“You’ll have cum enough for me when you’re too weak to arch off the table.”

I want to be forced to orgasm so many times I’m a mess on the floor, incapable of a single coherent though.

She’s slick with sweat, slippery enough that she’d probably be able to slip the ropes–if she could think clearly through the steps involved. Every few hours he jams a straw in her mouth and holds her nose until she drinks, some faintly sour electrolyte solution to keep her going, then snaps on a glove and lubes her holes with firm, thorough attention. And then he starts again.

He doesn’t use the Hitachi all the time, of course; on its high setting it tends to overwhelm her, make her go mercifully numb, which he discovered early on. First he’ll take the prod and wake her up, work her little breasts and belly until she’s squealing, and then dump a bucket of ice-cold water over her thrashing body. It’s almost a relief when he tightens the ropes on her legs, keeping her spread wide, and begins to work with the toys again.

The relief doesn’t last long. She used to be the kind of girl who didn’t always get off, the kind who took care and persistent attention; he’s broken her of that. He’s systematic, efficient, and relentless. He knows exactly when to ease off on the bullet against her clit and shift the heavy, thrumming weight up against her g-spot; when to start working the plug between her cheeks, and when to slowly draw it out.

She can’t form words but, she’s discovered, she can still cry out when she comes. She cries out at least every ten minutes, and if he’s found a new angle on her writhing body, she often cries out four or five times in a row.

They aren’t cries of pleasure. She remembers orgasm being pleasurable, once, when it was more than just a mechanical contraction of exhausted, aching muscles. Each one takes her a little farther from herself. Each one leaves a little less speech in her hazy mind.

Sometimes he’ll run his fingers lightly down her damp flanks, in the aftermath. Sometimes he’ll push something wide and heavy inside her, letting her cunt or ass try to squeeze it, intensifying each pulse. Sometimes he’ll just put the bar of his forearm against her throat, hold her down, and begin to spank her pussy until she screams.

When he decides this particular orgasm has been reinforced enough, he leans down and pulls her damp hair back from her ear. “What did you just do, girl?” he whispers.

She tries to remember the word, struggles, sobs for air through her trembling lips.

“What,” he says, reaching for the prod threateningly, “did you just do?”

“C-come,” she manages, a miracle every time. “Come! COME!”

He smiles, and picks up a clit pump this time, or a blunt steel hook, or maybe the Hitachi. She arches up again as soon as he touches her, a response trained so deeply now that she isn’t even aware of it. Only when he’s taken that final word from her mouth, when she can no longer remember the distinction between breath and pain and orgasm, will he even think about letting her rest.



This is what is so fucking appealing to me about rope. The process of it, the intricacy of it, the intimacy of it, the fact that while cuffs may be convenient for time or general restraint purposes, when you consider rope…

I want to feel his fingertips pulling and twisting and gliding over every inch of me, while simultaneously taking away my freedom of mobility. I want that time leading up to the end result, to know exactly what is coming and to have that anticipation impact every single bit of my body and mind. I want to willingly offer myself for such helplessness and enjoy whatever process he allows me.

“Look, you can just come right out and complain if you want to.” It’s been a very long week. You managed to down three glasses of wine while getting into your PJs, and your feet hurt, and again: this fucking week. You’re sure as hell going to take it out on someone, and well, that’s what roommates are for, right? “So I leave a few of my makeup things lying around on the sink. You know what? You moved in with a girl, that’s what you’re going to live with, homeboy.”

He looks up from his tablet and blinks at you. He still hasn’t said anything, which is blatantly unfair when you’re trying to start a fight.

“And you know what else? Yeah, I leave dishes out! Biiig fucking deal, you don’t have to just like… passive-aggressively wash them. Which you DO. I would get to them if you’d leave them. And so sue me if my bedsprings are a little loud, okay?” He’s studying your flushed face and you get the feeling he’s not really listening. “Hey! What? Is this the silent treatment?” You laugh a little too loudly. “Because if that’s the kind of thing you think is going to get to me–”

There’s a soft tap on your wrist. You look down.

Now where did he get that?

“I mean, I can… talk for both of us just fine if…” you hesitate.

He’s just holding it there, a loose knot in a length of white nylon rope, pressed lightly to your arm. You watch as he takes the short end and passes it through the knot, once, twice, three times, then cinches the knot. Now your wrist is held in a firm loop, wide enough not to burn, tight enough to hold but not cinched.

“Do you just… keep that under your chair?” you offer weakly, before he runs the long end under his foot and stands on it.

It’s shorter than you thought and the sudden shift in weight makes you bend at the waist. This is not normal roommate behavior. It’s so far outside the bounds of what you expected that you’re still trying to figure out what to say when he takes one step around you, deftly catches the hem of your threadbare t-shirt, and flips it over your head.

I mean, he’s seen you topless before: the occasional dropped towel, the hot tub party last month, whatever. They’re just boobs. He’s pulling your shirt off, over your arms and down the rope to the floor, and you have no idea why you’re making excuses for him.

He just took your shirt off. He’s wrapping the rope just below your breasts.

“I must have missed this on the house rules board,” you say. “Do we not know each other well enough to talk? Sir?” It’s supposed to come out sarcastic. It really, really doesn’t.

The rope is doubled and split now, between your breasts and back up over your shoulders: a second wrap, above them this time. His fingers have barely touched your skin: only the rope. There’s no actual restraint to it–no hindrance of movement–but for some reason with each turn you feel tightened, anchored, contained.

A doubled loop of rope touches the hollow of your throat, and his thumb touches the tag at the back of your loose shorts. For the first time all night, he’s asking you a question.

You don’t have any words left, but you nod.

He winds the rope around your neck five times: loose, careful, but undeniably present, and each time he passes it by you can feel the pulse bob under your skin. Then he’s threading the last few feet down, under your soft white harness, over your navel–

He tugs a string, and your shorts fall to your ankles.

You stand with your feet just a little apart because you know instinctively that you should. The rope is passing between your legs, then back up behind you, and when he begins to tighten it upward you let out a sound like a kitten.

“If you want to,” he murmurs in your ear, finally taking your new collar in his fist, “go ahead and complain.”



I know, Sweetheart, I know.

Life’s so hard sometimes.

She keeps letting herself believe it, is the problem. How long has she been here–two hours? Twenty? She remembers dinner, remembers already rubbing her thighs together and flirting with the rest of them. She told them she didn’t need her clit to come. She made a bet.

That was her problem, really; gambling.

They drew straws, right there at the table, to see who had to prove their claim upstairs in the suite that night. It took her entirely too long to realize the game had been rigged, but even if she’d suspected, she probably would have been titillated by the idea: she liked their attention, liked being the centerpiece. And so what if she had to prove she could get off from being fucked? They were beautiful, all of them, and it wouldn’t be hard.

How many of them are there, exactly? She’s tried to count cocks but now some of the women have strap-ons and that isn’t fair. She remembers the elevator, remembers breathing fast as she feels herself pressed between them, a manicured hand sliding up the back of her thigh. She remembers their hands stripping her and being told she could keep her jewelry. She remembers being lubricated. “Trust us,” said one as she giggled under the slippery touch, “you’re going to be glad of this.”

Then they clamped her clit.

Even that, fuck, even that would be bearable if they’d just give her a little longer. Somehow they know, they always fucking know when she edges, and they pull away and hold her down and let her gasp and buck and writhe it out and slowly-fuck-so-slowly her orgasm recedes. Then the next one takes his turn, the immediate thrust deep into her throbbing core and the wet heat of her body responding. That first thrust can get her so close! She’s going to–

The sounds of the watchers toying with each other, laughing at her need, sighing with contentment–

The helpless jerk of her own aching hips–

The metal chain brushing her nipple–

Her breath so loud in her ears–

Yes. She is, she is going to, she IS going to come, she is fuck no no no


Held down like a thrashing animal, spread in an X, her body beyond her control as they laugh at her screaming curses and sob of need. Cunt throbbing, aching, a wet fist of her desperate frustration.

“All you have to do is concede,” whispers a pair of soft lips in her ear. “Just admit it, little liar, little toy. Admit you can’t do it.”

“Never,” she groans, and then someone’s pushing four fingers into her gasping mouth as the next one mounts up.




DO IT!!!!

Very well.

I’m assuming “owned” means you show up on my doorstep, kneeling, wearing a skirt and stockings, with your wrists crossed behind you and a simple collar and leash around your neck. As soon as I open the door, the 24-hour timer starts, and while it’s running you will obey any request I make of you to the best of your ability. When it concludes, you can choose to take the collar off and leave a free woman, or keep the collar on and remain owned until I choose to release you.

(I understand minx is a virgin and would like to remain that way for now, so in this scenario there’s no actual penetration.)

First I’d need to inspect you. I’d step out onto the porch to open your mouth and check your lips, teeth and tongue, then wrap your hair around my fist and inspect your scalp and the fluttering pulse in your throat. You’d probably expect me to bring you inside at that point, but no, it’s a bright spring day and I like the light outside. I’d strip off your top and your bra, weighing your breasts in my hands and making a note of your reaction when I tugged and flicked your nipples. Then, using my grip on your hair, I’d take you to the porch steps and push you down onto them–hands on the lowest step, knees at the top, parted nice and wide as your skirt fell to your waist. I would discard your panties, letting them flutter down to the steps next to your face. As I made a note of your grooming status, posture, and any tattoos or piercings, I’d give you a little pressure on your mound from the heel of my hand. Not enough for my hand to provide you with any modesty, of course.

When I was sure you’d given the neighborhood a nice show, I’d take the leash and begin to lead you in on your hands and knees. You’d probably start to cross the threshold without requesting permission, for which I would stop you, press your face into the floor while keeping your hips nice and high, and administer ten marks to your ass with my hand. You would thank me and request another ten, like a good sub. I would oblige you, this time on the insides of your thighs.

At length, inside, I’d bring you to the cabinet where I keep my tools and permit you to select a color of rope. Red silk to match those burning cheeks, perhaps. I’d bring you to my work chair and draw you across my lap, on your back, legs doubled and wrists above your head; as I used the rope to ensure they stayed that way, I would question you on some of the things that arouse you, humiliate you, hurt you or trigger you. Anything of interest I would write across your torso or on your thighs with a black marker. Then, after establishing that your squirming and blushing were signs of genuine arousal, I would begin to work you.

I’d start with your lips, wetting you, warming you and spreading you, letting you find a rhythm with your slowly rolling hips against my two fingers and palm. I would be in no hurry–I’d literally have all day–and you in your nice new pink truss would have nowhere to go, so I’d make sure you were throbbingly aware of the exact state of your clit under my hand before I even pulled out the little curved vibrator.

As I cleaned my fingers in your mouth, I would inform you that you were going to edge twelve times, and that each time you would inform me and request an orgasm. Each request for orgasm would be punished. That would not mean that the request was in any way optional.

You would, as stated, obey to the best of your ability.

As I alternately circled you, ground against you or brushed you back and forth with the pulsing toy, I would occasionally move my hand from its casual grip on the tight collar to ensure that your nipples stayed stiff and trembling. Your first edge would be allowed to dissipate kindly, without punishment, to lull you into the slow build and crest again. The second time you requested orgasm, I would slap your face.

Subsequent requests would (after being denied) receive clamps to your nipples, sharp strokes to your slit, the removal of those clamps, or–if I were feeling very cruel–direct clitoral pressure from the vibrator at its highest intensity, while I kept your ear sharply between my teeth and murmured a reminder that you did not have permission to climax. You absolutely would not come, either, despite any helpless belief to the contrary. My property obeys me.

After your twelfth edge–assuming you managed to keep count–I would move you to your knees on the floor, unzip my pants, and fuck your mouth. You might be permitted to grind your throbbing, dripping pussy against my shoe, but I doubt it; I don’t trust that needy little hole. I would occasionally remove myself from you to permit you to request my orgasm, perhaps in the hope that it would make me relax, or offer you relief. You would not have earned any such thing, of course.

When I felt enough time had elapsed to allow your desperate cunt to retreat from its extreme need, I would move you to the work table and strap you down, once more on your back but now arched over a padded triangular rest. I would allow you to see the set of tools I unpacked and set next to you–multiple sizes of vibrator (some attached to clamps), flat ruler, feather (and its sharp quill point), candle, and bowl of ice–before I pulled the thick blindfold taut over your eyes.

I would flip the Hitachi to its high setting, press its head directly against your clit, and instruct you not to come. You would beg. You would squeal and jerk against the straps. You would try to the best of your ability.

In less than a minute, you would fail.

As soon as I saw you reach orgasm, I would ruin it. I would remove all stimulation from your pussy immediately, letting you cry out and writhe, attempting to wring more than a moment of faint pleasure from all that buildup; then, when I was quite sure you were finished and hypersensitive, I would return the powerful vibrator directly to your clit and begin to snap the ruler across your breasts. Make no mistake: this would be torture. Only after you were a sobbing wreck, a trembling wet mess, incoherently offering me anything I wanted in return for mercy–only when I was certain you were a broken girl–would I remove it.

I would give your body a few moments to recover. I would find places you hadn’t known were so sensitive–the insides of your elbows, the backs of your knees, your fingertips, the hollow of your throat–and bring your attention to them with my fingers and tongue. I would slowly, slowly work my way down you until I found your aching pussy. I would begin to work you. Sooner than you could have expected–with your cunt still slippery and frustrated by that unfulfilling climax–you would edge again.

If you were a very, very good girl, you’d remember to request an orgasm then.

I would deny such a request. I would light the candle and pick up an ice cube. And then, as the timer chimed, I would begin the second hour of your stay.



It’s almost infuriating to know that he’s doing this with a single finger. That you’re writhing and moaning and arching from one damn finger. 

But it’s not just that finger, see. It’s the fact that you gave him this power. That you want this. That you’re restrained and fuck knows how much he’s teased you leading up to this. 

And that is all nothing but arousing. 

It wasn’t just that she was teased leading up to this; it was that he made you tease yourself. Made you walk around in those boots and those stockings all day, sans panties, his classed-up little secret whore. Made you come back to the room and tear off your dress, tie your own ankles to the table, and frantically fuck your own hand as you waited for him to arrive. You knew your job was to edge ten times before he arrived. After the whole day of blushing near-exposure, getting THERE wasn’t the problem, it was keeping yourself from going over.

And then he finally walked in, casual as can be, and saw you sweating and squirming on your back against the hard wood of the table. You’d ripped holes in the nylon of your tights, hand scrabbling at your hip as you tried desperately to hold yourself where he wanted you, and your body was slick with sweat. You looked up at him, a mixture of need and resentment and hazy arousal in your eyes.

“Ten times, girl?” he asked quietly.

You never could lie to him. “I lost count. Sir.”

A loop of cotton rope around your wrists. A smooth, strong pull downward, your wrists lashed to the table before you could breathe. He pushed that one finger in your whimpering mouth to let you wet it.

And then, only then, did he really start to make you writhe.