It takes at least a few hours to stop heaving and shaking after the unfreezing process; Maris had no chance to protest, much less fight back, when they pulled her out of the hissing cryo chamber and bound her taut in the echoing warehouse.

“Wh-what the fuck is g-going AUGH!” she managed, before a sharp smack landed on her bare pussy. You’d think being frozen would numb you, but no: every nerve in her body was tingling as if she’d been naked in the snow and then thrust in front of a fire.

“Interesting thing about cryogenics,” said her captor, a blurry face and a dangerously soft voice. “Did you know that if you’re frozen 364 days out of the year, you’re legally dead? A strange little provision for experimental treatments, I understand.”

“But I’m–I don’t even know why I was–let me G-GO!” Maris hiccuped, squirming in the ropes. Condensation dripped down her shivering body as she felt her legs drawn slowly farther apart.

“Oh, I don’t know why you were frozen either.” A shrug she could read through her blurry vision. “All the records for this facility were destroyed in a terrible accident. Isn’t that awful to hear?”

“Look, I can tell you, my n-name is Maris–” And with that, before she could react, she felt the ball gag forced between her chattering teeth.

“Ah ah ah! Don’t want to use your real name in this kind of video. Not while you’re being streamed live.”


That vicious little chuckle again, as one finger traced a droplet of moisture from her throat to her stiff nipple. “Oh yes. You’re our twenty-third show of the year, ice princess, and people pay quite a lot of money to see what we do to popsicles like you.”

Maris was finally starting to recover, but that sentence set her pulse to an alarm-bell pace. She cast her gaze around wildly, trying to make her eyes focus on what must be cameras and spotlights.

A hand drew itself down her body, gathering the slippery lube that had been used to keep her skin from freezer burn, and then slowly began to push up into her. Maris squealed as she realized the nerves inside her cunt were just as oversensitive as the rest of her. She tried to buck and jerk, but all her body would do was slowly writhe.

“There’s a good little dead girl,” laughed her captor. “Don’t worry–it’s only twenty-three hours and forty-two minutes before your time is up and we put you back on cold storage. In the meantime, we can do anything we fucking want to your perfectly preserved and helpless body, and no matter how many screens you appear on, no one’s going to do a thing about it. So settle in and enjoy yourself. You’ll get a year off to rest soon, after all.”

The click of a buzzing vibrator; the testing whistle of a whip. “Of course, I suppose it’s going to SEEM like every waking day is like this now. But don’t worry, sweet icebox. The novelty’s not going to wear off for me…”


The rope around her waist and under her crotch goes over a pulley. At the end of the pulley is a bucket. On the wall is a large television. On the television is all the hidden camera footage of her room for the last week.

Her Daddy already watched the tapes, and he’s marked certain time codes and synced them up to a mechanical hopper just above the bucket. Little Nessa was supposed to be on no-touch while Daddy was traveling on business, you see. And oh, little Nessa was naughty.

Each time the time-lapse video reaches an instance of Nessa sneaking a hand into her little cotton panties, the hopper drops a marble into the bucket. Each time it reaches a time when Nessa misbehaved in the extreme–when she humped the pillow, or the furniture, or her little playmate girl from next door, or worst of all, when she came–it drops a billiard ball.

There is one other complication to this setup. Strapped tight to the rope, above the bucket, is the big fat magic wand vibrator, set to high. The more the rope digs into her crotch, the more intensely the vibrations travel through it, into her aching lips and helpless clit.

Nessa knows she is not to come today. She needs to be a good girl, a very very good girl, no matter how much the rope makes her arch and squeal and squirm. No matter what, until Daddy gets home.

After all, if she can’t make it through this one simple task without indulging her greedy cunt, the hopper will drop its last prize: the bowling ball.

Trembling, tiptoed, slowly working herself back and forth against the painful-pleasurable-cruel taut rope, Nessa wonders exactly how heavy that ball’s going to feel, and whether Daddy will drill her three holes afterward too.


“You look confused, Melanie. Perhaps you expected to wake up in a more compromising position? Or perhaps you simply never expected to see me again. You thought I’d dropped out of sight and out of your life. Oh, silly girl. I’ve just been biding my time.”

“I admit in my early stages of planning I fantasized about tying your legs open–I’ve got plenty of pipe down here to use for spreader bars, as you see. But my observation of your habits taught me better. Keeping your legs open is hardly your problem. In fact, you little slut, I had to go back for thicker rope to make sure the knots would keep them closed.”

“No, we’re going to play a different game. Your breasts are rather sensitive, as my nocturnal surveillance indicated, and I like a challenge. I wonder if that’s amplified by the adrenaline you feel now, hmm? I wonder how you deal with stimulation while you’re bound, mute and helpless. I wonder exactly what I can do to you without removing either your jeans or your shirt.”

“Yes, that’s just duct tape on your face, and I know it’s not much of a gag. In fact, with the things I’m about to do to you, I imagine you’ll sweat off the tape rather quickly. So here’s a challenge to me, I suppose. Using just my hands and mouth and these lovely little tools, can I reduce you to incoherent begging before you manage to get the tape off your mouth? Can I get you wet despite yourself? Can I get that omnivorous pussy of yours to soak right through your jeans?”

“I believe I can. Let’s get started, shall we? And try not to wriggle too much–I’d hate to have to chain these clamps to a pipe just to get you to hold still.”


Have you ever tried to balance yourself without using your hands?

You’re blindfolded and bound with tape, tight and squirming. On a table just behind you are five things: a crop, a candle, a feather, a bowl of ice, and a vibrator. Standing in front of you are the four people who paid for an hour in this dim room.

The game is simple. They each get three five-minute turns, and they can invite one of their fellow players to join them, though they are not required to agree. They’re not allowed to touch you, not with their hands or body: only with the tools.

They can whisper to you. They can lie to you. They can stroke and tease and punish you, and the way you’re bound, you won’t be able to close in on yourself or hide your most sensitive places. You have to stay open and exposed to them. And they have to resist the urge to physically push.

If one of them pushes, they’re out of the game, immediately–and there are no refunds for this very expensive hour. But if they manage to do it, if during one of those turns they manage to make you tilt or jerk or convulse off the side of the little platform–if you fall–well then you’ve just found your new owner.

Do you think you can make it the whole hour? Do you think you’ll want to? Do you think–when you finally give in and tumble down, collapsing onto your side without your hands to break the fall–that the one you picked will be kind enough to catch you?



I like the idea that the reason the shackles are so long is because they’re not for bondage. Not really. 

They’re because she comes with the bed.


Some of you have noticed the “more stories” link on my page, and a few have been kind enough to tell me you’ve checked them out. I don’t post nearly as often on Literotica–I work a lot harder on them,and of course there’s just so much more text to generate–but if you like the things I post here you’ll probably like the stuff there as well. (Forgive the earliest chapters; I was still figuring out how to do this. I’ll rewrite them someday.)

I know I have some crossover readers here who have been waiting years for a new installment, so I thought I’d let you know: chapter 7 of Housebound is up. As always, I’d be happy to hear what you think. Enjoy.


This looks like a stock photo shoot suddenly got really interesting.


“Ugh, doesn’t this one come with a case? Or some twist ties or something? It’s got wires dangling everywhere.”

“No, it’s more fun this way! We can always buy a sheath later if we want, but this way all the fun ports and buttons are exposed. We can get in there and tinker, you know?”

“What if I don’t WANT to tinker? What if I just want to use the stupid thing? Does it even have a remote?”

“Yes! Look, it’s programmable–”

“God. Whatever, you can play with your kit as long as you want, but it stays in the corner when you’re not using it.”

“You’ll like it once you try it. I promise.”

“I’m not dusting it.”

“Believe me, gathering dust is the last thing it’ll be doing.”





Clones are frequently implanted with false memories of a past life of freedom so to make the housebreaking process more enjoyable for some clients.

=-O That’s just evil!!!

(hmmm… but what if…)

Can we just, for a moment, focus on the two girls in the back, gagged and being lead away?

They were always lead one in front of the next so that they couldn’t see each other’s identical faces. It was impossible to see features of the clones still in their containers. When they left, as far as they knew, they were as unique as the people they were sold to.

“Look how lucky you are,” they heard. “Look at all these girls who have to stay here. How many are there? A hundred? Lucky you! Out of 100 girls, YOU were chosen. You must be special.”

Because that little extra bit of arrogance was fun to break, too.

He ordered thirteen copies of Penny, one a week for three months. The process of breaking her rarely took more than five days, but even God needed a weekend.

Each of the new clones had a different implanted background–one thought she was an heiress, one a sorority girl, one an executive, one a whore–but there was always something essential to her that didn’t change. Finding it was the best part of the game. When they started, she’d react differently, sometimes trying to fawn in hopes of mercy, sometimes struggling and spitting in his face. But when he took her apart, twisted and stretched and snapped her over the twin edges of pain and pleasure, then her real self appeared.

“Oh, hello,” he’d say, watching her eyes as she trembled, trying to hold absolutely still for him despite the things the machines were doing to her breasts and cunt, despite the things he was doing to her mouth and throat. “There you are.”

This one is the eleventh, and he’s starting to put together his conclusions about the project. First: the high doesn’t wear off at all, not a bit, not in the slightest; the dawning realization in her eyes as she understands what he can do to her, the fear and lust and hidden need, is perfect every time. Second: he’s going to start having to sell them off if he wants to have the cash to buy new ones.

Third: she is perfect, every instance of her, and she is everything he needs.

He trails one hand down her taut body, feeling more than hearing her gagged whimper as he brushes fingertips over the place between her abdomen and hip. “Every time I do this,” he murmurs, “it’s a chance to find something new about you, do you see? I know you better than you know yourself–” and with one touch, she arches into him, unbelievably desperate “–but there is still always more to know.”

On the other side of the one-way glass, the original Penny watches him working, and touches herself, and maybe smiles.