Female Domination Erotica
"Fifties Phoenix," a Licorice Whips short story by Martha McKinley
Das Parfum, by Ben Marcato
She lived for this. He was, once more, at her mercy. Not that she was ruthless, cruel, or inhumane—far from it—unless the way she both spurred on and reined in his pleasure for her own gratification was a crime.
He lay on his back, exhaling in long moans, restraining himself from an end-of-it-all orgasm. She, kneeling at right angles to his lanky form, arched over him, her malleably soft lips temporarily hovering above his rigidity, her left hand soothingly making figure-of-eights over the sparse chest hair, while her right hand gave slack to the cotton filament trailing from his anus. She was aware only of this male being spread beneath her, his arborous groans, the pace of his breathing.
She squeezed his nipple between her fingernails, as if crushing a flea, and he startled with a yelp. His reaction made her clit throb and her vagina exude a few more drops of precious lubricant. With her lips now delicately nestled around his knob, she wedged her tongue tip into the opening of his Vesuvius, and simultaneously tugged on the string. His cock jerked in her mouth, and he gasped as his sphincter tensed against her traction.
Once more, he teetered precariously on the edge, but she wasn’t wet enough for him yet. Instinctively, she grabbed his quaking erection with her left thumb and index and mashed the shaft vigorously, while with her right hand, she wedged two digits deep between his butthole and sac until his premature orgasm, which threatened to rain on her parade, was mercifully delayed. His hardness sagged a trifle, but that was OK. With her velvet lips, persuasive tongue, and her new anal miracle on a string, she could make even a cripple walk.
She needed him elsewhere now. Time to arouse him from his Tantric trance and put him to work for her in another way. She swung one leg over his flattened belly and moved her hips up and across his chest. Spreading her thighs, she laid her vulva wide open over his mouth and nose. He knew to work her womanhood until he needed air, when his muffled shouts would alert her to allow him his due gasps, at which point, she could again smother him with her even more fuller folds.
How long had it taken her, she mused, to find such a willing servant, who would allow himself to be brought to the brink of climax, only to be bridled. To be nearly asphyxiated, then permitted a few meager gulps of air, before the sumptuous suffocation resumed. To be willing to give her complete access to his personal space for her added pleasure. The answer, she smiled, was years. No, decades. Half a lifetime.
At age 56, she had had many sexual experiences, but none according to her desires. There had been the boys in high school, plebeians by virtue of their youth and naiveté, quick to harden, slow to learn, who had fucked her in the car or on their parents’ carpet without a care for her. And later on, her few, longer-term boyfriends had used her sexuality to fuel their testosterone-driven futures, like all the baseball heroes who took steroids to advance their careers.
Her husband was not a self-serving soul—a decent man, but one who literally shrunk from her inclination to assert, direct, or dominate sexually. So she had allowed him to arouse her in his own way, and to control the tempo, and to position himself atop her for their final climax, which was gratifying in its own right; but most of her satisfaction during sex had come from fantasies of another kind.
Middle-aged and having had menopause early, she had begun to retire her sexual fire to the ash pan of obsolescence.
That was, until about a year ago at a party, when she had met this man—an engaging conversationalist, balding, but good-looking (she had even grown damp in her silks while talking to him). And as one topic had led to another, she found herself growing more bold and brassy. One inequity that had irked her forever was that for all the men she had given head to and swallowed their cum, none had ever been willing to taste his own semen. Not one. Nor had her woman friends, whom she had surveyed, offered any affirmative examples. So she had asked him. And sure enough, he had not, and she had berated him mercilessly. Alas, she had concluded, he was like every other man she had encountered.
But then, a few weeks later, at a dinner, when she had found herself alone with him, he had brought up the subject in a whisper—how he had pleasured himself to a goodly hard state, exploded into his hand, and tongued the hot tenacious puddle, before sucking the entire palmful into his mouth. Yes, it was a bit bitter, and it did almost gag him at first, and it stuck to his throat after he swallowed, making him want something to chase it with (“presumably, a draught of your lover’s juices,” she had suggested). Had a servant apprentice appeared to her? That night, she had plotted expectantly—a man who could be induced into action by a mere suggestion and a tongue-lashing, would surely follow her more emboldened enticements.
Innocently at first, for they were each married after all, she planted the ideas, and he complied. He close-cropped his pubic hair. Then he had shaved his balls and even had them waxed. He applied, to his arse, a dollop of Boroleum ointment and described for her the erotic tingling that it produced. He wore one of his wife’s thongs and then later laughed about how it provided an all-day arousal as the material had rubbed across his anus with every bend or squat, even to the point of encouraging those maneuvers.
Around the house, she made sure that when his wife and he came over, her wrap would fall open or ride up just enough in those sprawling, leisurely, reclining moments so that he would be sure to glimpse the coiffure of her auburn pussy, unadorned by cotton, silk, or satin.
As the weeks and months had excitedly passed, his training became more elaborate. (The fidelities, she sensed, were definitely straining, and, she hoped, beginning to fray.) Being a figure sculptor, she had had him pose for her in his boxers, then made him purchase bikini briefs to allow her better access to the curves of his buttocks. Finally, she ordered him to wear her beige thong with his penis pressed up against his abdomen, so she could render the almost-nude male torso.
Control, torturous titillation, and seductive sadism. Subtle arousal in the open, never encouraging any approach when alone together. His nature, she had deduced, was to comply, to submit—that’s apparently what jingled his balls—and what fed her furry firebox. It seemed her ideal partner had appeared!
With the pace of her preparation, at some point he would have had to have been put to the ultimate test. And it happened one torrid July day when their spouses were safely ensconced in their office jobs. She was drawing him in the sunlight in the mid afternoon, when the strong value contrasts accentuated the muscles of his frame. She was sheltered in the shade, and he was enduring the sun’s full intensity. In her own way, she had pained him again, forcing him, in her nude thong, to bear uncomfortable poses for long periods of time. When they finally broke for the day, she had a man who was stiff from posing and smarting from the sun.
She offered a soothing lavender balm for his back. He was in no position to refuse. In the cool of a maple’s canopy, she began with his shoulders and arms, the sinews of his neck, and the taut muscular ridges that ran down his back on either side of his spine. His pleasure moans told her how to proceed. Intentionally, she dragged her nails into those sunburned areas and got the hoped-for stiffened gasp. She then interspersed finger pad with talon, and with his sighs and cries, her vaginal tides had risen and flowed.
As she approached his lower back, she knew the thong would be an encumbrance, so she asked him to pull it off. He rolled to one side, revealing a most beautiful sight—a marble-white shaft, gleaming like an Ionian column, standing securely on a mound of manicured pubic hair. He rolled back prone again and she resumed her skin torment, raking his reddened ass cheeks, smoothing his thighs, scraping his low back, and soothing his calves.
With a generous amount of lubricating unction, she oozed down his spine, dipped into the curve of his back, rode the rise of his sacrum, then plunged blindly into that forbidden realm of men until she found his anal hole, rimmed it, and returned to the surface, out of the buttock cleft.
His reaction left no doubt that this was her slave mate. Unlike all others before him, who had reacted in a panicked withdrawal or with outright anger that she had dared approach in such a way, this man mouthed such a prolonged sigh that she argued with herself over dipping into him quickly again or torturing him by prolonging his anticipation. She decided to do both. By slowly drawing her fingernail down between his rosy globes until she reached the little life-saver, then delicately pushing a short way into his anus, she succeeded in transforming his cries of “Oww” to “Ooh,” and, in turn, augmenting her own arousal immeasurably.
Sweating profusely, she had thanked herself for the foresight of not having worn anything under her artist’s smock. She urgently needed his pillar to support her beam. She commanded him to turn over. His magnificent rigidity rose mightily skyward, hewn, she thought, from the finest stone, by her, the finest sculptor, awaiting only her worthy nether lips to descend upon. With hands full of one last portion of cream, she balanced herself over his majestic cock. Kneading the slippery mixture into his chest, then clawing his pectorals, she engulfed his rock-hardness again and again, bringing them both to their first of many Dionysian orgies.
He was struggling frantically beneath her. Her lengthy reverie into their pleasurable past had drawn her attention from the moment. She shifted her torso, parted her thighs, and he gulped in life-giving oxygen. She ran fingers through his moist scalp, calming him, and simultaneously glanced over her shoulder, reassuring herself that her ship was still sailing on course. She was ready for him now.
She loved it on top, had always insisted upon it when they made love. Supremacy was on top. And her greater weight made her impossible to resist, hard to argue with. His obedience was proof of that. But she also craved originality in her artwork, and there was art in her mastery of this man. Tonight had been different from the start—with the little surprise on the string within his secret hold—and now it would finish differently, too.
Off she rolled, onto her back, and with knees drawn up, thighs splayed wide, and vulva agape, she commanded something new: “Mount me.” It may as well have been Portuguese to a Russian. Bewildered, he swayed, then obliged, but with a momentary listing in the object of her cunt’s desire. She twisted his nipples hard, and his mast a-righted. Reaching around his backside, she tautened the string to his anus. His cock was instantly infused.
She pinched his corona to maneuver his erection against her clit, coated his tip with the most slippery of her juices, readying it for penetration. She angled him into her slot and urged him on, enwrapping him as he impaled her. At each pass, she tugged on the string and felt herself stretched within, as his hardness lurched up against her magic spot. She was nearing a climax with the sensation of her servant above being a marionette on a string.
She screamed and screamed. He worked her faster, her hand jerking his butt hole with his every plunge. He was on the verge. When he, then, yelled into the already crowded air, she forcefully yanked the string and attachment from its hiding place, changing his low-throated groan into a high-pitched shriek. He collapsed heavily upon her, gasping his gratitude.
And there, from her outstretched hand, limply swaying, unusually white, gleaming with Vaseline residue—the emblem of a woman’s curse, now this woman’s charm—hung a tampon.
She relaxed her forearm, letting the cotton pendant come to rest beside them. Nearly discarded, now rewarded. The metaphor was almost too perfect. From the ashes of futility would arise a new purpose—for the second half of her life. And with her creative potential, the possibilities were endless.
With a free limb, she stroked her newfound lover’s back and smiled.
Contentedly.
Gratefully.
And, just a trifle, wickedly.
Originally published November 2009
