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by Audra Black

  “I do want to please you, Mistress,” Gordon said. “I know I’ve acted shamefully in the past, and I swear, I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”

  “Well, you can start by taking off my clothes. Don’t worry about folding them, I imagine I will dress you up in your little maid’s outfit again, later and make you iron them. So for now, you may cast them aside anywhere, Just get them off me and get me into my new catsuit.

  Gordon was quick to obey, helping to remove Lydia’s dark blue blazer coat, and then unbuttoning each button of her white lace collared shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra underneath, her fair breasts were so small that a bra made them disappear completely underneath her shirt. Gordon imagined himself gently stroking and kissing each precious bud. He imagined himself nibbling on each nipple and he imagined Lydia gasping with pleasure at the magical abilities of his tongue. He imagined her running her long nails through his hair and digging them into his scalp.

  As he was imagining the pain of her nails, his erection was providing all of the real pain he could possibly handle, rudely kicking him out of his fantasy.

  “What are you doing?” Lydia snapped? “Did I tell you to stand there with a dirty look on your face? No, I did not. Finish undressing me, then we’ll deal with your little fantasies, on the cross.”

  Gordon sucked in his breath and knelt down to remove Lydia’s dark blue dress slacks, light blue lace panties, and her nude colored pantyhose. He didn’t need to remove her shoes because they never wore shoes in the house and she had taken hers off in the entryway.

  He really tried hard to avert his eyes from her beautiful pink vagina, but it was like they were glued to the sight. If it hadn’t of been for the sharp nails digging into his frenulum, he would have stared like that forever. So in a way, the tear-inducing pain was a good thing. It allowed him to return to his duties as his wife’s slave.

  He grabbed the skin tight cat suit off the sofa where he’d laid it, and helped his mistress step into it, before uncoiling and carefully stretching it out until it covered her entire body. The hot red leather, left nothing to the imagination, it perfectly accentuated every curve, and he was in awe of how breathtakingly gorgeous she looked in it.

  “Grab that hassock over there and leave it at the foot of the cross,” Lydia directed.

  Gordon’s cock grew excited and he gritted his teeth to stop from crying out, as the teeth attacked him again. He wanted to save the crying for when she was actually whipping him. He may be a submissive, but that didn’t make him a wimp.

  Gordon rolled the small circular foot stool on it’s side until he reached the cross, then he dropped it down, right side up. He could see where Lydia was going with this. She wanted him to stand on it, so that she could cuff his wrists to the horizontal portion of the whipping platform T.

  Nervously and excitedly, he stood up tall, facing the cross, and stretched out his arms all the way, up above his head. Placing his hands palms flat inside the cuff holders. Lydia reached up and secured them tightly over his wrists. Gordon tested them, trying to pull his hands free, but the locks held. Once his wife got started, he would be completely helpless and unable to get away.

  Next, Lydia kicked away the hassock, causing Gordon’s legs to drop. The cross was high enough that his feet didn’t touch the ground, they just dangled there. Extreme bursts of pain flared up into his head as the weight of his body made him feel like his shoulders were being torn out of their sockets. He cried out then, unable to hold them in that time.

  Lydia smirked. “We haven’t even started yet. Don’t cry until I give you something to cry about.” And then she shoved his legs together, to secure his ankles to the ankle cuffs on the bottom, vertical portion of the T.

  She stood there for a while, critically gazing at his smooth, unscarred pink flesh. His bare politicians back and lazy, lying ass. Then she took up the whip and flung it eagerly at him, her first swing wasn’t aimed very well, yet the tiny glass shards did their job and she smiled when she heard him scream and saw the long mean scratches she’d inflicted.

  This was going to be fun, she thought, before flinging the whip again and again and again on her cheating husband’s back. He screamed louder with each one, and soon rivulets of blood were dripping down his back. She had almost created a tic tac toe board on his back, with the whip lashes serving as the x’s. She struck him high on each shoulder to complete the look.

  Then she decided to concentrate on his ass, and picked up an old antique fireplace poker. It had never been used since smoke irritated her lungs. She had purchased it on a whim, some years ago, and she was now pleased to discover she had a use for it.

  Moving up closer to her whimpering, quivering, sobbing mess of a husband. She said, “I hope you’ll remember today, the next time you even think about another woman.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” was his weak, shuddery reply. He seemed quite repentant, already. And even his cock, on closer inspection, had shriveled down to normal puniness. But Gordon had cheated on her, and shamed her, and embarrassed her, and lied to her, and disregarded her feelings far too often for her to believe he had been punished enough.

  And so she took that fireplace poker in hand and she went all kamikaze on his ass. Hitting and striking and smacking and crushing his ass into submission. She used all the strength she had to make known her displeasure.

  Gordon wriggled and struggled on that cross uselessly as each blow successfully hit its mark. And he cried and he screamed and began to beg for mercy after the forty-seventh, or was it the forty-eight sizzling crack of her poker.

  By this time his butt was black and blue and his back was a scarred, blood-dried masterpiece of female domination. Lydia felt quite pleased with herself. This was how a man was supposed to look. All this time she had foolishly expected him to lead and orchestrate their life. When she was the artist queen of their domain and he was her canvas. How foolish and wrong they both had been, but not anymore. Nope. From now on, she would be the lady of the house. She would lead as his wife, and he would submit and obey. And suffer the consequences when he did not.

  “There, there,” she said, smacking his largest and purplest bruise with her hand, and receiving a pained howl, in response. “I won’t beat you any more, for now. But I’m going to let you hang up there, for a while, to really think about who you are, what you’ve done, and why you’re where you are. I want you to hang up there, and let the pain remind you that I am your mistress. I, and no other. We do owe Mistress Lita a small debt for showing me the error of my ways. But that is all. You are not to respond to her ever again. She is dead to you. You will obey me now, and no one else! Do you understand slave-husband?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” he weakly replied.

  “Good. Now I’m going to go indulge in a long bubble bath, read a romance novel, then take a nap, where I shall imagine a strong, handsome, dominant man taking control and fucking me hard, in a way you never could and never will. When I wake up, I may release you, if you ask contritely enough.”

  And then she did as she had said. Leaving poor Gordon, hanging in his own miserable pain and shame. His back was on fire, every single nerve ending firing off with extreme flashes of horrendous pain. And his butt throbbed with what felt like an everlasting butt ache that would never go away. He doubted he would be able to sit down for a year. Mistress Lydia had truly left an impression on him. She was not a woman to be trifled with.

  How could he have been so foolish?

  She was everything he would ever need, and internally he felt so much guilt for cheating on her and disrespecting her with other women. Not that any of them had been real women. No, they all paled in comparison to the awesome, stormy gale of his Lydia. And as Gordon hung there on that cross, pissing himself because he could no longer hold it in, and feeling even more embarrassed and ashamed. He vowed that when she let him down, he would clean himself up, and then he’d be a better man.

  Not a strong man. Not a dominant man. He would be her submissive slave hu
sband, and he would spend every moment of the rest of his life, trying to please her. He knew it wouldn’t be easy for Lydia was a fierce Mistress who demanded perfection.

  Yet he would try anyway, and he would succeed or die trying. For Mistress Lydia was his life now, and nothing else mattered but the pleasure of his new dominatrix wife.

  The End

  Human Furniture:

  A Femdom BDSM Christmas Quickie

  Audra Black

  Paul Stephens was sitting alone in his dreary bungalow, eating a cold TV dinner and downing a cold brew while watching a depressing Christmas movie. Paul hated Christmas. In face, he loathed the entire holiday season with all its gushy, gooey, nauseating sweetness and its bullshit dream-fulfillment promises.

  There was no hot Mrs Claus, no horny female elves, and no mystical Christmas Fuck Buddy. Poor Paul was all alone this Xmas season, just like last year and the year before that. No, if he wanted any loving at all, he’d have to pop in a porno video and wank off just like always.

  It was pathetic, he knew. Pathetic and goddamn depressing, but what else could Paul do but sit there in his ratty old recliner and cry into his beer? Paul sighed and was just getting up to refresh the only holiday spirit he could muster, when suddenly there arose a clatter.

  All right, it was more of a knock than a clatter, but it was unexpected, all the same. Paul, hesitantly opened the door, thinking if it was those damn carolers again he’d punch their lights out! But it wasn’t carolers. It was a woman. A gorgeous, sexy, breathtaking woman, standing on his front door stoop!

  She was wearing nude colored, Waist Seamed Pantyhose, that really accentuated her delicious long legs, a short black tutu which barely covered her luscious breasts, and to top it all off, fiery red stiletto heels. It was almost more than Paul could take.

  “Hel, hello, “ he stuttered, “can I help you with something?”

  She smiled, a sensuous beguiling smile, “Are you Paul Stephens?”

  “Yesss,” he said, nodding his head in confirmation.

  “Then, I am Mistress Angelique, and you are mine for the next twenty-four hours.”

  Before Paul could think of a response she’d pushed past him and was standing in the middle of his sitting room, her back to him, so he could see her long, lustrous, purple hair. It hung down to her back, not quite touching her perfectly pert bottom.

  “Uh, what did you say?” Paul asked nervously. He had no idea who this terrifyingly gorgeous woman was, nor why she was there.

  She turned around to face him, and for the first time he noticed the ominous black bag she was carrying.

  “No one told you I was coming, did they?”

  Paul shook his head, “should someone have?”

  Mistress Angelique sighed, ‘those naughty, naughty boys. They hired me for you, said you’d been slacking off at work and that you needed a good spanking.”

  Paul’s cock grew hard at the image which her words provoked. “My workmates hired you?” He asked, trying his best to make sense of his bizarre new situation.

  Mistress Angelique hiked one leg up upon the arm of his recliner and stroked her long, nylon clad leg, as if smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. “They said you were a very bad boy this year and that you deserved to be punished..”

  Paul grew even harder and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

  Mistress Angelique looked directly at him, her emerald green, cat eyes daring him to back down, “were they right, Paul? Are you in need of my discipline?”

  Paul had always secretly fantasized about being dominated by a strong, beautiful woman. He’d watched a ton of pornos in that niche, but he’d never been brave enough to try out the real thing. But now here was the real thing, standing right in front of him. He’d be a fool to turn her down, wouldn’t he?

  Paul pulled himself up straighter and said a bit defiantly, “yeah, I’ve been a real cunt, lately. Showing up for work late, missing deadlines and purposely skipping important business meetings. What are you going to do about it?”

  Mistress Angelique was in his face in the blink of an eye, pushing him so hard he fell flat on his back, then digging those thick stiletto heels down into his chest. It all happened so fast he couldn’t have stopped her If he wanted to.

  Those heels were sharp, and the tip of her shoes was digging into his left man nipple. Pain was radiating up his entire body, but he didn’t allow himself to make a sound of discomfort. He was not a weak man. He could take a little pain.

  Besides the view he got was sending highly pleasurable sensations running down his body in tandem with the pain. Her smooth, nude nylons went all the way up to her waist, his only view of them obstructed by the thin bikini strap holding her black tutu up.

  “I will do whatever I want to do,” Mistress Angelique said. “And you will do whatever I tell you to. Do you understand me, slut?” She dug her heels in harder causing Paul to wince unwillingly.

  “Yes,” he growled. “I understand.”

  More pain than he’d felt in a very long time exploded in one fell punch when she jabbed her heels down onto his penis. It hurt so much he almost sobbed, which made him feel humiliated and wondering if he this was really such a good idea. Maybe he should stick to the visual stuff and leave the real life scenarios to those braver than himself.

  “You will call me Mistress, every time you respond to me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes Mistress,” he managed to spit out through gritted teeth.

  Mistress Angelique removed her feet from his body and offered a hand for him to get back up. Paul, took her hand warily and wondered again if he should call this whole thing off. But then he thought about his workmates and how they’d laugh and mock him if they found out he’d chickened out. If they thought he couldn’t take it. No, if he wimped out now he’d never hear the end of it. Best to just let her ride herd until the weekend was over.

  Who knew, perhaps by the end he’d come to like it?

  “I need red wine if I’m going to dominate you, properly. Have you any in the house?”

  Paul shook his head, no. He’d never been much of a wine drinker. “All I’ve got is beer in the fridge.”

  “Then you will buy me some. 3 bottles, none of the cheap stuff and you will use your own money, to do so.”

  Paul’s eyes widened. Was she serious? He didn’t have that kind of cash on him. He’d have to max out his credit card for that.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, gawking at me like I’ve got 2 vaginas. Go get a move on, and when you come back you can help me bathe. You do have a bathtub, don’t you?”

  Paul nodded, yes, “It’s a nice tub, Mistress, you’ll like it.” Paul thought he’d like it, too, his injured manhood once more rising to the occasion.

  When she glared at him in response, he realized he’d better get a move on, grabbing his wallet from the table, by the door and making his getaway to his car. All the way muttering to himself about what an imbecile he was. He didn’t have to do anything this woman told him to do. He was a man and he made his own choices in life.

  But when he thought about her perfect lithe body, waiting lathered and naked for him at home he couldn’t come up with a single objection for not doing exactly as she asked him to. Paul hurried through his errand, picking out the most expensive wine on the shelf and only wincing a little when he saw the amount it was costing him. Mistress Angelique was worth it, he told himself, and surprisingly, he realized that part of him meant it.

  When he arrived home, he found Mistress Angelique in his bedroom, a whole host of scary looking items sprawled out across his bed. Some of them he recognized like a paddle, a baton, handcuffs, and some of them he didn’t recognize at all, which made him very nervous.

  “Well,” she greeted him, “where is my wine? I expect you to pour it into a glass and hand it to me.”

  “Sorry, Mistress,” Paul said. “I’ll pour a glass for you right away.”

  He scurried off to find a clean glass and very carefully filled
the cup to the brim, before handing it off to her. He was a little too eager and his hand fumbled, upturning the glass - red wine was raining down Mistress Angelique’s skin, down her arms, down her legs, soaking into and staining her breathtaking nylons, before finally pooling into a puddle on the floor.

  “I’m so sorry, Mistress,” Paul said, his eyes widening in panic as he stood there, transfixed by the horrific scene before him.

  “You will be sorry, my little slut,” she promised. “But first clean up this mess, then fill me another glass of wine.”

  Paul jumped and ran to the kitchen to grab some rags to clean up, his heart was racing, he was breathing hard and sweating profusely. What would Mistress Angelique do to him? He was at once terrified and electrified.

  When he returned to the bedroom she was completely naked, a goddess of beauty and feminine power. Every inch of her was perfectly sculpted, tight and trim and mesmerizing. Paul couldn’t take his eyes off her as he very carefully handed her a second drink.

  This time nothing spilled and Paul breathed a sigh of relief while Mistress Angelique closed her eyes and savored her wine, her delicious lips sipping the glass in the most provocative way imaginable. Paul wondered how she did it? How could her every movement ooze sexiness and spice? He watched her drink the whole glass before tossing it onto the floor and trampling it to pieces underneath her sharp, dangerous shoes.

  “You will clean that up later with your bare hands, for now I intend for you to bare something else.” She grinned wickedly as she picked up a long wooden paddle with large Swiss-cheese-like holes.

  “Take off your clothes and bend over,” Mistress Angelique ordered. “I am going to give you a good thrashing for your clumsiness.”

  Part of Paul wanted to tell her to go to hell. There was no way he was going to submit to her corporal punishment, yet the other part of him was too busy taking off all his clothes to listen. When he was naked, he bent over and placed his hands on his knees like he’d been taught to do as a squib and waited, breathing raggedly.