shesaysido18

Leaders are readers

Erotic Fiction

The Device

The device She pushes into herself is battery operated and remote activated. I have witnessed that smooth curved shape, an idealization of the pathetically inadequate appendage between my own legs, drive the Woman that I serve, worship and obey, into paroxysms of euphoric delirium as it strobes energetically and relentlessly for hours inside Her swollen and dripping, crimson cleft.

Although She has never expressed such to me directly, I do suppose there is a degree of  disappointment my Dominatrix feels at my inability to render service offering comparative utility to that She derives by frequent and regular employ of the device and for some time now I have been made to serve in her bedroom in a manner that paradoxically is excruciatingly agonizing on many levels and at the same time deeply fulfilling to me.

She herself screwed eye hooks into the four post bed frame and to these my wrist and ankle cuffs are secured in the early stages of her preparation for intercourse with the device. Her tactic for managing my well being during the trial that follows is to place a cue ball in my right hand and if at any point I should drop it, the loud knock it makes on one or other hard surface when it falls signals an immediate cessation of the proceedings and Her immediately rescuing me from my emergency.

The predicament that She engineers for me is a multiplicitous test of my capacity to endure, my deep desire to please Her, facilitating Her pleasures, and my threshold of tolerance for agony. My appendage is locked in a severely constraining apparatus that bends the shaft of my organ directly downwards. Even the initial impetus to erection is extremely uncomfortable and becomes increasingly painful as the organ attempts with futile hope to engorge itself when I inevitably become aroused by Her nakedness and the show She makes of Herself so as to amplify my torment. But the cage is only the preliminary.

The true source of my anguish is a noosed chord that She tightens on my scrotum and from which She suspends a small basket of metallic weights. Kept suspended when I stand straight, the weights slowly draw the noose further down until my scrotum is a tight uni-ball of deep crimson agony at the limit of my ability to endure. The length of the chord however and the placement of the bedpost eye hooks have been carefully calculated to allow me to bend awkwardly such that the weight basket rests on the floor, momentarily transferring the locus of agony from my scrotum to my back and legs. But the trial set for me by the Woman I worship and adore is not so much the dance between the chord biting into my scrotum and the burning fatigue in my back and legs. Rather, in the line of the chord, below the noose is a switch that is activated by sufficient weight on the chord.

The switch of course, is the remote for the device that when turned ON, strobes inside Her, as She lolls back in Her pillows, legs wide, smiling, recumbent on the high mattress of the four post bed at the foot of which I am shackled. Her trial for me is in my every second of choosing the agony of the chord in order to keep Her a few moments longer in the delirium of pleasure, the device grinding on, driving waves of pulsating gratification into Her divine Temple as the weight basket hangs, my scrotum a tight ball of dark blue agony.

How I crave to be a service submissive to a woman of intelligence and culture ... I take her away, we stay in hotels, attend dinners, events, shows ... we visit galleries, musuems, attend public lectures, social events, meetups ... and all the while I am her thrall, living to serve and please her. Are you comfortable Maam, are you pleased, entertained, satisfied? How might I worship you as goddess and exult your hours?

To be ruled by the instrument between Her legs is to be ruled by the Woman because She wields that instrument and it serves Her delights.

(Erotic Fiction)

Glug

“I need to piss!” she hissed, glancing uncomfortably out of the passenger side window and scanning the acres of cars cooling in the late afternoon sun sliding over parking lot H of our local super mall. Having just returned to the vehicle, doored and handed her to her seat, extended her seatbelt and clipped her in, careful to keep the belt off her chest until properly placed and then stowed her shopping bags in the boot, I was behind the wheel, belted in myself and just about to start the drive home.

In as many milli-seconds, my brain computed a handful of deductions. It was a five minute walk back to the mall, even longer to drive anywhere that would have public facilities. I momentarily thought to suggest driving her back to the mall, but anticipating that would almost certainly trap us in the congestion of an unfolding exodus I realised she had undoubtedly made this calculus herself already. Her statement was not an announcement of a problem situation but rather an instruction to initiate a procedure we had already enacted together as an established Femdom couple on a small handful of occasions in similar circumstances.

“Yes Madam”, I affirmed, automatically switching to our in-private power exchange protocol and immediately beginning the removal and unfolding of the window blockout screens. Having placed the blockouts in all the windows except hers, I quickly rounded the car and opened her door, reversing the procedure of a few minutes before: lean in across her carefully, unclip her seatbelt and allow its return, keeping the belt from making any contact with her chest, and then hand her up out of the passenger seat. With the final blockout placed in her window, I activated her seat, sliding it as far back as it would go.

Now came the piece of the procedure particularly difficult for me. Folding my one leg just so, I could wedge it down into the footwell in front of her seat. Lowering myself onto my knee I could then fold my other leg in a similar way and push myself down to a kneeling position, facing forward, jammed in the footwell between the dashboard and the edge of the front passenger seat. With my hands on the glove box cover and arching my back as far as possible, I could bring the back of my head, with a considerable degree of discomfort, to the join between the flat of the passenger seat and the backrest. I was now in the position she found some amusement in naming as her in-car commode.

Barely in position for her, she was already stepping over me, evidently in a state of some urgency, sliding her first foot down close in against my middle and then crabbing herself over my chest and lodging her other foot in against my other side, at the same time pulling the door in closed behind her. I could now deduce that in the time it had taken me to achieve the in-car commode position, she had removed her underwear and as she leaned forward and opened her legs slightly to mate herself to my open mouth, gaped and ready for her, she hooked her skirt up over her hips. With no further delay, she pushed herself firmly down into my face, releasing her salty stream into my throat with an audible sigh of relief. I felt the tension in her cleft soften as she relaxed her hold and then I was gulping hard.

Drinking her is not a careful supping of sips and swallows, but rather an action of opening the throat and glugging as hard as possible, while trying to still gasp intermittently for breath, a desperate race to keep in front of her flow, guzzling all her salty yellow stink to keep it from wetting her, and to a lesser degree from running up my nose, soaking my hair, my shirt and the upholstery. The consequences of a mis-timed breath at this precarious stage, or God forbid choking on her pungent brine, having it shoot out of my nose to soil the immaculate edifice of her genital temple where I crave to be enslaved and she often instructs me in long hours of worship, would entail the most severe of her punishments for weeks and months following.

20240915

(Erotic Fiction)

Beating the Beta

Those taut pale flanks on the back of that slender male figure in the mirror are mine, my quivering nakedness slung up to be plied like play doh between her claws, slapped red under her palm and striped raw by her cane. The fervent abuse is not the practice of any fevered fetish, hers or mine, or a play session feeding the masochistic fantasies of a faux submissive by a service top but is in fact about betterment, the diligent application of a judicious program of measured discipline, meted out according to agreed criteria for accomplishments, or rather, accomplishments fallen short.

There is a soft lilt in the femininity of her amusement when she chuckles to herself, a ream of my buttock clenched in her fist. From behind the hood I see her expression in the mirror, something akin to fascination as she squeezes my flesh, twisting its pale smoothness intently under the focus of her steady gaze.

In my middle age, I am by any reasonable measure, a failure and a loser, deficient in almost every way, well short of the achievements of even the most average of my peer group, no career trajectory to speak of, no investment portfolio salted away, no marriages, no children, no travels or notable life experiences, no great works or contributions. And adding insult to injury after these sorry admissions, I bear the humiliation of carrying in the front of my trousers a member so pathetically inadequate to the task of representing manhood to the discerning purview of any feminine connoisseur of the carnal arts or for the selective evaluation of any receptive brood mare that even its frequent laborious erecting for the task of spurting away the goo that collaspects and darkens the shrivelled scrotum between my legs does little to relieve the shame of its diminutive stature or the erosion of my sad soul.

A loud smack cracks the air, the flat sting lighting the peak of my taut buttock as I see her slap my flank with her open hand, hard, determined. And again a slab of my stung cheek twists itself between her claws as she steps close to knead my tight buns with a slow fascination.

My own deep disappointments in the picture I paint of life, a life half lived, are marked and manifold. Despite my earnest evasions and determined disguises, these truths she drew out of me in the early days when my life path first intersected hers and my dead-stone trajectory somehow bent itself into an orbit around the bright incandescent nova of her glamour, her ferocious personality and razor intellect, inevitably spiralling down into the gravitational well that is all her magnetic majesty and god-like luminescence among a grey horde of soul-less shadow creatures, empty and craven.

Behind me now is a wave of heat, a hot glow in my flesh that she has lit with the steady rain of her palm coordinated on the locus of her intent. My arms stretch rigid up to a rope that binds my wrists, the hood jammed forward of my elbows masks an anonymous puppet, ever willing to suffer her administrations. But I know what it knows. I know it did not get the goal that was agreed and now it will suffer and hurt.

What she saw in me is a riddle and how I came to belong to her a greater mystery still. She was a beautiful stranger, an impossible being, celestial, of such a loveliness as I could barely endure. To be near her and know that my utterly hopeless fantasies, my desperately disguised desires, to grovel at her feet, to serve her merest whims, to worship and adore her were dreams as impossible as touching the stars, was to ache with despair like a stone sinking down a deep dark well of eternal loneliness or to drown in the gloom of an abject desolation of self worthlessness. I was a leafless, hollowed out tree, a wraith upon a bleak barren landscape, lost in the shadows of my own heartbreak. It was an infatuation of course, and I had never so much as said Hello.

I hear the sharp crack as the cane bites into the back of me, a spear of pain like a burning iron across my rump. A brief muted shrill escapes the hooded puppets throat involuntarily as the black leather headpiece with slitted eyes recoils violently against my close elbows. Adrenaline is surging, heart rate instantly multiplied and mind escapes me. I am pure subject, knowing only hurt, conscious of some part of me rejecting pain as I fight to integrate the emergency of agony into my regrasp of context, my reconstitution of a relational conceptualization that understands what is happening and returns to acceptance. The cane is high, over her head, her bare arm poised. Then it is falling, as if in slow time, her elbow tracing an arc as she uncoils the whiplash of her throw and all her lithe, deft, cat like dexterity into the thin curved spine of rattan. And again the sharp crack … and the puppet shrill.

&nbs

(Erotic Fiction)

Let Me Show You

She did not know, until then, the extent of my wealth, the life I had planned for us, for her. Three days after our return, with the chaos of a whirlwind honeymoon receding into a  pleasurable set of echoed impressions and recollections, I asked her to let me show her. We were by then of course an established FemDom couple. I asked her to let me show her.

“What, show me what?” she pressed.

“We need to go somewhere, to a house, and I need us to be naked there, so that I can show you.” I said.

She smiled then, intrigued and excited. Not yet the town car and the on staff chauffeurs part of my offerance, I drove us, up town, beyond up town, to the high hills of Beau Vista, to the mansion.

“Its ours.” I said, “I had to keep it secret until now, I hope you can forgive me.”

We toured the premises, holding hands, up all six levels, most of the twenty four rooms, and some of the gardens immediately outside. As we stood in the central reception, an ornate ceiling vaulted overhead, I waited for the question. And it came.

“Why did you say you needed us to be naked?”

With that I made my undress, buttons undone, layers flung aside, footwear off, pants off. I stood naked before her as she smiled approvingly. I stepped forward, slowly opened her sports jacket. She allowed it to slide off. I unbuttoned her, top off, bra unclipped, bra set aside. I knelt, brand name sneakers slipping into my hands and carefully put aside. Reaching up I unbelted her, sliding her form fit trousers slowly down, the sweet pungence of her perfume like heavens breath intoxicating me. She stood only in her panties and I slowly reached up. She allowed me to slide them slowly down and away. She stood, hands on hips in all her magnificent glory, the achingly desired cleft of her divine chalice a punctuation mark in the purest calligraphy, an exclamation point. Kneeling very straight, on the points of my knees, looking up into her strong beautiful face, I told her.

“All of this, I made it for you, when I only dreamed of you. I worked and I waited and when it was ready I searched and I found you. I have dreamed so dearly and so long of this moment, when I kneel here, to declare at last my utter devotion to you and my worship of you as bearer of the divine chalice of the feminine. Thank you for allowing me to worship and serve you.”

Reaching slowly forward, asking for her hips, she complied, stepping forward into my embrace. Lowering my gaze over her generous breasts and her torso, finding my focus at her very crux, at the triangulation of those powerful thighs and her wide strong pelvis, I leaned forward as she opened, pressing the arc of her silken cleft to my quivering lips. And we kissed, that slow kiss that is my most fervent worship of her divinity, and is her warm embrace of a servant that can only yearn to please her ever more.

(erotic fiction)

I am a source for her amusement, a stress release and a whipping boy. It does amuse my Domina so to see me squirm under her heel, flinch under her crop or writhe in the blunt hurt of the clips and clamps she snaps closed on my nakedness. That angelic grin, through all her mischief, lifts my soul to an elation where I accept every welt she paints on me. The frustrations of her corporate executive career frequently give rise to a slow ember of suppressed rage and on rare occasion she has me slung up on the horse or on my highest toes almost suspended by wrist bindings as she vents her pent up anger on my quivering, welted hide. I must hold then, hide my desperate grimace against her lash, knowing her need and desperately willing to absorb the exertions that bring her release and calm.

(erotic fiction, recaption)

The party upstairs may go on for a few more hours. Now don't complain or I won't let you squirt your goo this month. You stay here in the basement, naked on the end of that chain like an animal, with your genitals all locked away and harmless and you wait until I decide when or if you can come upstairs. If you are very lucky I might bring a girlfriend down here to laugh at you before we bring you upstairs for all my guests to see. If I hear any more whining and complaining from you I will ask Brenda to stay at the end of the party. You know she has a mean streak and I bet she would like to take some of it out on you. I owe her a party favor for a treat she gave me a while ago. Marking up your tight buns would pay her hansomely, I know she would love that. Anyway, you be quiet now. If you listen carefully you might even hear me enjoying myself upstairs.

(erotic fiction)

She invites me to her home from time to time. I never know what she has in mind. Most often it is to work, to clean, cook, do her laundry, maintain her garden. She requires me stripped naked when I work in her home. My only garment, if it can be labelled as such, is the contraption locked onto my genitalia, a chastity cage, preventing direct physical contact with any part of my penis and making erections impossible. She has made it clear she does not want me masturbating in her house when she expaspects me to be working. After I strip, she inspaspects the cage to ensure it is attached to her satisfaction. Then I am given a detailed list of chores. I am permitted questions to clarify her instructions. Once the task list is specified she leaves me to the work. As I move through the house mopping floors, vacuuming carpets, fluffing pillows, dusting furniture and shelves, I often hear her moving in the house, inspecting my work. I have learned the painful lesson of performing my duties to anything less than an exemplary standard. Any task deemed to be sub standard earns me sudden and unexpected strokes of her cane. I might be on my knees scrubbing tiles or over the sink washing pots when suddenly she will march into the room with her cane at her side and strike me viciously across the buttocks or thighs. Madams has trained me meticulously in the protocol of punishment. I immediately cease my activity, cover my testicles with my hands, bow my head and remain still. If she desires to cane me further I will be given some number of strokes in rapid succession. Madam will instruct me to kneel or bend if she requires. After the caning Madam will cooly explain the nature of my infringement and then leave the room. On a rare occasion there will be no reason given and in those instances I must understand that the caning is purely for her own enjoyment or stress relief. These flarings of Madams sadistic tendencies are invariably a prelude to extended sessions of servitude in which I must service her physical needs and often submit to a variety of abuses.

Madam is insatiable. Her crux is a wet gash of ever voracious need. When her tensions become unbearable and she prioritizes relief above all other necesities, I am positioned in chains on my knees at the foot of her bed and made to work my tongue into her bulging heat for hours at a stretch. I live for that honor, when I am her most intimate instrument and serve at her pleasure to bring her release. Although excrutiating to endure the cage and and the bindings and be on my knees for an extended period having to respond most precisely to her sharp tense instructions for change of pace or switch of methods she has trained me in, my sense of worth and knowing my place is renewed each time she violently convulses in climax, all her wetness drenching me as she gasps and shudders in her release.

(erotic fiction)

Scales of Punishement and Reward

(erotic fiction)

Part 1 of 3

Dessert Menu

I made dinner reservations at "Placer de comer", three Michelin stars, just off the waterfront boulevard, overlooking chic yachts and speed boats anchored in gated quays.

It was a perfunctory duty. Ms Genero had outlined a rough itinerary for her weekend business trip and as her senior PA, mine was execution of the minutiae, ready action of her errands and more often than not, dinner escort as Ms Genero required. My role was otherwise almost invisible, behind the scenes, extrapolating the trajectory of a frenetically busy and highly successful business woman in such a way that she could move smoothly and seamlessly through her arc of influence, with minimal obstruction by the vast machine of a civilization programmed to reconfigure its infinite moving parts in a ceaseless algorithm, optimizing the differentials in a mass aggregation between profit and loss, reward and punishment, pleasure and pain.

The days dealings done, unusually early this particular evening - Ms Genero often did business well into the late evening, meetings, negotiations, conference calls … she ascended to her hotel room to change for dinner, while I waited in the lobby. My one remaining duty this evening was dinner escort for Ms Genero. She might just as easily have had any number of business contacts or colleagues as her dinner partner but in the week before our flight out of her metropol office HQ, Ms Genero had casually mentioned to me that she had no plans for this particular evening in her calendar, except dinner, and instructed me “you will be my dinner escort for the evening Giles, organize a nice restaurant close to the hotel.” It was not unusual, I had fulfilled this function many times before.

For all appearances we would be just another couple, out for dinner, but as a consequence of regularly finding ourselves in some nameless eatery in some remote city, restaurant cuisine had become almost a staple. Nearly ten years her senior, I had reached an age where lucullan dining and long hours of sedentary desk bound office management had conspired to enunciate a certain aspect of my once naturally athletic but now overly long neglected physique and the dreaded lower torso paunch had almost imperceptibly begun to make its unwelcome appearance. The notion of “almost imperceptibly” was of course a fiction in my own mind and not a deformity that was going to escape the notice of Ms Genero. Ms Genero had begun innocently enough, teasing me about about my "gut" and poking me accusingly in my buttoned flannel fronts with one of her well clipped and manicured finger points. I had of course laughed off the slights as good natured teasing and tried hard to dispel any suggestion of offence taken. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, the teasing grew accerbic, more pointed, taking on an edge of irritation and denigration. Ms Genero had taken to calling me “Fatso” and all the while my flannel fronts grew tighter and more pronounced.

One evening on the final day of an extended business trip that I perceived as a particularly stressful one for Ms Genero, as we were perusing the dessert menu after dinner, Ms Genero leaned across the table, snatched the menu out of my hands and announced that it was time for her to intervene, that my descent into obesity had to be stopped and as I had been unwilling to take the hints she so generously offered, she had now decided to take matters into her own hands. Ms Genero began scanning the dessert menu with the assertion that she would select a "healthy" dessert for me. Not finding anything to her satisfaction she ordered the same dessert for me as she did for herself but instructed the waitress cooly to make mine a half portion. I smiled awkwardly and did my best to project a good natured sense of amusement, making light of her carefully modulated bullying and acknowledging the correctness of her observations and the perfectly acceptable intervention that she had announced. I never was sure if this not completely uncharacteristic assertiveness on her part was carefully planned or a spontaneous outburst precipitated by the aggravations of an unsuccessful business trip.

Two weeks later on our next business excursion, she repeated the performance and as the waitress marched away Ms Genero informed me with a sly grin that next time she would decide if I deserved to have any dessert at all. I must have inadvertently emboldened her because my retort was to the effect that she was the boss and I could only serve and obey. About a month later as the dessert menus were left, Ms Genero announced, "No dessert for you tonight, that gut of yours is out of control and we need to reign it in. Tonight you only watch me enjoy myself." I am sure now that Ms Genero had come to realize I was never going to resist or confront her. My response was immediate agreement that her suggestion was a good idea and that yes I needed to work harder on my "gut".

Well accustomed to waiting on my lady employer I sat calmly in the lobby in sight of the elevator doors and mindfully observed the half hour until our 19:00 dinner reservation steadily evaporate. At 18:55 I called the restaurant to confirm the reservation, append a note of our possible lateness and just shy of an hour later noticed the elevator level indicators slowly descending. Was this her coming down at last? The moment those elevator doors slid open and Ms Genero stepped out is frozen in my memory forever. She was clad as I had never seen her before, dressed to kill. She wore knee high flat heel black riding boots and form fitting white fine leather riding pants that gleamed highlights along her thigh lines as she strode across the lobby. Perched on her shoulders was an open dark red leather jacket and underneath I could see what looked like a printed silk blouse and a wide dark belt that cinched her narrow waistline in an hourglass of hypnotic perfection. Of course I had long been keenly aware how athletic and shapely Ms Genero was but in this one transcendent moment, time stood still and I felt a surge of desperate lust instantly flood my veins. In some deep part of myself I knew then that I was secretly and hopelessly in love with this strident, authoritative and commanding woman and I would surely do anything to please her. Now more than ever I desperately needed to maintain my professional composure!!

The maitre d' at the restaurant was herself a tall and striking woman, as tall as Ms Genero, each a jet ebony brunette to their waistlines and having an uncanny similitude. The two seemed to have an immediate resonance, greeting each other warmly.

"Reservation for Genero" I said hesitantly.

The maitre d' tapped a screen, long pointed fingernails of polished ivory stark against her deep tan, clicking a rapid staccato. Then smiling warmly at Ms Genero, "Si, de esta manera" ...

Trailing the two women, I could not help noticing the dark form fitting business trousers of the maitre d’ contrasted with the white riding pants of Ms Genero. Both women were immaculately presented and the uncannily synchronous sway in both their sculpted hips seemed almost a choreography, like metronomes marking time in the arc of two most heavenly of all cosmic forms. Their twin-like physical athleticism endowed each woman with a lithe fluidity in the trajectory they both calculated through intimately interspersed tables and I found myself agog, momentarily transfixed by this rare heavenly purview of witnessing Ms Genero's sculptured musculature in her full stride.

"Le gustaria una copa senora?" The maitre d' handing Ms Genero an open drinks menu.

After a few moments perusing the list, "Yes please, a champana, sparkling, thankyou". Ms Genero made her selection, pointing to an item on the list.

(erotic fiction)

Joust

Part 3 of 3

Dessert Menu, conclusion

“Sit up.” she said.

As I straightened, Ms Genero put one hand on her hip. The other, holding her now empty glass was relaxed at her side.

“I’ve decided your dessert menu for tonight … and I will make the order for you!! Here’s what’s on the menu …” As she spoke, she put one foot up on a corner of the knee high luggage rack, the figure hugging white fine leather pants showing the full sweep of her muscle bound thigh and from where I knelt the full width of her generous hip structure.

She held my gaze with a complete and absolute confidence and I could not help allow my gaze slide down her length to where the sheen of a pure white triangle curved inward to a vanishing point, a nexus of desire and a crux of infinite dreams.

“...and the order I’ve decided for you is a generous serving of My cream and spice dark forest tarte. Time to eat your dessert.”

Part 2 of 3

"Ah, Cava de Paraje Calificado, excelente senora, muy buena".

Turning to me, the maitre d' was interrupted by Ms Genero, "times two!", she said, twiddling two fingers in the air and handing her drinks menu back assertively.

The maitre d' didn't miss a beat. "Si senora", she confirmed, taking the drinks menu from Ms Genero and turning on her heel.

The drinks, the small talk, ordering, the meal itself are a now in memory. Ms Genero talked non stop, decompressing all her business calculations and her angles in a single extended monologue. I made very sure to stay locked in, keeping steady eye contact, nodding, seeking clarification occasionally on some point that had escaped me. It was the kind of conversation I knew Ms Genero loved, with her doing all the talking and a listener genuinely invested in every detail.

With the table cleared the maitre d' returned, "Le gustaría ver el menú del desierto señora?”, offering Ms Genero the dessert menu.

I have replayed the next moments in my mind, over and over. Did I catch the most imperceptible grin in Ms Genero's expression then, or was it my imagination, a spark in the eye contact between the two women as the maitre d' handed Ms Genero the dessert menu and then one to me also.

"Give us a few minutes please." Ms Genero said to the maitre d'.

As the maitre d' walked away Ms Genero reached across the table, taking the menu out of my hands and very casually saying “... you get dessert later.” It was a meaningless sentence, my brain could not formulate an interpretation. What later? Were we going to be here a while? Did she mean tomorrow evening? After a few moments struggling to compute what she meant, I concluded that Ms Genero was simply playing the next round in our little game of my weight problem and her bullying. She was not letting me have dessert tonight while she ordered something exotic and decadent and let me just watch. The moment passed, evaporated from my consciousness and dessert proceeded precisely as I had concluded it would.

Our hotel rooms were on separate levels of the building for some obscure reason that is lost to me now, and having escorted Ms Genero back to her hotel room, as she touched her electronic door card to the security pad and the door unlocked itself with an audible click, I wished her good night.

“Good night Ms Genero.”

“Come inside for a moment Giles.” was her only response and she stepped inside, holding the door for me.

“Certainly Ms Genero.” I said, quickly stepping forward to relieve her of the force of the door trying to close itself and thinking there must be some late night last minute business admin that needed taking care of.

Following her down the short passage, I could feel my heart rate and my adrenaline surging. All my carefully hidden emotions were so very close to the surface now. Here I was within the inner intimate sanctum of my secret goddess, fighting with every fiber to stay calm and maintain my composure. Two luggage bags stood unopened against a wall, with another two lying flat on a knee high luggage rack, one of them open and half unpacked, its contents spread randomly on one of the two still immaculately made up King size double beds occupying the room. I could not help noticing among the garments spread over the bed, a number of items of her underwear and lingerie. I felt my adrenaline surge again and I was suddenly anxious that I was beginning to sweat noticeably.

In one fluid motion, the handbag flung itself onto a bed while the red leather jacket slid off her shoulders and tossed itself flat beside the handbag as Ms Genero navigated a smooth uninterrupted trajectory towards a drinks tray on the kitchenette countertop. With her back to me she poured a drink - I couldn’t see what, and downed it in one gulp. Pouring another, she turned to face me, and now carefully sipped at the dark beverage. In her boots and her white fine leather riding pants, her printed silk top and that wide belt, standing there with her drink, seeming to regard me with a mixed expression of irritation and estimation, Ms Genero was to me a vision of complete and utter loveliness, a goddess in an aura of light, an emissary of heaven sent to bring mortal men to their knees. I felt weak, physically, my knees literally trembling, mentally incoherent, I could not structure my thoughts. If there was work to do now, I was going to be in trouble.

After what seemed like a long slow minute, Ms Genero finally said “You’re a man who likes to do what he’s told, aren’t you Giles?”

I was momentarily taken aback. It was a very direct assertion. “Well, I try to be amenable Ms Genero.” was all I could proffer.

Then more assertively, as if she was in no mood for banter “You’re a man who likes to do what he’s told to do … by women!”

I went quiet then. I felt as though the universe had suddenly frozen in the eye beams of God. Ms Genero’s eyes were right on me, merciless, piercing the very core of me. She had somehow found the lock-draw of all my guarded secrets, and ripped it from its safe slot, reached into my being and put her finger on the innermost kernel of my self.

I think I stammered, reeling on some terrifying precipice, about to fall, a place of fear and lust and desperate long-unfulfilled dreams and needs “I … I like to do as you tell me to do Ms Genero.”

A long moment of silence then and feeling my gaze lower itself to the floor.

She came slowly towards me, twirling the remnants of her drink in the bottom of the glass, her shape and her aura in my peripheral vision, the sense of her full chest braced under that silken printed blouse.

“Isn’t that lovely.” she said, as if to herself.

My legs were stilts now, my pulse train a hammer in my ears, fire coursing through my veins robbing me of all my faculties. I felt utterly owned by this woman, I would do anything she told me to do. Overcome by emotion and lust and my secret worship of her, I sank to my knees in front of her with what must have been an imploring expression of complete adoration and worship on my face. I was now as never before utterly besotted with my boss, a fierce fighter in business, an assertive lady of poise and confidence, a leader, athletic and strong, the tall, dark, incomprehensibly beautiful multi-dimensional woman of all my dreams and fantasies, standing right before me, towering over me.

A slow cool smile spread across her lips.

“mmm, very good.”

I bowed, down low, my arms stretched out in front of me, palms facing up, knees buckled under me, my face to the floor. The naked emotion that flooded me was all consuming, redefining. Deep down I offered myself, wholly, completely and absolutely.

pwhipt on FL

Chaste, naked at your feet and in committed obedience to you is where I should be.

I only imagine myself a servant to a beautiful woman.I am her domestic, her drudge, her mule. She does work but when it suits her to, chores, filth and labor are my todos and as it should be.

For the longest time I tried to hide my inadequacy, that deeply humiliating, most shamefull of all inadequacies, the smallness of my flaccid penis. With a not inconsiderable degree of relief, my diminishment is not at the level of a micro penis deformity but seems almost that it very nearly could have been. Erect my upright shaft does present a woman slight in build and of a diminutive hand girth with some degree of possibility for grappling between thumb and potentially two fingers, a hold just behind my cock tip, but flaccid, the button mushroom sized helmet shrunk back on a shrivelled, seemingly non existent shaftlet presents barely an acorn sized bishops head on a triangular slab of pale pubic fat easily mistaken for that billboard of delight, the female mound, over the slit of silk in any womans crotch.