Let me start by saying I’m not the dominant type. Never have been. But when I met her—this intense, sharp-eyed woman with a fetish for control—it flipped something in me. Her name was Raven. Early twenties, built like a fighter, and she knew exactly how to use her body as a weapon. She called it “Femdom,” but for her, it was more than that. It was about stripping you down to nothing, then showing you how to beg for more.
We met at a club downtown. She pinned me against the wall, lit a cigarette, and said, “You’re going to like this.” I didn’t know she meant literally. A week later, I was in her apartment, tied to a chair in her basement, blindfolded and sweating. She’d spent hours preparing me—taping my hands, tying my ankles, adjusting the blindfold until I couldn’t even tell up from down. Her voice was calm as she said, “This is for the cameras, baby. You’re my little voyeur tonight.”
The cameras. That’s what got me. She’d set up three of them around the room, all trained on me. “You’re going to make me come,” she said, “while knowing every second is being watched. Ever since we met, I’ve imagined you like this—helpless, exposed, mine.” The thought of strangers seeing me like this? It should’ve been embarrassing. Instead, it made my cock hard. Maybe I’m broken. Maybe I’m perfect for her.
Raven’s first move was the clamps. Cold, sharp pressure on my nipples. She adjusted them until I hissed, then stepped back and grinned. “Good. That means it’s tight enough.” She wasn’t lying about the cameras—she paused the feed, flashing me a wink. “Watch me later. See how you look when you beg.” Then she hit play. The screen on the wall lit up with my face: tight, twisted, already addicted.
She worked slowly. Fingers under my shirt, scraping down my chest until I trembled. Her nails scratched my stomach, then disappeared. I felt the zip of her jeans, the press of her thigh against my crotch. She wore a strapon now—a thick, curved toy I hadn’t noticed until her hands grabbed my junk and forced me into a handstand position. “Knees,” she ordered. I dropped, face burning. She laughed. “You’re already a good slave. Let’s see how long that lasts.”
She pushed my face into the floor, the strapon pressing against my neck. Raven whispered, “This is how you’ll die. On your knees, worshipping me until your eyes pop out.” I tried to protest, but she smothered me with her knee. The pressure was insane—enough to make me panic, but not crush me. She let me squirm there for minutes that felt like lifetimes, until my face was wet with spit and desperation. Then she pulled back and forced me onto my back, staring at me through the blindfold’s tiny gap.
“Now the fun part,” she said, sliding the strapon’s tip against my chest. “You get to watch yourself cum.” The camera feed was back online, and the screen showed me: panting, wide-eyed, a wreck. She pressed the strapon to my throat again, harder this time. Every breath was a battle. “Scream when you cum,” she warned. “And don’t fake it. The cameras know the difference.”
She reached behind me and taped my wrists together, pulling them up above my head. The ropes bit into my skin as she straddled my thighs, the strapon now aligned with my face. Her fingers dug into my hair, yanking my head back. “Take it,” she said. I gagged, but she forced my mouth open, the cold metal pressing deeper. Her free hand smacked my cheek. “Don’t make me say it again, you little slut. Suck it.”
I don’t remember the exact moment I broke. Maybe when her cum splattered across the floor, or when she grabbed my chin and ordered me to lap it up. All I know is, she made me cum twice—once while choking on the strapon, and again when she switched to my cock, jerking me off with her free hand while I tasted myself and her on the floor. The third time came later, when she let me touch her. Just for a second—her clit, wet and throbbing between my fingers—before she slapped my hand and said, “You’re my slut. Not your turn.”
Afterward, she left me tied up for hours. The cameras still rolling. “So people can see you belong to me,” she said. I didn’t fight her. Couldn’t. My body was numb, but my brain? It was screaming, “Again. Do it again.”
Raven never let me forget who was in charge. Even when we “dated,” she’d pull out her phone and show me clips—my face contorted, my body writhing on screen. “Watch how you look for me,” she’d say. I’d feel the old shame, but also this… need. Like I was incomplete unless she was breaking me.
Some days, I wonder if she even likes me. But then she’ll whisper, “You’re mine,” and I’ll realize: no, she doesn’t need to like me. She just needs to own me.
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