A maledom story! Not my usual metier, but I thought I’d give it a go.
Malcolm was not much to look at – a nondescript man in his early forties, with greasy hair and poor dress sense – so it might be considered surprising that women worshiped his cock. Of course, they did not usually do so willingly, but only after being suspended, tied up in uncomfortable positions, whipped and even branded or subjected to other tortures. Then, and only then, would nubile young ladies in at most scraps of clothing yield to his superior power and kneel before their master to express their submission. Sometimes they did so in their chains in an exotic harem, other times women from today’s world would find themselves in prison and forced to satisfy the sexual needs of their brutal governor, occasionally they would find themselves back at school, squeezing their busty adult bodies into ill-fitting gymslips, sitting at uncomfortable school benches while their teacher took his time selecting the cane to use on their naughty backsides. But all of these scenes played out in the same place: Malcolm’s head.
For Malcolm was only dominant in his own sweaty fantasies, inspired by his ancient collection of magazines and his more recent forays into the Internet. In fact, Malcolm had had only two ‘real’ sexual experiences in his life and neither had involved girls kneeling down and submissively worshiping his cock. On the first occasion, Malcolm had spurted too soon, on the second he couldn’t get it up at all. Neither of the rather drunk girls concerned had regretted the lack of proper sexual intercourse and neither had expressed the slightest desire to try again. But in his fantasies, Malcolm’s mighty cock fascinated and terrified the poor abused wenches at his command.
“Oh Master Malcolm” they would plead, desperately, gazing at the huge purple engorged organ swaying gently before their faces. “I don’t think my jaw can open wide enough to – “ – but the whip would descend and the little sluts would soon discover how wide their mouths could open to scream out in agony, and they would frantically accommodate Malcolm’s massive member between their tautly stretched lips, and they would suck and lick as the whip continued its work of turning their milky-white buttocks fiery red with its lashes and… and… and Malcolm’s actually not-so-massive member would squirt out a few droplets of sticky come onto his sheets, he would take his hand away from it and turn over to go to sleep.
One day, Malcolm was returning from his tedious job, trudging along a sandy road across the common, when he stubbed his toe on a protruding object. He reached down and scuffed away some sand, to expose a tarnished handle of what an earlier generation might recognise as an oil lamp but the ignorant Malcolm immediately believed to be some kind of gravy-boat. Nonetheless, the object rang out with the sound of true metal when struck, so perhaps there was some money to be made from it, if it were polished up.
As soon as he got home, Malcolm got out some metal-cleaning fluid and a soft cloth and – well, actually, that was the second thing he did when he got home. The first was to fire up his computer and visit websites with names including words like “bitches”, “holes”, “bound” and “sluts” in various combinations, that featured videos of quite unpleasant things being done to young (and not-so-young) ladies, each parade of nastiness happening only after an obligatory five-minute chat with the stars of the show, both smiling happily to show how consensual everything was – an intro Malcolm skipped, in irritation, each time.
After about half an hour of this – and a slight addition to the stain on the carpet just below his computer – Malcolm did, indeed, fetch cleaning fluid and cloth and set to work on the tarnished metal of his find.
Do I need, dear reader, to explain what happened when Malcolm started rubbing vigorously on the lamp? Of course I don’t: you saw this coming miles away, so I will leave you to imagine for yourself the sparks, or flashes of light, or puffs of green smoke or whatever magical special effects are needed. The point is, we end up with, obviously, a genie in the form of a lithe, attractive young woman, her surprisingly Caucasian body scantily clad in a wispy faux-arabic gaudy dress, her gleaming wrist and ankle shackles clearly showing her status as that creature of Malcolm’s fevered dreams: his slave. As did her downward glance and soft murmur of “Your wish is my command… Master”.
Think ‘I Dream of Jeannie’ if you are old enough. I often do.
Her Master was understandably startled but managed to get himself under control quickly enough (except for his not-so-massive member, which despite its recent performance beneath the computer desk, decided to become very uncontrollable indeed at the sight of this vision of submissive female loveliness). He drew himself up to his full height and demanded “You can make my wishes come true, slave of the lamp?”
“Yes, Master, three wishes – “ the genie began but Master Malcolm cut her off in his excitement.
“I command that I shall be very wealthy, living in a palace on an island I own, surrounded by precious jewels and mountains of gold and silver.”
“Yes, Master” murmured the genie. “Three wishes. It shall be – “
“And slavegirls!” Malcolm went on excitedly. “Three hundred slavegirls… no! More! One for every day of the year! All young and beautiful, with big tits and pretty faces! None of them fat. And let the palace be the playground of my sexual desires, with themed rooms so that all of my fantasies can be fulfilled with my unwilling chattels…” He was getting carried away.
“Erm, unwilling, Master?” the pretty young genie asked, looking up at him. “Don’t you mean consensual? I mean, that is the founding principle of a healthy BDSM relationship and – “
Malcolm glared at her. “Silence, slave!” he commanded, his cock straining hard at the material of his underpants as he did so. “They will be slaves: there to do my bidding whether they like it or not! I am sure the palace will be equipped with all of the means necessary to compel their obedience and teach them their proper place. To fulfill all of my fantasies – all of them.”
The genie looked confused. “But how can I know what your fantasies are, Master?” she pleaded? “I mean, apart from some of them, obviously…” and she glanced dubiously at the small but insistent bulge in his trousers at her eye level.
Malcolm nodded imperiously towards his computer. “Do you know how to access my Internet history, slave?” he demanded.
The genie blinked once, very deliberately. “I do now, Master.” she replied. “Oh – by the way, I did say: it’s only three wishes you see, and – “
“Learn about my desires – and tremble before them” Malcolm ordered, cutting her off.
“Your wish is my command, O Master” the genie murmured and stood up to walk over to the computer. “But it’s still only supposed to be three…” she added, under her breath.
She sat in front of the computer, picked up the mouse and started clicking faster than any human could manage. Hundreds of web pages flashed before her as she sat motionless in silence, except for an occasional sharp intake of breath and once or twice a distinct ‘tsk’ sound. Malcolm didn’t notice, instead admiring how her ivory breasts nearly spilled out of her vaguely Middle-Eastern bra and gently jiggled as her blurring fingers clicked and moved the mouse at superhuman speed.
After about a minute she lifted her hand from the mouse. Her face betrayed a feeling of mild disgust.
“Right – so all of that, and I want a huge cock too!” added Malcolm. “At least… three, no… four times as long as the current one and twice as thick. And all of the slave-girls in my palace of pain will be fascinated and obsessed by my mighty cock. And let it never get so tired or sore that I cannot get an erection, let it rise up fresh and ready again no matter how many girls it has satisfied. I command you to find a way to do all of that within my three-wish limit!” he said, feeling very clever.
The genie looked over at him and smiled. “Your wish is my command, Master! And the three wish thing isn’t an absolute rule, anyway. Not for such a wise and powerful Master as yourself! You shall have it all!”
And she wiggled her delightful little nose and in a shower of sparks, flash of light and puff of green smoke (if that’s what you previously imagined) she and Malcolm were standing in…
OK, so that was Bewitched, not I Dream of Jeannie, but it’s a lovely thing. Isn’t it?
A vast ornate room. Columns with different patterns and colour variations of pinkish marble twisted up to a vaulted ceiling, on which frescoed nymphs gamboled with satyrs. Sunlight that could only be from a cloudless, tropical sky streamed from high arched windows to illuminate… a scene from Malcolm’s most feverish imaginings.
Across the gleaming floor, some displayed on plinths, others chained to posts, others still on couches in ones, twos or greater numbers of gently writhing female loveliness were… the slave-girls of Malcolm’s dreams. Dressed in various combinations of silks, lingerie, chains or merely jewelry, they preened and purred, cooed and giggled – or merely pleaded mutely through their big blue eyes, above fearsome gags.
On the walls and also in racks and vases scattered across the room were whips, straps, paddles and canes aplenty, while ominous dark cupboards positioned near the stocks and cages within which the more brutally restrained girls were tightly held hinted at still more evil implements and devices within. Pretty blonde and brunette heads across the room turned to gaze at their new Master.
Malcolm’s attention was suddenly caught by movement rather closer to home: a stirring rather greater in magnitude than he had ever experienced in his trousers before. He glanced down, noting as he did so that he was dressed in rich but thankfully loose-fitting silks, and observed with satisfaction that a true monster of flesh was awakening, in his loins. He looked up again, wondering which lucky slave-girl would be the first recipient.
Then his involuntary grin faded, as he surveyed the room, calculating furiously.
“I said one for every day of the year, you cheating bitch!” he snapped. “There can’t be more than a couple of hundred of the whores here! Where are the rest!”
The genie abased herself before him. “Why, in other rooms of your magnificent Palace of Pain, Master” she said. “Some are in the schoolroom, nervously awaiting your uniform inspection. Maids are scrubbing floors, or awaiting their chance to polish your royal boots. And of course the pony girls are in the stables.”
Malcolm grunted in satisfaction. “Adequate, I suppose. So there’s 365 in total?”
“366 Master” replied the genie. “One unfortunate girl only gets to worship you with her body every four years.”
“366 slave-girls…” Malcolm breathed, the sheer audacity of turning his dreams to flesh breaking through to him at last.
“That’s right, Master” the genie, happily. “And all of them without exception, your slaves – and completely unwillingly, as you commanded!”
“Plus you!” she added brightly. “Just you” and she clapped her hands and disappeared in a puff of light or blaze of smoke, seeming to suppress a fit of giggles as she went.
Malcolm felt vaguely troubled by that. It was the first time she’d truly looked happy. He recalled fairy tales of wishes gone wrong, in ironic and usually justly-deserved fashion. He looked around the room.
Over a hundred and fifty pairs of lovely eyes stared back. One or two of the girls who were not restrained turned to face him. Others merely craned their necks to get a better view. Of him. All of their gazes fixed on him and him alone. They started to stir, in ones and twos: some stood up, others unraveled from tight loving embraces, to better focus their attention on him, often while still holding hands.
He felt a sudden pang of fear. He glanced over to the nearest rack of implements: a row of hooks from which dangled five fearsome-looking bullwhips of different thickness, length and colour. Three of the girls in that direction silently stepped sideways so they were positioned more directly between the weapons and him.
Malcolm turned and ran for the door. Many of the slave-girls were restrained but most were not. Almost all were barefoot, so their pretty soft feet made almost no noise on the sun-warmed marble floor, but a hundred soft pitter-patters can sound like a stampede – which is indeed what was happening. So Malcolm was well aware of the horde converging upon him, as he hurtled in a panicky dash towards the doors leading out of the room. They were heavy doors, but wide open, inviting escape, and they were about twenty-five yards away.
He made it almost halfway.
And now Malcolm lives out the life of which he had so often fantasised. Just not quite in the role that he would have preferred, given the choice.
Some days he is a maid, scrubbing floors under the watchful gaze of a group of whip-wielding overseers. His cleaning is rarely – if ever – considered to meet their high standards, but he has to try anyway.
Other days are spent in educative pursuits as, in gymslip and straw boater, he writes lines, kneels on benches, holds his hand out for the tawse and – with distressing frequency over the course of each eleven-hour detention – bends over for the cane, sometimes knickers up, often knickers down.
Some days he is lucky enough to run around outside, his feet pounding the soft grass (or more often the sharp gravel) in a canter until the whips crack merrily out from his two passengers in the well-sprung comfortable carriage rolling smoothly behind, to encourage him into a gallop. Other times, the carriage unhitched and he has the opportunity to carry each individual rider around the well-worn track his poor feet have created, puffing and wheezing as he returns her to the starting point. There she will regretfully dismount and the girl waiting impatiently at the head of the queue, flicking her riding whip and occasionally admiring her razor-sharp spurs, will finally have her turn.
But most days, Master Malcolm’s life is simpler. He is fastened into or onto one device or another that exposes most or all of the sensitive parts of his body, while also preventing him from in any way hindering access to those parts. Then girlish hands will take hold of implements and his screams will begin, rising and falling, occasionally quietening into gasps so low as to allow the music of soft girlish giggles to ring out clearly, before rising again in full-throated agony at the pain.
Nipples, eyes, balls, fingers, tongue, soles, kneecaps… oh, and his cock. Especially his cock.
You see, for some reason that attentive readers might recall, every single one of his tormentors is simply fascinated by his cock. His mighty member is squeezed, burnt, whipped, clamped, crushed, electrocuted, frozen, kicked, bitten and twisted until it is a huge throbbing organ of pure agony – and beyond. And it is indeed huge. No male who has ever experienced a penis-whipping would need convincing of the disadvantages of possessing a member so long that it can experience three separate floggings all at the same time. It is long enough that one end can be gradually be chilled down through sub-zero temperatures eventually to freeze hard in a bath of dry ice, while at the other a band of electrified metal slowly heats up to red hot, burning and charring the flesh with a smell that often puts the girls in the mood for a barbecue. It is strong enough to pull concrete blocks for miles around the island, strong enough to bear his entire weight, even strong enough to hold up one corner of a four-poster bed, on which anything up to twelve girls happily gambol in sapphic heaven.
Oh, how they are fascinated by it! And yet, at the end of every long day during which they have worked on the object of their obsession, with Malcolm seeming too exhausted to scream any more, but screaming in horror inwardly at the thought of his life, as his satisfied tormentors happily hung up their whips and cattle prods… his cock will gradually recover until it rises up, fresh and ready again, for the new experiences of the next day.
366 girls. You would think they would soon run out of variations but they are creative and the palace is full of clever and fiendish toys. Plus, the genie left them a copy of every video that Malcolm had ever bought, watched or downloaded. Some days, the girl whose annual turn it is might decide to select one of these and work through it, trying to reproduce as precisely as possible the torments being applied to the suffering females that Malcolm had so enjoyed watching, sitting at his computer at home, the stained carpet beneath him. It is not easy always accurately to apply the same techniques to a male as to a female body, but with ingenuity and a lot of force, it can often be done. Other times the girl will simply freestyle her day in charge, letting her creativity run riot over (and within) Malcolm’s suffering body. The slave-girls (as they proudly call themselves) would have a lot to teach the makers of those videos, should the latter ever be unlucky enough to encounter them.
Malcolm’s body turned out to have seemingly endless powers of recuperation, which is just as well, because each girl has to wait a year, with increasing impatience, before the day she will be in charge, so she is full of energy and enthusiasm when finally her turn arrives. Although most generously allow their friends to play, they have a strict rule that only the girl whose ‘Malcolm-day’ it was can decide on the theme and the major activities. They hold competitions, scoring performances either by the state of Malcolm’s body at the end of the day, or the intensity of his screams and pleading during it.
One girl is, as the genie had foreseen, particularly unlucky. Her name is Erica and her day is February 29th, so she has to wait four years between each Malcolm-day. The others feel sorry for her and allow her to start at the stroke of midnight and enjoy the full 24 hours to the best of her ability. She is one of the most creative girls, perhaps because of the four years she has each time to plan her artistic strokes, and there is usually a large and appreciative crowd to watch her rare performances. Thus far, she has had only five such days, each more exotic and horrific (for Malcolm) and amusing (for everyone else) than the last.
How many more will there be? Who knows? That depends upon the kindness of strangers. You see, from time to time, when the genie’s magic lamp is rubbed by a woman, the kindly genie offers that woman a chance to pardon Malcolm. She tells her about him: of his life, of his desires, of his interests and she explains the circumstances in which he came to be where he is now. She does not go into gruesome details, of course, but she describes some of the implements and devices in the Palace of Pain and she explains how Malcolm had intended to spend his life applying them to unwilling young women and is instead experiencing them himself. She asks whether the woman would like to release him.
So far, none has.
I thought maybe you’d like to see a picture of Malcolm: Master Malcolm, our maledom protagonist. There’s something about a dominant male, isn’t there? Even in a static image like this, you can almost feel the raw sexual power he exudes.
What’s that? You’d like to see pictures of the girls, too? I’ll bet you would, you filthy little pervert. All right – but only one picture. There’s rather a lovely story, actually. Immediately after piling onto Malcolm and subduing him, all the girls who weren’t in restraints obviously went around freeing those who were. But these two said they’d rather stay the way they were, for a little while anyway. Isn’t that sweet?