This is an old, old story that I first wrote back in 2007 for another, now defunct, erotic story site. I've had to bash it around a bit to reflect the changes in technology over the last seventeen years and the differences between the two sites but the fundamentals remain.
Is this autobiographical? Not quite but it could have been. Think of it as a 'what if...'
Wendy was bored. Her boss had sent her down to London for a totally inconsequential meeting and now, on the way back, she was stuck, cramped up, on the 17:34 from Euston, sitting opposite a businessman who'd spent the entire journey with his legs pushed out in front of him taking up all the available room.
Ever since he'd sat down he'd had his face buried in a newspaper and he'd seemed impervious to Wendy's attempts to attract his attention. Fortunately, as the train pulled in to Crew station, it looked like her ordeal was over; he stood up and started to pick up his papers from the table between them. The train lurched to a stop and he, and several other passengers got off. At last Wendy felt she could relax. There was still quite a way to go but now it was her turn to stretch out.
She glanced over and saw that the businessman had left his newspaper lying on the seat. She wasn't usually a Financial Times reader but as she'd finished her novel somewhere around Birmingham she reached over and picked it up. No sooner had she done so than a slim paperback fell out from between the pages. This looked far more promising than the FT so she grabbed the book instead.
As she picked it up she couldn't help but chuckle. The book was called 'The Castle Of Slaves' and the cover showed a leather-clad dominatrix holding a coiled whip. You sly old dog. 'She thought to herself. All the world thinks you're reading the FT and you're deep into this stuff instead. She opened it up and started to flick through the pages. It was pretty much what she'd expected. The level of writing was poor and the plot was practically non-existent but the descriptions of Mistress Whiplash (groan!) torturing her slaves in the dungeons of her castle were graphic and detailed.
Despite the stupid story and the appalling number of typos Wendy found herself hooked and, somehow, couldn't put the book down. She could think of a few male chauvinist bastards who could do with a sound whipping, starting with that selfish pig of a businessman with his long legs that took all the room between the seats and finishing with Trevor, her ex, and that bimbette, that trollop, that tart, he'd left her for. In fact she read it all the way to Preston Station where she had parked her car. The train pulled in and, as she gathered up her bags, she took one final glance at the book before throwing it in the bin.
Home at last Wendy dropped her suitcase and slumped down in her favourite armchair. As she had driven home through the lanes her mind had been buzzing; somehow she couldn't shift that stupid book from her mind. She felt that she could sure do with a slave right now, someone to make her a much needed cup of tea, someone to massage her tired feet, someone to tend to her needs without making demands in return. The idea of being tended by some half naked man, with wrist cuffs and a collar and some sort of pouch to cover his prick, was somehow very appealing, and, if he, or even they, weren't up to scratch then she'd make them suffer, and that was appealing too.
With a sigh Wendy got up. There were no slaves to serve her and dreaming wasn't going to make the supper. With a shake of her head she went off into the kitchen.
Two days later Wendy came home from work as usual, fixed herself a light supper, as usual, and flopped down in front of the television, as usual. As she flicked through the viewing guide she realised that it was going to be yet another of those evenings. Nothing she really wanted to watch, nothing to fill her evening. It was all going to be 'as usual'. She picked up her tablet and switched it on. Perhaps if she browsed on line she'd find something to amuse her, something to shake this ennui.
She fired up the browser and went to Google. What should she search for? What did she want? The book from the train came to mind; she'd heard the internet was full of porn, maybe now it was time to find some. She typed in 'dominatrix' and clicked on search. The first sites she found were cheap and garish, and they wanted her credit card details. What sort of a mug did they think she was! However a little bit more searching took her to Literotica and its collection of stories. It took a moment or two to sort out the story tags and, this time, when she searched for 'dominatrix' she found list after list of fascinating stories.
The first few she read were less than inspiring, pretty amateur stuff full of poor writing and clichéd plots. However, the more she read, the more she understood the story tags and the more she came upon writing that was very much to her taste, some of it good enough to put 'Castle of Slaves' in the shade. One or two in particular spoke to something deep inside her and, as she read, she could feel her body tingle. Eventually she glanced up at the clock; it was well past midnight and it really was time for bed. She'd been so engrossed in the stories she hadn't noticed how late it had got. Her mind still spinning she shut down the computer and hurried off to bed.
As she lay between the sheets she couldn't sleep; she realised just how turned on she'd become. The stories had really got to her, really stirred her imagination. Stories of powerful women, women who knew what they wanted and how to get it, fired a desire within her to be like that. The historical ones were closest to her fantasies. If she were Mistress of the Castle of Slaves she wouldn't be anything as clichéd as Madam Whiplash, she'd be Lady Elvira, the Cruel Countess. She'd rule the castle like a goddess, her every whim served by her slaves.
Almost without thinking she reached for her bedside draw and fumbled inside for her vibrator. She imagined herself coming back to the castle dressed in riding gear after exercising her horses. One slave would crouch before her acting as a footstool, another would be polishing her boots and a third would be fetching her a cool drink. Idly she'd play with her crop pondering which slave would suffer at her hands.
She'd know how to keep them in hand, how to keep them trained to her will and any that strayed, any that dare disobey, would suffer not just the lash but be cast from her, never to be allowed to serve again. As she revelled in her fantasies the vibrator worked its magic between her thighs. In her mind she could see the chained body, the tensed buttocks already covered in vivid weals. She could hear the whistle of the lash, the thwack as it struck flesh, the agonised scream of her victim. Her thoughts became disjointed, a slide show of her as dominatrix and of her slaves grovelling at her feet.
Her body arched, her muscles tensed, and, with an intense peak of pleasure that washed through her, she came, every nerve exultant, her whole body singing, lost in wave after wave after wave of pure ecstasy. And then the waves broke, her muscles relaxed and she sank back onto the bed. She could hardly believe what had happened, how strong the feelings had been within her; Never before had it felt so good. She switched off the vibrator and relaxed, coming back down gently, getting her breath back.
She thought over the stories she'd read. They were fine, well, some of them were, but they weren't her story. They weren't the story of Lady Elvira. 'I could write better than that.' she mused to herself as, rolling over, snuggled down to sleep.
For the next few evenings Wendy worked away at her computer, putting together her story. What had looked quite easy at first turned out to be much harder than she had thought. Sure, she was a quick typist and the spell-checker sorted out some of her typos, but turning a masturbation fantasy into a proper story, one with a beginning, a middle and an end, was a real struggle.
Again and again she found she was resorting to cliché', that she was painting herself into corners, that inspiration was failing her. Her respect for the other authors on Literotica was growing. Now that she was trying it for herself she could see how difficult it was to put together something well written and original.
But, whatever the difficulties, she'd become obsessed with writing. She'd get lost in the story; it became so real to her that she had to type furiously just to keep up with the plot as it unfolded in her mind. On other occasions, when inspiration failed her, she'd retire to bed, reach for the vibrator, and let her thoughts wander. Day by day the story grew.
When the writing was finished the work was far from over. There was the endless slog of proof reading. The passages she'd written in a fever of sexual excitement were often the most imaginative and the bits she was most proud of but they were the ones which were full of typos, the ones where her fingers had failed to keep up with her libido.
Time after time she'd read through her words and every time she'd find yet more errors, yet more phrases that could be better expressed. Now that it was so near completion she was inpatient to post it but she knew she wouldn't be satisfied unless it was as near perfect as possible. Eventually she reached the point where she knew she could do no better. Well, maybe she could, but she'd reached the point of diminishing returns. At last it was time to post her story.
She opened the Literotica web page and clicked on the 'New Story' link. But, before she could start, she needed to create username and an email account. Up to that point she had been browsing Literotica as an anonymous user. To post she had to log in properly. However, it wasn't that dificult and, it wasn't long before she had created an email account just for Literotica use and an associated Literotica user.
Now to submit the story. Carefully she read through the instructions. Again it wasn't that difficult and it wasn't long before she was clicking on the 'Submit' button. There, it was done; her story was posted at last.
Over the next couple of days Wendy was checking Literotica as often as she could. However, at work, such sites were banned and she had to wait until she got home. How long would it take? When would she see her work on line? What reaction would it get? The anticipation was driving her crazy; she wanted to see her work posted, and she wanted it now!
And then, there it was, her story was on line! Yes! Her story listed amongst the day's new postings. A couple more clicks, the link was open and she was reading through the familiar words, the words she had spent so much work on. Almost immediately she spotted a typo, and another one. Damn! Why hadn't she spotted them before posting? Still, it was too late now, the job was done and the only thing left to do was to see what reviews she got, to see how well her work was accepted. How soon before that changed? However, it was eight-o-clock in the morning and she had to get to work.
That evening she was first out of the office, first down to the car park and first into the rush hour traffic. It seemed to take hours to get home; the traffic in town was bad enough but when she got into the lanes heading for the village where she lived she had the bad luck to get stuck behind a tractor. At last, with a scrunch of gravel, she pulled into the drive of her cottage.
