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Secrets of the Contessa

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Secrets Of The Contessa by Rose Thornwell

FEMDOM EROTICA. Drew Kaplan, aka Mike Irons writes fiction for men who like to see women spanked. In real life, however, it's Drew who bends, for his athletic assistant Tamarin. He's kept on a short leash, living in delicious fear of his own kitchen utensils, which Tamarin uses daily on his naked ass. The one thing he can't have is sex. Tamarin is secretly afraid of falling in love, which is exactly what happens the night she finally stops teasing and lets him pleasure her as the slaveboy he wants to be.

Before Drew can respond, he receives a strange summons from a notorious Contessa, known as the Female De Sade for her treatment of the men she keeps at her castle in central Italy. The savagely beautiful Contessa wants Drew to write about her lifestyle and won't take no for an answer. Once there, Drew gets more than an eyeful as he documents the daily trials happily endured by the Contessa's bevy of submissive males. But soon Drew must do more than observe as he is claimed by Fiona, the Contessa's eighteen year old understudy. As Fiona's "puppy", he endures much than he does from Tamarin, and when he rebels he faces consequences that will leave him begging to obey Fiona for the rest of his life. Is this the end of the line or does the Contessa have a hidden agenda of her own? And what of Tamarin? Will she miss her man enough to fight for him?

An intense and fast paced novel Thornwell fans are sure to love! Femdom bdsm.


“Get me that spatula over there,” she pointed a long pink nail toward the rack on the mosaic multicolor counter. “And be quick about it.”
I felt hot and weak and bad all over. I was a stranger in my own kitchen, a marionette under command; my own utensils about to be used against me. I grasped the spatula; the very one I used to flip eggs and grilled cheese sandwiches.
Humbly, full of anticipation I passed it to my employee, about to become my dominator.
She held it, tapping it in her palm. It was gleaming silver, metal. I had no idea how much it would hurt. “Pants down, Mr. Irons In The Fire.”
I unbuttoned my jeans and pulled down the zipper. My cock was straining at the material of my briefs. “All the way?” I asked.
She slapped my hard stomach with the flat of the spatula. I felt it, even through the material of my t-shirt. “That’s right, bright boy, all the way to the ankles.”
I bent over, tugging them past my knees. I felt silly and very helpless standing up straight afterwards.
“Hands at your sides.”
Shit. I was afraid of that. Houston, we have a problem.
“What’s the meaning of this?” She touched the edge of the spatula to my thinly covered shaft.
“It’s...it’s nothing.”
“Nothing? It looks like an aroused penis. Is it?”
She slapped my belly again. “Didn’t I tell you I’m not here for sex?”
“Yes, Tamarin. I’m sorry...”
“You need your ass beat,” she decided. “Now.”
“I’m ready, Tamarin.”
“We’ll see about that.” She grabbed the collar of my t-shirt and shredded it. “Hard nipples,” she disapproved, pulling the torn shirt down over my back.
For punishment, I received a little thwack to left one from a spatula. I cringed from the sensation, at once pleasant and uncomfortable.
She left it there, rubbing and caressing, cold metal against the tiny, blood engorged nub, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I looked at her piteously.
She didn’t stop until she was good and ready. My cock ached so badly with the need to be touched. “Over the table, Irons in the Fire,” she gave me my orders. “Face down.”
I had to press my bare chest to the cool surface. The sensation made me moan softly. Did she intend this as foreplay?
In preparation for punishment, she made me grip the far side of the table and push my pelvis hard against the hard edge. As a final gesture of domination, she ordered me to spread my legs.
I was totally exposed, nothing to protect me but the underwear. I couldn’t see her either, which drove me crazy.
“I bet you’re wondering,” she caressed my lower back. “If I’ve done this before?”
“I am hoping you’ll know enough not to leave splinters,” making a weak joke.
She yanked down the briefs. “Let’s just say you’re not the first bad boy to let it all hang out for Mistress Tamarin.”
“I like the sound of that. May I call you Mistress?” I asked.
“You’re not my boyfriend, sorry.”
“What would it take?”
She pinched me with her nails. “You’re an insolent, pushy little man, aren’t you?”
Tamarin struck me with the spatula. It hurt. “Ow, fuck!”
She repeated the action on my other buttock, even harder. “No swearing, no talking, no reacting without permission.”
“Yes,” I winced.
“Your little outburst earned you ten more,” she informed me.
“Fifteen then.”
I shut my mouth.
“You will count each blow, is that clear?”
“You will count the number and thank me by name. Miss any and we start all over.”
I missed the very first one.
Fuck. I had tears in my eyes. “One, thank you, Tamarin,” I quickly called after the next one.
“Is this how it is for the girls in your stories?”
“Two, thank you, Tamarin,” I reacted.
“Oh, wait, I forgot, you aren’t a girl so you wouldn’t know what it’s like to have to crawl to some asshole and lick his shoes.”
“T—three, thank you, Tamarin.”
Oh, god, this was killing me. I’d never make it.
“You think every female lives to submit to a man?” She continued her interrogation. “You think the prospect of groveling makes us all orgasmic?”
“I...I don’t know. I never said that. People buy the books. That’s all I know.”
Metal heat rained down.
“Four,” I grimaced. “Thank you...Tamarin.”
“You know what I think?”
“W—what, Tamarin?”
“I think guys like you who write about stuff like this…you secretly want it all done to you. You just don’t have the balls to admit it.”
“Five...oh, fuck...”
“I think you’ll sleep on your stomach tonight, what about you?”
“T—thank you...Tamarin.”
Six, seven and eight followed with rapid fire. Then some more talking, followed by more spanks. I hopped up and down, one foot to the other; I made sounds I didn’t know I was capable of.
“Calm down,” she chided. “You’re carrying on like a baby.”
Somewhere along the line I actually started to cry. She stopped and said this was normal. I took her word for it.
“We’ll finish another time.” She sat me on the couch, gave me a blanket and made tea. We snuggled for a while; she fell asleep against my chest.
I didn’t have the heart to wake her but I knew she had her test.
She wasn’t mad. “I’ll catch up to you tomorrow,” she kissed my cheek at the door. “See you later.”

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