My first Mischief novella is called For Her Pleasure. It is my first foray into femdom erotica so I thought writing a guest post about femdom and whether or not readers want to read it would be a good angle. But the truth is, I just don’t know. I think I’m way too green to say. I didn’t start out writing femdom because I thought there needed to be more of it in the market or because I wanted to provide an antithesis to the now typical FSOG submissive woman, or because I wanted to stand out or be different or anything like that. To be perfectly honest with you, believe it or not, when I started writing with these characters about a year and a half ago – as short stories initially – I was so green I didn’t even really have the term ‘femdom’ in my head yet. Or if I did consider femdom at all, it was strictly as something that involved really severe looking women wearing leather, carrying riding crops who screamed and demanded and called wimpy looking men names like ‘worm’ or ‘slave.’ And it can be those things. The stereotype is there for a reason. But what I’ve understood since writing this story is that there can be another side to femdom. A softer one. One that includes sensuality. Romance. Even laughter. As anyone who has experience in femdom knows, sometimes things can get downright hilarious.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that femdom has a wider appeal than I think many people know about, including me circa 2011. So if you’re new to this subgenre, I hope you’ll give it a chance. If you’re used to a harsher femdom plot, maybe a lighter style will provide fresh appeal. Either way, I hope you enjoy For Her Pleasure. And I’m always interested in your comments. Tweet me @kyokochurch and let me know what you think!
Imagine a man. Just a regular man. An average guy with a wife, a job, average house, average car, average sex life… Well, not exactly. He has a secret. A secret he finds so embarrassing that he never talks to anyone about it, he barely acknowledges it himself. And then one day he meets her.
An architect chairs the newly formed Sexual Harassment in the Workplace Committee. When the consultant he hires to help him organize the new committee turns out to be a red haired bombshell, he tries to rein in his untoward thoughts. But when she uncovers his embarrassing little secrets, this married man ends up in a relationship that’s so wrong on every level of his carefully put together life. All except one. How long will he let his burning carnal desires threaten everything he’s worked so hard for?
This is a story about perspective. It’s a story about the ephemeral nature of truth. It’s a story about what can happen when you give your power over to someone willingly, as a gift. And how it can change your life.
When he got back to his office she was stretched out on the leather sofa beneath the large picture window that looked out high over the city. Her feet were up, Kate Spade heels on the floor. Again, those red toenails.
He shut the door behind him.
‘I hope you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I made myself comfortable while I was waiting. Been on my feet all day.’ The look she gave him then could only be described as imploring. Imploring in a way that sucked his gaze back to those gorgeous feet. An inexplicably helpless feeling bloomed in his chest.
‘Have a seat,’ she said, indicating the sofa beside her.
He settled uncomfortably at the other end, not knowing where to look or how to position his body. She chuckled. ‘A little closer, silly,’ she said, lifting her foot up, offering it to him as he moved closer. He blushed but took it, gently. Her foot was surprisingly small and slender, the skin pale so the red toenails stood out sharply.
His mind raced. Raced. Everything in his brain screamed how wrong this was, how they were the two people in the entire building most aware of the wrongness, charged as they were with informing the entire company on the intricacies of how wrong everything about a man touching a woman’s foot in a work setting was.
Especially when said man was pitching a tent in his pants.
But he absolutely could not stop. His dick screamed back at his brain to shut the fuck up, just shut up for once and let me have this one.
Well, what harm would a little consensual foot rub do? That was the key word, right? Consensual. He began to massage slowly.
‘Wait a second.’ He looked up. ‘Turn to me a little,’ she said. ‘That’s right. Now lift your knee up onto the couch.’ He did so and jumped as she placed her other foot gently but firmly against his crotch. ‘Keep rubbing,’ she commanded, gesturing at the foot in his hand. ‘I just want to make sure you’re not getting excited.’ Fire exploded in his face. He looked away from her, at her foot, then looked away from that.
She laughed. ‘It’s OK,’ she cooed. ‘I know you like my feet. And I do need a foot rub right now. So you rub my foot.’ He hesitated. ‘Do it,’ she said, not laughing now. ‘But I just need to make sure, you know, for legal reasons, that you’re not being a disgusting pervert and getting all excited about my pretty feet. I need to make sure this foot rub is just about you doing something I’ve asked you to do for me. Alright? For massage therapy purposes.’
How could he be so confused and at the same time his dick be growing? Did she mean it? Of course she didn’t, but he couldn’t be sure.
He rubbed, obediently trying to clear his mind, trying to think of anything but her slim foot in his hands. But there was also the pressure of her other foot against him. And then she started making little noises. Little whimpers, groans of pleasure. ‘Mmm, that’s right,’ she purred. ‘Ooo, right there, that feels so good.’ He was helpless. He sat helplessly rubbing her sexy foot while his cock grew with a mind of its own.
‘Oh my god, what is going on?’ She looked at him. ‘I can feel you, you know,’ she said, wiggling her toes against his stiffness, only worsening matters. ‘God, what horny little thoughts are going through your head? Was it the noises I was making?’ she chided. ‘I was only enjoying the foot rub! You weren’t thinking that’s what I sound like when I fuck, were you?’ Oh! To hear that word. To hear that word come out of her mouth. It hung in the air, like a spark, like an echo. A mere half hour ago she had been standing in the conference room lecturing on what constituted inappropriate language in the workplace! But he could not deny that he had never heard that word sound so fucking sexy ever before. A hard slap of a word and when she said it he immediately wanted nothing more than to do it. With her. Now.
He stared into his lap, unable to respond. ‘Well, if you are going to act like a horny, little dog, then that’s how I’m going to have to treat you.’
This is how it was that the chair of the sexual harassment committee of X Architects found himself on all fours on the floor in front of this goddess, pants around his knees, praying, hoping against hope that no one opened the door to his office that he didn’t think to lock, while he humped his straining shaft against her foot like some kind of human lap dog.
It was sheer and utter madness. And he was powerless against it.
Even though she didn’t make it easy for him, did things like swing her foot away, complain that he was going too fast, laugh, force him to keep all four limbs on the ground, to not use his hands, even still his little problem reared its ugly head.
He spurted, hips helplessly bucking, after two minutes.
Here it comes.
He knelt in front of her and braced himself. He steeled himself against the familiar onslaught of feeling – frustration, anger, shame – that always raged through him like a firestorm, burning through everything in its path. But instead of the usual reactions of disappointment, pity, anger or worse, the yawning silence, pregnant with judgments and unspoken resentment, there was something different.
Giggling. Like tinsel. Like glasses chinking together, crystal laughter.
‘My, my, my, we are the eager little beaver, aren’t we?’
Heat rose, he could hear the blood pump through the vessels in his head.
‘That’s OK, sweetie,’ she said and she leaned over, put her lips right next to his ear, so he could feel her breath on his skin. ‘Mistress has all sorts of ways of dealing with a horny little puppy like you,’ she whispered.
‘Starting with,’ she said, dipping her finger in the creamy mess on her foot, ‘rubbing your nose in it.’ She swiped her finger across the space between his nose and his upper lip. A moustache of his own shame. The sharp, acrid odour immediately brought a fresh jolt of humiliation. ‘You may not rub or wash that off,’ she announced. She took his chin with her fingers, stared right into his eyes. His heart pounded in terror. ‘You will wear your disgusting mess on your face. It will be there for all of the rest of your meetings today.’ Oh god. ‘And when you go home and kiss your wife.’ Oh god! ‘And when you put your head on your pillow tonight.’ She sighed then, closed those gorgeous eyes and smiled. ‘When you have your shower tomorrow morning you may wash it off then.’ He realized then he wasn’t breathing and took in a gasping breath.
And suddenly he realized something else. Something astounding.
He was hard again. Harder than he had been the first time.
There was shame. But no anger. There was humiliation. But no frustration.
Pure humiliation. Not blazing, like the white hot heat of the firestorm of his secret torment, but rolling in slowly, like molasses, covering him, turning his insides liquid, enveloping him in a mass of humility, shrinking him down, making him want to place his hard, needy little cock before her in an act of complete submission.
And what she did then made it throb and ache even more.
She leaned in and placed the smallest little kiss with her full, soft, pouty red lips right on the tip of his nose. Like the period at the end of a sentence.
There it was. Just like that. Turned a hair to the left. His torment died.
His kink was born.