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.
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.”
I do wish you’d condition my poor behavior.
StandardThat’s very flattering, anon, but I’m afraid the Doctor is not currently accepting new patients. Perhaps some of my strict and firm-handed peers could show themselves in the notes for this post?
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.
I heard a rumor that if you get Ivy’s book, this gif goes up all the way.
“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.”
“Hmm.”
“Yes.”
“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?”
Silence.
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–”
“Yeah–”
“oh”
“fffff”
“…”