Female Dom Pegging Stories: His Weekend of Obedience

People are always asking me for my female dom pegging stories, like I keep a diary of every boy I have ever ruined. I don't. But this one deserves to be told, because it is the perfect example of what happens when a sweet, shy guy finally works up the nerve to tell the right woman what he really wants.

He was a friend of a friend. We had been in the same orbit for months, parties, group dinners, that kind of thing. He was the quiet one, the guy who refilled everyone's drinks and laughed at jokes without telling many of his own. I liked him. He had good manners and sad eyes, and I have always had a soft spot for boys who look like they need someone to take charge of them.

It came out at a bonfire, of all places. Everyone else had wandered off to get more drinks, and it was just the two of us by the fire, and a couple of ciders had loosened his tongue. He told me he had a fantasy he had never told anyone, not even the girls he had dated. He wanted a woman to dominate him. Specifically, he wanted to be pegged, and he had wanted it for years, and he was terrified that wanting it made him less of a man.

I looked at him across that fire, and I said the truest thing I have ever said to anyone: wanting it doesn't make you less of anything, but keeping it locked up is clearly making you miserable, so what are we going to do about it. He stared at me like I had just offered him the moon. Then I told him that if he was serious, he was spending the next weekend at my place, and I would be in charge of everything. He said yes before I finished the sentence.

Friday night he showed up with an overnight bag and the expression of someone walking into an exam he hadn't studied for. I had rules written on an index card stuck to my fridge. Rule one: he addresses me properly and says please for everything. Rule two: what I say goes, no negotiation once we start. Rule three: he safewords if he needs to, and I will stop instantly, no questions, no teasing about it. He read the card twice and his hands were shaking, but he nodded.

I started him easy that first night. Dinner, which I made him serve me while wearing nothing but an apron, which was mostly for my entertainment. Then the bedroom, where I introduced him to the harness slowly, letting him touch it, get used to the idea in his hands before it was anywhere near him. I prepped him with my fingers, lots of lube, lots of praise when he relaxed and breathed through it. He was so responsive, so eager to be good, that I had to remind myself to pace us. By the time I slid into him for the first time, he was crying. Not from pain. From relief. Years of wanting this and finally, finally getting it. I held his face and told him he was doing beautifully, and I meant every word.

Saturday was the real education. I woke him up by telling him exactly what the day held, and I watched him get hard before he was even fully awake. We did positions. We did rhythm. I taught him how to ask for more and how to ask me to slow down, and I rewarded every good answer. At one point I had him bent over my couch, my hand tangled in his hair, and I was taking him deep and steady while he chanted how good it felt like he couldn't help himself. I let him come untouched that afternoon, just from the pegging, and the look on his face afterward was something between shock and worship.

Saturday night I got creative, because I am me and I can't help myself. I made him wear the plug to dinner at this little Italian place, and every time he shifted in his seat I would smile at him over my wine glass and ask if he was comfortable. He barely ate. He barely spoke. He just sat there buzzing, completely at my mercy in the middle of a crowded restaurant, and I have never felt more powerful or more entertained.

Sunday morning was the graduation ceremony. Slow, deep, intimate, me wrapped around him telling him what a good boy he had been all weekend. He came harder than he had all weekend, and then he laughed, this giddy disbelieving laugh, and said he felt like a different person. I told him he was the same person, just finally honest.

He still texts me sometimes to thank me. Not for the sex, although I am sure that is part of it. He thanks me for the weekend he stopped being afraid of what he wanted. And every time I get one of those messages, I smile like the cat that ate the canary. Because out of all my female dom pegging stories, that is the one where I know I changed somebody's life, one strap-on at a time.