It was still early, and the little octagonal room in the Tribuna was
filled with half-lights like a sanctuary; I stood with folded hands
in deep adoration before the silent image of the divinity.

But I did not stand for long.

Not a human soul was in the gallery, not even an Englishman, and I
fell down on my knees. I looked up at the lovely slender body, the
budding breasts, the virginal and yet voluptuous face, the fragrant
curls which seemed to conceal tiny horns on each side of the forehead.

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:04:04. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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Venus of Medici
Female Led Relationships - Femdom Erotica, Female Domination Fiction, Submissive Male Fantaises, F/m Stories

“Well, has everything gone as you wished?” I asked tenderly, kissing
her hand.

“Yes, dear heart,” she replied, “and we shall leave to-night. Help
me pack my trunks.”

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:45:24. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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Packing
Female Led Relationships - Femdom Erotica, Female Domination Fiction, Submissive Male Fantaises, F/m Stories

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:06:56. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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Her Laughter
Female Led Relationships - Femdom Erotica, Female Domination Fiction, Submissive Male Fantaises, F/m Stories

“Whom shall I announce?” I ask him in French. He timidly shakes his
head.

“Do you, perhaps, understand some German?” he asks shyly.

“Yes. Your name, please.”

“Oh! I haven’t any yet,” he replies, embarrassed–”Tell your
mistress the German painter from the Cascine is here and would like–
but there she is herself.”

Wanda had stepped out on the balcony, and nodded toward the stranger.

“Gregor, show the gentleman in!” she called to me.

I showed the painter the stairs.

“Thanks, I’ll find her now, thanks, thanks very much.” He ran up the
steps. I remained standing below, and looked with deep pity on the
poor German.

Venus in Furs has caught his soul in the red snares of hair. He will
paint her, and go mad.

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:00:20. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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1. The Painter II
2. Livery
3. Whip Me Too!

The Painter
Female Led Relationships - Femdom Erotica, Female Domination Fiction, Submissive Male Fantaises, F/m Stories

And she–she veritably devoured him with her radiant green eyes–and
did everything possible to meet him again.

The cunning coquetry with which she walked, moved, and looked at
him, almost stifled me. On the way home I remarked about it. She knit
her brows.

“What do you want,” she said, “the prince is a man whom I might
like, who even dazzles me, and I am free. I can do what I please–”

“Don’t you love me any longer–” I stammered, frightened.

“I love only you,” she replied, “but I shall have the prince pay
court to me.”

“Wanda!”

“Aren’t you my slave?” she said calmly. “Am I not Venus, the cruel
northern Venus in Furs?”

I was silent. I felt literally crushed by her words; her cold look
entered my heart like a dagger.

“You will find out immediately the prince’s name, residence, and
circumstances,” she continued. “Do you understand?”

“But–”

“No argument, obey!” exclaimed Wanda, more sternly than I would have
thought possible for her, “and don’t dare to enter my sight until you
can answer my questions.”

It was not till afternoon that I could obtain the desired
information for Wanda. She let me stand before her like a servant,
while she leaned back in her arm-chair and listened to me, smiling.
Then she nodded; she seemed to be satisfied.

“Bring me my footstool,” she commanded shortly.

I obeyed, and after having put it before her and having put her feet
on it, I remained kneeling.

“How will this end?” I asked sadly after a short pause.

She broke into playful laughter. “Why things haven’t even begun yet.”

“You are more heartless than I imagined,” I replied, hurt.

“Severin,” Wanda began earnestly. “I haven’t done anything yet, not
the slightest thing, and you are already calling me heartless. What
will happen when I begin to carry your dreams to their realization,
when I shall lead a gay, free life and have a circle of admirers
about me, when I shall actually fulfil your ideal, tread you
underfoot and apply the lash?”

“You take my dreams too seriously.”

“Too seriously? I can’t stop at make-believe, when once I begin,”
she replied. “You know I hate all play-acting and comedy. You have
wished it. Was it my idea or yours? Did I persuade you or did you
inflame my imagination? I am taking things seriously now.”

“Wanda,” I replied, caressingly, “listen quietly to me. We love each
other infinitely, we are very happy, will you sacrifice our entire
future to a whim?”

“It is no longer a whim,” she exclaimed.

“What is it?” I asked frightened.

“Something that was probably latent in me,” she said quietly and
thoughtfully. “Perhaps it would never have come to light, if you had
not called it to life, and made it grow. Now that it has become a
powerful impulse, fills my whole being, now that I enjoy it, now that
I cannot and do not want to do otherwise, now you want to back out–
you–are you a man?”

“Dear, sweet Wanda!” I began to caress her, kiss her.

“Don’t–you are not a man–”

“And you,” I flared up.

“I am stubborn,” she said, “you know that. I haven’t a strong
imagination, and like you I am weak in execution. But when I make up
my mind to do something, I carry it through, and the more certainly,
the more opposition I meet. Leave me alone!”

She pushed me away, and got up.

“Wanda!” I likewise rose, and stood facing her.

“Now you know what I am,” she continued. “Once more I warn you. You
still have the choice. I am not compelling you to be my slave.”

“Wanda,” I replied with emotion and tears filling my eyes, “don’t
you know how I love you?”

Her lips quivered contemptuously.

“You are mistaken, you make yourself out worse than you are; you are
good and noble by nature–”

“What do you know about my nature,” she interrupted vehemently, “you
will get to know me as I am.”

“Wanda!”

“Decide, will you submit, unconditionally?”

“And if I say no.”

“Then–”

She stepped close up to me, cold and contemptuous. As she stood
before me now, the arms folded across her breast, with an evil smile
about her lips, she was in fact the despotic woman of my dreams. Her
expression seemed hard, and nothing lay in her eyes that promised
kindness or mercy.

“Well–” she said at last.

“You are angry,” I cried, “you will punish me.”

“Oh no!” she replied, “I shall let you go. You are free. I am not
holding you.”

“Wanda–I, who love you so–”

“Yes, you, my dear sir, you who adore me,” she exclaimed
contemptuously, “but who are a coward, a liar, and a breaker of
promises. Leave me instantly–”

“Wanda I–”

“Wretch!”

My blood rose in my heart. I threw myself down at her feet and began
to cry.

“Tears, too!” She began to laugh. Oh, this laughter was frightful.
“Leave me–I don’t want to see you again.”

“Oh my God!” I cried, beside myself. “I will do whatever you
command, be your slave, a mere object with which you can do what you
will–only don’t send me away–I can’t bear it–I cannot live without
you.” I embraced her knees, and covered her hand with kisses.

“Yes, you must be a slave, and feel the lash, for you are not a
man,” she said calmly. She said this to me with perfect composure,
not angrily, not even excitedly, and it was what hurt most. “Now I
know you, your dog-like nature, that adores where it is kicked, and
the more, the more it is maltreated. Now I know you, and now you
shall come to know me.”

She walked up and down with long strides, while I remained crushed
on my knees; my head was hanging supine, tears flowed from my eyes.

“Come here,” Wanda commanded harshly, sitting down on the ottoman.
I obeyed her command, and sat down beside her. She looked at me
sombrely, and then a light suddenly seemed to illuminate the interior
of her eye. Smiling, she drew me toward her breast, and began to kiss
the tears out of my eyes.

Originally posted 2007-06-19 15:06:53. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

Related posts:

1. Venus in Furs : Chapter One
2. Venus in Furs in Photographs
3. Venus is Jealous of Her Slave

Am I Not the Cruel Northern Venus in Furs?
Female Led Relationships - Femdom Erotica, Female Domination Fiction, Submissive Male Fantaises, F/m Stories

You are cold, while you yourself fan flames. By all means wrap
yourself in your despotic furs, there is no one to whom they are more
appropriate, cruel goddess of love and of beauty!–After a while I add
a few verses from Goethe, which I recently found in his paralipomena
to Faust.

TO AMOR

The pair of wings a fiction are,
The arrows, they are naught but claws,
The wreath conceals the little horns,
For without any doubt he is
Like all the gods of ancient Greece
Only a devil in disguise.

Then I put the picture before me on my table, supporting it with a
book, and looked at it.

I was enraptured and at the same time filled with a strange fear by
the cold coquetry with which this magnificent woman draped her charms
in her furs of dark sable; by the severity and hardness which lay in
this cold marble-like face. Again I took my pen in hand, and wrote
the following words:

“To love, to be loved, what happiness! And yet how the glamour of
this pales in comparison with the tormenting bliss of worshipping a
woman who makes a plaything out of us, of being the slave of a
beautiful tyrant who treads us pitilessly underfoot. Even Samson, the
hero, the giant, again put himself into the hands of Delilah, even
after she had betrayed him, and again she betrayed him, and the
Philistines bound him and put out his eyes which until the very end
he kept fixed, drunken with rage and love, upon the beautiful
betrayer.”

I was breakfasting in my honey-suckle arbor, and reading in the Book
of Judith. I envied the hero Holofernes because of the regal woman
who cut off his head with a sword, and because of his beautiful
sanguinary end.

“The almighty Lord hath struck him, and hath delivered him into the
hands of a woman.”

This sentence strangely impressed me.

How ungallant these Jews are, I thought. And their God might choose
more becoming expressions when he speaks of the fair sex.

“The almighty Lord hath struck him, and hath delivered him into the
hands of a woman,” I repeated to myself. What shall I do, so that He
may punish me?

Heaven preserve us! Here comes the housekeeper, who has again
diminished somewhat in size overnight. And up there among the green
twinings and garlandings the white gown gleams again. Is it Venus,
or the widow?

This time it happens to be the widow, for Madame Tartakovska makes
a courtesy, and asks me in her name for something to read. I run to
my room, and gather together a couple of volumes.

Later I remember that my picture of Venus is in one of them, and now
it and my effusions are in the hands of the white woman up there
together. What will she say?

I hear her laugh.

Is she laughing at me?

It is full moon. It is already peering over the tops of the low
hemlocks that fringe the park. A silvery exhalation fills the
terrace, the groups of trees, all the landscape, as far as the eye
can reach; in the distance it gradually fades away, like trembling
waters.

I cannot resist. I feel a strange urge and call within me. I put on
my clothes again and go out into the garden.

Some power draws me toward the meadow, toward her, who is my
divinity and my beloved.

The night is cool. I feel a slight chill. The atmosphere is heavy
with the odor of flowers and of the forest. It intoxicates.

What solemnity! What music round about! A nightingale sobs. The
stars quiver very faintly in the pale-blue glamour. The meadow seems
smooth, like a mirror, like a covering of ice on a pond.

The statue of Venus stands out august and luminous.

But–what has happened? From the marble shoulders of the goddess a
large dark fur flows down to her heels. I stand dumbfounded and stare
at her in amazement; again an indescribable fear seizes hold of me
and I take flight.

I hasten my steps, and notice that I have missed the main path. As
I am about to turn aside into one of the green walks I see Venus
sitting before me on a stone bench, not the beautiful woman of
marble, but the goddess of love herself with warm blood and throbbing
pulses. She has actually come to life for me, like the statue that
began to breathe for her creator. Indeed, the miracle is only half
completed. Her white hair seems still to be of stone, and her white
gown shimmers like moonlight, or is it satin? From her shoulders the
dark fur flows. But her lips are already reddening and her cheeks
begin to take color. Two diabolical green rays out of her eyes fall
upon me, and now she laughs.

Her laughter is very mysterious, very–I don’t know. It cannot be
described, it takes my breath away. I flee further, and after every
few steps I have to pause to take breath. The mocking laughter
pursues me through the dark leafy paths, across light open spaces,
through the thicket where only single moonbeams can pierce. I can no
longer find my way, I wander about utterly confused, with cold drops
of perspiration on the forehead.

Finally I stand still, and engage in a short monologue.

It runs–well–one is either very polite to one’s self or very rude.

I say to myself:

“Donkey!”

This word exercises a remarkable effect, like a magic formula, which
sets me free and makes me master of myself.

I am perfectly quiet in a moment.

With considerable pleasure I repeat: “Donkey!”

Now everything is perfectly clear and distinct before my eyes again.
There is the fountain, there the alley of box-wood, there the house
which I am slowly approaching.

Yet–suddenly the appearance is here again. Behind the green screen
through which the moonlight gleams so that it seems embroidered with
silver, I again see the white figure, the woman of stone whom I
adore, whom I fear and flee.

With a couple of leaps I am within the house and catch my breath and
reflect.

What am I really, a little dilettante or a great big donkey?

A sultry morning, the atmosphere is dead, heavily laden with odors,
yet stimulating. Again I am sitting in my honey-suckle arbor, reading
in the Odyssey about the beautiful witch who transformed her admirers
into beasts. A wonderful picture of antique love.

There is a soft rustling in the twigs and blades and the pages of my
book rustle and on the terrace likewise there is a rustling.

A woman’s dress–

She is there–Venus–but without furs–No, this time it is merely
the widow–and yet–Venus-oh, what a woman!

As she stands there in her light white morning gown, looking at me,
her slight figure seems full of poetry and grace. She is neither
large, nor small; her head is alluring, piquant–in the sense of the
period of the French marquises–rather than formally beautiful. What
enchantment and softness, what roguish charm play about her none too
small mouth! Her skin is so infinitely delicate, that the blue veins
show through everywhere; even through the muslin covering her arms
and bosom. How abundant her red hair-it is red, not blonde or golden-
yellow–how diabolically and yet tenderly it plays around her neck!
Now her eyes meet mine like green lightnings–they are green, these
eyes of hers, whose power is so indescribable–green, but as are
precious stones, or deep unfathomable mountain lakes.

She observes my confusion, which has even made me discourteous, for
I have remained seated and still have my cap on my head.

She smiles roguishly.

Finally I rise and bow to her. She comes closer, and bursts out into
a loud, almost childlike laughter. I stammer, as only a little
dilettante or great big donkey can do on such an occasion.

Thus our acquaintance began.

The divinity asks for my name, and mentions her own.

Her name is Wanda von Dunajew.

And she is actually my Venus.

“But madame, what put the idea into your head?”

“The little picture in one of your books–”

“I had forgotten about it.”

“The curious notes on its back–”

“Why curious?”

She looked at me.

“I have always wanted to know a real dreamer some time–for the sake
of the change–and you seem one of the maddest of the tribe.”

“Dear lady–in fact–” Again I fell victim to an odious, asinine
stammering, and in addition blushed in a way that might have been
appropriate for a youngster of sixteen, but not for me, who was
almost a full ten years older–

“You were afraid of me last night.”

“Really–of course–but won’t you sit down?”

She sat down, and enjoyed my embarrassment–for actually I was even
more afraid of her now in the full light of day. A delightful
expression of contempt hovered about her upper lip.

“You look at love, and especially woman,” she began, “as something
hostile, something against which you put up a defense, even if
unsuccessfully. You feel that their power over you gives you a
sensation of pleasurable torture, of pungent cruelty. This is a
genuinely modern point of view.”

“You don’t share it?”

“I do not share it,” she said quickly and decisively, shaking her
head, so that her curls flew up like red flames.

“The ideal which I strive to realize in my life is the serene
sensuousness of the Greeks–pleasure without pain. I do not believe
in the kind of love which is preached by Christianity, by the
moderns, by the knights of the spirit. Yes, look at me, I am worse
than a heretic, I am a pagan.

‘Doest thou imagine long the goddess of love took counsel
When in Ida’s grove she was pleased with the hero Achilles?’

“These lines from Goethe’s _Roman Elegy_ have always delighted me.

“In nature there is only the love of the heroic age, ‘when gods and
goddesses loved.’ At that time ‘desire followed the glance, enjoyment
desire.’ All else is factitious, affected, a lie. Christianity, whose
cruel emblem, the cross, has always had for me an element of the
monstrous, brought something alien and hostile into nature and its
innocent instincts.

“The battle of the spirit with the senses is the gospel of modern
man. I do not care to have a share in it.”

“Yes, Mount Olympus would be the place for you, madame,” I replied,
“but we moderns can no longer support the antique serenity, least of
all in love. The idea of sharing a woman, even if it were an Aspasia,
with another revolts us. We are jealous as is our God. For example,
we have made a term abuse out of the name of the glorious Phryne.

“We prefer one of Holbein’s meagre, pallid virgins, which is wholly
ours to an antique Venus, no matter how divinely beautiful she is,
but who loves Anchises to-day, Paris to-morrow, Adonis the day after.
And if nature triumphs in us so that we give our whole glowing,
passionate devotion to such a woman, her serene joy of life appears
to us as something demonic and cruel, and we read into our happiness
a sin which we must expiate.”

“So you too are one of those who rave about modern women, those
miserable hysterical feminine creatures who don’t appreciate a real
man in their somnambulistic search for some dream-man and masculine
ideal. Amid tears and convulsions they daily outrage their Christian
duties; they cheat and are cheated; they always seek again and choose
and reject; they are never happy, and never give happiness. They
accuse fate instead of calmly confessing that they want to love and
live as Helen and Aspasia lived. Nature admits of no permanence in
the relation between man and woman.”

“But, my dear lady–”

“Let me finish. It is only man’s egoism which wants to keep woman
like some buried treasure. All endeavors to introduce permanence in
love, the most changeable thing in this changeable human existence,
have gone shipwreck in spite of religious ceremonies, vows, and
legalities. Can you deny that our Christian world has given itself
over to corruption?”

“But–”

“But you are about to say, the individual who rebels against the
arrangements of society is ostracized, branded, stoned. So be it. I
am willing to take the risk; my principles are very pagan. I will
live my own life as it pleases me. I am willing to do without your
hypocritical respect; I prefer to be happy. The inventors of the
Christian marriage have done well, simultaneously to invent
immortality. I, however, have no wish to live eternally. When with
my last breath everything as far as Wanda von Dunajew is concerned
comes to an end here below, what does it profit me whether my pure
spirit joins the choirs of angels, or whether my dust goes into the
formation of new beings? Shall I belong to one man whom I don’t love,
merely because I have once loved him? No, I do not renounce; I love
everyone who pleases me, and give happiness to everyone who loves me.
Is that ugly? No, it is more beautiful by far, than if cruelly I
enjoy the tortures, which my beauty excites, and virtuously reject
the poor fellow who is pining away for me. I am young, rich, and
beautiful, and I live serenely for the sake of pleasure and
enjoyment.”

While she was speaking her eyes sparkled roguishly, and I had taken
hold of her hands without exactly knowing what to do with them, but
being a genuine dilettante I hastily let go of them again.

“Your frankness,” I said, “delights me, and not it alone–”

My confounded dilettantism again throttled me as though there were
a rope around my neck.

“You were about to say–”

“I was about to say–I was–I am sorry–I interrupted you.”

“How, so?”

A long pause. She is doubtless engaging in a monologue, which
translated into my language would be comprised in the single word,
“donkey.”

“If I may ask,” I finally began, “how did you arrive at these–these
conclusions?”

“Quite simply, my father was an intelligent man. From my cradle onward
I was surrounded by replicas of ancient art; at ten years of age I
read _Gil Blas_, at twelve _La Pucelle_. Where others had
Hop-o’-my-thumb, Bluebeard, Cinderella, as childhood friends, mine
were Venus and Apollo, Hercules and Lackoon. My husband’s personality
was filled with serenity and sunlight. Not even the incurable illness
which fell upon him soon after our marriage could long cloud his brow.
On the very night of his death he took me in his arms, and during the
many months when he lay dying in his wheel chair, he often said
jokingly to me: ‘Well, have you already picked out a lover?’ I blushed
with shame. ‘Don’t deceive me,’ he added on one occasion, ‘that would
seem ugly to me, but pick out an attractive lover, or preferably
several. You are a splendid woman, but still half a child, and you
need toys.’

“I suppose, I hardly need tell you that during his life time I had
no lover; but it was through him that I have become what I am, a
woman of Greece.”

“A goddess,” I interrupted.

“Which one,” she smiled.

“Venus.”

She threatened me with her finger and knitted her brows. “Perhaps,
even a ‘Venus in Furs.’ Watch out, I have a large, very large fur,
with which I could cover you up entirely, and I have a mind to catch
you in it as in a net.”

“Do you believe,” I said quickly, for an idea which seemed good, in
spite of its conventionality and triteness, flashed into my head, “do
you believe that your theories could be carried into execution at the
present time, that Venus would be permitted to stray with impunity
among our railroads and telegraphs in all her undraped beauty and
serenity?”

“_Undraped_, of course not, but in furs,” she replied smiling, “would
you care to see mine?”

“And then–”

“What then?”

“Beautiful, free, serene, and happy human beings, such as the Greeks
were, are only possible when it is permitted to have _slaves_ who will
perform the prosaic tasks of every day for them and above all else
labor for them.”

“Of course,” she replied playfully, “an Olympian divinity, such as
I am, requires a whole army of slaves. Beware of me!”

“Why?”

I myself was frightened at the hardiness with which I uttered this
“why”; it did not startle her in the least.

She drew back her lips a little so that her small white teeth became
visible, and then said lightly, as if she were discussing some
trifling matter, “Do you want to be my slave?”

“There is no equality in love,” I replied solemnly. “Whenever it is
a matter of choice for me of ruling or being ruled, it seems much
more satisfactory to me to be the slave of a beautiful woman. But
where shall I find the woman who knows how to rule, calmly, full of
self-confidence, even harshly, and not seek to gain her power by
means of petty nagging?”

“Oh, that might not be so difficult.”

“You think–”

“I–for instance–” she laughed and leaned far back–”I have a real
talent for despotism–I also have the necessary furs–but last night
you were really seriously afraid of me!”

“Quite seriously.”

“And now?”

“Now, I am more afraid of you than ever!”

We are together every day, I and–Venus; we are together a great
deal. We breakfast in my honey-suckle arbor, and have tea in her
little sitting-room. I have an opportunity to unfold all my small,
very small talents. Of what use would have been my study of all the
various sciences, my playing at all the arts, if I were unable in the
case of a pretty, little woman–

But this woman is by no means little; in fact she impresses me
tremendously. I made a drawing of her to-day, and felt particularly
clearly, how inappropriate the modern way of dressing is for a cameo-
head like hers. The configuration of her face has little of the
Roman, but much of the Greek.

Sometimes I should like to paint her as Psyche, and then again as
Astarte. It depends upon the expression in her eyes, whether it is
vaguely dreamy, or half-consuming, filled with tired desire.
She, however, insists that it be a portrait-likeness.

I shall make her a present of furs.

How could I have any doubts? If not for her, for whom would princely
furs be suitable?

Originally posted 2007-06-19 14:42:43. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

Related posts:

1. Venus in Furs : Chapter One

Chapter Three
Female Led Relationships - Femdom Erotica, Female Domination Fiction, Submissive Male Fantaises, F/m Stories

What are her intentions? What does she purpose to do with me?

Originally posted 2007-06-19 15:09:30. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

No related posts.

If Only She Would Use the Whip Again
Female Led Relationships - Femdom Erotica, Female Domination Fiction, Submissive Male Fantaises, F/m Stories

Wanda appears on the threshold, wrapped in her sables, holding a
lighted torch.

“Are you still alive?” she asks.

“Are you coming to kill me?” I reply with a low, hoarse voice.

With two rapid strides Wanda reaches my side, she kneels down beside
me, and places my head in her lap. “Are you ill? Your eyes glow so,
do you love me? I want you to love me.”

She draws forth a short dagger. I start with fright when its blade
gleams in front of my eyes. I actually believe that she is about to
kill me. She laughs, and cuts the ropes that bind me.

Originally posted 2007-06-19 15:55:49. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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2. Venus is Jealous of Her Slave

Will She Kill Her Slave?
Female Led Relationships - Femdom Erotica, Female Domination Fiction, Submissive Male Fantaises, F/m Stories

“Of course, you dear, sweet, beautiful woman.”

Originally posted 2007-06-19 16:43:32. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

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1. Woman’s Plaything

Sweet Woman
Female Led Relationships - Femdom Erotica, Female Domination Fiction, Submissive Male Fantaises, F/m Stories

“I want to be absolutely in your power, Wanda,” I exclaimed
suddenly, seized by that frenzy of passion when I can scarcely think
clearly or decide freely. “I want to put myself absolutely at your
mercy for good or evil without any condition, without any limit to
your power.”

While saying this I had slipped from the ottoman, and lay at her
feet looking up at her with drunken eyes.

“How beautiful you now are,” she exclaimed, “your eyes half-broken
in ecstacy fill me with joy, carry me away. How wonderful your look
would be if you were being beaten to death, in the extreme agony. You
have the eye of a martyr.”

Originally posted 2007-06-19 15:01:57. Republished by Blog Post Promoter

No related posts.

At Wanda’s Feet
Female Led Relationships - Femdom Erotica, Female Domination Fiction, Submissive Male Fantaises, F/m Stories