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The Stockade
When Mistress saw the stack of strangely cut boards in my closet and asked what they were for, I knew right away I was going to be rebuilding the stocks. I originally built them from discarded scraps from a construction site, and I didn’t even know whether or not my girlfriend at the time would want to use them, or not. We did for a time, though she preferred to have ME locked in them rather than visa versa. The wood is very rough and uneven, so rough that it would be easier to start all over again with fresh wood rather than sanding it all down and painting it. Even if I DID all that work they would still look like garbage, but once Her curiosity was piqued I knew exactly what would happen, and I was right.
She’s been wanting to build a dungeon in her basement for a few years, and the only article of furniture she has down there so far is a single mattress and box-spring sitting on the cement floor. It’s got four point restraints attached to it, and she sometimes likes to play out a*****ion scenarios down there. Sometimes SHE is the captive, but that’s a story for another time. Mostly I’m the one being held for hours at a time, and now that she’s seen the disassembled stockade, I know it’s destined for her basement.
She asks what’s the longest amount of time I have been locked up in them and I tell her, about an hour. After that my back would go into spasms and my legs would cramp. Standing bent over like that was torture in itself, and being pegged in that condition added insult to injury.
“What would make it more comfortable?” she asks.
I tell her, “Lowering the height so I could kneel, and then putting something under my chest for support so I don’t have to hold myself up. And it would help if I wasn’t kneeling on concrete. . .”
She has an epiphany . . . “What if you built them over the bed in my basement?”
“That might work,” I admitted reluctantly, knowing full well that the more comfortable I made myself, the longer I’d likely spend locked up down there.
“Good . . . build them.”
### The Build
The design was simple, and dated all the way back to medieval times. Two wide boards hinged together so they open and closed like the mouth of a wooden alligator. While closed, three large holes are cut along the center line: one big in the middle for the person’s neck to fit through, and then two smaller ones on opposite sides for their wrists. The stockade is open, the victim places their neck and wrists through the half circles cut in the lower board, then the alligators mouth is closed, completing the circles and locking the person in. I’ve attached a hasp with a padlock on it to keep the prisoner (usually ME) from opening it, but it could be held shut with a pencil or a stick. Yet, hearing that padlock being snapped shut does add a certain amount of finality to the scenario. From that moment on, I know I’m not getting out of that thing until someone unlocks it.
Taken from the pictures of similar devices I found online, I built mine to force the occupant to stand bent over at the waist, because I was never really in them for more than an hour MAXIMUM. But building a railing to support my hips would have taken too much time, and the final product would be a real pain to assemble and disassemble. The new design eliminated those problems.
For starters, I widened the support legs to fit over the mattress in her basement. I also lowered it considerably so that I’d have to kneel, and that my ass would be at the right height for her if she was kneeling behind me. Since there were already four-point restraints in place, she’d also be able to restrain my ankles, and prevent me from keeping my legs together. Once I was satisfied with the position I bolted it down to the concrete and brought her down for a look.
“This is good,” she said, smiling evilly. “It just needs one more thing.”
She crossed the basement and pulled a dusty sheet off of a tall oval mirror standing in the corner.
“What do you want that for?” I asked.
In response she came to me and grabbed my ass with both hands as she explained, “I want you to hang that on the wall at the head of the bed. Okay?”
Your eyes drop to the floor, “Yes, Mistress, of course. May I ask why?”
“Yes, slut . . . because I want to be able to see your expression in it while I’m behind you.” She licked the tip of my nose with her tongue and slapped me once on the ass as she headed upstairs. “Hurry up and get it done and take a shower, I’ve got errands to run.
### First Session
When I got into her shower, I had a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt laid out on the bathroom counter along with an obligatory pair of panties to wear under them, in this case a tiny bikini bottom made of white lace. However, when I got out of the shower the clothes were gone, she’d obviously come in and taken them, all but the white lace panties.
Since I know the cost of asking redundant questions, the punishment for which often ranges between being flogged to tears or swallowing a load of my own cum off her strap-on while she calls me a dumb slut, I don’t bother asking; I just put the panties on and emerge from the bathroom to see what happens next.
On the floor in the hallway outside the bathroom is a sheet of paper with one word written across it in marker. “BASEMENT.”
I descended the stairs to find her standing beside the bed, and the alligator’s mouth is open, waiting for me.
“On the bed,” she said.
Without hesitation I answered, “Yes Mistress,” and immediately climbed onto the foot of the bed and waited for her instructions, not daring to look her in the eye.
She pointed to the open jaws and said, “IN, slut.”
I leaned forward, down, and placed my throat in the center semi-circle, my wrists in the smaller ones on either side. She hefted the jaws closed, slowing as she neared the end so I wouldn’t get pinched, and secured the hasp. A few moments later, I heard the padlock snap shut, and then she was on her knees behind me, attacking me.
She slammed her crotch into my ass as her fingers dug into my hips. She released me long enough to deliver several firey slaps to my ass on alternating sides before she resumed slamming her hips into me like she was fucking me. “You’re fucking MINE now, aren’t you?!?”
“Yes!” I cried. “I’m YOURS!”
“I can do whatever I fucking WANT to you . . . I could keep you down here for as long as I want, fuck you anytime I feel like it . . . I’ll fuck you until you BEG me to stop, slut, you’ll BEG me to stop!”
She shoved herself off of the bed using my body for leverage and returned a moment later at the head of the bed with a rubber ball gag in her hand. She didn’t bother asking for permission, she just jammed it in my mouth and tied it tight around the back of my head, and then she was behind me once again.
I felt her reach between my legs and yank the panties off to one side with one hand while she grabbed by cock and balls in a fist with the other. I was rock hard, dripping, probably a few simple strokes away from having a spontaneous orgasm, but she knew how to handle me while making sure that didn’t happen . . . hell, she often knew how close I was before I did. She jammed an elastic band around the base of my scrotum, just to make sure I stayed hard and unable to do anything with it while she was gone, and then added a little something for me to think about with the involuntary free-time I was facing when she jammed a condom onto me.
The only ever times she does that is when she wants to get fucked, but she’s always on top, and I’m usually bound on my back spread eagle. I knew there was no way we could have THAT kind of sex while I was locked in the stocks. *I’d find out in about an hour when she returned from pretending to run errands.*
After an obligatory slap on the ass as she climbed off of me, she fulfilled another obligation by telling me how long I was being left there before she planned to return.
“I’m thinking about an hour. You’ll be in there for a while after I get back but I won’t leave you alone for more than an hour, kay slut?”
Since my mouth was full, I simply nodded, after which I watched her walk away in the reflection of the mirror, thinking how badly I wanted to reverse positions with her and lock HER in those stocks. I had a lot of time to think about that while she was gone, and it’s impossible NOT to think when you’re wide awake in the pitch black, which is how she left me when she reached the top of the basement stairs and turned the light off.
### I’ll Just Wait HERE Then.
With the basement door closed and the furnace pumping the AC and maximum capacity I was FREEZING. Despite my shaking, I was still throbbing thanks to the tourniquet she’d wrapped around that area and it was a strange juxtaposition to be simultaneously terrified, frozen, in pain, and hard as a rock.
Funny thing about being restrained in the dark; time stands still, which is why one hour felt more like three. When she returned, I was suddenly blinded by the basement lights as they were thrown on, and I was still trying to force my eyes open I saw the blur of her form in the mirror.
I managed to focus my eyes just in time to see her undoing her belt and sliding it through the loops of her jeans. “Oh good” she smirked, “you’re still here.”
I felt her enter the bed on her knees as she inched her way up behind me. In the mirror I saw her raise the hand holding the looped belt over her head and the instant she brought it down I felt a flash of pain followed immediately by the sound of heavy leather on flesh accompanied by my own gag-muffled cry; her favorite tune.
She struck me several more times until the belt was tossed aside and she put both hands on me; one hand gripped painfully around my sheathed cock while the other attempted to finger-bang me through the panties. She was an expert with her hands, AND her mouth, and she could make me cum in seconds if she wanted to, or bring me to the brink and leave me hanging, which is what she did.
Less than a second from the finish line, she stopped dead, released her grip on me, and left the bed. For several minutes I attempted to decipher the sounds of packages being opened and the shuffling of heels on concrete as she prepared.
I saw her re-emerge in the mirror and felt her take hold of me once again, but after several passionless downward strokes, she slid her hand off of him and in one gesture removed the condom she’d forced onto him.
She vanished from the mirror and appeared at the head of the bed where she managed to climb onto the mattress with her legs spread, and the head of a big black strap-on that I’d never seen before poking up at my face.
“Oh my,” she laughs coyly as though she’s just as surprised by it as I am. “That’s a little bigger than what you’re used to, isn’t it?” She knows I can’t answer but pretends to wait for an answer anyway. When she doesn’t get one, she takes my silence for consent and scoots down the mattress a little to bring the tip of the cock to my lips where I can’t avoid it. That’s when I saw the condom dangling between her fingers. It’s got about a shot-glass worth of milky white fluid collected in the reservoir tip, because, that’s what it’s for . . . right? It’s meant to trap a load of cum and in this case it’s done its job well; I’d been dripping into that thing for over an hour, and while I hadn’t reached actual climax, the contents of the condom were comparable.
This is where *terror* sets in.
Though this isn’t my first time, nothing takes away a man’s masculinity in a second than the realization that you’ve allowed yourself to be feminized, restrained beyond escape, brutalized, and now have a huge hard cock (albeit artificial, but much larger than normally found in the populous) shoved against your mouth. Added to which, you know the person at the other end of it well enough to know that refusing her will come with consequences, and any amount of disappointment will make you feel unworthy of her ownership.
“Look at me, slut,” she said gently. She doesn’t say another word until I’m looking squarely into her eyes. When I do, in a kind but insistent manner she says, “You’re going to want to get this thing *really* wet . . . in a few minutes I’m going to *fuck* you with it.”
And with that, she upended the condom, dumping its contents onto the head where it drizzled down the shaft on all side likes hot fudge on a sundae, and shoved my head down onto it, forcing it slowly but steadily into my mouth, negating any pretense of resistance.
I’m no genius, but I know what SHE is expecting; she wants to further break me by making me swallow my cum before the final act. To deny her in this task or perform poorly will only draw it out as she compensates . . . I know this from experience.
I try not to gag but it’s not easy; in the seconds between the removal of the condom and the cum-dump onto her new strap-on, it has already begun to cool down, and cold cum is even worse to swallow than the hot stuff. I get it down, but just barely, and I look into her eyes the entire time, observing that her cheeks are now flushed and her chest is heaving.
I’m in fucking trouble, and we both know it.
Once she’s satisfied that I’ve ingested all I’m going to manage to, she yanks the strap-on out of my mouth, slaps both sides of my mouth with it for her amusement, and begins the process of squirming out of the space she’d used to violate me, but to her it was only foreplay.
She’s behind me, and a mercy handful of anal glide is slapped on my ass followed immediately by the pressure of the tip of her big cock pushing into me, searching.
I force myself into my own private sub-space . . . I breathe deeply, slow my heart-rate, arch my back, and try to relax my insides in the place where I am expecting company.
It’s what I’ve always done, and it never works . . . NEVER.
The head of her cock entering me is unintentionally sudden, and painful. And as that pain washes over me, I realize the same thing, over and over again. It’s a phrase, one that’s almost become a mantra.
## This Is Good For Me
*This is GOOD for me.*
When I think about it, and I often DO, I think that my acceptance over that simple fact is the reason she LOVES me so much. Women have been taking big cocks into their bodies, often painfully, for as long as there’s been women. Men, on the other hand, usually go through their entire lives never knowing what it feels like to have a load of semen slide down their throats for an entire day as the taste of last night is reintroduced with every little cough. And they never have to endure the feeling of an overenthusiastic partner enters you a little too fast, and refuses to withdraw even after you cry out over the tearing their passion leaves behind.
I’ve given her all a man has to give, at least the things that last.
I feel every hard vein as she slides eight inches of rubber into me, and the things that come out of my mouth would stop any non-sociopath cold in their tracks . . .
*Oh fuck no, you bitch! STOP!*
*No please NO! Oh fuck NO!!!*
*DON’T . . . PLEASE! NO! OWW!*
*PLEASE STOP . . . I’LL DO ANYTHING, PLEEEEEEEASE!*
I could say ANYTHING . . . threaten to send her to prison, or KILL her, but once she’s started to violate me, there’s only one thing that will stop her . . .
*Our safe word.*
But, after dozens of sessions, you know how many times I’ve actually SAID our safeword?
ZERO.
As with my orgasms, she knows how to bring me to the brink and KEEP me there. I’ve ‘almost’ said it about five hundred times, and ‘actually’ said it out loud ZERO times.
She’s inside of me, and it’s a new high score for length, hardness, depth, and girth. This is the kind of fuck she wants me to remember, and if I get fucked by a hundred more Dommes this night will NEVER be forgotten. This was the first time I ever felt afraid to say NO.
Most swinging dicks out there have and never will have to contemplate the following: What if telling them to stop actually turns them on and makes them fuck me even harder?
I’ve had it happen . . . MANY times, the kind of fucking that keeps you off the toilet for a few days, and begets scars of several kinds . . . especially if you LIKE it.
She’s smiling at me in the mirror as she fucks me, and my tears and my pleas do nothing to dissuade her, in fact, she fucks me a little slower, deeper, prolonging it as her own orgasm begins to build.
She asks, “Do you want me to cum, slut?”, and her fingernails dig into my ass as she begins to pound me.
“Yes! PLEASE!”
“BEG for it slut,” she hisses at me as she pounds me harder still. “Beg for it like the slut you are.”
“PLEASE!,” I cried, “I can’t take it . . . CUM FOR ME, PLEASE!!!!”
“You want it?”
“YES!”
“Yes . . . WHAT?”
“YES I WANT YOU TO CUM FOR ME, PLEASE!”
The sound of her body slapping against mine sounds like someone clapping, and I feel something hot and wet spurt out of me that I know isn’t an orgasm. Close though, close enough to confuse with the real thing, but experience has taught me that she is actually milking me. The head of the cock she’s wearing is rubbing back and forth across my prostate and she’s pumping me dry, but there is no RELEASE, no relief . . . only a short spasm followed by something hot and wet splashing on my thighs as she continues to slam her hips into me.
I see in the mirror as she tilts her head back with her eyes closed and the fucking of my ass changes into hard prolonged stabs into my body. She shoves it in as far as it will fit, withdraws slowly over the course of several seconds, then stabs me again, and again and again. On the fifth or sixth stab, she collapses down onto my back, breathing hard like a fish out of water.
“That was GOOD . . . slut,” she says through a laugh as she struggles to catch her breath. I think it’s safe to say that you’re going to be spending a lot of time in this thing.”
I know better than to argue . . . “Yes Mistress.”
“’In fact, I think I might like to make a video down here with *Krissy*. “
The mere suggestion of it makes my blood run cold in my already shaking body. Saying she wants “Krissy” is code for what amounts to full-feminization.
Body shaved bare . . . even my legs.
Dressed in whatever slutty outfit she desires . . . often a stripper’s version of a school-girl or a prostitute.
Raccoon eyes and bright red lipstick.
A wig . . . either long and blonde or short and red . . . her choice as always.
Nails painted, body perfumed, and all of this after preparing my body for a long session.
The final touch . . . high heeled stiletto boots. Luckily, I know I won’t be doing very much walking in them, probably no farther than the upstairs bathroom down to the basement.
As for the video . . . once in a while she likes to set up a couple of cameras and make a little amateur movie. She’s got an eye for angles and she loves the process of cutting the video back and forth between the cameras to give the viewer lots to look at, sort of the way she watched my expression in the mirror while she robbed me of my manhood.
We BOTH know I want it, not that I’ll get much pleasure from it; my reward comes from the act of enduring . . . suffering a little for HER pleasure. And later that night, Krissy DID suffer.
As I had that afternoon, that night I was force fed my own semen from the tip of her strap on before she entered me with it, and once again I had to endure a long hard fucking from it, one that seemed to go on for much longer than the first. Only, this time, it was caught by the lenses of two cameras.
While I’m not worried about anyone who knows me personally seeing the video online and recognizing me (if they did, they sure as FUCK wouldn’t tell me they saw it), it IS a little humiliating to know that I let her do that to me on camera, and consented to her posting it online for the world to see. But there’s another side to it which comes from “Krissy’s” brain, not mine, and SHE LOVED seeing herself on the internet. What’s more, she was PROUD of it.
Proud that Mistress had chosen her for service.
Proud that she endured a little pain and discomfort as a form of tribute to Her.
Proud that many thousands of people would see the video and think one of two things: 1. “I wish I was Krissy and Mistress was fucking ME.” Or, 2. “I wish I was Mistress, and I was the one fucking Krissy.”
The thought of that turns me on to the point where it’s a form of reward, and Mistress knows it.
It’s a pleasure to serve Her even though it hurts, because She likes it. And I’m not only talking about the physical pain of having an eight inch strap-on forcefully shoved into your body, or the flogging or hair pulling or ass slapping or the raking of your skin under sharp fingernails . . . but the unfulfilled longing of wanting to fuck HER, and knowing that the closest you’ll ever come is being locked in a trap of your own making while dressed as a school-girl with a hard rubber cock up your ass.
And the sad thing is . . . not only will you TAKE it from her, you’ll BEG for it, and THANK her once She’s had her way.
That’s who you are.
That’s WHAT you are.
You wouldn’t want it any other way . . . and neither do I.
Krissy
When Mistress saw the stack of strangely cut boards in my closet and asked what they were for, I knew right away I was going to be rebuilding the stocks. I originally built them from discarded scraps from a construction site, and I didn’t even know whether or not my girlfriend at the time would want to use them, or not. We did for a time, though she preferred to have ME locked in them rather than visa versa. The wood is very rough and uneven, so rough that it would be easier to start all over again with fresh wood rather than sanding it all down and painting it. Even if I DID all that work they would still look like garbage, but once Her curiosity was piqued I knew exactly what would happen, and I was right.
She’s been wanting to build a dungeon in her basement for a few years, and the only article of furniture she has down there so far is a single mattress and box-spring sitting on the cement floor. It’s got four point restraints attached to it, and she sometimes likes to play out a*****ion scenarios down there. Sometimes SHE is the captive, but that’s a story for another time. Mostly I’m the one being held for hours at a time, and now that she’s seen the disassembled stockade, I know it’s destined for her basement.
She asks what’s the longest amount of time I have been locked up in them and I tell her, about an hour. After that my back would go into spasms and my legs would cramp. Standing bent over like that was torture in itself, and being pegged in that condition added insult to injury.
“What would make it more comfortable?” she asks.
I tell her, “Lowering the height so I could kneel, and then putting something under my chest for support so I don’t have to hold myself up. And it would help if I wasn’t kneeling on concrete. . .”
She has an epiphany . . . “What if you built them over the bed in my basement?”
“That might work,” I admitted reluctantly, knowing full well that the more comfortable I made myself, the longer I’d likely spend locked up down there.
“Good . . . build them.”
### The Build
The design was simple, and dated all the way back to medieval times. Two wide boards hinged together so they open and closed like the mouth of a wooden alligator. While closed, three large holes are cut along the center line: one big in the middle for the person’s neck to fit through, and then two smaller ones on opposite sides for their wrists. The stockade is open, the victim places their neck and wrists through the half circles cut in the lower board, then the alligators mouth is closed, completing the circles and locking the person in. I’ve attached a hasp with a padlock on it to keep the prisoner (usually ME) from opening it, but it could be held shut with a pencil or a stick. Yet, hearing that padlock being snapped shut does add a certain amount of finality to the scenario. From that moment on, I know I’m not getting out of that thing until someone unlocks it.
Taken from the pictures of similar devices I found online, I built mine to force the occupant to stand bent over at the waist, because I was never really in them for more than an hour MAXIMUM. But building a railing to support my hips would have taken too much time, and the final product would be a real pain to assemble and disassemble. The new design eliminated those problems.
For starters, I widened the support legs to fit over the mattress in her basement. I also lowered it considerably so that I’d have to kneel, and that my ass would be at the right height for her if she was kneeling behind me. Since there were already four-point restraints in place, she’d also be able to restrain my ankles, and prevent me from keeping my legs together. Once I was satisfied with the position I bolted it down to the concrete and brought her down for a look.
“This is good,” she said, smiling evilly. “It just needs one more thing.”
She crossed the basement and pulled a dusty sheet off of a tall oval mirror standing in the corner.
“What do you want that for?” I asked.
In response she came to me and grabbed my ass with both hands as she explained, “I want you to hang that on the wall at the head of the bed. Okay?”
Your eyes drop to the floor, “Yes, Mistress, of course. May I ask why?”
“Yes, slut . . . because I want to be able to see your expression in it while I’m behind you.” She licked the tip of my nose with her tongue and slapped me once on the ass as she headed upstairs. “Hurry up and get it done and take a shower, I’ve got errands to run.
### First Session
When I got into her shower, I had a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt laid out on the bathroom counter along with an obligatory pair of panties to wear under them, in this case a tiny bikini bottom made of white lace. However, when I got out of the shower the clothes were gone, she’d obviously come in and taken them, all but the white lace panties.
Since I know the cost of asking redundant questions, the punishment for which often ranges between being flogged to tears or swallowing a load of my own cum off her strap-on while she calls me a dumb slut, I don’t bother asking; I just put the panties on and emerge from the bathroom to see what happens next.
On the floor in the hallway outside the bathroom is a sheet of paper with one word written across it in marker. “BASEMENT.”
I descended the stairs to find her standing beside the bed, and the alligator’s mouth is open, waiting for me.
“On the bed,” she said.
Without hesitation I answered, “Yes Mistress,” and immediately climbed onto the foot of the bed and waited for her instructions, not daring to look her in the eye.
She pointed to the open jaws and said, “IN, slut.”
I leaned forward, down, and placed my throat in the center semi-circle, my wrists in the smaller ones on either side. She hefted the jaws closed, slowing as she neared the end so I wouldn’t get pinched, and secured the hasp. A few moments later, I heard the padlock snap shut, and then she was on her knees behind me, attacking me.
She slammed her crotch into my ass as her fingers dug into my hips. She released me long enough to deliver several firey slaps to my ass on alternating sides before she resumed slamming her hips into me like she was fucking me. “You’re fucking MINE now, aren’t you?!?”
“Yes!” I cried. “I’m YOURS!”
“I can do whatever I fucking WANT to you . . . I could keep you down here for as long as I want, fuck you anytime I feel like it . . . I’ll fuck you until you BEG me to stop, slut, you’ll BEG me to stop!”
She shoved herself off of the bed using my body for leverage and returned a moment later at the head of the bed with a rubber ball gag in her hand. She didn’t bother asking for permission, she just jammed it in my mouth and tied it tight around the back of my head, and then she was behind me once again.
I felt her reach between my legs and yank the panties off to one side with one hand while she grabbed by cock and balls in a fist with the other. I was rock hard, dripping, probably a few simple strokes away from having a spontaneous orgasm, but she knew how to handle me while making sure that didn’t happen . . . hell, she often knew how close I was before I did. She jammed an elastic band around the base of my scrotum, just to make sure I stayed hard and unable to do anything with it while she was gone, and then added a little something for me to think about with the involuntary free-time I was facing when she jammed a condom onto me.
The only ever times she does that is when she wants to get fucked, but she’s always on top, and I’m usually bound on my back spread eagle. I knew there was no way we could have THAT kind of sex while I was locked in the stocks. *I’d find out in about an hour when she returned from pretending to run errands.*
After an obligatory slap on the ass as she climbed off of me, she fulfilled another obligation by telling me how long I was being left there before she planned to return.
“I’m thinking about an hour. You’ll be in there for a while after I get back but I won’t leave you alone for more than an hour, kay slut?”
Since my mouth was full, I simply nodded, after which I watched her walk away in the reflection of the mirror, thinking how badly I wanted to reverse positions with her and lock HER in those stocks. I had a lot of time to think about that while she was gone, and it’s impossible NOT to think when you’re wide awake in the pitch black, which is how she left me when she reached the top of the basement stairs and turned the light off.
### I’ll Just Wait HERE Then.
With the basement door closed and the furnace pumping the AC and maximum capacity I was FREEZING. Despite my shaking, I was still throbbing thanks to the tourniquet she’d wrapped around that area and it was a strange juxtaposition to be simultaneously terrified, frozen, in pain, and hard as a rock.
Funny thing about being restrained in the dark; time stands still, which is why one hour felt more like three. When she returned, I was suddenly blinded by the basement lights as they were thrown on, and I was still trying to force my eyes open I saw the blur of her form in the mirror.
I managed to focus my eyes just in time to see her undoing her belt and sliding it through the loops of her jeans. “Oh good” she smirked, “you’re still here.”
I felt her enter the bed on her knees as she inched her way up behind me. In the mirror I saw her raise the hand holding the looped belt over her head and the instant she brought it down I felt a flash of pain followed immediately by the sound of heavy leather on flesh accompanied by my own gag-muffled cry; her favorite tune.
She struck me several more times until the belt was tossed aside and she put both hands on me; one hand gripped painfully around my sheathed cock while the other attempted to finger-bang me through the panties. She was an expert with her hands, AND her mouth, and she could make me cum in seconds if she wanted to, or bring me to the brink and leave me hanging, which is what she did.
Less than a second from the finish line, she stopped dead, released her grip on me, and left the bed. For several minutes I attempted to decipher the sounds of packages being opened and the shuffling of heels on concrete as she prepared.
I saw her re-emerge in the mirror and felt her take hold of me once again, but after several passionless downward strokes, she slid her hand off of him and in one gesture removed the condom she’d forced onto him.
She vanished from the mirror and appeared at the head of the bed where she managed to climb onto the mattress with her legs spread, and the head of a big black strap-on that I’d never seen before poking up at my face.
“Oh my,” she laughs coyly as though she’s just as surprised by it as I am. “That’s a little bigger than what you’re used to, isn’t it?” She knows I can’t answer but pretends to wait for an answer anyway. When she doesn’t get one, she takes my silence for consent and scoots down the mattress a little to bring the tip of the cock to my lips where I can’t avoid it. That’s when I saw the condom dangling between her fingers. It’s got about a shot-glass worth of milky white fluid collected in the reservoir tip, because, that’s what it’s for . . . right? It’s meant to trap a load of cum and in this case it’s done its job well; I’d been dripping into that thing for over an hour, and while I hadn’t reached actual climax, the contents of the condom were comparable.
This is where *terror* sets in.
Though this isn’t my first time, nothing takes away a man’s masculinity in a second than the realization that you’ve allowed yourself to be feminized, restrained beyond escape, brutalized, and now have a huge hard cock (albeit artificial, but much larger than normally found in the populous) shoved against your mouth. Added to which, you know the person at the other end of it well enough to know that refusing her will come with consequences, and any amount of disappointment will make you feel unworthy of her ownership.
“Look at me, slut,” she said gently. She doesn’t say another word until I’m looking squarely into her eyes. When I do, in a kind but insistent manner she says, “You’re going to want to get this thing *really* wet . . . in a few minutes I’m going to *fuck* you with it.”
And with that, she upended the condom, dumping its contents onto the head where it drizzled down the shaft on all side likes hot fudge on a sundae, and shoved my head down onto it, forcing it slowly but steadily into my mouth, negating any pretense of resistance.
I’m no genius, but I know what SHE is expecting; she wants to further break me by making me swallow my cum before the final act. To deny her in this task or perform poorly will only draw it out as she compensates . . . I know this from experience.
I try not to gag but it’s not easy; in the seconds between the removal of the condom and the cum-dump onto her new strap-on, it has already begun to cool down, and cold cum is even worse to swallow than the hot stuff. I get it down, but just barely, and I look into her eyes the entire time, observing that her cheeks are now flushed and her chest is heaving.
I’m in fucking trouble, and we both know it.
Once she’s satisfied that I’ve ingested all I’m going to manage to, she yanks the strap-on out of my mouth, slaps both sides of my mouth with it for her amusement, and begins the process of squirming out of the space she’d used to violate me, but to her it was only foreplay.
She’s behind me, and a mercy handful of anal glide is slapped on my ass followed immediately by the pressure of the tip of her big cock pushing into me, searching.
I force myself into my own private sub-space . . . I breathe deeply, slow my heart-rate, arch my back, and try to relax my insides in the place where I am expecting company.
It’s what I’ve always done, and it never works . . . NEVER.
The head of her cock entering me is unintentionally sudden, and painful. And as that pain washes over me, I realize the same thing, over and over again. It’s a phrase, one that’s almost become a mantra.
## This Is Good For Me
*This is GOOD for me.*
When I think about it, and I often DO, I think that my acceptance over that simple fact is the reason she LOVES me so much. Women have been taking big cocks into their bodies, often painfully, for as long as there’s been women. Men, on the other hand, usually go through their entire lives never knowing what it feels like to have a load of semen slide down their throats for an entire day as the taste of last night is reintroduced with every little cough. And they never have to endure the feeling of an overenthusiastic partner enters you a little too fast, and refuses to withdraw even after you cry out over the tearing their passion leaves behind.
I’ve given her all a man has to give, at least the things that last.
I feel every hard vein as she slides eight inches of rubber into me, and the things that come out of my mouth would stop any non-sociopath cold in their tracks . . .
*Oh fuck no, you bitch! STOP!*
*No please NO! Oh fuck NO!!!*
*DON’T . . . PLEASE! NO! OWW!*
*PLEASE STOP . . . I’LL DO ANYTHING, PLEEEEEEEASE!*
I could say ANYTHING . . . threaten to send her to prison, or KILL her, but once she’s started to violate me, there’s only one thing that will stop her . . .
*Our safe word.*
But, after dozens of sessions, you know how many times I’ve actually SAID our safeword?
ZERO.
As with my orgasms, she knows how to bring me to the brink and KEEP me there. I’ve ‘almost’ said it about five hundred times, and ‘actually’ said it out loud ZERO times.
She’s inside of me, and it’s a new high score for length, hardness, depth, and girth. This is the kind of fuck she wants me to remember, and if I get fucked by a hundred more Dommes this night will NEVER be forgotten. This was the first time I ever felt afraid to say NO.
Most swinging dicks out there have and never will have to contemplate the following: What if telling them to stop actually turns them on and makes them fuck me even harder?
I’ve had it happen . . . MANY times, the kind of fucking that keeps you off the toilet for a few days, and begets scars of several kinds . . . especially if you LIKE it.
She’s smiling at me in the mirror as she fucks me, and my tears and my pleas do nothing to dissuade her, in fact, she fucks me a little slower, deeper, prolonging it as her own orgasm begins to build.
She asks, “Do you want me to cum, slut?”, and her fingernails dig into my ass as she begins to pound me.
“Yes! PLEASE!”
“BEG for it slut,” she hisses at me as she pounds me harder still. “Beg for it like the slut you are.”
“PLEASE!,” I cried, “I can’t take it . . . CUM FOR ME, PLEASE!!!!”
“You want it?”
“YES!”
“Yes . . . WHAT?”
“YES I WANT YOU TO CUM FOR ME, PLEASE!”
The sound of her body slapping against mine sounds like someone clapping, and I feel something hot and wet spurt out of me that I know isn’t an orgasm. Close though, close enough to confuse with the real thing, but experience has taught me that she is actually milking me. The head of the cock she’s wearing is rubbing back and forth across my prostate and she’s pumping me dry, but there is no RELEASE, no relief . . . only a short spasm followed by something hot and wet splashing on my thighs as she continues to slam her hips into me.
I see in the mirror as she tilts her head back with her eyes closed and the fucking of my ass changes into hard prolonged stabs into my body. She shoves it in as far as it will fit, withdraws slowly over the course of several seconds, then stabs me again, and again and again. On the fifth or sixth stab, she collapses down onto my back, breathing hard like a fish out of water.
“That was GOOD . . . slut,” she says through a laugh as she struggles to catch her breath. I think it’s safe to say that you’re going to be spending a lot of time in this thing.”
I know better than to argue . . . “Yes Mistress.”
“’In fact, I think I might like to make a video down here with *Krissy*. “
The mere suggestion of it makes my blood run cold in my already shaking body. Saying she wants “Krissy” is code for what amounts to full-feminization.
Body shaved bare . . . even my legs.
Dressed in whatever slutty outfit she desires . . . often a stripper’s version of a school-girl or a prostitute.
Raccoon eyes and bright red lipstick.
A wig . . . either long and blonde or short and red . . . her choice as always.
Nails painted, body perfumed, and all of this after preparing my body for a long session.
The final touch . . . high heeled stiletto boots. Luckily, I know I won’t be doing very much walking in them, probably no farther than the upstairs bathroom down to the basement.
As for the video . . . once in a while she likes to set up a couple of cameras and make a little amateur movie. She’s got an eye for angles and she loves the process of cutting the video back and forth between the cameras to give the viewer lots to look at, sort of the way she watched my expression in the mirror while she robbed me of my manhood.
We BOTH know I want it, not that I’ll get much pleasure from it; my reward comes from the act of enduring . . . suffering a little for HER pleasure. And later that night, Krissy DID suffer.
As I had that afternoon, that night I was force fed my own semen from the tip of her strap on before she entered me with it, and once again I had to endure a long hard fucking from it, one that seemed to go on for much longer than the first. Only, this time, it was caught by the lenses of two cameras.
While I’m not worried about anyone who knows me personally seeing the video online and recognizing me (if they did, they sure as FUCK wouldn’t tell me they saw it), it IS a little humiliating to know that I let her do that to me on camera, and consented to her posting it online for the world to see. But there’s another side to it which comes from “Krissy’s” brain, not mine, and SHE LOVED seeing herself on the internet. What’s more, she was PROUD of it.
Proud that Mistress had chosen her for service.
Proud that she endured a little pain and discomfort as a form of tribute to Her.
Proud that many thousands of people would see the video and think one of two things: 1. “I wish I was Krissy and Mistress was fucking ME.” Or, 2. “I wish I was Mistress, and I was the one fucking Krissy.”
The thought of that turns me on to the point where it’s a form of reward, and Mistress knows it.
It’s a pleasure to serve Her even though it hurts, because She likes it. And I’m not only talking about the physical pain of having an eight inch strap-on forcefully shoved into your body, or the flogging or hair pulling or ass slapping or the raking of your skin under sharp fingernails . . . but the unfulfilled longing of wanting to fuck HER, and knowing that the closest you’ll ever come is being locked in a trap of your own making while dressed as a school-girl with a hard rubber cock up your ass.
And the sad thing is . . . not only will you TAKE it from her, you’ll BEG for it, and THANK her once She’s had her way.
That’s who you are.
That’s WHAT you are.
You wouldn’t want it any other way . . . and neither do I.
Krissy
Maddie
- 03.07.2022
- 11
- 0
