I’m a Naughty Slut Boy

Dear FemdomU Forum,

I’ve been lurking on this forum for months, reading your stories with my cock half-hard and my heart racing, but I never thought I’d have something worth posting. Not until last week, when my girlfriend turned my living room into a museum exhibit of my own submission, with me as the lone, terrified exhibit.

Her name doesn’t matter, you wouldn’t know her anyway, but what matters is how she wears dominance like other women wear perfume: invisible to most, but intoxicating to those close enough to breathe it in. We’d been playing with control for almost a year. Small things at first: her deciding what I wore, when I came, how I touched myself. Then bigger things: her hand around my throat while she fucked me, her voice telling me I existed for her pleasure and nothing else. Each time I gave her more, I felt something crack open inside me, something I’d spent thirty-two years pretending wasn’t there.

Last Tuesday, she texted me: Come straight home. Don’t shower.

Three words. My stomach dropped through the floor.

When I walked through the door, she was sitting on the couch in that gray cashmere sweater that falls off one shoulder, her legs crossed, a glass of red wine balanced on her knee. She didn’t look up from her phone.

“Strip,” she said.

Not “hello.” Not “how was your day.” Just that single syllable, hard and flat as a stone.

I undressed slowly. My fingers fumbled with my belt buckle. The zipper on my jeans caught. My shirt clung to my shoulders like it was trying to save me. She watched none of it, scrolling through something on her screen, the blue light casting her face in a cold glow.

“Naked means naked, Ricky.”

I peeled off my boxer briefs and stood there, my cock already betraying me, rising halfway to attention in the cold air of our apartment. She glanced up then, her eyes traveling the length of my body with the clinical detachment of someone assessing merchandise.

“Turn around.”

I turned. The hardwood was cold under my feet. The blinds were open. Anyone walking past our first-floor window could have seen everything, including my bare ass, the goosebumps rising on my skin, the way my shoulders hunched forward as if they could hide what my body had already given away.

She set down her wine and walked to the bedroom. When she returned, she was holding something black and thick between her fingers. A collar. Not the cheap faux-leather kind you order online, but something heavy, with a solid metal buckle and a D-ring that clinked when she moved.

“Come here.”

I went to her. She stood in front of me, close enough that I could smell the wine on her breath, and looped the collar around my neck. The leather was cool and stiff against my skin. She pulled it tight, not choking tight, but tight enough that I felt it with every swallow, tight enough that I couldn’t forget it was there.

“Good boy,” she said, and the words went through me like a low-voltage current.

Then she reached into the pocket of her sweater and pulled out the plug.

It was enormous. Black silicone, tapered but thick, with a flared base the size of a silver dollar. I’d never taken anything that big. We’d played with plugs before, sure, but nothing that made my asshole clench just looking at it.

“On your hands and knees.”

I got down. The hardwood pressed into my kneecaps. She knelt behind me, one hand on the small of my back, pushing me down until my chest was nearly touching the floor, my ass raised and exposed.

“I’m going to count to three,” she said. “If you make a sound, I stop. And you don’t want me to stop, do you?”

“No,” I whispered.

“One.”

The lubricant was cold. She spread it with her thumb, circling my hole, pressing just enough to make me gasp before I caught myself and swallowed it back.

“Two.”

The tip of the plug pressed against me. I clenched. She waited. My body yielded, millimeter by millimeter, the stretch burning through me in a wave that was equal parts pain and something else, something that made my cock throb against my stomach despite everything.

“Three.”

She pushed. The widest part caught, and I bit my lip until I tasted copper, and then it was in, the base settling against me with a weight that felt like it was rearranging my insides. I groaned, I couldn’t help it! And she smacked my ass hard enough to leave a handprint.

“I said no sound.”

“Sorry,” I managed.

She bound my wrists behind my back with a length of nylon rope, pulling each loop tight, checking the knots with her fingertips. My arms strained at the odd angle, my shoulders burning. She positioned me on my knees, back straight, facing the wall, the plug sitting inside me like a fist.

Then she produced the sign.

She’d made it herself, I realized. Cardstock and a marker, the letters blocky and uneven: I’M A NAUGHTY SLUT BOY. She clipped it to the D-ring on my collar, and it hung there against my chest, swinging slightly with each breath.

“There,” she said, stepping back to admire her work. “Now you look like what you are.”

I knelt there. The plug shifted inside me when I moved. My cock hung heavy between my legs, half-hard, dripping a thin strand of pre-cum onto the floor. The collar pressed against my Adam’s apple. The sign brushed my sternum with each heartbeat.

Time passed. I don’t know how much. The light changed outside the windows. My knees began to ache. The plug settled deeper, and with it came a slow, building pressure against my prostate that made my thighs tremble. I was hard now, fully hard, my cock jutting out obscenely, and there was nothing I could do about it with my arms tied behind me.

She moved around the apartment. I heard her opening cabinets, running water, the soft click of her phone camera. Taking pictures, maybe. Or texting. I didn’t know. I couldn’t see her.

“What are you going to do?” I asked finally, my voice thin in the quiet room.

She appeared in front of me, squatting down to my eye level. Her sweater had slipped further off her shoulder. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled… that smile, the one that’s all teeth and no warmth.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she said.

And that was the worst part. Not the plug, not the collar, not the sign or the rope or the position. It was the not knowing. The terrible, gut-churning certainty that whatever she had planned was still forming behind her eyes, taking shape in the dark corners of her imagination, and that I would have no say in any of it.

I knelt there. I waited. And with each passing minute, the fear and the arousal tangled together until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

More to come. There’s so much more.

—Ricky