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.

OH HI.

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.

collegesubmissive:

“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.

girl-on-edge:

royb8771:

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.

collegesubmissive:

PLEASE, SIR?

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.

lightningbugjune:

ninh:

“You’ll have cum enough for me when you’re too weak to arch off the table.”

I want to be forced to orgasm so many times I’m a mess on the floor, incapable of a single coherent though.

She’s slick with sweat, slippery enough that she’d probably be able to slip the ropes–if she could think clearly through the steps involved. Every few hours he jams a straw in her mouth and holds her nose until she drinks, some faintly sour electrolyte solution to keep her going, then snaps on a glove and lubes her holes with firm, thorough attention. And then he starts again.

He doesn’t use the Hitachi all the time, of course; on its high setting it tends to overwhelm her, make her go mercifully numb, which he discovered early on. First he’ll take the prod and wake her up, work her little breasts and belly until she’s squealing, and then dump a bucket of ice-cold water over her thrashing body. It’s almost a relief when he tightens the ropes on her legs, keeping her spread wide, and begins to work with the toys again.

The relief doesn’t last long. She used to be the kind of girl who didn’t always get off, the kind who took care and persistent attention; he’s broken her of that. He’s systematic, efficient, and relentless. He knows exactly when to ease off on the bullet against her clit and shift the heavy, thrumming weight up against her g-spot; when to start working the plug between her cheeks, and when to slowly draw it out.

She can’t form words but, she’s discovered, she can still cry out when she comes. She cries out at least every ten minutes, and if he’s found a new angle on her writhing body, she often cries out four or five times in a row.

They aren’t cries of pleasure. She remembers orgasm being pleasurable, once, when it was more than just a mechanical contraction of exhausted, aching muscles. Each one takes her a little farther from herself. Each one leaves a little less speech in her hazy mind.

Sometimes he’ll run his fingers lightly down her damp flanks, in the aftermath. Sometimes he’ll push something wide and heavy inside her, letting her cunt or ass try to squeeze it, intensifying each pulse. Sometimes he’ll just put the bar of his forearm against her throat, hold her down, and begin to spank her pussy until she screams.

When he decides this particular orgasm has been reinforced enough, he leans down and pulls her damp hair back from her ear. “What did you just do, girl?” he whispers.

She tries to remember the word, struggles, sobs for air through her trembling lips.

“What,” he says, reaching for the prod threateningly, “did you just do?”

“C-come,” she manages, a miracle every time. “Come! COME!”

He smiles, and picks up a clit pump this time, or a blunt steel hook, or maybe the Hitachi. She arches up again as soon as he touches her, a response trained so deeply now that she isn’t even aware of it. Only when he’s taken that final word from her mouth, when she can no longer remember the distinction between breath and pain and orgasm, will he even think about letting her rest.

collegesubmissive:

This is what is so fucking appealing to me about rope. The process of it, the intricacy of it, the intimacy of it, the fact that while cuffs may be convenient for time or general restraint purposes, when you consider rope…

I want to feel his fingertips pulling and twisting and gliding over every inch of me, while simultaneously taking away my freedom of mobility. I want that time leading up to the end result, to know exactly what is coming and to have that anticipation impact every single bit of my body and mind. I want to willingly offer myself for such helplessness and enjoy whatever process he allows me.

“Look, you can just come right out and complain if you want to.” It’s been a very long week. You managed to down three glasses of wine while getting into your PJs, and your feet hurt, and again: this fucking week. You’re sure as hell going to take it out on someone, and well, that’s what roommates are for, right? “So I leave a few of my makeup things lying around on the sink. You know what? You moved in with a girl, that’s what you’re going to live with, homeboy.”

He looks up from his tablet and blinks at you. He still hasn’t said anything, which is blatantly unfair when you’re trying to start a fight.

“And you know what else? Yeah, I leave dishes out! Biiig fucking deal, you don’t have to just like… passive-aggressively wash them. Which you DO. I would get to them if you’d leave them. And so sue me if my bedsprings are a little loud, okay?” He’s studying your flushed face and you get the feeling he’s not really listening. “Hey! What? Is this the silent treatment?” You laugh a little too loudly. “Because if that’s the kind of thing you think is going to get to me–”

There’s a soft tap on your wrist. You look down.

Now where did he get that?

“I mean, I can… talk for both of us just fine if…” you hesitate.

He’s just holding it there, a loose knot in a length of white nylon rope, pressed lightly to your arm. You watch as he takes the short end and passes it through the knot, once, twice, three times, then cinches the knot. Now your wrist is held in a firm loop, wide enough not to burn, tight enough to hold but not cinched.

“Do you just… keep that under your chair?” you offer weakly, before he runs the long end under his foot and stands on it.

It’s shorter than you thought and the sudden shift in weight makes you bend at the waist. This is not normal roommate behavior. It’s so far outside the bounds of what you expected that you’re still trying to figure out what to say when he takes one step around you, deftly catches the hem of your threadbare t-shirt, and flips it over your head.

I mean, he’s seen you topless before: the occasional dropped towel, the hot tub party last month, whatever. They’re just boobs. He’s pulling your shirt off, over your arms and down the rope to the floor, and you have no idea why you’re making excuses for him.

He just took your shirt off. He’s wrapping the rope just below your breasts.

“I must have missed this on the house rules board,” you say. “Do we not know each other well enough to talk? Sir?” It’s supposed to come out sarcastic. It really, really doesn’t.

The rope is doubled and split now, between your breasts and back up over your shoulders: a second wrap, above them this time. His fingers have barely touched your skin: only the rope. There’s no actual restraint to it–no hindrance of movement–but for some reason with each turn you feel tightened, anchored, contained.

A doubled loop of rope touches the hollow of your throat, and his thumb touches the tag at the back of your loose shorts. For the first time all night, he’s asking you a question.

You don’t have any words left, but you nod.

He winds the rope around your neck five times: loose, careful, but undeniably present, and each time he passes it by you can feel the pulse bob under your skin. Then he’s threading the last few feet down, under your soft white harness, over your navel–

He tugs a string, and your shorts fall to your ankles.

You stand with your feet just a little apart because you know instinctively that you should. The rope is passing between your legs, then back up behind you, and when he begins to tighten it upward you let out a sound like a kitten.

“If you want to,” he murmurs in your ear, finally taking your new collar in his fist, “go ahead and complain.”

thinkivykink:

I know, Sweetheart, I know.

Life’s so hard sometimes.

She keeps letting herself believe it, is the problem. How long has she been here–two hours? Twenty? She remembers dinner, remembers already rubbing her thighs together and flirting with the rest of them. She told them she didn’t need her clit to come. She made a bet.

That was her problem, really; gambling.

They drew straws, right there at the table, to see who had to prove their claim upstairs in the suite that night. It took her entirely too long to realize the game had been rigged, but even if she’d suspected, she probably would have been titillated by the idea: she liked their attention, liked being the centerpiece. And so what if she had to prove she could get off from being fucked? They were beautiful, all of them, and it wouldn’t be hard.

How many of them are there, exactly? She’s tried to count cocks but now some of the women have strap-ons and that isn’t fair. She remembers the elevator, remembers breathing fast as she feels herself pressed between them, a manicured hand sliding up the back of her thigh. She remembers their hands stripping her and being told she could keep her jewelry. She remembers being lubricated. “Trust us,” said one as she giggled under the slippery touch, “you’re going to be glad of this.”

Then they clamped her clit.

Even that, fuck, even that would be bearable if they’d just give her a little longer. Somehow they know, they always fucking know when she edges, and they pull away and hold her down and let her gasp and buck and writhe it out and slowly-fuck-so-slowly her orgasm recedes. Then the next one takes his turn, the immediate thrust deep into her throbbing core and the wet heat of her body responding. That first thrust can get her so close! She’s going to–

The sounds of the watchers toying with each other, laughing at her need, sighing with contentment–

The helpless jerk of her own aching hips–

The metal chain brushing her nipple–

Her breath so loud in her ears–

Yes. She is, she is going to, she IS going to come, she is fuck no no no

Held down like a thrashing animal, spread in an X, her body beyond her control as they laugh at her screaming curses and sob of need. Cunt throbbing, aching, a wet fist of her desperate frustration.

“All you have to do is concede,” whispers a pair of soft lips in her ear. “Just admit it, little liar, little toy. Admit you can’t do it.”

“Never,” she groans, and then someone’s pushing four fingers into her gasping mouth as the next one mounts up.

REBLOG IF YOU WANT TO HEAR WHAT YOUR FOLLOWERS WOULD DO IF THEY OWNED YOU FOR 24 HOURS

littleredminx:

DO IT!!!!

Very well.

I’m assuming “owned” means you show up on my doorstep, kneeling, wearing a skirt and stockings, with your wrists crossed behind you and a simple collar and leash around your neck. As soon as I open the door, the 24-hour timer starts, and while it’s running you will obey any request I make of you to the best of your ability. When it concludes, you can choose to take the collar off and leave a free woman, or keep the collar on and remain owned until I choose to release you.

(I understand minx is a virgin and would like to remain that way for now, so in this scenario there’s no actual penetration.)

First I’d need to inspect you. I’d step out onto the porch to open your mouth and check your lips, teeth and tongue, then wrap your hair around my fist and inspect your scalp and the fluttering pulse in your throat. You’d probably expect me to bring you inside at that point, but no, it’s a bright spring day and I like the light outside. I’d strip off your top and your bra, weighing your breasts in my hands and making a note of your reaction when I tugged and flicked your nipples. Then, using my grip on your hair, I’d take you to the porch steps and push you down onto them–hands on the lowest step, knees at the top, parted nice and wide as your skirt fell to your waist. I would discard your panties, letting them flutter down to the steps next to your face. As I made a note of your grooming status, posture, and any tattoos or piercings, I’d give you a little pressure on your mound from the heel of my hand. Not enough for my hand to provide you with any modesty, of course.

When I was sure you’d given the neighborhood a nice show, I’d take the leash and begin to lead you in on your hands and knees. You’d probably start to cross the threshold without requesting permission, for which I would stop you, press your face into the floor while keeping your hips nice and high, and administer ten marks to your ass with my hand. You would thank me and request another ten, like a good sub. I would oblige you, this time on the insides of your thighs.

At length, inside, I’d bring you to the cabinet where I keep my tools and permit you to select a color of rope. Red silk to match those burning cheeks, perhaps. I’d bring you to my work chair and draw you across my lap, on your back, legs doubled and wrists above your head; as I used the rope to ensure they stayed that way, I would question you on some of the things that arouse you, humiliate you, hurt you or trigger you. Anything of interest I would write across your torso or on your thighs with a black marker. Then, after establishing that your squirming and blushing were signs of genuine arousal, I would begin to work you.

I’d start with your lips, wetting you, warming you and spreading you, letting you find a rhythm with your slowly rolling hips against my two fingers and palm. I would be in no hurry–I’d literally have all day–and you in your nice new pink truss would have nowhere to go, so I’d make sure you were throbbingly aware of the exact state of your clit under my hand before I even pulled out the little curved vibrator.

As I cleaned my fingers in your mouth, I would inform you that you were going to edge twelve times, and that each time you would inform me and request an orgasm. Each request for orgasm would be punished. That would not mean that the request was in any way optional.

You would, as stated, obey to the best of your ability.

As I alternately circled you, ground against you or brushed you back and forth with the pulsing toy, I would occasionally move my hand from its casual grip on the tight collar to ensure that your nipples stayed stiff and trembling. Your first edge would be allowed to dissipate kindly, without punishment, to lull you into the slow build and crest again. The second time you requested orgasm, I would slap your face.

Subsequent requests would (after being denied) receive clamps to your nipples, sharp strokes to your slit, the removal of those clamps, or–if I were feeling very cruel–direct clitoral pressure from the vibrator at its highest intensity, while I kept your ear sharply between my teeth and murmured a reminder that you did not have permission to climax. You absolutely would not come, either, despite any helpless belief to the contrary. My property obeys me.

After your twelfth edge–assuming you managed to keep count–I would move you to your knees on the floor, unzip my pants, and fuck your mouth. You might be permitted to grind your throbbing, dripping pussy against my shoe, but I doubt it; I don’t trust that needy little hole. I would occasionally remove myself from you to permit you to request my orgasm, perhaps in the hope that it would make me relax, or offer you relief. You would not have earned any such thing, of course.

When I felt enough time had elapsed to allow your desperate cunt to retreat from its extreme need, I would move you to the work table and strap you down, once more on your back but now arched over a padded triangular rest. I would allow you to see the set of tools I unpacked and set next to you–multiple sizes of vibrator (some attached to clamps), flat ruler, feather (and its sharp quill point), candle, and bowl of ice–before I pulled the thick blindfold taut over your eyes.

I would flip the Hitachi to its high setting, press its head directly against your clit, and instruct you not to come. You would beg. You would squeal and jerk against the straps. You would try to the best of your ability.

In less than a minute, you would fail.

As soon as I saw you reach orgasm, I would ruin it. I would remove all stimulation from your pussy immediately, letting you cry out and writhe, attempting to wring more than a moment of faint pleasure from all that buildup; then, when I was quite sure you were finished and hypersensitive, I would return the powerful vibrator directly to your clit and begin to snap the ruler across your breasts. Make no mistake: this would be torture. Only after you were a sobbing wreck, a trembling wet mess, incoherently offering me anything I wanted in return for mercy–only when I was certain you were a broken girl–would I remove it.

I would give your body a few moments to recover. I would find places you hadn’t known were so sensitive–the insides of your elbows, the backs of your knees, your fingertips, the hollow of your throat–and bring your attention to them with my fingers and tongue. I would slowly, slowly work my way down you until I found your aching pussy. I would begin to work you. Sooner than you could have expected–with your cunt still slippery and frustrated by that unfulfilling climax–you would edge again.

If you were a very, very good girl, you’d remember to request an orgasm then.

I would deny such a request. I would light the candle and pick up an ice cube. And then, as the timer chimed, I would begin the second hour of your stay.

collegesubmissive:

It’s almost infuriating to know that he’s doing this with a single finger. That you’re writhing and moaning and arching from one damn finger.

But it’s not just that finger, see. It’s the fact that you gave him this power. That you want this. That you’re restrained and fuck knows how much he’s teased you leading up to this.

And that is all nothing but arousing.

It wasn’t just that she was teased leading up to this; it was that he made you tease yourself. Made you walk around in those boots and those stockings all day, sans panties, his classed-up little secret whore. Made you come back to the room and tear off your dress, tie your own ankles to the table, and frantically fuck your own hand as you waited for him to arrive. You knew your job was to edge ten times before he arrived. After the whole day of blushing near-exposure, getting THERE wasn’t the problem, it was keeping yourself from going over.

And then he finally walked in, casual as can be, and saw you sweating and squirming on your back against the hard wood of the table. You’d ripped holes in the nylon of your tights, hand scrabbling at your hip as you tried desperately to hold yourself where he wanted you, and your body was slick with sweat. You looked up at him, a mixture of need and resentment and hazy arousal in your eyes.

“Ten times, girl?” he asked quietly.

You never could lie to him. “I lost count. Sir.”

A loop of cotton rope around your wrists. A smooth, strong pull downward, your wrists lashed to the table before you could breathe. He pushed that one finger in your whimpering mouth to let you wet it.

And then, only then, did he really start to make you writhe.

kittylexxi:

doctortease:

kittylexxi:

doctortease:

kittylexxi:

doctortease:

kittylexxi:

femsubdenial:

kittylexxi:

littlelisaten:

she’ll never even know who is looking at her and stroking her, unless she can identify the occasional giggle or laugh or whiff of cologne or perfume. she may know whose cum is dripping down her face and neck but she’ll never know who sees her as a cum covered and obedient slut.

Wish I could think coherently, all I can seem to do is tremble excitedly. The idea, the situation, everything about it …

Mmm… you’d know me. I’d be the one gripping your hair with one hand, and reaching down with the other, using my first and ring finger to spread your lips and pull up, exposing your clit so I could lightly tickle it with the fingernail of my middle finger, whispering about how messy you look, how wet you are, how I’d shove my fingers into your cunt except that it’s more fun to tease you, letting your g-spot ache, untouched.

Breath catching, body trembling as the fingers pull at her, teasing. Panting faster as she hears the whispers, feels the fingernail tickling. Whimpering softly as she shakes in pleasure at the touch, at the humiliation, in the need to feel the fingers in her, touching her aches. Her needs.

A sudden jerk on the rope attached to her cuffs, wrenching her shoulders and making her gasp and lean forward. There’s more than one chuckle in the room at that, and a woman’s voice murmurs something about getting that mouth down where it can be useful again. The fingers on her bare, smooth sex vanish as she’s slowly winched up into a strappado—and then, when she’s bent over far enough that her pussy pouts between her legs, they return. Or is it the same hand at all? This one likes to circle her clit and slide one thumb just inside her, teasing her slippery entrance but still not giving her the penetration she wants. Someone’s lacing fingers into her hair and tilting her head up, pushing her mouth down to be used properly, and the sounds coming out of her are nothing like a civilized language.

Gasping and trembling in pleasure and need, whimpering softly as her clit is circled but not touched, as she is teased but only barely penetrated, as she is lined up for perfect use, mouth down, opening hungrily, pussy on display to be taken, used, teased. Body pulsing in need, squealing in pleasure and as she is left dangling without anything entering her mouth, gasping and wiggles, tries to express her need coherently and fails.

The squeal muffled, then, as her face is lowered to nestle in the warm velvet of a wet pussy. Does it belong to another slave or a Mistress? Does it really matter? The slippery tang of arousal fills her mouth and nose, even as the thumb in her cunt pushes deeper, sliding up against her g-spot with a firm pressure but frustrating slowness. A wooden switch begins tracing up her flank to her left breast, a tacit threat. Someone chuckles, “what are you waiting for?”

Tongue slides along the wet pussy, tracing, exploring, nose inhaling the scent, trying to determine if belongs to someone known. Moaning loudly as the thumb pushes deeper, squeals and shakes as it slides against her g-spot. Tongue eagerly wiggling in the pussy in her face, curls around clit, sucking on it. Trembles as she feels something hard pressing against her breast. Tongue speeds up, while body wiggles against the hand, thumb, pressing against her.

Two fingers on her clit, finally, finally giving her the pressure she wants as she buries her cum-splattered face in that warm pussy. A few heartbeats of pure pleasure, a reward for her obedient tongue, and then—the sound hits her ears before the pain registers, a sharp snap and the glowing sting where the switch met her nipple. “That’s right,” chuckles the male voice behind her, “don’t get too close,” and she realizes that this is the plan: tease her, edge her, and use the stiff little whip to draw her back from it every time.

Wiggling and pressing her face into the pussy. Tongue darting, licking. Moaning in pleasure as she feels the two fingers pressing against her clit. Trembling, licking, edging closer and closer, licking; squeals and whimpers, body shaking as the pain sharply and quickly flows through her body. Whimpers, tears sliding. Pushes forward again, tongue searching for that pussy, returns to licking.

The fingers tease her, toy with her, drive her–then crack, the switch leaving a line of pain on her flank this time, like a whipped horse. The pain hasn’t yet faded when he begins again, manipulating her clit with laughable ease. The woman beneath her is grabbing her hair, pulling her down harder, hips rolling up to grind on her tongue and then let out a strangled gasp; she feels that pussy pulsing against her lips, a cruel reminder of the release she is not permitted. When she’s wrung out every last drop of pleasure, the woman giggles and pulls her up for a deep kiss. “I think this toy deserves to be filled now,” she murmurs upon breaking it, “but whatever with?”

kittylexxi:

doctortease:

kittylexxi:

doctortease:

kittylexxi:

femsubdenial:

kittylexxi:

littlelisaten:

she’ll never even know who is looking at her and stroking her, unless she can identify the occasional giggle or laugh or whiff of cologne or perfume. she may know whose cum is dripping down her face and neck but she’ll never know who sees her as a cum covered and obedient slut.

Wish I could think coherently, all I can seem to do is tremble excitedly. The idea, the situation, everything about it …

Mmm… you’d know me. I’d be the one gripping your hair with one hand, and reaching down with the other, using my first and ring finger to spread your lips and pull up, exposing your clit so I could lightly tickle it with the fingernail of my middle finger, whispering about how messy you look, how wet you are, how I’d shove my fingers into your cunt except that it’s more fun to tease you, letting your g-spot ache, untouched.

Breath catching, body trembling as the fingers pull at her, teasing. Panting faster as she hears the whispers, feels the fingernail tickling. Whimpering softly as she shakes in pleasure at the touch, at the humiliation, in the need to feel the fingers in her, touching her aches. Her needs.

A sudden jerk on the rope attached to her cuffs, wrenching her shoulders and making her gasp and lean forward. There’s more than one chuckle in the room at that, and a woman’s voice murmurs something about getting that mouth down where it can be useful again. The fingers on her bare, smooth sex vanish as she’s slowly winched up into a strappado—and then, when she’s bent over far enough that her pussy pouts between her legs, they return. Or is it the same hand at all? This one likes to circle her clit and slide one thumb just inside her, teasing her slippery entrance but still not giving her the penetration she wants. Someone’s lacing fingers into her hair and tilting her head up, pushing her mouth down to be used properly, and the sounds coming out of her are nothing like a civilized language.

Gasping and trembling in pleasure and need, whimpering softly as her clit is circled but not touched, as she is teased but only barely penetrated, as she is lined up for perfect use, mouth down, opening hungrily, pussy on display to be taken, used, teased. Body pulsing in need, squealing in pleasure and as she is left dangling without anything entering her mouth, gasping and wiggles, tries to express her need coherently and fails.

The squeal muffled, then, as her face is lowered to nestle in the warm velvet of a wet pussy. Does it belong to another slave or a Mistress? Does it really matter? The slippery tang of arousal fills her mouth and nose, even as the thumb in her cunt pushes deeper, sliding up against her g-spot with a firm pressure but frustrating slowness. A wooden switch begins tracing up her flank to her left breast, a tacit threat. Someone chuckles, “what are you waiting for?”

Tongue slides along the wet pussy, tracing, exploring, nose inhaling the scent, trying to determine if belongs to someone known. Moaning loudly as the thumb pushes deeper, squeals and shakes as it slides against her g-spot. Tongue eagerly wiggling in the pussy in her face, curls around clit, sucking on it. Trembles as she feels something hard pressing against her breast. Tongue speeds up, while body wiggles against the hand, thumb, pressing against her.

Two fingers on her clit, finally, finally giving her the pressure she wants as she buries her cum-splattered face in that warm pussy. A few heartbeats of pure pleasure, a reward for her obedient tongue, and then—the sound hits her ears before the pain registers, a sharp snap and the glowing sting where the switch met her nipple. “That’s right,” chuckles the male voice behind her, “don’t get too close,” and she realizes that this is the plan: tease her, edge her, and use the stiff little whip to draw her back from it every time.

kittylexxi:

doctortease:

kittylexxi:

femsubdenial:

kittylexxi:

littlelisaten:

she’ll never even know who is looking at her and stroking her, unless she can identify the occasional giggle or laugh or whiff of cologne or perfume. she may know whose cum is dripping down her face and neck but she’ll never know who sees her as a cum covered and obedient slut.

Wish I could think coherently, all I can seem to do is tremble excitedly. The idea, the situation, everything about it …

Mmm… you’d know me. I’d be the one gripping your hair with one hand, and reaching down with the other, using my first and ring finger to spread your lips and pull up, exposing your clit so I could lightly tickle it with the fingernail of my middle finger, whispering about how messy you look, how wet you are, how I’d shove my fingers into your cunt except that it’s more fun to tease you, letting your g-spot ache, untouched.

Breath catching, body trembling as the fingers pull at her, teasing. Panting faster as she hears the whispers, feels the fingernail tickling. Whimpering softly as she shakes in pleasure at the touch, at the humiliation, in the need to feel the fingers in her, touching her aches. Her needs.

A sudden jerk on the rope attached to her cuffs, wrenching her shoulders and making her gasp and lean forward. There’s more than one chuckle in the room at that, and a woman’s voice murmurs something about getting that mouth down where it can be useful again. The fingers on her bare, smooth sex vanish as she’s slowly winched up into a strappado—and then, when she’s bent over far enough that her pussy pouts between her legs, they return. Or is it the same hand at all? This one likes to circle her clit and slide one thumb just inside her, teasing her slippery entrance but still not giving her the penetration she wants. Someone’s lacing fingers into her hair and tilting her head up, pushing her mouth down to be used properly, and the sounds coming out of her are nothing like a civilized language.

Gasping and trembling in pleasure and need, whimpering softly as her clit is circled but not touched, as she is teased but only barely penetrated, as she is lined up for perfect use, mouth down, opening hungrily, pussy on display to be taken, used, teased. Body pulsing in need, squealing in pleasure and as she is left dangling without anything entering her mouth, gasping and wiggles, tries to express her need coherently and fails.

The squeal muffled, then, as her face is lowered to nestle in the warm velvet of a wet pussy. Does it belong to another slave or a Mistress? Does it really matter? The slippery tang of arousal fills her mouth and nose, even as the thumb in her cunt pushes deeper, sliding up against her g-spot with a firm pressure but frustrating slowness. A wooden switch begins tracing up her flank to her left breast, a tacit threat. Someone chuckles, “what are you waiting for?”

kittylexxi:

femsubdenial:

kittylexxi:

littlelisaten:

she’ll never even know who is looking at her and stroking her, unless she can identify the occasional giggle or laugh or whiff of cologne or perfume. she may know whose cum is dripping down her face and neck but she’ll never know who sees her as a cum covered and obedient slut.

Wish I could think coherently, all I can seem to do is tremble excitedly. The idea, the situation, everything about it …

Mmm… you’d know me. I’d be the one gripping your hair with one hand, and reaching down with the other, using my first and ring finger to spread your lips and pull up, exposing your clit so I could lightly tickle it with the fingernail of my middle finger, whispering about how messy you look, how wet you are, how I’d shove my fingers into your cunt except that it’s more fun to tease you, letting your g-spot ache, untouched.

Breath catching, body trembling as the fingers pull at her, teasing. Panting faster as she hears the whispers, feels the fingernail tickling. Whimpering softly as she shakes in pleasure at the touch, at the humiliation, in the need to feel the fingers in her, touching her aches. Her needs.

A sudden jerk on the rope attached to her cuffs, wrenching her shoulders and making her gasp and lean forward. There’s more than one chuckle in the room at that, and a woman’s voice murmurs something about getting that mouth down where it can be useful again. The fingers on her bare, smooth sex vanish as she’s slowly winched up into a strappado–and then, when she’s bent over far enough that her pussy pouts between her legs, they return. Or is it the same hand at all? This one likes to circle her clit and slide one thumb just inside her, teasing her slippery entrance but still not giving her the penetration she wants. Someone’s lacing fingers into her hair and tilting her head up, pushing her mouth down to be used properly, and the sounds coming out of her are nothing like a civilized language.

dontcallitromance:

i read frequently on submissive blogs that they fantasize about being abducted. but how do you approach making that a reality? how do you put yourself in that situation, without feeling that the play is contrived, but also without putting yourself in danger? it’s possible, as the linked posts below attest to. there were many important factors that made it work. the two most important were of course the Dominant and the submissive. first and foremost, there was immutable trust in these two. why? because they had previously talked about what they wanted, discussed limits, and had safewords in place, as i discovered from interviewing a party involved. he knew the scenario she wanted, but gave no indication of what was to come. the Dom preplanned and prepared. he used stealth and misdirection. and during the scene, he was attentive, observant, and in control of the play, and of equal importance, of himself. the sub quickly realized what was happening, and the key here was that she realized she was in good hands, but she didn’t let that knowledge ruin the experience. she quickly knew that within the little world that he created for her, she was allowed to experience the excitement of fear. this will not work for everyone, because not everyone can do the things these two did. he…observant, patient, thoughtful. she…trusting, accepting, and willing to let go and live in that moment. enjoy.

part 1: http://thinkivykink.tumblr.com/post/23744023438

part 2: http://thinkivykink.tumblr.com/post/23746426322

part 3: http://thinkivykink.tumblr.com/post/23824509975

part 4: http://thinkivykink.tumblr.com/post/23985268337

part 5: http://thinkivykink.tumblr.com/post/23986082332

part 6: http://thinkivykink.tumblr.com/post/24006045543

part 7: http://thinkivykink.tumblr.com/post/24011744564

part 8: http://thinkivykink.tumblr.com/post/24066231345

part 9: http://thinkivykink.tumblr.com/post/24066685756

part 10: http://thinkivykink.tumblr.com/post/24068562306

Holy Christ.

completelysexual:

Please?

The point isn’t to give her pleasure, not exactly. The point is to make her come. Her body is bound like a package for efficiency and to keep her exposed. “Helpless” doesn’t begin to describe it. “Helpless” implies the possibility of help.

Each time the timer clicks over he walks into the cell with the tool and gets to work. She writhed at first, squirmed, resisted, but these particular bindings provide plenty of handles and leave her nowhere to go. Each time he hauls her back to the center of the bed, switches on the vibrator, and gets to work.

She’s lost count, now, lost track of why they’re doing this or whether there was any point in resistance. The timer clicks and he walks in and uses the tool on her aching hot wet place and she comes. Not just once, either. She comes and comes until her pussy cramps, until she’s wrung out and sobbing for breath, until every nerve is throbbing and raw and her brain is too thick to think.

Eventually he turns the tool off and cranks the timer back up. She sags in her bonds, eyes unfocused, panting. He walks out, and she waits for fifteen minutes to tick by again.

completelysexual:

Ugh. Can I?

What you can’t see from this angle, of course, is that her gag is fitted with a ring in the front. Those other two toys? They’re part of the rotation: each one in turn gets stuffed first into her cunt, then (after what seems like a very long time) pulled out and shoved in her mouth, and finally into her ass before being run through the wash and having its batteries replaced. She’s been tied up this way for hours, in an impossibly arched position, and the cycle of use keeps her so wet that she can feel it running down her belly to drip from her breasts.

And every time she hears the footsteps behind her, she arches up again, offering her aching holes, hoping just maybe that she’ll get something better than a toy…

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