u/moonchild_it

Hello everyone!

This is my first post in this group. I’m not much of a writer, and I don’t have any particular talent in this area.

However, I find the content here interesting and agreeable with my personality. We’re talking about emotional masochism, which probably reaches its most self-destructive level here.

Warning: The following content may be upsetting to some people.

I’m currently delving into the world of AI, driven by a combination of curiosity and professional obligation. I’ve tried writing a story about it. It’s the worst femdom story on the internet. It was written by a computer nerd using AI and isn’t particularly original: some situations are already familiar, others were made up on the spot, and still others are inspired by my rather questionable personal background. The theme itself has already been rather overused. To top it off, the story was written in Italian and has also been translated into English using DeepL, which makes it clear that AI was involved.

I suppose there are no inconsistencies in the story. It was written rushing, with no initial intention of sharing it. Nevertheless, I believe it may still convey something.

Throughout the story, there are dynamics, situations, and extreme ideological concepts that are the product of the imagination and contextualized within this fiction. They do not reflect the author’s opinions, nor do they make any claims.

There are 9 chapters in total, and this is the first. If you’d like to read the rest, I’ll publish them.

If anyone spots any errors, please let me know; I’d be deeply grateful.

Good luck to everyone!

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PLOT:

The story follows the development of the relationship between the protagonist—a man who tends to be submissive and meek—and his partner, a girl from Eastern Europe who lives in a small flat in Florence, the city where he met her. Whilst he is a man who is also jealous and has a fair amount of pride, she exploits these weaknesses to humiliate him and bring him to his knees. She goes so far as to blackmail him in every way possible, even emotionally and psychologically, just to destroy him.

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Derian had prepared dinner with the meticulous care of someone trying to mend something invisible. The wild boar ragù had simmered for five hours, filling the apartment with a rich, gamey aroma that mingled with the scent of the hardwood floors and the beeswax Zairena used to polish the furniture. He had set the dining table with the linen placemats she preferred, arranged the napkins folded into the shape of flowers, and lit the beeswax candles in the brass candelabra he’d found at an antique market in Santo Spirito.

It was almost midnight.

The plate of pasta had gone cold; the fat from the sauce had formed a dull film on the surface. Derian sat on the brown leather sofa, his knees drawn up to his chin, his green eyes fixed on the front door. His cell phone, resting on the walnut coffee table, showed no notifications. The last message he’d sent—“Everything okay? ”Dinner's ready”—had gone unanswered for three hours.

When the key turned in the lock, the metallic sound made his fingers twitch. He stood up quickly, smoothed out his jeans, and ran his hands through his tousled black hair. His heart was pounding against his ribs with a rhythm that seemed almost ridiculous, childish—as if he were fifteen and not twenty-six.

Zairena entered the apartment, bringing with her the cold November air and something else, indefinable, that Derian immediately sensed was wrong. It wasn’t the scent of her usual shampoo, nor that of the tobacco that sometimes lingered on her after an evening at the bar. It was something more subtle, more intimate. A foreign scent.

“You’re still up,” she said, without it sounding like a question. She took off her black wool coat and let it fall over the back of the nearest chair. Underneath, she wore a form-fitting midnight-blue velvet dress, cut to highlight every curve of her athletic body—that six-foot frame that made her look as if she’d been sculpted by a Renaissance artist obsessed with divine proportion.

Derian noticed her shoes. Black pumps, twelve-centimeter heels, made of shiny leather that reflected the light from the candles still burning. They weren’t the ones she’d left the house in that morning. Those—he remembered with the obsessive precision of someone who’d learned to memorize details to survive—were black pumps but with a lower heel, more comfortable, and suitable for a day’s work.

“I made the ragù,” he said, hearing his voice come out too loud, too anxious. “The one you like. With the wild boar from the butcher in San Lorenzo.”

Zairena looked at him. Her dark eyes—that absolute depth that Derian had always found hypnotic, like pools of ink in which he could drown—scrutinized him with an intensity that made him feel naked, exposed in some way he couldn’t quite define.

“I’m not hungry.”

She walked toward the open kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took out a bottle of mineral water. Derian watched her move with that feline grace that was so characteristic of her, every gesture calculated to maximize visual impact. Even so, tired, with her black hair slightly tousled, she exuded an authority that filled the room and reduced him to a shadow at the edge of his own apartment.

“Where have you been?” The question had slipped out before he could control it, with that slightly high-pitched tone he hated in himself, that note of pleading that always crept in when he was afraid.

Zairena closed the refrigerator. The sound of the door slamming echoed too loudly in the silence.

“Out.”

“Out where? With whom?”

She leaned back against the sofa, facing him. The distance between them—no more than two meters—seemed like an abyss. Derian noticed the way the candlelight shaped the contours of her face, that almost unsettling perfection he had learned to call "angelic" in his most romantic moments and "deceptive" in his more lucid ones.

“Sit down,” she said.

“Zairena, it’s half past midnight. You haven’t replied to my messages for hours. You owe me an explanation.”

“Sit down, Derian.”

Her tone hadn’t risen. There was no explicit threat in her voice, yet he felt his knees give way, the weight of his body pulling him down. He sat on the edge of the sofa, his hands clenched between his thighs, feeling his heart race in that unpleasant way that had become familiar over the past few months.

Zairena remained standing. She towered over him physically, and something about that position—her upright, him crouched—seemed symbolic of a dynamic Derian didn’t want to acknowledge.

“I’ve met someone,” she said.

The silence that followed was so thick that Derian could hear the hum of the refrigerator, the tapping of a moth against the windowpane, and his own breath becoming ragged.

"Someone," he repeated, as if the word were in a language he were learning.

“A man. Actually, more than one.” Zairena smiled, and that smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, Derian. Don’t make that abandoned puppy face. It’s pathetic.”

He felt something snap inside his chest, a physical sensation, almost audible, like a plank giving way under weight. Two months. Two months in which she had rejected every attempt at intimacy, every caress, and every kiss that lasted more than a second. Two months of “I have a headache,” of “I’m tired,” of “not now, Derian, please.” He had believed it was a crisis, a work problem, some dark depression she didn’t want to share. He had cooked, he had cleaned, he had bought flowers, and he had written poems he had never shown to anyone.

“How long has this been going on?” His voice came out broken, a scratchy whisper.

“For a while.” Zairena bent down and picked up his cell phone from the coffee table. She twirled it between her fingers casually, as if it were her own. “Do you want the details? I’m sure you do. You men are all the same: you get turned on imagining what you can’t have.”

Derian felt the heat rise to his cheeks, a sudden rage that gave him the courage to stand up. “Enough. Enough of these games. Are you telling me you cheated on me? That you cheated on me with—how many?—other men? And for how long?”

“Two months. Give or take.” She set down her phone and crossed her arms over her chest. “Since I stopped fucking you, more or less. It’s no coincidence, if you think about it.”

The blow was so precise that Derian had the physical sensation of having been struck. He staggered backward, placing a hand on the wall to keep from falling. Two months. The calculation was mathematical, cruel in its elegance. She had replaced his body with other bodies, his desire with other desires, without a word of explanation, without an attempt at communication.

“Why?” The question came out like a moan, humiliating in its desperation. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you just… let me…”

“Because I don’t want to leave you.”

Zairena spoke these words with the same nonchalance with which she would have ordered a coffee. Derian stared at her, trying to decipher the riddle, to find some logic in that contradiction. She didn’t want to leave him, but she was cheating on him. She didn’t want to make love to him, but she wanted to stay.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“It’s obvious.” She moved closer, and Derian caught the scent emanating from her skin—no longer that indefinable one from before, but something more distinct, more ancient. Sandalwood, perhaps, and beneath it the metallic smell of her own sweat, the one he knew well, the one he had sought on the sheets, on the pillows, on the days when she wasn’t there. “You don’t understand why I’m still here, Derian. You don’t understand your worth. Or rather, your lack of worth.”

She touched him. A finger beneath his chin, lifting his face to force him to look at her. Her skin was warm, slightly sticky with moisture. Derian noticed—with that part of his brain that continued to function mechanically, registering details even amid the chaos—that her wrists were slightly reddened, as if someone had gripped them tightly.

“You’re cute,” Zairena said, almost tenderly. “Really cute. Those doll-like features, those doe eyes. You moved me, at first. You made me feel… protective.” She laughed, a short, joyless sound. “Then I realized I don’t need tenderness. That I don’t need you, not the way I thought. But you might be useful to me in another way.”

Derian swallowed. His throat felt tight, lined with sandpaper. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m tired of pretending. Tired of this childish relationship, with your gifts and your dinners and your caresses that never turn me on. You’re a good guy, Derian. Too good. Too… just like the others.” She pulled her finger away and turned toward the window. The silhouette of Florence’s rooftops stood out against the orange sky of light pollution. “But I’ve thought of a solution. A middle ground. You stay here, with me. We’ll keep living together. But things will change.”

“Change how?”

Zairena turned. The candlelight illuminated her profile, casting shadows that looked as if painted by Caravaggio—that dramatic chiaroscuro she loved in the Uffizi galleries.

“First: I sleep with whoever I want. That’s non-negotiable. I’ll never negotiate that with you, or with anyone else. My body is mine, and I use it as I please. You have no right to veto, nor to complain. If I come home smelling of another man, you’ll say good evening and ask me if I want something to drink.”

Derian felt his knees buckle again, but this time he held his ground. He remained standing, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Second: you obey me. In everything. When I speak, you listen. When I order, you obey. There’s no more room for your wounded pride or for your jealous outbursts. I’ve seen how you look at me when I talk to other men. That beaten-dog look of yours turns my stomach. It ends here.”

“Zairena, this is…”

“Third: household chores are your exclusive responsibility. You cook, clean, iron, and do the grocery shopping. I work, I bring home the bigger paycheck, and I decide how to spend my spare time. You run the house. If I come home and find a crumb on the table, there will be consequences.”

Derian opened his mouth to protest, but she raised a hand, and something in that gesture—the absolute authority, the assumption that his silence was already assured—stopped him.

“Fourth: I have the right to punish you whenever and however I want. This is important, Derian. You need to understand this clearly. These won’t be childish punishments or senseless tantrums. There'll be lessons. A way to remind you of your place. And your place, right now, is at my feet.”

She moved toward the bag, that black leather bag Derian had given her for her birthday, the one she always used and which he had interpreted as a sign of affection. She pulled out an object he didn’t immediately recognize—something metallic, shiny, reflecting the candlelight with a cold gleam.

“This,” said Zairena, holding it up like a trophy, “is a chastity device. For men, of course. There are all kinds, but I chose this one for you. Made of medical-grade plastic, with an internal lock. Comfortable to wear for long periods, difficult to remove without the key.”

Derian stared at the object. It looked like a cage, a miniature prison for the most vulnerable part of the male body. He couldn’t relate that thing to himself, couldn’t imagine the sensation of wearing it, the weight, the constriction, or the impossibility of touching himself.

“I don’t understand,” he said, even though he was beginning to understand, and that premonition made him feel sick.

“It’s simple. You wear it. I keep the key. I decide when—and if—you can come. This solves several problems. Your masturbation habit, for example. I know you masturbate when I’m not there, Derian. I’ve always known. I’ve heard it, sometimes, through the door. That heavy breathing of yours, that creak—it disgusted me.”

Her eyes. She knew. Of course she knew. She had always known everything about him: every weakness, every shameful habit, every night he’d masturbated thinking of her, of them, of fantasies he’d never dared share.

“With this,” Zairena continued, rocking the device between her fingers, “your pleasure becomes mine. Every erection you have will be under my control. Any attempt to escape this control will be painful, physically and psychologically. And believe me, Derian: after a few days, you’ll learn to beg me. You’ll beg for permission to touch yourself. You’ll offer anything in exchange for a moment of relief.”

She moved closer, and Derian felt an instinctive urge to step back, to put distance between himself and this woman he no longer recognized, whom he perhaps had never truly known. But his legs wouldn’t obey him. He remained rooted to the spot, while she stopped just a few inches away, so close he could count her eyelashes and see the tiny golden flecks in her black irises.

“This will encourage your obedience,” she whispered. “Chastity makes one docile. Rulers have known this for centuries. A man who cannot satisfy his own needs becomes… malleable. Attentive. Eager to please. I like you this way, Derian. I already like you, right now, with that look of a fish out of water.”

She touched his cheek, and he felt his skin tingle beneath her fingers—that treacherous reaction his body always had in her presence, regardless of his mind.

“What if I refuse?” His voice came out broken, almost inaudible.

Zairena withdrew her hand. Her gaze turned cold, detached, as if she were observing an insect that had ceased to interest her.

“Then you’ll leave. Tonight. Grab your things and get out of my apartment. I don’t want to see you anymore. I won’t call you; I won’t reply to your messages. You’ll be dead to me.”

Derian closed his eyes. The weight of that threat—because it was a threat, not a choice, not really—crushed his shoulders. To leave Zairena. To never see her again. To never smell her scent, never watch the way the light shaped her features, and never wake up beside her even though it was now a cold, distant, inaccessible side.

The alternative was... this. This thing she described in such clinical, orderly terms. Total submission. Forced chastity. The privilege of remaining at her feet, literally and metaphorically, while she gave herself to others.

“I can’t,” he said, and the words came out in a sob. “I can’t accept this, Zairena. I love you. I love you so much it hurts, but this… this is too much. This is…”

“It’s what?” She tilted her head, curious, almost scientific in her interest. “Is it degrading? Is it humiliating? Yes, Derian. It is. It’s exactly that. And you want it. You already want it, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

“No.”

“Yes.” Zairena took a step back, sat down in the leather armchair, and crossed her legs. Her black shoes—the ones he didn’t recognize—glistened in the dim light. “Look at yourself. Look how you’re trembling. Not with anger, Derian. With excitement. Your body already knows what your mind refuses to accept. That’s just how you are. Submissive, addicted, willing to endure any humiliation just to stay tied to someone who ignores you. I know because I’ve studied you. Because I let you believe you were in control, at first, just to see how you’d behave when you lost it.”

Derian looked at his hands. They were trembling, indeed. But it couldn’t be excitement, not at that moment, not with that pain in his chest that prevented him from breathing normally. Yet he felt something, a strange, almost electric tension radiating from his lower abdomen and confusing his body’s signals.

“I’ll give you a minute,” Zairena said, glancing at her watch. “One minute to decide. If you stay, you accept everything. The rules, the device, and your new role. If you leave, you disappear forever. There’s no middle ground, Derian. Not with me.”

The minute passed in silence broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the beating of his own heart. Derian tried to think, to rationalize, to find a third option that didn’t exist. Leaving Zairena meant returning to his old life, to that gray existence she had colored for a year, even if those colors were now proving to be poison. Staying meant... what, exactly? He didn’t know. He couldn’t imagine himself in the role she was assigning him—that of the humble servant, the excluded partner, the denied body.

Yet, when she said, “Time’s up,” his voice came out before he could control it.

“I’m staying.”

Zairena smiled. Not the cold smile from before, but something warmer, more satisfied. As if she had just received a long-awaited delivery.

“Good.” She rose from the armchair and approached him. “Excellent. You know, Derian? I had bet with myself that you would accept. I knew your breaking point, your emotional dependence. You’re not the first man I’ve subdued, but you’re the one who promises to be the most… docile.”

She took his chin again, this time more firmly, forcing him to lower his face.

“On your knees,” she ordered.

Derian hesitated. A last remnant of pride—that part of himself he had always believed untouchable—screamed at him to refuse, to raise his head, to walk out that door with his dignity intact. But his knees gave way, buckling onto the hardwood floor with a dull thud that echoed through the empty room. The position was humiliating; it made him small, vulnerable—exactly as she wanted.

“Perfect.” Zairena looked around and spotted the shoes she’d left by the door. She picked them up and walked back to him. “Now, if you truly accept your new role, you’ll prove it. Lick my shoes, Derian. Clean them with your tongue. They’ve been all evening in places you don’t know, with people you don’t know. They bear traces of the life I live and you can no longer even imagine.”

Derian looked at the black, shiny, perfect shoes. The stiletto heel, the slightly worn sole, the leather that smelled of an expensive store and something else, something organic that he didn’t want to identify.

“Zairena, please...”

“It’s not a request. It’s a test. Do it, or get out.”

He closed his eyes. His breath came out ragged, almost a sob. When he opened his eyes again, he saw his own hands moving toward the shoes, grasping them with an absurd, almost reverential delicacy. The leather was cold beneath his fingers, smooth, and immaculate.

“Your tongue,” she reminded him. “Not your fingers. You’ll use your fingers later for her feet.”

Derian brought his face closer. The scent was more intense up close, that mix of treated leather and feminine sweat and—yes, now he recognized it—something earthy, foreign, a sex that wasn’t theirs. He felt his stomach clench, a nausea he fought with something else, something he didn’t want to name.

The tip of his tongue touched the shiny skin. The taste was metallic, chemical, with a salty undertone that brought tears to his eyes. He licked, slowly, following the curve of her cleavage, the line of her heel, and the sole that had walked on floors he would never see.

“Good,” said Zairena, and in her voice was that satisfaction he had always tried to earn, that approval that had driven him to cook, to clean, to buy gifts. “Now the other one.”

Derian obeyed. The second shoe received the same attention, the same methodical humiliation. When he was finished, his lips were burning, his throat was parched, and yet he felt something strange, a tension radiating from his lower abdomen that he couldn’t ignore.

“The feet,” she said.

She took off her shoes, one at a time, with slow, deliberate movements. Her bare feet were perfect, like everything about her—her toes aligned, her nails manicured, and the skin on the soles slightly pink. Derian noticed a faint scratch on her ankle, a small imperfection that struck him with absurd violence, as if it were an open wound.

“Kiss the top,” she ordered. “Then the toes. One by one. Slowly.”

Derian obeyed. His lips touched the warm, slightly damp skin, scented with the sandalwood she always wore. The contact was electric, a jolt that ran down his spine and made him shiver. Her toes, when he kissed them, contracted slightly, and he felt the power of that reaction, the way even that slightest movement depended on him, on his service, on his submission.

“Your tongue on the sole,” she said. “Where I walk, you lick. It’s symbolic, Derian. You should understand that, with all your poetry.”

He obeyed. The sole of her foot was rough, slightly calloused, with an intense flavor that made his head spin—sweat, skin, and the residue of socks and shoes and a whole day. He licked with slow, methodical movements, feeling the weight of her foot pressing lightly against his tongue, guiding him, and controlling him.

“The other one,” she said, and he moved to the other foot, repeating the ritual, immersing himself in that degradation that strangely didn’t make him feel dirty, but… free, in a perverse and incomprehensible way. There were no more choices to make, no more doubts, and no more of that constant anxiety to please her, to be enough. There was only this: the command, the obedience, and his tongue on her skin.

When she withdrew her feet, Derian remained on his knees, breathing heavily, his eyes glistening. He didn’t dare look at her or dare move. He waited.

“You passed the test,” Zairena said. Her voice was different now—softer, almost caressing, but with a subtle note of derision she couldn’t hide. “You’re mine now. You know that, don’t you? Not the way you dreamed, with love and marriage and children. But mine. Property. Something I use as I please.”

Derian nodded, too breathless to speak.

“Tomorrow,” she continued, “you’ll wear the device. I’ll teach you how to put it on, how to clean it, and how to behave. Tonight, though, I want you to stay like this. On your knees. Reflecting on what you’ve chosen.”

She picked up his shoes and tossed them carelessly back into the box. Then, without looking at him again, she headed toward the bedroom.

“Zairena?” Derian’s voice came out as a broken whisper.

She stopped at the threshold without turning around.

“Thank you,” he said, and he didn’t know why he was saying it, didn’t know what he was thanking her for—perhaps the fact that she hadn’t kicked him out, perhaps that new form of connection, perverse but real, that had formed between them.

Zairena laughed. A brief, cold sound that echoed down the hallway like a promise of all that was to come.

“Don’t thank me yet, Derian. You have no idea what’s in store for you.”

The door closed. Derian was left alone, kneeling on the cold hardwood floor, with the taste of her feet still on his tongue and the weight of a choice he could no longer undo.