Sex stories

Erotic fiction and short sex stories




Sleeveless in St. Albans

Stephen was portly, middle-aged, and his unkempt hair was starting to thin.

He awoke, alone, as he had done for a thousand mornings since his wife had left him for someone 'more dynamic'. He didn't miss her. A dynamic lover himself, he was not, although this did not stop him fantasising for most of his waking hours.

However, he knew he was unlikely to meet anyone in his everyday life who would go near to indulging him with his particular craving. He didn't possess the necessary social skills to develop any such relationship anyway. So he had, the previous day, finally succumbed to seeking 'professional help'. In the cold light of morning, he reviewed the events of that day.

"My word" she had said, "we haven't been disciplined recently, have we Steffi?" She had alluded to his blemish-free backside, adding "not by me, anyway."

The residual throb now reminded him of the breathtaking shock of that first cane stroke. He recalled how it seemed to disable his balance control system. His knees had given way. Everything had given way. Only the restraining leather straps had prevented him collapsing in an ungainly heap on her floor.

He had wanted instinctively to clutch his bottom cheeks, but the wrist cuffs prohibited any such attempt at pain limitation. He had wanted out. To quit. To abandon the session. Apologise for wasting Mistress's time. But by making coherent speech impossible, the tight belt around his mouth had frustrated that idea too.

He had certainly found her attractive, but by no means a stereotypical dominatrix. Her features were soft. Her voice cheerful. Her demeanour was as one nannying a young child, authoritative yet playful. "Now please don't be a naughty sausage Steffipops... otherwise we might not get to play with our little... toys."

No outlandish costume either. A sleeveless fitted polyester print shirt-dress, buttoned to the neck, strappy open-toe medium-heel sandals. Was all. A man could take her home to meet his mother.

But in contrast to his own ill-fitting outfit with straggly chest hairs protruding from an ill-fitting brassiere, itself hardly designed for supporting flabby man-boobs, *Her* appearance was perfection in femininity. Every stitch, hem and gather. Every close-fitting square inch of material harmoniously caressed her petite form as she moved. And whatever perfume it was she was wearing simply further fuelled his desire.

Paying per session to submit to the disciplinary regime of a Mistress as a prelude to sexual fulfilment would relieve him of any obligation to converse with, court, please, satisfy, or be faithful to that person. Cash would take care of it. He had not accounted for infatuation with the consultant.

She had piled humiliation upon him - the skimpy French maid uniform and apron she had got him to wear, her daubing of his eyelashes with mascara and his mouth with lip-gloss.

"Big pout, Steffi... there... oh Steffikins, are we not absolutely scrumptious? Pretty as a picture, with a cherry on top." And a little peck on his nose.

But he knew only too well how ridiculously pathetic he had looked. "All the boys will be wanting to kiss us..." and as she briefly had fondled the crotch of his flouncy panties, "and get their hands on our *big* clitty... oh my!"

His 'big clitty' had restlessly brushed against the satin knickers in response. He vividly recalled that stage, and how excruciatingly perfect she was. How impossible to resist without compromising the roleplay. How desirable, yet unobtainable. How annoyingly patronising, yet totally in control.

"Bottom up, Steffidrawers... stop making such a fuss or Mistress will be *very* cross with you. And do stop wriggling so... we *are* a wiggle-bum today, aren't we?"

Stephen couldn't remember whether that particular dialogue was after the second, third or fourth stroke. He did however recall parading red-faced in high heels back and forth along the outside landing, and twirling and curtsying idiotically before being secured to the dungeon bench for his contractual corporal punishment. And the erotic thrill of Mistress lowering his panties.

But he also was reminded of the fire which subsequently was to burn in his backside and the sweat dripping from his brow, and trying to plead tearfully as best he could in view of the unforgiving restraints.

The six ugly ridged welts he later had examined in the mirror at home were testimony to Mistress's skill - deep, parallel, red and purple, and meticulously even-spaced. Administered with beautiful bare arms, soft hands and polished nails. And a detached, matter-of-fact, sadistic disdain.

The final ignominy had been Stephen's somewhat less than full erection when time came for his 'happy ending' - a condition probably induced by the stress of it all. Unfazed, our pragmatic Mistress had guided that unacceptably flaccid body part into the sheath lining of a vibrating rubber imitation vagina, whispering "Mmm... playtime Steffi."

She had watched intently her subject being milked of his warm seed, and with it, every last drop of his self-respect.

An intelligent, heavy grown man, worldly wise and with a comfortable social standing reduced willingly to a crushed figure of ridicule by a diminutive city girl with minimal qualifications and limited resources. How is it that nature conjures such improbable pairings?

Mistress knew. She knew from the moment Stephen had rung for an appointment. She was well aware of her mesmeric prowess. He had no clue.

Stephen continued to lay a while, conscious of the contusions on his rear end, contemplating his situation. He had been brought to tears, his ego crushed, his shame total. He had endured intense humiliation and pain. He was physically and psychologically marked. Not to mention a significant amount of money poorer.

However, Her parting words had been reassuring, in that he felt that at least She did not hold him in *total* contempt. "Stephen, I *do* hope we'll come visit again... mmm?"

Visit again...? Will he...? Would he really want to put himself through all that again? Inevitable.Stephen was portly, middle-aged, and his unkempt hair was starting to thin.

He awoke, alone, as he had done for a thousand mornings since his wife had left him for someone 'more dynamic'. He didn't miss her. A dynamic lover himself, he was not, although this did not stop him fantasising for most of his waking hours.

However, he knew he was unlikely to meet anyone in his everyday life who would go near to indulging him with his particular craving. He didn't possess the necessary social skills to develop any such relationship anyway. So he had, the previous day, finally succumbed to seeking 'professional help'. In the cold light of morning, he reviewed the events of that day.

"My word" she had said, "we haven't been disciplined recently, have we Steffi?" She had alluded to his blemish-free backside, adding "not by me, anyway."

The residual throb now reminded him of the breathtaking shock of that first cane stroke. He recalled how it seemed to disable his balance control system. His knees had given way. Everything had given way. Only the restraining leather straps had prevented him collapsing in an ungainly heap on her floor.

He had wanted instinctively to clutch his bottom cheeks, but the wrist cuffs prohibited any such attempt at pain limitation. He had wanted out. To quit. To abandon the session. Apologise for wasting Mistress's time. But by making coherent speech impossible, the tight belt around his mouth had frustrated that idea too.

He had certainly found her attractive, but by no means a stereotypical dominatrix. Her features were soft. Her voice cheerful. Her demeanour was as one nannying a young child, authoritative yet playful. "Now please don't be a naughty sausage Steffipops... otherwise we might not get to play with our little... toys."

No outlandish costume either. A sleeveless fitted polyester print shirt-dress, buttoned to the neck, strappy open-toe medium-heel sandals. Was all. A man could take her home to meet his mother.

But in contrast to his own ill-fitting outfit with straggly chest hairs protruding from an ill-fitting brassiere, itself hardly designed for supporting flabby man-boobs, *Her* appearance was perfection in femininity. Every stitch, hem and gather. Every close-fitting square inch of material harmoniously caressed her petite form as she moved. And whatever perfume it was she was wearing simply further fuelled his desire.

Paying per session to submit to the disciplinary regime of a Mistress as a prelude to sexual fulfilment would relieve him of any obligation to converse with, court, please, satisfy, or be faithful to that person. Cash would take care of it. He had not accounted for infatuation with the consultant.

She had piled humiliation upon him - the skimpy French maid uniform and apron she had got him to wear, her daubing of his eyelashes with mascara and his mouth with lip-gloss.

"Big pout, Steffi... there... oh Steffikins, are we not absolutely scrumptious? Pretty as a picture, with a cherry on top." And a little peck on his nose.

But he knew only too well how ridiculously pathetic he had looked. "All the boys will be wanting to kiss us..." and as she briefly had fondled the crotch of his flouncy panties, "and get their hands on our *big* clitty... oh my!"

His 'big clitty' had restlessly brushed against the satin knickers in response. He vividly recalled that stage, and how excruciatingly perfect she was. How impossible to resist without compromising the roleplay. How desirable, yet unobtainable. How annoyingly patronising, yet totally in control.

"Bottom up, Steffidrawers... stop making such a fuss or Mistress will be *very* cross with you. And do stop wriggling so... we *are* a wiggle-bum today, aren't we?"

Stephen couldn't remember whether that particular dialogue was after the second, third or fourth stroke. He did however recall parading red-faced in high heels back and forth along the outside landing, and twirling and curtsying idiotically before being secured to the dungeon bench for his contractual corporal punishment. And the erotic thrill of Mistress lowering his panties.

But he also was reminded of the fire which subsequently was to burn in his backside and the sweat dripping from his brow, and trying to plead tearfully as best he could in view of the unforgiving restraints.

The six ugly ridged welts he later had examined in the mirror at home were testimony to Mistress's skill - deep, parallel, red and purple, and meticulously even-spaced. Administered with beautiful bare arms, soft hands and polished nails. And a detached, matter-of-fact, sadistic disdain.

The final ignominy had been Stephen's somewhat less than full erection when time came for his 'happy ending' - a condition probably induced by the stress of it all. Unfazed, our pragmatic Mistress had guided that unacceptably flaccid body part into the sheath lining of a vibrating rubber imitation vagina, whispering "Mmm... playtime Steffi."

She had watched intently her subject being milked of his warm seed, and with it, every last drop of his self-respect.

An intelligent, heavy grown man, worldly wise and with a comfortable social standing reduced willingly to a crushed figure of ridicule by a diminutive city girl with minimal qualifications and limited resources. How is it that nature conjures such improbable pairings?

Mistress knew. She knew from the moment Stephen had rung for an appointment. She was well aware of her mesmeric prowess. He had no clue.

Stephen continued to lay a while, conscious of the contusions on his rear end, contemplating his situation. He had been brought to tears, his ego crushed, his shame total. He had endured intense humiliation and pain. He was physically and psychologically marked. Not to mention a significant amount of money poorer.

However, Her parting words had been reassuring, in that he felt that at least She did not hold him in *total* contempt. "Stephen, I *do* hope we'll come visit again... mmm?"

Visit again...? Will he...? Would he really want to put himself through all that again? Inevitable.

sleeveless   albans  

Feb 14, 2018 in femdom

Tags

Search