I met Jordan in a college psychology class. She was sharp, intense, and radiated this quiet confidence that made my cock hard whenever she leaned forward during lectures. One afternoon, after she caught me doodling whips and chains in my notebook instead of taking notes, she smirked and said, “You’re into Femdom, aren’t you?” I mumbled something about it being a “curiosity,” but she already knew. Two weeks later, I was on my knees in her dorm room, tied to her bedframe with leather restraints, my balls heavy and aching as she licked her thumb and dragged it over my slit.
“You think you want dominance,” she’d said, her fingers pressing into my shoulders as I lay face-first on her mattress, “but you’re just a nervous little guy who needs someone to tell him what to do.” Her voice wasn’t soft—she spoke like a drill sergeant, short and clipped, and it made my pulse race. She’d bought a black leather collar the next day, sliding it over my head while I wore nothing but my cock. The metal clasp snapped tight, and she kissed the top of my head. “You’re mine now,” she said.
Her room became a second dungeon. She had red rope sets, a riding crop, a paddle, and a blindfold I soon learned to hate—and love. My favorite toy was a leash, a thick leather strap she attached to the collar every time we played. I’d lead her around the room on my knees, my arms above my head as she patted my ass, smirking whenever I winced. “Good boy,” she’d whisper, squeezing my cheeks. “Remember who’s in control.”
We started with light stuff. Spankings, light flogging, the occasional whipping with strands of the red rope while I stood against the door jamb. But Jordan was patient, which made the punishments when they came feel even worse. One night, after I fumbled a command—she’d told me to hold my wrists above my head for ten minutes during a video call with a mutual friend—I earned the paddle. I still remember the first hit: wood cracking across my asscheek like a thunderclap, the sting radiating down my thighs. I bit my lip to silence a yelp, but the second strike made me whimper. She loved that. “You’re so submissive,” she said, breathing fast as she kept paddling me. “You want this. You want me to ruin you.”
Taboo became the game. She banned me from using my hands, even to adjust my cock when it leaked. If I got too close to climax during a session, she’d force me to perform push-ups on my knees or spank my thighs until I was trembling like a junkie. “If you want to cum, show me how much you’ll suffer first,” she’d say, dragging the crop over my erection. I’d beg after hours of this, snot and tears mixing on my face, but she’d just tighten the cuffs on my wrists or lock me in a headlock until I screamed for mercy. That’s apparently what good slaves did.
Our favorite scenario involved her dress rehearsals. She’d throw on thigh-high fishnets, a garter belt, and push me into a servant’s uniform—tight button-up, apron, bow tie—before making me clean her room. “Kneel,” she’d order, and I’d scrub the floor with my tongue and fingers until my balls were shriveled. If I missed a spot, she’d yank the leash and drag me to the bed, where she’d tie me spread eagle while whispering about “corrections.” I once watched a video on fetish-porn.video where a guy begged his dom to kill him and realized it was me, weeks later, groveling as Jordan pushed her fist into my throat and squeezed until my vision blurred.
The worst—and best—scene happened at a Femdom club. Jordan had a reservation in a private room with padded walls, a full set of chains, and a chair that could vibrate from underneath. She ordered me to strip, then strapped me in, my cock pointing at the ceiling as she ran a TENS unit over my testicles and lower back. The shocks started at a gentle buzz but escalated to something near agony. “How does it feel to be mine?” she’d ask, her fingers working the unit’s buttons. I could barely respond through the tears, but she kept going until the club’s DJ’s thumping bass shook the room around us.
Afterward, when I was raw and shaking, Jordan let me cum. She’d dip her fingers in my pre-cum and rub slow circles over my sternum. “You’ll never be anyone’s but me,” she whispered, her voice soft for once. I believed her. That night, as we lay in her dorm—my collar still around my neck, her hand brushing my cock—she told me this wasn’t about control. “It’s about trust,” she said. “You let me hurt you. That’s why you’re the strongest one.”
If you want more stories like ours, check out femdomfan.net. They’ve got real tales from folks who know how to break people properly.
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