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

Matriarch's Birthday by Constance Pennington Smythe

     She’d made a science of kicking males. Refined it. Developed it into an art. A religion of which she was the High Priestess and those males became the supplicants and objects of her unholy rites.
    Her feet were the bane of male existence, cruel and unyielding – unforgiving. Her shoes – leather harbingers of pain and suffering. She’d spent a summer in Florence, enjoying the art, food, culture, and Italian men. Between  cafés and museums she visited Carlo, shoemaker to the Dominant’s Guild, that group of select women who ruled a world-wide underground matriarchy. He crafted the tools she used to terrorize and subjugate males.
     Today Audra de Kranow wore the pumps, classic in detailing and styling, black kid leather. The five-inch heels were half gleaming chrome and rapier thin. Dangerous as those wicked heels were, it was the toes that held the terror. Carlo crafted a long and very pointed toe: Italian leather taut and wrapped around a wooden form that kept the leather from buckling as it abused male flesh. Despite the long and pointed spear-like front, the toe box was set slightly further back and allowed the wearer a comfortable fit.
     Audra stalked the corridor, her metal stilettos echoing on the concrete walls, heralding her approach to the males cowering in their cramped cells. She stopped at the door to the cell containing male number 19. When she entered the cell the slave quickly assumed his position at her feet. At five-ten in her five inch heels she loomed over the kneeling figure. She slowly backed away and circled the male, who remained in position. The only sounds were the clicking of her heels on the coarse concrete floor, the slapping of the crop on her palm, and the rapid breathing of the male at her feet.
     She stopped behind him and stepped back. “Know what today is?”
It was a rhetorical question; she knew he didn’t have the answer and she didn’t care. Her right knee flexed and the wicked pointed toe of her stiletto found its mark in the soft flesh of his upper leg. Audra knew exactly where to kick, how much force to use, how to exact every ounce of pain without diminishing their capacity to do useful work – or accept more abuse.
     Number 19 flinched at the pain, his yelp from the kneeling dog-like posture making him seem much like the lowly animal he’d become. But he’d been asked a direct question and was trained to respond, “N-n-no-, Mistress.”
     Poised like a ballerina on her left stiletto, perched on the rapier thin heel, her right leg whipped out twice more, each savage kick punctuated with her condemnation, “Stupid – stupid step daddy. It’s Grand-Mum’s birthday.”
     She stepped back to observe the reddening skin, and made it a point to remember to look in on him again later, to see if the color of the bruises pleased her. She was meticulous in her work, following up, evaluating, refining her technique, the skin and musculature of her male victims the palette for the color of her abuses. She’d craft a patchwork of pain on this one before the day was through.
     The hapless male shivered and whimpered, from the cold of his stark cell, from the pain, from the fear of the impending day. His daily existence had dulled his memories, all his cognitive abilities turned toward ensuring daily survival. Memories of halcyon days were distant, but the Matriarchal Birthday was an annual and singular horror not easily forgotten.
     He heard her move and saw her gleaming stilettos appear poised over his splayed fingers, and he grimaced as he watch them descend, pinioning his hand between the smooth leather and the coarse concrete floor.
     A smile played across her thin crimson lips. She closed her eyes and rose from the heels, placing the full weight of her body on the balls of her feet, and thus on the hands of the submissive male. Years of Yoga imbued her with balance, strength and concentration, and her body slowly rotated, grinding the hands beneath her feet. “Yes, today is the Matriarchal Birthday, when the males of the house honor the Goddess. I have a special game planned for today; something I think will please Grand-Mum.”
     She stepped away from the whimpering male and walked to the wall to retrieve a collar and leash. The heavy, leather posture collar was fastened to his neck and she jerked on the leash bringing him to a ‘kneel-up’ position. “Let’s announce your coming, shall we?” she teased. Her fingers attacked his nipples, pulling and twisting on the tender buds until she’d achieved the look and shape she desired, then she attached the nipple clamps, each holding two silver bells. Her crop lashed out, painting a red steak across his ass, “Jiggle!”
     The hapless male jerked his chest and shoulders, setting the bells to twinkling to the delight of his horrific Mistress and step-daughter.
     She lashed out again with the crop, not because he’d been disobedient, but because she could – and it pleased her to do so. “Ah, twinkling titty bells,” she laughed, “next to the cries and wails of males, one of my favorite sounds.” Her wrist snapped at the lead, jerking him back down to his hands and knees. “Let’s go, bitch, time to get this party started, and keep those bells ringing.” She led him out the cell door, barely breaking her stride as she plucked a long dressage whip from the wall on the way out.

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