The Soft Hand of Force

By DX

Copyrighted 7/2025.  All rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced without author’s consent.

Used with permission.

 I saw her light before I saw her.  

 She was majesty, with dark predator eyes that watched everything hungrily.  She moved with grace and poise as she carried her shopping basket, somehow raising the mundane act of getting groceries at a supermarket to an act of nobility.

 From my advantage point behind the deli counter, I couldn’t help but watch.  She had perfect, warm caramel skin.  Her hair was a controlled explosion of gentle, giggling curls that framed her face with early autumn brown, red, and gold.

 She moved with strength and decision, like a chess master, every play calculated three steps ahead.

 I realized she was aware I was watching and pretended to be doing something behind the counter and look busy.   I set my stare elsewhere, but I continued to watch from the corner of my eye because I couldn’t look away.

 There was something wrong.

 It was in her eyes, the slight narrowing of her brows, the consternation in her eyes, that shouted she needed my assistance.

 The most correct answer would have been to call someone from that department to help her, but I heard her like a siren’s song and crawled out from behind the counter, out from my fortress, to somehow be of service.  I am a slightly built, pale, white presenting guy, and I felt every bit the thrall as I approached this Nubian queen; and although I was silent on my approach, she was well aware of my presence.

 “These have been mis-shelved.”  She wasn’t demeaning or condescending, simply informative, yet her voice was a soft hand of force.  “Please check the price on this.”  She held up a jar of expensive spice.  As she did, she did not look at me.

 She had a soothing, hypnotic tenor voice that curled around my subconscious like a python.  I tried not to act like a fumbling fool as took out my data pad and scanned the item.

 Before I could answer, she put the item in her basket.

 I looked up bewildered, and I caught a glimpse of her eyes as they flayed me open.  It was all a test, a trap, and I blundered into it.  She was Medusa, and now she had turned me to stone.  She didn’t need a price check, she had figured it out before I came over.  She wanted me out of the cave where I was hiding so she could face me on open ground where I had nowhere to run.

 She had me right where she wanted.

 Her eyes flicked to my data-pad.  “I placed an order.”  She said.  “Beatrice.”

 I found my voice.  “Oh!  It’s ready to go.  Its scheduled to be delivered…”

 She slipped her basket from her arm and handed it to me.  “Add this to it.”  Her eyes locked on mine, and held me in her grip, that hand of force.  “I’ll see you at six.”

 She turned and walked away, and I watched her delicious hips sway as she walked like a victorious gladiator.

 My job wasn’t to ring up groceries, or make deliveries, but I did both.  She didn’t tell me to do it.  She didn’t make any insistence how it was to be done.  

 Just to do it.

 So I did.  

 Controlled by her invisible hand of force.

 I got off shift at three and waited around for two hours before I picked up the catering order and her additional items and drove to the listed address: a two story, stand alone building just off the main drag.  Over the years the place used to be a dance studio, then community rec center, then office space, changing identity almost every year.  It’s biggest selling point was adequate parking out back.

 It was now all black, with blackend glass windows, and a black sign splayed across the front proclaiming in even blacker letters that could only be seen in raking light: Queen of Spades.

 I parked out back.  I carried the huge tray and groceries like a circus balancing act and knocked on the back door with my foot.

 A beautiful woman dressed in all shining rubber opened the door.  Her blonde hair curled over her head like a crashing ocean wave as her polar blue eyes speared me like a pig.  Her full lips frowned a smile as she motioned with a nod to grant me access.

 I flattened against the wall to slide past her mammoth, breath stealing tits.  

 I made my way in and someone pointed to a table by the wall.  

 I set the table.

 Again, not my job, but I had all the materials and it was an expensive order and it was good customer service to display our work properly.

 Bullshit.

 As I spread out the paper table cloth and arranged the napkins and plastic forks, I had only one thought: to please Beatrice.  I had met her for ten-seconds and all I wanted was her approval.

 When I finished my set up with a satisfied grin, I clasped my hands together and looked up, almost hoping to show off how nice a paper plate arrangement could be, and discovered I was adrift on a raft in a sea of leather.

 I was certainly underdressed.

 Women had arrived through the main entrance, and were chatting, greeting each other with hugs, and pantomiming kisses.  They wore spandex, darlex, latex, PVC and leather in every shade of the rainbow including infrared and ultraviolet.  They walked on dangerously high heels, and brandished whips and polished handcuffs from utility belts.

 In the center of the maelstrom, like a lighthouse in a storm, was Beatrice.  Where black was the prominent color, she wore a long victorian dress of white leather, its train softly sweeping the floor.  Clasped about her waist was a severe corset of deep blood that shaped her perfect body perfectly.  Her white gloves flashed as she shook hands and greeted all the women.

 The only skin she showed was her face.

 My heart stilled.

 So beautiful.

 A woman walked up to the table and I forced to focus on my self-appointed task.  I walked through the menu of the available finger food and helped her build a plate, including the proper sauces and condiments.  As more women made their way over, I assisted then as well, making sure they had whatever utensils and napkins they needed.  I removed empty trays and plates and kept everything neat.

 The women headed over to the seating area by the stage, and with their food on their laps, dined.

 A woman went up on stage and made announcements and talked about up coming events.  Another woman then went over the night’s itinerary.

 I discreetly walked through and gathered up trash.  Someone asked for a cupcake and I fetched it.

 Finally a woman went on stage and said:  “And now someone who needs no introduction, a mistress, a ghoddess…”  she stressed the word, ghoddess.  “Miss Beatrice!”

 Hearing her name, I quickly scrambled back behind the table to get out of the way as the room filled with applause and shouts.  

 The lights dimmed and a spot light followed ghoddess Beatrice to the stage.

 “Pain is a response to stimuli,”  She began.  “as is pleasure.  Only the mind tells them apart.  Pain is a warning, and pleasure,”  Her smile made the audience shiver.  “is a treat.  But is there a difference?”  She tapped her temple.  “Only up here.  Tonight’s period of instruction is the erotic art of spanking.  For some of you, this will be new, for most of you…”  She eyed them playfully.  “a refresher.  However, for one, very special subject, this will be a life changing moment, and lucky you get to watch it unfold.”

 She pointed her finger like a dagger thrust.  “You!”

 The spot light swung over and blinded me.  As I held up my hands to block the unexpected brilliance, I realized that ghoddess Beatrice was talking to… me?

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World Dominatrix

By DX

Copyright, 7/2025 all rights reserved.

 We ‘met’ on an on-line dating website.  She was Hollywood beautiful, with long blonde hair and crystal blue eyes, and a lean, supermodel’s body, and when she pinged me on the app, I immediately knew it was fake.

 As an astro-physicist, I spent my life pouring over blurry images of the distant cosmos searching for trace signs of life, and not enough time on a social life on this planet.  My main exercise came from pedaling my bike up the long sloping hill to the observatory to gaze unblinkingly at the stars to ponder the universe with the sole hope that there was someone, lightyears away, gazing back.

 I was alone.

 And alone sucked.

 A colleague suggested the dating app and helped me set up what I would like in a friend—and on a dark, cloudy night, while waiting for spectrograph images, I opened the app and there she was: Amanda Winters, PHD.

 She literally took my breath away.  Her intense, fjord blue gaze was mesmerizing, as if she was calculating the depth of a black hole.  She had soft, kissable lips, and a tiny, slightly turned up nose.  Her magnificent breasts could not be hidden by a lab coat.

 All fake, it had to be.

 My first instinct was to hit ignore.  It was a scam.  I was not the kind of guy who got the pretty girl, but my hubris beckoned, that maybe, just maybe, she was pretty AND smart AND interested in me. 

 I decided to prove she was fake.

 It was what a scientist did.  Question everything.  Gather evidence and prove a theory.

 So I sat on the bench outside the observatory and searched on-line.  Instantly articles she had written on topics of theoretical physics appeared.  There were videos of her academic lectures, lists of her awards, references to books she had written on quantum theory.

 She was a fucking genius!  

 I noticed she had recently been on staff with an old friend who I hadn’t seen since post-grad, so I gave him a call.  As we caught up on current events, I slipped her name into conversation and he instantly regaled talks with her about ion fusion drives for spacecraft.  He then mentioned a partial attempt at getting to know her better, but she was only interested in his mind.

 While we talked, I realized Amanda was an intellectual butterfly, touching briefly on every science she could find.  She must have read my latest article on non-faster than light craft and space exploration and wanted to discuss the idea further with me.  She wasn’t looking for a ‘date’.

 But it was a dating app, right?

 I pinged her back.

 What harm could there be?  I was just an astro-physicist, and a boring one at that.  What could possibly go wrong?

 World conquering Supervillain was not on my list, but seriously, who would have thought that?  Scam artist?  Yes.  End of the World?  No.

 We chatted on the app.  Then chatted more off the app.  We fired theories back and forth, sent each other articles and equations we were working on.

 We hit it off.

 We finally met face to face at a lecture at University.  

 I was tongue tied.  Her beautiful radiance was stunning.  I did managed to joke, “You’re so bright, you have exceeded the SPF rating of my sunblock!”

 Her laughter was like crystal chimes.

 Amanda thought my joke was funny.  MY JOKE.  That should have been a clue she was evil.

 But it wasn’t.

 After the lecture we did lunch, and we talked about warping space, and science fiction, and movies, and non-sciency things.

 Like normal people.

 After that we saw each other regularly, and lunches turned to dinners, and conferences turned to get togethers, and one night, as we left a symposium of pre-dinosaur life, she suggested I stop by her place for a night cap.

 I was lost in her lidded eyes and coy glance, and I stared at her stupidly.

 “This is a subtle word suggestion,”  Amanda explained.  “to signal you my wish to participate with you in a non-work, intimate coital,”  She blushed.  “that may include physical contact, like touching, kissing, and possibly other interactions of mutual affection.”  She smiled awkwardly.  “If you’re interested in such things.”

 “Yeah.”  I mumbled.

 I followed in my car.  It was a twenty minute drive to a part of town I never went.  Science isn’t a wealth driving endeavor, and yet she lived in the part of town where all of the houses were hidden behind tall privacy hedges and ivy, and police officers wore white gloves and saluted when you drove by.

 Her mansion was the posh one.

 As her car approached, the tall wrought iron gates silently swung open, and we drove past the rooks and down the winding driveway, and through the opulent garden filled with nouveau art sculptures.

 We parked out front of the palatial doors.  “I made shrewd and calculated stock market investments.”  She said bashfully, explaining her amazing and obvious wealth as she stepped out of her car.  “It wasn’t hard, really.  I just used a little science.”  She then smiled shyly.  “I, uh… took the liberty to give the staff the night off.”  She shrugged.  “So we’ll have to fend for ourselves.”

 “I’m sure we can manage.”  I mustered as I followed her in to her beautiful, and perfect trap.

 Roman columns of marble towered around me, as haunting paintings by Dutch Masters loomed on the walls, their eyes magically following as we passed.  We entered the living-room, if you could call it that, a grand and spacial arena filled with pomp and circumstance.  It was a great palace, complete with a baby grand piano and a trickling water fountain of a little cherub endlessly taking a piss.

 My head was on a swivel, my face slack, as I took it all in.

 Most notably were the modern sculptures artistically arranged among the classic works, all of a repeating theme: Aged bronze, about two meters tall, maybe seventy centimeters wide, and forty centimeters deep.  They were rectangle, and maintained sharp ninety degree corners and edges, but they were twisted and spiraled, swooping and sloping into odd, sweeping shapes.  There were dozens of them all spread about the room, some in recesses, some as a main display with bright, focused spotlights trained on them.

 “I see you’re admiring my art.”  She said, handing me a glass of wine.

 “Elegant and understated.”  I said, sipping at my wine.  “The casting alone must have been challenging.”

 She nodded.  “Your mind is so quick.”  She chided.  “You’re already thinking of engineering, instead of the art form.”  She read my abashed expression, but dismissed it with a smile.  “You’re a scientist.  I would expect nothing less.”  She approached one of the statues and touched it.  “The rectangle is a defined, basic space.  It represents man.  I break the rules and make it pliable, flexible, contoured.”  Her eyes roved over the piece.  “In my hands, man is transformed, malleable.”

 As I sipped at my wine, I watched her breath deepen as her cheeks flushed.  Touching the sculpture was an erotic experience for her.

 She looked at me, and took my hand and pressed it to the sculpture.  “Hard, yet soft, unyielding, yet passive.”  Amanda explained, her breath a hot whisper.

 She kissed me.  Warm and wonderful.  She turned me around and pushed me against the sculpture, and there we were lip locked, tongues dueling, breath quickening, hissing as out passions grew.  She took the glass from my hand and flung it somewhere, the sound of it breaking was distant.

 Amanda’s fingers worked furiously to unbutton my shirt.  She then dragged me over to a couch and threw me down.  She climbed over me as she attacked my pants, and any attempt I made to talk she silenced with her lips.

 With our mouths merged as one, she freed my member, and it happily and quickly sprouted up.  She hiked up her dress, and dragged her glistening mons over me and stroked my cock to full with her labia minora.  When I was rock hard, Amanda enveloped me in her warm, wet lust.

 She moaned as her fingers became talons.  She gripped and pulled me into her as her hips shifted and bucked and rode me like a stallion.

 Amanda rose up, her hips astride me, and rocked easily back and forth, then as her passion flew madly, she put her fist to her mouth to stifle her building scream, while her other hand reached over and touched a sculpture mounted on the wall.

 As her fingers caressed the surface, I felt her heart flutter as her body broke and shifted and spasmed into a hard orgasm.

 She stilled, trying to catch her breath.  I was seconds behind, but she only patted my chest and peeled off me.  She sat on the couch edge and eyed my turgid, spasming cock.  “Oh, you were so close.”  She whispered.  

 I was primed, if Amanda touched me, I would have spewed like a fountain.  

 She only regarded me sadly.  “How unfortunate for you.”  She said.  “That was your last chance.  How sad is that?  Your last time ended in denial.”  Her cold eyes took me in.  “Yes, that is your world now; denial.  You’ll never orgasm again.”

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The Device

By DX

Copyright, 5/2025, all rights reserved.

 I met my old lover at a tech convention.  

 As I set up my booth, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, up the row of fellow merchants, and there she was.  It was the curves I remembered, her muscle wrapped amazon legs that went on forever, and the sweep of her battleship breasts.  At first I thought it must be someone else, but it was her, and I instantly remembered the press of her soft lips, the warmth of her body against mine, and the raging heat of her loins as she enveloped my turgid member.

 Like a zombie, I made my way up the row, dodging the press of other merchants scrambling to set up, and walked up to her.  

 Her perfume wrapped me like a warm blanket.

 “Hello, Claire.”  I said, trying to be all cool as she turned.  “It’s me…”

 “Mack!”  She squealed and launched at me.  

 “You remembered… Umm!”  She planted her wonderful lips against mine and suddenly it was twenty years ago when she was an impetuous mustang and I was a goofy kid struggling to keep up with her thunderous charge.  She held me, and I felt her all too familiar breasts against my chest.  When she parted, I gasped.  “I thought you wouldn’t recognize me.”

 “Oh, my Mack!”  She blinded me with her smile and pressed her lips against mine again.  “You haven’t changed!”  She exclaimed as we broke.  “How are you?  No wait!”  She touched my chest.  “You are wonderful!”

 I let out a laugh.  “I’ve a few more miles on the odometer.”  I took her in.  “You look wonderful.”

 She gave me a side glance.  “Do I?”  She reached down and brushed her hand subtly against my fly and felt for my stirring member.  “Oh, yes!  I’ve still got it!”  She took my hand and held it up.  “No ring?”  Her eyes flickered.  “Excellent.  Is it too early to make dinner plans?”

 Desperate to take some control back I laughed nervously.  “So what have you got going here?”

 She glanced dismissively at her booth.  “We’re selling As Seen On TV crap.”  She sneered, glancing at the items being put on display.  She then looked up at the man behind the table.  “Oh, Mack,”  She said remembering.  “This is my boyfriend.”

 There I was, one arm draped around her waist, her arm around mine, and the boyfriend right there.

 I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Claire was intelligent, charming, and explosive in bed.  Her beauty was disarming and cutting.  Her smile could flay a man’s soul.  Of course she would have a boyfriend.  

 Claire never slept alone.

 Trying to act as if I wasn’t just making out with his girlfriend, I held out my hand.  “Hey, I’m Mack.”

 In the din of the convention all, I could barely hear his response.  “I’m George.”  He grinned at me.

 I saw his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

 He clasped his hand in mine and I gave it a congratulatory shake, a bit of; man to man, you got a hell of a woman and I envy the fuck you are about to receive, but his grip was a little lackluster, and I might have over done it.

 He was clean shaven, his hair a little thin, and a bit of baby fat to his cheeks.  He wasn’t a bad looking guy.  He was young, younger than me by a decade at least.  Claire and I were the same age, so I guessed that his dry toast aura magically changed to a hopped up street racer full of youthful exuberance in bed.  Let’s face it, if he didn’t, Claire would chew him up and spit him out.  Claire wasn’t one to waste time and was unapologetic.  If you didn’t measure up, she moved on.  Claire was a radiant lighthouse of seething sexuality, guiding many to her rocky shores, and there was always a line to take your place.  

 I decided not to make things any more awkward.  “Well, I gotta go finish setting up before the crowd comes in.”  I glanced at Claire.  “I’ll see you… ulp!”

 She planted her lips on mine, and her tongue flashed in.  I gently pushed her back, cognizant of her boyfriend standing right there, and broke the kiss.

 I went back to my table, my lips still warm, and yes, my cock still stirring.  When you were with Claire, you were with Claire.  When you were not with Claire, she was a free, sexual, and very wild spirit.  She was a goddess, with long curly hair, suave skin, and polar icecap eyes.  

 It was a little weird for her to be that open in front of her current boyfriend, and I couldn’t help but fantasize they were on the way out and she was thinking of rekindling an old flame, but it was just that: Fantasy.  Claire didn’t need a middle aged couch dweller like me anymore.  She needed a stallion.

 I grinned, and decided to live vicariously through George.

 “Go get ‘em, kid.”  I whispered my encouragement.

 But as the convention began, and the crowd shuffled in, I couldn’t help but peer up the row and watch Claire work her magic.

 She stood in front of her table like a temple of beauty, beguiling customers in.  She didn’t have to sell anything.  She left her aura to do that.  She only had to smile, admire someone’s watch, or tie, and they would linger, and then buy something as an excuse to stay a little longer.

 At my table, I handed out some pamphlets, explained the tech, and got some positive nods, which was to be expected.  My goal was to get my name out there and hopefully drum up some future business.

 As I talked to one potential customer, I noticed Claire walk over and pick up my brochure and carefully began to read it.  This caused other potentials to slow as they passed, step back, and pick up a brochure.

 Then she began her magic.

 It took her less than a minute to grasp the tech, analyze the market and customer base, learn the lingo, and line them up.

 I was starting a new side gig.  In the city were hundreds of manufacturers operating machines built during the industrial revolution that currently ran held together by bent paperclips and a prayer.  I had dumped all my savings into a fabricator that when programed properly, could take a hunk of metal, steel, iron, aluminum, and carve it into whatever you needed; meaning I could produce replacement parts for hundred plus year old machines.

 I had spent all day with casual glances and handed out four pamphlets.  Claire had them signing up and placing orders in minutes.

 By the end of the day I had to stop taking sales as I was now on six month back order.  

 I blinked, stunned.  “I owe you dinner!”

 She smiled devilishly.  “George is securing our booth,”  She looked at my table.  “and you don’t have any actual merchandise,”  She looked up at me, her blue eyes peering through her long lashes.   “Walk me up to my hotel room and let me change.”

 I looked abashed.  “Oh, I think I’m going to need adult supervision.”

 “Why?”  She leaned slightly and showed off her cavernous cleavage.  “We’re both adults.”

 I glanced nervously up the row where George was.

 She leaned close.  “He can get his own adult.  I already told him I was going to fuck you.”

 I blushed.  “I should get condoms.”  I murmured in a half joke.

 Claire almost laughed.  “I know you, Mac.”

 We made out in the elevator.

 She took my hand, slipped it under her skirt, and plunged my fingers up into fiery snatch as she sucked deep on my tongue.  The doors opened for another floor and we unhitched and stood there while someone boarded.  They took one look at us standing against the back of the elevator, and decided to take another car.

 We went at it when the doors closed again.

 On her floor, we ran to her room giggling like teenagers.  Once inside, we stripped off our clothes before the door closed.

 Claire grabbed me, pushed me down in to the chair and quickly mounted me.  She slid her glistening snatch against my throbbing manhood before sliding me deep within.  She shuttered, her nails digging in, and I felt her warm tunnel spasm.

 “Don’t move.”  She commanded, and rocked her hips ever so slightly.  She leaned forward with her pendulous melons and pressed her nipple into my mouth.

 I sucked like a starving man and she came hard as her powerful body clenched tightly against me.  She screamed like a thunderstorm.

 “Oh, fuck!”  She panted, shivering.  “That was… fuck I missed you.”  Shuddering, she climbed off me.  “Give me a moment, let me finish you.”

 I opened my mouth to speak, but she shushed me with a kiss.  

 “You be quiet now.”  She whispered.  “Oh, I needed that.”  She shifted to her knees and held my cock.  “Just as I need this.”

 I felt her lips ring around me as her talented tongue went to work.  She slowly nodded her head, pushing just to the point of gagging, and I clutched the arms of the chair as I felt my wave build.

 Her lips, her hot tongue curling like a lizard, her soft cheeks like a cave to the center of the Earth, Claire touched the all the points using the map she had made of my dick so long ago.

 I grunted like a raged bear as I came.

 I laid back in the chair, amazed and stunned.

 Claire got up, a little shaky, and glanced at me with a dubious look, her cheeks a little bulging.  She gave me a casual side glance, then slipped over to the door of her connected suite and opened it.

 Sitting on the edge of the bed was George.

 She walked up to him, grabbed his face, and pinched his jaw until it opened, then threw her mouth over his.  When he gagged from the sudden, salty brine she spat into his mouth, she held onto him.  “Don’t you dare spit it out.  And don’t you swallow it!”  She barked.  “Hold it on your tongue.  I want you to taste a real man’s cum!  You hold it there until I come back.”

 She came back into the room, and closed the door behind her.

 She was smirking.

 I didn’t know what had just happened, but I was hard as a rock.



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