, both times not at a real symbol of forever, but as a symbol of something transient.

One was blue, and made of a pretty braided loop, the other one was a deep brown leather and studded all over. The last one isn’t really a BDSM collar in the sense most people would think of, even if it goes around the neck.

There were other games of course, with that black dollarstore dog collar that it seems like every teenage goth had in the early 2000s as a fashion accessory. But that was a toy with nothing attached other than fun.

For An Experienced Submissive

I gave the first one to a man who was a submissive mentor or sorts- while we were not compatible for a long term thing, he opened a lot of possibilities for me and was very patient with a naive new femdom. That was a parting gift, ordered at a leather and kink shop in Montreal and snuck into his hotel room with a plate of homemade cakes. I picked the colour and design because he was Swedish, and bound to return home across the Atlantic, and because he wasn’t a hard, harsh person.

I don’t know, in the end, if he kept it. We mostly lost touch and it’s not important, because the relationship is going to symbolize different things for him. He left behind a scarf and a few letters that are well hidden away, just about forgotten for me- I think more about the positive impact that it had on my confidence, more than anything else. That collar was almost like an attempt to lock all the good memories of the time we had together into the narrow confines of its loop.

For Hope And a New Submissive

The second one was a Christmas gift for Wildcard. We were still so new that it was not even official, and I knew that these things might not last, and that it was too early for any smart person to answer anything other than “maybe”. And I didn’t want anything more than that, then, but I wanted to give him something that was about possibilities.

A leather working friend made me that collar- and I gave it to him with a big pile of little mundane vanilla gifts, shyly telling him it was a play collar. It actually took two incarnations to get it right- the first, of vegan leather, was a little too stiff, but the second is still around. I picked  brown because it was a colour he wore a lot, and asked for it to be masculine but not butch, set with a heavy duty fastener in the front to weigh it so the buckle sat in the back and I could still attach a leash.

At the time, I down played it, shy he’d take it as crazy talk, like some sort of overly attached girlfriend. I must have down played it too much, because Wildcard, a switch and a brat, reacted to the gift by declaring that hey, he could try it on me!

I gave a strong reaction, flustered, insisting that NO! It was for him! And it’s come out to play several times since then, but mostly it lives in a bag under the bed with all the other toys. He doesn’t think about it or its implications, which is not something that bothered me- it makes me smile and it was a good stepping stone for working out what we wanted.

The Collar That Is Not Quite Your Usual BDSM Collar

And then there is the third collar I make myself. Pulled out of the sewing box, bright, thick satiny ribbon to go about his neck, we use that regularly, and I tie it in place, telling him that this means he’s a pet, and pets don’t get to feel guilty. I like to look after my submissives more so than to receive service by default. When we play, and connect, it’s about bridging that barrier we keep up, between ourselves and the world.

Kink is about opening up, as much as it is about playfulness. This will never be serious business for me- BDSM collars can be sentimental, but valuable in the way I stole and wear one of Wildcard’s sweaters. But there’s a vulnerability even in the silliness and the banality of real life because it’s basically letting yourself be a sort of real you don’t share with most people.

I don’t know if a ribbon will always be the collar we default to. Maybe someday I’ll order him a replacement from a craft working friend again. Maybe I’ll take up awl and leather and make him one myself, or beads, or maybe never. But each collar has in turn served its purpose.

While there’s a lot of snark about velcro relationships- slave today, free tomorrow, I think that a BDSM collar doesn’t have to be forever to serve its purpose. They just have to work in the moment.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Makeup Sex

by

“Please punish me!” He was naked, his arms folded over his chest with the elbows drawn in, and his mouth beseeching, hoping. Vulnerable.

When they’d had the actual argument, voices hadn’t been raised. She’d touched him, and wept. She wasn’t a person to whom loud rage came easy, just emotions compressed inside herself until her core became clogged with unsaid, over self analyzed complaints and only raw honesty could dig her out. She’d said all she needed to say, and he’d listened, now he was left with the guilt she hated to place on him.

“I’m not… I’m still angry.” She had her fists half balled, her shoulders squared but her face half turned away, her mouth holding the signature of the pain she was feeling in the way she curled her lips. “I don’t want some sort of big display to show you’re sorry. I want you to give me what I need, not just today, but every day, when I actually need it. And I don’t want you to do this because you want to prove something and then get distracted tomorrow.”

“Please. Please Jane. I fucked up. I love you.”

“I know you do, baby. But wanting me isn’t the same as being good for me.” He body ached to take him, to put him under her hands and back in his place. “You fucked up, but you’re still mine.”

“Please…”

She took a deep breath. “You’re not going to feel better until I punish you, aren’t you?”

His expression told her the answer was yes.

She touched her tongue to the roof of her mouth, behind her teeth and reached, hands pulling his arms from where they were covering his body, exposing him. “Very well. Go take a shower and then come back to the bedroom. Dry yourself off properly and do not dawdle under the hot water. Bring a towel with you.”

His lanky body stretched as he got out of the bed, limbs leading, eyes still stickily focused on her until he left the room and she heard the bathroom door swing shut.

She got up, took the elastic from her wrist and pulled her loose hair into a tail next to her ear, keeping it out of her face. She wore the garb of early fall, high socks reaching to white thighs, ass hugging shorts, a sweater that was half way into dress length and made up for a modest body by tumbling off one shoulder. She drank a glass of water and the mirror told her that the tear stained redness had started to fade from her complexion.

She heard the water of his shower as she gathered her dominance from it’s dissembled places, putting willpower with love, and letting herself trust again enough to loose her sadism. The light in the bedroom was already off, but she rose to extinguish the one in the hall and set candles on the dresser, calming and giving everything a softness. On the bed, patting the duvet into flatness, she laid out the studded leather strip of his collar, the many stranded flogger of stretchy rubber, the slim, sharp crop in its nylon sheath, gloves and lube.

The shower noises stopped, and she waited the next few moments until he emerged, wavy hair tossled all over the place and dark with residual moisture, towel held to half curtain his nudity. She took it from his hand and raised her brows, letting a hint of the command enter her voice, “I hope you did a good job getting dry. Otherwise this is going to really hurt.”

He had an aura of nervous anticipation. She knew that the shower had both let him center himself and unsettled him, never completely sure how far she’d go. He’d seen her fully released, letting loose on a borrowed masochist and the joy in her face as she made the man scream. It turned her on that she intimidated him, liked that letting him watch gave her another lever of control.

She smirked put her hands on him as if she owned him, first his arm and then cradling his testicles, liking their weight in her hand and the sense that his body was entirely in her control. “Kneel.”

Abruptly, he went from almost a head taller than her to having his face level with her belly. She made him hold his head just so, in submissive supplication and slid his collar about his throat, pulling the tabbed end through the buckle so it say below his adam’s apple. her fingers ran through his hair and then grabbed a handful at the back, pulling up.

Without much choice, he followed her command and ended up belly down on the bed. She’d left his towel crumpled on the floor while her palm cupped his bare ass and began to spank.

She built up the sensations while teasing him that she hardly thought he deserved a warm up. His guilt broke the path easily, letting his submissiveness burst out, horny, hungry, unable to do anything other than take what she wanted and be grateful,

With a warm glow in the cheeks of his buttocks, she struck until her own palm stung, reminding him he was being punished. “Inattentive. Lazy. Flirt.’

When she saw he needed more she brought the flogger from the foot of the bed. “Close your eyes!”

She swung the tool in flicking strikes, landing the rubber ends with soft splats, noting each gasp as she intensified her strikes. The red grew and blossomed, and she let the whip fall over his back, remembering her lessons- let it fall like she was painting wings, always in control, always letting weight and momentum fall where she could force him to endure. his skin darkened, flushed and his head moved. “Slut!”

She let another slash land across his raised buttocks, noting his cock had climbed to rock hard. “Does thinking about what a bad boy you are turn you on?”

He whimpered, past further comment and she responded with the crop, sharp pain, her choice of head-strikes or white welts from the shaft. She knew he would bruise up purple after this, looked forward to the days of marking and redoubled her efforts until she’s scouraged away the guilt and brought him to an abject, animal place.

Admiring the fresh marks, she caressed and scooped the towel, tapping his hip by way of indicating he should lie belly down with the fabric under his legs and hips. He knew what was coming, even as she drew on the black rubber glovers and made her fingers shiny with lube.

She made him accomadate her, inside and out, probing fingers stretching and making him completely exposed. She watched as she found secret spots inside, pressing until he ground himself into the rough nap of the terry cloth under him. She saw as his hips shifted, that his erection was standing rampant. Nothing got him harder than being completely used and teased. He began to beg.

Her cunt was wet, soaking through her panties. Clumsily, she shed her gloves, told him that he was going to be her toy and fuck her. The button and zipper fly on her pants came apart with quick yank, shedding her tight shorts down her legs in one smooth motion with her dripping panties. She let her bare fingers wiggle over the split lips and drenched dark curls. “You are going to fuck me. As hard as I want, and you won’t come.”

He nodded, making a little mewl of acquiescence, face tense with supressed desire, until she made him mount her, positioned in front of him so he saw the unblemished swell of her pale, round ass and the vivid, enflamed warmth of her cunt, making him work his cock into her.

She gave a little gasp, accommodating its size and then engulfing completely, inner muscles gripping, showing him that all his size was nothing she could not control and use. he began to thrust and the noises she made came from deep in her chest, raw lust, loving the power that made him do this. Her fingers slipped between her legs, once, twice, almost too slicked up to find purchase and tease her clit.

He made little noise, all his concentration going to hold back and resist the barrage of stimulus as she insisted, “Don’t come. If you do I’ll flog you raw.”

Her threat became a gasp as she came, almost squeezing him completely out with the violence of her contractions, and he gripped at her hips, sheathing the way she liked to give her something to use. When she could draw steady breath, she heard him beg again and said, softly, “Yes. Yes you may.”

His orgasm came with a scream, louder than her, as the intensity of everything finally was loosed, throwing him into a final spasm that sent a pulse of hot semen deep into her. He collapsed, first over her back and then sprawling, onto his back, too drained and lost to give more than little body jerks as she curled up beside him, stroking and smiling until he could reach for her again, seeking a different kind of release in the comfort of her arms. Knowing he was forgiven.

~

This week’s Friday Femdom Fiction is brought to you by XXX Sex Guides – a dating site for kinksters, who kindly offered to have their story enjoyed by everyone- and then left what I wrote up to me- which meant something real, raw and very much taken from life.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Hands On Candle Wax

by

The room was lit only by the bright flare of the candle in her hand, and the fat little flickering telights floating in a glass bowl on the night stand. His body was stretched out beneath her, slim and angular, contrasts emphasized by the shadows and made softly shiny from the oil she had kneaded and pressed into his skin.

Before she had lit the candle in her hand, she’s dabbed her finger with sweet almond oil and starting at his bare shoulders, worked along the valleys and edges of muscle and bone. His skin was warm, thick and made soft by her ministrations and whisper fine hair.

When he’d come home she’d made him strip off all his clothing, shedding the office friendly polo and slacks, socks and all the contents of his pockets, admiring him in the curtain filtered light through the door, blue cast over shades of the lightest brown. She liked the smallness and darkness of his nipples, and the maleness of his chest, scattered with dark hair and broad, compared with his waist and his slim hips. In the candle light she could still see the muscular shape of his ass, and remembered the way her fingers dug in, teasing out the stresses of the day until, soothed by the oil, his body realeased itself to her and her touch.

The oil had soaked into her fingers as well, making them soft and leaving an almost imperceptible scent. She’d tried various kinds on his flesh, coconut butter in white lumps turning to a clear slickness, golden olive oil and liked them all, enjoying the glide of her hands over his skin and the press of her breast to his back when she lay atop him.

But now, warmed and ready, she extended her arm, catching the first few drops of wax on the back of her hand to test the temperature. Finding it sharp but safe, she slithered her fingernails down beside his spine before hovering, letting the shadow tell her where the drops would land before hearing the noise he made at each point of impact.

He groaned and wiggled, but stayed belly down, his arms held in the clasp of leather cuffs, anchored to the heavy headboard. She grinned, raising and lowering the height of the flame in her hand so that the heat was altered, controlling the volume and physical level of his reaction to her exact preference.

It was the wave of a conductor’s baton, not the precise calibration of scientific instruments, but as each spatter cooled in ragged white circles, she saw an increasing pattern in the rise and fall of his ass, humping the bed. She giggled, pressing her palm flat on his butt to grind him into the mattress and then adding a few plops of wax when he pushed back, making him yelp.

“Naughty little slut.” She was careful with her candle when she kissed and whispered in his ear. “You want to come, don’t you?”

“Mhm!” his head nodded, as he pushed himself up to the limits of the anchor rope and she twisted him, rolling him to his back. Her knees pressed into the bed bedside him, onto the towel she’d laid with care beneath him to save the sheets, and her free hand spidered over his stomach before caressing over his half engorged penis and the soft weight of his balls.

She made a purring giggle and brought the candle close to her face, making a small “o” with her lips, before blowing, putting out the flame with one strong puff. She set the candle aside and straddled him, the heels of her palms and bent wrists holding her weight over him, just the distance of her small, pert breasts and her panty clad groin wiggled against his.

“Well, you’ve been a good boy, so maybe I’ll indulge you…” She could feel her clit’s warm, buzzing tingle, teasing herself as she teased him. “Only I’m not in the mood to fuck, but I love seeing you shoot all over your belly. But I want to hear you beg me.”

“Please Miss C___”, please get me off!”

“Little louder…”

“Please!”

“Okay slut. I know those balls of yours have filled up again.” She swung her leg back over, ceasing to straddle him, and smiling at he effect on his cock as her fingers took another tiny bit of oil, before her hand circled him.

She began to stroke and pull at her length, her other hand cradling his balls before working around, fingers finding the sensitive place at the root of his penis, and the secret spots that extended to his ass, until he was bucking and sliding around in her hand, desperately trying to get that last little bit of stimulation to tip him to the point of no return.

“Slow down, you’ll come on my terms or you’ll even the evening with a ruined orgasm.” She warned.

He whimpered, and just when he thought he was past the point of being able to hold back, he heard her permission and felt the clench of her hand, coaxing.

“Ahhhh,” the orgasm caught him hard, heavier than he expected, rocking spasms through his body. She watched his body twitch, fighting the cuffs and his mouth open, chin tucking toward his chest as his cock sent two spurts of creamy white out, the first, airborn and splattering on his stomach and the second landing in a string across her fingers.

She brought her hand to her mouth, licking, smiling as he lay there, utterly helpless under her hands. “Good boy.”

~~~

A quickie with hot wax and an exploration of sensual female domination to add to the collection of femdom stories. Liked what you read? Leave a comment!

Friday Femdom Fiction: Out of Her Hand(cuffs)

by

“I’ve decided you have too much independence most of the time and that’s interfering with your ability to submit. So I’m going to take that away.”  She gently moved him into the position she wanted him to be in, admiring the lines of his bare back as she stood behind him.

The ratchet made a click every time they tightened. On his wrists, slim as they were, that meant cinching them in close, squeezing the metal, satisfyingly, until his hands were captured behind his back in two loops of shiny steel.

He had held his arms for her, obediently for once, while she locked them into place.  Of course as soon as they were on and she let go he was testing against them, feeling the metal. She’d made him strip to the waist, and she could see the muscles shift under his skin as he figured out how much liberty he had.

“You’re going to spend the next four and a half hours with your arms like that,” she reminded. “From now until bedtime.”

5:22 PM

He looked up at her from the floor, where she’d shoved him down to kneel, expectantly.

“No, this isn’t about me playing with you for kinky fun time.” She frowned, shaking her head.”This is about reminding you that you’re helpless.”

He looked confused, but she shrugged and moved the pillow to the small of her back, making herself comfortable on the couch, going back to looking at the television. Her legs crossed at the ankle, tight, soft black knit rubbing against black knit. “You can stay here with me if you want, or go do something else on your own. Up to you.”

He knee walked over, putting his head into her lap. Her fingers combed through his thick, soft hair, but her eyes stayed on the screen at the other side of the living room. He focused on the feeling of her nails on his scalp, on the warmth of her thigh and the velvet nap of the couch upholstery.

6:13 PM

“Can we please take these off?”

“Are you safewording?” She looked at his face to gauge his level of discomfort, checking to see if he was genuinely in distress or simply irritated. “Think about this. Do you really need me let you go or are you just sulking because you want this to be about you?”

He seemed to consider it, weighing his tolerance to the consequences. “N…no.”

“Then tough it out.” There. That was the hard part, that little bit of guilt that not letting him have fun would have repercussions for her, the other half of the lesson she was teaching herself with at the same time she reminded him of his place. In the spirit of that, she pushed those thoughts aside, and the trailing resentment that went with them, focusing on the moment. “Submit.”

He looked ashamed and she smoothed out her skirt, reaching for her laptop and thumbing the lid open. He watched her click the keys, halfway between touch typing and two fingered button pushing.

6:58 PM

“What shall we have for dinner? Hm, is it takeout night or am I going to cook something?”

“Uh…” He looked uncomfortable about being asked. He never liked to directly pick what they ate, always preferring that she made a suggestion. “Whatever you want is fine.”

“A big plate of spaghetti for you to bury your face in? So you get covered with sauce?” Her finger lightly caressed his cheek. “Smeary red?”

He hesitated again, thinking about the texture mashed into his skin and how it would smell.  She watched his expression, still admiring his bare chest and the way he flexed his shoulders, still uncomfortable in the grip of the handcuffs. She smirked.

“How about pork fajitas? The pork needs to be used up.”

“Okay, but I want you to help me, you’re the one who knows how to make it better.”

“You could just uncuff me and I could make dinner…”

“No, I don’t think so. You can kneel on the kitchen floor and I’ll ask you if I have any questions.”

7:36 PM

She kept him there while she put together dinner, crisped pork shreds wrapped in cornflour shells,  garnished inside with confetti-fine shreds of lettuce and spicy, sweet salsa and green and garlic sharp guacamole. He’d felt fidgety and frustrated, watching the outline of her ass and the way the slight stretch in the fabric of her pencil skirt cradled it.

He thought about other things to go do, picking up his phone and poking at the screen or curling up with his computer, but both weren’t options.

“There, two for me, three for you, with a squirt of lime.” She turned, crouched and smiled. “Come on, we’ll eat on the rug.”

She sat mermaid style, and he knelt, trying to figure out how to eat the food she’d put in front of him. He leaned forward, trying to take a bite and succeeded in making the tortilla unroll, spreading the blended contents on his plate and getting guacamole on his nose.

She giggled and took a bite, savoring the crispness, and the mixed flavours. “Having trouble?”

He frowned and she reached out with a finger, scooping the green off his nose before popping it in her mouth and sucking. “Mmm…”

“I can’t eat like this.”

“Well, that does sound like a problem. You’re going to be hungry if you don’t think of a solution.”

“Can… can you help me eat this?”

There was a satisfied smirk, as if she was waiting to hear that, and she picked up the fajita, retucking it together and holding it in his reach. He took a big bite.

 

Friday Femdom Fiction: Sweat & Service

by

She took the stairs slowly, feeling the burn in her thighs and up into her hips. Her chest felt the press of the sprints she’d just completed, and shook her head, letting her loose, long hair sway, trying to cool herself, holding the elastic she’d pulled from her sleep and sweat tangled hair and the coiled up cord of her headphones.

First the front steps, up a story, the door, with it’s glass panels, and the inside steps, all the way up again, to the inner door. She was tired.

He was waiting there, at the top of the steps, his legs folded under him in a prayer pose, head bowwed and palms flat on the floor, long arms a little forward, as if in supplication.

The slight askewness in the way he was kneeling that said he had heard her coming at the first rattle of the door and got into position. She guessed rushing from the bedroom, or maybe he’d lumbered from his bed as far as the kitchen.

“Mistress!”

She smiled, stopped and rested her hand on the wall, plucking her phone from the taut pocket made by the tight grip of her sports bra and dropping it, keys, cord and elastic onto the hall stand.

His fingers went for the laces of her shoes, sensible trainers with white, honeycomb mesh and big white soft plastic, like rubber and panels of bright colours in purple and neon and reflective grey. She always put a double knot in the bow and laced her feet in tight, like it was a corset.

He kissed her then, on the crossed lace strip of her right instep, peeling her shoes off to reveal the padded grey ankle socks she was wearing underneath. Her feet were damp, clean sweat, fresh, and she smiled as he hooked a finger into the band of her socks and peeled them off, feeling him lifter her foot to kiss at her soles and then her calf and thigh.

He tasted salt, tongue darting our, delicately, seeking up the creamy inside of her leg until her hand pushed him away. “Fetch me a glass of water. No ice”

When he got up, she followed him into the kitchen, where he took a glass from the shelf and ran the tap for a moment to be sure the temperature was cool. She finished it in big gulps, plunking the spent vessel on the counter and lazily making her order an announcement- “Undress me.”

He knelt again, to pull down her brief shorts, black knit, drawstring drawn all ruffled to sit on her narrow waist but stretch fabric filled by the swell of her wide hips. She stretched, pointing her toes as she stepped free of the discarded garment, and he saw the jut of her hip bones beneath the thin fabric of her cotton panties, and the dark shadow of her groin.

He kissed and licked her pale belly, tongue making a trace to her rib flare, where his lips nipped at the bone, before moving behind her. The sports bra was a tight stretch of black elastic, pressing her small breasts, tight as he pulled it up, and she indulgently let her arms move up, making it easy. He got a rich waft of her smell from her smell, intoxicating, pheromone laden.

“Touch me.”

She didn’t need to explain what she meant, caressing her body, around to cup her bared breasts, kissing the back of her neck, and reaching around, palm sliding down her stomach and finger finding the furred fold of her labia, playing, getting a wriggle and then a pleased noise. Her hand crept behind her, making explorations of her own. “Serve me.’

His mouth traced from neck to shoulder, even as his fingers returned to her back, finding all the placed he knew she liked to feel him press, then cleaving to her sinking lower, back down to kneeling as he nuzzled the fullness of her ass. Hand and mouth, and then she let a giggle escape as his impish nature tempted him too much to nip at one perfect rounded cheek.

“Bad boy, serve your Mistress and go set up a shower.”

Friday Femdom Fiction: Roadside Distraction

by

Each stretch of road passed much like the last: pressed asphalt, road signs, trees, drainage ditches and painted marks in day glow. She yawned and adjusted the ear pieces of her glasses, looking away from the bright beaming sun ahead of them and over to her left, where he was driving them both at a steady pace that just nudged the speed limit. She liked to watch his hands on the steering wheel, from time to time reaching to shift gears with a short tug.

She swung her foot in a lazy crescent swoop that left her loose plastic shoe dangling from her toes, glanced at the surroundings again before making a decision. “You should find a place to pull over.”

That made him look away from the road completely, nervously checking for what calamity she was about to confess. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She made a crooked smile, clarifying this was about her pleasure not her distress. “You need to pull over and take all your clothing off.”

“What?”

“Now. You have a reasonable legal expectation of privacy in your car. This is Canada.” She made her voice serious, cutting off any argument and pointed to help him focus despite suddenly frayed nerves, suggesting the turn off that had caught her eye. He signaled, switching lanes somewhat jerkily.

The car came to a stop in the shoulder, away from the main road but still within eyesight of it. He hesitated, the car idling until she told him to turn it off, and then got stuck again, unable to take the first motion to undress until she pulled his sunglasses from his face and repeated, “Everything off. Completely.”

The polo went first, his arms thrown up over his head, pulling and revealing his stomach. Stripped of his shirt, his torso was pale, blue vein traces marked along the top of his chest like a river delta. Awkwardly, trying not to lift his hips up past the line of the window, he undid his pants and inched them off his legs with his underwear until they got stuck on his shoes.

She laughed and took possession of everything in a bundle on her right side, wedged against the door against her hip. He kept glancing out the window towards the main road and behind them, hand touching his face, soothing away worry.

“Play with yourself.”

His lips were pulled thin with anxiety, but at her insistence, he began to cup and stroke his cock, eyes going heavy lidded. She could tell even before he began to touch himself he was excited.

“I bet you’re feeling that full body vulnerability, aren’t you? You don’t know what I’m going to do next or how long I’m going to keep you like this.”

His lip moved, but she shook her head, leaning in to say. “Don’t talk, just nod your head.”

“Mmm…”

Her fingers stroked up his bare arm, watching him coax himself fully thick, before she tugged his hand away. A car passed on the road near them and he flinched.

“Shhh..” She took over, touching the velvety soft skin, petting and carassing before pulling her had back to her mouth.

When she returned contact, cupping and gripping his cock, her palm was wet with saliva, warm and chafing fast and light, quick friction on the midsection and sensitive head of his cock. “Don’t come.”

“Please…”

“If you come, I’m making you drive us the rest of the way wearing nothing but a belly covered in semen. You think you’re exposed now? Imagine trying to concentrate on the highway like that.”

He has his shoulders tensed and his arms pulled in close to his body, bent at the midsection, neck muscles tugged so his head projected forward leading with his chin. “Fuck! Please stop.”

“Think about that, me holding your clothes right here on my lap until we pull into the motel parking lot. You having to dress while the concierge is looking to see what new person has pulled in and other people walking around. They’d probably see you…”

“Miss. Please. I’m going to come!”

She eased off, smirking. “No. No you’re not.”

Another car drove past, silver grey and boxy. He gave a deep breath, only to find she’d pulled her skirt up to her thighs and was tugging her panties off. The stretchy cotton discarded with his clothes, she straddled his lap, grinding.

“Ahh…”

She was wet, the head of his cock almost guiding itself into cunt with the slippery wriggle of her hips. “Ooff, crowded!”

She giggled, feeling the steering wheel awkwardly pressing into her back and squeezing him with her thighs, the better to make them both fit in the car seat.

“Please, please, please…”

“Nope.” She dismounted, sliding him out of her as she manoeuvred back into her seat. “Not until the next rest stop. Now I wonder if I should give you your shorts back?”

~

I’ve been playing with this fantasy for a couple of weeks and I’m glad to have another addition for Friday Femdom Fiction.

Friday Femdom Fiction: Experimental Purple Prose

by

Naked.

She pulled him hard, by a handful of hair at the back of his head, a rough yank to expose his mouth for the kiss, and her lips met his, tongue fencing tip of tongue, the same tongue that talked with sweet and sharp word and found the fountain spigot that set her cunt trickling clear and sticky. Here, now, she found his cock, and her grip cradled, clenched and pulled back and forth that the middle, just below the too sensitive head, but above the balls beneath.

Unbroken by the challenge she made, he took her by the shoulders and shoved, back onto the soft bed. His own hands found her slit, with the pads of his fingers crooked to tease and test the wet state. Fitting them inside her, and then into the mouth that had just stolen a kiss from him. Grazing her lips, then, with a glaze of her own other lips and meeting the gaze of her eyes until her frustrations and the promise of what she might do to him forced him to look away, fearing now, and feeling the rake of her nails on his broad back.

“I want this,” she hissed, finding his prick and replacing her hand, using it as if it were the lever and the bed they rolled upon was the fulcrum; the fixed point by which she could move the world. Or at least seek to make him move to her whims as she made what was erect in her grip plug the wetness that continued between her legs.

Guttural breathing, him on top, her parting herself, kissing. They fucked like snakes, more twined together, bending and wriggling, than slammed mammals. Her curved body soft at the places she swelled, but hard where bone made delicate looking hollows; him sinewy, long and lean, her legs wrapped to keep him in place and him sliding, belly to belly, back and forth. She engulfed, pleasured and trapped him twice, inside and out.

“More, more, more!” She always wanted more, whether she swallowed him into her slick gullet, teeth coyly sheathed; wrapped him in slippery hands until his semen spurt brought him back from demanding a double grip to hiding, shrunken in one hand; or like now, where her cunt muscles devoured. Her hips tilted up, lunging, her hands finding light ways to hurt and leverage to take what she wanted.

The same fingers that had probed her cunt were now tamed into helping bring about a body spasm that started inside her, shrill calling, her cunt becoming more intimately aware of the part of him it had borrowed and was using. She wanted him to stay hilted until the last shudder finished, taking in a suck of air between her teeth as the energy of her excitation defused.

And then his face was turned away from hers again, into the pillow, two exhalations and then a male cry, matched with a final surrender as he stopped pulling back, away and accepted he was helpless to hold off coming. She never felt the splash of semen at the moment, just the aftershocks that shook him gently in her arms as she held him to her, and then the seep as he stayed buried.

—

I wanted to get back to the spirit of Friday Femdom Fiction, which was supposed to be more spontaneous and less polished. So you’re getting something experimental this time.

Light BDSM With A Lover

by

“If you wanted to torment me, blindfold me and tie me to the bed and force me to have an orgasm with the (Hitachi Knockoff) vibrator, I wouldn’t mind,” the request is made as coyly and casually as he can manage, couched in terms that let him pretend he’s not asking for a very specific scenario.

He doesn’t like to ask for things- but then again, neither do I. For me, I deal with it by hinting, coaxing or just flat out taking. He’d been toying with trying to seduce me, little misbehaviours and touches for the last day or so. I’d noticed, but I’d been careful about the bait- he’s been under the weather and I’ve started to second guess myself, not sure if he’s doing this courting because he’s ready or because he feels like he should be ready because he cares about me. (Holy first world problems, Batman!)

At times like this, my body is at once throbbingly libidinal and jealously guarding that same energy. I certainly wanted sex. I’d spent the morning of that day intermittently wandering out onto the sun warmed back balcony, looking at down at where a pair of young men were pulling apart a brick patio- gloves, t-shirts and well fitted jeans on slender, muscular bodies. They didn’t seem to notice that I noticed them, the handsome one in the grey shirt, kneeling and pulling up red rectangles from the spring damp ground.

I thought about something cliche, taking him for an anonymous fuck that made him feel used, working out the logistics in my head: the condoms, the communication, the nail scratches on his work dirtied skin. Then I put these thoughts out of my head because something, beyond the challenge of the chase, is off. I don’t typically tell Wildcard about these momentary distractions because I don’t know how to convey that when given a sexual choice that doesn’t mean  either/or but also, I still want him more. The presence of attractive men makes me grumpy that they are not him, and I don’t like admitting that. Given free reign to fuck any man I want, I find myself recoiling, not even mustering up the enthusiasm to flirt. Even weirdly resentful.

But that night, after a morning of fuzzy headed domestic productivity and little in the way of writing, I’ve put those thoughts away. I feel, and dismiss, the sort of pressure that suggests a migraine is looming, a throb in my sinuses and behind my right eye. I’ve been moody again, slow moving and prone to looks of introspective sadness that leave him asking: “What’s wrong? is there anything I can do?”

He feels responsible when I look that way, like he has to find out how to take me out of my head and back into the moment. It’s the sort of relationship thing you discover is important when you’re an adult. But my mood is my mood, and I don’t want to deal with that, for the moment, and so I find the wound up cloak of my aggressiveness, the thing that blankets comfortably around me when I dominate. Casually, I select a candle from where it’s resting in the clutter on his bureau and tell him to take off his shirt. White paraffin lit with a red lighter is then tipped over his bare back.

The little drops cast a shadow before they land, making it easy to guess where you’ll see a splat materialize. I test them on the back of my hand, and pepper him with wax drops. I know he likes the sharp, quick and hot pain on his skin. It’s a cheap trick, but all fetishes are cheap tricks and easy shots, the sex version of knowing where someone hides their spare key so you can rifle through their home unmolested.

His back is like leather, for whatever reason, probably just one of those genetic quirks. When we were first discovering each other’s bodies I wanted to hurt him, to see if he could deal with my level of sadism, and sunk my sharp nails next to his spine. He gave a deep sigh and relaxed, his taut shoulders loosening. For Wildcard, that was just the right amount of pressure to deal with his constant knotted state.

Watching the wax fall, it lands clear and hardens in white, fuzzy edged blots. He shifts a little, and I know he’s enjoying it. This is light BDSM, nothing terrible or complicated, no fearsome scourges or complicated rigging. He’s not even tied down at this point, although his arms are held up and well out of the way, but his head’s going to the right place. It is, as it should be.

When he drops, it’s always very subtle and achingly vulnerable. He lets the tightness of his body’s assembled parts relax and folds down, head dipping and nuzzling against me. His large eyes will half lid- decadent, his guard down. I flick and peel most of the wax off his back and make him stand to brush the rest off, and I can feel the lightest pressure of the connection I’ve just built.

If you were into woo, or magic or tantra, there would be some poetic insertion here about energy, or sacredness, or waking the goddess in me. I’m an atheist and left stumbling around with half remembered undergrad psychology lectures and the sort of inaccurate drug metaphors that hint the closest I’ve been to getting high is wrinkling my nose at someone else’s pot smoke.

Nonetheless, I feel in control, and push him back onto the bed, climbing on top, my eyes meeting his as my hands find and capture his wrists to pin him. He doesn’t like meeting my gaze when I get like this, as much as he likes the dominant part of me- it’s like looking directly into a light.

I tease him that I’ve never really hurt him, and he tells me that just my eyes are scary. He knows I can be mean, but I never force him past what he can handle, and yet the way my eyes look are a reminder that this rigidity is always there.

Wildcard’s a switch- he knows what it’s like from the other side. He’s made those eyes at me and dealt with the fact that I don’t look away and I don’t inherently find I want to, not with anyone. We navigate it as a power game. I know from experience with him that one session like this will discharge his submission and he’ll flip the other way, joking about spanking me and possibly doing his best to make that happen. I look forward to the play scraps in the future, but tonight, wriggling up against him, I can feel the hints that he’s aroused by what we’re doing and still hoping for the reward he hinted for before we started.

I tease him, threatening to not carry it out, tasting the power to say no, but I enjoy it, tying my soft red scarf over his eyes and buckling him into dark leather cuffs and clipping those above his head so his cock is mine to tease. We use slippery, cool lube from the pharmacy, Life brand “Intimate Fluid”, less viscous than ordinary KY, trickling it into my palm and in a wet glaze over his penis, pink and shiny like he’s just pulled out of my cunt or he’s breaking a world record for volume in pre-cum. I use my hand first, before I find the toy. I watch him wriggle and tell him I miss seeing his vulnerable eyes, now hidden away under the scarf and he tries to assure me I can still see his mouth.

The strong pulse of the wand works best squashed flat against the middle of his penis, my other hand curved to cup around, so I can feel the tremors and better jerk him up and down. When he comes he utters three sounds, starting with “Oh…” the two other words too garbled to make out.

When we started doing this he used to utter “Oh fuck!” just as semen started to fountain. Like he was holding a particularly awkward and fragile object that just slipped his grip, or he was startled to suddenly be aware he’d came under these circumstances, his whole body jerking forwards. I don’t know if he’s consciously decided to change what he says, but it’s the selfsame ejection of warm cum, three strings spurting, onto his furred stomach and my fingers.

I let him relax, and sort out the business of the cuffs that are holding his wrists. Kleenex blots away the evidence except for a little residue, and I wash my now slimy hands as lube and cum cool and curdle. The icky part of sex- but not a bad part. Sex is not supposed to be sterile or dignified.

He wants to be a good lover, so he does his best to try to make me come, touching and stroking my body, bringing his mouth and tongue to my nipples. He knows how to do this, but I never got rid of the migraine. Instead we talk a bit, and then my headache spikes and it’s his turn to dig into my back, massaging until the stab behind the eyes fades.

Tomorrow, he’ll help make me come, selfless about his own pleasure as the wave pattern of my own orgasm builds and my mind still carrying the lingering traces of the things I did the night before, but right now he gives me what I need in the moment and exactly what I want. The pain in my head fades and in the dimmed lights, bouyed by the warmth and the weight of the blankets, I sleep with him, in his bed, nested like lego bricks.

BDSM can be a lot of things for people: structure, an escape, release or catharsis, a way to be someone or something different. For me, it’s intimacy.