Desperately Seeking (2018)

It had been too long since I’d actively submitted.

I had tried just about everything I could do on my own, and none of it was enough

I put myself in a cock and ball harness, to feel the teasing tension build up, and of course I got hard. I felt those moments of bliss with the enhanced tightness around me. But there was something missing. There was no escaping the constant awareness that it was just me choosing when it went on, when it came off and whether or not there would be release afterwards.

I filled myself up with an anal plug in desperate moments, even making myself endure its presence for a few hours while at work, but the brief experience of the physical sensations of it didn’t come close to filling the void of what was missing. No one told me when it had to go in. I had picked which plug to use. I hadn’t had to strip slowly or carefully. I hadn’t had to kneel and display myself, waiting for permission to start inserting it. No one told me when I was allowed to remove it. No one to make me last just one more hour past the time I thought I might explode. Taking it out felt cold and clinical.

Plugs had always had a way of sending me into subspace, but not like that. There was a particular stainless-steel plug I wanted to try out so much, but I couldn’t build up any enthusiasm to actually make the purchase now. Without being beyond my own control and whims, it seemed as empty as masturbation.

At times, I’d slip into an almost subconscious chastity. The bit of ache between orgasms, if the gap was long enough, seemed to be as close as I could get to the feelings I craved, and it wasn’t all that close. When I’d become aware that it had been a while, I’d find little reasons to last a bit longer, or set some milestone to reach, and that sensation helped for a while, but then I’d cave. No one would push me farther than I thought I could go. No one would demand it.

I tried just about everything that had been part of my best experiences in the past.

I spent an entire afternoon setting up a self-bondage predicament, cobbling together a spreader bar for my ankles, with a chair set up in the middle of my living room. I got myself into place one bit a time: locking my ankles into the cuffs at the end of the bar, filling my mouth with a ball gag, pressing play on repeating video to tease me, then putting on a blindfold, limiting myself to just the sounds. Finally, I cuffed one wrist to the back of the chair and tried to get myself out of my reality.

It was useless. All I could think about was my free hand. I sat there for maybe 20 minutes before freeing myself, all the while wracked with feelings of self-loathing.

My hunger, unfed, just kept growing and tormenting me.

I looked over at my laptop, but then pushed it away.

I’d tried to find someone before. Over and over. Online experiences had sometimes given a bit of respite and were certainly easier to find, but they seemed only a hair above being alone. I had no idea how someone hundreds of miles away could give the visceral feeling of helplessness that I couldn’t escape my need for.

What did that leave? Did I really want to try to find a Domme of my own again? I had tried before, over and over. When I didn’t chicken out and walk right past a munch location, I would go in and feel so much less than those around me. Less experienced, less handsome, less fit, less young, less worthy.

I’d tried everything else, I told myself, so what did I have to lose? The other half of my brain would remind me of shame and frustration and all the times I’d cursed this part of me, to the point of throwing out toys and videos and clothing, only to feel like an idiot six months later when I was back in the kink shops restocking.

I lay awake, arguing with myself until about 3am, and then I gave in.

I pulled the laptop into bed with me, it’s glow the only light in the room, and I started to hunt once more for someone who might be the lost puzzle piece to fit with me.

I started a new search of the kinky folks nearby, trying to check the right boxes of interests and desires to at least have some chance of compatibility.

It was never easy, as there were always too many subs and not enough Dommes, and I was hardly the kind of man to see my reflection in the mirror and think of myself as a catch. It didn’t matter though, as I needed to do something.

I didn’t find “the one” but I made a start. There were people to talk to, and to commiserate with at least.

My first messages to Dommes went mostly ignored. It reminded me of my previous times on the site, but they were probably flooded with quick messages from men trying to get some quick attention before disappearing. I forced myself to stick around.

I decided that I might distinguish myself from the others through perseverance. I found my niches, sought out others with my interests, and started contributing to chats.

Later, when browsing through the site and my conversations, I noticed someone new replying, and a Domme, which immediately caught my attention. Queen Laura, hadn’t replied to me directly, but she had included a quote from one of my favourite movies in her reply. It wasn’t that often that anyone other than me managed to work in a quote from Buckaroo Banzai in their general conversation.

I brought up her profile, noting from the text that she was local, from her interests that she was intriguing, and from her images that she was stunning. Definitely too stunning to be in my league, but I decided to take a chance. I set her in my sights.

I tried my best to play things calm, starting to interact with her directly only now and then, but each time she replied I felt a rush of joy. It limited myself to small talk, and over time I seemed to be developing a rapport with her, chatting about local events, favourite stories, and shared enthusiasm for bits of pop culture or kink viewpoints when opportunities arose.

I felt joy as the relationship seemed to grow.

I had to forcefully calm myself when she mentioned that she was going to be attending an upcoming fetish event and even asked me if I’d be there too. I was so proud of myself for waiting a full hour before replying that I likely would. Panic set in for me, however, when I realized the event was already sold out.

I wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass. I couldn’t. I’d worked too hard to get here.

I started sending private messages to everyone I knew, stopping barely short of begging to obtain someone’s extra ticket. Finally, the day before, I was able to get a hold of Tim, a sub friend I’d know for years who had to cancel due to illness. I felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my heart.

The party was a dream, though I hid my single-minded focus. I saw her immediately, looking more stunning than I’d dared imagine. But I had to bide my time, like a hunter in the rough, waiting for just the right moment to happen to be near her, and to introduce myself. I overcame the jitters of the minute and in return she was lovely, polite and kind. She remembered our interactions once I’d referenced one of the movies we’d discussed, and she smiled.

She was in a discussion with some friends, and I saw her gaze dart back to them, so after she’d smiled once more, commenting on how she was glad to be able to attach a face to my name, I excused myself and took the win.

I allowed myself to finally become part of the party then, and it was thrilling. There was an ache, for sure, as I saw so many interactions around me I’d have loved to be a part of. Dommes and subs, engaged in light bondage or impact play, or demonstrations of their subservience.

There was just a bit of a dark mark on things, as one younger Domme tried to assume a role with me, grabbing me too intimately for someone who’d not consented to being hers, but I stood my ground as respectfully as I could, and made my exit soon after.

Queen Laura was near the exit as I slid out, and I was genuinely touched that she had seen the incident and actually asked me if I was okay.

I knew then I’d made the right choice, as I valued this indication of kind and caring control so highly.

It also gave me a perfect reason to contact her again, to thank her more completely.

We continued to keep in occasional touch. I kept myself from initiating too many conversations, as I was already getting nervous that I was getting too quick to like or comment on her twitter posts. I didn’t want to make the same mistakes I’d made in the past, but she didn’t give any indication that I had, and she wasn’t the kind to her hide her feelings.

I was making mental notes about her, wanting to make sure I kept track of her likes and dislikes, from artist and authors to the way she like her coffee. Attention was important to me.

I even made little offers of service, nothing too overt and certainly nothing sexual, but I knew I’d be close to her, I’d offer to pick up a coffee for her or pick up some delivery.

My circle of friends, especially my twitter follows, grew, with her at the unseen centre. She seemed to know such intelligent and kind folks, especially other subs. New sub friends hadn’t been my part of my plan, but they were certainly an added bonus.

I ran into her at more parties, and she was always just as kind to me, though I kept my ego in check, noting that I never saw her be anything less that caring with any of the subs she interacted with.

Keeping emotions in check was the most difficult after the times I’d actually been a part of service or submission to her at these parties. I cherished the marks on my ass from one of her caning demonstrations, even taking a photo of them to keep. After one session where she had drifted close to me, securing my wrists over my head in some predicament bondage, I carried the memory of her perfume with me for weeks.

I kicked myself for wanting more still. She was stunning, in beauty and mind, served by men much younger and more handsome than I, but still my heart ached I tried to make myself take breaks from twitter and fetlife, but I always came back.

And then, out of the blue, a chance arose. She was hungry, as she got at times, and none of her collared or regular subs were around. She offered me the chance to serve, to feed her, she said, and I leapt at it, hoping she didn’t notice just how quickly I did. I couldn’t believe after all this time my plans and perseverance were paying off.

I was a wreck for days beforehand. I dieted and worked out, vainly trying to make the best of myself. I groomed and scrubbed my body nearly raw, cleaning myself in every way I could imagine.

When the day finally came, I felt like I was going to vibrate out of my skin. I barely ate, but I made myself take some nutrition and I drank plenty of water. The hours took forever to pass. I arrived far too early, and had to walk some more, circling the block and pacing.

When the second hand on my watch finally crawled past 12, I knocked on the door.

I’d been near her before. I’d been part of public play with her before, but none of those things properly prepared me. To be alone with her was altogether new.

She was the same, but different. She was lovely, of course, but there was less performance in the way that she had dressed. She didn’t need anything but her presence to command my attention.

I felt immediately lucky, honoured, to be there alone with her. No distractions. No audience. No one to compete with for her attention. The room was quiet, but there seemed to be a buzz in the air. It made me feel like we could both hear my heart pounding.

I was at once nervous and calm. She was totally at ease at having me as hers, which was a feeling that radiated into me too, even as I was haunted by doubts that I deserved to be there.

There was barely a touch of small talk, but even then, I could feel that my submission had begun. The first tasks were simple, ordinary, and felt like service rather than display.

It was like nothing I’d experienced before.

There were no games. No costumes. No role play. Just her and me, with her showing me in innumerable ways how complete her control could be.

She forced me to be still without the crutch of bondage.

She demanded me to be silent with the help of any gag.

I sank deeper and deeper into the bliss of subspace before her. It was intoxicating. Overwhelming. Transformative. She melted my mind.

She demanded perfection in the way I moved and spoke. I was made to beg for the slightest touch from her hand, with a sincerity that grew beyond my ability to control my emotions.

She had me pleading with no less honesty for the touch of her crop, her whip, her cane. Pain that I’d never believed that I could endure or want became my desperate need before her.

The ache was pure and total.

There was simply nothing but that need. I was probably crying, maybe sobbing, but I couldn’t think of anything but her. The world sank away.

My body was marked and trembling when I became aware that I was on my knees at her feet.

“Tell me what you want,” she commanded.

None of the usual answers were enough.

I begged for the crop again, the paddle, for bondage or humiliation, but she saw through the superficiality of all of that. They were surface requests, and I felt a panic rising inside me that I wouldn’t be able to find the right answer.

“Whatever you want,” I sobbed but that was a cop out and she saw right through me.

“I just want to please you,” I said, feeling broken and desperate.

She kept digging, demanding to see me expose every bit of my soul to her.

I finally crumpled to the floor, naked, broken, and undeniably sobbing.

I felt the soft touch of her hand, pushing my sweat-soaked hair out of my eyes. Her words reached out as a lifeline to me.

“I’ll tell you what I think you want. You want my collar around your neck. You want my voice in your ear telling you that you’re mine.”

The sobbing returned. She was right, of course, but I was overwhelmed by the realization that I didn’t deserve her. I’d seen her subs, and the other men who’d lined up just to pour her wine.

Who was I? Middle-aged, overweight, with greying hair and average looks at best. I wasn’t rugged or fit or even wealthy. My flesh was marked by flaws instead of defined muscles.

What did it matter that I wanted her collar, even if I wanted it with everything I was? She wouldn’t want me. She could do better, and had. Any man she wanted would be here asking for the same.

I felt my naked body on the cold floor mocking me with its pathetic flaws.

Her hands lifted my eyes to hers.

“It’s okay to want that,” she said with a voice that immediately warmed me.

She wiped the line of tears from my cheek.

“Why do you think you’re here?” she smiled.

I shook my head, and closed my eyes tightly, not wanting to know the answer. In my mind, I could already hear her tell me that I was only here because no one else was available. A last resort.

“Let me tell you a story,” she said.

“I commented on that very first thread knowing you would check my profile. It was bait. By that point I already knew everything about you I could find online. Including your favourite movie. Did you think that was a coincidence?”

My eyes widened.

“I told you about the party. I bought an extra ticket and arranged for Timothy to sell it to you.”

My heart was loud in my chest.

“I have been watching you, luring you in for months. Does that sound like something I would do if I wasn’t interested?”

It was all too much to take in and every detail and memory was trying make its way into my mind at once.

She pulled a slip of paper from a pocket behind the belt of her skirt.

“Check the date,” she instructed.

It was from months and months ago, dated even before our first interaction - a date I knew all too well, having reread every word she’d shared with me over and over.

The receipt was from the finest of the city’s kink shops, and it listed just one item: “Collar - Custom.”

I lifted my eyes back up to her in confused shock.

“Did you think you were the hunter, little man?” She smiled.

My heart thudded with a deafening totality, driving out thought.

She held the perfect new collar in her upturned hands.

Engraved into the gleaming steel was my name.

ⓒ 2018-2020 Edward Cantor 
first published on the Dreams Made Flesh patreon


I can agree that perhaps the only constant is change, but I would not go so far as to say that all good things come to an end. 

Things do end. We’ve all seen a lot of that around us of late to remind us. 

Relationships start and change. Some end, to be sure. 

I don’t know how to judge a start, to say how long I’ve been “active” in kink. I know it has been more than twenty years, with breaks and pauses, since that first time online connectivity allowed me to interact with someone else who shared my kinks. What an amazing and frightening thing it was, to take those first steps to translate fantasy and dream into reality and relationship. Some lessons came hard and fast — simple things about bondage and comfort, or what it really felt like to edge with consequences. Other lessons took more time and pain, but perhaps hard won truths are the most valuable. 

I have played with kinky friends in person, topping and bottoming for each other. I’ve played and scened online as a top, a bottom, a Dominant, and as a submissive. I’ve used IRC, email, message boards, online story forums, Fetlife and twitter. I have submitted to ‘lifestyle’ dominants and to professionals. 

When I look at this time, and this admittedly wide variety of experiences, I might wonder why I don’t feel more ‘experienced’ or ‘expert’ than I do, but I am glad that I don’t. I’m happy to remain in the mindset of a novice adventurer in a world that is inhabited by so many others who are more experienced, more thoughtful, and more contemplative than I. 

Somehow, it was only a bit less than three and a half years ago that I started to know this amazing woman online. She was unique and kind and wonderful. She was not just smart, but wise. She was not just open, but kind — but not the kind of kindness that could be mistaken for weakness. 

She was encouraging, giving me the nerve to not only meet her in person, but to have the strength to meet others as well, encouraging friendships between myself and other submissives that have been wonderful sources of strength. 

She challenged my thoughts in many different ways, striking out her own paths and theories. As a dominant woman, she wanted to pay for things. Picking up the cheque was as much a sign of power as was ordering for her dinner companion. 

She opened my eyes when it came to erotica, not just by being so clear about what she wanted to read, but why. She shared the kind of knowledge that was like turning on a light, and then making it impossible to forget what that light had shown you. I remain a better writer because of her lessons, and because of the opportunity and responsibilities she gave me to use those lessons. 

She has been by my side, quite literally at times, during some of my most powerful and transformative experiences, and in some of my darkest hours. Her comfort then was an outstretched hand to me, guiding me up. 

When I was able to and needed to find some way to serve, she accepted control of my chastity. Her control was full of joy, laughter, teasing and pleasure. She made it clear who was in control, who my service was supposed to please, and how. She taught me that, for her at least, it was about control, not just denial. She expressed her dominance as clearly when she said ‘yes’ as she did when she said ‘no.’

Life changes, as I said. Some of these changes mean that this control has now ended. But my relationship with her has not, at the very least in that it has linked our hearts permanently. I know that she firmly believes that a Dominant should leave any submissive at least a little bit better than when she found them. She has done this for me, a thousand times over. 

I had started my personal contemplation by thinking about numbers. Things like 826 days. A touch more than two years and three months, for 37 granted releases.  But as I reminisce, I know that numbers don’t mean a thing. 

She was my dominant, and I was her submissive. She was my mentor and teacher, my muse and editor. 

She is my friend. 

Thank you, Ma’am. 

Ⓒ 2020 Edward Cantor


His movements were jerky, out of rhythm. Grunts escaped his lips at every perceived impediment. He was running late.

It was Friday afternoon, around the time he’d normally be escaping the world of work, but this night he’d been tasked by his firm’s partners to host a dinner meeting for an important potential client. He might have preferred to escape into his own private routine, but this was not a request. His one smile, when thinking about it after the announcement was that he would be able to use the firm’s expense account at a restaurant he’d wanted to visit for quite some time. It was a well-reviewed place, and reservations were hard to come by, but his firm’s name carried weight, and tonight he would wear that power and influence as well.

The black Town Car from the firm’s car service dropped him off at the curb right in front. He was impressed just at the sight of the place. The facade, the foyer, the bar, the dining room spaces—all were composed of the most expensive materials, moodily lit by exquisite fixtures. The dining room was spacious, with a luxurious seeming amount of space between the tables.

He introduced himself to the maître d’, as all he knew of the client was that they were to be represented by someone named Pennington.

“Your party has arrived, Sir,” he heard, and he followed the maître d’ to the bar.

He felt a touch ashamed, in this day and age, that he had been unconsciously expecting a man. Instead, he was brought face to face with a woman who towered over him from the moment she rotated off of her bar stool to stand in front of him. He was silent for a beat, and then another, before he gathered himself enough to introduce himself. He overcompensated for his interpretation of her facial expression—was that bemusement?—and heard his own voice sound lower than normal.

He couldn't recall the last time he’d referred to himself as anything other than “Steve,” but in that moment he was all in, introducing himself as “Steven Case, from Wright and Davis.”

He had to fight the feeling of a blush, as her lip curled. The thought screamed across his mind that she could see right through him. But no, he could pull this together. He still had his fine choice of restaurant as a source of pride, and with one of the office’s Black Cards in his wallet, he didn’t even have to look at the prices on the menu.

Why then, did he feel himself fidgeting with his tie and the fit of his suit?

She held out her hand, but as he was about to reach out to shake it, he saw that the she was holding it out to be kissed, not shaken. He felt strange, especially with the maître d’ still standing there, watching, waiting for something. Another beat, but she didn’t adjust the position of her hand at all. There was nothing else he could do, so he reached out for her fingers and bowed forwards at the waist, barely letting his pursed lips graze the back of her hand.

He felt very much like he was sliding down some unseen slope, losing control.

“Come,” she said, “I’ve had Marc reserve my favourite table.”

He was still processing all the implications of her statement when he felt her hand on the small of his back, firm and strong, guiding him forward. She was taller than him, and she didn’t bother to wear flats to disguise it, and she was guiding him through the crowd with certainty. If this was a dance, she was leading.

The “favourite” table stood on its own, centrally located in the largest of the dining spaces, and he could feel eyes following them. She was stunning, but he felt a blush rising to his cheeks once more. He was certain that they were wondering about her guiding hand on his back rather than taking in her appearance.

The heat in his cheeks increased when she stepped out beside him, pulling out his chair with her free hand and guiding him forwards once more. He couldn’t find a word to say yet, so he just smiled dumbly as he took a seat. He felt her tuck in the chair as he did.

He gathered himself, working to remember his role in this dinner, to be a good host and representative of the firm. To be the man of power, the instrument of influence.

He was well into his prepared small talk when he noticed that there was only one menu and one wine list at the table, and they were in her hands. She saw him noticing and smiled. “Don’t worry, sugar. I’ll take care of it.”

Their server arrived, introducing himself to them both, and she drew his attention immediately, selecting a bottle of wine for the table with knowledgeable ease. The way the name of the vineyard fell from her lips was intoxicating, while he had to wonder if he would have even been able to pronounce the French names correctly.

Once they were relatively alone, he tried again to the refocus the evening. He spoke of the firm’s size, its influence, its track record of success, using his own name and history whenever possible, intertwining his own identity with its reputation. She seemed not particularly impressed, but at least willing to let him get through his talking points.

The server returned with the wine, knowing this time to come to her for approval. Once it was given, and the pink sparkling rosé was being poured into his glass, he found himself looking around, feeling eyes on him again. He smiled along, knowing that above all, he was required to make sure the client was happy. But why did it have to be pink, he moaned internally, feeling a strange hit to his masculinity when she toasted the evening so loudly and obviously. Now he knew they were being watched.

He did his best all through dinner, trying to talk about work, about the merits of the office, about the quality of their team and their staff, but she kept steering the conversation back to him. Her matter-of-fact self-confidence was disarming and before he knew it, he had told her all about his family, his college days and a good deal about his personal relationship history.

In the midst of all this, she again spoke effortlessly with the server, “Oh, the handsome young man with me will have the watermelon caprese salad and the tonnarelli alla norcina. As for me, I think the carpaccio and then the braised lamb.”

Her voice was all confident joy, seeming to make resistance a distant and confusing afterthought. It pushed his thoughts off balance the more he had time to think on it. She smiled as she sipped at her wine, and he was lost in thought.

It felt so strange… to have her not even ask. She just smiled and dismissed the server without comment and went right back to her gentle interrogation.

She entranced him all through dinner, and the food was delicious. Every attempt of his to steer the conversation was rebuffed or simply ignored, but it was a wonderful time, he had to admit to himself. He may not have said all that he planned to say, but the point of the evening was, after all, to make sure the client had a good time, and she certainly seemed to be.

Between courses, he shifted in his seat, feeling uncomfortable, and he realized that he’d become physical aroused. It wasn’t just the way she looked. Her assuredness and command, over everything and everyone around her was intoxicating.

Once dinner and the wine were finished, he was determined to stand his last bit of ground. He reached out immediately and firmly for the cheque, but she rebuffed him effortlessly.

“Oh, sweetie, aren’t you the cutest little thing,” she laughed—too loud for his comfort— as she signed the bill. He never even saw the total.

He didn’t know how he was going to explain this back at work, but the continued eyes of the other diners around him kept his thoughts on how she had taken every bit of power from him, visibly.

They stood and, somehow, she was right there with him again. Once more her hand was on the small of his back, pressing him forwards, guiding him through the crowd in the restaurant, which had only increased during their time there.

Only when they reached the sidewalk did she lean in and whisper in to his ear.

“I’m not done with you yet, sugar. I don’t buy a pretty thing like you pasta with truffles and then accept an early night and a chaste kiss on the cheek at the curb.”

He was still trying to convince himself she’d really said what he heard when a gleaming black Mercedes pulled up beside them. She opened the back door. “In you go, pet.”

He felt panicked. She was beautiful, powerful, but was he actually expected to put out just because she’d picked up the bill for dinner?

He felt trapped. She was an A-list client, and he’d been told clearly to make sure to make sure she was satisfied. If the partners had known that “Pennington” had been a woman, they hadn’t let on to him.

He took a deep breath in the back of the car as she went around the other side.

She entered and, as the car pulled away and the doors clicked locked, she pulled something out of her purse. She dropped a pair of gleaming handcuffs into his lap. “Put those on, pet. I’m sure you know how.”

What the hell?!, his mind was screaming. He tried to speak, “Uhm, please, Miss Pennington—”

She stopped him. “There’s no need to pretend anymore, pet. You’ve been sent to me tonight, on this little errand, to make sure that I have a good evening. Did they go so far as to say, ‘Make sure Pennington has a good time’? or did they just tell you to ‘impress’ me?”

His eyes widened. What had they said? He fought to remember the exact words.

“But it doesn’t matter. Face it, you’ve been mine from the moment I saw you.”

His mind was racing. How was he going to get out of this? Was he going to get out of this? Had he really been set up by the partners? Did they really know what they’d been sending him into?

That teasing voice was back in the recesses of his mind as well. Did he really want out of this? Was she right? Had he been following along and accepting her control because it just felt right? Was that what his body had been reacting to?

Dammit. He realized it didn’t matter. Not now. Whether they had known or not, failure would severely limit, maybe even end his career. Maybe it was just a game, a bit of playful, sexy teasing.

He looked down and took the cuffs up from his lap, closing them around his wrists. As they clicked shut, he heard his inner voice taunting him for his resistance, You want this and you know it.

She took hold of the chain between the cuffs, lifting them up and over his head, behind him, and he felt a click. After that, he couldn’t lower his arms at all.

He felt exposed and helpless. At her mercy, if she had any to offer.

“Don’t speak. Just listen,” she commanded with a voice that was somehow the same as she’d used all evening, but different too.

“I’m used to getting what I want, pet,” she said, and her hands were moving over him, loosening then removing his tie.

“You know it, and you’ve known it from the moment your boss gave you your assignment today.” She unbuttoned his dress shirt, pulling it open, tugging the shirt tails out of his pants.

Her hands were moving over his bared chest, with a firm caress at first, before she curled her fingers to use her nails.

“And you’re just the kind of plaything I like. Young and handsome enough. Naive, inexperienced, not too many girlfriends in your past.”

She was pulling at his belt now, drawing it out of the loops of his pants, tossing it aside. She opened up the buttons and zippers to expose him further to her eyes.

“And you’re available for the taking. Not too much family, none in the city. No really close friends here yet, and no plans for the weekend.”

His mind raced, seeing the intention behind all of her questions that had seemed innocent enough at the time, even though her power in drawing the answers from him had made him feel a touch of this helplessness.

Her fingers gripped his nipples, and she twisted and tugged at once. He tensed, lifting his body off the seat, and he heard himself gasp.

She reached up, pinching his lips closed. “I do recall telling you not to speak, pet.” The fire in her eyes brought real fear to his heart.

He calmed himself down, forcing control over his emotions, and she kept moving her hands over his stripped chest. Her touch was sensual, but it conveyed power and implied ownership more than anything else. He felt like a trapped pet, or a captured plaything.

Somewhere in his wallet were business cards from one of the most powerful firms in the city, and a credit card to go with it. They were supposed to be items that gave him power, influence and importance. But here he was helpless and undressed in the back of a woman’s car.

He could fight. He could scream out. He could make running his objective from every moment forwards. But what would that mean?

If they had known what they had sent him into, and he failed, he’d be done.

If they hadn’t known and had just given him the task of wooing a client and he failed, he’d be done too. He didn’t imagine for a moment that anyone would believe this.

His thoughts were a mess. The lines of red criss-crossing his chest now, the marks of her nails, did not help his clarity at all.

Was he also feeling pride? This was a woman who could have anything, anyone no doubt. She’d chosen him. She had all night to evaluate or reject him, and yet here he was. Was this an honour that few were given?

What if giving in, letting go of his assumptions about being the “big man” could mean that he’d be successful at work AND get to be hers? What if making her happy was just another way to succeed?

He had to admit, as his body had long ago shown to them both, that he was not exactly hating her touch, even with the pain she was dispensing along with it.

She was reaching down, into his boxers, and he looked down to see that she’d looped his belt through the buckle and had closed the small loop around his cock and balls. She tugged at the impromptu leash.

“I could tell from the moment you kissed my hand that you’d want this, pet.”

He groaned again as she tugged once more and pinched his nipples again. This time she just smiled.

“You do want it, don’t you pet? You want to be my plaything? You want to satisfy my urges and needs, even before I tell you just how much you’re going to suffer to do so, don’t you?”

Her smile was wicked, feral and intoxicating. Her lower lip, for the briefest moment, was trapped between her teeth.

“Yes, I do,” he spoke in submission. “Please.”

“Good boy!” she applauded.

He was leaning forwards, pulling at the confines of the cuffs, his shoulders aching. He wanted, needed to be closer to her, to touch her, to increase the pressure of her hands against him.

Her smile was wide again, and close. He strained more, to get just a bit closer.

“Please,” he panted. “Please may I kiss you?”

She moved closer, but her firm grip on his chin turned his head to the side. He felt her breath on his ear as she whispered, “Oh sweetie, what a hungry, desperate little pet you are. Are you so ready to give me everything on our first date?”

With his head turned to the side, he realized that the car was stopped in front of his building.

“Yes, yes I do. Please,” he stammered. “I do. I want this. I want to be yours. I’ll be a pet or a slut for you. Just for you. Whatever you want. Please…”

She reached up over him, and he felt the cuffs release. With the freedom came a sinking feeling in his heart.

“There’s going to be plenty of time for that, pet. For all of that and more, in fact.”

She reached across him and opened his door.

“Be ready. I’ll call you in the morning.”

And then he was standing there, on the sidewalk, one hand holding up his unzipped trousers, the loose end of his belt dangling down in front of him. His other hand pulled his shirt closed. He watched her car pull away into the night. For a moment of pure panic, he thought his phone might be missing, and he scrabbled around in pure panic before his fingers found the familiar rectangular outline in his jacket pocket.

As he walked toward the lobby, he realized he had never wanted anything more in his life than for his phone to ring in the morning.

ⓒ 2018-2020 Edward Cantor

Personal Transformation

April 2018

Kink has changed me. Of that there is no doubt. 

I’ve come to realize that I’ve been kinky for a long, long time. I think back smiling at the games and fantasies I used to indulge in when I found myself with time and privacy -- handkerchief blindfolds, stolen lacy things, and much more. 

But I’m not the same as I used to be. 

I don’t mean just that my kinks have developed and changed, though they have. 

My story probably isn’t all that unique, but it’s mine nonetheless. There are parts of my “origin story” that even I don’t fully remember. There was a late-night movie featuring some of the most erotic restraint and situational submission that I can think of — but I’ve never been able to find that movie again. There were dreams of my body being changed by others. Every time that I think I know when it started, I find myself remembering something earlier. I used to think my exploration started online, but then I recall searching for actual physical bondage magazines in dingy shops near the train station. 

Those images, online and physical, led to my interest in bondage and restraint. I learned to tie, I learned how knots and predicaments could make a partner feel teased and exposed. I took on the role of Dominant/Top, as well as of the happy submissive/bottom being restrained. In time, that led to my opportunity to serve a Dominant woman. Restraint was part of that, but the real lightbulb moments came from the different things she liked that I had not yet tried.

I learned a lot from that exploration, but so much more when I failed Her; when I learned the hard way that I hadn’t figured out what it was to be a submissive. I had thought that it meant being the recipient of kinks. Through the hurt we both felt when I failed, I got my first taste of the truth — I had to stop thinking about my own enjoyment of specific activities and think about her desires and wishes 
 about how I could serve her. I wish I could say I learned this lesson all at once, but I didn’t.

There’s another part of all this; kink has allowed me to meet and know people whom I would have never met otherwise. I’ve met Dominant men and women. I’ve met submissive men and women. I’ve met transgender and non-binary people. I’ve been given the gift of having my small-town, religiously-raised mind expanded and opened. I can tell you, it was for the better every single time. Through the gift of these people, I’ve been forced and allowed to re-examine my own prejudices. I’ve been able to start to teach myself that even the people I don’t know and haven’t met are just as whole and complete as I am. They don’t need to be defined by their relationship to me, or to anyone else to be valid and deserving of love and respect and rights. These lessons seem so basic and obvious, but kink led me to them, and I’m thankful.

When I’ve written my stories about transformation, they have often been about physical or outer changes. As for me, I’m mostly still the same man I was on the outside. I’m still the guy that doesn’t really like the way he looks in the mirror. I don’t meet my own goals, and if there’s a time I can make myself happy with how I look, it’s invariably while dressed and covered up.

But kink has allowed me to meet people who’ve started to change my perception of myself. I’m not defined solely by how I look. I can get to the truth that others really do see me for who I am. They see me when I can be generous or kind, they see me when I’m striving to bring them pleasure or amusement. They make me feel loved, desired, and appreciated. 

Here’s another thing. Just about two months ago, my father died. I can’t even fucking type that without tears. I have to define myself and live my life without the biggest anchor to virtue I’ve ever had. Accepting myself as kinky and accepting the choices I’ve made because of it is something I’ve struggled with as long as I’ve been doing and being this. I’ve made a LOT of mistakes. I’ve let people down. I’m still striving to do it right, if there is such a thing. 

I wouldn’t have the resources to try without kink and this wonderful community. I have been given the gift of friends — friends who have shown that they love me no matter what as I work through all of this.

I look different than the kid who started this journey more than 25 years ago. I’m older and greyer, and that kid’s pants don’t fit me anymore. Age and life have changed the way I look, but it is kink that has changed the way I think, the way I dream, and the way I strive. 

Life has aged me, but kink has transformed me, and for that I can never thank you all enough.

ⓒ 2018-2020 Edward Cantor


I find myself loving the clarity.

I can feel the cage locked onto me. It is snug, but not uncomfortable. It allows me to feel only itself. I feel myself in it, as I can no longer touch myself or even feel the fabric against my flesh. I know that it is not needed, in any sense, other than for the way it torments me.

I hear the click of the lock against the steel, now and again. I don’t hold the key. That lesson is an obvious one.

I wear a pair of pretty panties. I can feel them snug around my body, and I’m constantly aware of the strangeness, the sense of their difference, even just in the way the cut lays across my ass in a totally foreign way. They were not lifted up my legs to torment me or humiliate me, or to try to change the way I perceive myself. She just said she liked the way they look on me, when she chooses to look. This particular point is accentuated by the fact that they are not even visible, hidden beneath my black jeans.

In this room — though ‘room’ hardly does the atmosphere justice — I am alone with these two powerful, amazing women, and their focus is completely on each other. The Dominant, if she has any other focus than on her submissive, displayed as a canvas before her, it is on the implements she holds, and her practiced expertise with their use.

That wonderful submissive, held by leather and rope, is lost in a world that the sensations are building. In a very real way, she lives in that space alone, though she has a partner in its creation... and that partner stands behind her, with the whips, the floggers, the paddles and even her bare hands.

My role is simple, clear, defined. I am more like the tools that Mistress holds than I am a play partner. My hands upon the submissive’s body provide sensations that are one more instrument in this orchestra.

I know my purpose. I know my role. I know my service.

It is bliss to know.

ⓒ 2020 Edward Cantor


There are moments that carve spaces in your memory. They life and grow, and if they have become mythical with a golden glow that has worn away their small imperfections, that is perfectly fine with me.


A nervous man arrives at the door, finally, after a journey of literal years. The door opens, not revealing anything until he steps inside. She stands there, powerful and smiling, dressed to display a power that grabs hold of me instantly. She is at once comforting and imposting, and the way she calms me and helps me push aside my nerves before leading me upstairs will forever affect the way I see her. Her desires and thoughts will always widen my eyes with respect and fear, but I will always be able to know those in her care are safe and well guided.


A younger man, on his knees, is aching. A day full of repeated self torment and edging before being permitted to step into her presence. We shared laughter, teasing, and those sweet and awkward moments of the kind that two minds share when their relationship takes joyful steps forward. At this moment, hours later, you permit his arousal, staring up at your smile, with your stockings legs in the foreground of vision and imagination.


I've tried to balance on heels for her inspection. I've tried to show any small bit of grace while learning how to roll up stockings and fix garter belts. She had had me leaking and blushing and sweating. I've been helpless and spread before her and groaning and grunting, but in this moment, there is pure revelation in the sensation of how my knees feel on the floor, and how my lips feel on the curve of her ass. Her cheeks are cool and firm, so smooth and this act and and moment hit me the flash of a camera going off. 


Her instructions were clear, written out and sent to me well in advance, so that I'd practiced them over and over in my mind and yet now, in person and in real time, everything feels different. The door is unlocked, waiting for me to push open after knocking. The silence in the room is overwhelming, leaving me just listening to my own heart. It is a challenge not to lift my eyes to you, as I step closer and closer, but I force myself to train my gaze on the pillow you've placed at your feet. I kneel there, close, just waiting for your voice and instructions. 


I've been dressed like this before, or at least close to this, feeling a bit silly and more than a bit self-conscious in panties and stockings... but you've made it different. You're smiling with a joy that is from more than bemusement or enjoyment of my torment. You make me feel sexy like this. Pretty even. I don't know how you've gotten me to feel more confident in satin and lace than I usually do in my own clothes, but it is a sensation that changes me forever.


I don't know that I've felt 'sub space' this intensely before. Ever. It took time to get me here, time and attention and care and teasing and laugher and torment, but now I'm here, my wrists tugged to the ceiling, held above me in leather and steel. I can feel you behind me, quick frankly fucking me deep with the strap-on, and the voice in my ear, whispering and guiding me, is leading me to plead and beg and confess just how completely you hold my soul in your command. I will only find out later how my tears flowed.


There is this glee in your eyes, as you reach under my shirt to hook your finger onto the chain dangling between the clover clamps on my nipples... and tug. You know exactly how to place my body so that the many people around us see only my back, unaware of how you've made me squirm and struggle just to stand up. You find a corner of the hallway, so that the stream of people walking by don't even look at us, as you've backed me into a corner, using the pain and the pressure against my locked chastity cage to amuse yourself, and to make me feel owned and controlled and submissive as myself, free of costumes and dungeons. It is transformative. 


Every one of these has changed me. Every one inspires the hopes and dreams for more, in a constantly spreading tree of possibility. 

Thank you.

ⓒ 2020 Edward Cantor

A Lady Dreams

She stepped into her spacious bathroom, hearing her heels click on the gleaming marble floor with a delightful echo.  The water was gushing out of the glistening taps and just about finished filling the large claw-footed tub that stood out in the centre of the room, dominating it.  This bathroom, her personal one, was the size of some typical apartments but it suited her perfectly and fit into the scale of her sprawling castle delightfully.  The tall, arched windows rose up nine feet above the floor, and the flowing sheers billowed lightly with a gentle breeze.

She drew down the zipper of her fitted leather top, exposing her flawless porcelain flesh and her firm breasts, smiling softly to herself as she ran a fingertip across a crease that her top had left imprinted in her skin.  She hung the top on the wooden valet that stood beside the screened dressing area.  The zipper on her skirt was a slightly harder tug, as it drew the lightly elasticized fabric tightly to her sculpted derrière.  She laid the skirt aside as well, and sat on the antique wooden chair roll to unclasp her garters and roll the vintage silk stockings down her legs.

She strode to the tub, swung her petite frame gracefully over the edge, and let herself slowly sink into the steaming water and mound of bubbles. She felt the water wash and flow over her, drawing her into a separate world of relaxation.  As she laid her head back against the molded pillow fitted to the end of the tub, her eyes closed and she let out a soft purr of a moan.

Her day, while having been supremely satisfying, had been a tiring one, and her respite was well-deserved.  Perhaps it had been a slightly more trying day for her slave, but that was to be expected, the thought, as her lips curled into a silent smile.  In the quiet, with only the soft rustle of the breeze and song of an occasional bird, she could let the experiences and memories of her day float over her, reliving them in toe-curling detail.

She let each individual highlight have its own spotlight in her mind's eye: the first look on his face when she made him strip completely as he stood only steps inside her doorway, watching him struggle into the stockings and garters, his groans as she tightened the corset around his waist, pulling and pulling the laces, the blush on his face as she stuffed his bra with the breast forms, then watching him fight to wiggled his entire body into the form-fitting rubber dress, the way his lips stretched around the ball gag, the way that same gag made his groans a gurgling blubber when she bent him over and plowed the giant plug up onto his ass. She had been so strict with him, making him clean her entire kitchen, bottom to top, in that condition. 

Watching each of these acts had been wonderful and reliving them now in her mind was just as sweet, especially as she knew his torment was still continuing. Even now, he was waiting in the torment she had left him in: trapped in a cage that was little more than an upright tube of cast iron bars, the dildo stuffed inside his ass mounted to a pole on the floor of the cage, keeping him standing on his toes on the steel deckplate of the cage's base, barefoot in his stockings, drooling and moaning around his gag, his wrists cuffed together in steel shackles, behind his back.

She pushed at the taps with her toes, letting fresh hot water pour into the tub, as she thought gleefully about his predicament, his humiliation and his transformation from the normal, if nervous man she met not so long ago.  She could think of him now only as her whore, her slave, her big-titted slut in shameless clothing, doing any and all of the shameless things that floated into her mind.

There were times she feared the place that he had carved out in her heart, for she loved him with a kind of pure burn.  She loved the way he moved, both when free and when laden down with heavy chains.  She loved the way he talked, when he tried to express his thoughts and dreams, when he struggled in fear to give honest answers to her interrogations and still avoid punishments, and even the gurgling “mmpphhhs” that he forced out around gags.  She knew, in her love of him, that he still tried to reject what he was, what she had help make him. While that conflict in his mind made his humiliations all the more powerful, it also made her think he might one day try to flee from her again.  She could barely stand the thought of being without him, so she put the unwelcome concept out of her mind.  After all, if he tried to leave her, his own needs and addiction would bring him back, like a 10 year old boy who runs away from home, only to come toddling back in time for lunch.  She brought her mind back to him now, as he was, and smiled widely, even if a question still lingered in her mind: was she as much his as he was hers?

She concentrated on his trials, current and past, and let his embarrassments thrill her even more, letting her thoughts circling around them.  As she did, she felt as though she could actually start to imagine his thoughts, the reactions of his mind and body, almost feel the burning redness he must feel on his cheeks when she shames him before her friends, or in front of strangers.  His thoughts, his dreams, his desires, his deepest needs seemed to wash over her and cover her as completely as the bathwater.

Relaxing there more and more deeply, reclined in the scented water, she could almost physically feel the tightness of the clothes she put him in, she could almost feel the cool air up his short skirts, almost feel the bouncing of his slutty fake tits in those low cut tops, and how the latex or leather would just cling to his body.  She could almost feel the sensations of helplessness and of being completely controlled that he must feel when his body was trapped by the cages or bandage she put upon him, or the internal and external torment from the toys use upon him.

The link between their minds was so strong, and she was sure that this was what allowed her to feel these things almost as if they were happening to her herself, as is she was standing there in his place, feeling the complete dominance by another almost overwhelming.  That image, that experience, that near-perfect link between the two of them, allowing his thoughts to flow into her like never before, filled her mind as she drifted off into a light sleep.

The rich and real world of her thoughts transformed into dreams, and she saw and felt herself fully in his place, but with subtle changes she became aware of as she felt her body squirm.  Instead of being in a small cage in a darkened basement storage room, she was in the centre of the castle's spacious library.  Her wrists were drawn high over her head, chains from cuffs at her wrists disappearing up to the ceiling.  Instead of being up on her toes in bare feet, she felt the tight grip of leather ballet boots holding her feet pointed in an extreme point.  She wasn't balanced atop a dildo pole, but she felt the intrusion of large phalluses inside her pussy and ass, though all she could see of them was the rubber thong that sealed them inside her.

Just like she left him, she wore a tightly laced waist cincher, but in place of the full coverage bra holding his latex breast forms, she wore a demi-cup bra constructed of fine lace and ribbon, barely covering her nipples.  The part of her mind that knew she was dreaming filled with strange joy as she felt his fantasies almost guiding hers, as she was able to look down at her own breasts just as cartoonishly large as his were made, but in this dream hers are completely real, and she felt her flesh tingle and her nipples stiffen as stray breeze flowed across her body.

She felt and tasted the dominating presence of the penis gag in her mouth - it pressed down on her tongue with the strong tastes of both her own pussy and his cum.  It was a taste of submission, and it gave her a high that she had never felt in that way before.

She squirmed, pulling at her bonds, not to truly to try to free herself, but rather to feel their strength, to feel how tightly they held her, to give her body the full release of being able to throw all she had at them and know they would still hold her tight.  She felt her body stretched tight, pulled long and taut, and she felt the sensation of it growing in her shoulders and her sides.  The weight that she was able to transfer to the floor made her toes ache with their enforced posture, and she felt the boots too tight and hot around her feet.

As the experience of her position intensified with the passage of time she began to shift her weight from foot to foot, not only to give her body some relief, but also, she realized with a blush, because she wanted to feel the rigid toys inside her move.  She could feel her pussy so wet, so hot, reacting to everything she was experiencing.  Her thoughts were changing; it wasn't like in the tub, where she was aroused by watching him struggle, or imagining him undergoing these things for her, but she was tingling from the sensations themselves, the mental experience as well as the physical.  She could feel the toys up inside her, teasing her, and she could imagine what she looked like, writhing to feel them more intensely, but she wanted it, needed it at that moment.

She stopped after a few minutes, with a groan of frustration.  It wasn't enough!  She couldn't make them move the way she wanted them to, needed them to.  It was exasperating, feeling her arousal grow and grow until she wanted so badly to bring herself to release, but being held back by the control of another.  She wanted just be back in her bath, to feel her fingers freely splay between her thighs, to bring herself off, but she just couldn't make herself wake up.

At the same instant, she realized that her desire to be free wasn't quite complete.  She wanted to feel this slow rolling boil of sensation last longer and longer, not wanting it to end just yet.  Even more powerful, more affecting on her mind, was the realization that it didn't matter what she wanted.  There didn't seem to be any way she could change her situation, her sensations, she was trapped, a captive of these strange new dreams.

She leaned her head back, closing her eyes and letting out a soft moan of pleasure and frustration and desire, all wrapped up in one.  In that moment, in that temporary darkness, she felt his touch.  She could tell instantly that it was him, her slave, even though he had an unfamiliar confidence to his motions.  He was behind her, pressing his body up against hers, grinding his stiffness against her as he slid his body downwards.  Then she feels his hands - had they always been that strong?  - pushing her legs apart.  The strain at her arms and shoulders only increased as her legs were spread, at least two feet apart, but if he noticed her anguish he didn't let on, as she only felt this new position forced upon her by a spreader bar he was locking onto her ankles.

She let herself feel it, let the sensations sink in, both painful and the arousing, letting them mix together.  She kept her eyes closed, as his unseen touch now moved up her body, letting his fingers graze up the insides of her thighs, along her stocking seams, over her ass, curling over hips, up her sides, curving to her front, over the tight waist cincher, until he cupped her breasts in her bra firmly and lovingly, but also with a tangible, inexplicable tone of ownership.  She felt their strange new fullness, the weight of her breast in his grip, and his kneading made them feel alive in his grip.

She felt his fingers slide over her breasts, making her tingle.  Her nipples responded, stiffening the moment his thumb and forefinger gripped them, and they only grew stiffer and more sensitized as his pressure increased, pinching and rolling them, until her eyes jerked open, looking down to see his fingers closing gleaming steel clover clamps upon them.  They stood out stiffer and farther than she'd ever seen them, poking out over the top of her bra cups, the clamp device weighing them down and the linking chain swaying in a gentle arc between her massive new tits.

The clamps hurt, shooting a kind of intense shooting pain into her body, but they also made her even hotter, and the way her own motion caused the chain to sway and tease her nipples only made her wetter.  There didn't seem to be words she could put to this sensation even in her silent thoughts.  They hurt, yes, but the buildup of sensations over her entire body, from her aching feet, her stiffening calves, the maddening invasions of her ass and pussy, the hugging grip of her waist cincher, and even the pulsing pain at her nipples and soreness at her shoulders, they all just seemed to give her the ability to feel everything with a new intensity, like the volume had been turned up on her nervous system.

It made her want more, just more, more of everything.  More pleasure, more pain, more of anything to feed her growling need.  She became aware that she was moaning non-stop around her gag, and that slick ropes of saliva were trailing down her chin and making thick drops upon her heaving breasts.

She got an answer to her needs, though it wasn't the answer she would have chosen.  Her moans were shocked into screams as without warning she felt the cheeks of her ass explode in near blinding pain.  She could tell in the panting seconds after the strike that she was feeling her leather flogger first hand - the way the leather tails spread and curled around her curves as they slapped at her.  She wasn't given much time to contemplate that strike, however, as it was quickly followed with another, and another, and another.  He was building up a rhythm, moving his arm and the flogger in the practiced figure-eight of an expert tormentor.  She was screaming against her gag, her spittle bubbling around it, and her body jerked in a vain attempt to avoid each landing.  Her spasms only served to shake her nipple clamps, increasing that torture as well.

He was guiding the strokes carefully, changing his target so slightly each time, so that he was reddening her ass and the backs of her legs completely and evenly.  She couldn't escape; she couldn't avoid them as they rained down over and over in a seemingly never-ending torment.

And then, and quickly and as wordlessly as it began, it was over.  She was panting, her heart pounding, and she felt as though a fire had been lit under her skin, as though it must be glowing and visibly throbbing.  She slumped down, and could do nothing but let herself be suspended by her wrist bondage.  She was buzzing, aching, and in disbelief.  How could she be dreaming this, feeling this?  She never had dreamed of taking his place before, she had never had the slightest interest it in, and yet here she was, not only dreaming it, but loving it, and seemingly trapped in a dream that wasn't near done with her yet.

She wondered, in a haze, what would it take to wake up?  Was an orgasm that much like a little death?  Would it take release to free her from the slavery of these thoughts?

Her musing was interrupted by the feeling of the strength of his hand on her body, a body she only now realized was glistening all over.  He had moved a piece of furniture in front of her; it looked like those pommel horses from gymnastics, and it was stretched out before her, lengthwise.  Her hands were freed from the ceiling, still cuffed together, but she could lower her arms, which she did with a gingerly soreness.  He took firm hold of her wrists too soon, and pulled her forwards, so that she was laying down along the horse, and she felt its padded surface beneath her from her belly to the middle of her chest, which only pushed her breasts higher upwards, as they squeezed over the end and sides, with her nipple clamp chain swaying, keeping the sensations of her nipples fresh and raw.

He used wide leather straps in three places to strap her body immovable to the horse, and he ratcheted them so tight that she thought she wasn't going to be able to breathe.  He freed her left wrist from the cuffs, but only long enough to pull her arms up behind her back, and lock them secure once more.

She strained to lift her head, to meet his eyes, but he seemed to move around her with the shadows as his ally, always just in the dark or out of her sight, shielding his face and expression from her pleading eyes.

His motions were quick and efficient, professional, as if he didn't want to waste a single motion or second as he prepared her for what was to come. For her part, she felt so strange and unsure, feeling his hands move over her now with little more expression or emotion that he might have had building something out of wood.  She felt cheap, exposed, helpless, frustrated, needy, humiliated - she was so open, so exposed, hardly dressed and with mouth, cunt and ass stuffed up with sex toys, while her thighs were wet with dripping need and her drooling lips felt swollen and hungry. And in this position, this predicament, her thoughts didn't even seem her own, as they were telling her body that she loved it.  She craved nothing more that to be this for him, to be his sex toy, to be placed and used to please him, visually and sensually.  Her lust was boiling up inside her, with a brazen need to cum, but at the same time if he wanted to just hold her this way so he could look at her, she could wish for nothing more.

Watch her he did, as his hands were suddenly gone from her body, and he was circling her, watching her flesh strain, pressed between the tight bondage with each breath, her breasts heaving, her nipples swollen around the cold steel grip of the clamps, and he pulled down on the chain, only making them bite harder into her.

He was behind her once more, dragging his fingertips over the smouldering embers of her assflesh, he seemed for a moment gentle, but then with a rip and jerk he tore her thong from her and the integrated dildos were torn from her holes in a wet slurping double pop.  She screamed anew into her gag, with the pain and shame of it.  After wearing them inside her body for so long she felt as if her holes must be gaping wide open.

And as if testing that assumption, he was suddenly inside her, driving his thick stiff cock up into her pussy, slapping his body against her sore ass and testing the strength of the straps holding her body in place.  She felt him drive so deep; she felt so full and so shamefully wet, knowing he could tell in an instant how much she needed this.  Five thrusts up into her soaked sex were all he took, however, before he withdrew from her completely, sliding his slick shaft between her ass cheeks, making her wait, agonize, before he re-filled her, this time pushing against the dildo-stretched rosebud of her ass, lubricated with her own nectar, and his thrusts were no less deep and full, if only slightly slower, and she feel his hands gripping her immobilized hips, as he thrust deep, over and over.

She couldn't believe this; she couldn't comprehend the state she was in. She was taking her slave up her ass, taking his cock, taking him complete control.  This wasn't a case of her giving him sex, but rather him taking her, riding her, fucking her on his own terms, at his own pace and exactly how he wished, and more than just taking it or allowing it, she felt more lust and need than she could remember.  Her lust was rising off any chart she could think of.

But just as she was fighting to accept that his warm wet cock in her ass, pumping, seemed just about to make her cum, he was out of her again. She didn't stay empty long, as he clearly prepared for this transition, and twin dildos pushed into her at once, so thick and deep into her pussy and ass - they were so big, and she felt the patterns and ribs on their surface, but she was shamefully glad to be filled up again, even by humiliating toys.  And oh god, even as they started to pump into her on their own, merciless alternating thrusts.  Each dildo was mounted on a steel rod, fixed to rotating wheel powered by an industrial strength fucking machine, secured behind her, and it spun and ran and drove the toys into her, slow and deep and non-stop.

She had been left on the edge by his cock, on the precipice of orgasm by his fucking, so she hoped, to her own disgrace, that this impersonal machine would grant her the release she needed with every fibre of her being.  But it wasn't enough - it was too slow, too methodical - it just made her feel like a whore, on display, getting the most mortifying kind of fucking she could imagine.

At least it was a dream, at least it was only in her head, at least no one could see her like this, no one would know, none of them could possibly ever be allowed to know...  She knew as soon as the thought entered her head that she never should have allowed it.

She opened her eyes and struggled to lift her head and look around the spacious room.  She saw him, her slave, so close, and his delicious cock still wet with her juices. He was stroking it slowly and firmly while he moved around her.  She looked around more, struggling to see, and her fears were realized, as there, just at the edge of the shadows, were the two other men. They were men she had allowed to serve her as slaves; men whom she had sissified and humbled when it pleased her.  Now, even though heavy chains locked to metal collars around their next held them away from her, she could see that each had his own meat in his hands, jerking off hungrily at the sight of her debasement.

Her thoughts were strange and alien to her once more, even in this horrifying moment, as she realized that the sight of them, these three slaves now watching her trapped and fucked, was only making her wetter.  Her cherished favourite and these two servants were clearly aroused, watching her.  The sight of her body, her torment, her use, it was stiffening their cocks, making them breath in quick jerking gasps.  Chained as they were away from her, they had no choice but to take themselves in their hands, so great was the desire she was inciting in them.  How could this make her wet, make her aroused?  She was a lady, a dominant, a Mistress - not some common whore to be entertainment for men, but her body was not accepting her reasoning, and she felt herself grinding against the horse she was strapped onto, aching to fuck back against the pistoning rubber cocks.  She wanted them to fuck her harder, faster, deeper.

He unbuckled her gag and drew it from her mouth, letting it slide out in a long wet slurp.  He spoke to her now, finally, and the sound of his voice flowed over her like honey.

"Are you my slut?"

She moaned in shame.  How could these thoughts be in her head, how could all of this be making her body react this way.  She tried to mumble in the affirmative.

"Speak up!" There was something animal in his voice, something she had never heard, and it shook her to the core.

"Are.  You.  My.  Slut?" Each word hit her like a slap across the face.


"Are you my whore?"

"Yes.  Oh god yes!" There were tears rolling down her face with the rawness of it all.

"Does my slut want to cum?"

"Yes!  Please yes!"

"Does my whore need to cum?"

"Oh yes!  Oh god. Please! Yes, please!" The sound of her voice in ragged pleaded was so foreign to her ears.

"Good girl."

She was confused; was that yes, was that no?  His stiff cock silenced her, and she felt him drive fully into her mouth, sliding over her tongue, until she felt the spongy purple heat hot against the back of her throat. He slid back, then into her again.  One more withdrawal, taking him nearly out of mouth, was met with the suction of her lips, as she needed to feel him inside her, as the machine never stopped filling her up from behind.  With the third thrust, he spoke to her, only to her, and commanded her, "CUM."

She felt the thick heat of his explosion in her mouth and throat, and she tasted it filling her up as her own release fell upon her like a crumbling wall.  It ravaged her completely, and screamed with her mouth full of him, bubbling jism all around her lips.  Her mouth gripped and sucked him with all she had, and her body was gripping the mechanical dildos with such force that she managed to slow the motor noticeably.  The orgasm just wouldn't stop, and became not quite multiple, but one that just seemed to last and last and last, until she felt lightheaded and her vision began to blur and darken at the edges.  She slumped motionless on the horse as she lost consciousness.

She awoke with a jerk in the tub, sending water rolling out over the edges as splashing across the floor.  Her face was flushed, and she was breathing rapidly.  She couldn't remember a dream ever being so vivid. She ran her hand over her face, and tried to calm herself, but there was something there.  A taste, on her lips.  Her eyes jerked wide open in disbelief and shock.  But there was no way it could have been.

She bounded out of the tub, wrapping a bath sheet around her as she ran to him, barefoot, her wet feet pounding down the castle's corridors, until she reached him.

He was there, caged, trapped, just as she left him.  She turned from him, breathed a long sigh, and wondered if she would bother to explain her appearance when she returned again, properly dressed.  One thing seemed strange, though, and she turned back to him quickly.  There, on his thigh, was his cum.  She just couldn't imagine how he could have brought himself to release while trapped so completely.

Even more troubling was the knowing smile in his eyes that bared her to her core.

ⓒ 2016, 2020 Edward Cantor


I can agree that perhaps the only constant is change, but I would not go so far as to say that all good things come to an end.  Things do en...