…are both central ingredients of this femdom blackmail story; the first in the ‘Mistress Misery Series. When I wrote it I never imagined that it would turn into a 5 episode series. But the themes of blackmail, forced submission, and exploitation are very dear to me, and so I love writing about them. Mistress Misery is so like me. I identify with her cruelty and merciless mindset very much. The books, incidentally, are all independent. They can be read in any order.

These stories reflect who I am, my experiences and my fantasies. I enjoy writing as it gives me an opportunity to share myself with a wider audience. My ‘Mistress Misery’ books are quite autobiographical, built around situations I have experienced. 

Amazon Description:

A classic Female Domination story, ‘Mistress Misery’ written by a practicing UK Dominatrix. A dark and exceptionally twisted story of a good man falling into the clutches of an evil Mistress. Some men are born to ruin, and some bring ruin upon themselves, or be the unlucky butt of circumstance. Mr Sandbrook was none of these. He was a good man who was taken by evil; humiliated and degraded, broken and changed by a sadistic force into something that gave ‘ruin’ a new definition. He was taken by Cruelty herself. He was taken by Mistress Misery.

This is a hardcore and extreme story of blackmail and degradation. This is NOT about a role-play, it is not about entertainment. It is about a life being taken and ruined in the harshest and most degrading manner possible. The victim of this blackmail is spared nothing, Mistress Misery is a cruel and harsh Domme, the very embodiment of evil. Be warned…she will take you, she will break you, and she will laugh all the time.

Extract:

Sometimes bad things happen to good people

… …and everyone agreed that Mr Sandbrook was a good and kind man. Those who worked under his care at RightPrice Supermarket counted themselves very lucky to have him for a boss. Even his wife, who divorced him for another man ten years before had nothing worse to say of him than he was too good to be exciting, whatever that meant. Evidently the remainder of the female gender largely agreed with this, for despite his comfortable existence and secure living, no other woman had yet filled the space. This vacancy he bore, like everything else, with a certain frustrated patience. 

Mr Sandbrook’s face seemed ideally formed for kindness, the full-fleshed cheeks and steady, mild brown eyes exuding a sort of bovine equanimity that had the effect of putting everyone at their ease, and soothing away any troublesome tension. The decor of his office, which he had chosen himself as far as possible, was easy on the eye, an unassuming shade of pale brown, and the carpet matched it perfectly. The plants were exactly the sort of size that were not lost in the space, and yet did not overpower it. His desk was, of course, scrupulously neat and tidy. 

The morning that would utterly change his sedate life began with him trying to convey this general air of poise and kindliness at full force while sitting across from a man evidently in a very poor state indeed. He was conducting interviews for the post of junior floor operative, and Mr Priestley, the last applicant, was by far the least impressive of the crop. Not only was his age very much against him, the other interviewees being half his tally of years, but he seemed frail, desperate, nervous and trembling under the burden of some chronic form of fatigue

But for Mr Sandbrook, things are about to take a downward turn…

To download this Femdom blackmail story from Amazon, please CLICK HERE

Cruella Pain

I am an author of books with strong and explicit Female Domination themes.

I am a Dominatrix / Mistress. I am a bitch.

I live in the Chester area. Note, I do NOT have an Amazon Wishlist.

So Amazon vouchers ONLY accepted, from those devotees seeking to please.

( To Cruella.Pain@gmail.com )

The post Mistress Misery: A Femdom Blackmail Story first appeared on Home of the Best DARK Female Domination Stories.

This is the second part of the story (which began with Converted Pt 1: Trained to WORSHIP), and continues the tale til its conclusion.

Amazon Description:

To his own utter astonishment, against everything that he had thought true and proper, Eliot Bonham had been broken and trained to grovel and WORSHIP Her in a matter of a few days. It seemed to him that he was no longer living in a world he recognised at all. He didn’t realise that this was just the beginning. He had already been made to KNEEL. Now he would be made to SERVE.

Extract:

Elliot hoped that he wouldn’t meet any of his acquaintances on his way to the library, and he was lucky in that respect. He was very self conscious in his chastity device. It was even difficult to watch his usual pornography in between visitors because the swelling of his cock was all the more noticeable. The improvised replacement for the missing book was still as he had left it the day before. As She had left it. No one said anything. Surely it would be noticed eventually?

It did seem to take an age for the morning to go by, and he was feeling very tired by the time Miss Alberts came in. The sight of her made him start. The old arrogance and pity for her was gone. He was terrified that she might notice the bulge in his trousers, but her wide lipsticked smile was just the same as always. He found that he could hardly summon up a smile in reply, he just nodded and fled. He had considered avoiding his usual coffee circle, but decided against it in the end, wanting everything to seem as usual as possible. 

They were in their usual places in the little cafe and if they noticed something odd about Elliot as he came in, they didn’t let on. They were actually far too busy being about their usual game, he realised, as he sat down. It was a relief to be seated, and have the table hide his crotch. He had been very conscious of it as he approached the table.

“Well, I’ll be doing bugger all,” said Tom, the gardener, “bloody stupid. If ya want to give to charity, give to charity, on the quiet, like. Why all this ‘look at me’ tomfoolery?”

“Oh, come on,” said James, laughing, “get into the spirit of it. Make a fool of yourself for a good cause. It’ll be fun!”

“What are you doing then?”

“Oh, me and my classmates are dressing up as the Prime Minister and doing a ‘Boris Dance’.”

“Kuh!” Said Tom, unimpressed. “Bring back birching.”

“That should be good,” said Desmond, the Stockbroker, “the Boris Dance, I mean, not the birching.”

The gardener shook his head and they all looked at Elliot. He realised with a flare of panic that it was his turn to play.

“You doing anything for the fundraiser, Elliot?” Asked Desmond, in the suddenly awkward silence.

“No…” he repled with a nervous laugh. “Lot of rubbish.”

“You’re right there,” said Tom, nodding.

“I mean, it’s the indignity of it.”

At that moment, the waitress put the tea down for them on the table and they waited for her to finish.

“Well, the boss has always liked it,” said Desmond. “Miss Templeton. Full of all sorts of new ideas. We’ll have to watch our step. I think there’s a ‘Black History Lecture’ going to be put on in the entrance hall shortly. It is rather an uncomfortable truth about the people who built this house.”

“Winchester Cathedral was largely funded by the proceeds of prostitution in London,” said Elliot, glad to have found something to come back with, trumping the other man’s history aside. History was often something that they used to try and outdo each other.  “No one cares about that now when they look at the building.”

“You doing anything, Desmond?” Asked James, trying to get the conversation back round to something he felt superior to the others about.

“Oh, I expect the kids will probably want to rope me into something,” chuckled the stockbroker, playing the doting father and successful family man. “They normally do.”

None of the other men had children. Desmond smiled slightly as he took a sip of his tea.

“No one ever upstages Miss Alberts, anyway,” said the gardener with a sudden chuckle.

To download this title from Amazon, please click HERE

Cruella Pain

I am an author of books with strong and explicit Female Domination themes.

I am a Dominatrix / Mistress. I am a bitch.

I live in the Chester area. Note, I do NOT have an Amazon Wishlist.

So Amazon vouchers ONLY accepted, from those devotees seeking to please.

( To Cruella.Pain@gmail.com )

The post Converted: Pt 2: Trained to SERVE first appeared on Home of the Best DARK Female Domination Stories.

This is a longer story broken into two distinct parts. Converted: Part 1: Trained to WORSHIP, and Converted: Part 2: Trained to SERVE. It was a story which mean a lot to me and which I as able to explore those themes which form a basis of my own beliefs, lifestyle and practice.

Amazon Description:

Elliot Bonham didn’t know anything. 
He was a semi-retired accountant, divorced, and an amateur historian. He was thoroughly middle class, set in his ways, and decidedly unworried about anything. He did, however, watch a lot of pornography. 
He was contemptuous of all religion, innately suspicious of spirituality, and couldn’t for the life of him understand what it was that made someone want to kneel and grovel and mindlessly worship anything. 
Until, that is, he met HER. Until that point Elliot Bonham hadn’t known anything. 
But now he was going to learn.

Extract:

Dressed in nothing but a red latex corset, with matching elbow length gloves and heels, she lowered herself slowly onto the monster butt plug, gasping slightly as it immediately slid halfway inside her, the flaccid sphincter opening easily before the pressure of the huge, lubed up black cone. She gripped her ass cheeks with the gloves and pulled them apart, sliding lower and lower as her rectum slowly expanded under the pressure. She started to breathe in tight gasps as the pain mounted, but she did not raise herself off the plug. She waited, bouncing slightly, and her weight gradually forced the merciless cone deeper and deeper inside her. It seemed impossible that such a large object could enter anyone’s anus, but suddenly, with a rush, the widest part of the toy slipped past her straining sphincter and her stretched muscle closed over it gripping the much narrower neck behind, trapping it inside her. All that could be seen from now was the gigantic base, the rest firmly embedded. She gasped with pleasure, exploring it with her fingers, wiggling her behind slightly to feel the fulness of it.

She knelt in obvious ecstasy for a while, giggling and moaning, and then began to try and work the plug out again. This seemed to be harder than making it go in. The plug was designed to enter her in a gradual way, but then be held in place by the suddenly much smaller girth behind the extreme circumference of the base of the cone once it had passed inside. Beyond this narrow point, the plug flared suddenly out again to prevent it slipping entirely inside her ass. It could not easily move in either direction.

Her first attempt to remove it failed and she moaned with pleasure as she gave up, surrendering her ass once more to the plug.

All the time she it stayed inside her, her sphincter was getting used to being at the smaller part of the plug, tightening little by little, making it ever more difficult to remove. She gasped and moaned, caressing the shiny, solid black rubber base, knelt right over as if forced down by the massive rectal invasion.

Eventually, she tried again to remove it, gripping the base again with her latex glove and straining as hard as she could, letting out great gasps of effort. Her ass stretched out backwards but the plug remained trapped inside her. She gasped again and continued to pull. Gradually, her sphincter began to open again, more and more of the huge cone end appearing. Eventually, after what seemed like an age of breathless effort, it went impossibly wide and then, with a rush, the plug slipped out.

The ruined, overstretched anus tried to close over the gaping hole that was left behind but she reached round with both hands and pulled her ass cheeks apart keeping her anus impossibly open and wide. An apple wouldn’t have touched the sides. It was an epic gape, and she giggled as she felt the huge hole with her gloved fingers.

With a deep satisfied sigh, she eased her ass cheeks back and allowed her sphincter to contract back to its normal resting position. It was not even circular now, with puffed swollen edges like an untidy loop of rope around the yawning entrance to her flaccid destroyed ass. That was about as tight as it was ever now going to get. She exploring the loose hole with her gloved fingers, gasping with pleasure and giggling again.

Elliot started as there came the sound of approaching feet outside the door, and with a flicker of annoyance, took the wireless earpiece out, which automatically stopped the film on his smartphone. It was one of the advantages of Hensford Park that you could hear tourists and visitors coming a long way off on the old, creaking boards. He slipped his phone into his trouser pocket and worked his hard cock over to the same side to conceal its swollen length. Being a bit small did occasionally have its advantages, he thought, wryly.

It had been a slow morning and he had been able to watch a lot of pornography in between pleasant interludes explaining various features of the library to passersby. The severe Victorian atmosphere almost seemed to collude in his concealed depravity, carrying in the complex, musty odour the secrets of countless forbidden encounters, he liked to think. The books in the library stood tightly together and ordered on heavy oaken shelves, but the weight had bent them slightly out of true over the years, and they hung swollen and pregnant, as if under some intolerable internal pressure.

He made ready the polite, intelligent, welcoming expression that he always maintained for visitors, and felt he represented a fairly good stuffy Victorian appearance himself, with dark blue blazer and slacks, shirt and tie, polished black shoes and hands behind his back. He was balding, semi retired, divorced, unexceptionable, with an interest in local history. The room stewards were not explicitly encouraged to dress in a way that harmonised with the decor of the house, but nevertheless they all seemed to do so. Elliot had not had to make much of an effort. His years as an accountant made him very comfortable with formal clothes of that sort.

As it was, it wasn’t a paying visitor, but Miss Alberts, another volunteer, stepping carefully through the door in a black dress with lace trim, and period hat pinned through greying hair.

“Oh,” he said, with a lopsided smile as she entered. “Coffee break already?”He had the momentary vision of Miss Alberts lowering her ass onto a monster butt plug with every indication of enjoying it and had to stop himself laughing. It really was a ludicrous thought, being elderly and so strait-laced  as to almost be a caricature. She still struggled pathetically with make up, though Elliot couldn’t imagine why. Miss Alberts looked every inch the Victorian spinster, and he always imagined that she kept the same severe black dress on even when not on duty at the house.

To download this title from Amazon, please CLICK HERE.

Cruella Pain

I am an author of books with strong and explicit Female Domination themes.

I am a Dominatrix / Mistress. I am a bitch.

I live in the Chester area. Note, I do NOT have an Amazon Wishlist.

So Amazon vouchers ONLY accepted, from those devotees seeking to please.

( To Cruella.Pain@gmail.com )

The post Converted: Pt 1: Trained to WORSHIP first appeared on Home of the Best DARK Female Domination Stories.

Amazon Description:

Between the face we show to the world, and the face we hide carefully away there is a veil. Between pretence and truth, illusion and reality. 

Sharon Lane seemed like a nondescript, menial employee of Kearney-Griffith, paid to clean toilets; Sir Arthur Bannion was a top executive, senior partner, and esteemed member of the board. 

His lie was never exposed, and perhaps never would have been, but for the day that they both got stuck in the same lift.

And the veil was torn…

Extract:

Sir Arthur Bannion did not look at Sharon Lane, and Sharon Lane certainly did not look at Sir Arthur Bannion. They each found something extremely interesting elsewhere in the gleaming compartment of the lift as it whisked them swiftly upwards from the ground floor of great financial house of Kearny-Griffith, the vast institution from which they both obtained their living. 

But this his was the only similarity between them, and this was really no similarity at all because Sir Arthur was going directly to the top level to his office suite as a senior partner, and Sharon was only going up one level to start her shift as a cleaner. 

If Sharon had glanced at Sir Arthur, she would have seen disgust and impatience written subtly all over his tanned, intelligent face. This sort of situation would never normally have arisen, but the executive lifts were out of order, a victim of the electrical problems currently plaguing the huge establishment, and so for a limited time, and only in this elevator, the distinction between executive and menial staff was inconveniently suspended. 

The executive lifts ran right up the corners of the glittering building, affording a full view of the city that quickly grew more and more panoramic as the graceful, glass-sided capsules glided smoothly and swiftly upwards. Sir Arthur counted on it being part of a morning affirmation of his eminent position and multifarious achievements. He loathed elevators, but he loved that one. The senior partners and other VIPs had the lift all to themselves, and of course had the best view, stretching over the magnificent buildings of the financial sector right out over the river and dimly, to the sea. 

It was like his life all over again, beginning at the ground floor and rising swift and high past all the intermediate ranks, the middle management and accounts, HR and requisitioning, all the way up to the men who called the shots, the board of directors, the gleaming table hidden away where the select few gathered every day to discuss the fate of all of those below. His office was on that highest level, if one did not count the rooftop restaurant, and the view was a song of daily inspiration that set him up for the day by the time he stepped out into the tidy, spacious, glittering world of the top level offices. 

So it greatly annoyed and distressed him no end therefore to have to use the service lift, with its fully enclosed, stainless steel walls running deep within the innards of the building. It was hidden from sight, just as the intended occupants were intended to be hidden from sight. These were the menial operatives that should fade into the background along with all the other incidental and commonplace components of the corporate body. 

He glanced briefly across at the woman with him in the lift. She was the perfect example of the type of person that he should not be having to deal with, a plain, middle-aged woman, dressing in that pathetic two piece white cleaner’s uniform with the interlocking K and G company logo embroidered in gold on the lapel. The sensible shoes at one end, and the pinned hat on the tight bun of her hair at the other. And he could smell her; the squalid, pungent aroma of bleach, with lighter overtones of soap and lemon. All extremely unwelcome reminders of toilets, drudgery, filth and mediocrity.  

It was such a painful contrast from the neat blazer and beige slacks he was permitted to wear as a senior player. It was so like another world to him. 

What made it even worse was that he could not even be sure that the woman would get off at a lower floor and move herself away quickly. Despite the exalted status of his circle, there remained a need for toilets, and toilets needed cleaning. She could as well go right up to the restaurant, where there were even more toilets for her to clean. He wrinkled his noble, aquiline nose, and made a mental note to bring up the subject of the executive lift at the morning meeting. He imagined that he would not be alone in his intention. Surely the present situation was fast becoming a priority to everyone. 

Sharon was just as anxious as Sir Arthur for the situation to return to normal, feeling intimidated and ugly next to the dapper, languidly handsome man in his early fifties. He was wearing some sort of subtle aftershave. Sharon could smell it even over the lingering odours that permanently leeched out of her uniform.  

The sides of the lift were reflective enough to show an image of her form, slightly distorted, and the unflattering result only served to make her feel even more out of place and unattractive. 

She recognised the man with her well enough. He had spoken for the company once or twice on the regular occasions when all the staff were assembled together, some safety brief, or company progress report. Then he had been all charm and easy condescension, as if to prove that the least of his staff were profoundly important and precious to him, and by extension the great financial institution itself. 

Such tender feelings were not in evidence that particular morning in the service lift, and Sharon found a black sort of amusement in it as she recalled how passionately he had spoken about ‘the team’ and ‘togetherness’. This did not obviously extend to actually noticing a menial member of staff unless absolutely required to do so for form’s sake. 

It did not surprise her. Underlying all the fine words and noble policy statements, she knew well enough what was expected of her, the unspoken reality of her position as a cleaner of toilets. She was the lowest of the low. 

She had always known what was expected of her, and her life had followed accordingly. She was married with two children at University, and a husband who mended cars for a living. It had all been expected of her, and she had duly obliged, with a patience that had been exemplary, especially the way she had permitted her husbands intimate attentions in the bedroom; attentions that had never touched her deeply, but then that had not been expected of her in the age in which she grew up either. She loved her children, but they were at that stage of life where they were desperate to prove their independence, and she saw little of them. 

Sir Arthur had likewise to a large extent fulfilled the expectations of family and education, and congratulated himself on this point every day…

To download this title from Amazon please click here

Cruella Pain

I am an author of books with strong and explicit Female Domination themes.

I am a Dominatrix / Mistress. I am a bitch.

I live in the Chester area. Note, I do NOT have an Amazon Wishlist.

So Amazon vouchers ONLY accepted, from those devotees seeking to please.

( To Cruella.Pain@gmail.com )

The post The POWER Behind the Veil: Femdom Fiction first appeared on Home of the Best DARK Female Domination Stories.

Amazon Description:

Heinemann was a frustrated and angry man. 

He was a man who vented his anger through his personal crusade to clean up the streets, his club and every part of his life from certain ‘substances’ left by pets and their irresponsible owners. He hated them all after a certain bad experience buried deep in his psyche.

He was a laughing stock, a loner, a creep, until that fateful day when a young girl made him wear a collar himself, and face his negative complex full on. It was a day which would entirely transform his behaviour…the day she gave him with own dark and wicked brand of PERVERSION THERAPY.

Extract:

Frederick Heinemann was frustrated about many things, but it was one particular and enduring frustration that made him stop outside his house then, slam his golf clubs down with a rattling bang and let out a hiss of bitter annoyance. 

People who knew him joked behind his back about Heinemann’s ‘pet hate’, which was quite a neat expression in the circumstances, since pets were very much the focus of it. 

He looked down the neat, tree-lined perspective of well-heeled suburbia for either the offending animal or the owner, shading his eyes against the bright, spring sun. Seeing neither, he applied his attention to the windows opposite and to each side. He had become convinced that his neighbours were secretly provoking him by actively encouraging dogs to stop by his house and deposit their waste outside. 

It did not take much for Frederick Heinemann’s feelings to boil over, but he hated showing it publicly. He did not want anyone to see that it was getting to him, particularly if they were indeed trying to provoke him. Surely the amount of dog waste he found outside his property could not be put down to ill luck? 

He breathed out slowly, letting the air through loose lips so as to make a long, flatulent sound. Everything else around him was tidy and pleasant and perfect. His house was unexceptionable, the garden well-tended, both kept up to a good standard by paid help. He was dressed for the course, with a jolly patterned sweater in green and red over his portly bulge of a stomach, with beige slacks and polished brown shoes below. But in the midst of all this well-groomed respectability was the pungent and unpleasant aroma that for Heinemann had the whiff not only of corruption and disgusting reality, but also of personal affront. 

He looked back down at the offending little pile of poo on his drive and abruptly went to put his colourful red and white bag of clubs in the boot of his car, a classic Jaguar XJ6 in racing green. He took a plastic bag from one of the large pockets of the bag and stepped back across to the mess with a purposeful stride. Looking about again to see if anyone was watching, he used the bag to carefully pick it up, and then reversed it so that the pungent material was inside, then walked the ten yards to the little cast metal bin on the lamppost that had been put there for the purpose of disposing of such residue. 

He smiled grimly as he dropped the waste inside and lowered the lid which came down with a satisfying ‘clunk’. It had taken many written representations from him over many months to convince the council that his street required such facilities. On reflection, his tireless efforts to involve the other residents might have been rather counterproductive in terms of his general standing in the community. Perhaps he had been a little insistent, but he had gotten results, and he did not regret it, even if he had the distinct impression that they were subtly trying to get their own back by actually increasing the problem where he lived. 

He had never been on very good terms with the other residents of the street, he thought, as he made his way back to the car. Heinemann kept rather to himself, and did not enjoy inviting people into his house, or making social calls on other people. 

They sensed the tension in him, the frustration, as well as the awkwardness, and in general left him well alone. 

Heinemann thought that it was at least partly jealously, because of his perceived wealth and easy life. It was true that he was quite rich, having inherited several houses, including the five bedroom suburban property that had been the family home for two generations. 

The rents from his small portfolio of properties which had all been long ago converted into flats was considerable, but even so, they did not realise how much of a hassle it was to look after rentals. It was no picnic to deal with arrears and damage and legislation and so on where the sort of lowlifes and unwashed people that generally populated his houses. Nothing is easy, he whispered to himself as he fastened his seatbelt and turned the key to start the engine, which turned with a satisfying roar. Six cylinder 4.2, thirty years old and still full of exhilarating power. 

It was true that he was awkward and difficult as a person, he admitted to himself, as he put the Jaguar into reverse and carefully backed out into the road. 

He viewed these traits as inherited, along with all the wealth, rather than anything that was his own fault. He didn’t blame his parents exactly, both now deceased, but surely he had been given a poor hand by fate in any other sense than the financial? 

He mentally went through his list of frustrations, in no particular order, as he turned onto the main road and headed out of town towards the golf course. He was not good at anything, that was half the trouble. His father had been musical, good looking, physically coordinated, rhythmical, blessed. 

He could still remember the old man looking at him with impatient pity as he fluffed yet another golf shot, convinced that it was a mechanical defect, or a fault that a simple adjustment could rectify. Heinemann had wanted to scream at him that it was talent, not technique that he lacked, that he would always lack. 

Even so, Heinemann often went to the golf course in the afternoons, if the weather was right for it. He mostly played alone, at the municipal course where such aberrations as a golfer playing as a single was permitted as long as his money was good. He was never going to play the game well, but it took his mind off his other, deeper frustrations. 

He thought of Teddy, the Starter, in his little wooden hut on the way to the first tee and he smiled. It was such a small thing, and Heinemann recognised that it was essentially meaningless, but the man was such a warm and genuine human being, and the little pleasantries they exchanged by the first tee always seemed so reassuring and sane and dependable. It had even settled into a sort of routine, where Heinemann inevitably said ‘Punishment, please’, at the start, which Teddie always seemed to find amusing in his jowly, cherubic way, and he always had some sort of smart retort, or observation on the weather, or a snippet of club gossip as Heinemann paid over the money before moving on to start his round at the first tee nearby. 

On this occasion, Heinemann had even more occasion than usual to look forward to this point of sanity and reassurance. It was not the dog mess on his drive; that was quite normal. It was more to do with another of his frustrations, namely his sexual ones. 

To download this title from amazon please click here

Should you feel the need to experience the thrills and satisfactions of true FinDom, you may visit this page Amazon vouchers and make it out to: Cruella.Pain.com. You know how to please me

Cruella Pain

I am an author of books with strong and explicit Female Domination themes.

I am a Dominatrix / Mistress. I am a bitch.

I live in the Chester area. Note, I do NOT have an Amazon Wishlist.

So Amazon vouchers ONLY accepted, from those devotees seeking to please.

( To Cruella.Pain@gmail.com )

The post Perversion Therapy: Total Domination story first appeared on Home of the Best DARK Female Domination Stories.

…featuring my alter ego, Mistress Misery. The situation it concerns – a ;friend’ contacting a Mistress to ask for mercy, and then getting embroiled himself – is one I encountered a few years back. While not all it is is ‘literally’ true, there is enough truth in it to identify with. Especially if you are – or even might be – sub curious. See below for thr Amazon description, and then an extract from the story itself.

Amazon Description:

Her eyes were pools of dark spite, malevolent and amused, drawing him closer and closer, unhurried and certain…

Respectable family man Willard Brown closed his eyes. But the haunting face was still with him. Did he expect any different? He could think of nothing else. No matter that he might distract himself at times, his mind was enticed back to Her Image as soon as there was an opportunity. His will was slipping away, becoming a strange thing. He seemed to feed and draw on an obsessive, degrading energy, a force that gripped him, and held him, trembling and afraid.  

Willard tried desperately to distance himself, but there was no escaping. In Her hands, She held a studded collar, a dog’s collar, and it had a lead attached. His head was full of her cold laughter….and those eyes.

Extract:

He pressed the ‘call’ button, and she picked up on the third ring.

‘Hello?’

Her voice was quiet, breathy and deep, and amused. Perhaps a touch of a northern accent, but he couldn’t be sure. It did seem to go with that image of her face, though.

‘Hello, my name is Willard Brown,’ he started, and immediately he went into a much more comfortable mode as if he were introducing himself to a new batch of students. He was very good at public speaking and being entertaining at dinner parties, after all.

‘You don’t know me, but I think you do know a friend of mine, Harry Field.’

‘Oh, yes, dear Harry’, she said, with a bit of an evil snicker that made his blood run cold. 

Willard had rehearsed more or less what he would say, both sympathetic and firm, but her tone rather made it seem an irrelevance. Nevertheless, he pushed on with it.

‘I understand completely that you have formed a deep attachment with Harry,’ said Willard, beginning to sound like a lawyer. ‘But unfortunately, as so often happens, I have to break it to you that your feelings are not at all reciprocated. Not. In any sense.’

‘Oh.’

‘And he would very much appreciate it if you left him alone. It is affecting him badly, affecting his work.’

‘Oh, dear.’

Her tone was entirely unsympathetic, and it instead left Willard at a loss for a comeback. Then, just as he was going to lay it on a bit thicker about how Harry was suffering, she spoke again.

‘I think a conversation of this sort of sensitivity should at least be done via video; what do you think?’

‘Oh, OK,’ he replied, somewhat relieved that she sounded a little more amenable and obviously intending to take the matter seriously. She ended the call, and then he jumped as an invitation to a video link came immediately afterwards.

He pressed the acknowledgement, his finger trembling slightly.

The standard features filled his screen, and dark eyes trapped his gaze.

‘Hello, Willard Brown.’

He told himself it wasn’t a new conversation; it was a continuation of the one he had been making. But it felt as though it were strangely disconnected. He felt strangely disconnected altogether.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

She smiled at that, a thin, slowly forming expression that reminded him of a film where the evil villain witnessed some dastardly scheme coming to fruition.

He waited for her to speak, but she did not.

Willard was suddenly desperate to fill that silence, even with the constant sounds of passing traffic.

‘So, are you going to leave Harry Field alone?’

His voice was raspy and dry, and he hardly recognised it.

‘Are you sure that’s what you rang for, Willard Brown?’

Her voice was soft and unhurried, and the cold smile still lingered about her lipsticked mouth.

‘Of course, that’s what I rang for!’

But another of those silences followed the automatic denial, and he stared at her, unable to think of something else to say.

‘Goodbye, then.’

She ended the call, and the screen went blank.

Willard flinched. The air around him suddenly seemed as still as a tomb, despite the proximity of the busy road. It was the strangest phone call that he had ever had. So much of it had been unspoken, unspeakable. The question that she had put to him rang again in his head, and he shuddered at the memory, refused to consider its implications. He had found it so difficult to put her image out of his mind, and his interest was starting to feel unhealthy.

To download this title from Amazon, please CLICK HERE

Cruella Pain

I am an author of books with strong and explicit Female Domination themes.

I am a Dominatrix / Mistress. I am a bitch.

I live in the Chester area. Note, I do NOT have an Amazon Wishlist.

So Amazon vouchers ONLY accepted, from those devotees seeking to please.

( To Cruella.Pain@gmail.com )

The post Call of the Collar: FemDom first appeared on Home of the Best DARK Female Domination Stories.

Amazon Description:

A hardcore ballbusting tale of an innocent young girl’s eventful journey of self-discovery, and her re-birth as the sadistic ‘Miss Ballbuster.’

Amy Martin was young, pretty, energetic and talented. She was also a failure. Failed by her family, failed by the school, failed by society in general. No qualifications, no prospects, no life.

Then one day, after an life changing encounter with her creepy bank manager she researches ‘woman who kick men in the balls’, and a whole new world is opened up. A whole new life…She meets Mistress B who introduces her to the spiteful delights of ballbusting, and she learns to see the world very differently. She discovers what is already within her. She becomes a very eager student as her bank manager learns to his (very) painful cost…

Extract:

As with most of the major changes in life, the very beginning passed almost unnoticed…Only when Amy looked back to the days before she became a merciless breaker of balls, did she realise that what started out as quite a modest ambition was to change herself and her life absolutely. She glanced up at the clock on the wall. She had time before the next one. She gazed out across the impeccably manicured lawn at the back of the large house she now controlled and thought back to those days when the height of her ambition was to become a simple driving instructor. She lifted her booted feet onto her footstool and smiled to herself. She knew she had come so very, very far…since that moment when she realised –with some trepidation – that she needed the help of Mr. Forrester… 

* 

Mr. Forrester was always seen a man of good standing. He was of the rank and position which the law judged him competent for many things well beyond the scope of ordinary people. As the manager of a bank, he was professionally equivalent to a senior solicitor for instance, or a medical doctor, or a minister of religion in the eyes of the law.

So when the twenty-year old Amy Martin considered her options for obtaining an official endorsement of identification as part of her application for driving instructor training, Mr. Forrester was the only person she knew who was qualified for the task, and who also satisfied the two year acquaintancy requirement. 

Amy reached this conclusion with no little apprehension. It was just her luck that her doctor has recently retired and moved away. She had not liked Mr. Forrester from the first time she had gone with her mother to open a child’s account. He hadn’t been the manager in those days, simply an ordinary cashier, but he’d been very patronising and artificial, and had kept staring at her mother’s, admittedly prominent, breasts whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. It had angered her that her mother had pretended not to notice, and had gone along with it all by being as unnatural and gushy as he was. It was his game, and his rules. Mother had simply accepted. 

But  as she grew, Amy had to acknowledge that most men stared at a woman’s’ breasts, and mostly this amused or even pleased her when she caught them staring at hers, but there had always been something creepy about the way Mr. Forrester had done it, his eyes sliding furtively to and fro all the time. He reminded her of a sly frog. 

All the same, and in spite of all her misgivings, she needed that signature; she was obliged to go to him. It was impossible to ring the bank to arrange for an appointment, since the number just routed to a call-center overseas. It was impossible to call her local branch. So she decided she would just have to turn up and see what happened… 

Amy worked at a meatpacking factory on the night shift and getting to the bank would mean losing sleep, but there was nothing to be done. If she wanted to better herself, she was going to have to make sacrifices. She had to make up for a childhood of terminal truancy from school, which she had consequently left without a single qualification to her name. Becoming a driving instructor would make up for such a lot of wasted time. 

When she entered the bank, she hated the fact that she felt nervous. The financial standing of her family had never been high, but they had done what they could and survived well enough in a hand to mouth fashion. And despite her mother being a divorcee who had no financial support from her ex-husband, they had kept their heads above water. Her mother had a long term, debilitating fatigue condition which was awarded some financial support, and Amy had worked at whatever job she could get, which wasn’t really very much. The nights at the meatpackers were so tiring. But it was better than nothing, but her real focus was the Instructor’s course. That was her route out of that place. It would be her route to a new and better life. 

When Amy entered the bank and stood in the mercifully short queue at the enquiries desk, she was simmering quietly with anger that she was obliged to come there just to prove who she was, and be made to feel awkward and out of place in the pristine, impersonal surroundings. 

She had considered trying to dress up a little and appear somewhat smarter than her habitual, pixie-like untidiness, but she had quickly discarded the very idea with an angry toss of her head. She was not comfortable being anything other than herself, and was not going to make any allowances for any slime-ball bank manager. Her dress, her rules. The bank could take it or leave it. 

To help her relax, she imagined herself in the kickboxing ring, where she worked out and developed her technique most evenings, using the discipline and focus to shut out the feelings of inadequacy. This tactic worked well, for she often found that the violence of the sport allowed her to channel all her frustrations into positive moves and empowering strength, and soon she was feeling capable and in control again. 

She thought of Jed, her coach at the gym, and it seemed ridiculous to her that he was not deemed of sufficient standing to sign for her identification. Why did red tape demand that a bank manager could sign but a respected coach could not? Amy knew that if she put him up against Mr. Forrester, she knew who she would rather put her trust in. It was a thought she enjoyed. 

On the one hand was a fierce, thoroughly alive individual who had fought for everything he had, whose eyes were as clear and direct and trenchant as those of a bird of prey, and whose limbs were vital, corded and strong. Dignity without arrogance spoke in everything he did. Against him was this flabby, dishonest creep, who could never look anyone straight in the face. Her mother just said it was the man’s way and to read nothing into it, but Amy still didn’t like him. 

She glanced down at the passport-sized picture that needed to be endorsed. Her shoulder length blonde hair was in a ponytail, emphasising the clean, symmetrical lines of her elfin face, and her blue eyes sparkled in the glare of the flash. 

When she got to the front of the queue, Amy explained her situation to the smartly dressed woman at the desk, who was professionally pleasant and maybe even slightly sincere as she said she would enquire as to whether Mr. Forrester was available. She got up quickly, with an encouraging smile to the queue behind, and disappeared into the secure interior of the bank. 

She was not gone more than a minute when she came back with the man himself in a bulging grey suit, his blue eyes protruding from a round, florid face, glistening with perspiration. 

“Ah, Miss Martin,” he said, with an unconvincing smile, “…so good to see you. Come this way.” “I just need a signature,” began Amy. But the man had already opened the interior door and was beckoning her to come through. His eyes doing their usual dance across the contours of her body. 

To download this title from Amazon, please click here

Should you feel the need to experience the thrills and satisfactions of true FinDom, you may visit this page Amazon vouchers and make it out to: Cruella.Pain.com. You know how to please me

Cruella Pain

I am an author of books with strong and explicit Female Domination themes.

I am a Dominatrix / Mistress. I am a bitch.

I live in the Chester area. Note, I do NOT have an Amazon Wishlist.

So Amazon vouchers ONLY accepted, from those devotees seeking to please.

( To Cruella.Pain@gmail.com )

The post Miss Ballbuster – a Sadistic FemDom story first appeared on Home of the Best DARK Female Domination Stories.

Amazon Description:

Steve has a fetish for financial domination. He also craves his work colleague Nicci. He slowly – just for fun – introduces Nicci to the possibilities of Fin-Dom.

But Nicci eventually becomes more than just a willing pupil and researches just how financially beneficial it can be to be a Goddess to a loser like Steve.

The game becomes life and the loser is blackmailed, divorced, locked in permanent chastity, humiliated, used as a toilet and financially bereft.

Extract:

Prologue I am lying on the floor with my mouth wide open. My Chasity cage has not been removed for two years. Everything is being filmed.  The girl – my Goddess – who has owned me for nearly six years is standing over me about to do something very nasty. 

And she is going to make me swallow it. 

All of it. 

There was a time when she had no idea what femdom power, chastity or financial domination was. Now, look at her. Just look. 

I can hardly bear to…she has changed so much. 

Topping from the Bottom 

I worked with Nicci for some years and had an up and down sort of relationship with her. Eventually, we settled on an up relationship, mainly because we both smoked and every time we went for a cigarette I bought her a cup of tea from the vending machine. 

If only I had realised then where a cup of tea would lead. 

I have always had a financial domination fetish which I satisfied in the normal online way from time to time. I would find an online Domme, exchange some messages, give her some ‘leverage’ in the guise of some information I’d be embarrassed to have made public. But to be honest, the info I always supplied was fake. I mean, how easy is it to set up a Gmail address for my ‘wife’? 

So then she would blackmail me into giving her money and eventually when reality kicked in I would just disappear. 

Happy, carefree days… 

I remember them well. 

Nicci was always short of money, always telling me about this or that bill, or things she wanted but couldn’t afford. So one day I jokingly mentioned that a fetish called financial domination was making some women some easy cash. 

She just looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language. 

I had no idea where it was going, but somehow I wanted to tell her, to let her see into the world which fascinated me; which exerted a strong pull on me. 

I told her that guys would give money to beautiful girls just to be laughed at and be told that they were a wanker. 

Nicci almost choked on her coffee, and let out a coughing laugh. 

‘I don’t think so’, she replied. ‘I wish.’ 

She strode off inside still giggling. 

I watched her go thinking I had blown my chance to get her into a conversation on the subject. Just talking about it would always give me a lift. 

For the next week, I hoped against hope that she might bring the subject up. No chance. She had even stopped moaning on about her finances. A bad sign I thought. 

In the end, just like an unreachable itch, I couldn’t leave it alone. Monday morning I was determined to bring it up again. ‘Tell you what’, I said as she arrived at work. ‘When you are ready to have a break, why don’t you come and order me outside.’ I gave her a grin to show her I was joking, then added. Get in touch with your inner Domme.’ 

She rolled her eyes, but at just before ten o’clock – a full thirty minutes before our usual time there she was standing before me.

‘You’, she said pointing a very in character scarlet fingernail at me, ‘Outside NOW.’ 

Hmm, I thought. Duck to water. 

When outside she reverted to chatty, moany, funny Nicci, but I couldn’t help thinking that a bridge has been crossed. Every day after that it was the same. 

But even so progress was slow. Then I had another idea…

To download this title from amazon please click here

Should you feel the need to experience the thrills and satisfactions of true FinDom, you may visit this page Amazon vouchers and make it out to: Cruella.Pain.com. You know how to please me

Cruella Pain

I am an author of books with strong and explicit Female Domination themes.

I am a Dominatrix / Mistress. I am a bitch.

I live in the Chester area. Note, I do NOT have an Amazon Wishlist.

So Amazon vouchers ONLY accepted, from those devotees seeking to please.

( To Cruella.Pain@gmail.com )

The post Downfall: A Financial Domination Story first appeared on Home of the Best DARK Female Domination Stories.

Amazon Description:

Three classic fem-dom stories in one volume for the first time.

One-Way Ticket. 

They were everywhere. It just needed the trained eye to spot them. They were masters of disguise, but they were there. All around her. As she became more adept at seeing past their masquerade, she found that she spotted more and more of them. She eventually wondered if every man was actually vulnerable to her power, but sometimes on a level so deep that he didn’t even know it themselves: and no disguise could be so perfect as that.

But it had been a long day, a good day, and she didn’t feel like exerting herself too much. She took the easiest, the most obvious, and the most abject victim she saw. It was cheaper, she thought, than ordering a coffee; better than a magazine for passing the time. So she did what she did best. She sat down opposite him, with a thin smile…

The She-Predator
A highly charged story of erotic female domination.

When Louise West presents her dissertation plan to her university supervisor, he dismisses it with scorn. A study of sado-masochistic relations in literature just isn’t scholarly enough apparently. However, Louise is no ordinary student. Dr Graham Sheldon does not reckon on her sheer determination of his student or her ‘special’ powers of persuasion. When he visits her home to provide her with a tutorial he unwittingly enters a world of pain and fantasy from which he will never escape.

From the author: ‘When I was at university I had a relationship with one of my more senior lecturers. It was brief but very intense. It was a relationship in which I was completely in charge. I felt the wonderful juxtaposition of reversing the usual status of lecturer and student, of having him at my back and call, of teasing him and occasionally hurting him. In this story are two people who have a very unconventional need for each other. It also represents the fulfilment of a long held and frustrated fantasy on the part of the submissive.’

The Cuckoldress.
A cuckold marriage with an S&M twist. Bruce and Sophie are the loves of each other’s young lives. They adore each other and their marriage couldn’t be happier. Bruce worships the ground that Sophie walks on and Sophie cuckolds Bruce – enthusiastically, wilfully and with all the considerably cruelty she can muster. 

The author says, ‘I wanted to write a story explores the tension between a loving relationship on the one hand and a sado masochistic control-based relationship on the other. I wanted to show that it is possible to be deeply in love with someone and sleep with other men. Indeed, part of the love that Bruce and Sophie have for each other is explored in Sophie’s blatant, sexually charged affairs. Bruce battles with himself until he submits to his primal need for domination, control and humiliation. The principal theme of this story is how cuckolding can threaten a relationship but – bizarrely -how it can ultimately strengthen it too. Sophie and Bruce discover each other’s ‘kinks’ tentatively and with an almost childlike innocence, but when Bruce willingly hands Sophie control of his existence she seizes it, uses it and enjoys it to the full.’

To Download this title from Amazon pleas click here

Cruella Pain

I am an author of books with strong and explicit Female Domination themes.

I am a Dominatrix / Mistress. I am a bitch.

I live in the Chester area. Note, I do NOT have an Amazon Wishlist.

So Amazon vouchers ONLY accepted, from those devotees seeking to please.

( To Cruella.Pain@gmail.com )

The post Everyday Dominations: 3 Classic FemDom Stories first appeared on Home of the Best DARK Female Domination Stories.

Amazon Description:

A dark and disturbing tale of interracial eroticism, domination and…unspeakable evil…A classic Female Domination story,

Everyone wanted to find out about Earl. He wasn’t like the rest, he was reclusive withdrawn, somehow different. He seemed set himself apart. But the crew wanted to know more, to find out what lay beneath the surface of the self-effacing Third Officer…So they took him to downtown New Orleans; they found him a woman; they paid to find out, to satisfy their curiosity.

But in the most notorious voodoo club in New Orleans, Les Fleurs du Mal – everything was to change.The crew never did find out. Earl was strange when he came back, somehow altered. Different. Tainted. And it frightened them. Something fundamental had been done to him. It had started as a joke, but now nobody was laughing.And not a single one among them ever suspected the truth.

Extract:

“The taxi picked up the English crew at Westwego, on the south bank of the Mississippi. They were full of the prospect spending some time ashore in New Orleans. As the car rolled away from the Grain Terminal and left the ship behind, the taxi driver gave them some ideas in the sleepy, dangerous local drawl, though they hardly needed the pointers. The captain, particularly, had been running into New Orleans and enjoying the famous nightlife for years. There was only one among them who could really be described as a complete greenhorn; the reclusive third officer, Earl. 

Earl contributed nothing to the excited discussion about what might lay in store that night. He sat in determined silence behind the driver, watching the light of the bungalows flash by along the main road. His face was not handsome, but there was an engaging honesty in his delicate features as the light washed over them, and it was all too plain that he was very ill-at-ease. 

It was Earl’s birthday, his twenty-fifth, and his shipmates had made him come. He never took the opportunity to go ashore with the crew and they all felt that it was high time he did. The captain particularly wanted to ‘blood’ him, as he called it, and took it upon himself as a duty to bring the young man out of his shell. He did not much like Earl, actually, and they all took the captain’s lead in the car when he began to make lewd suggestions and bait him with questions about his virility. Underneath all the laughter was a hard edge and Earl felt it keenly. They were not sure about his sexual credentials, and he knew that they were resolved to find out. 

As they went up onto the three-lane, elevated section through Marrero and Harvey he found that he was beginning to sweat, even in the air conditioned cab. He knew in his bones that he would not be able to satisfy the macho requirements of his shipmates, nor perform adequately for the paid girl that they would no doubt be setting him up with. He kept his face turned to the streetlights leading away south over the bungalows, out to the far darkness of the bayous and the Gulf of Mexico beyond, and tried to think of a way out. 

By the time they reached the twin bridges and sped across the great, languid stream of the Mississippi, Earl had thought of nothing more subtle and effective but trying to get drunk as quickly as possible and getting out of it as being obviously inebriated beyond the point of being capable of sex. 

What made it more galling for Earl was the fact that it had been touch and go whether they would be obliged to put to sea early to avoid the very high tides that were predicted for that evening. If there had been the merest sniff of a hurricane, they would have gone. The storm surge together with the tidal rise would have made the river too hazardous to stay alongside. As it was, the weather was settled and calm, and everyone was convinced that the levees would hold. The captain had not even put off his run ashore, although there were many in his place that would have stayed on board their ship just in case. 

Even though Earl was nervous, he appreciated the scene on the north bank as they traversed the graceful span of the bridge and went up into the French Quarter among the colours and noise and elegant houses. It was the first time he had seen it at night. They parked in Bourbon Street and got out, laughing with the driver. 

Earl wrinkled his nose at the smell as he walked along with the others, picking their way down the crowded, noisy street. He had been warned of the distinctive odour of that part of the city, but he had been too preoccupied to give it much thought. It smelled like a rich combination of lots of things, including the broiled oysters that spat and smoked at several outlets nearby, and the wafting, bitter tones of liquor, among other unmentionable possibilities. 

Earl glanced at a shop that offered voodoo fetishes and cures, and fortune telling. There was a Creole lady in front, with earrings and fur and teeth and other strange accoutrements obviously designed to catch the eye. Earl looked at her as they passed by and she clutched at his shirt sleeve, arresting his progress with a dark look. 

‘Tonight is power,” she said, with a French accent. “Come inside.”

Earl’s smile was so insincere it was more of a grimace as he shook his head, mumbled an apology and hurried to keep up with the others. Although he feared what the crew had in store for him, he was intimidated also by the press of people and the garish colours, the brash, jazzy sounds that blared out of the bars to right and left. The captain led them down a dingy side street leading towards the river, past two-tiered, balconied houses with elegant pillars lining the sidewalk that had clearly seen better days. After a short walk they came to a wrought iron barrier that spanned right across a wide opening to the left. 

There were similar gated entrances further down the street, but this one was obviously the entrance to some sort of drinking house rather than just an alley between houses. There were two large Negroes standing to each side of a narrow open section, like the door to a jail. Somewhere beyond them were the distinctive strains of a Cajun tune, in that provoking, energetic rhythm that seemed to communicate directly with the feet. 

The captain said something to them and they motioned him inside without any expression, their eyes as hard as agates. Earl avoided their eyes as he slipped through with the rest, wondering where on earth they were going. He was liking it less and less, despite the bright, encouraging sounds of the music. To him it seemed to have an underlying, macabre quality. When they got to the entrance round a crooked alley, the bright neon letters over the doorway did nothing to comfort him. In lurid twisting red were “Les Fleurs Du Mal,” which he knew translated as ‘The Flowers of Evil’. 

To download this title from Amazon, please click HERE

Cruella Pain

I am an author of books with strong and explicit Female Domination themes.

I am a Dominatrix / Mistress. I am a bitch.

I live in the Chester area. Note, I do NOT have an Amazon Wishlist.

So Amazon vouchers ONLY accepted, from those devotees seeking to please.

( To Cruella.Pain@gmail.com )

The post The Flowers of Evil FemDom Horror first appeared on Home of the Best DARK Female Domination Stories.