Friday Femdom Fiction: Doggy Style

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mount me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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Sonnet For My Submissive IV

In which Circe confesses that not all men are pigs.

The Rabbit

There’s a fullness to his lips that lingers
In my mind, ruddy rose against fresh cream
And in his hands, squared shape to his fingers

Yet taper thin wrists, structured in slim theme

I find him fragile, careful, yet not frail
Like a rabbit that freezes in your gaze
He reads as beautiful as he does male
Sets me compelled to capture, take and praise

Ah! Desire, catch his throat in my control
Down! Deeper! Command with teeth on his ear

By obeyed, marvel at the heart I stole
And play and prey upon his pleasured fear

Take and stroke what shivers and mindless thrusts
Tame the hare, and thus satisfy my lusts

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Polishing Silver

Silver is, among many things, my muse. Lurid and vivid sexual creativity was one of the gifts the fae left for my birth, and love makes me into a better artist.

Every Sunday, minus when he was road tripping to family, or those weekends we managed an in person park picnic, we have Sunday Worship, aka furious mutual masturbation over webcam, aided by teledildonics via the good people at Lovense, and the quieter cooperation of the manufacturers of the Pavlok.

This particular weekend, a Hush was buried in his ass and the app hooked to my phone so he could experience vibrations entirely under my control. I was squeezed into a blue latex number that didn’t just hit him in the fetishes, but punched the target through the wall. It also appealed to me on two axises of desire: my long standing teasing kink (Mercy Maria uses pro-domme work to get herself a reverse harem, I seriously consider stripping as a sexual outlet), and my newly discovered interest in the medium of rubber clothing, itself.

And regardless of the props or where I decide we go this time, my mouth is always spinning out filth: alluring, lewd and descriptive. I’m privately very self critical of my abilities as a hypnosis mistress, but I do have a gift for the erotic gab, and Silver was enraptured at my crooning and storytelling.

The fantasy I almost made Silver hands free cum to last Sunday was telling him about sharing him out to my domme friends. It wasn’t the detail of hands touching, the excess or the cruelties. It was describing him earnestly looking to me, to be sure he was serving them properly, like I wanted. 

It’s that “you endure what they, do but you know it’s all about your Miss” that gets him so bad.

Ultimately Silver is a romantic, in that he doesn’t want to serve any random domme, regardless of having certain aesthetic fetishes. He wants that connection to one person. I don’t think I can fully express how sweet that is.

When he is screaming in mixture of lust and distress because he thinks he is about to cum without permission, well… that’s really gilding the lily.

I am also very big on the intimacy of a singular “person”. I fail at “proper” poly, although I can do some group activities just fine, but the idealized network of loves and separations of relationships in one’s sexuality just… does not work for me. I fall in love and that person is writ large in the sky.

Silver. Silver. Silver. I actually slipped into love more gently than with anyone so far. I am lucky about his amiable patience with my slower roll to “commitment”, but in turn it was not quite the same 2 by 4 to the face that some of the past experiences were, and yet… I prefer coming to love him slowly. I prefer the crush kindled as a certain warm affection that grew and grew until the hearth of my heart was lit bright and hot.

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Kinky Sex On My Friend’s Couch

Kinky sex on my friend's couch happened.He’s not a novice to kinky sex, but I am the experienced one. He’s fucked piles, but here on the couch I’ve borrowed for this, I am more comfortable in this realm than he is. We’re not even doing anything particularly intense, nothing with hoops to leap through or collars and protocols, but I like what we are doing.

My control is mental.

I talk a stream of consciousness line of filth. Magicians have a patter, I spin out linked bits of carnal ideas, like I am giving a massage with my words. Each sentence slides out of my mouth, luring and inspiring him, until he is fucking me. His cock fits just right, nothing feeling pushed or rushed the wrong way, feeling like I am feeding a yearning.

He comes, back sprawled on the arm of the couch, body splayed, while I tell him dirty things. He asks for it, precise about the hows as he hands over the keys to his head. It’s not enough to be succinct, he wants a flow of words to drown him, a riff on a theme, not a closed statement.

“Fuck me, yeah, you want to? Fill me. Your cock belongs in me, belongs to me.  There isn’t a single thing I’m going to skip with you. Keep fucking me. That’s your job. You know how many women its been, you little slut. Use me. Make it hurt. Go on, I want it hard, I need more than that.”

I’d taught him a little bit about how his ass responds too, that afternoon. He is so shy, meticulous in the shower, but there’s nothing I find personally taboo about flicking my tongue. It’s the taste of soap on skin. He’s just a little bit mortified, as I trim my nails and let him try the tip of a finger in a glove, well slicked with pharmacy brand lube.

He wanted me to explore his ass.

Itself, taut, muscular. Spread, he has no pigmentation to speak of, just pink, the way the head of his cock or his nipples or lips are the same blush shade. We did it very modern, sharing lists of things we would like to try. He told me anecdotes of other men who confessed being penetrated, there. We both have a little bit of coy reverence for anal, but while he thinks he doesn’t want up in a woman, he wants me inside him.

He’s a paradox, modern and conservative, American South. I like that bashful boy next door. This weekend he’s stressed and grumpy about stuff well outside the confines and control of my reach, so it’s nice to make him vulnerable. I like his lean, long body.  I like making him nervous.

So far he’s learned a lot, including that a magic wand pressed beneath his balls makes the orgasm harder, one solid spurt of semen onto his belly.

And I push him into playing pain games.

Of course there’s this, too. I don’t have any pretense that I dislike pain, and I am enjoying breaking in his shyness. It makes me feel powerful. He doesn’t feel completely comfortable with that part of himself, with me. But he wants it, too.

It takes my affirmative consent to let him express that with me, uttering:

“I want you to hit me”

This way I make him stretch plays with his desires, sadistic but also protective and it fucks with his head. He needs to hear me demand it. I call it Madonna whore, he who has fucked any number of women to whatever kinky thing they want, more shy about this with me, the woman he loves and requests.

But I won’t tolerate hesitance, demand he overcomes cognitive dissonance to please me. He can respect me and give me what I want. Kinky sex isn’t just for friends with benefits and event hook ups. Just because his pretty face and outgoing manner leaves his bed post notched into toothpicks does not mean I expect him to be different with me. I am going to take everything.

My thighs burn from his hand slapping on the soft flesh of them, creamy insides as I worked my clit into coming. I finished with red sting mark-splotches on either side, as vivid as lipstick prints. Good. I’ll have more, later.

I am making him do it.

He’s not a masochist either, but he wants to please me so very badly.

When we fucked the other night, I whopped his back with my belt. If you think penetration is submissive, try slapping him like he’s a horse you are goading.

Hetero femdom needs metaphors like that. Horse. Bull. Big, muscular creatures. Even small past partner packed a punch. Healthy boys, particularly Brick, it can’t be about control through physical slam-downs. Not when the average man is 20% stronger than the average woman. Submission knows know gender, doesn’t care about your flesh. The small and frail can be dominant. But, to work, you need any sub to crave you in control.

I tease Brick about being slutty and innocent by turns. Poor man, he doesn’t sit well with either. After a liftime of being game to try, eager to say yes, I show him a Hitachi put against his perenium, my tongue and my fingers up his ass. First time.

I know what I am doing.

That’s the power, in kinky sex, not about holding the other party down, but about them wanting to be held.

Some of this is old ground for him: I take off his belt and loop it to hold his wrists. Safe bondage, other women have tied him up tighter.

He needs to deal with myself being a monster of sorts, as least as far as desire. I like to put the dear into him, make him suffer. He likes to please, but oh is he proud.