Fiverr Samples

Author’s Note:

Warning: This has a golden shower scene.

This is my first sample. Someone wanted a femdom sample, and after I sent this they took it and blocked me.

Now, I am doing what I should have done in the first place, and uploading it so that they cannot claim the copyright for it.

I shouldn’t be here.

I’ve left my elderly, bedridden father at home, telling him that I’d come back with ice cream. The truth is, remembering the man he once was, I can hardly bear looking at him.

I knock on the white wooden door that I have come to be all too familiar with. Uncomfortably familiar. The scent of the roses in the garden have a persistent presence, but are not overwhelming. The roses are the antithesis of the person who lives here. She is anything but romantic.

When she opens the door, our eyes meet, my green ones getting lost in the depths of her icy blue ones.

“John,” she says, her voice warm, soothing. Melodic. Deceptively so.

“Good afternoon, Melissa,” I say to her. She moves to the side, letting me in. I walk quickly past her. I feel cold sweat gathering on the back of my neck. I feel nervous around her. I always do. She’s unpredictable, and I never know what to expect. I find myself locked in this game, with her doing what she wants to me, and finding out just how much I can take.

I take off my shoes, leaving them at the door. She hates it when people leave footprints all over her house.

“How was your day?” she asks me.

“It was… alright,” I tell her. I’ve been looking forward to this all day.

To leaving my dad….

I turn to look at her, and her icy eyes assess me.

“You don’t look alright,” she tells me.

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” I say to her. She sighs.

“Well, you know where the playroom is,” she says to me. “Meet me there in five.”

I nod my head in compliance. “Yes, Mistress.”

§

I never liked ropes. I never liked the way that they rub against my skin, making it sore. But my desire to please always overrides my discomfort. I squirm quietly with my hands tied above my head, unable to help the shallow grunts of pain, as she stands behind me with a whip. My wrists hurt, and itch, and this time, I have no idea what I’m going to tell my family when they ask about them.

“I told you not to squirm, slave,” she says softly. Her voice sends goosebumps spreading all over my body, and makes my already hard cock swell even more. She always speaks like that when she’s about to fuck me over. I brace myself for the pain. I hear the whip crack and yell as if it strikes me, but it doesn’t.

She was just fucking with me.

The next time I hear it, it connects with my skin, and the pain knocks the wind out of me, leaves me breathless. But the sting has an unmistakably erotic feel to it.

“Now, will you move again?” she asks me.

“I… I’ll try not to, Mistress.” She sighs softly.

“Wrong answer,” she says, before whipping me again. My back bends away from the whip as a wail of agony escapes my throat. “I need you to actually follow instructions,” she says hitting me again.

“Please!” I beg.

“—not simply try. I need you to do it.”

I feel tears form in my eyes. I fear this whip above all else. I don’t know why this particular whip hurts more than every other one that has ever been used on me, and because of that, my feeling towards it is one of ambivalence.

She hits me again, and this time, I come spraying semen all over the wooden floor of the playroom. There is complete silence, apart from my laboured breathing.

“Did I give you permission to come, whore?” she asks quietly.

“N-no,” I answer nervously. I’m in a lot of trouble, and I know it. “I couldn’t help it,” I defend weakly.

“That’s alright,” she says, “we’ll just have to work harder to teach you.”

I gulp, being able to take a good guess at just what that “teaching” might entail. I don’t believe for a second that she is genuinely upset; I know that she loves an excuse to torture me. She unties the rope restraining me — it goes through a loop on the ceiling, before being tied to the ground — and it falls on top of me. I sigh in relief that my poor wrists finally get a break, while knowing full well that things are probably going to get worse. She unties my wrists, too, before throwing the rope to the side.

“Kneel,” she orders, and I immediately drop to my knees before her. She puts one foot on my shoulder, before aiming her pussy at me, and relieving herself.

I love golden showers — when the person giving it has drank a lot of water within the past 24 hours. She obviously hasn’t, judging from how strong it smells. I hate this kind of golden shower, and she knows it. I wish I could like it. I wish I didn’t hate it this much. Then again, it wouldn’t be that much of a punishment if I did.

The urine sticks to my skin, my hair. I lick my lips, the salty taste of it getting stuck to the back of my throat, burning my eyes. She loves to humiliate me, to devalue me, and using me as a toilet is one method of doing so.

Afterwards, she has me get on my hands and knees, before leaving to get her strap-on. I feel anxious, because I know she probably won’t give me any lube as punishment for coming prematurely.

Soon enough, she stands before me, wearing her black strap-on. It’s big, at least bigger than my cock.

“Suck,” she orders, “because that is the only lubrication you’ll get.”

That is definitely better than nothing at all. I open my mouth, allowing her to penetrate it with the pseudo cock. She forces her way all the way in, causing my throat to close itself around it as I gag. Saliva drips from my mouth as she fucks it, and I realise that in this position, I couldn’t safeword if I wanted to. That turns me on even more, and as my cock hardens once more, I feel fearful that I might come again, eliciting more of her brutality.

Abruptly, she removes the object from my mouth, and I gasp for air. I heave, taking deep breaths, and when she goes behind me and penetrates my anus, I am not ready. I yelp, my hips jerking forward. “Stay still,” she orders, before slowly fucking me, the strap-on rubbing against my prostate in just the right way, making me groan.

“Please,” I beg,” because I know that I’m going to come again if she doesn’t stop. I won’t be able to help it.

“Hold it,” she orders as she continues to ram herself into me, and I squirm, fighting back the urge. But I have never been good at this. She reaches forward, and digs her nails into my back. I yelp, and it was hard enough that it probably drew blood. “What part of stay still do you not understand?” she asks me softly.

“I get it but I can’t!” I shout.

“Do you really?” she muses out loud. I bite my lip so hard, I draw blood. It isn’t the first time she’s driven me to this point and it probably won’t be the last. She begins to get rough, excessively so, and I know that she is trying to hurt me. It only increases my arousal.

“I’m sorry, Mistress, please,” I beg, but she doesn’t let up. She continues until blood fills my mouth, and I am just on the edge of orgasm.

“Come,” she says, and my cock just about explodes. Semen pools under me, until I have nothing left to give. And even then, she keeps fucking me, until she is satisfied.

“Thank you,” I tell her, gratitude saturating my voice. She doesn’t respond. She continues, until she’s satisfied, and pulls out abruptly. I stay there, panting, blood dripping from my mouth, and she rubs my head.

“Scene’s over,” she says, sounding proud as ever. I turn my head, and look up at her.

“Thank you, Melissa.” She has no idea how therapeutic this all is for me. And she doesn’t need to. All she needs to know is that I’m grateful.

§

I get back home at 7 p.m., and see my sister sitting on the porch. She looks exhausted, drained. My father’s condition has taken a toll on her, too. I’m not alone in this, and I need to remind myself of that.

“What happened to your wrists,” she asks me when I go to walk through the door after greeting her.

“Stupid office game,” I say to her. I came up with this explanation on my way home. “They told me that if I could untie my wrists behind my back, they’d give me two hundred dollars.”

“Did you do it?” she asks, looking hopeful.

“No,” I say, before walking past her. Luckily, my lip has stopped bleeding, so she doesn’t question me on that. “I got ice cream,” I say, raising the bag in my hand. “I’m gonna put it in the fridge.”

“Uh, okay, sure.”

As I walk past her, I feel the aches and pains all over my body, and they’re a welcome distraction. A distraction from the shit show that is currently my life. And while I should probably be spending more time with my dying father, I’d rather remember him as the man he once was, not the shriveled, old, bedridden man that he is.

It’s better to be distracted by the physical pain, than to be preoccupied completely by the pain in my heart.