Right now I’m in significant amounts of pain and feel extremely gross. I’m feel more present in my body than I have for a while, but I also don’t want anyone to touch me. My libido has begun to increase, however, so I want to fuck again, just without any touching. This femdom filth is inspired by this idea.
Content note for degradation, femdom mind-fucking and humiliation play.
I don’t feel sexy when I let him into my flat on Tuesday afternoon. I’m wearing a too-big t-shirt and dark green knickers that I usually pair with a matching bra, and I haven’t washed my hair in four days. I let him kiss me, but step back as his hand goes to grope my ass, explaining that even clothes touching my body hurts right now. Predictably, he smirks.
“Does that mean you’re ceding control to me? I could go down on you and make you beg me to let you come.”
I roll my eyes.
“You think I need to sit on your dick to fuck you? Silly boy, I can fuck you without even touching you.”
“Can you? Go on then.”
I walk across to the sofa, giving him ample opportunity to catch a glimpse of the arse-hugging lace below the hem of the t-shirt and refusing to let his cockiness hurry me.
“I won our last bet, your ass is mine. Stand in the middle of the room and strip for me. Slowly, I want to watch you exposing yourself for me.”
You know when you can tell that you’ve phrased something exactly right to hit at someone’s kinks? The instant flush in his cheeks is a dead giveaway that I’ve said something that makes arousal twist in his stomach. I lie back on the sofa as he peels off that soft blue jumper and begins to undo his cufflinks. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, his fingers moving rapidly and not shaking in nerves and anticipation half as much as they should be.
“Slower. I want to enjoy the show.”
I want his whole body to ache with need. His cock is already hard in his jeans and seeing that he’s watching me closely I exaggerate the downwards flick of my eyes to let him know I’ve seen it. The games we play together are often complex and cruel and competitive in a way that’s hot as fuck: it’s nice to remember that I can reduce him to this state with such a simple order.
I don’t speak as I watch him, letting his own mind fill in the gaps as to what I might do next. I enjoy the chance to drink in the sight of his body – which is gorgeous in a way I rarely boost his ego by telling him. When he’s shrugs his shirt off, his hands move to hover above his belt.
“Good boy. Yes.”
He’s definitely blushing now, and the flush has crept to his ears and his chest. I’m the one smirking now, as I watch him slowly unbuckle his belt. Five minutes later – though I’m sure each second will seem twice as long to him under my critical gaze – his shoes, jeans, and boxers have all been discarded. As much of an exhibitionist as he is, I can see the tension in his shoulders as he fights to keep his arms at his sides and not cover his cock.
I stand up and circle him slowly, enjoying the way his breath hitches even though I haven’t laid a finger on him yet. And he’s deliciously hard. I might be almost a foot shorter than him, but there’s no doubt who’s in charge here. Especially when I’m standing just far away enough from his dick that he has to restrain himself from bucking his hips into me.
“Aww, are you hard? Do you want to touch yourself?”
“You may, but you have to be gentle. Slow, paced, only just enough pressure to keep you achingly hard for me.”
“Fuck,” he hisses as he closes his hand around the base of his cock and moves it towards the shaft in a shaky stroke.
“Lighter,” I instruct him, watching him carefully. I try to keep my face neutral, as though I’m not impressed by his instant obedience. He slicks his finger with saliva and touches his cock again. My aim is not to make him feel comfortable, but to feel vulnerable and exposed and at my mercy. I want to press his most intimate buttons and force him to blush and squirm…
And I do know exactly which buttons to press. A clinical air will fuel his embarrassment and turn him on even more, so I pull on a pair of latex gloves before I do anything else. He holds his breath in anticipation of a touch that never comes, because I instead head for the bedroom and my toy box.
“Did you think I was going to touch you? Silly boy.”
My words, thrown casually over my shoulder as I leave the room, are perfectly calculated. His face is red when I return, and his breathing is ragged. When he sees what I’m holding, his dick twitches and his thighs clench. This is the butt plug that he loves but is also a little scared of, because it’s slightly too big for him to take without any warm up and thus I love making him do so.
I hold his gaze as I rip open a condom and roll it down over the butt plug. He shifts uncomfortably as I squeeze lube on to my gloved palm and coat the toy in a thin layer. Just little bit of lube: not enough to make it easy for him, or completely painless. He likes it that way, though, hard and rough so he’ll still feel it tomorrow. I move a chair into the middle of the room, right in front of him, and place the lubed-up plug in the centre of its seat. I step back, enjoying how wide his eyes are with fear-laced lust.
“Sit on it. Don’t use your hands.”
He whines adorably, as though he thinks being cute will change my mind. It won’t: I’m going to thoroughly fuck him without even touching him, and he’s going to love it.
He’s not going to get to come.
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Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.