I’ve always been into Femdom, but this was different. Raven wasn’t just any dominatrix—she was the one who reeks *first*. She owns a private dungeon in the East Village, all leather and chains and strobe lights, and her specialty? Anal play with a side of humiliation. I don’t know what the hell possessed me to book a session called “Poisoned Pheromones,” but here I was, 23 and tied to a metal St. Andrew’s cross, my cock rock-hard and my ass stinging from the first round of flogging.
“You’re here for a lesson in submission,” she said, circling me. Her voice was honey laced with arsenic. She wore a tight black bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination, and a strapon harness that jutted out like a weapon. I couldn’t see her face—it was hidden under a gas mask—and that terrified me more than anything. “You think you want pain? You think you want pleasure? Let’s see how you handle *this*.”
She slathered my anus with lube that smelled like spearmint. Too clean, too artificial. I tensed as she pressed a thick anal plug into me. It wasn’t just the size that scared me—it was knowing what came next. I’d read reviews. Some called it “the sacred fume,” a taboo act where the Dominatrix lets the submissive breathe in her natural emissions. Others called it “air control,” a psychological weapon. Me? I just wanted to survive.
“Breathe deeply,” she ordered, slapping my chest with her open hand. The plug was fully seated now, a bulb of rubber swelling against my insides. My body screamed to push it out, but her leather restraints pinned my wrists and knees. I was locked in, her guinea pig. She leaned into my face, the gas mask sealing around her cheeks. “Relax. It’s a part of you now.”
My cock throbbed. Maybe it was the plug, or the knowledge that she was about to turn me into a human air freshener. She shifted behind me, then patted my ass—a clinical, flat sound. “Good. The fullness will help you appreciate the next step.”
Time slowed. Her hand disappeared, replaced by a muffled *thump* against my asscheek. Another. Then, a deep, guttural *fffft* that vibrated through the plug inside me. I froze. That noise—it couldn’t be real. And yet, the air shifted. A sulfuric stench clung to the room, subtle but spreading. Raven laughed behind her mask. “Like a candle lit in your lungs, baby.”
She forced me to inhale through my mouth. The gas hit instantly—rotten eggs, wet dog, and something chemical. My stomach lurched. It was awful, but my cock never stopped aching. How could that be? “You’re supposed to be embarrassed,” she hissed, slithering between my legs. Her strapon brushed against my inner thigh. “Worship the air I breathe.”
“It’s—” I sputtered, coughing. She clamped her hand over my mouth, smothering my words. The fumes trapped in my lungs, mixing with adrenaline. My vision blurred. Her free hand yanked the plug out of my ass, and I howled. Was that shame or relief I felt?
“Shhh,” she soothed, wiping the plug off on my thigh. “Your turn now.” She shoved a silicone enema nozzle into my face. “Swallow this. You want to taste what I’m about to give you?” I nodded blindly, desperate to prove my submission. The nozzle tasted sterile, like antiseptic and fear.
She filled my colon with warm apple-scented solution. “This will make you bloated, greedy for release.” I squirmed as she worked, the enema bag emptying too fast. My ass twitched, but the restraints held me rigid. “I’m giving you the same kindness I was given,” she whispered. “That apple juice will ferment into something special in there.”
True to her word, the pressure mounted. She checked her watch, then gave me a second anal plug, smaller this time, and ordered me to breathe deeply again. My insides were balloons about to pop. She knelt behind me, pressing her flat stomach against my back, and exhaled another *ffft*. The second round was worse. Sharp. Sour. I gasped, trying to pull away, but she pinned my arms to the cross.
“You’re suffocating on me, aren’t you?” she crooned. “You’re mine, and I’m poisoning you.” This time, she let me smell her mask, hold it between my fingers while she panted into it. I inhaled deep, choking on the worst cocktail imaginable. My knees buckled, but she didn’t stop. “More. Breathe more.”
She ripped the plugs out, then smothered her face into my ass. My screams turned to whimpers. My belly and rectum were war zones, bursting and aching. She pushed her strapon into my mouth, her hips pistoning as if she was cocking a gun. “You’re full of my rot and my lust. Say it.”
“I’m—” I choked on the metal tip. “I’m full of your—”
Her climax shook through the strapon. “You’re a good boy,” she panted. “Now go puke in the toilet. And write a review at femdomfan.net. We need more fans who love fetish-porn.video’s air games!”
When the restraints fell away, I could barely stand. My legs were jelly, my lips swollen from her toys. She handed me a rag from a tray labeled “POST-SESSION HYGIENE.” “Don’t flush the plug,” she said. “Take it home. You’ll use it while you fantasize about my fumes.”
I walked out at 2 a.m., my ass a map of bruises and my mind a wasteland. Some parts of me still burned with shame. Others burned with desire. Raven didn’t just dominate me—she taught me a language I never knew I wanted to speak. If you need the same, find her. But be warned: once you breathe, you never forget.
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