Cruel Domme’s Playroom
The sexy young Domme calls herself Lamia. In the 21st century people have unusual names. Her birth certificate tells a different story. Her chosen name is apt.
Lamia’s erotic hungers are tremendous. Her means of satisfaction, source of orgasm requires more than friction.
Young men flirt. They offer gifts. They seek to charm. She often smiles at these admirers but her eyes show only indifference.
She does not care if a man is handsome. Nor his wealth. Youth does not win her attention.
She may pick a fat middle age man. She smiles at the dismay of the young, handsome, rich men. How can such an ordinary man win her favor.
She never answers questions. Even if she wanted to, what could she say?
She never understands her choice. Intuition, instinct, some invisible part of her brain selects the men who go home with her. Maybe it is a woman’s gift, part of her feminine nature. Or a special faculty, a component of her sadism.
She just knows he is the one.
She used to spend more time with the men. Seeing them a few or several times. Slowly moving them toward their fate.
She teased them. Her slaps and pinches seemed to promise pleasure. Light bondage earned caresses.
Her lips and tongue enslaved the men.
Steel replaced plastic. Escape from handcuffs was impossible.
Drunk on lust the men felt no fear. Even when she led them down the stairs to her basement.
Shackles suspended from the ceiling. Racks, bondage crosses, gray walls illuminated by tapes created a grim medieval atmosphere.
It was too late. Shouts and pleas brought only laughter.
She lit a brazier. Games with hot metal, would not start for hours.
First she used a riding crop. Then a cane. Corporal punishment ended – for a time – corporal punishment.
Lamia enjoys each man’s suffering. Savoring the subtle variations in screams.
She improvises. He might not last the night. Few persist for more than three.
His loss is no matter. Horny men are everywhere.