Hazel the Whored Housewife

Content Warning: This story uses sex work as a way of degrading a fictional woman for the purpose of kink. In reality sex work is valid work, and those who perform it have no less human dignity for doing so. This story is a work of kinky fiction that leverages social stigma for erotragic effect. There's also emotional abuse, cheating, and heteronormativity here. 

Hazel sat beside the door and listened to her husbands footsteps, his car starting, rolling out onto the road, and accelerating away. She waited in stillness for 10 minutes before walking out the door herself. Same as every morning.

The motel was the kind of shithole that still advertises they've got cable TV. It took over an hour to get there. She'd asked if she could take her car, but Master said the walking kept her fit. The chainsmoking old woman didn't try to chat anymore. She just took the $20 and gave Hazel her room key. Hazel sat on the creaky bed and waited. Same as every morning.

An hour later a man walked in. A kid. Some greasy highschooler with an aspirational mustache. She stood, hands folded, eyes looking at the floor. It's what Master told her was the proper thing to do when a man entered the room.

"Uh...are you the, um" the kid stuttered. Hazel curtsied.

"I'm anything you want me to be, Sir."

He fumbled through his business. Asked her to undress, covered her with experimental caressing and pinches before escalating to uninspired dirty talk. He asked her to lie down, and wiggled on top of her for a minute before releasing in her, then hurrying out the door. It was the most sexless sex she could remember having for a long while, but personal pleasure isn't what she was here for. Hazel's role was to satisfy, not be satisfied. That is what Master had taught her. A man had used her to cum, what more could she ask for?

Next was the construction worker. He had her lie on her back with her head hanging over the edge of the bed, and pounded into her mouth like it was any other hole. Over the sound of his balls slapping against her nose she heard him repeatedly call her a "stupid white trash hooker." She couldn't stop herself from crying about that. It hit too close to how she felt about herself. She held it in until he left, though. Smiled and told him it was the best throat fuck she'd had in weeks. Her insecurities didn't matter. That's what Master had taught her.

The college bro brought his friends to watch. When he boasted that he was about to "fuck this bitch's ass raw," they hooted and hollered and cheered him on. It wasn't the biggest dick Hazel had ever had in her butt. Not even close, but she gave them her best performance. She cried out in pain, tried to scoot away, clutched at sheets. She begged him to slow down, to be gentle with her. She knew it would only egg him on. She was all cried out from earlier, and had to bite the inside of her cheek pretty hard to bring tears to her eyes. She managed to give them a good cry. After he came they all high fived one another and left. She made sure her sobs were loud enough for them to hear as they walked away. She felt good about that one. She'd helped him feel like a man, the way Master always told her to.

Finally there was the fat guy. Slacks and tie type, real worked up about something. All he wanted to do was slap her face, which he did for about 40 minutes. Crying for him was easier. It hurt, but it was a good pain. He needed this. She gave him what he needed. That's what Master said her body was for: to give men what they needed.

It was afternoon. She cleaned herself up for the walk home so she could be there when the schoolbus dropped off her children. The walk home was always harder. It was sore work. 'A woman's burden' Master called it. There were still twenty minutes before her children got home. She turned on her computer.

"Did I do a good job today, Master?"

"As good as can be expected. I can't charge much for an old worn out slut like you."

"I'm sorry, Master."

"It's alright pet. You're trying. At least you're doing more with your life than when we started."

"Yes Master, thank you. Have I...earned a touch, sir? May I cum?"

"You're $800 short of that missy girl. Go be a good cunt and take care of your crotch goblins. They should be home soon, right?"

"Yes Master."

"Make yourself useful. I have more work for you tomorrow."

Hazel closed the computer. Her fingers played at the button of her jeans before she pulled them away. She squeezed her thighs together and bit her lip hard. Obedience. Obedience. Obedience.

She'd never met the man on the other side of the screen. Didn't know any name for him but "Master." He'd told her that's how it should be. His name was for people, not for whores. She guiltily rubbed her thighs together and wished for the thousandth time that she could just unplug the computer and be satisfied with her husband. That was no good. No man would ever be able to take charge of her the way the man behind the screen could. No man knew the depths of her like her Master.

Hazel heard noise from the doorway, and went to make some peanut butter sandwiches.

Thanks to Hazel for requesting this story. 

Learning Math

Content Warning: Non-consensual erotic hypnosis.

“No offense, professor, but that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. No way that’s true.”

“Why do you say that, Jessica?”

“If you had hypnotized me, you’d be making me do all sorts of ridiculous stuff, but the only thing you've done since I got here was tutor me."

“I see. Jessica, who do you think I am?”

“What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just bear with me. Who do you think I am."

"You're my math professor."

“So you probably see a lot of me during math class, correct?”

“Duh, where else would I know you from?”

“Okay. Now, during math class--where you see so much of me--do I stand at the front?”

“Nnnooooo, you sit next to me. You always do.”

“That seems like a strange place for a professor to sit. Do I lecture from a seat next to you?”

“No, some old guy lectures. You just sit quietly and take notes.”

“Why would I--a professor--do that? Why do you think I sit next to a student while someone else teaches my class?”

“I always just assumed you were evaluating your TA.”

“Every day?”

“Well he certainly seems to need it. Everything he says is always so slurred and...gloopy. If you weren’t passing me your lecture notes during class, I’d probably be failing.”

“You don't need to worry about that, Jessica. You're a diligent student. If you continue applying yourself as you have been, you'll pass my class for certain."

“Okay, I appreciate that, but if we're done playing 20 questions can we get back to work? I'm still struggling with this equation. I know Cock + Mouth = Happy Cumslut, but I don't understand how to get there on my own. I'll need to show my work on the test, right? I have to understand the method."

"Yes, you will need to show your work. Why don't you get back to it? You're on the right track, and I'm confident you'll understand the answer soon."

Jessica lowered her head back onto her "professor's" cock.

"By the way," he continued "Did I mention we're having the test in your boyfriend's dorm room?"

The muffled sound she made in reply was an exasperated affirmative.

Death of the Woman You Used to Be

Content Warning: This is a story about rape, captivity, torture, and mind control. It is smutty fiction and intended only as a bit of kinky fun. Anyone who takes these ideas seriously is abhorrent. 

This is where it ends.

It starts with a fight. With you struggling until your muscles go limp; screaming until your voice breaks. That's the day your true self is born. The girl who has felt her weakness. The girl who has learned reverence for a man's strength. The girl who knows her place. On that first day she is only a small voice in the back of your mind, but she will grow.

The voice is nurtured during long months of restraint: chains, gags, rigid schedules, and locked doors. With imperceptible slowness your true self takes firmer and firmer root in your mind. The nagging whine of the woman you were grows softer, more distant. You begin to internalize the restraints. You stop testing if the doors are locked. They've always been locked, they must be locked. One day he doesn't put the gag back in after finish with you. Your first instinct is to remind him. You stop yourself, and feel embarrassed for nearly speaking without being spoken to. It never occurs to you how far your values have shifted. It's one example among a thousand that the woman you used to be is losing influence over your mind.

The withered remains of that unhappy creature tries to rationalize. You're being obedient because you need to appear obedient. Need him to become complacent so he'll make the kind of big mistake that will allow you to escape. Later you realize he's been taking you out in public for months. You could have escaped at any time, but escape doesn't have the appeal it used to have.

Now we're back at the end. All that is left is this girl. The true you. The girl who understands her place in the world. She knows that to be controlled is to be loved. She knows that to be obedient and pleasing is to be happy, and she is very, very happy.

The Myth of Women With Low Sex Drive

Content Warning: The following eroticizes both misogyny and gender essentialism. It dresses them up in faux-scientific language. These ideologies are harmful, and are indulged here only as smutty fantasy. 

It is a myth that women have a low sex drive. In evolutionary terms, the only benefit to the female aberration is to offload the burdens of reproduction onto a subset of the species. Since reproduction is its only purpose, sex is one of the few instincts a woman has. Only through centuries of harsh psychological conditioning has this instinct been restrained. A modern woman’s sex drive is gated behind brainwashing which tells her she must seek to have value beyond sex. As sex is the only value a woman can have--determined by her very biology--this is a paradoxical desire. A cruel trick played on these simple creatures by less enlightened minds. 

The only cure for this malediction is to remove everything that isn’t sex. The woman cannot be allowed to see, or to hear, or to speak. She must be stripped of dignity and identity. Even basic mobility must be denied. Her perception of place, and of self, must be broken down until there is nothing left. During this process the one point of reference in her personal void will be sexual gratification. It may seem cruel, but it would be far more cruel to allow her to continue suffering under her delusions.

When the subject ceases to resist, her access to gratification should be gradually reduced, and eventually removed entirely. It's not enough for her to enjoy sex, she must learn to pursue it. Once she has reached the stage of constantly searching for any surface on which to rub herself, the cure is complete. She will never go back to the way she was, and everything that was taken from her may be returned without fear. Her mind has been "reset," and her natural instincts have reasserted themselves. Without intentional reconditioning her sex drive will not drop to inappropriate levels again.

It should be noted that, once restored, a woman's desires are insatiably constant. This is both healthy and correct, but can also be exhausting. It may provide some clue as to the origins of that cruel conditioning which still afflicts the women of today. Fortunately we have much more humane and modern options. Sturdy chastity devices, combined with mindless and repetitive tasks can be used to keep a woman occupied until she is wanted.

Elusive Memories

Content Warning: This story presents anti feminism, sex trafficking, and mind control in an erotic context. It is intended only as an erotic fantasy.

Ceiling...walls...a bed...voices. Piece by piece the world around Sam clicked into focus. Memory and self rose to the surface of a fogged mind. With clarity came another desperate attempt to parse what was going on. She didn't know how long it had been since she'd been lucid, and didn't know how long she had before her mind would lose its grip and fade away again.

The last thing she knew she remembered was the women's march. She'd been parched from shouting along the the slogans. There was a woman with glassy eyes, and a duffel bag full of water bottles. She'd given one to Sam. That's when things got blurred for the first time. After that was a vague sense that she was being moving. Not under her own power...carried. Then there was a van. Commanding male voices. At some point she'd come to in something like a holding cell. She remembered it was like the place she'd been taken after getting arrested at a protest once, but this place was darker, and quiet. There had been other women there. Women from the march. All had glassy eyes. They were unresponsive. At least...Sam thought they were unresponsive. She remembered trying to talk to them, but couldn't remember if she'd actually said anything.

Then there were other blurs, punctuated with other fuzzy memories. Other quiet rooms filled with quiet women. Men examining her body with clinical lust. There were injections. Male voices whispering instructions that had stuck in her mind like flies on a glue trap. However much she may have forgotten, she knew with absolute certainty that "Position 1" meant she had to kneel with her hands palm-up, and her mouth open. "Position 2" was face down, arms forward, butt in the air, back arched. "Position 3" was on her back, arms holding her knees wide apart. "Position 4" was...wait, why had she started reviewing positions? She tried to force her mind back into the present.

She remembered the airport, and the plane. Now she was in a bedroom furnished the way only hotel bedrooms are. Her clothes were...not hers. A wide mesh that left her exposed. Not something would ever choose to wear. There were two men standing just in front of her at the foot of the bed. They were talking. Talking about...money? She realized one was staring at her. Right at her. He was leering. For reasons she couldn't understand she gave him an inviting smile and a seductive wink. Finally her mind caught up with what was going on, with what they'd done to her, what she was about to do for them. It was too late. Her vision was getting blurry. Her last thought was to wonder how many times she'd figured it out before. The the thing called "Sam" disappeared, leaving behind a creature whose only instinct was to please, and obey.

Dead Eyed Cheerleader in Her 30s

Most people who are a big deal in highschool will eventually discover that it made them overconfident. Launched them on a shallow trajectory through life which peaked early, and will come crashing down all too soon. They didn't have to make an effort, so they didn't learn how to make an effort. That worked for them, until it didn't.

So what if you got your tits early? Every girl has tits now, yours aren't special. Who cares if your mom showed you how to put on makeup in the 4th grade? Even the nerds can watch YouTube tutorials, and theirs will probably look better than the blobs of mascara smeared around your eyes. It doesn't matter than you were the first girl in your grade to put a dick in your mouth. We're grownups. Every girl sucks dick, and since most of them were competing against you they learned to do a lot better than the timid head bobbing you still rely on.

That's why every day you work a dead end cashier's job that you're barely qualified for. It's why, on your days off, you prowl your way through Facebook looking for the guys who lusted for you back in the glory days. Guys who have built you up in their minds into something more than you are. Guys who can make you feel like a cheerleader again when you go down on them.

But each guy eventually gets tired of how boring you are. Some of the mystique is lost after they watch you spit their cum in the sink because you still think you're too good to swallow. As the years go by there are fewer and fewer of them left for you to fuck, and your standards get lower. The guys keep getting uglier and meaner. Eventually you'll cling to the worst of them, learn to do the nasty things you should have learned to do before. Because if you let him go the glory of your highschool years will be lost forever.

Lyndsay's Blog

Have you ever heard of that atheist guy who spent a year living by all the bible's insane and contradictory rules? Or that lady who organized a national "show your boobs day" to prove that promiscuous dress doesn't cause earthquakes? Well that first guy got a book deal, and the lady went on speaking tours all over the country. Lyndsay wanted a piece of that action.

She would spend a year adhering to the strictest interpretation of traditional gender roles. She quit her job, and focused all her attention on womanly duties: cooking, cleaning, sewing, shopping, doting on her husband, and so on. She set up a blog called "I'm Back in the Kitchen, What Now?" where she wrote about her daily experiences. She assumed she'd be describing a lot of bored sitting around, growing tensions between her and her husband, and the general breakdown of domestic harmony.

The project got off to a rocky start when she realized just how much there was to do around the house. When she and her husband were both working hundreds of little problems built up, always being put off for later. Now she had time to address them, and the improvement in both her and her husband's moods were marked. Add to that the fact they were both eating so much better thanks to the hours she spent cooking each day, and it was impossible to deny that they were both happier and more energetic. Within a few months her husband's extra verve was noticed at work, and he was offered a substantial promotion. Lyndsay wasn't quite sure how to frame any of this on her blog.

Then there was sex. Like a proper lady she'd sworn off masturbation entirely, and ensured her husband knew to act like a proper man: to take what he wanted from her without concern for her needs. The extra effort she put into looking pretty meant he couldn't keep his hands off her, and she found she enjoyed the attention. Far from the uncomfortable chore she'd expected, it was a huge turnon to know he was getting everything he wanted from her. The fact that she so rarely achieved orgasm just kept her eager for for the next time he'd want to screw.

Two months into the project the only thing going according to plan was how awkward corporal punishment was. It had been difficult to even convince her husband to participate, but Lyndsay had been adamant that it had once been a husband's right to discipline his wife, and she needed to embrace that for the project to work. He was so reluctant that she resorted to telling him what to be upset about, and how to punish her for it, usually followed by a scolding that he wasn't doing it right. She delighted in writing about the strain the whole debacle was putting on their relationship, and did her best to downplay how much their lives had improved otherwise.

Unfortunately one day, while she was chiding him for ruining her experiment by being too gentle, something snapped in him. He gave her a stern command to be quiet, pulled her over his knee, and walloped her behind good and red. Lyndsay felt a rush of triumph. Already writing in her head, she imagined how she'd describe the way traditional gender roles inspired violence in otherwise gentle men. Then, as if pounded into her brain by the belt, a creeping guilt appeared in Lyndsey's mind. She'd done this. Not by asking him to be a man, but by taking away his manhood by belittling him. He was so strong. Strong enough to hold her down like this. He'd always used his strength to protect her, and she'd scolded him for something so silly...

When the spanking was over Lyndsay sat on the floor. With tear filled eyes she looked up into her husband's stern face. Something had changed inside both of them. This is the way it was supposed to be.

As the tone of her blog began to change, the only thing Lyndsay had left to complain about was how much time she had on her hands during the day. Shortly thereafter Lyndsay announced she was pregnant, and changed the blog's title to "I'm Back in the Kitchen, and You Should Be Too!"

Thanks are due to Lyndsay for requesting this story.

Money Makes Sluts of us All

She hated him. Such a smug condescending bastard. The quintessential fuckboi douche who thought he was hot shit because he had pockets full of daddy's money. Not the sort of person she ever would have met if her college roommate hadn't dated him. He'd treated the poor girl like dirt, and she always had to be there with tissues and soothing words. Once the asshole finally got dumped she thought she'd never have to see his smirking face again.

Most people think life is easy street once you've got a law degree, but the world has a lot of lawyers already. Through a grapevine of mutual acquaintances he'd found out she was having money problems, and showed up on her doorstep with an offer she couldn't refuse. He was some kinda bigshot do-nothing at daddy's company now, and he'd be happy to make all her problems go away--paid in cash--if she made a porno with him. Not just any porno. He wanted to humiliate her. Revenge for all her meddling in his relationship with that dumb slut back in college. He wanted a video of the holier-than-thou feminist acting like a dumb bitch in heat.

A half dozen lawyers with jobs she'd have killed for wrote up the contract, complete with lines she had to say on camera, criteria for 'appropriate enthusiasm' on her part, and distribution rights in perpetuity for him. He wanted her to lose friends and job opportunities over this. Had hired a guy whose only job would be to follower her career and send the video to anyone she worked with.

The worst part was that she couldn't say 'no.' She needed the money too badly. She signed every paper he put in front of her, put her hair up into the stipulated pigtails, and begged for daddy's cummies on camera.

Timeline of the "Fix Women" Initiative

Content Warning: This story presents gender essentialism, bimbofication, medical mind control, and the destruction of feminism. All of these are presented with erotic purpose for people who enjoy sexual fantasies of that nature. The ideas below are unrealistic, and the beliefs expressed would be reprehensible outside of fiction. Enjoy it in the spirit it was intended. 

1980 - “Weekend Handyman Fix'em! Quarterly,” puts out its first issue. Ostensibly it is a magazine for those who want to learn home repair. Secretly it is a medical journal which can only be read by running its articles through a cipher keyed to Grey's Anatomy. The initial essays present no research, but ask questions like "How can medicine make the world better?" and "Why do we need people's consent to do what's best for them?"

1992 - After years of publishing the results of secretly performed research from all over the world, WHFQ prints its first prescriptive articles. All over the world doctors begin to sterilize undesirable women who come under their care. Powerful women. Intellectual women. Feminists. They are unfit to raise the children of a better world. 

2003 - Testing on Hamaxil tablets is completed, and large scale manufacturing begins. This “Prenatal Vitamin” given to expectant mothers alters the development of any girl children they may be carrying. The full effects won't activate until puberty, after which girls treated with Hamaxil will demonstrate a dramatically higher libido than unmodified women. 

2012 - Tritophenerol is developed. In a paste form it serves as an excellent ultrasound gel. Its pink color is explained in marketing as "just a nice touch for mothers who are expecting girls!" Chemical agents absorbed through the mother's pores will affect the mental development of the child she's carrying. Areas of the brain which have been associated with leadership and independence will have their growth regulated, while areas associated with obedience are nurtured.

2021 - The first generation of girls treated with Hamaxil reaches age 18. A second sexual revolution explodes in every nation of the world. The pornography industry experiences a boom of available talent, with one in every 8 girls aged 18 working in some part of the sex industry. 1 in every 3 girls aged 18 says they would work in the sex industry if there were more jobs available.

2030 - The first generation of girls treated with both Hamaxil and Tritophen reaches 18. College admissions for women drop dramatically, as does the new talent available for the porn industry. Many young women express that they would love to work in porn, but that their fathers or boyfriends forbid it.

2039 - While not entirely dead, Feminism is something of a cultural relic. An odd philosophy practiced by silly old women. It is no longer given any serious consideration in the public sphere.

2044 - A recording is leaked to the press of Senator Laura MacHinley ranting about a "medical conspiracy" in her office. Public discussion revolves entirely around how "uncharismatic" her rant was, and how she seems like a frigid bitch. A recall election removes her from office. There are no longer any women holding significant office in the United States government.

2049 - The 31st amendment to the constitution is passed, repealing the 19th. Women no longer have the right to vote in the United States. Opposition to this measure is minimal. 72% of women polled voted in favor of it. When asked why the most common answer was that a man in their life had told them to.

2065 - The 33rd amendment to the constitution is passed, officially identifying women as an inferior gender with no inherent rights. Women are legally defined as property owned by their father at birth, to be kept or sold as their father prefers. Women polled were overwhelmingly in favor of the amendment. One was quoted as saying “I almost wish they’d never passed the 31st, so I could’ve voted yes on the 33rd!”

One Step at a Time

It started with a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs. That’s how it had to start. Back then if he had casually told her to go to the living room and provide urinal service for his guests the very least she would have done would be to run away and never speak to him again. Fuzzy pink handcuffs though? That was just a harmless bit of kinky fun.

Once the handcuffs were in play and she'd giggled through saying "yes sir" a few times the collar and leash had seemed an obvious next step. Once she put those on it begged the question of where he would lead her. You can't just wear a leash. So she allowed herself to be led. Allowed herself to be taught tricks.

She had fun posing for sexy pictures. Strictly his-eyes-only of course, but maybe it'd be more fun if more people saw them? Just a few posts to obscure porn sharing sites, all anonymous, no pictures that showed her face. Until he did start posting pictures that showed her face, and by then that didn't seem like a big deal.

The wild, once-in-a-lifetime threesome became regular group sex. The adventurous finger in her butt started her on the road to installing a special shower head in her bathroom so she could always be clean when he wanted her ass. A little pee on her leg while they showered together dominoed into her begging to be his urinal. The length of time he'd refuse to let her cum had stretched from hours to weeks.

So today when he casually told her to go to the living room and provide urinal service for his guests she hadn’t run away. She hadn’t said ‘no.’ She’d said “Yes sir,” stripped off her clothes, and knelt between a pair of strangers to take a face full of piss with a big grin. It never occurred to her to examine the path that had led to this. To recognize how every little concession had made her more of a whore. At this point it seemed like what she had always wanted.

NOTE: This is not how humans work. Boundaries may change and shift as a person gets to know themselves better, but they can't be altered by an intentional outside influence. Anyone attempting to do that to another human being would be absolutely reprehensible. This story is strictly a fantasy. 

Remember candy?

Remember candy? Not the thing itself, but the way it made you feel when you were a kid. Candy was an obsession at that age. You always wanted it, would do anything to get it, and as soon as you ate one you already wanted another. The only thing stopping you from eating candy all the time was the fact that you didn’t have candy all the time.

Then your tits start to grow in, and your hips round off. The part of your brain that used to obsess over candy starts to notice dicks. All around you. Attached to boys who seemed more interesting every day. You started to blush and giggle when they said things that would have made you mad a year ago. Words like “know-it-all,” “meanie,” and “bossy” started to fall out of your vocabulary, replaced by “bold,” “rough” and “commanding.“

You could tell they were noticing you too. They thought they were being subtle with their eyes glued to your butt as you passed them, but you didn't say anything. The attention felt good. Sometimes you’d hear them talking about girls when they thought they were alone. Sometimes the girl they talked about was you. A lot of the things they talked about sounded exciting.

Sex started to dominate your mind. This strange new thing that was better than candy. You were like a kid looking forward to Halloween. Sex was some day in the future when everything would be amazing in some explosive, unbelievable way. The waiting was interminable.

And then you realized something that made sex infinitely better than candy ever was: you can have as much of it as you want. Just thinking about it can make your mouth salivate, and conjure a warm moist feeling between your legs. Just whispering what you're thinking into a boys ear will make him ready to do it to you.

So get down on your knees, flash that sexy little smile, and suck dick 'til the candy comes out.

Marissa's Story: A Firm Hand

I bumped into a coworker in the hallway. It sounds normal when I say it like that, but there were extenuating circumstances. It was my hallway. The one in my home. Also, she was mostly naked. 

Seconds ticked by without either of us speaking. I wasn't at a loss for words so much as I couldn't decide where to start. I had a lot of angry things to say about her breaking into my home. How did she even know where I lived? On the other hand the subtle mounds of her breasts were exactly to my taste, so I was happy to let it slide. After a couple minutes even a great pair of tits like hers gets boring to look at, so I spoke up.  

“Marissa?” 

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing in my apartment?” 

She stood up straight, and slid her hands down her sides to trace her own figure. She swayed her hips slightly in the way women only do when they want men to watch.  

“Turns out, you're fuckin' dense.” she said, “I figured I might finally get your attention if I skipped ahead a few steps."

I blinked. There had been signals? Apparently my confusion was obvious.   

“Christ, there’s no way you’re actually this stupid, are you? I came here so you would fucking fuck me. Your cock. My pussy. Take me, I'm yours. Do. You. Get. It?”

“Marissa…I honestly had no idea.” It felt like my brain was chugging along a mile behind the conversation. “I’m on my way to work but…I mean yeah, I don’t like to call in sick, but I can call in sick for this. So, um, what do you, uh, what do you want to do?” 

The more I spoke the more her contempt was obvious in her posture. It occurred to me that she often looked at me with contempt. She might actually be worse at giving signals than she thinks she is. 

“You’re still not getting it. I didn’t say I wanted to be your fucking girlfriend. I said take me, so fucking take me.” 

This time my look of confusion was intentional. She rolled her eyes.

“I’m a mouthy little shit who broke into your house and told you to fuck her. I don’t need you to romance me. I need you to be a fuckin’ man. Take charge.”

I thought I got what she was driving at. Without a word I bounded for her, took her in my arms and kissed her hard. Just as I was congratulating myself on the sex I was about to have she pushed away and wiped the back of her hand across her lips. 

“Are you serious? Do you even hear the way I’ve been talking to you? I broke into YOUR house. I treat you like shit all the time. Why haven’t you slapped my whore mouth closed yet?” 

Her eyes bore into mine. I couldn’t help but glance away. She made a dismissive “tsch” sound, and bent over to pick her shirt up off the floor. She was going to leave after all that bullshit. My chest filled with an angry heat. I bounded forward again, grabbed Marissa by the neck, threw her against the wall, and slapped her. Head knocked askew I felt a brief clutch of fear as I saw a tear welling in her eye. Then her head rolled back towards me and I saw the grin. There was a ravenous lust in her eyes.

“Oh fuck yea-” she started before I cut her off with another slap, and another. She stopped trying to say anything, just made little sex moans after each slap. I kept going. Her face was sticky with running mascara, her cheek was starting to swell up. She stopped making noises, but kept turning her head back for more. I paused to get a good look. She didn't look so smug anymore. She looked afraid now, but the gesticulating hand she'd slid into her shorts told me everything I needed to know about this girl. 

She winced when she saw my hand coming again, but this time I took firm hold of her hair and forced her down. Her hands were fumbling with my belt before her knees touched the floor. She threw herself on my dick with desperation. Put her heart and soul into getting me off as if it were the most important thing she'd ever done. I finished. She swallowed. I she looked up at me expectantly while I put my dick away. Looking for approval, ready for whatever I did to her next. 

“I don’t feel like being late for work.” I said. “Go cover my shift.” 

“Yes daddy.” Marissa replied.

(Thanks to Marissa for requesting this story!)

A Christ Centered Marriage

Elizabeth crossed the threshold in her husband’s arms. Her cheeks ached from smiling, but she didn’t want to stop. This was it! The moment she’d waited for since girlhood, here with the man she loved, the way god had intended for it to be. When her feet were under her again she lifted the hem of her white dress and practically skipped to the bed, throwing herself onto it, and looking back at her husband with what she hoped was a seductive glance.

She could see the same broad grin on his face as he locked the door behind them. His pants bulged as she’d often seen them do, and today for the first time he wasn’t in sin. She wasn’t in sin for looking. They’d waited, and now they’d reap the tenfold pleasures of a Christ-centered married life. Each step he took towards the bed sent a throb of anticipatory desire through her belly.

“Kneel down for me.” he said. She twinged in frustration. They’d waited so long, done everything right. Skip the praying and just…DO me she thought. But then, it had only been an hour since she’d vowed to love, honer, and obey this man. Christ had chosen him to be her spiritual guide, and she would not begin their life together by casting doubt on that. She sank to her knees, dress ruffling around her as she folded her hands and bowed her head.

When he didn’t begin the prayer, Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered open and she discovered his…his thing hovering before her face, no more than an inch from her lips. She recoiled, turning her head away.

“Ohmygosh, eugh!” she hissed, “That’s disgusting, what are you doing?”

She didn’t even see the slap coming. She just felt the stinging blow against the side of her face. She fell on her side. Then his hands were under her arms, lifting her back to her knees. His -thing- wobbled in her face as he did so.

“Open your mouth.” he said. She did, too shocked to do anything else. He shoved the thing into her mouth. She gagged and pulled back, but he held her head firm.

“You’ve got to suck it.” he added. Elizabeth felt the stickiness of running mascara on her cheeks. She looked up at him, trying to plead with her eyes for him to stop being crazy. He looked back expectantly. “C’mon!” he added with impatience.

Elizabeth tried. She closed her lips around him and sucked. Sucked like it was a straw, or a pacifier. Her husband began to make frustrated noises, he gently rocked back and forth for a moment, and loosed a little moan of unexpected pleasure. He pulled back, and Elizabeth was relieved it was over, but then he shoved himself into her mouth again, further than before. She tried to pull away, but his fists grabbed at clumps of her hair, holding her in place. 
“Do NOT stop sucking.” he said, as he pulled back to ram himself forward again, and again, over and over pressing Elizabeth’s nose into his belly.

He cried out, thrusting forward a final time and holding her there, suffocating, as her mouth filled with a foul taste. He released her, and collapsed back onto the bed with a contented sigh. Elizabeth fell forward to her hands and knees, semen and vomit dribbling from her mouth to stain the hem of her pretty white dress.

She lowered herself to her side and curled into a ball, sobs finally able to escape her mouth. Her husband sat up.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. He sounded genuinely concerned.

“WHAT’S WRONG?!” she shouted, gasping for air. “Why did you do that to me!?”

“We’re married now, Elizabeth. I finally get to have sex with you. I’ve been waiting so long.”

“But that was awful!” She tried to hold his gaze. Stare him down with her anger, but the quiet concern on his face was too much. She turned away. He moved to sit on the floor beside her, lifting her head into his lap and gently caressing her side.

“Sweetheart, I know it’s difficult. God didn’t make woman to enjoy sex the same way a man does, but generosity in the marriage bed is the wife’s burden. You knew that is what we would do tonight. I’m sorry this first time was so difficult for you, but I’ve heard the first time is always the worst. You’ll get used to it, trust me.”

“Not like that! This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just…I just really wanted you to touch me softly. And rub my…rub me down there. And then you’d put it in there and we’d kiss. I wanted you to make me feel good, and beautiful. All you did was hurt me. Use me. ”

“Oh sweetheart, Elizabeth, I love you. You are so beautiful and so good and so loved. But…that’s just not what sex is. You can’t understand, women just aren’t built to have sexual thoughts and desires the way men are. This is something a man needs, and a suffering woman must endure.”

“I mean…I just…I didn’t want it to be like that.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Trust me, you’ll get used to it, it’ll get easier.”

“But what we did was a sin!”

He gave her a kind of confused, but self assured smile. “No it wasn’t. We’re husband and wife now, and I claimed my rights as a husband. You should not have resisted me, but I corrected you, and you submitted. I forgive you, we’re both still learning.”

“No, it’s the sin of Onan! You spilled your seed.”

He glanced down, noticing the semen smeared on the floor and dress, bits still dribbling from Elizabeth’s chin.

“No,” he said, his voice taking a slightly stern edge. “You spilled my seed. I’m disappointed in you for adding to Christ’s burden, but I forgive you.”

Elizabeth lay on the ground, sniffling softly, trying to absorb what her husband had said. It was starting to feel as though she should apologize to him, but she didn’t want to. He saved her the trouble when he spoke again.

“Why don’t you get up on the bed now. I need to plant our first child in you tonight.”

A little unsure smile crept across Elizabeth’s cumspeckled lips.

“R-really?” she asked, a crack of a smile appearing on her lips. He nodded.

She removed her gown, too off-put by the evening’s events to perform the seductive ritual she’d fantasized about, but eager all the same. She endured his little pinches and gropes with giggles and bawdy winks. A small flicker of warmth returned to that place low in her belly. She lay back on the bed, looking up at the man who was her Christhead. She was ready at last to lose her virginity to the man God had chosen for her.

“Turn over, on your hands and knees.” he said. “I wanna slap your butt while I do it.” The warmth began to turn cold in her stomach. As fresh tears welled in her eyes, Elizabeth turned her head so he wouldn’t see them.

Elizabeth obeyed.

(Thanks to Elizabeth for requesting this story!)

Mind Control Man, Vol 1

When he’d first gained his mental powers, he spent awhile just compelling women to fuck him. It had been fun, but ultimately unsatisfying. Like fucking a blowup doll: sure you get off, but it’s just glorified masturbation. More recently he’d learned to use his powers with greater subtlety to achieve much more satisfying experiences.

Sitting in a park, he watched the people strolling past with their families. He scanned for someone suitable, and his thoughts were pulled towards a young mother walking beside her husband, their infant son in a stroller. For a moment her husband glanced to the side, and immediately she quietly stepped out of sight. She walked to where He sat, and when she reached him he saw a look of confusion pass over her face. She smiled at him awkwardly, the way you do when you inadvertently violate a stranger’s personal space. 

“Don’t worry about it.” he said. “You came over here because I wanted you to come over here.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter. Sit down with me for a moment.” His voice made it clear that it was an instruction, not a request. 

“uhm, no, I think I better get back to my husband.” she said, with polite discomfort.

“Why?” he asked. “No matter how many times you ask him to take charge in the bedroom, he’s never doing to give you anything better than a cheesy stern voice and an occasional slap on the ass.” 

She was already three steps away from him when he said it. When he finished she was about to break into a run, but it only took a little mental nudge to make her more angry than she was afraid. She spun back on him.

“Who the FUCK are you?”

“I’m the faceless man you think about while you rub your clit after your husband has rolled off of you and gone to sleep. The one who’s too strong for you to fight off. The one who’s hands on your throat don’t let you cry out. I’m the man you closed your eyes and pretended was fucking you the night you made your son. The man who didn’t want to put a baby in you because he ‘loves you,’ and ‘wants to start a family with you,’ but wanted to do it because you’re a woman and it’s the only thing your body is good for.”

She stood stock still, eyes wide, mouth open. It was the posture of someone whose most private thoughts had just been laid bare for them by a stranger. He locked his gaze with hers and didn’t say a word. He’d only destroy the mystique by saying anything before she’d processed what just happened.

“Samantha?” called her husband’s voice from around the hedge. Without hesitation she moved away from the voice, towards the stranger on the bench. He didn’t compel her to do that, but at this point she couldn’t have done anything else. 

“How do you-”

“Shut up.” he cut her off. He felt the sudden pulse of arousal shoot through her mind. He pushed on. “Your mouth is for sucking dick, not for asking stupid questions.”

He felt the impulse form in her mind. A fantasy she would hold close to her heart. One she’d masturbate to at the earliest convenience, but never one she would act on. At least, not without a little mental nudge…

“Yes sir.” she breathed as she fell to her knees. He feigned disinterest as she excitedly pulled open his pants and wrapped her lips around him. Without prompting he knew she was pushing herself deeper, sucking with greater vigor than she ever had for her husband. He felt the pain of the uneven pavement on her bare knees, and felt her push the pain aside. “My pain doesn’t matter” she thought of her own accord. “I am an object for men’s pleasure.”

With a final mental suggestion, he let her know that it would be better if he came on her face. She would have been happy to swallow every drop, but he wanted to mark her. His spray came out thick and voluminous, and she smiled as it draped itself across her features. He put his dick away while she knelt, silent and smiling. In that moment he knew she would abandon everything if he told her to do it. Her mind was racing at the thought of being his slave. Being treated like this all of the time. It was the only thing that mattered. 

“Go back to your husband.” he said. He felt her heart sink, but he continued. “You can tell him whatever you want, but do not clean up. Let him see my cum all over your whore face.” He stood up to leave. “Maybe I’ll come see you again some day.”

As he walked away he listened to her thoughts. A half dozen lies bounced around in her head. Maybe it was just bird shit, or maybe she’d been raped by a hobo…but no. She would tell him the truth.

Never once did he have to nudge her away from cleaning the cum off of her face. The thought of disobeying him never even entered her head.M

Statement of Intent

I am a man, a feminist, and a communist. Misogyny turns me on. I love to imagine my deeply held beliefs being forcefully violated. These fantasies go beyond the healthy and sanitized power exchange of BDSM to extremes that ought only ever exist as stories. I'm not ashamed of my kink, but it can be a difficult line to tread. I've been writing erotic fiction and essays under the name Sinful Syllables for 10 years.

Most numerous and edifying are the women who enjoy my work. Often they've struggled with that same internal contradiction I have: how can you be a Good Feminist™ when the idea of women being inherently inferior turns you on? It's a struggle compounded by the culture of MaleDom/femsub spaces where it's not always clear where role playing ends and a person's true beliefs begin. It's a space filled with abusers masquerading as kinksters. That I've been able to serve these women by satisfying their kink without threatening their ethics makes me think the work is worth doing.

Then there are the men who take my fantasy misogyny as support for their factual misogyny. It's because of them that I write posts like this one. I'd rather err on the side of being a turnoff than unwittingly feed into the delusions of a fragile and dangerous man. I believe wholeheartedly in the essential nature of continuously enthusiastic consent between partners. I practice Risk Assessed Consensual Kink. I'll do my best to turn you on, and if going out of character to remind you that everything I'm writing is a fiction kills the mood for you, then sorry not sorry.