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Author Topic: FEMDOM Short Stories  (Read 958 times)

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Clay Death

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Re: FEMDOM Short Stories
« Reply #15 on: January 02, 2017, 07:46:19 pm »
Friday Femdom Fiction: She Tells Him The Terms of Surrender



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.

Clay Death

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Re: FEMDOM Short Stories
« Reply #16 on: January 02, 2017, 07:47:47 pm »
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.”

Clay Death

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Re: FEMDOM Short Stories
« Reply #17 on: January 02, 2017, 07:48:58 pm »
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.”

Clay Death

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Re: FEMDOM Short Stories
« Reply #18 on: January 02, 2017, 07:50:38 pm »
Sweat & Service



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.”

 

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