I’m Back!

Okay, that was an embarrassingly long hiatus.

I had the good fortune of working on a rather long femdom freelance story commission last month- I got to research some fetishes I’m not so familiar with and knock off a 4K word female led society with a side order of erotic F/m wrestling. The person who made the order was very encouraging and tolerated my world building obsession.

I turned 29 and organized a splendid birthday with a burlesque performance. I’ve been flirting with boys like its going out of style. Wildcard remains amused by this in about the same way one might be about their significant other’s un-shared but appreciated interest in bird-watching. sorry guys, no hot sexy tales of cuckolding adventures. I continue to enjoy the perks of domestic life with Wildcard.

We blew off a wedding to go to the local Secret By Invitation Only Play Party (because I know the organizer and 15 people cancelled so we wanted her to still break even on venue rental) and I had a sexy teasing scene where I was apparently so hot I distracted the dungeon monitor.

Funny anecdote from my birthday- the party was an invite absolutely everyone deal, so you had vanilla and kinky people in the same area. This is less of a problem than you might thing- the Venn Diagram for Kinky/Nerdy is basically a circle, but it led to an amusing double take when I introduced my (DM) Dungeon Master to another person as such and they did a double take as the relationship Miss Pearl the femdom had with this dude. I think he heard “this is my DOM”. Teehee.

As you know, Yumine delivered a splendid cover for “Catamite” now re-titled “The Pet Gentleman”. I’m swearing and slapping photoshop while I try to typeset. I’m still undecided on the “Too Hot For Literotica” sticker. You’ll be seeing it going live when it goes through Amazon’s approvals process, at which point expect to be saturated with HEY GUYS I HAVE A BOOK.

I promise not to turn my twitter account into non-stop book link spam. Some authors do this (you know who you are guys) and I don’t think its very pleasant to follow. Instead it’ll mostly be the usual pictures of my feet, complaints about being hungry and porn pics I liked. ūüėõ

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

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

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: Makeup Sex

“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.”


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: She Strips Her Toy and Plays With Him

She made him stand in the middle of the living room, looking him up and down. He was slightly taller than her, lanky of frame, with his neck bent to watch what she was doing, until she took his chin and fixed his gaze straight ahead at the muted brown drapes on the other side of the room.

“You’re nothing but a toy. Be a toy,”¬†her voice was stern, but with the slightest hint of mischievous lust, something husky and playful under the strict edge.

Her hand brushed his shoulder, feeling the comfortable knit of his light blue t-shirt, thin fabric over warm. spare flesh. Outside, the midday weekend sun poured through the gap in the curtain. Her other hand held a warm mug of milky tea, bitter and soothing as her fingers spidered down his back until she grabbed a handful of shirt hem, tugging it up,  so she exposed his stomach. She saw the slight ripple as his abs contracted and then relaxed, reacting to the proximity of her hand.

His belly had a light covering of hair that she caressed and then down, over the bronze buckle of his belt and the front fastening of his jeans. He shifted just enough to hint he noticed what she was doing, but kept his gaze fixed where she’d put him, while the seam and tuck¬†of his jeans¬†encouraged her to stroke her hand over his crotch, and then, spurred by her own desire, to continue to rub and touch. She knew how the fabric felt against his cock, defusing but transmitting the pressure. His reaction was the start of a swelling, and an almost imperceptible rock forwards, seeking more teasing. Sadistically, that made her stop, keeping control as she set her tea aside.

Reaching up, the tips of her fingers touched his lips. He had a full mouth, sensual and often pulled into a vulnerable pout. Now, the tips of two of her fingers slid inside, where his breath was warm and the skin was wet, past his teeth. His eyes blinked slowly, forcing himself to keep containing his reaction as she penetrated him.

“That’s a good toy. You do only what you’re posed to do. You’re just here for me to enjoy.”

And so he stayed, standing with his legs slightly apart and his arms relaxed. She began to strip him further, properly now, peeling off his t-shirt and then prying at the belt. Half limp, he let her haul his arms up with the passage of the shirt until she finished removing it, and his arms fell back into position. His chest was like his belly, male furred, but not a dark thicket, nipples a temporary distraction for her fingers before she returned to undoing his pants.

The cotton knit of his underpants was black, fitted  but cut longer in the leg. The fabric had stretched where his half erect cock was outlined, poking up and towards the right. She let his pants slide down to his ankles and then tucked her fingers into the wide elastic band that held his boxer-briefs up, making the reveal slow, first the root of his cock, and then, inch by inch, everything else until they were on the floor in a pool of fabric with his pants. He had slender, straight legs, long boned, balanced with a swell of lean muscle at the thigh and calf, narrow hipped and waisted.

His bare flesh asked for her nails, fingers hooking and dragging, leaving red streaks pulled in sets like plow marks. She reached for him pulling him so she held a handful of his hair and kissed his lips, a slight twitch as he instinctively sought to return the contact and checked himself.

“No, you’re a toy. Nothing but a fuck doll for me to play with.” She pinched him, just because she could, to remind him he was helpless, and went back to exploring his body. One hand wrapped the shaft of his cock, jerking, the other reaching around to cup his butt. Square and firm, small. Her fingers found the split, digging in, seeking and making him wonder if he’d have to submit to another kind of penetration, but then her attention moved elsewhere and she pushed him, to pose him over the coffee table.

A hairbrush was the first thing her gaze lighted on. He was propped on the wood, stiff like a ken doll, but aware of what was coming, when first her palm smacked into his ass and then the flat back of the wooden brush.

He made a noise and her hand circled his cock again. “Shhhhh…”

She didn’t make it a prolonged spanking, but she coloured him, pink, blushing almost red, angling for a reaction. He made a few noises and she saw him twitch, but never fully flinch. She smiled, wide, although he could not see, and began to massage her handiwork, before setting him upright again.

He played along with lurching steps when she pushed him towards the couch, but was unable to contain a groan as her teasing resumed, gentle fast friction just taking him to the edge, with the harsh admission, “Don’t you dare come.”

She giggled at his disappointment, rubbing her clothed body against the warm smoothness of his nudity. He felt the rasp of her sweater and the softness underneath, wishing that he could simply slide his hands up under her skirt and make her want to squirm just as much as he was feeling.

But, instead, she straddled his lap, grinding against him. “That’s a good fuck-doll.”

Everything felt better and more sensitized when she craved sex. She knew it showwed on her, just as it was writ onto his face in the way his lips were just slightly parted and his eyes half lidded. She did not undress, except to slide her panties down under her skirt, kicking the black little scrap of lace and elastic somewhere off to the side before she mounted him.

He felt the sheath of her, enveloping him, hot and wet. It was almost too much, but she was experienced enough to know to wait, hilted on him, for those important seconds it took him to scramble for self control.

“You know I come better with something inside me,” the skirt was hiked up, her hands going to her clit. “Just like fucking a dildo only better. But… don’t you dare break until I’ve come.”

When she masturbated, he could feel the reactions in her body, on top of him and engulfing him. She took her time, teasing herself as well by riding him for a few strokes, just until he was edged again and had to break character to beg her to stop.

“Uh-uh, you should control yourself better.” The same mischief that drove most of her sadistic impulses made her curl the muscles inside herself in two pulses.

“If you do that, Miss, I don’t…”

“You want to be my good toy?”

“Yes, Miss,” he whimpered. “But Miss…”

“Shhhhh…” Her fingers went back to her clit, pressing as her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes closed, just as she caught a glance of desperate anticipation from beneath her.

“Nnnngh!” The orgasm was a body jolt, roughly reached, like a vessel finally overfilling or something under pressure finally giving way. She gave three raggedy gasps before she could focus again, and saw his look of desperation.

“Well, I’m done, time to clean up my toy and put him away.” She grinned, face blushed with afterglow. “Right?”


I wanted to try to capture some of the feelings of power of playing with a male body that’s entirely at your mercy, and make sure I kept at the erotica writing. “She Strips her Toy” is very much drawn from life, although it does not touch on a specific session and you can decide what is (auto)biographical and what is¬†embellishment.

Light BDSM With A Lover

“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.

Teasing Wildcard- Femdom Sex and Lovelife Updates

I want him to want me. It’s a powerful ache, indistinguishable from the sort of desire people would think of as “horny”, a straight trip into wet and throbbing, with a scenic view of my ego, made on a road paved with my vulnerabilities.

Usually, it’s easy to make myself happy without another person- anyone with a decent supply of pornography or at least an active imagination and the capacity to orgasm can take the basic pressure off. Desire for desire and power games are why I bother with other people, rather than just fucking myself. Well, that and falling in love, but the body urge that sustains it takes its power out of the first two things.

So I seek and touch and look for cues that my effect is working. I adore grinding up against a man, him feeling the unmistakable roundness of my ass with all those stimulating places on me pressed to his groin, letting the muscles of my thighs work, up-down, pushing against him until I can feel that familiar lurch as his weight starts to shift onto you as he weakens with lust, and the way he reacts when you pull away.

I often dress to please myself by pleasing the eye of person I want to tease. I got lucky with bodies, or at least I think I am blessed, breasts and hips that do as they are bid and few overwhelming hangups- enough of a little of everything like tools in a kit: sharp collar bones, pale nipples, nipped waist, cream soft thick thigh and thin wrist and ankle, enough that’s average and exaggerated to let me play with both. But I like my body best when it is being a lure. I like to feel like I’m hunting and baiting and my skin feels shivery and fitted best to me when I pull his gaze.

Like all things to do with sex with me, it’s unnecessarily complicated and personal. Wildcard reacts best if I initiate sex, but is very coy and careful- tug or pull the wrong way and something tears or breaks and the immaculately self contained facade melts into water, rushing out or becoming un-graspable as he slips away completely into himself. I did not pick a partner who came prepared to surrender, but one who has to be lured there.

He speaks in subtle things, but seldom seems to notice little touches, or prefers to pretend he doesn’t feel the hints in our brushing legs or my fingers on his arm. I can kiss him and still feel a distance. At times, to push past this, I am blatant, outright forcing him to look. Last week, feeling impish, I set him to the task of preparing dinner and then joined him, stripping off my clothes, layer by layer until I was naked except for a line of black jewels down my sternum. It was my pleasure to touch him how I wanted but deny him, and delight in his aggravation when I added high satin pumps to parade my nude self past him, hearing him groan. “Oh come on!” before he followed me around trying to get my denying self to give him some release.

Often, he ends up on his back, my hand circled around his cock. He takes the gentlest stroking, like some sort of fragile creature. It reminds me of holding a snake, the way that it is at once clearly rigid, and alive and able to give and shift and respond to your warmth, but the skin is so velvety, the softest thing I’ve ever touched. I make him beg to cum, sometimes pressing him between my breasts, or adding a palmful of wet and slippery lube or licking and sucking him until I’ve made him wet with me.

And he just can’t resist. And for me, that desperation is downright addictive.

The Choke Point & My Cunt, His Cock

It’s always tight, when the tip of his cock slides into me. My cunt has a choke point, starting sex, like I was some sort of customize part of the Fleshlight or Tenga product line. It’s not something you get to see in sex diagrams- the kind with simplified, labelled anatomy, where you get to see a split view of a pelvis and the vagina is a lightly bumpy tube sandwiched between other less savoury tubing.

He, Wildcard, says I’m often gripping to the point of discomfort, at first, which makes me shy even though he’s not actually complaining. Sometimes, when he’s inside me, most often when he’s come, I bring the muscles within myself together, like I’m blinking. I feel him, like wrapping my hand around a rod- he takes a long time to soften after coming, and I can keep grabbing it- clench-clench.

It’s harder to grab on while he’s fucking me. Mostly I end up on top of him, but on top of me, he favours a steady, dragging stroke, almost a pulling rather than a burrowing thrust. I really like it, feeling a sort of double wrapping effect- he fills me up, and then his slimness fits neatly between my thighs.

I like cunt and cock as a matching set of words- ‘pussy’ sounds less active, ‘dick’, juvenile. Vagina will always be the internal channel to me, penis will be a bit too clinical for exclusive use in the erotic.

If this were a femdom porn, I’d have it locked in a little chastity cage and he’d be eternally between my legs in ‘worship’ with a tongue, when it when ¬†I wasn’t telling him he wasn’t man enough to be inside me because of his size. But it’s not- I like to control how he comes just fine, but I adore more than just forcing him not to. I want him to explore and play with.

So, I cuff him to the bed to keep those long arms out of the way, and toy with him. Fingers make for fun, curled in come-hither teasing under the head of his cock, or wrapped lower down on the shaft to stroke and squeeze like a sheath- I don’t have to grip hard to feel him swell. Slippery, slick lube makes everything slide easy, cold on my palm but quickly warming. Or there’s the trick of pressing the head of a hitachi firmly against the shaft of his cock until it forces a wellspring of white cum from him.

Sometimes I like to lap with the tip of my tongue, along the ridge of his cock head, tasting him, looking for those first few drops of clear pre-cum. Full swollen, he’s almost aggressively thick looking, hard to swallow, but all the more enticing, perhaps because of it. And yet, it really doesn’t matter how slippery I make him, or my own cunt’s gush of anticipation- I know that I’ll feel him.

It’s his particular virtue to be able to get my attention from start to finish. From the first chokepoint, to when my body has milked him past tumescence, I even feel his withdrawal. And it is, to say the least, pleasing.

Friday Femdom Fiction: You Can’t Get What You Want

Nature made her curvy and gave her the will to make men weak. In a kinder world, she would have been as yielding and plaint as the supple softness of her body. Instead, she’s learned that she loved the way it let her lead and torment. She fed off them, desired their desire, often more than she wanted sex.

Sex, after all, was a messy process, occasionally rewarding, but her body demanded being handled just the right way and so few met her standards that she had gotten used to failures. It was, in her private mental estimation, easier to make them suffer for her and take that as a more nourishing food for her libido. Tonight, she was on a date. He was sweet, and funny, but tonight she felt like seeing him beg and saying no.

The dress she wore wrapped around her, skimming but never squeezing, tailored in imitation of the contrasts of her body. The walked together, arm in arm, him supporting so that the spikes of her heels wouldn’t trip her on the cobbles, feigned fragile need for him, like a lure. From time to time she’d brush up against him, sharing her warmth.

He wanted her, but they had done little more than kiss, and once his hand had crept over the top of her ass, enjoying the way that the taper of her waist made it a natural gesture, but he didn’t dare push further.

Instinctively, he seemed to know she dropped boys who were pushy: “Please, I’m going to fuck you!” They would threaten, and then she, seeing the game was too much for them would gently ghost away. She considered herself kind, and would tell them forthright, “I like to tease.”

She liked him, in her way, liked the line of his shoulders and the masculinity of his walk. He was the right mix of hesitancy and desire and desire for her, at least to be one of her victims. He’d earned that right when he had, one night three weeks ago, edged up against her at the party.

So she started her campaign to destroy him with little touches, not enough to seem anything other than innocently interested. In her opinion, men didn’t get touched enough, and it was another weakness. Pet them, massage them and they folded.

He took her home, dutifully, up to the walkway before her apartment building. They kissed, and she gave a playful laugh. Her mouth strayed from his, to his chin, then his ear, tongue tip testing when she saw him tense.

Those curves shifted as she squirmed her body, rubbing against him. It turned her on and made her wet to see the change in his breathing as her hip found his crotch, bumping gently. A few wriggles and she noticed she was making him properly hard.

The yellow glow of the light beside the door gave everything a warmth. His grip on her got tighter, and she made a slight move to pull away, only to turn so her back was to him but he was still holding her. She arched her spine, and made a small noise of contentment as she began to grind against him.

The same trick of nature that made her soft of body and hard to please had also made her sensitive. She was teasing herself as much as she teased him, feeling herself get more and more into the connection they were building together. It was just a simple thing, rocking, right-left, the writhing coming from a pivot at her waist and a flex of her slightly bent legs. She gave another deep sigh, focused on him and how he was starting ot have trouble staying upright.

Then, as she expected he broke first. “Please… please can I come upstairs?”

“No.” She smiled and kissed him one last time, pulling away, fingers brushing him over the front of his pants. “I’m sure you will be thinking about me later.”


This one was 3/4 finished, so while I am not the happiest with it I still packaged it up to post. In reality there’s a part of this story that’s very true- grinding up against men is a favourite activity of mine and I do adore teasing. I could probably do it for hours¬†

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Friday Femdom Fiction: A Girl And Her Tease

The dress cinched in as he drew the zipper up. It made almost a purr. ¬†She smiled at the mirror, and at the reflection of him, behind her. She was done up to the nines, face painted ivory, lips shiny, eyes dark. Her hair was swept up into an artful disarray. If she was stocking foot, her heels were simply waiting for her to step into them at the door. Underneath, he’d watched her layer, delicate, slippery soft nylon stockings, clipped garters, panties and a bra that hoisted her breasts up in a way that made one think of cupping hands.

“Very nice, Miss Bunny.”

“You know, just teasing’s no fun any more.” She smirked. Her sensed she was in one of her mood, where there was a hard edge to her desire. “I mean I dress up every time I go out.”

“Miss Bunny?”

“It’s not that I don’t like catch you staring. I mean, god, I stare at me sometimes, I’m that nice to look at. I like seeing the way you tent in your pants. And I like giving them a reason to drool.” She just about strutted, preening a bit.

“Maybe, just maybe, tonight, I’m going to fuck someone. Maybe when Rory gives me a drive home we’ll take a detour. Maybe Jay and I will duck out early. Maybe Natasha and I will stop flirting and I’ll get to have a taste. Maybe her boyfriend will do more than watch.”

He smiled, “Why not all at once, Miss Bunny?”

“Hmm, you’d like thinking about that, wouldn’t you, you naughty little bitch? Thinking about my face buried in Natasha’s cunt, finding out if the alphabet trick really works while her boyfriend fills my cunt? I bet she’d squeal really nicely with a few bites on the inside of those soft thighs. Do you think Troy would like it if after, she rode his cock while I let him have a turn eating me out?”

“Miss Bunny!” He was squirming on the spot now.

“Or maybe I’ll see how many boys would like to cum on my tits. Get them all in a nice circle so I can jerk and suck how I see fit and they are all begging for me to focus on them. Can you imagine that? One in each hand, squeezing, while another slides down my throat and I can feel more rubbing and pressing up against my face and hear them begging.”

He couldn’t help it, his hand began stroking himself through his pants.

“Hey!” She grabbed his hand up and smacked him on the knuckles. “Just for that you’re not going to get to come until I get back.”

“Miss Bunny! Please! I won’t get any work done!”

“Well, you need to control yourself better. Make sure to edge yourself at least once an hour.”

“How long are you going to be gone, Miss Bunny?” These events were usually only four or five hours.

“It depends on if I get lucky now, doesn’t it?” She winked. “Maybe I’ll have to organize myself my own little after party and you won’t see me until tomorrow.”


On schedule! Maybe real life me has been being a happy tease lately. ūüėČ