The dynamic itself, distilled: one leads, one yields, and everything else follows from that agreement. The collection for listeners who love the shape of power exchange in any costume it wears.
You have been so, so naughty.... No homework in 2 weeks? This is unacceptable. Daddy is going to punish you. Making you watch your friend take your loving daddy's seed is going to make you learn your lesson... ****CONTENT WARNING**** This audio contains the use of the word "R*pe". Viewer discretion advised.
He arrives the way he always does: admiring the clothes he bought you, angling for a kiss on the cheek, offering flowers, then chocolate, then a cuddle, then slow and tender lovemaking. You turn down every one of them, and his bafflement is genuinely funny — a devoted man running out of nice things to offer the woman he adores. Then he sees how you have arranged yourself on his bed, and the warmth drops out of his voice. He sends you to lock the door and makes you say it out loud: that you want him in charge of everything that comes after. What follows he takes at his own pace, and he never lets you forget who decided it. He is still telling you he loves you when it ends.
You keep him waiting, then come out in something you chose for him, and he forgets how to speak. He is your boyfriend, sitting on the edge of the bed, and you make him watch: moving just out of reach, giving him a glimpse and never more, until he is openly bargaining for the sight of your bare back. He offers you anything. You take him up on it, and he undresses on your say-so and tells you exactly what the waiting is costing him. The turn comes when his patience goes: he decides he has been good long enough and that you are his. Then he slows right down, careful with you, checking, saying he loves you. It ends with your hand in his and nothing left to prove.
He is your one platonic friend, parked on your couch on a rainy afternoon, arguing about which cut of an old movie is the real one and teasing you for owning nothing that plays a tape. Then you come out of your bedroom in something new and he goes quiet. He is thrown, because he liked what the two of you had, but he cannot say no to you. So you set the terms out loud: he is the only one strong enough to hold you down, and you hand him a safe word before anything starts. You take the upper hand first and enjoy it far too much, until you tease him for finishing early and he shows you what he was holding back. Afterwards he asks twice whether you are alright, then whether you are still friends.
He is your boyfriend, and talk about getting you pregnant is old ground between you — familiar, tender, a game you both know. Tonight he asks whether you want to play again, and then he offers you two versions: the sweet one, all beautiful family and everything perfect, or something rougher, where you might not want it at all. You choose rougher. He is delighted, checks twice that you mean it, promises he would never hurt you, and then stops asking questions. What follows is the scene you asked for, given back to you harder than you pictured it, with him apologising and loving you the whole way through. And when it is finally over, holding you, he tells you something about the last month that was never part of the game.
What is this that I found on your undies? You’re not ready to be creaming yet. Lift up the blankets and let me see what you were doing… Girls that touch get stretched. You know the rules. Let’s measure with Daddy’s special tool and see if you’re ready sweetie.
Daddy comes home and finds you watching tv. You were excited to see him so you started telling him about your day. You told him that there was a place you were touching that felt really good. He asked where that was... Never disobey daddy.
Asking your boyfriend to try dom play for the first time.
Your boyfriend is in a spoiling mood. He works through the compliments he never runs out of, asks how your day was, offers a massage, offers to lie you down and give you the best cuddle of your life. Then he asks what you actually want, and what you name is not a cuddle. He has you repeat it so he is certain, agrees to all of it, reminds you of the safe word you both use, and sets one condition of his own: he wants you begging for it first. So you undress, and touch yourself, and ask out loud, on command, for every single thing. Then he honours the deal exactly as written. When it is done he lies you back, tells you what you are to him, and holds on until you sleep.
He begins with nothing but adoration: how your eyes catch the candlelight when he takes you to dinner, the way you almost dance when you walk, how he would rather you sat back and looked pretty while he handled everything else. Then he tells you what he has been holding back, and that the moment you say the word he will not spare a single impulse. You say it. He stands you up, takes your clothes off you, and decides that good girl is a title you have to earn tonight. He is in charge, and the tenderness never leaves his voice, not while he uses you and not when he tells you what he means to leave inside you. It ends with him wrapped around you, telling you that you have finally earned it.
Your roommate is in the kitchen, narrating a sandwich to himself, entirely pleased with his own company — and then he carries it toward the TV and finds you on the couch. He does the decent thing first: calls out that he is home, offers to wait in the other room, tells you to take your time. You tell him to come over instead. So he sits, and watches, and asks for your eyes while you finish. The turn comes after that: he admits he has been thinking about you for years, decides he likes you better bad than good, and puts a bargain to you about what he gets to leave behind. Your boyfriend comes up once and stops mattering. It ends with him shy, saying more than he meant to, offering you half the sandwich.
Your boyfriend comes home late and short-tempered, and the way you say you're fine is all it takes. He shouts about working all day for you, then breaks in the middle of it: he is convinced you hate him, and that is the only thing he cannot stand. The apology is real. So is the truce. Then he asks whether there is anything he could do to make you hate him less, and you tell him. The anger has not left the room, and he wants it there. He takes the rest of the evening out of your hands, decides what you get and when you get it, and then stops being angry at all. By the end he is not talking about tonight. He is talking about a baby, a future, and starting over.
You are decades too old for the line at the mall Santa's chair, and you get in it anyway. He plays along until a staff member moves you on, then announces a half-hour break over the store speakers, walks you out of sight of the shoppers and pulls the beard off. Underneath is a man in his sixties who sold a software company in 2002 and is working off court-ordered hours because the alternative was mopping floors. He asks your age, decides he can live with it, and points across the concourse at the lingerie shop: he will buy you a present if he gets to see it on you. Taking him into the changing room is your idea, not his. Afterwards he pays for both sets at the counter and asks you to promise him a second time.
Your boyfriend comes in from the gym, finds you laid out on the bed in almost nothing, and delivers the bad news with a completely straight face: you are gorgeous, he loves you, and you smell terrible. The evening you had planned gets rerouted upstairs, where he runs the water and climbs in with you, because washing you is a job he enjoys far too much. The turn arrives while you are still covered in soap. You told him the other night that you wanted him rougher, so he asks how rough, and what word will stop him. You pick lemon. He waits until you are clean, then puts a hand around your throat and stops being kind. Afterwards he tells you he meant none of it, and holds you until you sleep.
You get home earlier than he expects, dressed the way you only dress for him, and he asks where you have been and who Sam is. He is your boyfriend, and he does not raise his voice; he simply asks you to prove there is nothing to worry about, and then he checks for himself. What he finds under the lingerie he bought you settles the question. The rest of the night is him making his point: that he decides what you feel and when you feel it, that he can take you to the edge and hold you there, and that whatever another man left is being replaced. It ends with him softer than he has been all evening, asking for a kiss and telling you that you are his.
Want some milk sweetie? Daddy has special milk you can try. He needs you to help him get it… You want to be a good girl right? Then sit in Daddy’s lap, listen to Daddy’s instructions, and try some of Daddy’s special milk.
You are back in your hometown for Christmas, at a party full of people you spent years avoiding, when your old friend finds you: the quiet one who never made his move, now unmistakably sure of himself and doing suspiciously well in tech. You slip out together, and in his old bedroom he asks — in the most formal language he can find — whether he is allowed to court you. Then he tells you what he actually wants for Christmas, the one thing he wondered about for years and never had the nerve to ask for. He turns out to be greedier than the shy version of him ever let on. It ends with snow at the window, an invitation for the rest of the week, and a hope he probably should not say out loud.
You come home wrung out and he has you in his arms before your coat is off — kisses on your face, a promise that nobody gets to treat his girl like that. He asks what happened; you tell him what you need instead, and he goes still, then delighted — you have never asked him to ruin you. He takes the request seriously: what exactly you want, whether you want it in your body or your head, whether you have been taking anything to stop what he plans. You have not. What follows is unhurried and merciless, your wrists tied to the headboard while he tells you what he means to leave inside you — and he says he loves you the whole way through, including while calling you names. He unties you with a hand on your face.
A Roman palace, and the prince who has decided you will never get what you came for. His father married your mother; there is no blood between you, which is exactly the argument you keep losing. You need an heir to make your claim on the throne legitimate, and he is the one man whose seed would settle it. So you come to his chambers masked and mute, an anonymous gift, and he takes you without knowing who he has. Then he knows. What follows is hostile, public and precisely what you wanted: a rope at your throat, the court watching, and a promise about your lineage that he makes and breaks at the last possible second. Afterwards he steps out of the whole thing, tells you none of it was real, and holds you.
Fifteen minutes into his office hours and you are the only one who turned up. He teaches the economics lecture you sit in twice a week, and he knows exactly why you are standing this close to his desk. He says no, and he keeps saying it: that he is not your guy, that nothing you do will move your grade, that this university has rules he happens to like. Then he tells you to lock the door, and the man who spent ten minutes refusing you becomes someone unhurried and exacting, two adults in a quiet room with permission handed out entirely on his terms. Footsteps pass in the corridor. Afterwards he is soft and talkative, already working out where he can see you again that isn't here.
You are the new account manager, and the greying man on the next stool owns the company. He has no idea you came here for him. First he talks: about the business he built instead of a family, about the office being more of a home than his house, about how you are far too pretty to waste yourself on this industry. Then your hand settles on his very expensive trousers and he works out exactly what you have been doing all evening, appalled and delighted at once, and not inclined to stop you. The night runs from a car pulled over on a dark road to his enormous house in the rain, and ends with the richest man you know admitting he has everything, is not happy, and would like you to be the one he cares about.
You are losing badly at a pool table when a stranger takes the cue out of your hands and tells you the problem is your grip. He is not your boyfriend, he says, before you can ask. What he has noticed is how much of your evening goes on managing the room: hiding your face, checking who is watching, holding yourself so carefully nothing can reach you. So he starts giving instructions, and the first one you follow happens right there, in a crowded room. Then you keep following them — out the door, to his place, past the point where you are running anything at all. He makes you say what you want out loud before he gives it to you. Afterwards he holds on and asks you to stay the night.
He is the friend you have never risked anything with, and tonight, somewhere behind you at the party, he tells another guy exactly what he thinks of your body — close enough that you hear every word, including his promise that he will never make the first move. So you bring him upstairs, sit him on the end of your bed, and tell him to close his eyes. What he sees when he opens them ends the friendship as it was: an apology first, then the truth, then the admission that he has wanted you as long as you have wanted him. From there he is stunned and generous and filthy by turns, and twice he loses the argument with himself about finishing inside you. Afterwards he keeps you close and tells you how many nights you have cost him.
A banquet in the imperial court, and the man at the head of the room is the one everybody already knows. He sends a servant for drinks, seats you at his table, asks which family you belong to, and is amused to learn there was a daughter he had never heard about. You have a good name and a wedding already being arranged; he is the emperor, and he has decided your beauty is the only thing in the room that could match his power. He walks you to his chamber to find out. What follows is a long, deliberate lesson in submission, an heir he intends to leave inside you, and every inch of your surrender narrated back to you. Then he holds you, and says the thing he has said only once before.
You have been so, so naughty.... No homework in 2 weeks? This is unacceptable. Daddy is going to punish you. Making you watch your friend take your loving daddy's seed is going to make you learn your lesson... ****CONTENT WARNING**** This audio contains the use of the word "R*pe". Viewer discretion advised.
He arrives the way he always does: admiring the clothes he bought you, angling for a kiss on the cheek, offering flowers, then chocolate, then a cuddle, then slow and tender lovemaking. You turn down every one of them, and his bafflement is genuinely funny — a devoted man running out of nice things to offer the woman he adores. Then he sees how you have arranged yourself on his bed, and the warmth drops out of his voice. He sends you to lock the door and makes you say it out loud: that you want him in charge of everything that comes after. What follows he takes at his own pace, and he never lets you forget who decided it. He is still telling you he loves you when it ends.
You keep him waiting, then come out in something you chose for him, and he forgets how to speak. He is your boyfriend, sitting on the edge of the bed, and you make him watch: moving just out of reach, giving him a glimpse and never more, until he is openly bargaining for the sight of your bare back. He offers you anything. You take him up on it, and he undresses on your say-so and tells you exactly what the waiting is costing him. The turn comes when his patience goes: he decides he has been good long enough and that you are his. Then he slows right down, careful with you, checking, saying he loves you. It ends with your hand in his and nothing left to prove.
He is your one platonic friend, parked on your couch on a rainy afternoon, arguing about which cut of an old movie is the real one and teasing you for owning nothing that plays a tape. Then you come out of your bedroom in something new and he goes quiet. He is thrown, because he liked what the two of you had, but he cannot say no to you. So you set the terms out loud: he is the only one strong enough to hold you down, and you hand him a safe word before anything starts. You take the upper hand first and enjoy it far too much, until you tease him for finishing early and he shows you what he was holding back. Afterwards he asks twice whether you are alright, then whether you are still friends.
He is your boyfriend, and talk about getting you pregnant is old ground between you — familiar, tender, a game you both know. Tonight he asks whether you want to play again, and then he offers you two versions: the sweet one, all beautiful family and everything perfect, or something rougher, where you might not want it at all. You choose rougher. He is delighted, checks twice that you mean it, promises he would never hurt you, and then stops asking questions. What follows is the scene you asked for, given back to you harder than you pictured it, with him apologising and loving you the whole way through. And when it is finally over, holding you, he tells you something about the last month that was never part of the game.
What is this that I found on your undies? You’re not ready to be creaming yet. Lift up the blankets and let me see what you were doing… Girls that touch get stretched. You know the rules. Let’s measure with Daddy’s special tool and see if you’re ready sweetie.
Daddy comes home and finds you watching tv. You were excited to see him so you started telling him about your day. You told him that there was a place you were touching that felt really good. He asked where that was... Never disobey daddy.
Asking your boyfriend to try dom play for the first time.
Your boyfriend is in a spoiling mood. He works through the compliments he never runs out of, asks how your day was, offers a massage, offers to lie you down and give you the best cuddle of your life. Then he asks what you actually want, and what you name is not a cuddle. He has you repeat it so he is certain, agrees to all of it, reminds you of the safe word you both use, and sets one condition of his own: he wants you begging for it first. So you undress, and touch yourself, and ask out loud, on command, for every single thing. Then he honours the deal exactly as written. When it is done he lies you back, tells you what you are to him, and holds on until you sleep.
He begins with nothing but adoration: how your eyes catch the candlelight when he takes you to dinner, the way you almost dance when you walk, how he would rather you sat back and looked pretty while he handled everything else. Then he tells you what he has been holding back, and that the moment you say the word he will not spare a single impulse. You say it. He stands you up, takes your clothes off you, and decides that good girl is a title you have to earn tonight. He is in charge, and the tenderness never leaves his voice, not while he uses you and not when he tells you what he means to leave inside you. It ends with him wrapped around you, telling you that you have finally earned it.
Your roommate is in the kitchen, narrating a sandwich to himself, entirely pleased with his own company — and then he carries it toward the TV and finds you on the couch. He does the decent thing first: calls out that he is home, offers to wait in the other room, tells you to take your time. You tell him to come over instead. So he sits, and watches, and asks for your eyes while you finish. The turn comes after that: he admits he has been thinking about you for years, decides he likes you better bad than good, and puts a bargain to you about what he gets to leave behind. Your boyfriend comes up once and stops mattering. It ends with him shy, saying more than he meant to, offering you half the sandwich.
Your boyfriend comes home late and short-tempered, and the way you say you're fine is all it takes. He shouts about working all day for you, then breaks in the middle of it: he is convinced you hate him, and that is the only thing he cannot stand. The apology is real. So is the truce. Then he asks whether there is anything he could do to make you hate him less, and you tell him. The anger has not left the room, and he wants it there. He takes the rest of the evening out of your hands, decides what you get and when you get it, and then stops being angry at all. By the end he is not talking about tonight. He is talking about a baby, a future, and starting over.
You are decades too old for the line at the mall Santa's chair, and you get in it anyway. He plays along until a staff member moves you on, then announces a half-hour break over the store speakers, walks you out of sight of the shoppers and pulls the beard off. Underneath is a man in his sixties who sold a software company in 2002 and is working off court-ordered hours because the alternative was mopping floors. He asks your age, decides he can live with it, and points across the concourse at the lingerie shop: he will buy you a present if he gets to see it on you. Taking him into the changing room is your idea, not his. Afterwards he pays for both sets at the counter and asks you to promise him a second time.
Your boyfriend comes in from the gym, finds you laid out on the bed in almost nothing, and delivers the bad news with a completely straight face: you are gorgeous, he loves you, and you smell terrible. The evening you had planned gets rerouted upstairs, where he runs the water and climbs in with you, because washing you is a job he enjoys far too much. The turn arrives while you are still covered in soap. You told him the other night that you wanted him rougher, so he asks how rough, and what word will stop him. You pick lemon. He waits until you are clean, then puts a hand around your throat and stops being kind. Afterwards he tells you he meant none of it, and holds you until you sleep.
You get home earlier than he expects, dressed the way you only dress for him, and he asks where you have been and who Sam is. He is your boyfriend, and he does not raise his voice; he simply asks you to prove there is nothing to worry about, and then he checks for himself. What he finds under the lingerie he bought you settles the question. The rest of the night is him making his point: that he decides what you feel and when you feel it, that he can take you to the edge and hold you there, and that whatever another man left is being replaced. It ends with him softer than he has been all evening, asking for a kiss and telling you that you are his.
Want some milk sweetie? Daddy has special milk you can try. He needs you to help him get it… You want to be a good girl right? Then sit in Daddy’s lap, listen to Daddy’s instructions, and try some of Daddy’s special milk.
You are back in your hometown for Christmas, at a party full of people you spent years avoiding, when your old friend finds you: the quiet one who never made his move, now unmistakably sure of himself and doing suspiciously well in tech. You slip out together, and in his old bedroom he asks — in the most formal language he can find — whether he is allowed to court you. Then he tells you what he actually wants for Christmas, the one thing he wondered about for years and never had the nerve to ask for. He turns out to be greedier than the shy version of him ever let on. It ends with snow at the window, an invitation for the rest of the week, and a hope he probably should not say out loud.
You come home wrung out and he has you in his arms before your coat is off — kisses on your face, a promise that nobody gets to treat his girl like that. He asks what happened; you tell him what you need instead, and he goes still, then delighted — you have never asked him to ruin you. He takes the request seriously: what exactly you want, whether you want it in your body or your head, whether you have been taking anything to stop what he plans. You have not. What follows is unhurried and merciless, your wrists tied to the headboard while he tells you what he means to leave inside you — and he says he loves you the whole way through, including while calling you names. He unties you with a hand on your face.
A Roman palace, and the prince who has decided you will never get what you came for. His father married your mother; there is no blood between you, which is exactly the argument you keep losing. You need an heir to make your claim on the throne legitimate, and he is the one man whose seed would settle it. So you come to his chambers masked and mute, an anonymous gift, and he takes you without knowing who he has. Then he knows. What follows is hostile, public and precisely what you wanted: a rope at your throat, the court watching, and a promise about your lineage that he makes and breaks at the last possible second. Afterwards he steps out of the whole thing, tells you none of it was real, and holds you.
Fifteen minutes into his office hours and you are the only one who turned up. He teaches the economics lecture you sit in twice a week, and he knows exactly why you are standing this close to his desk. He says no, and he keeps saying it: that he is not your guy, that nothing you do will move your grade, that this university has rules he happens to like. Then he tells you to lock the door, and the man who spent ten minutes refusing you becomes someone unhurried and exacting, two adults in a quiet room with permission handed out entirely on his terms. Footsteps pass in the corridor. Afterwards he is soft and talkative, already working out where he can see you again that isn't here.
You are the new account manager, and the greying man on the next stool owns the company. He has no idea you came here for him. First he talks: about the business he built instead of a family, about the office being more of a home than his house, about how you are far too pretty to waste yourself on this industry. Then your hand settles on his very expensive trousers and he works out exactly what you have been doing all evening, appalled and delighted at once, and not inclined to stop you. The night runs from a car pulled over on a dark road to his enormous house in the rain, and ends with the richest man you know admitting he has everything, is not happy, and would like you to be the one he cares about.
You are losing badly at a pool table when a stranger takes the cue out of your hands and tells you the problem is your grip. He is not your boyfriend, he says, before you can ask. What he has noticed is how much of your evening goes on managing the room: hiding your face, checking who is watching, holding yourself so carefully nothing can reach you. So he starts giving instructions, and the first one you follow happens right there, in a crowded room. Then you keep following them — out the door, to his place, past the point where you are running anything at all. He makes you say what you want out loud before he gives it to you. Afterwards he holds on and asks you to stay the night.
He is the friend you have never risked anything with, and tonight, somewhere behind you at the party, he tells another guy exactly what he thinks of your body — close enough that you hear every word, including his promise that he will never make the first move. So you bring him upstairs, sit him on the end of your bed, and tell him to close his eyes. What he sees when he opens them ends the friendship as it was: an apology first, then the truth, then the admission that he has wanted you as long as you have wanted him. From there he is stunned and generous and filthy by turns, and twice he loses the argument with himself about finishing inside you. Afterwards he keeps you close and tells you how many nights you have cost him.
A banquet in the imperial court, and the man at the head of the room is the one everybody already knows. He sends a servant for drinks, seats you at his table, asks which family you belong to, and is amused to learn there was a daughter he had never heard about. You have a good name and a wedding already being arranged; he is the emperor, and he has decided your beauty is the only thing in the room that could match his power. He walks you to his chamber to find out. What follows is a long, deliberate lesson in submission, an heir he intends to leave inside you, and every inch of your surrender narrated back to you. Then he holds you, and says the thing he has said only once before.
Dom sub audio is power exchange at its simplest and most portable: one voice leading, one listener yielding, and the electricity that lives in that agreement — whatever costume the scene happens to wear. Where the BDSM category goes deep on structure and Dom Daddy on a particular warmth, this collection gathers the titles where the dominant-and-submissive dynamic ITSELF is the draw, across every flavor the catalog holds.
Use it as the sampler shelf. If you know you respond to being led but haven't mapped which register does it best — stern or soft, formal or feral — these titles cover the range, and the cards tell you where each sits. The narrator's control is the constant; everything else varies on purpose.
It's deliberately the smallest collection, curated tight rather than padded. Once you find your flavor here, the deeper shelves — BDSM for protocol, Dom Daddy for warm command, Rough Audio for physical intensity — are each one click away, and the whole point of this shelf is to send you to the right one already knowing what you like.
Previews are free. Yield a little; see how it fits.
Audio where the dominant-submissive dynamic is the core appeal — one voice leading, the listener yielding — collected across every register the catalog performs it in.
BDSM is the deep, structured practice — protocol, rules, consequence. This collection is the dynamic distilled and sampled across flavors, built to help you find which register of being led is yours.
Right here — it's the catalog's designed entry point to power exchange. Pick a short title, note what lands, and follow the links to the deeper shelf that matches.