True Double Domme Asian Session

MISTRESS DAHLIA AND EMPRESS OPHIRA -- ASIAN DOUBLE DOMMES BREAK IN A NEWBIE SUB IN THE RAPTURE DUNGEON

BASED (HOWEVER LOOSELY) ON A TRUE STORY AND WRITTEN BY THE MAN WHO LIVED IT!

"An angsty, limit-testing, ball-torture and mind-fuck session with tease and denial and lots of clamps?"

Franky gulped. The words has just spilled out of his mouth in a nervous rush, but hearing Empress Ophira repeat them back to him made his heart jackhammer. Could this really be what he had asked for? Clamps? Ball-torture? What was he thinking?

There was a moment of silence, and then Ophira's girlish giggle skittered through his computer speakers.

"Okay, I'll tell Dahlia," said the petite Empress, looking as chipper and deceptively cherubic as ever on the personal message screen. "I'm sure she'll be excited. It sounds like fun. Dahlia and I will see you tomorrow at the Rapture dungeon at 4."

Ophira smiled broadly as a flashbulb suddenly went off in her head. "Oh, and two last things. First, buy a box of hairpins and a number of unseparated chopsticks. Then edge yourself three times tonight, but whatever you do, don't you dare cum!"

With that, the PM box on Franky's computer closed. The silence felt surreal. Over the Internet, he had just booked a double-domme session with the two most deceptively "nice" Asian dommes on the East Coast.

Ophira, tiny but deadly, had a penchant for planting the tips of her open-toed shoes into men's balls and then riding around on their backs like ponies while zapping them with her violet wand. She was Thai-Vietnamese and had studied dance all her life, landing in Paris for a number of years. The muscles in her calves alone should have been a give-away, but some men who assumed she'd be "soft" would ask her to kick them in the gonads and then never get back up. One remained at Rapture for weeks, recovering in a hidden intensive care unit in the west wing, his beans and the sausage all jacked up and wrapped around each other high up in his abdomen.

Dahlia, a Korean-American "smoking domme" and strap-on addict, reveled in ripping out men's public hair, large handfuls at a time. She, too, was known as a "sensual domme." But sensual to her could include single-tail whips and devices that shot currents of electricity into places where electricity shouldn't go. She wasn't above spitting on a submissive or even peeing on him. And it seemed her favorite device was a small gag with a funnel top, allowing her to force-feed a prisoner smoke puffs from her elegant mint cigarettes.

Ophira and Dahlia. Dahlia and Ophira. They could be sweet. They could be soft. But tomorrow, they weren't going to be.

Tomorrow, he would learn the limits of his endurance, he realized. And these two beautiful young dommes would be the women to teach it to him.

* * *

Franky had never been one for heavy pain, the kind he saw in the Internet videos. He never asked to be whipped raw or bled dry like a sliced chicken. He'd always admired the work of sadistic dommes from afar, their ability to completely enthrall and subjugate a man with any number of creative techniques, and force him out of his world and into their own, but he never imagined that his limited pain threshold would allow him to enjoy cock-and-ball torture or heavy flogging, like those other submissives.

It was Dahlia who had reassured him otherwise. "There's plenty of things we do that involve little pain, or no pain at all," she'd told him. "Come in and see for yourself."

He had, back in May. Dahlia had started things out relatively gently, gradually introducing him to electricity, clamps, and nipple play. They laughed and giggled for much of the session, at least at first. But there was the panic moment when the pulsating rhythm of the electrical strap around the head of his cock had intensified to a point he hadn't expected, making his whole body tense and shudder. It was like some strange suction cup zapping him in his cock.

Later, the half-dozen tiny clamps on his balls hadn't been all that bad, either, until the seventh one shut tight on a trace of skin near the tip of his penis. He'd jumped at the pain. Dahlia didn't keep it on long, but he'd sure felt it. He wondered how much longer he could have worn it, and how many more he could have withstood before he broke down and begged for them to be taken off.

It was curious, though. In the weeks afterward, he found himself replaying those instances of panic in his mind again and again, almost longingly. He realized he wanted to feel them at least once more, only for longer periods -- and at greater intensities.

* * *

TO BE CONTINUED