Incantation

He's Always Under Her Spell. Femdom Erotica. Episodde Y13.

She leans back, watching him.

She lifts her legs and hooks her knees over the arms of the easy chair. Her skirt rides up her thighs.

He’s locked into a metal kneeling-stock. A bar on the ground welded to cuffs for wrists and ankles forces him onto all fours. A vertical post, welded to the main bar, reaches up to encircle his neck in a wide metal collar. He can’t move an inch.

Thus immobilized, he can only look at her or cast his frightened gaze down to the flesh-toned dildo mechanically thrusting in and out of his whorish mouth.

Her hands further draw her skirt up like a curtain, revealing her pussy, shaved and delicate, lips swollen like ripe berries.

She never breaks eye contact with him as her hands venture to her clitoris.

She told him she was going to do all of this. She spoke the words into his ear two hours ago at dinner. They were at some national chain Chinese place. A laminated pan Asian menu and specialty cocktails with cute names. A plastic dragon statue guarded the front door. It was one of those I-don’t-want-to-cook dinners, not a special occasion.

As the waitress turned away to take their drink order to the bartender, his Mistress had turned to him and said, “I got you a little gift for tonight, something to nibble on before we eat.”

“Oooh, really?” He asked, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

She had smirked like she was in the process of showing him a royal flush and turned her head away. Then she reached up an elegant arm and pulled back her long dark hair to reveal the gentle softness of her neck, the curve of it, of where it meets the shoulder.

As if commanded, he had leaned in and passionately kissed her there. On her clavicles, on her neck. He had lingered, gently caressing her with his lips, yearning for her every permission.

She had sighed and begun to speak, spelling out her edicts. “Good, boy, don’t stop unless I command.”

He let his tongue become more suggestive, pressing against her in the booth of the open floor plan dining-room.

Her neck was beyond addictive.

She said, “I want to touch myself while you suffer tonight.”

He had groaned with desire and leaned further into her, losing himself in his lust until he felt her stiffen a little and say to the returning waitress, “Don’t mind him, he’s just incorrigible.”

Then she had touched him in a way that he knew meant stop. He had turned away from the pleasure of her neck to make flushed and embarrassed eye contact with the waitress as she handed him his Kung Fu Kabuki mule in a copper mug. Then his owner proceeded to order dinner for the both of them.

When the waitress left this time, his Mistress had said, “When we get home, I want you to get out the stocks.”

And now he is locked into those stocks, displayed on their floor for her amusement. Her legs splayed, her skirt hiked, her hands descending into herself in search of ecstasy.

A fucking machine, mounted on four metal legs, is positioned in front of his face. A chromed steel rod extends from it, topped with a pink, fleshy, silicone dildo, that oscillates into and out of his gaping lips.

Her hands caress the delicacy of her vulva, her furrow of pale moonlight.

The cock thrusts in and out of his mouth again and again.

She doesn’t break eye contact.

With each push, the sculpted head of the cock threatens his suppressed gag reflex. It puts an involuntary fear in his eyes. The thrusts come low and slow, but she has a controller, it sits beside her on the leather chair. Should she desire, she could instantly turn it into a machine-gun pounding his throat.

He can tell that she wants to. He can tell she’s holding herself back.

After all, that would really make him cry.

In the restaurant, she had spoken to him with the confidence of prophecy but more so, a prophet whose words create the world. She had laid it all out, that she was going to lock him into her evil metal trap and watch a rubber cock intrude into his mouth until he went mad with the violation of it.

She had said she might not stop until tears filled his eyes.

She had said his tears might make her come like a flame touching gun powder.

She had said his terror might make her pussy juice into a wine so fine a single drop would get him drunk.

Now, he feels that terror. The terror of the hard metal rod repeatedly driving the cock into his mouth. Every oscillation nearly touching that button at the back of his throat that makes him gag. It’s a precognitive kind of fear, primordial and irresistible, like the fear of death itself.

It’s the terror of knowing he cannot back away from it. Should it become a jackhammer on his epiglottis, he will be a gagging, choking ruin.

Her stocks hold him too tight; he cannot run.

She knows it too, after all, she taught him this game. She owns the machine. She spent months working him up to this moment. She taught him this script.

She is her favorite director, and this is her favorite movie.

He is a damsel tied to the tracks while the train runs into his throat.

She casually strokes herself, letting his mounting distress push the heat between her legs.

And the look in her eyes holds him still. The wild hunger as she begins stair stepping toward relief. Spreading herself back, against the leather, legs opening wider to her hand.

Fingers finding intention born of bone deep need.

Her eyes bore into him, and he forces himself to surrender further to the appalling, surging implement. The squeaky rubber chafes the corners of his mouth with just a hint of discomfort if he slackens his lips even a little. A subconscious threat to choke him on his own puke if he dare resist her will.

Her hands rub tender circles over her clit, and her eyes flutter as the first real wave of pleasure washes over her.

She had told him about all of this, savoring her plans with her egg rolls and rice.

She said it, words trickling into his ear like a potion, and he had known his world was an aftereffect of her decisions. His universe was a product of her will, and tonight she would conjure his reality as surely as the most beguiling enchantress.

Now, she sucks a breath through her teeth.

Now, the tips of her fingers spread wide the lips of her vulva.

Now the head of her cock, pounding into his gullet, opens the o of his mouth ever further.

A tear is forming in his eye.

She lays back, eyes impossibly wide to watch him suffer.

She’s looking at him intently, and yet looking inward as well, touching herself, as focused as a sorceress incanting a spell.

A glorious witch in some turgid woad, her gingerbread house spiced with his torment.

Her fingers rub faster against her sex, and he can see her yearning for climax. She’s at that point where not coming turns from ecstasy to agony. Then his heart skips a beat as she reaches down with her free hand an turns up the dial that controls the fucking machine.

The cock is instantly thrusting twice as fast, and it’s all he can do to not lose control to it and begin to retch.

Tears roll down his cheeks, and she begins to come.