Miss Ballbuster – Sadistic FinDom …

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. 

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Cruella Pain

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

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

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