Mistress Erika caused a hapless traveler to question a few things in Her den of prostate manipulation. Our task will be just as much fun for Us, but perhaps less fun for the prey in Our sights. In the end, you may think Us cruel, you may think Us just, but We think you’ll come to understand that they are sometimes the same thing. Especially concerning the queening punishment We feel compelled to mete out tonight.

If you’re on a quest to collect dungeon keys for a chance to win free phone sex, listen to the audio version of this blog in a new tab by clicking the pic!

Who is “We”?

You may call Us the Hive. We are the wellspring from whence Femdom power and enchantment come.

Well, you may tell yourself, “queening punishment” is an oxymoron.

Perhaps.

But see if you feel the same way once you have borne witness to Our wandering prey’s fate in the Enchantrix Femdom Dungeon.

The Dungeon is vast, and holds many mysteries. You know that by now, as does he.

You have both found out in myriad ways that the dungeon, and in fact, the entire castle that houses it, is enchanted. The very stones from which it is constructed are imbued with living Femdom energy.

Call it female intuition, turbo-charged.

But what he doesn’t know, and perhaps you, dear passenger, don’t either, is that part of Our magic, that which practically weeps from the ancient, cold, stone walls, of the dungeon, is the gift of postcognition. We can see all the dirty little things Our prey has done. We can even read his mind. The debaucheries he’s only thought about.

Paranormally-gleaned evidence has been used to shape all journeys through the Enchantrix Femdom Dungeon.

The case of this prey is no exception.

You are allowed to accompany Us for a time. To see what We see. To know what We know. Consider it preventative medicine, or simply instructive, whether of Our power or your guilt, time will tell.

Shall W/e begin?

What the Hive Knows

Our prey is more than a bit stingy with cunnelingus. This is crime enough, but a secondary consideration.

He does like the look of the female bottom, as well as the pussy. You may even say he has a fetish for the look of them.

Especially neatly outlined and cradled by a nice pair of panties.

Neither his little panty fetish nor ass and pussy fetish in and of itself are transgressions.

It’s his little upskirt habit that has delivered him up to queening punishment.

Oh yes, he’s collected quite a gallery of photographs, and if We must laud him for anything, it would be his non-discrimination. His collections include big bottoms in full-coverage panties, petite bottoms in the briefest of thongs, ladies going commando in the height of Summer, plump camel toes perfectly outlined in the crotch of cotton boyshorts, and anything else you can imagine.

His obsession is considerable. He has painstakingly curated sub-galleries arranged by, for example, whether or not it’s apparent that the woman in question has a bush, is smooth as a seal, or somewhere in between.

All collected by standing close to a woman in the aisle of a supermarket or in line for a movie, and clandestinely aiming his camera under her skirt.

It was then the practice of this depraved specimen to scurry back to his apartment, and wank shamefully over his purloined snapshots.

A true and dedicated pervert. And not in the fond sense of the word by which We greet guests like you, as opposed to its prisoners.

But We see. We know.

And We will have Our revenge on behalf of the offended dignity of womankind.

Come with Us.

We insist.

Ladies’ Night

Our prey is quite proud that the distant reverberations of dance music suddenly tickling his ears doesn’t rattle him. As We allowed before, he realizes by now that he is in an enchanted place.

Of course he will explore; after all, he also understands that “the only way out is through”.

Following the thumping bass and soon, the high-pitched chatter of feminine conversation, he comes within sight of a blue glow reflected against what appears to be the wall of a corridor. The blue glow is punctuated by flashing specks of light.

“Hey,” he says to himself, “this dungeon has a nightclub!”

“And just my luck, it sounds like it’s Ladies’ Night!”

Ah, look. He’s rummaging for his phone in the pocket of his jacket. Surely, he thinks, he’ll be able to add to his collection tonight, and maybe even get lucky in other ways as well!

He’s rounding the corner now, and at the end of the long, narrow hallway, he can see the “Ladies’ Night” in progress.

And what a goldmine!

A Sucker for Queening Punishment

Scores of ladies! And a diverse selection, just as he prefers!

Though as far as he can tell, they do appear to have something in common: all are wearing short dresses or skirts!

Yes, everything from gold lamé to simple cotton, but none reaching more than mid-thigh!

Pathetic, how easily he is baited.

His fly is straining slightly with anticipatory excitement. His mouth waters as he approaches the door, thinking of the trophies he’ll depart with when he finally makes his way out of this place. The delicious stroke session he’ll enjoy while perusing them.

The room is full of beautiful women of all shapes and sizes, dancing, laughing, drinking, and holding club-volume conversations under the blue lighting and sparkling disco ball suspended from the ceiling and slowly turning.

No one looks in his direction as he takes his first step across the threshold.

Nor when Our mighty unseen power drives him to his knees with an immediacy that sends piercing pain through his kneecaps. No one notices as his back pockets are crammed down against the heels of his boots. Not when We jerk his arms behind his back and hold them fast, despite his panicked, isometric struggling. Nor when We bow his spine and ratchet his head back, both at a most uncomfortable angle.

Now, let’s leave him for a moment to painfully contemplate the ceiling, along with his shocking predicament.

Weightless Wastrel

We will leave him his eyes. He will be able to see (most of the time), and to roll them in their sockets.

The rest of him We have turned to stone, as immovable as the dungeon walls themselves.

But as his mind races, and his eyes dart from side to side, a beautiful, plump blonde in a clinging red jersey blend dress will enter his line of sight from just under her sumptuous tits.

Her round, fair, freckled arm is reaching out, casting a shadow across his upturned face. His face. Frozen as a mannequin’s except for those eyes. She will grasp a handful of the hair at the crown of his head, heedless of the frightened whimper muffled behind his compressed lips.

Observe how she is somehow able to drag him with ease, toward a friend with whom she’s having a conversation.

“Look! I found a chair!”

“Can we share? I’m fine for now, but sooner or later I’m gonna have to take off these stilettos for a minute!”

“You look hot, but I don’t blame you! Those are some sky high heels”

“I had to dress up for the girlies!”

“I know. Isn’t it funny how men think we dress for them, but really we dress for each other?”

Listen to them titter as they drag him toward a wall, and rack him back against it with a painful thump.

See, dear witness, the only part of himself he can control widening in alarm: The buxom, curvy blonde has turned her back to him, and her fleshy, firm bottom is rapidly eclipsing that upturned, expressionless face.

As expressionless as the seat of any chair.

Queening Punishment Begins

As unceremoniously as one would take any seat, the juicy blonde is plunking herself down square on top of Our hapless pervert’s nose and mouth. Her generous bottom molds itself easily around the sides of his face, pressing his nostrils against the space between his nose and his upper lip. And slightly to the right.

Yes, he can control nothing but his eyes. And yet all his senses, as well as his need to breathe, remain acute.

Don’t fear, witness. We’ve left him a pea-sized portion of one nostril with which to do so, helpfully provided by the way one of his cheekbones supports a portion of her warm, round, fragrant peach just enough.

Not enough to subdue his claustrophobic anxiety, mind you.

But then, that’s where the lesson is, isn’t it?

In the wisdom of the Hive, some prisoners experience what they’ve visited upon others, but with an inversion We consider rather poetic.

This pathetic soul sought to own women’s asses.

So he will be owned by them.

He dehumanized women, transforming them in his own mind as no more than gooner fuel.

Therefore, he has been rendered nearly inanimate himself. He is experiencing what it means to have your agency, shall We say, impeded. Usurped. Disrupted.

Furthermore, call Us old-fashioned, but We favor the additional wisdom in a somewhat archaic punishment from humankind:

Did any of your older relatives, or even you perhaps, if you’re of a certain age, get caught smoking well before it was legal?

Were you or they then induced to smoke an entire carton of cigarettes?

Even if you’ve only heard of it, you no doubt understand the effect Our queening punishment attempts to mirror: what you try to take unlawfully, you will take until it makes you sick.

And then you’ll take more.

The Agony of Ass

Our lovely blonde will have herself a good, long sit.

(Carol is her name, incidentally, though she exists only in the dimension We’ve created for this queening punishment experience, and this miscreant, alone.)

See how she shifts from hip to hip, letting her tailbone, prominent despite her generous proportions, roll a bumpy, smarting line back and forth across the cartilage in Our traveler’s nose again and again.

See how she draws her thighs together, extending her legs to cross them at the ankle, and leans back against the wall. This posture temporarily removes most of his sight as small mounds of her flesh mold themselves to his eye sockets. The rest of her ass and upper thighs cover and overlap his face completely.

How greedily he’s slurping air through that pea-sized nostril when she sits up straight and crosses her legs, lifting the gluteal prison just enough as she does!

It gives Us a chuckle, I can tell you.

Perhaps especially because We are privy to the monologue carrying on in his head. The dread. The near-hysteria. The impotent anger.

He’s not quite there yet.

Queening Punishment with Brenda’s Pussy

It’s a minor consideration, of course, that he doesn’t eat pussy. At least when compared to the other transgression.

Just the same, We couldn’t let it go unpunished.

At the preordained time, Carol will rise to give her stiletto-shod friend a break. As Carol struts off to get them both a drink, the tornadic strength of Our reprobate’s inhale is almost making Us pity him a little.

And that stint of pity was the most ill-spent three seconds in the immortal life of the Hive.

Once again, you’ll have to trust Us, given Our access to his internal monologue. Very disrespectful to sweet Carol, even if she doesn’t really exist.

Luckily, Carol’s friend Brenda, a tall, willowy, sporty girl with a brown blunt cut bob, the cutest perky tits, and a blue halter-style sundress that barely covers her pert little bottom, is cutting off that internal monologue right along with most of Our pupil’s air.

She’s grabbing his hair to swing her “chair” around, and slings a leg over either side, popping her heels out of her stilettos and balancing on the balls of her feet.

Her relief, you see, is in direct opposition to Our penitant’s discomfort in his queening punishment.

What of Brenda’s Pussy?

It’s not, to be sure, that there’s anything wrong with Brenda’s pussy. It is meaty, especially on such a slender girl, but the discerning man is happy to gorge himself on all of the extra lady petals he can get.

Our queening punishment prey once used the appearance of a woman’s pussy as an excuse not to eat it. Oh, the wrath in the Hive when We heard that!

He has also been known to say that “women stink”, as another excuse. And while Brenda may be a little bit sweaty tonight (after all, she’s been dancing enthusiastically for hours), neither she, nor any other healthy woman with good hygiene “stinks”.

You agree, don’t you, traveler?

Ah, your enthusiastic nodding warms Us. Even if you simply know better than to say anything else.

Besides, he doesn’t really believe that when he says it. He’s simply lazy and selfish. Let his restive nature be subdued by Our dear Brenda’s labia.

He will inhale the scent of her as he struggles for breath, be oppressed by the radiant heat between her legs, and assaulted by both pubic and tailbone.

Let him have as little say as the chair he has become.

Endless Queening Punishment

Or so it seems, witness. So it’s meant to seem.

We can open portals to shove you through, conjure worlds and people, read thoughts and see past deeds, transform you, manipulate you body and mind, and yes, even manipulate time. At least your perception of it.

And so we manipulate his.

Not that this gathering ends any too quickly. We need to give him time. Time to wade deeply enough into his shock and discomfort that he may never want to see an ass or pussy again.

Time for every woman attending Ladies’ Night in the Enchantrix Femdom Dungeon to try out the chair. A seemingly limitless parade of BBW bottoms, bony nymphs, ladies smelling fresh as a daisy, and those with a very strong, musky scent. Sometimes emanating from her pussy, and sometimes from her ass. From the menopausal to the ingenue. Ladies going commando and rubbing their sweaty, befurred and sacred yonis from his forehead to his chin as they shift to find just the right position of comfort. Ladies in leather thongs that leave reddened impressions on their “seat” when they rise.

Every woman, or at least her ass and pussy, a representation of those he’s furtively photographed.

You may ask, wouldn’t it be better to enchant him to love pussy and ass, but to simply stop taking the pictures?

Some specimens, dear pupil, are worthy of re-education and reform.

Some will never be worthy. So it’s best, in Our immortal Femdom wisdom, to create a permanent aversion to that which those of his ilk do not deserve.

Hark! We do believe it’s time!

A Broken Chair

Ah yes. Let the last sitter rise. The crowd begins to thin, walking out where he came in, and disappearing, perhaps to be conjured again for the comeuppance or torment of another hapless specimen somewhere in the Dungeon.

The music fades, but the blue light, with its speckle of stars from the disco ball, continues to glow.

Look! Against the wall there. See Our chair. Funny that as immobile as he is, he still looks disheveled and traumatized, doesn’t he? His hair standing out in all directions. His face smudged and smeared, streaked with red welts and rubbed raw in some spots. Puffy and bruised here and there,

And those eyes!

Rolling with near-insanity.

He is lightheaded from a night of restricted oxygen, and nearly insensate with fear.

A broken chair.

But We won’t discard him.

Slowly, he will be allowed to move. First, his face. Don’t be alarmed when the moment he can open his mouth, he begins to wail.

He is wrenched upright, first by the neck, then the spine, with a resounding series of cracks as first cervical and then thoracic vertebrae realign.

We free his arms, and jerk him to his unsteady feet.

We will leave him now, to gather his wits the best he can.

What will become of him?

Ah yes, We did say We would create an aversion, but We did not tell you what that would look like.

When this specimen leaves the Dungeon, anytime he feels tempted to indulge his little upskirt fetish, he will experience the same sensations as he did tonight. His face will freeze and its skin will feel raw and beaten. His bones will ache, and his breath will become short.

And most importantly, he will be overcome by a sense of creeping dread.

He will delete his gallery, because until he does, he will feel the same by simply walking through the door of his home.

He will begin to avert his eyes when he sees a woman, and they, in turn, will be as indifferent to him as they would be a piece of furniture.

As for his sexual impulses?

He will remain technically heterosexual. But he will discover that the only way he is able to achieve orgasm is through masturbating to gay porn.

Are We cruel, dear witness? Perhaps so. But perhaps We must be, as you humans say, cruel to be kind. Kind to womankind, that is. And naturally, as a Femdom power source, this is why We exist.

What was that, witness? When will he leave the Dungeon?

Not yet. Beyond that it is not for you to know.

We will release you now, to your own fate.

After all, you, too, have been tasked with making your way through Our dungeon. And no one comes here without reason.

See what fate befalls this traveler, or perhaps another, by visiting Mistress Meshelle’s stop on Our Halloween Blog Train tomorrow!

Happy Halloween!

xx

Goddess Rachel