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Game of Blackmail:

A BDSM Femdom Thriller


Teddi Lawless

Copyright and Credits

All rights reserved © 2016 by Teddi Lawless

Editing Services: Allis Reveur

Cover Photo Model © 2017 pepperbox via CanStockPhoto

US Money Photo © 2016 Can Stock Photo Inc. / Marisha5

Cover Design: Ming Destiny

Except for brief passages quoted for reviews and/or recommendations in magazine, radio, or blog posts, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

This book is intended for mature readers who enjoy reading explicit descriptions of sex between dominant women and the wimpy men who love them. All characters are over 18, and all readers should be too. This steamy BDSM romance includes financial domination (findom), bondage including suspension bondage, 24/7 lifestyle dominance and submission, chastity and denial, CBT, and pegging for an intense experience that won't be right for everybody. Be sure you can handle the heat before you jump into the fire. This D/s story is about female domination over a male submissive who requires exclusive and intensive training. In many such real life relationships, there is often some role-playing between consenting adults that involves a blackmail scenario. Nonetheless, all characters and situations in this novella are completely fictional. Do not emulate the behavior of fictional characters in any way that could put you on the wrong side of the law.

Brief references to real celebrities, locations, and products are used fictitiously and in accordance with the rules of fair use. The cover model is just that, a model for the purposes of illustration who has no knowledge of or involvement in the events of this story.

A Note to Readers

Since I am known for collecting true life interviews from others in the BDSM community, I want to state for the record that this particular story is fiction. No real person, living or dead, should be conflated with the characters in this novella.

The previous edition of this story was published under the title, “Blackmail Game.”

Chapter One: Opening Move

Let's talk about that night. Let's talk about the way I sprawled across a blanket of green bank notes. Imagine me-- twenty-seven years old in a steel-boned corset and shiny latex thigh-high boots. Honey-blonde shoulder-length hair. Purple eyes. Not blue. Purple the color of Siberian amethyst. There's a guy in South Korea who does the eye work.

I don't know what it cost. A man paid. A man always pays. I went to sleep, and when I woke up, I had twenty-fifteen vision in my purple eyes. They used to be gray but never again.

So imagine. I'd been asked to play out today's fantasy any number of times over the last three years. The wanna-be slave-toy needs to see a hot, selfish, demanding bitch-mistress getting off on a bed of money. His money.

Of course, the wanker himself isn't allowed to get off. It isn't about him getting off. Don't call yourself a sub if you want to make it all about yourself. That isn't a sub. That's a fucking poseur trying to appropriate a lifestyle that doesn't belong to you.

At his age, this dude had done the fantasy with other girls before. Sure he had. They all had. You have to try the rest before you can appreciate the best.

Look closely at some of those online clips sometime. Zoom in on the money. Fuck me, is that a blanket of ones and fives? I'm not putting my sensitive skin on a bed of fucking Abe Lincolns. Leave that to the discount domme crowd. You get what you fucking pay for.

So. Imagine. The two of us had arranged to meet for the first time in an airport lounge. That's where I always meet guys for the first time. Nothing in life is guaranteed, but if the target is willing to buy a first class ticket and pass through security to get to the lounge to meet me, he might be the real thing.

It was 7:10 on a Thursday morning. Central Time Zone. The lounge was mostly empty, with a few gray-suited dudes spaced out far apart on various brown leatherette couches where they frowned into their laptops or their smartphones. One atavistic suit held a newspaper open in front of his face, creaking it uneasily in his hands as if afraid of getting ink smeared all over. It was yesterday's paper. The New Orleans newspaper only came out three times a week these days. Nobody read it for the news.

The newspaper was a signal.

That guy was my wanna-be slave-toy.

I checked in with the desk, smiled and nodded, and made the usual chitchat. They knew the name on the passport, which matched reasonably well with my face. Anyway, they knew me, because I was in and out of that lounge two or three times a month.

"Your flight is on time. They'll be boarding at 9:32."

I tucked my passport back into my suit jacket and tip-tapped on my steel-gray high-heeled pumps so that I would approach the newspaper reader from behind. He was hyper-aware of me. I could see the newspaper tremble, then drop to the coffee table in front of him. His shoulders tensed. But he didn't turn to look at me directly. He knew better than that.


When a man wants to surrender, it's easy to give him surrender. I used my index fingers to tap three times on his temples. One, two, three. The touch gave me direct electrical contact with his prefrontal lobe. The reptile brain. The one without a conscience.

"Imagine you," I said.

He sat very still, his shoulders higher than they should have been.

"Imagine you." I tapped his temples three more times.

"Yes." In the hushed room, his whisper was virtually inaudible. I could only hear him because I expected to hear him.

"Imagine you." Three more taps. I had now pronounced the anchoring phrase three times while tapping his prefrontal lobe nine times. There's probably no faster way to put a willing male into a receptive state.

"Yes, my Goddess."

I reached down into his jacket to pluck his wallet from the hidden pocket. No passport. He was traveling on a domestic ticket. I flipped through the thick silver, gold, and platinum flash of his credit cards. A lot of travelers avoid cash these days, but I found the eight hundred dollars in crisp new Bens I'd ordered him to put in the appropriate slots. There were twenties, tens, fives, and ones as well-- spending money, I suppose. Who the fuck gave him permission to have spending money? I took all of it, every penny.

Then the driver's license. I turned it in the light, pondering. It had been good enough to get past the TSA and past the lounge dragons. It was good enough to travel on. Didn't mean it was real. Or, being real, didn't mean it actually belonged to him.

Hell, my passport was real enough. The girl in the photo even looked a little like me. The trick was that she was a community college student who'd never left the state of Louisiana except, as a child, when it was under an evacuation order for Hurricane Katrina. Since she never went anywhere, she was happy to lease me the right to fly under her name. She would graduate without student loan debt, and I could fly without leaving a paper trail of my adventures under my own name, and everybody was happy as coconut cream pie.

The slave-toy's money went into the inside pocket of my jacket. The wallet went back into his jacket. Holding the license, I walked around slowly to the front of the couch to look at the photograph, look at his face, look at the photograph again.

"It is you," I said. "Aspen. Interesting name for a man."

"Yes," he said. "I'm me, all right."

We were flying in different directions. I was going east to Amsterdam. He was going north to Detroit. Of course, we both knew that my first connection was in Detroit. I could take things further on this meet, or I could walk away. It was entirely up to me.

Everybody knows how important it is for the sub to give consent. It's just as important for the domme. You can't just buy access to me. You have to impress me that you're worth my time. Being a domme isn't just a job for me. It's my actual fucking life.

The lounge was beginning to fill up with the breakfast crowd. I sat on the opposite couch. "Fetch me cappuccino and some of those breakfast cookies."

"Yes, my Goddess."

His jacket brushed up against the couch when he stood up, flapping in back to show me the curve of his tight ass in his tailored gray trousers. Nice body. Nicer than a lot of subs, if I'm honest about it. His driver's license said thirty-five, but I would have believed twenty-nine. A guy didn't keep a tight body like that into his thirties unless he worked out, but he wasn't overly bulky. He was somebody you could be proud to find on your arm.

When he returned, he sat the coffee and plate of cookies on the table in front of me, then hesitated like a waiter on his first day on the job.

"You may sit," I said.

"Yes, Goddess."

I sipped the hot coffee. Ate one or two of the cookies. Nobody was looking at us, not directly. They couldn't know we were domme and wanna-be slave-toy, but they could probably sense the tension in the air. I stood up suddenly and swung a leg over the coffee table to put just the toe of my shoe into his lap. "Don't move. I'll let you know if I want to hear from you again." My toe dipped and then lifted, and I was walking out of the room.

That briefest tippy-tap of contact with his bulge was enough to let me know how hard he was. My pointed high-heeled pump hadn't frightened him. It had thrilled him.


We were on the same flight, but he was in 4D, and I was in 2B. Easy to pretend I didn't see him. As I walked off the jetway at DTW, some uniformed gate agent stopped me. "Ms. Richard." She pronounced it like the Richard in Richard Nixon, instead of the French-fried way you'd say it in Louisiana. Not that I gave a flying fuck, since it wasn't my real last name to begin with.

"Yeah," I said. Madison Richard. It's a name. One of many.

"You have a very long layover. We would be happy to accommodate you on an earlier flight at no extra cost."

The layover was twenty-seven hours. I was a high-value customer of this airline, so I'd halfway expected the offer. If I wasn't interested in further contact with Aspen, I would have taken them up on it. An extra day in Amsterdam has probably been better than an extra day in Detroit ever since around about 1966. But I thought about Aspen's curved ass and shy, willing-to-please smile.

"I'm fine with the schedule as it is. I've already arranged a pub crawl in Greektown with an old friend from college."

"Ah. Excellent. Well, then, we'll see you tomorrow."

Everyone believed I went to college because of the way I spoke and the clothes I wore. Sometimes I watched movies about college and wondered if it was really like that. Well, we all know high school isn't anything like high school in the movies so... probably I wouldn't have turned out to be Elle Woods anyway.

I shook off vague cobwebs of fantasies about other lives and went tip-tapping down the corridors toward ground transportation. I was sixteen the year Katrina hit. High school. They didn't re-open the schools again for months in my parish, and by then it was too late. I was somebody else.

Somebody better. Stronger. Somebody who would survive.

I knew Aspen was staying at the Renaissance Center. I knew everything about him. I did my research on my dudes. Google said this, and the private detective site said that. He had some blank spots and shady places in his resumé, but what perv didn't? He checked out as the oil refinery bigwig he said he was. The wife walked out three years ago. No kids. If a rich guy is a lonely guy-- and make no mistake, a guy with a white collar job is a rich guy in Louisiana even if he isn't Carlos fucking Slim-- there's only one reason he's lonely. There's a hidden life. A fetish life.

Escalators and elevators. Eventually I found myself in front of the right door. As I pulled my cell out to text him to open up, I hit a secret button that turned on a camera lens concealed in my handbag's handle. A second camera lens peeped out of a hole in a raised seam near the bottom of the same bag. From here on out, everything we did was going to be on candid camera.

Aspen came fresh to the door from the bath. The pink flush on his cheeks and the dark curls plastered to the side of his face made him look years younger. Twenty-five instead of thirty-five. The snow-white terrycloth towel knotted clumsily at his hips was sagging down low enough to show off the architecture of his expensively toned eight-pack.

Nobody who looks like that is free of entanglements unless there's a reason. And in Aspen's case, the reason was pretty fucking simple. The man was simply far too twisted for your average chick who thinks a story like Fifty Shades of Grey represents the extremes of human behavior. The degree of submission that he'd begged for in his emails, his texts, and then his FaceTimes was too much for the normal woman. Well, nobody ever accused me of normal.

I put down my handbag in a convenient spot in front of the 52-inch hotel TV monitor. The twin lenses of my hidden cameras now had full coverage of the king-sized bed. "Did I give you permission to hide yourself from me?" My voice was steel and stone.

"No, my Goddess." With trembling hands, he slammed home the deadbolt and turned to face me. I just knew the palms of those hands were sweaty.


He fumbled with the knot. After a moment, the towel fell to the carpet, and he kicked it away.

"Crawl to me."

He dropped to all fours and scampered over with his tongue hanging out. I liked the way he crawled, with his ass held high in a sort of arch like he was offering it to the whip. Speaking of which...

This hotel had a big working desk. Instead of a computer, Aspen had set out the items I'd instructed him to buy-- a flogger made of nine tails of black kidskin, a wooden paddle, and a long silver vibrator. I flipped the switch to check the battery, and it buzzed with enthusiasm. Excellent. I hadn't specified a size, but I was pleased to see that he'd selected a fourteen-incher. You could accuse him of being a perv and a weirdo, but you couldn't accuse of dreaming small.

Two bottles of lube-- one regular, one cayenne-flavored.

A box of condoms. I picked it up and turned it over. I hadn't authorized condoms. Did he really think his perverted little wienie was getting anywhere near my pussy? Yeah, Aspen was a dreamer, all right.

"Lick my dirty pumps."

He thrust out his tongue and tapped it cautiously against my pointed right toe. It couldn't have tasted wonderful, but he needed to know that it wasn't all about him and what he liked.

"Harder. Kiss it like you mean it."

He pressed his face down close and began to swish his tongue around in long circular strokes on the uppers. It wasn't long before he dared to accidentally-on-purpose start swiping his oral finger around and over the exposed portion of my foot. Then my ankle. His face lifted, and his tongue began to work its way up.

"Did I give you permission to lick my naked flesh?"

"No, Goddess."

I snatched up the final item from the inventory-- two pairs of stainless steel police safety handcuffs. Kicking irritably at his face, I jerked his arms high over his head and locked them together. "Get on the mattress."

It can be difficult for men to get off their knees when they're handcuffed, but I could tell that Aspen had a lot of practice. Without too much overt stumbling and fumbling, he fell backwards across the king-sized bed. With one kick, he pushed the duvet down to the floor, so that he was naked on his back against the clean white cotton with his hands cuffed high over his head and his dick standing tall as if it was trying to tap the ceiling. I grasped his left ankle, jerked it close to his right, and used the second set of cuffs to manacle his feet together.

He was now a caught fish flopping on his back in the suddenly all-too-steamy air of the locked hotel room.

All this time, I'd been fully clothed in the gray skirt suit with the matching high-heeled gray pumps.

I picked up the flogger and smacked it experimentally against his chest, then his upper thighs. His balls were already swollen to an interesting shade of purple. Equally purple veins stuck out from his granite-hard eight-incher. A steady stream of pre-cum was running down his shaft.

"Where's the money?"

He whimpered softly.

"Do you remember your safeword?" We'd discussed all that crap on FaceTime.

His lower lip thrust out. "You won't trick me into saying that."

"Where's the money?" This time I used just the tips of the flogger's tails to sting the meat of his cock.

He jerked and twitched. "Ow! Fuck!"

Neither of those words was a safeword. I smiled a grim smile and smacked him again. Glancing at the air-conditioning, I saw it was set at sixty-eight degrees, just the way I'd told him. And yet somehow I was much too hot. I dropped the flogger for the time being to shrug out of my jacket and skirt, then unbuttoned the hot pink blouse to show off the matching black latex bra and panties underneath.

I kept on the pumps. Not that I needed the extra three inches to dominate this fucktard. But I liked the thought of how the extra height would look on the video.

"Where's my fucking money?"

He thinned his lips into a tight line and refused to whimper. Aspen wanted me to beat it out of him. Wanted me to beat him? No. "Wanted" was too weak of a word. He needed me to beat it out of him. I directed several more strokes at his cock, and it began to fling little strings of pre-cum in my direction. Fuck me, it was too soon for him to come. Fortunately, his supplies weren't the only supplies in the room. I dipped into my purse and came out with two clothespins.

"No," he said. "Oh God please no."

Still not a safeword.

I laughed out loud as I clipped one clothespin on his right nut and the other on his left. That should slow him down a little. But, just in case, I took out three more.

"No, no, no, noooooooooo."

I tried to pinch his flat left nipple but honestly... I hadn't expected innies. There was nothing to clamp onto. Instead, I ended up attaching all three clothespins to his smooth dickhead.

"Oooooo, oohhhhhhh, fuck me!"

"Don't scream so loud," I said. "You don't want the cops breaking in and finding you like this, do you? It would be the most viral YouTube ever."

"Gag me. Please. Fucking gag me!"

"Sorry, babe. Not gonna happen until you tell me where the money is."

I was still too hot. Peeling off the pink blouse, kicking off the heels, I was now down to the black latex bikini. Aspen's gray eyes went black with lust as his pupils expanded like he'd taken some intoxicating drug.

He was enjoying this entirely too much. Using both hands and putting all of my shoulder into it, I rolled him over onto his clothespinned dick. Did I give a fuck how much it hurt him to have all that crap digging into his stomach? That would be a no, honey. All I cared about was the smooth curves of that excellent bubblebutt spread out in front of me.

"Your future is entirely up to you," I said. "You decide everything."

"Nooooooo. Nooooooooo."

"You can tell me where the money is now, or you can be whipped and fucked, and then you can tell me where the money is."

"Noooooooo. Noooooooo. I won't ever fucking tell. Never fucking ever."

I liked the flogger. It was fun. I made hot red stripes all over his back, ass, and upper thighs. When he was blotched from neck to knees, I switched to the paddle so I could focus on that curvy bottom. He screamed after every swat, wordless screams that didn't make a fuck of a lot of sense. He was soon snuffling and crying. Because his hands were cuffed out of the way, he had to wipe his nose by rubbing his face into the nearest pillow. Poor baby. It's so much fun to blister a male ass. I knew he'd feel it every time he sat down for weeks.

I no longer asked him about the money, because I didn't want him to break too soon. I was getting into the rhythm of the spanking, swatting him again and again and again. After a time, I noticed that he was tucking his butt inward, so that he could dig his clothespinned cock into the mattress with every blow.

"Are you fucking the bed? Are you fucking kidding me? You're fucking the fucking bed."


"Fuck yes."

I reached between his legs and grabbed his clothespinned balls. Yanked them hard. Joggled the clothespins around. The blood flowed to crucial places, and he could feel the pain overriding the pleasure again. At least for now.


"If you think you're coming any time soon, you're fucking crazier than you look. And you look pretty fucking crazy to me."

The first few times I spanked him with the paddle, he'd tensed up. As the punishment went on and on, he'd relaxed into it, clearly enjoying the ecstatic bliss of pleasure/pain. Now his ass-cheeks were actually started to open and separate after every swat-- an obvious invitation. He'd told me his ass was cherry, but I doubted his honesty when I observed how wide his rosebud kept spreading.

"You play with your asshole."


"You need to be honest."

"Only when I can't stand it any more. When I can't concentrate. When I can't think about anything else."

"You're a fucking fuckhole. You're a big ole pervy ass-slut."

"Yes, my Goddess. I'm sorry. I can't help it. Please..."

This was a job for the cayenne-spiced lube. I snapped on a pair of black latex gloves that matched my bikini and began to squirt a long, ice-hot worm of goo down the crack of his ass. When I got to his rosebud, I pressed the whole tube against his hole and squirted hard to blast the remaining contents deep into his core.

If I thought he was screaming before, he got serious about it now. Fortunately, this hotel seemed to have good soundproofing. Still... I probably did need to muffle him a little. Snatching his bath towel from the floor, I balled it up and wedged as much of it as I could inside of his open mouth. His eyes were shining with gratitude. The way he'd screamed had shamed him. Boo fucking hoo. Did he really think I cared about his shame? I enjoyed it. The only reason I silenced him was because I suspected the rest of the state of Michigan wouldn't particularly enjoy hearing his pitiful shrieks.

What with the hot-pepper lube warming him up from the inside-out, my cuffed, gagged fuck-toy couldn't force himself to hold still. He rolled and kicked on the mattress. What a squirming target he made for my fourteen-inch vibrating ass annihilator. I flipped the switch and began to buzz, first hitting him just behind those clothespinned balls, then pressing more firmly into his taint. His legs automatically tried to spread further apart, but they couldn't. Instead, the cold steel on his ankles dug deep into his flesh, leaving red marks that could take days to fade. I didn't care. Open legs or closed, he couldn't deny me access to his supposedly cherry bunghole. I buzzed my way to his wriggling entrance and thrust.

"I should have known you were a fuck-hungry little slut," I said. "You wanted this all along. You manipulated me to get my buzzing cock inside of your asshole."

He couldn't deny it. Even if he wanted to, the towel choked off the lie.

Even if he was telling the truth that he'd never been fucked before, he'd clearly done an unusual amount of self-play. The coiled muscles of his asshole knew how to grasp and pull. If I hadn't kept a firm grip on the vibrator, his greedy rectum would have sucked the entire fourteen-inches deep inside.

"You loose little slut. You perverted little fuckhole."

"Mmmmmmm, mmmmmmpfhhhhh." That was about all he had to say for himself, thanks to the towel in his mouth. I didn't worry about the safewords. If he needed to say them, he could spit the towel out. But there was no fucking way he wanted this scene to end.

By now I had to grasp the vibrator with both hands to keep it from being sucked up his ass.


If not for the clothespins, he'd already be swimming in his own spew. As it was, he'd soaked the sheets with his sweat and his pre-cum. I suddenly yanked the vibrator out of him and flipped off the switch, leaving him open and empty. When I smacked his ass to get him to turn over, he stared at me, his eyes blank, his mind blank. The shock of the pleasure-loss had stunned him.

I tugged the towel out of his mouth. Drool poured freely down his chin.

"Please," he said. "Oh fucking hell, please."

"The money."

He blinked stupidly.

"Where's the fucking money?"

He cut his eyes toward the corner of the room beyond the night table with the reading lamp on it. A gym bag. Oh, how fucking original.

"Is that my fucking money? Don't make me get up and go over there for nothing."

"Yes, my Goddess. It's all there."

"Kneel on the bench." The bed had one of those benches at its foot where you throw all those unnecessary decorator pillows when it's time to go to bed. Either that, or hotel designers actually know people are using those benches for weird sex games.

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