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Here is an excerpt from my new book:
Female Domination: Short Stories Vol. I Illustrated by Sardax
ISBN: 978-1-934446-40-9
Available at Amazon
Locked Away by Constance Pennington Smythe
“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.
Heather and Monique exchanged knowing glances. Their friend, Patricia, certainly had things well in hand. She was their mentor, and with her guidance they would form the nucleus of the Brent-Haven Women’s Auxiliary, an organization with a decidedly different agenda. Today was Drake’s Chastity Day, an event that lay ominously in the future of Heather and Monique’s husbands.
“How are we doing down there?” Patricia purred. Her feigned concern couldn’t disguise the malevolence in her voice. Her hands reached between his legs and pulled his shriveled cock from its ice water bath.
“Jeez! It’s so tiny and wrinkled,” Heather mocked.
Monique crinkled her nose, “Yecchh, put it back in.”
Patricia held the wrinkled flesh between her thumb and first finger and shook her head. “Yes, it is disgusting.” She slapped it, “And QUITE fucking useless, which is why we’re locking it up.” She dropped it back in the ice water bath and unceremoniously covered it with more ice cubes from a nearby ice bucket.
She packed the ice around his frigid and shrunken cock, giving no concerns to his moans and pleas from behind his gag. “It needs to be small, as small as I can get it,” she laughed. “I had his device made quite small; there won’t be the remotest chance of any kind of erection.”
“And his last time, “Monique asked, “how was that?” Monique was the tallest of the three, and the most beautiful. At five ten she was an imposing six three in her five inch heels. Today she was dressed in black slacks and a gray sweater that showed off her assets. It was her height, and super model looks, that made her a hit on the catwalk. She’d left that behind, but not the need to be an object of desire, or to have men fall at her feet.“Did he cry or beg?” Heather asked.
Visit my web site at www.cpsmythe.com
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