Human Bondage – Volume Eleven

Human Bondage – Volume Eleven

The enslavement of man to woman has been the subject of countless books down the ages, from Masoch to Maugham, and shows no sign of slowing down.

Now, FDC bring you the “Human Bondage” collection, with the books in each volume describing the gradual and insidious fall to servitude, and the sexual and domestic conditioning of unwilling and once-proud men, to all too willing – and sometimes evil – women.

The Eleventh volume in the collection contains two works, opening with Sydne Albright’s tale of domestic and sexual bondage, “Venus in Norfolk”; followed by Matt Bennett’s story of injustice and interracial domination, “She Knew Who He Was”.

EXCERPTS

“Venus in Norfolk”

Fiona had seen the picture before, I must tell you – this was her third day in my home after all, and, as it hung so prominently above the fireplace she could hardly have missed it. But only now, I could tell, with the aid of the vino and the cognac, was she ready to comment upon it more… fully. Her still fresh and unlined face, bathed in the flickering warmth of the fire, assured me the depicted scene was making a profound and indescribable impression upon her.

It was a large pastel for which I had commissioned a talented but – surprise, surprise – cash-strapped art-student. It’s sensuous, some would certainly say ‘depraved’, subject matter in no way diluted by the softer medium and, if anything, adding something of the erotically ethereal to the already decadent scene it depicted.

I studied her expression as she in turn studied the pastel and assured myself there was more in the way of appreciative curiosity than the usual judgemental distaste one has come to expect from… the little people. In truth, despite the gap between our last meeting in the flesh, I had been confident the above appreciation would prove the case. Though I did have some small doubts as to her reaction when the story behind the pastel was hers in full.

A haughty and coldly attractive woman, wrapped in diaphanous silk of the purest white, and with a self-involved smile upon the sculpted but angular and severe contours of her face, raven black hair tied into a classical knot, was resting in classical repose upon an ottoman. Her chin was supported by the elbow of her left arm and it was plainly obvious that she was naked beneath the flowing folds of her gown.

But that nakedness alone did not supply the pastel with its decadence.

And neither did the rather obvious fact she appeared to be missing that the woman herself was me.

For a large part of that particular honour was owed to the lash with which her right hand toyed.

But, even then, it was another aspect of the study that lent the pastels such a sexually… disturbing… air.

For where her bare foot should have rested upon either rug or carpet, it was placed carelessly and without self-consciousness on a man. Resting upon the top of his head as if he were of little more account than an over-trained canine, the creamy sole of her foot keeping the side of his face pressed to the patterned weave beneath it. And yet, despite the woman’s undeniable insouciance and untroubled air, there was in the handsome and well-formed lineaments of this man a kind of brooding melancholy that did not sit comfortably with the obeisance he was being forced to make turning out to be… willing.

Even more puzzling to my friend, I told myself, must have been the fact that this handsome man was a decade or so older in years than the female he was allowing to show him such… contempt.

“Your tastes in respect of men haven’t changed in the intervening years, I see?” she said, following her comment with a sip of cognac; no trace of her second country discernible in her accent and reassuring me that she remained the no-nonsense girl she had been when we both shared rooms and studied Business Economics at Lincoln.

I simply smiled.

So obvious an observation must surely be rhetorical – especially as she had yet to realise the haughty woman in the pastel was – if a somewhat idealised version – her friend.

“Still plagued by the same old fantasies we shared in college, Wanda?” she asked in a somewhat one-up and irritating tone, switching to an approach that required answering.

“You think you’re looking at a fantasy?” I asked her, feigning bemusement before her immediate puzzlement fetched amusement to my lips.

I gave her a tut-tut.

“You always knew I was serious in my tastes, Fiona” I told her with just the mildest hint of rebuke for a tone that, while it had not been judgemental exactly, had seemed ever so slightly superior. “As I recall, the prospect of virtually indenturing a man of your own didn’t seem too trivial at the time either.”

Her face flushed as she recalled some of her own and more outlandish flights of fantasy she had decided to share with her best friend at the time.

Though she recovered herself swiftly.

“Please, Wanda. We were no more than girls. Not fully formed. They were just silly adolescent dreams.”

“Perhaps, but I seem to recall you getting quite worked up over them, Fin,” I reminded her, using the diminutive I’d always substituted for her first name.”

She shrugged; embarrassed, no doubt, by her former reactions to some of the literature we had shared with each other.

“And besides,” I went on, “some of us prefer to dream with our eyes open.”

Her eyes narrowed at this quote from Masoch and I waited for the expected interrogation.

It followed on the back of her finishing off her cognac and offering her glass for a refill.

“Are you saying this picture is…”

“Real,” I finished for her. “Posed for in front of the art-student I commissioned – and much to my ‘male model’s’ reluctance and humiliation, I might tell you.”

“But…” She looked at the pastel version of me more closely and then laughed and shook her head playfully. “You’re sending me up!”

Then, less confidently:

“Aren’t you?”

*****

“She Knew Who He Was” 

Sweat poured from him as the women stood over him.

He was naked.

Naked and vulnerable before a group of laughing and fully clothed younger women, ridiculing him as only young women can ridicule an older man who was no threat to them.

Quite the opposite.

The only one under threat in this scenario was the older and naked man himself.

By no means ashamed of his fortysomething body and slightly above average endowment, the jibes about his “pathetic equipment” and “scrawny body” took him straight back to the insecurities of the playground and his feelings of inferiority around girls.

But these were not schoolgirls and he was a long way from the playground he had hated so much.

Which did not lessen his humiliation one whit.

He had heard and read of men who actually hankered after such abuse and went so far as to seek it out – even paying for it on occasion. But he could find no common-ground with their predilection for such treatment as one of the young women pulled back a long and shapely leg, before bringing it forward that the point of her heeled shoe might jab into his midriff and rob him of air. 

“Pathetic!” he heard one of them jeer from above and to the side, accompanied by giggles and sneers from the others as they took pleasure from his disgrace.

“What should we do with him?” he heard another ask; the youngest of them, a pretty barely twenty-year-old with a look of world weariness that would not have been out of place on a woman three decades her senior. 

“Well a fuck’s out of the question. Look at that cringing excuse for a cock!”

This from a brunette with what seemed to be a perpetual sneer, looking down at his naked body as if it were something she had struggled to scrape from her Jimmy Choo’s.

“We wouldn’t know it was in us,” laughed a particularly humourless blonde; her gift-free bon mot provoking the kind of laughter a talented stand-up comic could only dream of receiving.

“I know,” offered a tattooed and pierced piece with short and cropped black hair and skin-tight leather leggings that showcased a pair of surprisingly shapely and powerful young legs.

The others stared at her with curiosity. 

“How about we make him pull himself off while he’s on his knees and we watch?”

A chorus of approval greeted her suggestion, though one of them, the pretty one, standing next to an older girl with short hair and glasses, added a proviso: 

“Okay, but only if he spurts his stuff over my shoes and then licks it off afterwards.” 

A proviso that provoked shrieks of laughter and a unanimous agreement.

He felt fingers in his hair and a hand drag him up by hair until he was looking, despite their youth, into a pair of distinctly hostile and utterly implacable eyes.

The brunette again, displaying a huge expanse of cleavage as he leaned in towards him that revealed what he could only admit were an impressive pair of young tits, stood before him.

“You’re going to pull your little cock off for us,” she assured him, “and when all your filthy stuff bubbles out of it you’re going to make sure you spread it all over young Nell’s lovely red pumps with the peek-a-boo toes.” 

The pretty one laughed at the brunette’s request then watched as her friend drew back and delivered him a resounding slap that rocked his head to the side.

“And,” she went on, “if you disappoint us, we’re all going to take turns kicking your balls until they’re so much mush. Got it?”

Terrified, despite his advanced age and their youth, ne nodded.

And received an even more powerful slap.

“Show some respect, you pig” Say: yes, Ms Rachel.”

 The words and the voice leaving his mouth as he instantly acquiesced were, he had to confess, every bit as pathetic as they insisted him to be.

“Y-Yes, Ms Rachel.”

“Good pig… Nell?… He’s all yours.

Eyes on the floor, he watched as the peek-a-boo toes of Nell’s red-shoes entered his vision. 

Then: 

“Go on then,” he heard the young woman’s contemptuous and impatient order. “What are you waiting for? Start pulling on that little cock.” 

He looked up into her young eyes, hoping to see some compassion there.

He was disappointed.

“Now!” she commanded with all the authority of her twenty years. “And look at me when you do it.”

Shocked to discover he was already hard under such treatment, his eyes misted over as they stared into hers and he began to pull himself off; amazed as his excitement built almost instantly to a crescendo and he…”

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