This is kind of unusual and personal for me, but this is also the only identity where I really talk about kink, so. Pardon the digression.

I’m a pretty typical top in bed. I like control, I like getting a reaction, I like the illusion of power; aside from a couple very specific circumstances, I don’t have much of a submissive side, and I have always struggled to understand why anyone would want to receive pain as part of sex. I sort of got it abstractly: endorphins, adrenaline, heightened pleasure from sensory contrast. Not to imply the two are always connected, but I’ve dabbled lightly in self-harm in the past, so I know a little about the relief involved in externalization too. But emotionally… I couldn’t get there. I just figured I could respect other people’s kinks without needing to understand them, and hey, if my mild sadistic interests matched up with someone else’s masochism, great.

Until this weekend.

You and I are very close friends but we live a long way apart. This was one of the few times a year we get to see each other, and the flirting had turned up quite a bit, and when you drink you get tend to sock me in the arm and get a little bite-happy. This time you gave me one serious, deliberate punch, and then you bit me in the same spot. Hard. Hard enough to leave marks.

I laughed about it, but it made my heart kick. I wanted more.

It became a game. We’d be in a crowd, or at the bar, or just around the corner from a group of friends, and we’d catch each other’s eyes and you’d pinch me. Or punch me. Or, once in a while, find a soft place and bite down. The first time I was just excited to have your attention, but soon the harder you bit the better it felt. I got cold chills and goosebumps all over.

I have quite a bit of height on you, and you are sweet and kind, so we do not present the most obvious form for this dynamic. That’s part of my fascination with it. I never expected to be walking around with my public face on, cheerfully looming over you, thrumming with excitement inside and thinking fuck, I hope she hurts me again soon.

I’m not claiming this is the universal masochist experience or anything, but I get it now. I don’t bruise easily, and the marks on your favorite spot–just below the shoulder of my right arm–are already gone. But I can still feel the soreness when I push it. I want it to last. I want to be able to touch part of my body, and remember, and feel where you were.


The effectiveness is staggering. Any preoccupation, notions of identity, goals or imperatives, all collapse one by one when a specimen is brought within reach of intense climax, one that promises to be more intense and rewarding with each passing moment, and held in that state for an extended period.

I talk a good game on here but the fact is I will never live up to the complete, perfect, cruel and incredibly dark mastery displayed by EasyTarget on Literotica. She’s the real deal, and I just noticed she’s posted a new piece: Human Conditioning, a case study-style story that leaves mine in the dust. If you’re into orgasm control, conditioning, machines and just generally HOT writing, you owe it to yourself to read her stuff.


“You forgot to attach this to the ceiling.”


Up on the auction stage it’s all glamor and clever lighting, the audience in their finest formalwear and masks, the occasional gasp when two or three of them get into a bidding war over a particularly enticing new slave. The girl in question is pinned down by a spotlight, slowly turned and displayed as the auctioneer murmurs “seventy… eight… one hundred thousand to the gentleman… one ten to the lady in green…”

Down below it’s more utilitarian. These are the house trainers’ last remaining moments with the girls they’ve spent weeks breaking, and there is no particular incentive to treat them kindly, or like anything but chattel. They want you tired and obedient for your new owner. They want you to tremble appealingly as you’re packaged up and trucked away.

These four won’t ever get to see the world upstairs; they’re being sold as part of a bulk lot of five, probably to a competitor’s house that thinks they can be assessed and tracked into specialty training. One girl from the lot is on stage now, representing them; these four will simply be slid farther down along the track when the purchase is made, strapped into their new owner’s transport, and shuttled off to a similar dingy storage area in their new home.

The girl on the left was a promising young tennis player; the one next to her was her coach. The others were a PR intern, a camgirl and an au pair. They would never have had much in common except that the house decided that this was how they’d bring in the most value. Now their fates are temporarily bound together, as they wait, squirming and helpless, to find out if they’ll be given to a relatively gentle life of domestic slavery or–more likely–something considerably crueler.

“One forty,” says the auctioneer. “One forty going once… going twice…”


And that is what you get for spending actual money on that book on the nightstand.


“And all the girls in this dorm have had a standard dose?”

“An average of 10 ppm in the drinking water, yes. It took eight days to build up to steady-state accumulation. There is some natural resistance–about three of them haven’t displayed any effects at all.”

“Three out of two hundred. Not bad.”

“We’ve sequestered them for further study. The rest of the subjects have… well, as you see, largely sequestered themselves.”

“Physical condition?”

“The fugue state only lasts about four hours at a stretch, so they seem to be able to take care of themselves. Eating, drinking, sleeping, all sufficient if a bit groggy. Then we play the trigger frequency and… this… begins again.”

“She’s really incapable of stopping, isn’t she?”

“And rather frustrated, from the evidence. We plan to verify when we can, but if they are capable of orgasm, it certainly doesn’t seem to satisfy them.”

“Have you seen any effects of… how do I put this… physical restraint?”

“Tie her hands, she’ll hump anything within reach, animate or otherwise. Bind her completely and… well… we think the effects are harmless, but I’ve never seen anyone quite so desperate. I think she would have agreed to just about anything to be touched.”



“We may have to add a new protocol to the test. See what their behavior is like if they’re all, say, frogtied, and locked in a room together.”

“Noted. And do you still want to reserve the most promising two or three subjects for your personal tests at the lab?”

“Do you really have to ask?”


It’s not uncommon for a man to keep a little spare-time project to potter around with in the basement.


“These are called travel straps,” he said, not without a hint of kindness, as he cinched them up around her tense limbs and torso. “The extra loops are for the suspension system in the–well, you’ll see. It’s mostly to keep you and the others from hurting yourselves by struggling while we’re in transit.” He stood back and smirked a little. “Although they are not without aesthetic appeal.”

She’d been compliant, so far; he’d showed her his weapon when he woke her, told her quietly that he wouldn’t be violent if she didn’t make him, and aside from her fight-or-flight anger and a series of verbal barbs about his manhood she’d obeyed his instructions. The fact that she was being kidnapped–and professionally so–seemed to be setting in now, though. She’d been more and more quiet as he’d efficiently stripped her and buckled her up.

“One more piece,” he said, flipping open part of his matte black case and taking out the thick posture collar. “Normally I’d gag you as well, but you don’t seem to have much to say at the moment. And I don’t think you’re going to try screaming. Are you?”


He cocked an eyebrow at her. “See, when you don’t answer me–when we can’t have a dialogue at all–that actually makes me nervous.” He reached down and grabbed the rings at her sternum and belly, lifting her up; she couldn’t stay entirely silent at that, gasping at how easily he shifted her, and at the way the thick strap suddenly dug into her crotch.

He carried her over to the faux fur rug he’d brought in with him–she’d already figured out that he planned to wrap her in it, then carry her out in broad daylight–and set her down again. She sagged against her bonds, trying not to let him see her face, but he ran two fingers down the thick strap to her little patch of fuzzy curls.

“Now, all the other girls on this trip have a little company to keep them amused,” he said, slowly pressing the flat leather against her. “A little battery-powered friend underneath here.” She kept her eyes turned away, but he could see the flush spread over her chest, see the subtle shift of her hips. Her lips were swollen around the edges of the strap, and moisture beaded on them. “But that wasn’t a kindness. That was a punishment, because none of them were quite as well-behaved as you. Are you proud of yourself for avoiding it, Alexis?”

“You don’t get to call me by my first name,” she said, in a low, cold voice.

“Perhaps I don’t,” he said, amused. He tipped her chin up with one finger, gathered her hair and picked up the collar to work it into place. She was breathing fast through her nose, jaw clenched, swallowing with a little difficulty under the d-ring as he got it locked shut.

“But I have to call you something,” he said, giving each of the straps a final tug to make sure they were secure. “And you’re… unusual, so far. Not quite deserving of the usual pejoratives. Not a pet. Not a slut. Not a slave… yet.”

“Call me your opponent,” she said, looking up at last with suppressed defiance in her eyes.

“Oh my,” he murmured, a grin crooking his mouth. “As you wish.”


“I know we can wriggle out of these… ngh… ropes if we…”

“Y-yeah, I’ll just… shit… get my wrist and your… ffffoot…”

“OH! Right… th-th–”