erotica
Handoff, Part Five
(Parts 1-4.)
How do you feel?
Dizzy.
That’s all right.
Little.
Oh yes? Not a big girl right now?
It’s not like being… young, for me. Just small.
Like something I could hold in my hand?
Yes, Mister.
Like I’m doing right now.
Yes, Mister.
Do you feel safe here?
Uh huh.
Do you feel all used up? All worn out?
… Maybe.
Or do you think you can take a little more?
A little more what?
Oh, so you are coming back to yourself a little.
Maybe. Mister.
“Maybe.” Well. Maybe I want to do a little something you won’t bounce back from so fast. Maybe I want you to be thinking about this for a long time.
Uh uh.
You think I won’t? Or you think I can’t?
I dunno.
Maybe I want you to beg before I let you leave this room.
I bet you can’t make me.
Guess we’ll have to see how much more you can deal with, then, won’t we?
It wasn’t far from the armchair to the bed; I stood up, took a few steps and dropped her back onto it. She made a little show of squirming to one side. I retrieved her and administered several blows with the flat of my hand. Despite several nervous statements earlier about how she was actually a bit of a pushover in the pain department, Ivy stayed mute and stubborn: the bratty side resurgent.
She’d also made several claims about her own tightness, and how she had to be really wet to take any kind of thick penetration, even her own fingers. The speculum exam had borne that out to some degree, but I decided that the hypothesis needed another test.
My fingers are noticeably larger than hers, but as before, she took the first two just fine.
Ivy’s wrists were still tied together at this point, which made it entertaining when she wriggled up onto her elbows and tried to crawl away. Her reward for that was being dragged face-down across the bed again, and another series of smacks. I hooked my thumb into her vaginal canal and, using the wetness that had transferred to the base of my first two fingers, worked on her swollen clit for a little while. Judging by her vocal reaction, this seemed to produce a complex emotional reaction for her.
“Are you ready to—“
“No, Mister,” she cut me off.
I don’t know if she knew she was taking three fingers, after that, but she did begin to emit muffled sounds of distress.
The series repeats: I’m not sure if it was in the same order, but the basic series of squirming, spanking, stimulation and penetration, making her take a little more with each step. She wasn’t wrong about being a tight fit. She had no trouble producing more than sufficient lubrication, though.
Around the time you get four fingers inside a human being, you start needing to contend with the basic skeletal structure of your recipient. The vaginal canal is a flexible structure composed of elastic muscle, which can be shifted and stretched, but the bone and ligament of the pelvis are fundamentally stronger and more rigid than that of the hand.
“How does that feel?” I asked, testing to see how far I could push the tapered shape of my fingers, whether I could press against her clit from inside. “Too much for you, little girl?”
“No, Mister.” (I’ve omitted the onomatopoeia which would have lengthened this statement considerably.)
“Oh, then you think you can take more than this.”
“I don’t know, Mister,” is what I think she was attempting to say.
“Don’t worry, Ivy,” I said. “I believe in you.”
I don’t know if she quite understood what was happening—being face down and all—but when I pushed all five of my fingers into her cunt, she took it like a champ.
Handoff, Part Four
(Parts 1-3 here.)
Every weekday morning, my bus to work passes the hotel D took me to. I’ll look up and, subconsciously, shift a little in my seat. It’s almost become a part of my commute now, seeing the hotel and remembering being spread open, being made small and helpless. I have felt myself become wet before, the sharpness of my memory manufacturing another sort of Pavlovian drooling entirely.
It wasn’t some sleazy hourly motel. Inevitably, I’ll see professionals in neatly pressed suits with their efficient black suitcases rolling along on the pavement behind them. Not to say that it was particularly swanky either. But I suppose my point here is that when I pass the hotel, I realize that I am perhaps the first and only person to have ejected a speculum onto its sheets.The vibrations that had taken me over the edge were intense. At first, the speculum had rattled inside me when D lowered the head of the wand to the implement’s base. But I suppose I had clenched around it, because once it was still it was like a column of vibration, like something drilling into the earth. It went so deep that I nearly saw white. I don’t remember if I gave any cue that I was cumming – it’s become routine now for me to have to ask for it with partners – but I was before I knew it.
Afterwards, I had managed to steady my breathing. For whatever reason, over the past couple of years, I’ve been getting really good – if you can even call it a skill – at orgasming vaginally without clitoral stimulation. However, it’s often not nearly as intense. But my body doesn’t hold itself to its own rules. There’s this feeling that I get when I orgasm this way, like something in my head’s shifted just slightly and then something – endorphins? – is freed to rush out. Like twisting the kink out of a garden hose to release the pent up water. It’s more localized in my head than it is anywhere else in my body. But the feeling still lingered this time, made every part of me still feel alight and coiled. Even my clit was still tingling when I heard D switch the vibrator back on.
So I flinched at the idea of having more stimulation applied to it. I clenched up. And that’s when I felt the speculum slip out and found the telltale heat of shame crawling up the back of my neck.
”Ivy, we are going to finish this examination,“ I heard D say over the scrape of the speculum being closed. “Even if I have to bend you over the bed and insert it that way. Do you understand?”
I whined, but nodded nonetheless. The truth was that I was relieved to feel the speculum slide back inside me. I wanted it there, had missed the feeling of being held open almost immediately after the speculum had been pushed out. For as vulnerable and exposed as it made me feel, it also felt really, really good.
This time it wasn’t nearly as cold, and it slid home almost effortlessly. I wasn’t sure if he’d reapplied lube or if I was just that wet."Are you going to be a good girl and keep it in this time?” D asked, not waiting for my reply before he lowered the head of the wand to just above the hood of my clit. When D turned the vibrator on, I sucked in an inhale so sharply that it stung the arc of my hard palate.
D focused almost entirely on my clit this time, bringing me up near the point of orgasm before withdrawing once I neared the peak. A few minutes later, he’d done it again. Then again. Then again. Each time the window constricting slightly, even as he managed to get me closer and closer to plunging over with each edge. Soon, I was trembling, I was barely coming down between them. D was dragging the kind of cries out of me that scraped my throat raw as he worked me up and then withdrew, wordlessly, over and over.
For a while, it all blurred together. I don’t remember if I begged or not. I don’t remember when he withdrew the speculum. I recall being told to hold the vibrator against my clit by trapping it between my bent knees, but my legs quaked too hard for me to keep it still, even after two attempts and a sharp slap to my thigh. And I don’t even remember if he ever let me cum and, if so, how many times he did, though he must have. Because when he removed the bandage from my eyes, the room was for a moment soft and swollen. I felt like I was floating despite the heaviness in my limbs.
D had lain down beside me on the bed. As I blinked my vision back to steadiness, he pulled me into him. We’d take a break, he explained. He wasn’t done with me yet. “But I’m going to keep you just like this for a moment,” he murmured against my skin. “I want you to stay right here."
After initial visual inspection and baseline vitals were established for Ivy (hereinafter “subject”), the session proceeded as per standard protocol. Subject was responsive and aroused. Subject was vocal despite attempted self-restraint.
Of particular interest for this exam were the subject’s orgasmic threshold, pain threshold, and verbal or physical cues to indicate their approach. The following techniques were employed to glean data.
- Subject’s glans clitoris and labia were stimulated manually.
- Subject, while sight-deprived, was allowed to hear a nitrile glove being donned.
- Subject was offered and accepted synthetic lubrication.
- Subject’s vaginal canal was penetrated with a single finger. (note: concern about diameter expressed here, unusually early)
- Subject was stimulated via vibrating wand fitted with silicone diffuser head.
- Subject was induced to choose between body weight on said wand or sustained stress posture. (note: she chose tiptoes)
- Subject was bent at the waist, and manual impact stimulus was employed.
- Subject was eventually persuaded to count manual impact stimulus aloud. Impact was extended to the upper thighs and the soles of the feet, in addition to the traditional posterior site, as part of this persuasion
- (Note that by this point self-lubrication had made synthetic reapplication redundant.)
- Subject was penetrated with two gloved fingers. Vocal protest increased sharply. Significant pressure noted.
- Subject was turned onto reverse side to allow for tactile examination of breast tissue and, again, application of the wand.
- Subject’s legs were repositioned to allow for maximum exposure.
- The exam proceeded to phase three.
As audible cues had proven effective in exciting the subject so far, she was granted another one: the sound of a speculum being unscrewed and opened. While recent advances have brought some comfort and convenience to the apparatus, it remains apparent that the traditional steel-and-screw mechanism carries the strongest connotations. As stated at the outset, the objective was to establish thresholds, physical and emotional. Connotation was therefore considered paramount.
Subject’s vocal reactions increased in volume again and began to lose coherence as the device was secured in an open position. Visual examination of the canal, while not a focus of this visit, revealed healthy tissue. Subject was palpated deeply on the anterior surface of the lower abdomen while still dilated, which produced significant vocal reactions as well.
It may be that the reader wonders, at this point in the report, what makes it worth recording in such detail. After all, procedure according to protocol can be condensed to a terse note or two. But beyond personal interest in the subject, it is here that the events of the session become particularly noteworthy.
The subject was stimulated with the wand a third time, with the longest duration yet. In this case the wand was applied directly to the base of the speculum, which was still expanded internally. This led in short order to an orgasmic response, despite the fact that vibration was transmitted primarily to the internal body of the clitoris and not the glans. Subject voiced a sustained, high-volume response and displayed mild muscular convulsion.
Subject was evaluated verbally once verbal capacity appeared to return. Subject’s feet were also observed to uncurl as time went on. While she was engaged in light conversation and offered a lightly mocking taunt for her failure of self-control, subject was observed and evaluated for refractory period.
When it was judged that said refractory period was elapsing, subject—still blindfolded, restrained, and splayed open—was given another auditory stimulus: the sound of the vibrating wand being reactivated.
This is the part where Ivy clenched in fear so hard that she forced the speculum out.
Handoff, Part One
“Take a moment and really LOOK at the diorama!” said the museum docent. “And close your eyes.”
“What?” I said. “Why?”
“Don’t just picture it! Try to feel it. Hear it,” she urged.
I peered at the fanciful nineteenth-century taxidermy case, which featured two lions fighting a probably racist caricature. Ivy, standing a few feet away, was waging her own battle with contained laughter.
“What do you hear?” said the docent.
“Screaming?” I said.
“Are you in creative writing?”
I looked at her, a bit furrowed. I realize that higher-education students come from many age brackets, but I am pretty far from passing for an undergrad.
“No?” I said, with a bit of hesitation; I mean, writing was—in a way—the reason I was here to visit.
“Well, if you were writing a story about this moment,” she forged on, “what would it feel like?”
I looked at the sand heaped around the bottom of the case, and the wild-eyed, splay-legged camel within.
“Hot?” I replied.
Ivy and Flora, actively pretending not to know me, were no help at all. It took me a few more minutes to escape and flee toward the larger east gallery, blessedly free of taxidermy, during which they were busy charming each other.
It was another hour before Ivy sidled up to me, alone, in a side room filled with burial artifacts that no one had ever bothered to sort.
“Usually when I’m considering whether to have a scene with someone,” I said, “I’d start with a conversation about our… you know, kinks and interests.”
“Right,” said Ivy. “But I think we’ve got that covered.
“Has it really been that many years since the first time we interacted?”
“Yup,” she said. “I was a baby.”
I winced.
“Cheer up,” she said. “I’m all grown up now!”
Later still, at the hotel, I ran my fingertips down her arms and felt her prickle and shiver. She was standing very still, lips parted; I ran my fingers back along her thigh, drawing her skirt up, and up, and up—until it became clear that she had chosen to forgo her panties for this first meeting with a new old friend.
“Naughty girl,” I murmured, smiling. “Is it all right if I call you that?”
She nodded, and took a deep breath. “What should I call you?”
“Well, we are almost strangers,” I said. “Why don’t we try… ‘Mister?’”
“Okay, Mister,” she said, in a voice that didn’t sound very grown up at all.
fornix / 30X30 / oil paper wood / 2014
We didn’t have any lube in the house, so my left index finger was just teasing her tightness from underneath, her hips propped up on the pillow and ankles on my shoulders. I wet my other hand in my mouth and then made sure she was wet, too; I’d been smacking her around earlier to get her warmed up, and it worked. “Sorry,” she giggled just after she came the first time. “Am I in trouble?”
She was, if not in the way she thought. I pushed two fingers on my right hand deep inside her slippery hole, downward, not curling them up like I usually do. Then I pressed up with my left hand until they could feel each other. Through her.
She gasped and arched and grabbed the sheets. “Oh,” she remarked.
“Too much?” I said.
“No,” she said. “Keep going.”
I fucked her with my right hand. “Jesus,” she said, “I’m so wet I’m making pond sounds.” Then I tilted my fingers–mine can bend backward a bit; we’re both flexible in our own ways–and pushed until I felt, well, bone.
“What IS that?” she said, her eyes a little wild.
“I think it’s your tailbone?” I said, and probed a little harder. “No wait–I think it’s the back of your pelvis.”
“HOW?” she said.
I pulled my hand out and sucked some of her off my fingers, then drew a little diagram on her stomach. “Okay, so this is your vagina, and this is your cervix at the top. But it protrudes a little downward into the vagina, so there are pockets at the top and bottom. The vaginal fornices. The anterior one is what you can feel when I’m inside you and I’m pressing down on your lower belly from outside. Just now, I was exploring your posterior fornix.”
“It felt a LOT,” she said.
“Do you want more?” I asked.
“Yes please,” she said, and pulled my hand back, and then my head down between her thighs.
Oh, my sweet and darling readers. You’ve been so good. You’ve been SO patient. I have so much gratitude for your excellent behavior; I can only hope this will be worth the wait.
Housebound chapter 8 is live at Literotica.
Take a piece of the leftover Halloween candy you’ve been saving–an M&M, a Skittle, or something else small with a hard shell. Pop it out of the package and put it between your back teeth. Start to bite down–no, that was too hard, you crushed it. Go ahead, chew and swallow, we’ll start over.
Try it again. Put the candy between your molars and hold it, hold it, bite down just a little and oh you broke it again. Fine. Just eat it. Are you trying to get in trouble? That’s for later. Just do as I say.
Okay. Last time. I’m going to put this in your mouth and push it all the way to the back with my warm thick fingers, and you’re going to hold it when I withdraw. Start to press down. There, like that. A little more. A little more, until you can feel the shell just start to crack and splinter–and stop. Hold. Good girl.
Right now, the thing in your mouth is still a piece of candy. It’s whole but it’s broken, intact but irreparably compromised. Opening your mouth any farther would destroy it; so would biting down, but for the moment, it’s holding together. You can find the new sharp edges of that little glossy smooth thing with your tongue. There. Do you feel them?
Because that
is what
I want
to do
to you.
The best and basically only perk of being a counselor was, of course, getting a private room, and Kelsey managed to make it almost four days into the summer before one of Julia’s campers barfed in her bed in the middle of the night. They weren’t going to make the poor kid sleep on a bare plastic mattress, so the camper got Julia’s room, and, well. Neither Julia nor Kelsey got a room to themselves tonight.
The consolation perk was a smuggled-in bottle of cheap, nasty rum. They hadn’t actually drunk much–just a couple of swigs each to try and relax after their 2 am sheet-change wake-up call. Kelsey could still taste it on her tongue, though, and while it had helped make things fuzzier, it had made her feel warmer all over too. The warmth did her no favors. These tiny cabins had no AC, and they hadn’t even bothered pulling the sheets up when they’d climbed into the little twin bunk. Her skin was damp; she could feel stray hairs sticking to her temples, her forehead, and see her bunkmate’s doing the same.
It occurred to her to wonder if Julia’s mouth tasted like rum too.
“Julia?” she whispered, barely more than a breath.
“Mmmm,” sighed the other girl. “Hey, ’m real sorry about this. I can sleep on the… floor or whatever, if you want…”
“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s fine,” said Kelsey, her voice still soft. “I just wanted to see if you were still awake.”
“Not f’ long,” said Julia, scrunching her head back down into the pillow. “Thanks for letting me crash, I appreciate it.” Her eyes were dipping shut again, her lips parting slightly as her breathing slowed and deepened. “Just sorry it’s too hot to…” Her voice trailed off.
Kelsey blinked. “To what?” No response. She bit her lip. They were both exhausted, but… “Hey. Jules. To what?” she whispered, leaning down toward the other girl’s ear.
“Hmmm?” Julia inhaled sharply, eyes opening and struggling to focus. “Kelsey? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah!” Kelsey bit her lip. “Jeez. Sorry. I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.” Selfish, she berated herself. It’s three in the damn morning! Let your friend rest!
“‘Kay,” said Julia, sinking back down again. “Kisses. Cuddles.”
God dammit.
Kelsey lay back on her half of the bed, staring at the dark ceiling, feeling much more awake than she had a few minutes ago. Julia almost definitely didn’t know what she was saying–just talking sweet nonsense as she drifted off to sleep. Unless. Unless she was… pretending? To give herself an out? Kelsey could imagine herself doing the same thing all too clearly.
Kelsey thought hard through a slightly rummy fog. If Julia were not actually asleep, and really did want to… kiss and cuddle, then touching her would be fine. If she were actually asleep again already, and Kelsey were very careful, she wouldn’t necessarily even know, which wasn’t really all that bad a thing. It might even give her some nice dreams. Right?
So just one hand, resting on her waist, thumb under the hem of her pajama top.
Julia didn’t stir. Emboldened, Kelsey let her palm brush back and forth a little: despite the summer night heat, goosebumps prickled on Julia’s soft skin, over her ribs and farther up toward her shoulder. The moonlight through the window caught the tiny, fine hairs on her skin, and Kelsey was entranced. So entranced that it was almost an accident when her next brush touched the bottom of Julia’s nipple.
Julia might have inhaled a little deeper; it might have been a trick of the light. It might have just been a stirring in her sleep. But Kelsey, breathing faster and faster, found herself with half of this pretty girl’s soft breast in her hand. She still wasn’t sure if Kelsey was doing all this just to be cuddled–though a nagging voice in the back of her head said she already knew–but she didn’t want to move her hand. Not yet. She just wanted to marvel at the fullness, the gentle movement of breath, the–the sort-of-accident of it. No apologizing and jerking her hand away. No waking sleepy Julia.
Julia pushed her hips back against Kelsey’s leg.
Kelsey forgot to breathe for a bit. Soft jersey cotton against her bare thigh, and the curve of Julia’s back with her tank top rucked up to the bottom of her ribs. Kelsey knew that posture, thighs clamped together and knees a little bent, toes vaguely pointed. She’d woken up like that herself before. Julia was having a nice dream after all.
Cautiously, Kelsey scooted closer, trying not to shift the mattress too much, and touched her nose to the hair at the back of Julia’s neck. She smelled good, like girl and pine trees and campfire smoke, and a hint of sweat and floral shampoo. Opening her hand, she began to brush her fingertips very, very lightly along the inside curve of Julia’s breast. It hadn’t been her idea to put the two of them in the same bed, she reasoned. So there wasn’t anything really wrong with this. People in bed ended up touching. That’s just how things happened.
Julia turned restlessly, and Kelsey felt a moment of panic at being caught, but she was just shifting in bed–and throwing her leg back to get one of Kelsey’s thighs between both of hers. The movement had put her nipple right between Kelsey’s fingers, too, and she was arching into it, stiff and trembling with tension. Kelsy brushed it lightly, so so lightly, while her other hand found itself very near Julia’s waist. If Julia was as deep a sleeper as she seemed to be, then she probably wouldn’t even notice.
Kelsey tried not to reflect on the sheer sketchiness of that thought, took a breath, and slipped her hand into Julia’s pants.
She’d never done this before. “Practiced” kissing other girls in her bedroom, play-fight wrestling that ended with someone pinned, glancing over each other in the locker room or skinny-dipping–that was all well and good. But this was… more. She could feel the curve and dip where Julia’s hip met her belly. Kelsey realized her hand was trembling. She reminded herself, once again, that Julia was not apparently conscious, not a partner, just someone she was treating like…
Little curly tuft in her fingers.
Julia’s breathing was still deep and even, but not so slow anymore. Her little pink tongue touched her lips, and she swallowed, and Kelsey was holding her breast gently with one hand, holding the swell of her sex in the other. A little lightning bolt shot through her when she realized that. She was actually doing this. She was actually exploring with her fingers, finding the part of Julia’s lips and hesitantly opening them. Opening her.
Very warm, and very damp–no, not damp. Slick. Wet. Julia’s tongue flickered again, forming a few silent words, while Kelsey felt like she hadn’t let out her breath for a solid five minutes. Julia was starting to press her hips back again, keeping Kelsey’s thigh against her, as if she wanted Kelsey to trap her pelvis there, to give her room to squirm and buck. Kelsey did.
She’d started out barely daring to touch Julia’s skin, thinking the pressure would wake her, but she seemed to have only fallen more deeply into… whatever this was. She cradled her friend against herself, not caring now how warm their bodies were against each other, and nervously caught Julia’s nipple against her thumb. Roll and push and tug. It was stiffer than before, if anything, and responsive, yearning for pressure.
Then, very quietly, Julia mumbled one word Kelsey could actually make out. It was “Daddy.”
It dizzied her. Kelsey didn’t know what to think, what to do. How much of this was Julia aware of? How much would she remember? Who did she think–did she have someone who–what if.
What if she was Daddy, then? Just for one night?
The thought was a fucking rush, a flood of heat and need and desire from her spine down to the bottom of her belly. She wasn’t older or bigger than Julia–an inch shorter, in fact. But the thought of being some kind of authority figure to her, taking control. Taking care. Holding her, just like this. The breath she’d been holding rushed out of her, and she pressed the base of her hand against Julia’s pussy, feeling how it made her whimper and grind.
“Yeah,” she whispered, so soft she could barely hear it herself. “Daddy’s here.”
Julia was trying to hump her hand, trying to hump her leg: wherever her mind was, there was no more doubt about what her body wanted. Kelsey instinctively wanted to hold those wriggling hips still against herself, to make Julia struggle. (It was, she thought, what she’d want if their positions were reversed.) So she did, and Julia’s next breath was a quiet little whine. Her whole body rolled back and up, trying to get pressure up against herself, and when Kelsey shifted her hand she found Julia’s swelling, slippery clit between her fingers.
She was fucking a girl. She was fucking a girl at summer camp. The thought made a nervous, silent laugh twitch in her throat. People joked about the counselors sneaking off to the woods to get high and screw around, but here she was in her own cabin, with her friend jerking around like a fish on the dock, caught in her shaking hands.
“Daddy,” Julia mumbled, “please,” and Kelsey discovered that you can push your thumb inside someone and still rub their clit if you have short fingers. Her other hand moved reluctantly away from Julia’s breast to her mouth, and Julia seized on her fingers hungrily, suckling and letting out little sounds halfway between need and contentment.
The only problem with this setup was that Kelsey’s own clit was starting to send her stern messages about how flagrantly it was being neglected. Julia’s insistent butt had helped with a little grinding action earlier, but as she started to pull in on herself, hands clenching, belly tightening, Kelsey was left out in the cold–well, out in the heat and damp, but still. She couldn’t bear to pull her hands out of either end of Julia long enough to shove one down her pajama shorts.
But she could take a second, just a quick second, to leave Julia’s hungry mouth and fumble around behind her on the desk next to the bed. She wasn’t even sure what she was trying to find. Just something she could hold between her legs, between the two of them, anything that would fit right and give her a shape to–there.
Kelsey’s fingers found the textured surface of the extra-large Maglite her dad had given her to “find your way to the outhouse and fight bears on the way.” Definitely not what it had been intended for, but it would do. She fumbled it down to their tangled legs, trying not to smack either of them with it, and managed to get the shaft wedged against herself, braced against Julia’s hindquarters. The next time Kelsey squeezed Julia’s clit, the next time Julia squirmed, it pressed itself hard against Kelsey’s pussy, rigid through the sopping fabric of her underwear.
Fuck. Yes. Julia felt it too, and let out an inarticulate little noise before Kelsey pushed her fingers back in her mouth. Then they were riding each other: grind and squeeze and gasp and pulse, cicadas outside drowning the creak of the mattress, wet and breathless in the stuffy summer night.
Julia was getting close. Kelsey could feel it. Her belly was tensing and shuddering and her breathing had long since abandoned the slow rhythm of sleep; she was a hitching, heedless mess, and Kelsey wanted to find out what happened next. She used her hand to turn Julia’s face toward her, and it wasn’t a total shock when they made eye contact, but it sent a jolt through her all the same.
Julia’s eyes were glazed, unfocused, dilated with sleepy desire. Kelsey didn’t know how much she was seeing now, or how much she’d remember later. She just knew she was about to get off just humping her makeshift sex toy, and if she was that far gone, Julia had to be much, much farther.
It took them both by surprise, though. Julia suddenly jerked, with a sharp, half-choked breath, and Kelsey felt her tighten and convulse around her slippery thumb. The little mewling sounds coming out of her throat made her throb herself, and she kept riding the metal shaft between her legs as Julia shook and clenched and slowly sagged back onto the sweaty bed. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them over and over, and Kelsey pulled her fingers out of her mouth, letting her gulp down deep breaths as her legs quaked with aftershocks.
“Oh fuck,” Julia said, finally, coming to herself. “Oh my god. Did I just… have a…” She hesitated. “A dream?”
Kelsey bit her lip. “I don’t know, princess.”
If the pet name was strange to her, Julia didn’t seem to notice. “I. Uh.” She shifted a little, and discovered the way their legs were positioned–and the flashlight pressing against her. “… Fuck. Wait.” She turned to stare at Kelsey’s face through the thick and heavy atmosphere in the room. “Did I call you…?”
Kelsey nodded.
It was hard to see, but Julia’s face seemed to flush bright red. “Oh Jesus.” She turned over, but didn’t pull away–just far enough to look the two of them over, and the mess they’d made of the sheets. She took a deep breath. “Can I call you…?”
“Do you trust me to take care of you?” said Kelsey, feeling the strange but gratifying new name thrill through her.
Julia swallowed and nodded, just a little movement in the dark.
“And are you going to take care of me back?” Kelsey grinned, wiggling, letting the flashlight bump her mischievously.
Julia caught her breath and nodded again.
“It only makes sense, then.” Kelsey smoothed the hair back from Julia’s damp forehead, then pressed her nose and lips to it. “I do have to say, though–if I’m going to be a father figure to you, I’m not sure I approve of your drinking.”
Julia squirmed and ducked her head. “Drinking?” she said in a small voice. “Drinking what?”
“Open your mouth for a second,” said Kelsey, pulling her close again, “and let me find out.”
They made her sit there and shake while they dragged the steel tub into her cell and filled it, a simple garden hose and its stream of cold water, little drops landing on her knees when it splashed. She was rope-bound, of course; she was always bound these days, both for easier handling and because they’d discovered it aroused her. One of them lightly rubbed the knot at her pussy back and forth as the water level slowly, slowly rose. Her pulse refused to climb back down out of her throat. She was very, very afraid, and very, very humiliated that the hose wasn’t the only thing in the room that was gushing.
“I can only hope,” said her doctor, when the tub was about half full, “that our subject understands the reason behind this disciplinary action.”
She looked up at him frantically and dipped her nose down three times, the silent way she’d been taught to ask for permission to speak.
“Granted,” he said.
“P-please, I promise, I wasn’t breaking the rules of my treatment plan,” she said quickly. “I know that it’s important for my own welfare not to viol–to violate the–”
“The evidence speaks for itself,” he said, bending down to rub the wet spot on her sheets between his fingertips, then inspecting them. “You were observed to take restricted actions during lights out, and the recording suggests strongly that you achieved orgasm by means of that action.”
“I didn’t–I’m sure I didn’t–it was a dream!” she said. “I didn’t even know it was happening! I only woke up when you–when the orderly entered my cell and, and began inspection.” She couldn’t tell if she was pale with fear or flushed with embarrassment.
“Do you know what the medical standard for measuring pain tolerance is, Anya?” said the doctor. “Cold water. One simply times the seconds for which a patient can hold their hand and forearm submerged. It’s simple, consistent, and harmless.” He rinsed his fingers in the tub, which was rapidly filling to the top now, and wiped them on her chest.
“It wasn’t my fault!” she said, voice rising to a hysterical little-girl cry.
“That’s not important,” he said gently. “Your body took actions that are contrary to the goals of your treatment. Whether you intended those actions is irrelevant. We will now reinforce, to your body, that humping the corner of your bed as a form of masturbation leads to negative consequences. You will internalize the induction of pain and the restriction of oxygen, and next time, your eager little clitoris will hesitate before it drags the rest of you down to its level.” He nodded to the orderlies.
One of them took the rope that ran down the front of her body and back behind her, tying it to the bar of her cell so that her head wouldn’t hit the bottom of the tub. The other slipped his arms under her shoulders and lifted her, tilted her forward, and let go.
They could all see the air burst from her lungs just after she broke the chilly surface; they watched, the doctor scribbling a couple of notes, as she thrashed in panic, hair drifting wild around her head. “Someone got their watch on?” he asked. “I’d say give her another thirty seconds. Just for the first dip.”
“How many rounds today, do you think?” asked the first orderly, pressing one heavy knee to the back of her pelvis so that he could continue the inspection of her genital response to new stimulus.
“Oh, until we get paged for something else,” the doctor shrugged. “It shouldn’t be long, really. But from what I’ve seen, I think she’ll be good to the last drop.”
(You might also enjoy my water tag, or–for a crueler take on this–one of the chapters of my Literotica story, “Enhanced Interrogation.”)
Honestly I really wish there was something that could (for awhile) make me physically unable to cum without permission. Anything so that I could stay right on the edge, trying as hard as can but I can’t get over. Reduced to a writhing, desperate, begging slut who’d do anything you wanted, but you still say no.
What an interesting idea.
Jewel
She’d been a little nervous, at the clinic, as they lifted up the silly little gown and rubbed the topical anesthetic onto her. He’d held her hand, and winked at her, reminding her of the time they’d tried playing with numbing gel to desensitize her. (It hadn’t worked, of course; she just got too excited, too sensitive inside, and came anyway. Hair-trigger girl, she scolded herself.)
But her anxiousness was unfounded: she didn’t feel a thing as they did the installation, and it only took a few minutes. The crystal pattern they’d picked out together was a little extra, but he’d been more than happy to pay for it. “I like that you’ll be able to see it when you look down, just a little,” he said, holding the mirror for her as she gently traced her finger around the edges, watching it glitter as she breathed. “I like knowing that you’ll remember, even if the implant’s turned off.”
“And how often are you going to turn it off?” she smirked.
It turned out the answer was “never.”
It drove her fucking crazy. As soon as it became clear she wasn’t allowed to come, wasn’t ABLE to come, it was all she could think about. She thought about it at work, in the car, at her book club, at dinner. Her friends started teasing her about her attention span because of how often she got caught staring off at nothing, lips slightly parted, lost in embarrassing thought. The whole situation kept her so wet that she had to start carrying a spare pair of panties in her bag–then two pairs. When she opened it at the end of the day, she could smell her own need, and she usually had to shove a hand up her skirt and edge right then and there.
That only made it worse, of course. She’d known the implant would let her edge but not go over, but she hadn’t known, really known how high and keen that edge could be. It was a ragged knife inside her, a clamp on her brainstem, a drug that hooked her on her own cunt. He didn’t even need to get out her vibrator–though he still did anyway, sometimes. Just his cock or his fingers inside her were enough to send a spike of desperation all the way up her spine, and there was absolutely, positively no answer to her screamed or whimpered prayers.
“So,” he said softly in her ear, spent and satisfied as she lay there, breathing, lost in the throb of her own constant need. “Four weeks since the appointment. This is when we were going to decide whether to keep it, right?”
“Uh huh,” she managed, as if she’d had any idea. Had it been a day already? Had it not been a year?
He traced one finger from her mouth down her throat, over her arching belly, to brush the sparkling glow between her legs. Her body was immediately ready, deep ache wrapped around sharp pleasure. “What’s it like to be a hair-trigger girl,” he asked, “when the safety’s on?”
“Dangerous,” she whispered, and let him pin her into place again.
Party Animal
“Okay,” Peyton said, biting her lip, “dare.”
Two of her friends glanced at each other; the third took a swig from the filched bottle of sickly-sweet coconut rum. “You going to get it out or not?”
Peyton looked back and forth, a little giddy from her own pass at the rum, from nerves and excitement and flirty energy. “Get WHAT out?” she teased. “I’m not going down on anyone for a dare, you guys–”
The friend she had a crush on held up one hand. There was a black rubber collar in it, with a little blinking box attached.
“Dare you to try it on.”
“Oh my god,” Peyton laughed. “Is that one of those things your dad uses to train dogs? You are such a perv!”
“Dare stands,” said her friend, head cocked. “I mean, unless you’re going to puss out.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, I bet it doesn’t even work. Or doesn’t hurt if it does.” She tried putting it around her neck, then had to hold her hair out of the way while someone else helped get the buckle done. There was a satisfying little click when it worked, and then she could feel the light pressure against the sides and back of her neck, cold little nubs of metal warming to her skin. “Tada!” she said. “Okay, my turn, right? UmmOW!”
Her friends were staring at her, a little startled. “Holy shit,” said one of them, “it works.”
“YEAH it fucking works!” a little laugh came bursting out of her, significantly more nervous than it had been before, though the excitement was oddly lingering. “Jesus! I am so making one of you try this on next.” She tugged at it, trying to find the complicated buckle, but as soon as only one of the metal contacts was touching her, the second delivered a warning buzz that made her almost lose feeling in both hands. “Ahh! Shit!”
“You can’t take it off once it’s on unless the remote is unlocked,” said the other friend she had a crush on. “I read in the manual.”
“You read in the–” Peyton stared. “Um, did you guys like, plan this?”
“Truth or dare, Peyton,” was the only answer she got.
“It’s my turn! I get to” SNAP. She yelped again, clenching her fists, drawing her knees up in a protective curl that of course would not protect her. But still the helpless giggle came bursting out of her, even though part of her was starting to think this was very, very bad. “FUCK! Okay, okay, truth!”
The friend she had a crush on–the pretty one, with dark eyes and long lashes, and sun freckles on that bitten lip–said “You really have to put a better password on your laptop.”
Peyton’s heart jerked sideways. “My what?”
“Truth. Peyton. Do you like to watch videos of girls getting hurt?”
She was caught, breath coming fast for so many complicated reasons. “I don’t–why were you–that’s NOT cool to–”
A warning thumb rested on the remote button.
She was so fucking embarrassed. “Okay! Yes! I mean. Sometimes.” She took a deep breath. “Can I have some more rum now?”
“Yeah,” said her third friend, the one she’d sometimes been a little scared of, the one who had been in her dream last week. “But you gotta come over here and sit between us first.”
She stood, unsteadily. Two steps across the room, the next shock came, and dropped her to her knees.
“Oh my god,” she was panting, still laughing a little, on the verge of hiccups. “Oh fuck.”
One of them stood up, leaned down, and took her collar in two fingers. Peyton found herself stumbling forward on her hands and knees, being led like a reluctant puppy, and feeling–weirdly–comforted when that warm hand brushed her neck.
They put her in the middle of the couch, sprawling kind of sideways, one of them pulling her hips back so that her legs fell a little open while the other kept that grip on her collar and pulled her head in close to rest. “Truth or dare.”
“Truth again,” said Peyton, as they lifted the bottle to her lips and let her drink.
“Truth. Are you turned on right now?”
She bit her lip, met her crush-friend’s eyes, wouldn’t answer. SNAP.
This time, when the shock came, she let her hips roll and her back arch a little, and the noise that came out of her was some kind of gigglegaspmoan.
There was a hand on her thigh, then a hand at the top of her leg. There was a hand working its way up her shorts. Peyton closed her eyes and bit her lip and let it ride the soft, fuzzy skin to the dip where the tendon of her leg stood out against the swell of herself, then edge cautiously underneath the edge of her underwear.
“Rules clarification,” said someone. “If she tells the truth but doesn’t use her mouth, does that mean she’s cheating?”
“It means I win,” she said, grinning, and braced herself to get what she deserved.
Sick Day, Part Three
She tried to push the panties out of her mouth to answer him, but he reached forward to push them back in, grabbing her chin and pulling back to make her arch. Then he touched the buzzing vibrator to the side of the thermometer, just above where it was pushed inside her.
She couldn’t control herself at that sensation, bucking and jerking as he held her tight to keep her from wriggling away. Her hands scrabbled at the sheets. Muffled sounds of outrage escaped her; it wasn’t painful, but not exactly pleasant either. It was sure as hell stimulating.
Then she felt him release her chin, reach back, and undo his belt.
She stilled, even as he continued to toy with the vibrator: the learned response to the slithering sound of leather through loops overrode her urge to squirm. He doubled it and let it brush slowly across her lower back, then the tops of her thighs, the places she knew he could make it hurt worse if he wanted to. Then he gave her one sharp snap on her left cheek.
She bit down on the sodden wad of fabric in her mouth and slowly exhaled, a little helpless mewl, but he didn’t spank her again. He just took her wrists, one by one, and crossed them on her back once more. Then he let the dangling end of the belt tap her on the shoulder.
She lifted her head. He tucked the belt under her, around her throat, and looped it through the buckle. He wrapped it around his fist, and she slid back on her elbows, presenting herself. Slick and swollen, dark pink, ready.
The angle of it made her gasp, when he pushed inside. It wasn’t the first time he’d fucked her while teasing her ass, but it was definitely the first time he’d fucked her from behind with a glass rod buried inside her while obstructing her breathing with her own underwear and a convenient choke-leash. When he sat back on his heels, pulling her hips into him, and pressed the vibrator up against the top of her slit, she more or less lost the ability to think.
It was a nice position for him; he could make her fuck back against him by tugging the belt, and adjust her vertically to his preference via upward pressure on the vibe. The way this combination made her strain and struggle, gasping and trying to find her balance, was all that kept her from coming. She wanted him deep, wanted him to just plunge all the way into her, but he liked to keep it shallow sometimes: the head of his cock popping just in and out of her lips, teasing her needy cunt.
“Do you feel,” he panted, “any better?” But her only answer was a stuttered groan.
He made her come first. She could feel herself clenching tight around the thermometer. Distantly, she wondered if he was watching, if he could see it moving with each involuntary contraction–not that it would have been easy, given the way the rest of her was thrashing around. Just as she was coming down, he pulled out the glass plug and his cock, flipped her over on her back with one scoop of his arm, and jacked off onto her belly and chest.
Feeling his warmth spatter on her skin gave her a startling aftershock; she did spit out her gag, finally, chest heaving for air as the rush went through her and she collapsed out of her orgasmic arch.
He flopped down next to her, eyes barely open, grin very self-satisfied. “Are we sorry?”
“Yeah,” she said, after a couple of tries.
“Are we well?”
“Yeah.”
His hand was between her legs again, lightly testing the feel of her closed lips with all his fingers. She shivered; usually she was capable of revving right back up afterwards, but then usually she didn’t come quite that hard. He dipped a finger into her and then out, wetly slipping over her clit, which–well. Huh. Apparently she was ready to rev back up after all.
“I’m going to ask you to take over on this for me in a moment,” he murmured, “while I go get the laptop. And then, to make sure today’s lesson sticks, you’re going to walk me through every tab you have open. Every post you liked. Every line of conversation that made you this wet.”
“Now?” she said, startled.
“I took the afternoon off to take care of you,” he said, with that smug and sleepy smile. “And I intend to. As many times as necessary.”
She bit her lip. “Um. Okay.”
“That’s right, okay.”
“Some of it might just be… a little… weird to you,” she admitted.
“I certainly hope so,” he laughed, and kissed her temple. “My little sicko.”
Sick Day, Part Two
She didn’t even know what that meant, but she was shivering a little as he took her wrist and pulled her to her feet. Guilt, her old companion. Shame and embarrassment and feeling very small. She had been Bad. She was In Trouble.
(And yet, deep down, the little secret core of her was warm and safe and unafraid, the way only he could make her feel.)
In the bedroom, he tapped the footboard with his open hand. “Belly down, please.” She squirmed up onto it and felt him tug her t-shirt up, her panties down. She didn’t even realize she’d automatically parted her thighs until she felt him having to tug harder to get them past her knees. She could hear his little chuckle at that.
He crossed her wrists behind her back, his grip reminding her–as always–that he could easily twist them to control her if she wriggled. He touched the back of her neck, and she could feel the heat under her skin as he brushed away a stray curl. Then the bed creaked as he climbed off and left her lying there.
She lifted her chin and tried to peer back out of the corner of her eye to guess where he’d gone, but she didn’t quite dare turn around. She could almost feel his hands still on her wrists. He returned quickly, anyway, holding something she couldn’t quite make out…
“When a girl can’t be trusted to confess her symptoms honestly,” he said, “it becomes suspect whether she can be trusted to even take her own temperature. Do you know how one checks for a fever in subjects who can’t be trusted to keep their hands where they belong?”
… Wait. He wasn’t really going to–
She heard a drawer slide open and shut, and the tiny click of a plastic bottle opening. Next to her face, burning scarlet against the bedspread, she saw the little plastic tab of a disposable sterile wrapper flutter down.
Then he started pushing the thermometer into her ass.
She squealed. There was no other word for it, and she certainly didn’t feel articulate enough to express herself with words at the startling, slender penetration. He’d lubricated it–which, a detached part of her thought, probably interfered with its actual function–and it didn’t hurt, not exactly. It just felt…
Well, it felt fucking humiliating, and pretty hot.
“Now, we’re going to have to leave it there for a moment to make sure it’s got a good read,” he said, and she could hear the fucking grin in his words. She took a deep breath to tell him exactly what she thought about this disproportionate response, but just as she did, he fucking moved it. Twisted it. Made her indrawn breath burst out of her in another little squeak and made her body react, helplessly, trying to wriggle away or aside or… something. She and her body never could reason with each other.
He had his hand at the base of her neck again, tangling in her hair, pulling back and up to make her arch. Her mouth dropped open, and that was when he stuffed her damn traitorous underwear between her teeth.
She could still feel her own cooling wetness there, and taste the evidence of her lazy, blissful, disobedient morning. She’d been so relaxed and confident that she had all day that she hadn’t bothered to get herself off the whole time. If only she’d fucking known…
“Three infractions. Is that what I said, girl?” he asked, leaning in close to her ear. She had to nod, still blushing so hard her cheeks had gone past red and into white. “So. Three demerits. One in your ass. One in your mouth. I have a couple ideas for the last one. Where do you think it should go?”
She heard him pick up the vibrator he’d taken from the closet drawer. And she heard him unzip.
Sick Day, Part One
She jumped a little when she heard his key in the lock, yanking her hand out of her panties and leaning forward to click the tabs closed as quickly and quietly as she could. It hadn’t been that long already, had it? She checked the clock–12:30. No, he must have just come home for lunch. Since when did he come home for lunch? She grabbed the quilt off the back of the couch, pulled it over herself, and tried to look tired.
“Still asleep?” he called softly from the entryway, but before she answered he was rounding the corner from the entryway and smiling when he saw her face. She offered a little wan smile of her own and stretched out her arm. “I was trying to nap on the couch,” she improvised, “but I wasn’t sleepy enough. You didn’t have to come home!”
“What, and leave you to suffer through a sick day all alone?” He walked over and squeezed her hand, just as she glanced down at the computer screen and noticed that–oh shit–she’d forgotten she had a window minimized. A window she’d intended to come back to. With evidence that would definitely, definitely give her away.
He kissed the part in her hair and touched her forehead. “Hmm, you do still feel a little feverish,” he murmured, and looked carefully at her face. “And flushed. But you’re damp, too.” She tried to control her reaction to that word as he brushed his thumb over her cheeks and temples. “See? So maybe your fever is breaking.”
“Yeah, I feel a little better,” she managed, trying to keep her eyes off the incriminating laptop screen. Why hadn’t she just shut it? Dumb!
“Did you take an Advil already?” He said. “I can fix you something to eat. Comfort food. Peanut butter and banana sandwich, maybe.” He smiled again, and she nodded, attempting to express frailty, innocence, affection and exhaustion at the same time. When he went in the kitchen she could close the window and be home free. Any second now.
But when he got up, he reached down and picked up the laptop, and she swallowed a sound of startled protest.
“No wonder you couldn’t sleep, if you were staring at a screen,” he chuckled. “Checking your email, huh? I know it’s hard to control that impulse.” He started to lean down and set it on the coffee table. She held her breath. “Hmm.” He paused; she bit her lip. “And… checking tumblr too, I see.”
FUCK. How did he always know what she was trying to hide? “Oh, is that still open?” she mumbled. “I must have forgotten…”
“Still open and still quite active,” he said dryly. “As is this chat room, I see. And a couple of your favorite stories.” He turned back, his mouth quirked, a tiny glint of dangerous amusement dancing in his eyes. “Well. So not feeling too sick to play after all, are we?”
She couldn’t meet his gaze.
“So now I begin to understand your flush,” he said thoughtfully. “And the dampness of your brow. And elsewhere…?” He gathered her blanket and pulled it down her body; embarrassed, she drew herself up into a little ball, but his strong, cool fingers pulled her legs down and open, exposing the evidence of her morning activities. “Yes. I see.”
“I was just–” she started to protest, but couldn’t actually think of what she wanted to follow that up with. “Trying to doze off?”
“Mm hmm. I count at least three infractions. First: shirking, taking a sick day when in fact I don’t think you were ever feeling sick at all.” He watched for a sign of protest; everything she thought of to say sounded so weak and transparent, and the blush was creeping up her ears to her hairline. “Second: playing with yourself without permission. Third: lying to me about both of the above. Am I wrong?”
Pulse pounding, throat tight, she said “I really did feel bad. This morning. I wasn’t lying.”
“But you’re better now, yes? And you lied about it after the fact, which renders that irrelevant.” He stood, pulling off his blazer, unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves. “I think, young lady, that we’re going to have to establish how you feel in a more concrete manner…”
Behavior correction case file #10011A. Subject was followed, observed and recorded by a specialty team for two weeks before intake, in order to establish an unbiased diagnosis. Subject’s attractiveness is not in question, and indeed monitoring her habits while alone and when consuming pornography indicate no significant problem with nudity in concept or practice. The operative part of her stated problem is indeed a fear of exposure. We will therefore begin with exposure therapy.
Subject will of course be stripped upon intake, and will remain unclothed for the duration of her stay. She will also be blindfolded, and both her vision and her movement will continue to be constrained during each session with her treatment team. Said team will inform and remind her that they were assigned to watch her at all times during the assessment period, through every private moment, and that there is nothing left for her to hide from them. They will reinforce this message with touch therapy and manual stimulus. Subject’s physical arousal will be taken to edge steady-state and held there for the duration of each session; data on the subject so far indicates that such a state will depress her overactive executive function and generally augment the effectiveness of treatment. Only at the conclusion of each session, during an extended orgasm, will the subject’s blindfold be removed long enough for her to be forced to watch herself–exposed and observed at a moment traditionally granted only in intimate settings.
Over time we believe the subject will not merely grow used to nudity, which would be simple to accomplish but also miss the deeper issue. In addition, she will acquire a conditioned arousal response to all feelings of exposure or humiliation that bypasses her hesitation and doubt entirely. Such a response should not only alleviate any sexual performance issues she had experienced in the past, but will make her a valuable addition to the therapy objects stored in Annex G2. This treatment plan gives us, at least, a great deal of confidence.
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.”
“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.”
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.
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.