Female Domination - Short Stories: Vol I is the first short story anthology from erotic author Constance Pennington Smythe. This work contains six short stories of chastity, cuckolding, giantesses and more; all with the themes of Female Domination and male submission. Each story is accompanied by an original illustration produced specifically for that work, by famed Female Domination artist: SARDAX.
Cuckold Date: A hapless husband prepares his wife for her date.
Matriarch's Birthday: The Dominant's Guild celebration of the Matriarch's birthday hosts a very unique slave game.
Performance Art: A Dominant Female patron of the arts creates an unusual art exhibit, and the male art critic who comes to visit...?
Mini Men - Lesbian Village: A misogynist research pair run afoul of their female scientist boss, and get themselves into a little trouble.
Locked Away: Three suburban housewives elect to start a new social club, with a sinister purpose for their husbands.
A Visit To Smythe Stables: Miss Caroline's graduating class visit the stables, to learn the proper care of the submissive male.
Each story is accompanied by an original illustration produced specifically for that work, by famed Female Domination artist: SARDAX.
From Cuckold Date:
He hated the rubber gag. Hated the way it tasted. Hated the way it made him drool. Most of all he hated the way it filled him, pushing his tongue to the bottom of his mouth and filling his cheeks so he looked like some version of a feminized and sissified Dizzy Gillespe.
She held the rubber pump ball in her hand, her fingers lightly curled over it. Her creamy skin and blood-red nails provided a stark contrast to the black, mottled surface of the ball. She slightly tugged the hose to his gag pulling his head forward. This close to her he smelled the fragrance of her bath soap, took in the hint of her perfume from the labored breathing through his nose.
"Too tight?" she mocked in her sing-song voice. It was meant to be pleasing and girly, but nothing she did would ever hide the menacing derision in her tone. Their innocent sex games had long ago taken a wicked turn that brought them to this point; Dominant Evil Mistress and submissive sissy maid. Tonight’s celebration would mark another relationship milestone: CUCKOLD.
The fingers of her free hand found his nipple and gave it a vicious pinch. "I asked if it was too tight!" The melodious voice was gone, replaced by one evoking terror.
He never knew how to answer. There was NEVER a right answer, she would twist and turn his responses, always taking him where SHE wanted to go. He shook his head no, his eyes telling her that the gag wasn’t too tight, that he would bear the discomfort - for HER.
It was exactly the response she’d wanted, although she always made him pay, and dearly, no matter what the response. "No?" the sing-song voice returned. "Then let’s give it a couple more pumps…shall we?" She cocked her head, her eyes narrowing and her lips forming a thin, cruel smile. She loved this moment, when the realization set in, when he realized the trap had been set and shut, when his eyes pleaded with her, for mercy, for compassion. Sorry, baby, not today, time to suffer.
From Matriarch’s Birthday:
She’d made a science of kicking males. Refined it. Developed it into an art. A religion of which she was the High Priestess and those males became the supplicants and objects of her unholy rites.
Her feet were the bane of male existence, cruel and unyielding – unforgiving. Her shoes – leather harbingers of pain and suffering. She’d spent a summer in Florence, enjoying the art, food, culture, and Italian men. Between cafés and museums she visited Carlo, shoemaker to the Dominant’s Guild, that group of select women who ruled a world-wide underground matriarchy. He crafted the tools she used to terrorize and subjugate males.
Today Audra de Kranow wore the pumps, classic in detailing and styling, black kid leather. The five-inch heels were half gleaming chrome and rapier thin. Dangerous as those wicked heels were, it was the toes that held the terror. Carlo crafted a long and very pointed toe: Italian leather taut and wrapped around a wooden form that kept the leather from buckling as it abused male flesh. Despite the long and pointed spear-like front, the toe box was set slightly further back and allowed the wearer a comfortable fit.
Audra stalked the corridor, her metal stilettos echoing on the concrete walls, heralding her approach to the males cowering in their cramped cells. She stopped at the door to the cell containing male number 19. When she entered the cell the slave quickly assumed his position at her feet. At five-ten in her five inch heels she loomed over the kneeling figure. She slowly backed away and circled the male, who remained in position. The only sounds were the clicking of her heels on the coarse concrete floor, the slapping of the crop on her palm, and the rapid breathing of the male at her feet.
She stopped behind him and stepped back. "Know what today is?"
It was a rhetorical question; she knew he didn’t have the answer and she didn’t care. Her right knee flexed and the wicked pointed toe of her stiletto found its mark in the soft flesh of his upper leg. Audra knew exactly where to kick, how much force to use, how to exact every ounce of pain without diminishing their capacity to do useful work – or accept more abuse.
From Performance Art:
This time there were four of them; they worked slowly and methodically, occasionally positioning him for better access and ignoring his pleas and moans as they chatted about fashion, restaurants and films. He screamed, "My name is Simon Warton. I’m a reporter for Art Edge magazine. You have to help me!" Or at least that’s what his mind told him to say. To his ears it sounded like "mghph gghhffp gghhpphh mnmngfh..."
TWO DAYS Earlier…
"I’m Elizabeth Stansbury," she extended a hand enclosed in a brown kidskin leather glove.
"Simon Warton, Art Edge magazine, very pleased to make your acquaintance." Her handshake was firm; everything about her was – impressive? Imposing? In her designer four inch heels she stood at least three inches taller than his five-eight. Her rich and elegantly coiffed silver hair put her age in her late 50s or 60s, but her skin was still flawless, smooth and creamy, perfect makeup; he didn’t see any lines indicating surgical enhancements. Good genetics or high maintenance he thought. A perfectly fitted Chanel suit emphasized a woman’s shape, with curves that provoked more than a casual glance. It was her eyes that caught his attention: brown, with flecks of gold that caught the light. But - there was something about them: not lifeless, but not giving anything away, haunting, yet mysterious. "I’m anxious to have this opportunity to see your exhibit, it’s all somewhat of a – mystery. I’m glad my publisher was able to arrange it."
She motioned her guest to sit as she poured coffee. "Debra is an old and dear friend, and when she called and asked if she could send you over I immediately agreed. Yes, the exhibit is very exclusive, open by special appointment and personal referrals only." Her eyes looked him over: reasonably fit, a thick head of curly hair and a handsome face. She smiled at the tufts of hair that peeked from his designer polo shirt and took note.
He saw her studied look; it gave him pause. "Is there something – wrong?"
She gracefully handed him the cup and saucer. "Nothing at all. Cream and sugar?"
His hand accepted the delicate china cup and saucer; the coffee was rich, much like his hostess and her surroundings. He thought about his editor, Debra Parker, the fat cow, I should be editing Art Edge, what she knows about art wouldn’t fill this cup. "Uh – the exhibit - why such secrecy?"
Elizabeth sat back and crossed her legs, watching his eyes drawn to her shimmery ankles and the rustle of expensive stockings. She tented her fingers and her piercing eyes locked on his. "Not so much a secret as being – discreet, exclusive. The exhibit is not to everyone’s taste."
"So, it’s controversial? Like, Mapplethorpe?"
She slowly pulled off her gloves, one finger at a time, her eyes never leaving his. "Yes, it could be considered controversial," she pursed her lips, "it’s performance art…of an erotic nature."
"Performance art? With live people?" He held out a small digital recorder, "May I take notes, put this on the record?"
She smiled, "Of course, everything on the record. I told Debra I’d be most accommodating to her number one reporter. I assured her she’d be completely satisfied."
"Great!" He moved the switch to ‘on’ and set the unit on the coffee table between them.
She poured herself coffee, added sugar and slowly stirred, the spoon never touching the cup.
Simon leaned forward, "A sexual nature? Erotica? People performing sex? Gay? Lesbian?"
"Dominance and submission." Her eyebrows arched, "Are you shocked?"
"You mean like whips and chains, leather, bondage, sex slaves?"
She smiled, her eyes taking on life. "More refined." She saw his excitement.
Her gracious reticence was beginning to get on his nerves. She claimed to be open, but he had to slowly pry each bit of information from her. Women and their fucking games! "Who are the artists?"
"The artists are all women, select artisans from my own private circle who I commissioned to do the various pieces of the exhibit."
From Locked Away:
"He doesn’t look happy." Monique ran her fingers around the rim of her wine glass. Her nails nearly matched the color of the expensive Merlot. "Are you happy?"
Drake imperceptibly nodded; he could scarce do otherwise. He was bound, kneeling on a small raised platform on the coffee table before the three women. His thighs were spread wide, his cock and balls dangling below. The stiff posture collar also secured the wrist cuffs fastened behind his neck. A steel bar ran from the rear of the posture collar to the coffee table, rendering him immobile. The ball gag in his mouth prevented any intelligible response.
Patricia, his Wife/Mistress had secured him to his place of honor an hour ago, long before her guests arrived.
Heather reached over to refill Monique’s glass. "I don’t know why you even ask if he’s comfortable; just teasing I suppose. I mean – really – a slave? Comfortable?" Heather was the youngest, perhaps the cruelest of the three. Today she wore a slim black pencil skirt and a white blouse, shamelessly unbuttoned to display her impressive décolletage. A mane of blonde hair cascaded to her shoulders and framed a pretty cheerleader, girl-next-door face. Her eyes were ice blue and held no warmth, not for any male.
Patricia stood, noting how Drake’s eyes followed her every move. Her fingers delicately traced a line around his ball gag, and she smiled as she watched him inhale the scent of her fragrance.
His eyes grew wider as he watched those exquisite fingers lower, poised over his nipples. He flinched as she flicked at the clothespins on his nipples, the ‘thwack-thwack’ of blood red nails on a wooden clothespin seeming to echo in the room.
Patricia smiled as each flick of her finger made her sub-hubby jolt.
"Gawd, Pat, you love tormenting the little slut don’t you?" Heather leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. She knew the rustle of her nylons and her dangling high heel would torment Drake in their own ways.
"We both love it, don’t we babykins?" Patricia stopped flicking the clothespin and now began twisting them – slowly. She bent down and kissed his nose, leaving a crimson imprint of her sensuous lips. She was the oldest of the group, their founder and leader. Today she was dressed in a knee-length gray dress, a black patent belt cinching her tiny waist and emphasizing her womanly curves. Soft brown hair fell to her shoulders and her eyes were the color of aged Cognac.
He moaned through the gag when she pulled off the clothespins. The blood flowed back into the distressed area, a new rush of pain.
His wife was not to end his torment, not now. Not ever? The vicious clothespins were quickly attached to his earlobes, earrings of agony for the captive and submissive male. Hers was the gift to inflict continuous and varied torments, a skill she was intent to pass on to her eager acolytes.