New Story from Volume 2

Classic Stories of Female Domination & Discipline of the Submissive Male

Story from Classic FemDom Stories: Volume 2

My Classic FemDom Stories Volume 2  is available as a Kindle ebook as well as paperback.  These 20 stories are erotic, fun & absorbing.  They include: cuckolding; punishment with sounding rods in the penis; golden showers; anal training; foot fetish; an open-air flogging and caning; smoking fetish; and one of my favorite scenarios, forced bi.

I hope you enjoy the story below, which appears in Volume 2.  This story is about the psychological effect of pain, using an electro-stim device.  If you enjoy Power Exchange and the erotics of pain, you will savor this story....

                         Waving the Violet Wand


            David sat in the back room as the July afternoon shadows started to change the light.  As a photographer, David’s eyes were highly attuned to light and shadow, shades, shapes.

            He stared out at the back garden of the Georgian mansion he and Zara shared in one of north London’s hippest neighborhoods.  The greenery was beautiful, well cared for by their housekeeper, since they were both out of town so often.  How rarely he and Zara had time to sit out and enjoy the flowers.  It was a proper English garden, with red roses climbing the back trellis, white flowers, green ferns, and hedges jumbled together in natural beauty.

            But modeling sent Zara hither and photography jobs sent him yonder, and the garden sat empty much of the time.

            David sipped his glass of beer.  Something felt strange.

            She had not called or texted all day.

            There was a lot to do in London.  Friends she hadn’t seen during the past month of back-to-back photo shoots.  But friends talk.

            He heard the heavy iron gate at the front of the house clang shut.  Her footsteps could be heard coming up the walk.  After a few moments, Zara’s keys were in the front door. Then she came into the front hall.  She dropped her keys and bag on the table and shut the front door.

            Zara walked into the front room, an old Victorian parlor they had made into their antique-filled lair.  She loved to sit at the nineteenth century oak table at the front window.  They had found that table, together, on a job shooting an ad for a French perfumer in Montparnasse.

            David heard the scrape of a match and then, shortly after, smelled the smoke of her French cigarette.  As a struggling model, Zara lived in a Paris attic garret and subsisted on unfiltered French cigarettes, bread and coffee.  She still loved her French cigarettes, but when she traveled to Paris now, Zara stayed at the Ritz.

            The dark tobacco scent reached him and still he didn’t move.

            The shadows in the garden caught his painterly eye.  He had once positioned Zara there, among the flowers, for a photo shoot for an Italian fashion magazine.  He had been one of the first to see her potential, and their love affair had begun behind the lens of his camera.

            Now, of course, she belonged to the world.

            And he, who had once been above her, as a noted, edgy photographer … well, his star had never risen quite as far as Zara’s.

            No matter.  They loved each other.  They had been together for two years now.

            David finished the beer and put down his glass quietly.

            She smoked in silence.

            He was partly afraid and partly relieved to have her home.

            Whatever would happen, would happen, he thought.

            Zara finished her cigarette, stubbing it out.  She stood up and walked into the hallway.

            “David?” she called.

            Suddenly, he felt too afraid to answer her.

            She waited.

            “David!” she said, her voice firm.  Her American accent still seemed exotic to him.  She came from the Midwest and had the same accent as James Dean.  Never did he dream, as a boy watching James Dean’s films over and over, that he would one day cast his emotional and sexual fates with a girl from that same faraway place, the American middle west, who spoke in that identical nasal, flat twang.

            “David!” she called again.

            He sat frozen, without moving.  Suddenly, he wanted to race out the back door.  But it wouldn’t do any good.

            She put her foot on the first step of the stairs in the center of the front hall.  “David, you’re coming upstairs with me.  Now!”

            He stood up.  He cleared his throat and walked into the hallway from the back room.  She was already half-way up the stairs.

            She led him down the hallway on the upper floor.  David followed his love past the large bedroom they shared.  It was filled with souvenirs of their conjoined travels and careers – a large color photograph of Zara nude that he had taken last winter hung over their bed, a painting of Zara by a German painter hung between the tall windows, a huge black vase she had found in Argentina, small plant pots from Africa he had collected during a photography job five years ago, a hand-woven carpet from the photo shoot in Turkey for which he had won an award, the stack of the many books she picked up in airports and never finished.

            He followed her rounded, perfect ass, encased in skinny jeans, as she led him down the hall past the guest bedrooms that were used when friends came over for eating, laughing and drinking and decided to stay over.  David followed Zara past the bathroom.  He followed past the bedroom she had converted into a closet for all of the couture clothing she acquired from walking the runways of Paris and Milan.  Designers gifted her with her favorite frocks.  After all, they had been meticulously fitted during multiple visits to the designer’s studios to hug every inch of her body.

            She stopped at the bedroom at the end of the hallway.  They always kept it locked.  Always.  With casual friends in their lively household and their housekeeper, no one had keys except Zara.  Not even he had a key.

            It was Zara’s secret room.  It was Zara’s power that was unleashed in it.

            She walked inside, turned on the small stained glass lamp in the corner, and turned around to look at him.  David stopped at the doorway to the room.

            “Come in,” she said.

            “Thank you for your permission.”

            She curled her lip up slightly.  Was it anger?  Disgust?

            He kneeled before her, as was customary.

            “Get undressed,” Zara said, before turning away from him.

            He peeled off his worn jeans and the t-shirt from a Barcelona photography gallery that exhibited his work.  He put his clothes in the black box near the door.

            David stood naked, awaiting orders.  His cock and balls dangled, vulnerable.  He felt the chill of fear and the heat of excitement pass through his naked body.

            Zara lit several candles and turned to look at him.  She turned off the stained glass lamp and they were encased in deep darkness, broken only by the flickering candles.

            “Get in the bondage chair.”

            David obediently went to the chair and sat down.  It was unusually shaped, with wing-like extensions that forced his thighs and knees way out, far apart, so that his genitals were more exposed than in a traditional chair.

            Zara walked up behind the chair.  She buckled the wrist restraints, then the upper-arm restraints, then the shoulder restraints.  She was using all of the leather straps tonight.

Nervousness caught in David’s throat.

            She reached down over him and strapped the thigh restraints.  His cock grew aroused at the nearness of her body.

            She restrained his knees, then his ankles.  He was firmly bound.

            David looked up at her.

            Her eyes were hard.

            What would it be tonight?  Cock and ball torture?  Nipple torture?

            He felt his cock grow more aroused, looking at Zara.  Her skinny jeans gave her rounded ass even more shape.  Her fashionably loose t-shirt showed she was not wearing a bra, and her nipples were standing out hard, against the thin, grey, artfully-shredded fabric.

            Zara was not one of the great beauties of the world.  But she was one of the great models of the world.  The angles of her face fascinated endlessly.  Modeling was not only about beauty, but about the architecture of the face.  David would shoot hundreds of photos of her at a sitting, and in every photo, her magnificent, angular face appeared different.

            She was a marvel, really.  Everyone in the business remarked upon Zara’s enchantment of the camera lens.  A spark existed in her, transforming her from just another pretty girl into a sphinx, an angel, a lascivious demon; whatever Zara needed to be, she had it within her to be.  The great models had something within.  That’s where the world outside the fashion industry got it wrong.  It was less about exterior beauty than about interior magic – and madness.  People were often surprised when they met Zara in person, expecting the ethereal perfection caught by the camera.  In real life, her nose seemed too long, her eyes much too far apart, her huge cheekbones off-puttingly wide and round.  But the camera, with its peculiar flattening of 3-D life, found its perfect alchemy in her face.

            Zara was a legend, now.  And he was just a very good photographer who had helped discover that the too-short, bow-legged, slightly too large-breasted new girl from a small town in the American middle west would rock the fashion world, bringing down old requirements for anorexic girls that towered like giraffes.  Together, they had remade ideas of what was beautiful.

            She pulled her shirt off.  Her breasts bounced and jiggled with delicious abandon.

            David felt his cock grow stiffer in arousal.

            She kept her jeans on and moved to her storage closet.  She emerged, barely visible in the flickering candlelight, with what looked like a hard, black plastic briefcase.

            She set it down on the bondage bed that stood next to the bondage chair.

            “I don’t think I’ve seen that before,” David said.

            “No, you haven’t,” Zara said.

            “What is it?” he asked softly.

            She worked the lock and opened it up.  The back of the case hid its contents from view.  She rummaged inside and said, “Aha,” to herself.  She seemed to be holding items up and looking at them.  He heard a sound like metal touching glass.

            She looked up.  In the candlelight, her eyes were hard.  Unknowable.

            So much about her, he still did not know.

            “I used to use this on my boyfriend in Paris,” Zara said.  She smiled mysteriously.

            “Which boyfriend?” David asked.

            There had been the Italian photographer, the English clothing designer, the older and wealthy Parisian businessman, the American musician.

            “Someone before you,” was all she said.

            David leaned back against the wooden back of the bondage chair.

            Zara bent down.  She plugged an electrical cord into the nearby outlet.

            Then, she put the object down into the case and leaned in to his body.

            Her breasts fell against his muscular chest.  David sighed in sexual longing.  Her warmth, her smell.

            He nuzzled her neck as best he could.

            His cock was getting harder and harder.  He loved being in bondage to her.  Zara was his natural dominatrix, and she ruled him.

            She pressed her breasts against his mouth, but when he opened his mouth to kiss them, she pulled just out of reach.  Tantalizing.  Teasing.

            But her usual playfulness was not there.

            David could feel it.  There was a tightness around her large, widely-set eyes.  Zara’s eyes were so wide apart that he had to look from one to the other and back and forth, to really try to see what was going on there.  In person, her eyes could seem a bit freakishly far apart, but once in front of the camera, it was delightful.

            Chemistry.  She had it, and beyond.

            “What is it?” he whispered.

            She pressed her breasts together with her hands and looked down at him, in the chair.

            Zara tilted her head.

            “I was home all day, waiting for you,” David said.

            She reached down and stroked his cock.

            The candles flickered, and her eyes were lost in the shadows for a moment.

            She stroked his cock, bringing his erection even higher.

            Then, Zara stood back and looked at him.  “I heard about Morocco.”

            He gulped.

            She reached into the black case.  “It’s time for some loving discipline.  To bring you back in line.”

            “Darling, there’s nothing more important to me than you.  Nothing.”

            “I know.”  Zara reached into the case.  He heard the sound of glass and metal again.

            She looked up.  “I’m thirsty.  Before I start your discipline, I’m getting myself a glass of wine.  You might need something, too.”

            He met her gaze.  He knew better than to tell her what he wanted.  She might take it the wrong way.

            “Would you like wine or water or nothing?  Honestly, darling, I’d like you to be well hydrated.”  A playful smile rested on her lips, those famous lips that had appeared on billboards around the world and were, in fact, two stories tall on a massive billboard in central London near one of the fashion magazines he regularly worked for.  Those lips.

            “I’ll get you a cold beer,” she finally said.

            “That would be lovely,” David sighed.  He looked straight ahead, at the darkness of the wall on the other side of her bondage room.

            Alone in the room, David twisted his head around.  He could see that inside the black case was a display of strange, glass and metal devices resting in neat cubbyholes carved out of a black velvet case bed.  Each of the glass orbs and shapes had its own spot.

            David saw a black velvet surface, with a strange-looking wand instrument and various attachments.

            She was back, setting his cold beer down on a nearby table and sipping from her glass of wine.

            She turned to her black case with relish.  “Now, David. Morocco was simply unacceptable.”

            He didn’t respond.

Zara picked up a large, clear round glass orb.  She snapped it onto the end of the black rod and held it up high, looking at it.

            He saw the black, handled device and attachments made of differently-shaped glass.  How odd.  “What is that for?” he said.  “Different magic tricks?”

            “My violet wand works magic on a man, all right,” she said in that American Midwestern nasal twang.

            She pulled a round globe from the case and attached it to the black handset.  She turned on a switch.  Suddenly, the clear glass globe was filled with an arc of purple electricity, glowing, like a miniature lighting rod inside the glass.

            He instinctively drew back, afraid.

            “The violet wand is electro-stimulation,” she said.  “The loving discipline it administers is memorable.”

            “Listen, about Morocco…..” David started to say.

            “All in the name of discipline, my dear,” Zara said in a strangely soothing tone.  Her gorgeous, naked breasts swayed in the glowing light.

            His cock was still hard.  But it was growing a bit more limp due to the fear coursing through his body.  The thing looked like something out of a mad scientist’s lab, with the electricity coursing through a misty substance within the round glass globe.

            “It has gaseous material inside,” she said.  “That makes it glow.  The electricity arcs.  It’s an impressive sight.  Even more impressive zapping your skin.”

            “Why is it purple?”
            “The type of gas within the orb determines the color of the electric charge,” she said.

            Zara raised it into the air.  In the purple crackling lightning, like a miniature lightning storm within the globe, Zara’s skin took on a strange glow.  Her eyes were distant, unsympathetic.  Dominant.  She licked her lips in anticipation.

            She passed the device over his skin and the hairs on his upper thighs stood up straight.

            “What was that?” David felt electricity through the air itself.

            Suddenly, the thing made contact with his cock.

            “Ow!” he shouted.  He jolted back into the leather straps restraining him in the chair.

            She passed the wand over his most tender pink skin and touched the base of his cock.

            He felt the sharpest sting of his life.  “Oh, that hurts.  Please!” David roared.  The chair shook underneath his body as he jolted back.

            “Perhaps I’ve got it on too high,” she said.

            She touched him again.

            The electric jolt passed like a lightning bolt through his penis.  It felt like a piranha biting his flesh.  “Zara!” David roared.

“What is it?” she asked in an innocent tone.

“Holy Hell, it burns like fuck all!” he said.

            Zap!  She touched him again and it felt like the teeth of a saw digging into his cock. He flailed against the restraints.  The electricity became sharp, jagged edges digging into his flesh.  His penis went limp from the shock and intensity, the pain of the biting voltage.

            David had handled punishments on his cock before – slapping, spanking, paddling with wooden and leather devices, even a foot to the groin.  Never anything like this.  The electricity was overpowering in its zinging, zapping force as it touched his skin.

            He was afraid of her.  His body went limp

            “The violet wand is medical grade glass, so don’t worry, it won’t break.  The orb is filled with argon, a gas like neon.  It’s glowing because an electric current is running through it when I plug it in.  Ever played with electricity?”

            Her face was coming closer to him in the glow of the purple thing.

            David leaned his face back.  But she was veering down to his genitalia.

            Zara lowered the thing so that it was right above his limp cock.

            “Please don’t,” he whispered.

            She made contact with his cock again.

            He howled in pain.  “Oh Jesus!” he shrieked.

            “I suppose it is still a little high.”  She turned the knob on the handle down.  She moved it over his cock and brought the glass to his cock again.  The electricity jolted his limp penis.

            “Oh, please, please,” David moaned.

            She leaned over him.  Zap.  He sweated.  The pain!  Zap, pause, pause.  He looked up.

            She zapped his poor cock again, this time for a longer spell.

            “Owwww!” he shouted.  “Zara!  What is going on?  I… I smell burning flesh!”

            “That’s ozone on your skin.  It’s not burning flesh.”

            He groaned, unable to move except for his sweating face and neck.  “Okay, I give up.”

            “Of course you give it up to me, darling.  That’s the only way, if you want to be with me,” Zara said.  She gazed into the wand’s glass globe.  Zara appeared mesmerized by the lightning arcs.

            Zara.  In the darkness of the room, he looked into her beautiful face.  Those angles gave her face an alien quality in the dim light of the candles.  Flickering, they cast long shadows from those huge, high, wide cheekbones.  Her eyes were impenetrable, cast in shadows,

            The fashion world was fascinated by those wide-set eyes, the depth of her ability to transform herself into different people in front of the lens – a sexpot, a delicate girl, a witch, a sweet lover, a distant goddess.  He blinked and another self would come through in his lens.  Other photographers, designers, fashion magazine editors – they were all fascinated as well.  They called her for jobs with the world’s best photographers in enviable locations.  Her phone never stopped ringing.  Yet….. Zara sometimes, capriciously, turned down the highest-paying jobs so that she could wake up late, lay around the house, drink wine, gossip with friends, smoke, have female-dominant sex with him as much as she wanted and daydream.

            She turned her gaze from the purple glowing ball to him.  She held the violet wand to the side as she leaned in.  “Loving discipline,” Zara whispered.  She kissed his cheek and he turned to meet her lips.

            Her tongue moved into his mouth as they kissed deeply.  Mutual passion, the history of their bodies together.  His cock grew aroused again.  Her kisses were soft, her lips like pillows against his own.  “Mmmm,” David murmured, loving the sensation of kissing her, his body bound, controlled by her.  She pressed herself against him.

            Suddenly, even as they kissed, David smelled the arcing electricity and in an instant realized his ball sac was burning, on fire, as the rat-a-tat clicking noise of the wand filled his ears.  He groaned and pulled his face away.

            But Zara covered his mouth with her own, demanding kisses from her captive.  She kissed him deeply while touching his scrotum with the electric wand.  He choked on the pain as she pressed her lips against his own.  David moved his head, trying to escape her cruel, deep kisses while she tortured his genitals.  His head wanted to explode from the pain, the passion of her kissing and raw voltage shooting through his cock and testicles.

            How could she be so cruel?
A loud crackling, clicking noise accompanied her next zap.  She had clearly turned up the power on the thing.  When it made contact with his skin, the noise and the pain merged together.  The ozone from the electric device was on his skin, an acrid, weird smell.

            She moved to his cock for a few short spurts of crackling electric jolts, then returned to his aching, radiating balls.

            A blasting bite of electric power burst through his ball sac.

            David wriggled in the chair.  “Oh, please.  Please, don’t do it like that again.”

            Zara’s face was just barely visible in the dark, above the glowing purple device.  She turned the knob up, right in front of his genitals, so he could see her in the brightness.

            “Oh, Zara, my goddess, please.  Not so high.”

            She lowered it over his ball sac.  His scrotum still tingled from the last jolt of electricity.

            He watched as she waved it over his ball sac, tormenting him with anxious expectation of spiteful pain.   “Oh, please, please,” he moaned.  Passing it over him was almost as bad as making contact.  She waved it back and forth.  The electricity seemed to singe the air.  He wanted it to stop, the sizzle through the air, as the lightning in the thing crackled like an inferno.

            Zara watched him.  She brought it down against the red skin of his balls.

            “Holy shit, please stop!” David shouted.  His body flailed against the leather straps of his bondage.  His neck strained hard. He felt like he was going to faint from the pain.

            Zara turned away.  He heard her turn it off.  She removed the round orb and looked over her various attachments.

            His lungs sucked in great draughts of air, breathing hard, hard, hard.  He had to recover from the pain.  He had to stay strong.

            “Loving discipline,” she reminded him, her back turned.  “You brought this on yourself.”

            He could not answer.

            “When I go on a photo shoot with a sexy, great photographer, you have to be able to trust me.  When you’re called to do an editorial photo shoot with two hot young Scandinavian models, well, just the same.  I have to be able to trust you.”

            “You can, my darling.  I am learning my lesson.”

            “Some lessons take layers of discipline, I think,” she said.  “Fashion photographers are notorious.”

            “Drugs come with our world, darling.  You know this!”

            She raised a finger in the air.  “Do not say another word to me about you and drugs.”

            It was so unfair.  She indulged in wine on her photo shoots and managed to produce breath-taking photographs because photographers loved her and the camera loved her. 

            She sipped from her wine.  She held up his beer glass and tilted it at his mouth, administering a welcome draft of the cool, fragrant, smooth beer.  It soothed him strangely, more than a drink normally would.

            One of the candles had burned down, and the room was darker.  “I’m not done yet,” she whispered.

            “It hurts much more than what you’ve done to me before,” David pleaded.

            Zara attached a long, curving bulb to the device and turned it on.  The violet wand came to life with bright red lightning bolts crackling inside the clear glass ball.  It was a miniature electrical storm.  The glow in Zara’s eyes showed she was clearly entranced.

            She stood between his naked legs and slowly, slowly, slowly lowered it through the darkness.  It was all he could see.  Her eyes blazed in the dancing red light, her high cheekbones, the shape of her nipples standing up, hard, turned on, catching the red light and the thing, the awful electrical wand, lowering slowly through the air.  He waited and waited and waited.

            “You are unkind to the man who loves you,” David groaned, twisting and writhing, trying to get away.  Like the pendulum swinging lower and lower, he waited and the waiting seemed as painful as the electrical voltage itself.

            He started to cry from the anticipation of the harsh sensation.  Would she have it touch his fried balls? His cock?

            “Oh please, just lower the thing onto me!” David cried.

            Her eyes did not change.   Cold, profound, female power.

            The red electric lightning charges zapped around inside the bulb as it glowed on his skin.  Lower, lower, it came.

            It touched down on his lower belly above his genitals. He cried out.

            Zara lowered it once more, zapping the very lowest part of his belly.

            “No!” he shouted.  The pain was so intense he could barely stand it.  The bondage chair shook and rattled beneath his writhing body.

            It touched the base of his cock, at the belly, and his entire cock was overcome with the sensation of the electric charge, running up his belly to his belly button, down the length of his limp cock, to the head of his penis.

            David could do nothing but breath heavily, fighting the pain.  She zapped him in the exact same spot again.  The electricity seemed to run down his cock and leave his body through the head of his poor penis, like an electric eel running down his cock and sizzling, slithering out the opening and out into the darkness.

            Zara bent her head down and kissed his nipples.  She pressed her naked breasts against him, but he was beyond responding to her sexual power.

            She had broken him down.  He wasn’t himself any more.  He wanted to make her happy, and nothing else mattered.  She was breaking down his flaws, the self he carried around.  The self that got in the way of their union and her supremacy.

            She attached a t-shaped clear glass device and turned it on.  It glowed a bright orange, like a neon sign.  In the orange glow, he saw his limp cock hanging off to the side, his balls a bright reddish-purple.

            “I’m going to give you a temporary branding,” Zara said.  “Luckily for you, I am an artist with this.  Just like you’re an artist behind the camera, right?”

David nodded, exhausted.  His only world right now was her dark room, with the light of the candles flickering on his loving tormentor’s face.  Her different sides confused him.

            “I’m branding something on the inside of your thigh.  It will fade,” Zara said.

            “Oh…..” It was the only sound that wheezed out of his bruised lips.

            She bent down.  A look of focused concentration came over her sharp eyes.  She turned the thing on.  The orange end of the T touched his inner thigh.  He leaped against the restraints, an automatic reaction to the agony.  The pain was excruciation.  But the restraints held him firm.  He could not move.  She continued her work on him.  His tormentor traced a line of something on his inner thigh, over and over, as her breasts caught the light.  Her nipples stood up, hard.

            She turned it off for a moment when the smell of ozone and hot skin filled the room.

            “Am I being strong enough?” David asked quietly.

            Something about it all, her movements at his thigh, her focus, her absolute cruelty was starting to turn him on erotically.  He wanted to please her.

            She turned it on again.  “We’ll see how you do now.”

            Zara touched the orange T end to the exact same spot on his flesh, going over and over it, branding the shape deeper into his skin.  “If I did this again tomorrow, it would be more permanent.  But the skin will heal up.  There won’t be any sign of it.”

            David suppressed the desire to cry.  He didn’t want to shame himself. 

            She traced it over and over, and then turned off the device.

            They sat in the near-total blackness.  One candle remained, flickering faint amber light.

            He felt her hand touch his inner thigh.  She pressed her fingers against the sore, painful branded spot.  His cock’s hard-on grew at her touch.

            David held back a sob.  Of confusion. Pain. Anger. Disappointment in himself.  Mystification.  Erotic enjoyment.

            Zara rustled around in the black case again.  This time, she attached a long, thin tube of glass.  It glowed a bright, celestial blue.

            “I rarely go above the waist,” she said.  “In electric play, you stay below the waist.  But for a very low, low wattage, I want to see if you are truly my slave.”

            He looked at her in the dark, through the blue glow.  “I am your slave,” he said.

            “Stick your tongue out.”

            David did not hesitate.  He would give it all up for her.  She owned him.

            He stuck out his tongue into the air.

            She lowered the blue glass tube into the air.

            Her face was so close to his, sensually near.  He wanted to kiss her.

            Zara carefully lowered the blue tube.  The tip of the tube came lower and lower.  It touched the tip of his tongue, sending a blunt, snapping zing through his tongue.

            He liked it.

            He looked up and found himself smiling at his tormentor.

            In the blackness, he felt her hand on his neck.  He felt her lips on his mouth.  David opened his mouth, not knowing whether to expect pain or pleasure.  He was open to both, if they came from her.

            Zara kissed him.  Long, sensuous movements of her tongue touched his lips, going deep into his mouth.  She took away the taste of the electricity.  Or was that what she intended to do, not kiss him from her own desire, but out of her desire for the electricity on his wet tongue?

            She moved in the dark.  David heard her unplug the device.

            He peered at his genitals.  The skin was purplish red, raw and bruised.  But he was functional.  His cock and balls were on fire, but they had sensation.

            She turned on the stained glass lamp in the corner of the room.  He saw what she had branded on his inner thigh.  “Bad Boy.”

            He looked at her.  “Why are you so cruel?” he whispered.

            She didn’t answer.  She returned from her closet to dab antiseptic ointment on the branded area.

            It stung hard.

            The smell of ozone on his branded skin hung heavily in the enclosed room.

            She finished her wine.

            He was thirsty and looked at his glass.

            Zara reached out, picked up the half-full beer glass, tilted her head back and drank it down.

            David gazed forward in the dark.  Frustration rose in him.  He had withstood her punishment.  And she would show him no mercy?

            He had taken the pain, the shock.  All of it!  He hung his head, defeated.

            She closed up the case.  She put it back in the closet.

            “My brand will go away in a few weeks,” she said.  “But it will be there when you go to Los Angeles for that shoot with…. who is it with?”

            “I don’t want to say the names of any other women in your presence,” David said softly.  “Please don’t make me say their names.”

            “When you go to L.A. for the job with Elena and Astrid who always pack cocaine into their busy schedules, my brand will remind you of my discipline and my requirements.”

            “I understand.”

            She started undoing his leather bondage straps one by one.

            Free of the bondage, he sat naked in the chair.  He felt unable to move.

            Zara enclosed him in her arms, her naked breasts pressing against his chest.

            Her remoteness and cruelty made him feel spent and invigorated at the same time.

            She pulled away from him.  She was expert at sensing his inner feelings, his experience of loving discipline, the pain that shook him and corrected him.

            “Poor David,” she said softly, rubbing his nipples.  “I’ve drunk the last of your beer.  What do you say we go ‘round to the corner pub and I buy you a nice, cold one?”

            He rubbed his sweaty forehead.  “That would be nice,” he finally said.  His genitals blazed with pain. The branding of his tender inner thigh stung with a dull persistence he could not escape.

            “First, you need a nap to recover,” Zara said.  She helped him out of the chair.  They walked out of the ozone-thick room to their bedroom down the hall.  She laid him out across the bedspread and covered him with a soft blanket.

Five hours later, he was seated at the gleaming wooden bar of their local pub, laughing with the bar keep and neighbors at the sports event on tv.  Zara sat beside him, silent, elusive, aware that people were looking at her, the world-famous model, aware that she could not quite ever be herself in public.  But she came here for his sake.  As he noticed men and women both staring, he had to smile.  The stunning look of her odd, angular face was a façade that hid an even more strange, even more beautiful cruelty.  Even now, the branding on his inner thigh stung like needles.

As his body cried out in pain when he moved on the bar stool, the different shapes in her face, haunting shadows and highlights in the arch of those wide cheekbones, the curve of each eyebrow, the set of her lips depending upon her mood – captivated him.

David sipped his beer.  Their eyes met.  She pointed to a neon sign over the bar advertising a brand of British ale, glowing bright orange.  “What do you think of that?” she said playfully.

Two potent beers in, now, he leaned heavily against her.  “I think it’s just marvelous,” he said emphatically.  “Nothing could be more wonderful than that neon gas stuff.”

“I’ll make note of that for future reference,” Zara said.

The End

Did you enjoy my story?  I am always interested in hearing from readers who enjoy my style of FemDom fiction. 


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