Gallery

He kept a Band-Aid and a tiny sterile wipe on him; she’d found them the first time she’d ever sat on top of him and pulled his wallet from his pocket to go through it (smirk on her face, pulse wild in her throat). “What’s this for?” she’d said, wrinkling her nose.

“Accidents,” he’d replied.

“I think most guys carry a condom for that reason.”

“When I do,” he’d said, “there’s nothing accidental about it.”

Now here she was with her legs across his lap, hands behind her on the bench, remembering that afternoon and watching ruefully as he cleaned and bandaged her scrape.

“Ouch!” she said.

“Don’t flinch,” he murmured. “If you’re very brave you’ll get a reward.”

“Fine,” she grumbled. There was a brief cold sting to it as the alcohol evaporated, but the the thing that made her wince was the thought of being seen like this. She’d indulged herself with the mismatched knee socks and pigtails that morning; she hadn’t expected to find herself in this position, her little skater skirt riding up, getting her skinned knee tended to as if… well.

He wasn’t technically old enough to be her father.

“I did tell you to tie your shoe,” he said.

“I know!” she said defensively. “But this girl walked by with a puppy, and–” she swallowed the rest of the sentence before she could dig herself any deeper.

He looked up, eyebrow raised, and offered a smile to someone behind her. She twisted around to see: oh. The woman she’d mentioned, smiling in sympathy, walking up while her dog raced happily around the off-leash park behind them.

“I saw you take a spill there!” she said as she approached. “Everything okay?”

“No permanent injuries,” he said, extending a hand over to shake. “I’m Drew. Fine-looking dog you have there.”

“Thanks!” she said. “I’m Natalie. And this is…”

“And this,” he said amiably, rubbing her leg, “is my little girl.”

She froze, mouth halfway open to introduce herself, suddenly uncertain. She took a breath to say something–but what?

“Fine-looking one you have there yourself,” said Natalie, eyes sparkling. They nodded at each other, very slightly. Then Natalie took a seat behind her on the bench.

What was going on? She still couldn’t seem to find the breath to say anything, but the flush of nerves she’d felt while he was tending to her had graduated to a full-on burning face. She automatically made room, twisting to pull her legs off his lap and sit down between them.

Natalie only moved closer, and casually ran one hand up her back, thumb brushing the nape of her neck over and over in a gentle, soothing motion. It didn’t actually soothe her at all, of course; she sat bolt upright and gripped her Daddy’s arm, mouth half open, unable to think of what to even say to this.

“She seems very sweet-natured,” Natalie smiled, and moved her thumb up to rub lightly under her ear, behind her jaw.

“She is,” he said. He could definitely see what Natalie was doing, but he didn’t seem to mind, and certainly didn’t object. “Doesn’t bite. Except when she’s playing.”

He started scratching the back of her head himself, doing it exactly the way he knew she liked–pushing outward with the backs of his nails, making her instinctively press against them with her head, tingling. Her hands gripped her skirt. Her face was still so hot, but they weren’t doing anything that was actually weird or embarrassing.

Right?

Natalie moved the hand at her jaw back to her throat, then ran it down her flank, stroking the thin shirt and making goosebumps rise on her skin. “She do okay with strangers?”

“We’re working on that. Why don’t you try her and see if she behaves?”

Natalie’s lips pressed against her hear, breath warm, lips soft. “Can you present for me, girl?”

She felt that hand drift to the side of her skirt and undo the tab, then to the back, and slide down underneath it. So. Okay. Now they were doing something a little more embarrassing.

But she felt her back arch and her hips push up a little anyway. Doing tricks for a stranger.

He had his hand on her neck now, slowly squeezing, almost holding her by the scruff. His other hand reached across her body and picked up the blue nylon leash from Natalie’s lap. He held it up, examining the clip at the end. “Do you know,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about getting one of these?”

“I say stick with a simple one,” smirked Natalie. “Works just as well as the fancy versions.” That cool, careful hand was slipping down into her the back of her panties, one fingertip teasing between her cheeks and making her breath hitch. She was rolled so far forward on her hips now that she was almost off balance, back a shaky arch, shirt tight against her breasts.

She started to say “Daddy, is this something you–”

She started to say “Daddy–I’m all blushy–”

She started to say “Daddy, I’m not a–”

She started to say “Daddy please–”

But all that came out of her throat was a tiny, high-pitched little whine.

Natalie’s hand was underneath her now, cupping her, finding her lips warm and her panties sopping. Natalie’s grin was a bitten lip and a searching expression, looking off in the middle distance with careful, probing fingers that easily wet themselves inside her. Natalie found her clit, and let out a little satisfied “ah.”

Her fists had twisted the skirt into themselves so thoroughly that she was vaguely surprised it hadn’t torn yet. There was no mistaking what was happening now: anyone who glanced across the path from the park would see a girl trapped between a man and a woman, held very still by the neck, while one of them quite obviously worked her pussy as if she were polishing a plaque.

Her face was so hot and she couldn’t seem to breathe all the way in. She felt paralyzed, shaky, helpless, used. She felt so fucking turned on she couldn’t think.

It didn’t take long at all.

When she came it was almost a surprise, and she couldn’t quite contain an embarrassing little grunt as her breath burst out of her. Her belly contracted and she nearly raised her fists to her mouth before she had the presence of mind to force them back into her lap. She felt herself dropping her face to her knees instead, legs shaking, Natalie slowly and carefully pushing her all the way to the end before that wicked hand finally withdrew.

Natalie popped her fingers in her mouth, a deceptively sweet little smile on her face. “Well,” she chuckled, meeting his eyes across her crouched body. “She is just a lovely little thing, isn’t she?”

“As sweet as they come,” he agreed.

Natalie stood and stretched, looking across the park to where her goofy retriever was bounding toward her, stick in his mouth. “Snickers and I should get going,” she said, “but any time you want to meet up for a playdate…”

“Oh, I think I know where to find you,” he said. Natalie grinned, and waved, and was gone.

“Oh my God,” she finally managed to say into her damp and wrinkled skirt.

“Shhhh,” he said, still rubbing the back of her neck. “You did so well, darling girl. Here, let me see your knee.”

She pushed herself up again, not yet steady, feeling as if her face must still be puffy and red from the exertion of… well, holding still. “Did you–was that–do you two–”

“Not something you need to worry about, princess,” he soothed. “Here. I told you if you were very brave you’d get a reward, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” she said, fighting to keep her voice in its normal register.

He leaned down, kissed her bandaged knee, and produced a tiny heart sticker from his pocket to stick next to it. “Such a good girl,” he said. “And only getting better.”

Gallery

All right, nerds, you made me laugh. Special Valentine’s story coming up next.

Gallery

Your teeth and throat and bitten lip.
Your tongue, so sharp and tart.
Your muffled sounds. Your quickened blink.
Your stutter-skipping heart.
It won’t be long, this little wait.
You try so hard to hold
Your hands and feet and gaze and breath
As still as you’ve been told.
You squirm. You shift. You can’t resist.
You never could. You sigh.
You’re here because of what you are,
And why you catch the eye—
You burning wick, you emberglow,
You drifting little spark.
You are a pulsing point of light:
But oh, the night is dark.

Gallery

“Hi, baby. Can you hear me?” He squinted at the screen, looking at the little mirror image of himself in the corner, then tilted it so the camera wasn’t pointed directly into the light.

Her face appeared, frozen for a second, then block, then moving, grinning. “Hey!” she said. “Is it working? Is it there?”

“Yeah!” he stepped away from the monitor so she could see their surrogate, kneeling on the bed, lace mask pulled over its face and implant status light pulsing slowly at the nape of its neck. It was nude and still but for its breathing, curled slightly in on itself, waiting.

On the monitor, she bit her lip. “Fuck. You got a cute one.”

“Aww, you like it? I tried to pick one as close as I could get to you.” He looked down at it, tugging at his lip, his eyes hungry. “Wanna try it out?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” She picked up the collar and its trailing wires, fastened it, and made sure the cold contact metal patches were touching her throat. “Okay, try something.”

He reached out and ran the backs of his nails down the surrogate’s chest, around the side of its breast to its inner arm. Goosebumps rose on its pale skin. Through the speakers, she gasped.

“Fuck. Oh man. I didn’t think it would be that clear!” She wrapped her arms around herself and giggled. “Do it again. God, I miss you. It feels so good to have your hands on me again…”

He squeezed its arms, its shoulders, then settled his hands on its hips and pulled it in close to his chest. She let out a little hum of pleasure, feeling the heat of his body against her back. “Should I, like… move it so it’s sitting like you are?” he asked.

“I think you should move it so it’s sitting on your dick,” she said, hand stealing down into her shorts.

He laughed. “You sure?”

“Baby, I have been fucking starving for you,” she growled. “We can cuddle after. I wanna see just how much of you I can feel…”

Needing little encouragement, he wriggled out of his shirt and pants, springing out hard and lifting the surrogate’s yielding body up to part its thighs. It was wet, of course, warm and slick, and if it didn’t feel exactly like she did, well…

“Oh fuck,” she gasped, arching a little on the screen. “Oh my god. Oh fuck, I didn’t think… I can feel how tight it is AND how hard you are, baby… you don’t have to put on a condom or anything, right?”

“Nah, the service takes care of all that,” he grunted, pushing deeper inside it. “God. This is so much better than jacking off to your snapchats, I can’t believe we didn’t try it before!” He picked it up and started to rock its hips back against him, and she groaned and lifted herself a little off her chair.

“They must be so well-trained–there’s no way I’d be able to hold that still if you were really inside me.” She bit her lip. “Can you make it move some more?”

“I think there’s a command, yeah. Um. Kivirmak?”

It had already been trembling a little, holding back, but now it arched and bucked and–he thought–barely contained a whimper of its own. He grinned with pleasure, slowing his thrusts, and both she and it squirmed with frustration.

“You playing with yourself, baby?” he said, panting a little.

“Yeah, why? Are you–oh my GOD,” she said, eyes going wide as he reached down to roll its clit between finger and thumb. “Holy fuck! I can feel–you and it and me–all on top of each other–”

He moaned, grabbing it by the shoulder and settling back on his heels, pulling its weight down on top of his cock and making it bounce a little. He could feel its breath hitching; he gave it a playful slap between its legs. Both of them jumped, and she let out a little squeak.

“Is it close, baby?” she managed. “Because I am.”

“Sure feels like it,” he said. “Mmmmfuck. But I don’t think it can have an orgasm unless I give that command too.”

Her eyes were dark and glittering, and she had one finger between her teeth as she rolled her hips against her other hand. “Do it,” she said. “Make it come.”

“Hadi,” he said.

The surrogate definitely did let out a little noise then, legs shaking, gripping the sheets. On the monitor, she caught her breath and rubbed herself faster. “Fffffuck,” she whispered, “it’s like I can feel it but not actually go over–oh God–can you–can you make it go again?”

He did, and that time, watching it and feeling it clench and writhe and shudder, they both came with it.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said lazily, afterward, running his fingers over its goosebump skin again, “but I kinda wanna rent one for when we actually do this again in person too.”

“Fuck yes,” she murmured. “Let’s get two.”

Gallery

The thing about the Institute is this: it’s no secret, what we do here. It’s common knowledge, both locally and online, and while the details of patient files and therapeutic methods are of course confidential, you’d be hard pressed to find a girl who knows where our complex is but not what happens inside. No one who enters emerges the same person. Many don’t emerge at all, as a person or otherwise.

Yet nearly all of them come to us of their own accord.

Why is that? Why would you, in possession of full knowledge or at least wild rumors about the treatment we plan to inflict on you, walk through our doors and sign away your life to our tender mercies? It seems counter to every instinct of self-preservation. Most of our clients are financially stable, and all arrive in good physical health. Your complaints are little things: bad habits, flaws of character, shames, mistakes and regrets. What drives you all to surrender voluntarily to the slow, thoughtful cruelty of men, women and machinery bent on breaking you?

It’s likely you couldn’t articulate the answer if you tried. But we can. We’ve seen you before, you and every girl like you. We know you’ve spent your whole life alone inside, frustrated, aching and empty, trying to smother the roaring fire of needs you do not and cannot understand. You have been hiding it so long that everything in you hurts. You are already suffering.

You want to believe that your pain can be fucked away.

Whether that’s true is something you’ll have to see for yourself—but only we can show you. You know that. So you’ll take a deep breath, step into our parlor, and hand over your body in the hopes that we’ll break it open to fix your soul.

That’s the thing about behavior correction, you see. It only works if you really want to change.

Gallery

The airbrushing in this picture is pretty flagrant–her lower belly, most of her chest (right to a weirdly clear line diagonal above her nipples), and most noticeably on her mons, I suppose to hide the texture of her skin and maybe some stubble. I am not surprised, I guess; I’m sure I have posted photos here before that exhibit similar artifacts.

But… just… like, okay. It’s pretty universally acknowledged that stubble on men is sexy. Can we all just admit that stubble on women is fucking hot too?

Gallery

herdirtylittleheart:

Basically me. 

This is actually my favorite kind of message to receive. Subs, littles, fuckbuddies, just-good-friends: you have no idea how satisfying it is when you admit the little ways in which you need us.

Standard

I wish horrible things would stop happening long enough to let me feel okay about writing porn.

Gallery

They were always carrying equipment into the half-constructed house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Sawhorses, power tools, coils of rope and cases of bolts and fasteners. Big long crates, too, heavy enough that they needed two men to carry them, or sometimes to stack them on a forklift.

They left the floodlights on inside all night, and ran heavy machinery at odd hours, grinding or shrieking or clattering and bothering the neighbors. Eventually they complained enough that a man came out from the county to talk to them. He stayed inside for a couple hours and then left, returning several more times over the next week. His final report was that he couldn’t find any evidence of a problem.

Kelly used to bike by the place all the time when she was younger. Now, at nineteen, she’s finally seeing what it’s like inside. You wouldn’t expect a normal house to take years of building, would you? Who would wait that patiently for their home to be completed? Who knows. Construction projects always take longer than you expect.

Gallery

Lots of trigger warnings on this one. I want to talk about Jian Ghomeshi, a Canadian musician and broadcaster who abused women. When a number of those women began to come forward about his having assaulted them, Ghomeshi was fired from his job at CBC, sued them for fifty million dollars, and posted a defensive manifesto in which he attempted to claim, more or less, that he was being kink-shamed out of the industry.

The reaction from many people has been to point out that Ghomeshi was not engaging in the kind of BDSM activity we all hold up as an ethical standard: private, safe and consensual. That’s true. The reports of abuse consistently point out that he acted by surprise, engaging in violence first–serious, dangerous violence–and then attempting to use pressure to steer the interaction toward sex and further violent acts. It’s clear that he believes that insufficient objection is the same as consent.

So the BDSM community has largely rejected his line of defense and attempted to separate themselves from him. Fine. That’s what you should do when a sickening person tries to take refuge in your ranks. But the next thing you should do is question why he tried to hide among us in the first place.

In his Facebook post, Ghomeshi used variations on the word “consent” nine times. (He used the word “safe” only once.) He’s clearly looking at his own activity from some kind of pseudolegal standpoint, where his right to privacy supersedes all others and pre-agreement is the highest standard of ethical behavior. This is a pretty common tactic among people who would like to simplify complex situations until they resolve in their own favor: insist that if you display perceived agreement to anything, the responsibility for what happens afterward lies entirely with you. This ignores the fact that silence or lack of knowledge is not consent. This ignores the fact that consent can be withdrawn. This ignores the fact that, in the real world, all negotiation takes place in a complex web of pressures that are often equivalent to duress. This is one of the roots of rape culture.

Informed consent has long been the Holy Grail for scientists, kinksters and armchair ethicists. Here’s the thing about the Holy Grail: it doesn’t fucking exist.

Ghomeshi claims he has evidence that he obtained consent from at least some of the women speaking out about him. I am vastly more inclined to believe the people he assaulted than I am to believe him, but even if he has bulletproof contracts drawn up and signed by every one of them, it doesn’t matter. Even if it wasn’t the case that people who say they were attacked deserve the benefit of the doubt over their attacker, it doesn’t matter. Because in his own words, in that tragic victimized narrative of a Facebook post, Ghomeshi never displays one bit of empathy for the people he claims were his willing partners.

He describes himself as “in deep personal pain,” “harassed,” “demonized,” “smeared,” “defamed,” “damaged,” “piled on,” “hated” and “laughed at.” He writes in the hopes that he can “bring an end to the nightmare.” That’s his nightmare, to be clear. He describes the first woman to come forward about him, and the journalist she worked with, with words like “jilted,” “upset,” “her anger,” “colluding” and “vengeance.” The part where he describes her as “painting herself as a victim” displays a stunning lack of self-awareness.

He never once gives a moment of consideration to the idea that anyone has a reason to be traumatized by his actions, and Jian, buddy, that alone disqualifies you from the ranks of people who can ethically participate in dangerous sexual activity. That disqualifies you from being able to participate in sex with other people at all. People who cannot conceive that their actions have consequences are not allowed to take those actions. You can’t understand another human being if you can’t understand another human being.

Years ago I read a moving, brutal piece by the amazing journalist Mac McClelland called “I’m Gonna Need You to Fight Me On This.” More trigger warnings for rape, mental illness and violence on that one (and, notably, some appropriation). You should read the whole thing, if you can.

The conclusion of the story is about McClelland engaging in violent nonconsent roleplay with an ex-boyfriend that, at her request, involves him choking her and punching her in the head with a closed fist. This is the kind of activity Ghomeshi engaged in with unwilling people, then “joked about” as “being like a mild form of Fifty Shades of Grey.” That’s not how McClelland describes it.

I did not enjoy it in the way a person getting screwed normally would. But as it became clear that I could endure it, I started to take deeper breaths. And my mind stayed there, stayed present even when it became painful. My body felt devastated but relieved; I’d lost, but survived. After he climbed off me, he gathered me up in his arms. I broke into a thousand pieces on his chest, sobbing so hard that my ribs felt like they were coming loose.

Isaac pulled my hair away from my wet face, repeating over and over and over something that he probably believed but that I had to relearn. “You are so strong,” he said. “You are so strong. You are so strong.”

When I draw this comparison, I’m not saying there’s no fun to be had in rough kink. I am saying that there is a huge difference between a dominant partner wanting to inflict pain and a submissive partner wanting to receive it. I am saying that sexual violence is always close, in one way or another, to trauma. If we are unwilling to acknowledge that connection, then we’re complicit in its exploitation. If I, the person writing this, don’t address that first with empathy, care and humility, then Jian Ghomeshi and I are the same.

Gallery

The Exam: Protocol Delta

Among the goals of the study currently in progress is to test a number of approaches in decoupling orgasm from pleasure, and vice versa, in physically healthy young women. The subjects of the study themselves are best able to assist each other with socially induced sexual stimulus, and have proven compliant when instructed to make withholding orgasm part of such sessions. In the converse case, however, a more clinical approach is necessary.

When beginning a Protocol Delta session, the subject is to be brought to the procedure room in the morning, stripped, and restrained in such a way as to provide convenient access to all orifices and erogenous zones without inducing undue stress. Lubrication may be used, or in some cases avoided; at any rate, most subjects self-lubricate upon restraint anyway.

Begin by clamping and drawing away the glans clitoris, to avoid introducing undue sensation to the session and interfering with the objective (though clitoral manipulation may play a role later on, after it is certain that the subject will derive little pleasure therefrom). Use a standard speculum to open the vagina, and if necessary, a modified McPherson speculum to open the mouth as well. The approach to the anus is to be determined based on the day’s objective.

Statistically, across all subjects, the strongest vaginal contractions and most vocal objections are achieved with the following method: insert a ¾" gauge probe anally; apply focused pressure to the anterior wall of the vagina, with speculum in place; constrain breathing via oral penetration and holding the nostrils shut manually; and deliver a series of low-amperage electrical pulses to the root of the pudendal nerve. This method reliably achieves climax with little or no pleasure, and will quickly exhaust the subject through successive orgasms if sustained.

Of course, individual subjects will vary in response, and may be induced to more intense reaction by introducing other factors. Several subjects have been caused to ejaculate, with or without orgasm, by adding manual pressure just below the ridge of the pelvic bone. Some have been observed to climax with sufficient electrical stimulus of the nipples. Each subject has a different response to the introduction of a urethral or cervical sound; be sure to document these thoroughly.

A given session conducted under Protocol Delta should last eight to ten hours. The most recorded separate orgasmic events during this period is forty-eight, though we believe that it is possible to break fifty under the right conditions. While subjects may display reluctance or resistance to the start of this protocol, several have confessed during recovery periods that they fantasize about it, and have even provided additional ideas for techniques to explore. Sessions will therefore continue in the current manner as long as we believe we still have much to learn.

Gallery

Behavior Correction Manual Article 5.44(A): Bargaining. Understand this: given sufficient time and regular treatment, your subject will eventually offer sexual favors. This differs from the feints or pathetically transparent seduction attempts one often sees early on in subjects who believe they are cunning. The offers we discuss here are desperate and genuine, and appear later. They are part of an attempt to bargain purely as a coping mechanism, even if the terms of the offer the subject presents are far from clear.

You may be tempted to take this as a sign of progress. It is in fact a form of backsliding, and must be discouraged. Consider:

  • A bargain is a deal struck between peers. At the Institute, a subject surrenders claim to peer status prior to treatment.
  • An offer of sex implies three things to be traded: availability, anatomy, and willing participation. A subject is always available; can have her anatomy accessed at any time; and is required to participate in any act her therapist finds useful.
  • Trading is a form of economic control. Control, at the Institute, is a virtue exercised solely and entirely by our hardworking staff.

Recommended strategy in response to this behavior includes general depersonalization and forced sensation, often including deep-penetration therapy. Pictured above is subject #218, formerly “Melissa.” Note the use of heavy vaginal/vulva stim combined with degradation positioning and an inability to support herself against her retention hook. The subject was required to repeat the exact words of her original offer to a series of staff members until she became incoherent, then left in situ overnight before repeating the exercise for a full week. By its conclusion, when presented with video of subject-initiated versus staff-initiated sexual activity, she exhibited a marked preference for the latter.

The basic principle at work is this: almost universally, subjects who arrive at the Institute do not know what they want. To allow them to complete a cycle of desire-request-fulfillment is counterproductive and harmful. Instead, by concentrating our work on manipulating, guiding and hyperprovoking desire to the breaking point, we can show them what they actually need.

Gallery

theresarumblyinmytumbly:

Jason Momoa for Men’s Health UK October issue (x)

Okay, on the one hand: I don’t talk about this side of myself much, but lord, “Jason Momoa” + “manual labor” has startling results in my downstairs area.

On the other hand, that second gif loaded last like a punch line, and now I want to read sweet and funny fanfic about Jason Momoa haplessly trying to make friends with a train.