…After the first Mistress Misery story, I wanted to write more. I felt very close to her as a Mistress, and obviously wanted to extend her ‘virtues’ in story form.

Amazon Description:

A hard-core story of female domination and the extremes to which it may lead.

Mistress Misery was not one generally for making physical contact with her slaves, preferring to make them suffer for her pleasure online, and certainly she never envisaged ever allowing one into her respectable and well-appointed domestic arrangements.

But when Kelvin Oliver fell for her when he came to fix a faulty lavatory, she found herself considering the impossible, the most extreme, the most degrading involvement that could ever be imagined.

If Mistress Misery was going to have an commitment at all, it would have to be all of that….and more.

Much, much, MUCH more…

Extract:

Mistress Misery snapped on the light and stepped into her ensuite, her silk dressing gown moving slightly, hanging open to reveal the curve of her breasts and the smooth skin of her stomach descending to the join of her legs. 

Her bathroom was like a thousand others, with pink effect marble fittings and shiny brass, the commodious retreat of any middle aged, successful, single woman in a modern city, where all was clean, pleasant and sweet smelling. A shower and bath combination, a sizeable basin, room for towel storage and an elegant feeling of poise and space. 

There was only one difference from the normal roster of sanitary appointments. 

Next to the lavatory bowl, something was fixed to the varnished wood of the floor. Below the curving porcelain, another toilet seat was mounted atop a wooden box. 

From this box a man’s body protruded, his head trapped inside by means of a hole just big enough to admit his neck being locked in position.  His wrists were fettered by manacles and very short chains to two steel rings in each side of the box. His waist lay under another wooden structure, a simple horizontal board fixed at a height that kept his body snugly to the rubber mat that kept him from the wooden floor from the head box to the tops of his thighs. In this flat board was a hole through which the man’s penis protruded, the hole somehow closed tight round his genitalia behind the balls, preventing it from being retracted. The shaft of his penis was sheathed in steel, with a Prince Albert piercing locking it in position with a small padlock. A catheter emerged from the head of his penis and went back through a tiny, tight hole in the head box. The man was completely naked but for a pink, plastic garment that enclosed his groin.  

Mistress Misery looked down at this arrangement and stifled a giggle, as she often had to every time she entered her bathroom. She hung up her robe on the hook behind the door and, lifted the lid at the top of the wooden box. The man’s head was covered with a rubber hood that left only a generous opening at the mouth, and tiny holes for eyes and nostrils. 

Ignoring this blank, impersonal visage, she sat down over the opening, on the toilet seat, placing her feet to each side of his chest. 

“Number 2,” she snapped. 

She shuddered with pleasure as she felt the man’s lips form a seal around her anus. It had taken a long time, with many reverses and difficult moments, for her toilet and for her. However hard and long the process, however, she thought, as she felt her sphincter stretching open, it was bloody worth it. The daily joy that came with success simply could not be put into words. She smirked as her solid waste slid out and passed just as smoothly into her toilet’s mouth and down his throat, with hardly an audible gag

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The post The Toilet: FemDom SCAT Story first appeared on Home of the Best DARK Female Domination Stories.

…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

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

From Amazon

’Following the success her‘Perfect FemDom Moments, bestselling author of FemDom fiction, and practicing UK dominatrix, Cruella Pain, presents another thirty-seven pieces of her ‘flash fiction.’ ‘MORE Perfect FemDom Moments’ Volume Two.

Each one of these pieces captures one ‘Perfect Moment’, of the FemDom dynamic, the various aspects of the Dominatrix / male slave relationship.

These pieces are both deeply erotic, deeply transgressive, and breathtakingly original. They cover a whole range of situations and viewpoints. Amply demonstrating that less really can be more in that they vividly convey a quite spectacular range of emotions and insight.

To download this title from Amazon, please CLICK HERE

Can be read (and re-read) from beginning to end or dipped into in any order that takes the readers’ fancy.

‘…magnificent set pieces of fastidious sensuality – Charlotte Benning, author of ‘The Slavehouse’ series.

‘Little BDSM Jewels that glitter and sparkle’ – Janey Pilsbury

The post MORE BDSM Perfect Moments 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

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

The Pace of Her Control

Elena Ward liked the office best after everyone else had gone home. The building changed at night—its glass panels turning from reflective shields into quiet confessionals, showing her the honeyed lights of the city below. The hum of the air-conditioning softened, the corridors emptied, and the world outside seemed willing to lean in and listen.

Tonight, she wasn’t alone.

Michael Hale stood just inside her doorway, hands at his sides, shoulders squared in a way that wasn’t false but wasn’t entirely natural either. He looked like a man carrying something he hadn’t yet named—an uncertainty, a restlessness, something he wouldn’t have admitted to himself, let alone to her.

Elena didn’t turn to greet him. She kept her gaze on the city, as though his presence was something foreseen, something she’d been waiting for without acknowledging it aloud.

“Close the door, Michael,” she said, her voice warm but carved with intention.

He hesitated—not because he didn’t want to obey, but because of how easily he responded to the command. Still, he closed it. Softly. Carefully. As though the sound it made mattered to her.

It did.

“Sit,” she said.

There was no gesture, no glance toward the chair opposite her desk, but he moved anyway. The obedience in him wasn’t new—not entirely. She had felt it growing for weeks, forming like a tide that rose whenever she walked into the room.

She finally turned to face him. Elena moved like someone to whom the world always organised itself, smoothing the path ahead. Her dark blouse was simple but immaculate; her hair pinned back as though she’d taken a moment to sculpt the effect of being effortlessly in control.

“You stayed late,” she said, crossing behind him. “Again.”

“It’s been a busy week,” he replied, and even the excuse sounded small in the room between them.

Her chuckle was quiet, precise. “Busy weeks don’t make a man wait outside my office for twenty minutes.”

He swallowed. “I wasn’t—waiting. I just—”

She stopped in front of him. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to feel the outline of her presence against his skin.

“You came here because you wanted to,” she said. “Let’s not decorate it.”

His breath shifted, a subtle stutter in the rhythm of the moment.

“And because,” she added, dropping her gaze to him with slow, deliberate weight, “you wanted to see what I would do with you.”

Michael’s composure faltered. Not visibly, not dramatically. But it faltered.

Elena wasn’t guessing. She wasn’t hoping. She knew.

For weeks, Michael had felt it happening to him—not a slide, not a fall, but a pull. Something he experienced in every meeting with her, every time she stepped near, every time she spoke with that measured authority that made him feel like she was peeling back the effort he put into appearing self-contained.

He had always thought of himself as the controlled one.

With Elena, he wasn’t.

“Why did you come?” she asked now.

He opened his mouth, then shut it, then finally said, “Because you asked me to stay late.”

“I asked for the quarterly projections,” she said. “Not for you.”

Her voice sharpened just enough to carve through him. She stepped behind him again, her pace slow, almost meditative. The sound of her heels against the polished floor was unhurried and utterly certain.

Michael exhaled, long and low. “I came because I wanted to be near you.”

“There,” she murmured. “The truth.”

She rested one hand on the back of his chair—not on him, but the nearness of her fingers made the space between touch and non-touch feel like a live wire.

“You’re a capable man, Michael. Intelligent. Controlled. But you have a… softness that reveals itself when you’re near someone who sees you.” She let the sentence linger. “I see you.”

He didn’t know what to do with the tension in his chest—pressure and relief intertwined.

“Tell me you understand what you’re giving me,” she said, leaning in slightly so her breath brushed the side of his neck without touching him. “Tell me you know what it means to want to yield.”

The word landed like a low, deliberate whisper in the dark.

He wasn’t sure he could speak. But he did.

“Yes.”

Her lips curved in satisfaction.

Elena walked back to her desk, dragging her fingertip lightly along the edge of the polished wood. “Stand up.”

Michael rose immediately. This time there was no hesitation at all.

She approached him slowly, not as though she needed time, but as though she expected him to feel each step like its own form of pressure. He did.

“What is it about me,” she said, “that makes you come undone?”

He could have lied. He didn’t. “The way you look at me.”

“How do I look at you?”

“Like you’re stripping away the parts I hide.”

“That’s because I am.”

She let that hang in the air, then placed two fingers beneath his chin—not lifting it, just claiming its position.

“And you like losing those parts,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

He nodded once.

Then she removed her hand.

Control wasn’t in the touch—it was in the withholding of it.

“Good,” she whispered.

The office felt smaller now, as though the walls were listening. Elena sat on the edge of her desk, crossing her legs with deliberate elegance.

“I’m going to ask you something,” she said. “And you’re going to answer honestly.”

He nodded.

“Not with what you think I want to hear. With what you want.”

The correction dug deeper than any reprimand.

“Yes,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Do you want to give me your control tonight?”

His breath trembled, barely perceptible. “Yes.”

“And do you understand,” she added, “that giving me control means giving up the small masks you keep polishing for the world? The ones that make you feel safe?”

He swallowed. “I understand.”

“Good,” she said, her voice soft but edged with unmistakable power. “Then you’ll follow my pace. Not your own.”

That line hit him at the centre of everything.

Her pace.

Not his.

She told him to move closer. He did. She told him to lower his eyes. He obeyed. She told him to breathe slower. He followed the rhythm of her voice instead of the rhythm of his own body.

The control wasn’t theatrical. It wasn’t harsh. It was far more unsettling: Elena dominated with stillness, with tone, with patience that stripped him down far faster than any demand.

“You’re holding tension,” she said, stepping behind him. “In your shoulders. In your jaw.”

He exhaled shakily. “I’m trying—”

“Stop trying,” she interrupted. “Start yielding.”

The single sentence unravelled something in him he hadn’t realised was tied.

She circled him slowly. “Do you know why I wanted you to come in tonight?”

He looked up at her, confused. “You did?”

A faint smile touched her mouth. “Of course I did. I knew you were outside my office. I could feel you through the door.”

He felt heat move through him.

“I wanted to see how long you’d wait,” she added. “You lasted longer than I thought.”

He didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or rewarded, but the truth was that both sensations tangled together until he couldn’t tell them apart.

“That’s what I like about you,” she said. “You try to pretend you’re not already mine.”

His breath caught.

“I’m not—”

She cut him off with a soft laugh. “Michael. Your body answers me before your mind does.”

She moved closer, stopping in front of him. “And that’s precisely why I’m going to take you apart slowly.”

The promise wasn’t explicit. But it felt more intimate than anything physical ever could.

Minutes stretched, but they didn’t feel like minutes. They felt like something suspended—like time bent around her voice, her presence, her choices.

She asked him questions—not about work, but about what he feared, what he wanted, what he avoided. She wasn’t gathering information. She was peeling him open carefully, deliberately.

Every answer he gave felt like a thread he handed over.

And every time she accepted one, she drew it around her fingers like she was learning the shape of his vulnerability.

“You hold back too much,” she said at one point.

“I didn’t think—”

“Stop thinking.” She stepped so close he could feel her breath. “You’re here because thinking failed you.”

He let out a shaky sound that wasn’t quite a laugh and wasn’t quite a confession.

She touched his face—not tenderly, but with the precision of someone learning how to handle something fragile.

“Look at the way you respond,” she whispered. “I haven’t even touched you the way you imagine.”

He swallowed. “I know.”

“And yet,” she murmured, trailing her fingertip down the line of his throat without touching skin for more than a fraction of a second, “you give me everything I ask for.”

“Yes.”

“And everything I don’t ask for.”

His breath deepened. “Yes.”

She smiled slightly. “Good.”

The night stretched on, not in hours but in depth. Elena controlled the pace entirely—sometimes stepping back, letting silence become pressure, sometimes stepping close, making air itself feel heavy with direction.

Michael didn’t know a person could be undone simply by being guided where to stand, how to breathe, how to look at the floor or hold eye contact only when permitted.

She never raised her voice. She never rushed. Her dominance was something woven, not forced.

At one point she said, “You’re trembling.”

“I’m not,” he said instinctively.

She lifted a brow. “Don’t lie.”

His shoulders sagged slightly. “I am.”

“And does it frighten you?”

He hesitated, then whispered, “Yes.”

“And do you trust me with that fear?”

Another breath. Another surrender. “Yes.”

“Then let it happen,” she said, moving behind him once more. “Let me lead you.”

He did.

When she finally stepped in front of him again, the city outside was darker, the office quieter, the air between them charged with something unspoken but unmistakable.

“You did well tonight,” she said, brushing her fingertips over the back of his hand. Even that light touch felt like a reward he’d been working toward for hours.

“You followed my pace.”

He nodded slowly, meeting her eyes with something calmer, deeper, more open than before.

“And you didn’t break,” she said. “You yielded.”

He breathed out. “I did.”

“And you want more.”

He didn’t deny it.

She held his gaze. “Then you’ll come back tomorrow evening. Same time.”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

“And you won’t wait outside my door,” she added. “You’ll knock. Once. And you’ll stand exactly where I tell you.”

He felt heat run through him again.

“Yes.”

Elena stepped back, her authority softening only slightly into something almost intimate. “Good. You learn quickly.”

She moved to her desk, picking up her coat.

“You may leave now,” she said, not unkindly.

Michael didn’t move immediately. He waited—not for permission, but because he was gathering himself after everything she’d taken and everything she had left him with.

When he finally opened the door, she spoke without looking at him.

“And Michael?”

He paused. “Yes?”

Her smile, reflected faintly in the window, was slow and certain.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “you give me more.”

He closed the door softly behind him.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt exactly where he wanted to be.

The End – Or IS it?

The post The PACE of Her Control – A Female Domination story first appeared on Home of the Best DARK Female Domination Stories.

I have written them over the past five years and really enjoyed the form. Making each word count. Each story beautifully illustrates one ‘Perfect Moment’, of the FemDom dynamic, the various and subtle shades which characterise the Mistress / male slave relationship. 

These pieces of are both darkly erotic, deeply subversive, and breathtakingly original. They cover a whole range of situations and viewpoints. Amply demonstrating that less really can be more in that they vividly convey a quite spectacular range of emotions and insight.

Can be read (and re-read) from beginning to end or dipped into in any order that takes the readers’ fancy.

‘…magnificent set pieces of fastidious sensuality – Charlotte Benning, author of ‘The Slavehouse’ series.

‘Little BDSM Jewels that glitter and sparkle’ – Janey Pilsbury

TO DOWNLOAD THIS TITLE FROM AMAZON PLEASE CLICK HERE

The post Perfect FemDom Moments 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.

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…

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

Charlotte Benning is an interesting author. Not only has she created a unique ‘world’, in her ‘SlaveHouse’ stories, she has also bridged the gap between fem dom and dystopian writings. Slavehouse is a complete world, created and ruled by Dominant Women, and men – the slaves – are reduced to mere appendages. So far, so what I can hear. But this is more than just the run of the mill FemDom. It is a whole world to get immersed in.

Wander in there at your own peril. Getting out may not be so easy.

‘An atmospheric journey into the chilling dark heart of female domination…

The Slavehouse…All who come into contact with its fatal, alluring spell are doomed to be subjugated in the most degrading and extreme way, transformed permanently into vacuous, adoring pets of the evil Mistresses who reside there.’

You can see why I like it, can’t you? So…story by story…

Given to Miss Tate
It was their usual Friday night in rain-swept, safe suburbia. The boys were coming home from the pub, swaggering with beer and high spirits. They were a little loud, a little drunk, and a little disorderly. But they meant no harm. It was just to be a prank…

But that night, they called at the wrong house.

Every one of them ended up running away like their lives depended on it… every one of them except one.

One of them was caught, and kept, and then…Given to Miss Tate…

Welcome to the world of the Divine Mistress.

Seeds of the Forbidden
Reports of ‘goings on’ at her address brought two policemen and a woman from Social Services to Miss Pearson’s front door. The three of them were absolutely relishing the prospect of seeing what exactly lay behind the imposing façade, and then using the authority of the state to pick over someone else’s life.

But this call was to be different from their usual. Miss Pearson’s house was no ordinary dwelling, and what goes on there is nothing like everyday life.

It is a Slavehouse. And all those who enter are changed by the experience…their positions, their authority and their uniforms are no protection…

A highly-charged erotic tale of domination, power, control and enslavement, in a series which charts the darkest heart of Domination by the female over the male species.

Chained Inside.
Miss Pearson reveals to Miss Stein something of the beginnings of the Slavehouse, when She first became aware of the real power of Her Femininity, that Dark Epiphany when She suddenly knew who She was and what She could do, and everything She had been told and formerly believed simply crumbled into dust.

Meanwhile, in the present, Miss Tate is busy training Her first slave in the secrecy of Her ensuite apartment upstairs, and Miss Whitworth is surprised by a request to meet with Detective Sergeant Bell…

The Darkest Truth.

Those who approach the Slavehouse with the mantle of authority… those who chance upon a misfortunate intrusion…those who approach in blissful ignorance…all become the helpless, captive prey, doomed to live out the twisted intentions of Miss Pearson, Miss Whitworth, and Miss Tate, sisters without mercy.

Of those men who foolishly enter, none ever come out again except as a living testament to the power of the Slavehouse, broken, changed, subjugated and enslaved.

In the fourth book of this dark and compelling series, the shocking depths of what lies at the heart of Miss Pearson’s thriving establishment begin to appear, and readers beware: As the visitors in this story are changed by the experience, so will you be. …

Taken
As an academic, Miss Stein believed in words, ideas, and ideals. At the Slavehouse of Miss Pearson, she formed what she liked to think of as a scholarly interest in the form of lifestyle pertaining there. It was an interest that induced her to go time and time and time again – researching, taking notes, going deeper and deeper, enquiring further into the alluring, ancient power at the heart of the strange establishment. She was appalled….and then she was interested…and then captivated…until finally, in a dark awakening that words could never describe…
…she was taken.

Broken on the Wheel

Just when you thought the Slavehouse saga was complete, there comes a brand-new, much anticipated installment from cult author Charlotte Benning. Once again, the reader is plunged into the strange, disturbing world of Miss Pearson and the Slavehouse, where Females inevitably discover their power, and males their weakness. We learn of more male lives drawn into the spiralling gravity of the Slavehouse, and who are utterly changed as a result. Read about men who mocked, denied, belittled themselves and everyone else, aimless wasters. Read their fate when they strayed too near.In this tale hear of one who began as an unemployable wastrel, after a chance encounter, driving Miss Pearson. But he come to see the truth only when it is too late…Outside its secretive walls of the Slavehouse there is ridicule and misunderstanding. Once the truth is encountered, however, there is only submission, veneration, servitude. Dare you pass inside? It will change you.

Permanently Dolly

Bad attracts good, they say, and good, bad. Some people have deep spiritual convictions and generosity of soul. However, there is only one winner when the wicked Miss Pearson is involved, as exemplified by the achievement of ‘Dolly’, as perfect a specimen of sissy development as could be, from a former state bordering on saintliness. Read the story of her descent into darkness, the chains, whippings, denial and mind bending cruelty, the enforced chastity and erotic rituals of phallic worship, making her permanently addicted to cock, permanently altered for Miss Pearson’s amusement and pleasure, permanently owned, permanently DOLLY.

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Or here for the full series

Charlotte Benning’s TOP FemDom Books on Amazon

The post Slavehouse Saga: A FemDom World 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. 

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