This one’s dirty. Throw it in the machine.


Remember, littles, if you don’t go to sleep Santa won’t come.

And neither will you.


This is a sentiment I see quite a bit on subby blogs, and I totally get why, but I think there’s a corollary that should be made explicit: it’s true, painfully true, for those of us who top as well.


A genuine fact about me: my hearing is unusually acute, and has remained so into my thirties, when most men start losing the ability to hear higher frequencies. I can hear a phone chime with a new text two floors away; I can pick you out of a crowd by the sound of your keyring when you put your hand in your purse.

That’s why I gave you this assignment. Yes, you spent long enough pleading with me for an orgasm that I decided to grant you one, on the condition that you get yourself off between seven and seven-fifteen this evening. Yes, that is in fact when my guests will be arriving for dinner. Yes, the four of us will be right in the next room.

I wouldn’t want your needy pussy to disturb anyone while we have company, and I think you know what will happen to you later if any of them notices or casts a suspicious glance at the bedroom door. You know the rules now. This is the only chance to come you’ll get this week, and possibly this month. But rest assured, girl, when I say not to make a single sound,



mean it.


Go ahead and keep humping the air, girl. You know you’re not coming until I say so.


“The field’s in full effect, then? No interference this time?”

“Right. We got the resonance ironed out. As long as the generator is powered, any woman who sets foot in that room will drop to her knees and fuck anything she sees—her own hand, if nothing else is available. Switch it off, they look confused and start to pull their clothes back up. Switch it on again, and they’re desperate little fuckbunnies until they collapse from exhaustion.”

“I see Jared’s conducting a controlled experiment.”

“He loves this work.”

“Any research yet on what happens if we strap them down tight enough to preclude masturbation and just… wait?”

“None yet. Intending to run your own experiment?”

“No worries. I can let Jared finish up first.”


Believe it or not, the majority of our treatment subjects at the Institute are admitted voluntarily.* They arrive for a number of reasons: anorgasmia, nymphomania, loss of libido, fulfillment of court-ordered therapy, a desire to be relieved of urges they don’t understand–or, on several occasions, an overabundance of curiosity.

The root of all these issues is misperception. It is a common and wildly incorrect belief that, with sufficient discipline and willpower, the mind can achieve primacy over the body it inhabits. There may even be people in the world for whom this is true, but for all of the listed disorders, such is obviously not the case. The body, for these women, is an instrument of sensation that acts upon the mind.

All our work at the Institute approaches a single principle: the extension of control from the doctor, through the subject’s flesh, into what we might unscientifically call her soul. The mind will struggle–oh, it will struggle, because if it were capable of an orderly surrender you would not be in such a condition that you need our help. But slowly, inevitably, it will yield.

At that point, the sensational instrument of your body can be put to a variety of innovative uses. Say, fucktoy rotation on Level 9.

* Oh, and the ones who don’t enter voluntarily? By the time treatment takes effect, they all admit that they should have.



this is genius. 

Actually, you only need one hand for this.


And don’t




“You shut up!”

“No, YOU shut up!”

“There is only ONE WAY to resolve this!”


Hello. This is for one of you specifically: the one who hits the heart button on practically everything I post here, trying to send me wordless messages, saving them to your little private stash for recycling later. I know already that you like being told what to do. So I’m telling you.

Strip from the waist down and pull up your favorites list. Start playing with yourself. Keep your top on for now. You can linger or scroll as much as you like–I know you’ve got plenty of things in there to stimulate the imagination–but for now you are to use only your fingers. You may use lubricant if it’s close at hand. Penetrate yourself between minutes spent on your clit.

Has it been ten minutes yet? I hope you didn’t think you were allowed to climax yet. Remove your top and bra, if any; by now the only clothing you are permitted to keep wearing is your socks. Have your vibrator handy, but don’t touch it yet. Use one hand to play with your breasts, the other on your clit, until you see a full-color gif of a subject you wish was you.

You’ll begin using your toy now. Find a post in your favorites that is at least four paragraphs of text long. Without making a sound, read the entire thing to yourself, moving your lips silently around each word.

When you feel yourself getting close, turn the vibrator up as high as you can stand it, penetrate yourself with your other hand and come. Now. Every minute you keep from coming after reading that order is punishment to be handed out later. You’re going to get off for me in exactly the way I specify, and if you fail, I will have my satisfaction from you.

You will not be easy on yourself with this orgasm. Keep the toy against your clit even if you start to feel overloaded and painfully sensitive; ride out every last pulse and toe clench. If you come more than once, don’t stop until you have to. Treat your body in exactly the way you imagine I would: I don’t care if you’re satisfied, I care whether your cunt satisfies me.

Did you do as you were told? I should have known. You’ve been a very good girl this evening. When you’re all finished up, I would like you to thank me.



And every half hour, we swap them.


Behavior correction case file #82: Lucy. Subject is an exhibitionist who enjoys withholding; she has chosen to decorate her body with piercings and extensive tattoos, which she enjoys flaunting, but has very rarely been observed to do anything more than lead on her admirers for attention, privilege and financial outlay.

Lucy will be taught to understand that her body is property, and communal property at that. We’ve set up a special rig in the entrance hall of the Institute, the one with the glass floor that opens down over the subterranean levels. She has been installed there in a rope harness which can be repositioned with ease, and a timer indicating the minutes she has been left untreated. The counter has only two digits; we expect it will not need more.

Given that the Institute is run on a 24-hour shift system, there should be no difficulty in ensuring that the subject is in near-constant use. A jar of lubricant, bridle, electrical stimulus device, and various other tools are available from the check-in desk. Orgasm is not to be strictly avoided, but not encouraged either–employ a clitoral clamp if necessary. The subject will not be addressed directly during her stay here, but may be discussed as an object in the third person within her hearing.

At the conclusion of each week of training, Lucy will be pressed flat to the glass floor while staff members watch from below, stimulated via heavy vibration until sensory overload, and then asked to choose her next tattoo from a selection of words and symbols indicating her status. Charting her pliability and eagerness to accept such markings should lead to a good indication of her treatment progress. When she starts begging for the next one before we can even get the needle humming, we’ll know she’s on her way to being cured.

Stage two: pierce her clitoral hood, fold her into one of the transparent lockers in the hallway on 6B, and set up oscillating electromagnet for continuous stim.




Hours of this.


“Sorry hon!” said the text message. “Stuck in traffic! Be back with the replacement keys any minute. Hang on tight! DEFINITELY home by morning!!”


They wanted her to see the hook: Annika had figured that out pretty early. It hung directly above the table and its stirrups, attached to a chain wound up around a heavy-duty winch. It looked like it could pull a car out of a lake. And it was positioned directly above her wide-spread thighs.

They had a whole medical theme here; the current vogue in oppression was the idea that dissidents were “sick,” and needed treatment to become proper citizens. It was just a veneer on the same brutality the regime had always longed to inflict. Annika had been passing information for two years now, and knew the risks, but of course she had thought she was invulnerable. Then someone had ratted her out.

Staring at the winch, stripped, shivering and strapped down tight, she tried to convince herself she’d never do the same, never turn on any of her friends.

Not that she’d have much opportunity if they kept the gag in place.

“Good afternoon, Annika,” said the monster when he walked in, lab-coated, pleasantly flipping through a chart. “You can call me Doctor. I see we’ve got a little issue with your political loyalties! Not to worry, we get cases like yours all the time. We’ll get you patched right up.”

She rolled her eyes at him, not that she could do much else. The body straps were tight enough that even breathing was an effort, and she’d already tired herself out testing the others. They clearly had experience here with immobilizing girls.

“Let me give you a little run-down of our standard treatment plan,” he said affably, pulling a rolling stool up to the head of the table and perching on it as he tugged on a latex glove. “Right now all areas of your body with lots of nerve endings–areas you instinctively try to protect–are exposed to me.” He pulled her lips back from her teeth and probed under her tongue; Annika trembled with the humiliation of it, as if she were a sick animal. “I’m going to work on those areas–stimulate them, provoke response. Meanwhile I’m going to hook up some sensors to your wrists, throat, underarms and heart. They’ll let me watch your body’s response in real time.”

Annika stared at him. This was their pretense? This was how they tried to justify imprisonment and torture? He wasn’t giving the faintest excuse about “curing” her at all.

He caught her eye and smiled. “That’s just the diagnosis stage–and it will take a little while. But it will let us identify exactly where in your body this subversive sickness resides.” He leaned in closely. “I have a hunch–just a hunch–that it’s either here…” He tapped her nipples casually, making her flinch. “Or here.” This time he patted her pussy in a horribly familiar way.

“And once we have found it for certain, our real work begins.” He turned to the wall and flipped on a large monitor. To Annika’s horror, it was a video of her former contact Liliya, dangling from that awful hook in a cruel hogtie as this man forced his slippery, gloved hand inside her, while the other pressed a buzzing steel-pronged tool of some kind against her clit.

“Annika!” Liliya was squealing, jerking desperately in her bonds. “Her name is Annika, she lives at 2240 Gerstin, that’s all I know! PLEASE!”

“That’s how we know the treatment has begun to take hold,” said the monster brightly, turning it off again. “Well, Annika. Why don’t we get started making you better?”