Ashlyn’s been a “patient” at the facility for six months. Every day, they clip a long pole to her thick collar, make sure she’s wearing the proper footwear (and nothing else), and drag her into the treatment room to strap her down.

Only once she’s inside, secured, tied tight and completely exposed, do they unlock the belt and remove the fitfully buzzing toy attached to it. (Batteries need charging, after all.) The first time they unplugged her, Ashlyn gasped with relief from the constant teasing, but that was before she knew what they’d do next.

It’s amazing, the number of things you can find to do to a girl who can’t squirm away or close her legs. They fuck her, of course, when it suits them, and they punish her needy pussy with the crop or dripping wax or the horrible snapping wand. They’ve had every other girl in the facility in the room, at one time or another, eager tongues lapping away at her swollen clit, chins and noses and fingers and cheeks–Ashlyn never knew she could distinguish between so many different sensations on her lips. They’ve used overpowered vibrators and water jets to drive her to the edge (and oh, it’s cruel when the water is cold), and they’ve held her there with feathers and oil-wet paintbrushes. The only thing they have never, ever done is permit her to come.

She screams and thrashes, of course, begs and bargains, not that she believes it’ll do any good. But it’s all she has left. That, and the skylight.

The treatment room is the only place in the facility with an open window to the sky. At her deepest moments of desperation, cunt pulsing, raw with broken need, she can look up and see the deepening blue of afternoon, or the red underbellies of sunset clouds. Ashlyn clings to it. She believes it’s their one remaining mercy.

She’s wrong, of course. By now the conditioning is almost complete, the association locked. When she is finally released from the facility–perhaps transferred to another training center, perhaps to the tender care of a private practice–Ashlyn will never be able to look up again without remembering that she is helpless, and wet, and owned.



Thanks to some reblog love from the fantastic Yourbadgrrl, I’ve, uh, just about doubled my followers in the last week or so. (Thanks, YBG!) Dear new friends: I don’t post often, but when I do it’s usually short-form erotica about stuff dominant hetero guys like, plus bondage, machinery, consensual nonconsent, and orgasm control.

I don’t get into it so much under this identity–no need to distract from the smut–but I also like to think of myself as a feminist and queer ally. I hope that context informs the things I publish here, and I don’t believe there’s any inherent contradiction when I say that. Even the degrading aspects of BDSM can be a way to show that you respect and value someone.

Okay, that’s it. I basically wanted to write this to say that it is fascinating to see the “normal” tumblr identities with which people follow porn blogs. We’re all pervs underneath, aren’t we?

I am not actually a doctor. I am actually a tease.



“What happens when I do this, hm?”

She lets out a whimper, her mouth opening wide, faltering along the way. 

“I want an answer, pet. Now.”

She bites down on her lip, pausing to try and take a deep breath. “I feel it down there, Sir. I… I know I’m getting wet.”

He raises an eyebrow, unable to keep from smiling at her predicament. “And if I twist a little bit, what then?”

She moans, her back arching from the bed. “Please, please touch my pussy, Sir!”

“Oh, not a chance, little one. I’m having fun with this. I love when you squirm for me, so I’ll enjoy it for as long as I see fit.”

He tugs until she’s tight, stiff and trembling, then runs the backs of his nails down the sides of her breasts. The skin prickles all the way from her ribs to her collarbone: she jerks and gasps when he finds her nipple again and flicks.

All five fingertips circle the peak and slowly spread apart: stroking her, soothing her, letting the skin slowly start to relax. She feels a tiny bit of relief, thinking maybe he’s about to move on, but disappointment too. All that focus and attention on one place is powerful: she never thought she could be controlled so effectively with just one hand, and nowhere near her pussy.

Then his hand slides up to her throat.

“S-sir,” the word comes frantically, but he’s not gripping tight, just… holding. His palm molds to her and his thumb and finger rest just behind the corners of her jaw, soft but undeniable.

“Tell me again what’s happening to your pussy, girl,” he says, and she can hear the smirk in his voice.

It’s fucking gushing, that’s what’s happening. “Uh. Sir. It’s wet because y-y-youOH!” He’s finally taken his mouth to her breast, rolling her nipple between lip and tongue, pulling back to puff a little air and watch it tighten up again so fast it aches.

“It’s wet because I’m playing with my property,” he finishes for her, his lips brushing again and again against her as he speaks. “Just one tiny piece of my property, albeit a flawless one. Do you like it when I play with the things I own, pet?”

“YES, Sir,” she says, arching to try to get her breast into his warm mouth again, but he chuckles as he pulls back and gives her another flick.

“What did you want me to do with that pussy again?”

It’s a trap, of course it’s a trap, but what is she going to do? “Please touch it. Please!”

“What will you do for me if I agree to touch your wet, warm, needy, throbbing pussy right now, girl?”

It pours out of her: promises, bargains, pleading and cajoling. She won’t touch for a week. She’ll touch every hour for a week. He can fuck her in any hole, use her, punish her, rent her out and watch. She’ll use her body in any way he pleases, go naked, go belted, go collared, go anywhere he orders her if he’ll please just touch…

The tiniest fraction of tightness on her throat, and she understands. Her mouth clicks shut.

“I’m going to touch you now–because I choose to, not because you are particularly convincing–but rest assured I will hold you to each and every one of those, pet. One at a time, thoroughly, and at length. Understand?”

“Always, Sir,” she whispers.

When his hand finally slides up each side of her velvety, bare lips, touching her pussy without a hint of penetration or pressure on her clit, the noises that come from her throat are kittenish and desperate. He takes his fingers up and down, again and again, drawing closer and closer to her inner lips, and then withdraws–

Only to land flat with a sharp, wet smack.

Convulsing, clenching, edging, crying out from the shock more than the pain, she wonders if he was taking notes or what.




Oh damn, that is a video I would love to see.  😀

This makes me think… I would love to see (or be) a sub, teased relentlessly to the edge for hours or days, tied up not quite in reach of a vibrator, sybian, or other toy. The fact that she isn’t on the toy yet made me think this. Truss up one frustrated sub in a way that they can get stimulation if they REALLY TRY, but make the source of stimulation so far away that it is nearly impossible for them to get to, and, once that have contorted and strained their body, impossible to maintain that posture for more than a short time. Tell them they can cum… If they do it themselves. Then watch the struggle become more and more desperate.

I know she’s in reach of this toy, the picture just made it occur to me.

girl-on-edge has an interesting idea there, and here’s what it made me think of: a theremin.

What you do is, you set up a magnetic induction switch under the Sybian, one that controls its rate of vibration. It vibrates the fastest when the girl’s body is held at a very precise distance from it–say, when the tip of the dildo is juuust inside her. As she lowers herself onto it, and toward the more intense vibrating ridge, the sensor makes it slow down… slower… slower… until trying to press herself down against the toy makes it almost stop completely.

Here’s the catch: the device has an override switch too, built into her collar. If someone else touches that ring on the front, completing a circuit, it goes into overdrive regardless of where she is. So her controller can walk in, unzip, grab her throat and pull her mouth forward to be used, and she’ll be stimulated quite thoroughly as long as she’s of service.

She’ll get so close. So close. But if she seems to be getting distracted at all, the hand moves from the metal to the leather of the collar, leaving her to edge and work frantically with her mouth to try to earn the vibration back again. It doesn’t take long to get off when you’re standing above, watching her, using her.

Her controller cleans up, wipes the hair from her sweaty forehead, and leaves. And then, as soon as she’s alone, the struggle to find a workable position–pussy clenching, legs cramping, arms helpless to hold her up long enough–begins again.

She’s allowed to come. It’s explicitly permitted. If only she could just get a little closer…


A shot like this is all about the details.

  • Her wrists are chained, but her hands are gripping the metal bars (stirrups?) and they look pretty strong. She’s allowed to use her arms to pull herself up off the vibrator if she can. But there’s no leverage, and she won’t be able to stay up for long. Then it’s back down onto the relentless, tortuous buzzing, so powerful it pounds her swollen clit and sends waves through her entire pelvis.
  • She’s forced to wear the battery pack wired to those nipple clamps on a belt around her waist. The rack she’s chained to is fixed, but the batteries are portable. That means she can be taken off, led around, dragged to a different device, or caged for the night–all without a second of relief from the pressure or electricity.
  • That ball gag has a hole in it. She can be watered, maybe even fed, through a tube without being permitted to speak. She is here to be used, tormented with forced pleasure, and slowly, slowly broken down, and her only protests will be wordless.
  • She’s still wearing her jewelry–the navel ring and the little pendant under ner neck, trapped under the top belt (look closely!). She is stripped of modesty but not of decoration. She’s here to be punished, but also to be seen: she is adorned, and she is an adornment.
  • Each time she comes–and she has come, and will come, again and again, no matter how she struggles–her mind accepts a little more of what her body already knows: she is a toy, she is owned, she was made to be used. Her body and her orgasms belong to her owners, to be withheld or forced upon her as they please. And when she finally breaks, she’ll know herself in a way she never imagined.

It started as a harmless game, when they were girls: bet I can hold an ice cube longer than you. Bet you you’re more ticklish. Bet you I give a better back rub. Bet I’m a better kisser.

As they got older, it became a more serious rivalry–and more focused on their growing awareness of their bodies. Bet you I can win at strip poker. Bet I can pin you down. Bet you can’t keep quiet. Bet I can make you wet.

They only see each other over the summer and on breaks, now, but she braces herself every time, a mixture of pride, fear and burning anticipation. She’s not going to lose this year. There are more consequences at stake than just a momentary triumph. Whoever loses the stakes loses the day: she’ll have to do whatever her best friend says, anything her best friend says, until the next morning.

It’s how she lost her last two boyfriends. It’s how she got that belly button ring. It’s how she got that speeding ticket, and those rope burns, and that constant nagging need.

They don’t have to say the wager aloud anymore. It’s always the same. One of them stares at the other across the room, cold challenge in her flushed face, and starts to undress. The other hastens to catch up. They slide onto the bed, bodies just barely touching, not showing a sign of weakness even though they tremble every time.

Bet you come first.

It’s hard to want to win.


Just for reference, and clarification.

This is my porn blog. I post here about sex, most of it involving some aspect of BDSM, female submission, and often degradation or nonconsent. These things get me off, and they seem to get a number of other people off too, so I’m happy to share.

But I should be very clear: I describe rape fantasy. I don’t condone rape culture.

As kinksters we like to pride ourselves on ethics, and there’s some good reason for that. Signaling, safewords, upfront negotiation, check-ins: these are all pretty solid consent technology. Moreover, since scening is by definition performance, it seems to help us grasp gender as performance too. It’s certainly helped me.

That said, securing a few words of informed consent before you tie somebody up and smack them is not the end goal, the final gamestate. If you’re reading this in English you probably exist in a culture that is frighteningly determined to propagate a contrived, confined, transactional model of women’s physical existence. Rape is a matter of course on this planet because that model works well for rapists. And if you’re not aware and disputing that in your speech and actions, every day, your ethics are bullshit, and the rapists are winning.

Consensual nonconsent can be, at its best, a safe place to explore and understand your own sexuality, on both sides of the actor/reactor divide. But the dangers of indulging the extant paradigm should be clear. If you ever find yourself agreeing–or not vocally disagreeing–that

  • not saying no is consent
  • a relationship is automatic consent
  • intoxication is ever consent
  • nice people can’t be rapists
  • prison rape is just
  • she led him on
  • she should have known better
  • he deserved it
  • it was her fault

Then you need to take a step back and check your fucking head.

This is really just a 101 post. I’m not a scholar on this subject and I have a lot to learn (failure to challenge and educate yourself is another way the system wins). There are many more and subtler aspects to rape culture than just the normalized act of rape. But I wanted to make it clear where I stand.

Thanks for reading past the cute pic with the butt and handcuffs. We now return to tying people up and smacking them around.




Yes, it’s National Masturbation Month. I certainly expect you to participate, in the morning, in the afternoon, furtively in the car or the bathroom, frantically in the shower, lazily in bed.

But nobody said anything about cumming, girl.