Beneath The Heel – Book One

Beneath The Heel – Book One

A collection of works from FDC describing the fates of various men who discover their destiny “Beneath the Heel” of the woman of authority.

Whether they want it that way or not!

Book-One in the collection contains: “Ms Norcross” by Frieda Overrath; “The Other Life” from Caspar Michael Friedrich; and “Breaking the Ex Husband” by Hillary Marshall.


(From: “Ms Norcross”)

Through the open door of the bathroom, he heard her heels peck their way up from the ground-floor of the impeccable home he had only just managed to clean and polish to her standards before her arrival back.

Normally, he would have been waiting with the front-door open in anticipation of the crunch of tires on the gravel of the courtyard and the entrance of her Volkswagen Scirocco swinging in to a halt. Then it would be a dignified rush – she found it disrespectful to be kept waiting but expected her “Man” to maintain a certain decorum – to open her door and stand respectfully to one side as her shapely limbs, bare and tan, or sensuously hosed, heralded her arrival on home turf. He would then retrieve her briefcase from the Scirocco’s interiors – and any other work she had fetched home with her – before serving her the pale sherry she enjoyed to drink chilled and removing her footwear. The latter prior to supplying her feet, sweaty and fragrant from a day at the office, with a most intense and satisfying foot-massage.

Intense and satisfying for her, that is.

Such was not the case today.

Today his bare arse was planted upon the chill of the bathroom’s ceramic floor-tile in her en-suite while his splayed feet displayed his denuded cock and balls to the gaze of anyone entering. Together with the tip of a pierced foreskin and a cage attached to a tiny combination padlock at his likewise pierced scrotum that kept the two together. A sure means of preventing any unauthorised erections and incurring her wrath. 

But it was not the display of himself he found so mortifying on this occasion.

That honour went to the toilet basin he could feel against his back and the use she would make of it upon her return home.

 A use of which she had given him prior knowledge, certain it would play upon his mind all day as he went about the completion of the chores she had set him and ensure his dread of what would happen when she returned – despite the humiliations he had endured at her hands thus far – would give an abject physical act the symbolism she fully intended him to accord it.

As her heels pecked a passage to the top of the stairs upon the stripped pine that covered the whole house save for the kitchen and bathrooms, the same flooring she insisted he maintain at the most pristine of levels, he shifted forward and then slid back so that his head overhung the bowl of the toilet itself; careful to ensure that his hands were clasped “respectfully” behind his back.

Just as she expected.

The pecking moved closer along the hallway and he felt a lump at his throat that was a mixture of nervousness, revulsion, and a desire to twist around and vomit into the bowl at the approach of a woman he knew at some level to be deeply disturbed. 

Even if her social, professional, and financial standing spoke against his certainty.

At least with those without specialised knowledge of their subject.

How could any person, let alone a member of the so-called softer and more sensitive sex, do what she was about to do and still be regarded as one-hundred-percent sane? 

And what would those outsiders viewing her behaviour make of the man who allowed her to gratify her perverse and putrid desires?

The sounds of her approaching footfall took on a different timbre as the heels of her courts exchanged stripped pines for ceramic floor tile and he sensed her eyes drinking in the sight he made for her.

And why would she not quench her thirst in such a way?  

Had she not been the one, after all, who had insisted upon the piercing of his genitals?

Small surprise then, given that she had also eschewed the employment of a man or a woman trained to perform such depraved mutilation and taken on the job herself, that she would find the sight of her own handiwork so… enthralling. 

“Good boy, Michael,” her voice gave praise that was patronising and demeaning at one and the same time; devoid of any infection that might hint at the looks provided her courtesy of a Basque mother and her antecedents. “I am pleased with you. You have divined my wishes to the letter.”

It was, he told himself, no great compliment to him, seeing as how she had taken such pains to ensure he knew exactly what she required. 

And the penalties he would incur were he to… disappoint. 

“If it is a consolation to that manhood I know you cling to so doggedly and, I am afraid, pointlessly,” she began, the cold Northern looks supplied by her father belying the warmer southern influence supplied from her mother’s side of the union; “then I can tell you that what is about to happen between us is neither new nor unusual.” 

Above him, and out of sight of eyes, when they were not screwed shut in a futile attempt to blot out his shame, that could see only white stucco ceiling, he heard a low chuckle.


 “Or at least it wasn’t in the Japan of the Middle-Ages.”

Eyes closed, he heard a rustling as she raised her skirt, knowing as he did, having dressed her that morning, that today she had eschewed the wearing of panties to work.

That she may be ready to “mark” her “property” the moment she returned.

“Who do you belong to?” she asked, a question that was unthinkable to him not so long before now seeming almost… natural.

 Unwillingly, but knowing she expected it of him, he allowed his eyes to flutter open.

The sight was incredible and, under almost any other circumstances, he knew he would have found the denuded gash peering down at him with pitiless inscrutability… arousing. 

But not today, he told himself. 

Not now.

Perhaps never.

In this, he was about to be proved spectacularly wrong.

“I belong to you, Ma’am,” the words left his lips, careful to be audible enough that she did not make him repeat his words and humiliate himself doubly.

But then, he thought to himself, what possible difference could it make. The jockey wearing the colours of his pride had spurred his mount into a gallop and disappeared over the horizon some time ago. Never to be seen again.

“Good boy, Michael,” he heard again from above, his view of that cold yet erotic face obscured by an equally sexy cunt she assured him his cock would never feel either side of its rampant need – even if she did decide his behaviour warranted his manhood being given an airing. Even her praise of him serving only to demean what had once been a vibrant and masculine sense of self. 

“Now,” she continued. “I want you to stare up into your owner’s superior womanhood and not close your eyes.”

Her voice became stern and, despite the shame he felt for his reaction, tiny egg-bumps of fear erupted the length of his body.

“I will know if you do and will be most disappointed. Understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, though his eyes were firmly closed still.

“Open them now,” she ordered. 

It was an effort for him. After all the blows to his manhood she had delivered he might have expected to be a little more inured to his situation, but that was manifestly not the case. Memories of that not so far distant existence when he functioned as a real man, worthy of respect, kept re-surfacing to make the daily humiliations of a social and sexual kind she served up to him as painful now as they had been at the beginning of her conquest of his will and his individuality.

Again, as he stared up at that slit of womanly perfection – the same slit that was about to proclaim its ownership of him and mark his body as hers in the most ancient of ways one human could declare ownership of another – he asked himself why, if his anger and moral outrage for what she was doing to him was so great – was the cock he had only just declared disinterested responding to her with such painful desperation.

He could see her eyes above him as she bent at the waist and, even from his reversed perspective, he could see the shine of her unnatural excitement and anticipation for, and of, what was to come.

“As with the Shoguns of old,” she told him unnecessarily, given she had warned him of what to expect ahead of time and explained the provenance as well as the significance of the ancient ritual, “I am exercising my natural superiority over an inferior being to mark it with my waste as a possession.” 

He felt revulsion and impotent anger do battle in his soul and felt both come up wanting. He neither vomited and nor was he stung into the physical rebellion that might have reversed his emasculation. As a rodent mesmerised by a snake, he could do nothing more than remain in place and stare up at that part of her anatomy about to baptise him in his servitude to her. 

A knowledge of what was about to befall him that made her commentary wholly unnecessary.

Save for the fact it gave her such incredible pleasure to speak such words to him. 

“When my piss has anointed your body and enough time has passed for it to dry,” she spoke down to him, “I shall allow to you to clean yourself.” 

Her smile from its reversed perspective was no less evil for being rapturous.

“But from that moment in a few seconds’ time when my bodily waste anoints your body as mine, and even after you have cleaned yourself of the scent belonging to your owner, you will know beyond any shade of deniability that your life has passed into my possession.”


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