Hmmm… showing a little more progress, but still far from convincing me. You wanted to start the game even knowing the potential consequences, didn’t you? And you like begging even when you don’t really mean it… don’t you? I’ll need three clear, specific reasons why you should be allowed to stop before I grant permission.
I’ve followed all the rules of your game sir, can we please stop playing now? I’m too sensitive…
StandardAs if this is any kind of an excuse! I’m afraid not, dear. We’ll follow up in two weeks to track your progress. In the meantime, remember, your doctor knows best.
A simple game for one player.
To play a round, masturbate to edge, using whatever media or tools you find appropriate. Hold your breath, and the edge, for ten seconds. Then take your hand away and flip a coin.
If it’s tails, you don’t get to come. If you wish, you may wait five minutes without touching yourself, then play another round.
If it’s heads, you do get to come. Get yourself off and say a silent thank you. Then take a permanent marker and draw a small tally mark somewhere private on your body–say, the inside of your thigh.
The next time you play a round of the game, you have to flip the coin one extra time for each mark you’ve made on yourself. If any of those coins are tails, see the “if it’s tails” result above. If all of them are heads, you do get to come… and add another mark.
Those of you who can do a little quick math have already realized that the odds of your being permitted climax will rapidly diminish. If and when you get desperate, there are two ways to reset the count. First: if you wait long enough that the marker washes off your skin, to the point where a given mark is actually no longer visible even if you’re looking for it, that mark no longer counts toward your total. Second: if you have sex that involves your being penetrated, you may draw a line through any one cluster of marks, and ignore them from then on.
There’s only one more rule to this game, and I’m afraid it puts the lie to earlier, when I told you it was for one player.
Once you’ve started playing, you aren’t allowed to quit until you ask.
So, uh. Did you know that when you’re an adult with disposable income, you can just BUY things?
Fuck every single one of you rape apologists. YES people are raped by their boyfriends. It happens all the fucking time. In fact you’re far more likely to be raped by your boyfriend or husband than some stranger on the street at night. YES sex workers are raped. The fact that our culture dehumanizes sex workers makes them more vulnerable to rape, and also to negative backlash if they speak out against it. Any rhetoric that sounds like “what did she expect” or “are you sure it was rape” is cruel and ignorant. You know rape when you feel it. You can’t fucking forget it. No means no. A safe word means stop, it means this is not safe. Silence and limp lifeless lack of response does not mean yes. It does not even mean maybe. Anyone who does not follow those rules is a rapist. Sex with out consent is rape. Regardless of the fucking details.
Guys, Stoya just basically put everything on the line here. I really admire her courage, and I know what’s ahead for her is going to suck like crazy.
It’s scary to me that people can hide behind pretending to be progressive and feminist, can use these labels as a disguise for some fucked up stuff. I’ve encountered two people in my kink experience that have wound up to be rapists masquerading as feminists, and it’s not only fucking terrifying, but it’s even harder for survivors’ experiences to be viewed as legitimate. It’s also profoundly fucked up that people, like Deen, use feminism as a tool to get victims to trust them.
So I stand with Stoya.
I stand with Stoya.
Take a piece of the leftover Halloween candy you’ve been saving–an M&M, a Skittle, or something else small with a hard shell. Pop it out of the package and put it between your back teeth. Start to bite down–no, that was too hard, you crushed it. Go ahead, chew and swallow, we’ll start over.
Try it again. Put the candy between your molars and hold it, hold it, bite down just a little and oh you broke it again. Fine. Just eat it. Are you trying to get in trouble? That’s for later. Just do as I say.
Okay. Last time. I’m going to put this in your mouth and push it all the way to the back with my warm thick fingers, and you’re going to hold it when I withdraw. Start to press down. There, like that. A little more. A little more, until you can feel the shell just start to crack and splinter–and stop. Hold. Good girl.
Right now, the thing in your mouth is still a piece of candy. It’s whole but it’s broken, intact but irreparably compromised. Opening your mouth any farther would destroy it; so would biting down, but for the moment, it’s holding together. You can find the new sharp edges of that little glossy smooth thing with your tongue. There. Do you feel them?
Because that
is what
I want
to do
to you.
The best and basically only perk of being a counselor was, of course, getting a private room, and Kelsey managed to make it almost four days into the summer before one of Julia’s campers barfed in her bed in the middle of the night. They weren’t going to make the poor kid sleep on a bare plastic mattress, so the camper got Julia’s room, and, well. Neither Julia nor Kelsey got a room to themselves tonight.
The consolation perk was a smuggled-in bottle of cheap, nasty rum. They hadn’t actually drunk much–just a couple of swigs each to try and relax after their 2 am sheet-change wake-up call. Kelsey could still taste it on her tongue, though, and while it had helped make things fuzzier, it had made her feel warmer all over too. The warmth did her no favors. These tiny cabins had no AC, and they hadn’t even bothered pulling the sheets up when they’d climbed into the little twin bunk. Her skin was damp; she could feel stray hairs sticking to her temples, her forehead, and see her bunkmate’s doing the same.
It occurred to her to wonder if Julia’s mouth tasted like rum too.
“Julia?” she whispered, barely more than a breath.
“Mmmm,” sighed the other girl. “Hey, ’m real sorry about this. I can sleep on the… floor or whatever, if you want…”
“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s fine,” said Kelsey, her voice still soft. “I just wanted to see if you were still awake.”
“Not f’ long,” said Julia, scrunching her head back down into the pillow. “Thanks for letting me crash, I appreciate it.” Her eyes were dipping shut again, her lips parting slightly as her breathing slowed and deepened. “Just sorry it’s too hot to…” Her voice trailed off.
Kelsey blinked. “To what?” No response. She bit her lip. They were both exhausted, but… “Hey. Jules. To what?” she whispered, leaning down toward the other girl’s ear.
“Hmmm?” Julia inhaled sharply, eyes opening and struggling to focus. “Kelsey? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah!” Kelsey bit her lip. “Jeez. Sorry. I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.” Selfish, she berated herself. It’s three in the damn morning! Let your friend rest!
“‘Kay,” said Julia, sinking back down again. “Kisses. Cuddles.”
God dammit.
Kelsey lay back on her half of the bed, staring at the dark ceiling, feeling much more awake than she had a few minutes ago. Julia almost definitely didn’t know what she was saying–just talking sweet nonsense as she drifted off to sleep. Unless. Unless she was… pretending? To give herself an out? Kelsey could imagine herself doing the same thing all too clearly.
Kelsey thought hard through a slightly rummy fog. If Julia were not actually asleep, and really did want to… kiss and cuddle, then touching her would be fine. If she were actually asleep again already, and Kelsey were very careful, she wouldn’t necessarily even know, which wasn’t really all that bad a thing. It might even give her some nice dreams. Right?
So just one hand, resting on her waist, thumb under the hem of her pajama top.
Julia didn’t stir. Emboldened, Kelsey let her palm brush back and forth a little: despite the summer night heat, goosebumps prickled on Julia’s soft skin, over her ribs and farther up toward her shoulder. The moonlight through the window caught the tiny, fine hairs on her skin, and Kelsey was entranced. So entranced that it was almost an accident when her next brush touched the bottom of Julia’s nipple.
Julia might have inhaled a little deeper; it might have been a trick of the light. It might have just been a stirring in her sleep. But Kelsey, breathing faster and faster, found herself with half of this pretty girl’s soft breast in her hand. She still wasn’t sure if Kelsey was doing all this just to be cuddled–though a nagging voice in the back of her head said she already knew–but she didn’t want to move her hand. Not yet. She just wanted to marvel at the fullness, the gentle movement of breath, the–the sort-of-accident of it. No apologizing and jerking her hand away. No waking sleepy Julia.
Julia pushed her hips back against Kelsey’s leg.
Kelsey forgot to breathe for a bit. Soft jersey cotton against her bare thigh, and the curve of Julia’s back with her tank top rucked up to the bottom of her ribs. Kelsey knew that posture, thighs clamped together and knees a little bent, toes vaguely pointed. She’d woken up like that herself before. Julia was having a nice dream after all.
Cautiously, Kelsey scooted closer, trying not to shift the mattress too much, and touched her nose to the hair at the back of Julia’s neck. She smelled good, like girl and pine trees and campfire smoke, and a hint of sweat and floral shampoo. Opening her hand, she began to brush her fingertips very, very lightly along the inside curve of Julia’s breast. It hadn’t been her idea to put the two of them in the same bed, she reasoned. So there wasn’t anything really wrong with this. People in bed ended up touching. That’s just how things happened.
Julia turned restlessly, and Kelsey felt a moment of panic at being caught, but she was just shifting in bed–and throwing her leg back to get one of Kelsey’s thighs between both of hers. The movement had put her nipple right between Kelsey’s fingers, too, and she was arching into it, stiff and trembling with tension. Kelsy brushed it lightly, so so lightly, while her other hand found itself very near Julia’s waist. If Julia was as deep a sleeper as she seemed to be, then she probably wouldn’t even notice.
Kelsey tried not to reflect on the sheer sketchiness of that thought, took a breath, and slipped her hand into Julia’s pants.
She’d never done this before. “Practiced” kissing other girls in her bedroom, play-fight wrestling that ended with someone pinned, glancing over each other in the locker room or skinny-dipping–that was all well and good. But this was… more. She could feel the curve and dip where Julia’s hip met her belly. Kelsey realized her hand was trembling. She reminded herself, once again, that Julia was not apparently conscious, not a partner, just someone she was treating like…
Little curly tuft in her fingers.
Julia’s breathing was still deep and even, but not so slow anymore. Her little pink tongue touched her lips, and she swallowed, and Kelsey was holding her breast gently with one hand, holding the swell of her sex in the other. A little lightning bolt shot through her when she realized that. She was actually doing this. She was actually exploring with her fingers, finding the part of Julia’s lips and hesitantly opening them. Opening her.
Very warm, and very damp–no, not damp. Slick. Wet. Julia’s tongue flickered again, forming a few silent words, while Kelsey felt like she hadn’t let out her breath for a solid five minutes. Julia was starting to press her hips back again, keeping Kelsey’s thigh against her, as if she wanted Kelsey to trap her pelvis there, to give her room to squirm and buck. Kelsey did.
She’d started out barely daring to touch Julia’s skin, thinking the pressure would wake her, but she seemed to have only fallen more deeply into… whatever this was. She cradled her friend against herself, not caring now how warm their bodies were against each other, and nervously caught Julia’s nipple against her thumb. Roll and push and tug. It was stiffer than before, if anything, and responsive, yearning for pressure.
Then, very quietly, Julia mumbled one word Kelsey could actually make out. It was “Daddy.”
It dizzied her. Kelsey didn’t know what to think, what to do. How much of this was Julia aware of? How much would she remember? Who did she think–did she have someone who–what if.
What if she was Daddy, then? Just for one night?
The thought was a fucking rush, a flood of heat and need and desire from her spine down to the bottom of her belly. She wasn’t older or bigger than Julia–an inch shorter, in fact. But the thought of being some kind of authority figure to her, taking control. Taking care. Holding her, just like this. The breath she’d been holding rushed out of her, and she pressed the base of her hand against Julia’s pussy, feeling how it made her whimper and grind.
“Yeah,” she whispered, so soft she could barely hear it herself. “Daddy’s here.”
Julia was trying to hump her hand, trying to hump her leg: wherever her mind was, there was no more doubt about what her body wanted. Kelsey instinctively wanted to hold those wriggling hips still against herself, to make Julia struggle. (It was, she thought, what she’d want if their positions were reversed.) So she did, and Julia’s next breath was a quiet little whine. Her whole body rolled back and up, trying to get pressure up against herself, and when Kelsey shifted her hand she found Julia’s swelling, slippery clit between her fingers.
She was fucking a girl. She was fucking a girl at summer camp. The thought made a nervous, silent laugh twitch in her throat. People joked about the counselors sneaking off to the woods to get high and screw around, but here she was in her own cabin, with her friend jerking around like a fish on the dock, caught in her shaking hands.
“Daddy,” Julia mumbled, “please,” and Kelsey discovered that you can push your thumb inside someone and still rub their clit if you have short fingers. Her other hand moved reluctantly away from Julia’s breast to her mouth, and Julia seized on her fingers hungrily, suckling and letting out little sounds halfway between need and contentment.
The only problem with this setup was that Kelsey’s own clit was starting to send her stern messages about how flagrantly it was being neglected. Julia’s insistent butt had helped with a little grinding action earlier, but as she started to pull in on herself, hands clenching, belly tightening, Kelsey was left out in the cold–well, out in the heat and damp, but still. She couldn’t bear to pull her hands out of either end of Julia long enough to shove one down her pajama shorts.
But she could take a second, just a quick second, to leave Julia’s hungry mouth and fumble around behind her on the desk next to the bed. She wasn’t even sure what she was trying to find. Just something she could hold between her legs, between the two of them, anything that would fit right and give her a shape to–there.
Kelsey’s fingers found the textured surface of the extra-large Maglite her dad had given her to “find your way to the outhouse and fight bears on the way.” Definitely not what it had been intended for, but it would do. She fumbled it down to their tangled legs, trying not to smack either of them with it, and managed to get the shaft wedged against herself, braced against Julia’s hindquarters. The next time Kelsey squeezed Julia’s clit, the next time Julia squirmed, it pressed itself hard against Kelsey’s pussy, rigid through the sopping fabric of her underwear.
Fuck. Yes. Julia felt it too, and let out an inarticulate little noise before Kelsey pushed her fingers back in her mouth. Then they were riding each other: grind and squeeze and gasp and pulse, cicadas outside drowning the creak of the mattress, wet and breathless in the stuffy summer night.
Julia was getting close. Kelsey could feel it. Her belly was tensing and shuddering and her breathing had long since abandoned the slow rhythm of sleep; she was a hitching, heedless mess, and Kelsey wanted to find out what happened next. She used her hand to turn Julia’s face toward her, and it wasn’t a total shock when they made eye contact, but it sent a jolt through her all the same.
Julia’s eyes were glazed, unfocused, dilated with sleepy desire. Kelsey didn’t know how much she was seeing now, or how much she’d remember later. She just knew she was about to get off just humping her makeshift sex toy, and if she was that far gone, Julia had to be much, much farther.
It took them both by surprise, though. Julia suddenly jerked, with a sharp, half-choked breath, and Kelsey felt her tighten and convulse around her slippery thumb. The little mewling sounds coming out of her throat made her throb herself, and she kept riding the metal shaft between her legs as Julia shook and clenched and slowly sagged back onto the sweaty bed. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them over and over, and Kelsey pulled her fingers out of her mouth, letting her gulp down deep breaths as her legs quaked with aftershocks.
“Oh fuck,” Julia said, finally, coming to herself. “Oh my god. Did I just… have a…” She hesitated. “A dream?”
Kelsey bit her lip. “I don’t know, princess.”
If the pet name was strange to her, Julia didn’t seem to notice. “I. Uh.” She shifted a little, and discovered the way their legs were positioned–and the flashlight pressing against her. “… Fuck. Wait.” She turned to stare at Kelsey’s face through the thick and heavy atmosphere in the room. “Did I call you…?”
Kelsey nodded.
It was hard to see, but Julia’s face seemed to flush bright red. “Oh Jesus.” She turned over, but didn’t pull away–just far enough to look the two of them over, and the mess they’d made of the sheets. She took a deep breath. “Can I call you…?”
“Do you trust me to take care of you?” said Kelsey, feeling the strange but gratifying new name thrill through her.
Julia swallowed and nodded, just a little movement in the dark.
“And are you going to take care of me back?” Kelsey grinned, wiggling, letting the flashlight bump her mischievously.
Julia caught her breath and nodded again.
“It only makes sense, then.” Kelsey smoothed the hair back from Julia’s damp forehead, then pressed her nose and lips to it. “I do have to say, though–if I’m going to be a father figure to you, I’m not sure I approve of your drinking.”
Julia squirmed and ducked her head. “Drinking?” she said in a small voice. “Drinking what?”
“Open your mouth for a second,” said Kelsey, pulling her close again, “and let me find out.”
They made her sit there and shake while they dragged the steel tub into her cell and filled it, a simple garden hose and its stream of cold water, little drops landing on her knees when it splashed. She was rope-bound, of course; she was always bound these days, both for easier handling and because they’d discovered it aroused her. One of them lightly rubbed the knot at her pussy back and forth as the water level slowly, slowly rose. Her pulse refused to climb back down out of her throat. She was very, very afraid, and very, very humiliated that the hose wasn’t the only thing in the room that was gushing.
“I can only hope,” said her doctor, when the tub was about half full, “that our subject understands the reason behind this disciplinary action.”
She looked up at him frantically and dipped her nose down three times, the silent way she’d been taught to ask for permission to speak.
“Granted,” he said.
“P-please, I promise, I wasn’t breaking the rules of my treatment plan,” she said quickly. “I know that it’s important for my own welfare not to viol–to violate the–”
“The evidence speaks for itself,” he said, bending down to rub the wet spot on her sheets between his fingertips, then inspecting them. “You were observed to take restricted actions during lights out, and the recording suggests strongly that you achieved orgasm by means of that action.”
“I didn’t–I’m sure I didn’t–it was a dream!” she said. “I didn’t even know it was happening! I only woke up when you–when the orderly entered my cell and, and began inspection.” She couldn’t tell if she was pale with fear or flushed with embarrassment.
“Do you know what the medical standard for measuring pain tolerance is, Anya?” said the doctor. “Cold water. One simply times the seconds for which a patient can hold their hand and forearm submerged. It’s simple, consistent, and harmless.” He rinsed his fingers in the tub, which was rapidly filling to the top now, and wiped them on her chest.
“It wasn’t my fault!” she said, voice rising to a hysterical little-girl cry.
“That’s not important,” he said gently. “Your body took actions that are contrary to the goals of your treatment. Whether you intended those actions is irrelevant. We will now reinforce, to your body, that humping the corner of your bed as a form of masturbation leads to negative consequences. You will internalize the induction of pain and the restriction of oxygen, and next time, your eager little clitoris will hesitate before it drags the rest of you down to its level.” He nodded to the orderlies.
One of them took the rope that ran down the front of her body and back behind her, tying it to the bar of her cell so that her head wouldn’t hit the bottom of the tub. The other slipped his arms under her shoulders and lifted her, tilted her forward, and let go.
They could all see the air burst from her lungs just after she broke the chilly surface; they watched, the doctor scribbling a couple of notes, as she thrashed in panic, hair drifting wild around her head. “Someone got their watch on?” he asked. “I’d say give her another thirty seconds. Just for the first dip.”
“How many rounds today, do you think?” asked the first orderly, pressing one heavy knee to the back of her pelvis so that he could continue the inspection of her genital response to new stimulus.
“Oh, until we get paged for something else,” the doctor shrugged. “It shouldn’t be long, really. But from what I’ve seen, I think she’ll be good to the last drop.”
(You might also enjoy my water tag, or–for a crueler take on this–one of the chapters of my Literotica story, “Enhanced Interrogation.”)
Honestly I really wish there was something that could (for awhile) make me physically unable to cum without permission. Anything so that I could stay right on the edge, trying as hard as can but I can’t get over. Reduced to a writhing, desperate, begging slut who’d do anything you wanted, but you still say no.
What an interesting idea.
Jewel
She’d been a little nervous, at the clinic, as they lifted up the silly little gown and rubbed the topical anesthetic onto her. He’d held her hand, and winked at her, reminding her of the time they’d tried playing with numbing gel to desensitize her. (It hadn’t worked, of course; she just got too excited, too sensitive inside, and came anyway. Hair-trigger girl, she scolded herself.)
But her anxiousness was unfounded: she didn’t feel a thing as they did the installation, and it only took a few minutes. The crystal pattern they’d picked out together was a little extra, but he’d been more than happy to pay for it. “I like that you’ll be able to see it when you look down, just a little,” he said, holding the mirror for her as she gently traced her finger around the edges, watching it glitter as she breathed. “I like knowing that you’ll remember, even if the implant’s turned off.”
“And how often are you going to turn it off?” she smirked.
It turned out the answer was “never.”
It drove her fucking crazy. As soon as it became clear she wasn’t allowed to come, wasn’t ABLE to come, it was all she could think about. She thought about it at work, in the car, at her book club, at dinner. Her friends started teasing her about her attention span because of how often she got caught staring off at nothing, lips slightly parted, lost in embarrassing thought. The whole situation kept her so wet that she had to start carrying a spare pair of panties in her bag–then two pairs. When she opened it at the end of the day, she could smell her own need, and she usually had to shove a hand up her skirt and edge right then and there.
That only made it worse, of course. She’d known the implant would let her edge but not go over, but she hadn’t known, really known how high and keen that edge could be. It was a ragged knife inside her, a clamp on her brainstem, a drug that hooked her on her own cunt. He didn’t even need to get out her vibrator–though he still did anyway, sometimes. Just his cock or his fingers inside her were enough to send a spike of desperation all the way up her spine, and there was absolutely, positively no answer to her screamed or whimpered prayers.
“So,” he said softly in her ear, spent and satisfied as she lay there, breathing, lost in the throb of her own constant need. “Four weeks since the appointment. This is when we were going to decide whether to keep it, right?”
“Uh huh,” she managed, as if she’d had any idea. Had it been a day already? Had it not been a year?
He traced one finger from her mouth down her throat, over her arching belly, to brush the sparkling glow between her legs. Her body was immediately ready, deep ache wrapped around sharp pleasure. “What’s it like to be a hair-trigger girl,” he asked, “when the safety’s on?”
“Dangerous,” she whispered, and let him pin her into place again.
Party Animal
“Okay,” Peyton said, biting her lip, “dare.”
Two of her friends glanced at each other; the third took a swig from the filched bottle of sickly-sweet coconut rum. “You going to get it out or not?”
Peyton looked back and forth, a little giddy from her own pass at the rum, from nerves and excitement and flirty energy. “Get WHAT out?” she teased. “I’m not going down on anyone for a dare, you guys–”
The friend she had a crush on held up one hand. There was a black rubber collar in it, with a little blinking box attached.
“Dare you to try it on.”
“Oh my god,” Peyton laughed. “Is that one of those things your dad uses to train dogs? You are such a perv!”
“Dare stands,” said her friend, head cocked. “I mean, unless you’re going to puss out.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, I bet it doesn’t even work. Or doesn’t hurt if it does.” She tried putting it around her neck, then had to hold her hair out of the way while someone else helped get the buckle done. There was a satisfying little click when it worked, and then she could feel the light pressure against the sides and back of her neck, cold little nubs of metal warming to her skin. “Tada!” she said. “Okay, my turn, right? UmmOW!”
Her friends were staring at her, a little startled. “Holy shit,” said one of them, “it works.”
“YEAH it fucking works!” a little laugh came bursting out of her, significantly more nervous than it had been before, though the excitement was oddly lingering. “Jesus! I am so making one of you try this on next.” She tugged at it, trying to find the complicated buckle, but as soon as only one of the metal contacts was touching her, the second delivered a warning buzz that made her almost lose feeling in both hands. “Ahh! Shit!”
“You can’t take it off once it’s on unless the remote is unlocked,” said the other friend she had a crush on. “I read in the manual.”
“You read in the–” Peyton stared. “Um, did you guys like, plan this?”
“Truth or dare, Peyton,” was the only answer she got.
“It’s my turn! I get to” SNAP. She yelped again, clenching her fists, drawing her knees up in a protective curl that of course would not protect her. But still the helpless giggle came bursting out of her, even though part of her was starting to think this was very, very bad. “FUCK! Okay, okay, truth!”
The friend she had a crush on–the pretty one, with dark eyes and long lashes, and sun freckles on that bitten lip–said “You really have to put a better password on your laptop.”
Peyton’s heart jerked sideways. “My what?”
“Truth. Peyton. Do you like to watch videos of girls getting hurt?”
She was caught, breath coming fast for so many complicated reasons. “I don’t–why were you–that’s NOT cool to–”
A warning thumb rested on the remote button.
She was so fucking embarrassed. “Okay! Yes! I mean. Sometimes.” She took a deep breath. “Can I have some more rum now?”
“Yeah,” said her third friend, the one she’d sometimes been a little scared of, the one who had been in her dream last week. “But you gotta come over here and sit between us first.”
She stood, unsteadily. Two steps across the room, the next shock came, and dropped her to her knees.
“Oh my god,” she was panting, still laughing a little, on the verge of hiccups. “Oh fuck.”
One of them stood up, leaned down, and took her collar in two fingers. Peyton found herself stumbling forward on her hands and knees, being led like a reluctant puppy, and feeling–weirdly–comforted when that warm hand brushed her neck.
They put her in the middle of the couch, sprawling kind of sideways, one of them pulling her hips back so that her legs fell a little open while the other kept that grip on her collar and pulled her head in close to rest. “Truth or dare.”
“Truth again,” said Peyton, as they lifted the bottle to her lips and let her drink.
“Truth. Are you turned on right now?”
She bit her lip, met her crush-friend’s eyes, wouldn’t answer. SNAP.
This time, when the shock came, she let her hips roll and her back arch a little, and the noise that came out of her was some kind of gigglegaspmoan.
There was a hand on her thigh, then a hand at the top of her leg. There was a hand working its way up her shorts. Peyton closed her eyes and bit her lip and let it ride the soft, fuzzy skin to the dip where the tendon of her leg stood out against the swell of herself, then edge cautiously underneath the edge of her underwear.
“Rules clarification,” said someone. “If she tells the truth but doesn’t use her mouth, does that mean she’s cheating?”
“It means I win,” she said, grinning, and braced herself to get what she deserved.
Is Nike sponsoring your blog now, questing-koritsi?
Sick Day, Part Three
She tried to push the panties out of her mouth to answer him, but he reached forward to push them back in, grabbing her chin and pulling back to make her arch. Then he touched the buzzing vibrator to the side of the thermometer, just above where it was pushed inside her.
She couldn’t control herself at that sensation, bucking and jerking as he held her tight to keep her from wriggling away. Her hands scrabbled at the sheets. Muffled sounds of outrage escaped her; it wasn’t painful, but not exactly pleasant either. It was sure as hell stimulating.
Then she felt him release her chin, reach back, and undo his belt.
She stilled, even as he continued to toy with the vibrator: the learned response to the slithering sound of leather through loops overrode her urge to squirm. He doubled it and let it brush slowly across her lower back, then the tops of her thighs, the places she knew he could make it hurt worse if he wanted to. Then he gave her one sharp snap on her left cheek.
She bit down on the sodden wad of fabric in her mouth and slowly exhaled, a little helpless mewl, but he didn’t spank her again. He just took her wrists, one by one, and crossed them on her back once more. Then he let the dangling end of the belt tap her on the shoulder.
She lifted her head. He tucked the belt under her, around her throat, and looped it through the buckle. He wrapped it around his fist, and she slid back on her elbows, presenting herself. Slick and swollen, dark pink, ready.
The angle of it made her gasp, when he pushed inside. It wasn’t the first time he’d fucked her while teasing her ass, but it was definitely the first time he’d fucked her from behind with a glass rod buried inside her while obstructing her breathing with her own underwear and a convenient choke-leash. When he sat back on his heels, pulling her hips into him, and pressed the vibrator up against the top of her slit, she more or less lost the ability to think.
It was a nice position for him; he could make her fuck back against him by tugging the belt, and adjust her vertically to his preference via upward pressure on the vibe. The way this combination made her strain and struggle, gasping and trying to find her balance, was all that kept her from coming. She wanted him deep, wanted him to just plunge all the way into her, but he liked to keep it shallow sometimes: the head of his cock popping just in and out of her lips, teasing her needy cunt.
“Do you feel,” he panted, “any better?” But her only answer was a stuttered groan.
He made her come first. She could feel herself clenching tight around the thermometer. Distantly, she wondered if he was watching, if he could see it moving with each involuntary contraction–not that it would have been easy, given the way the rest of her was thrashing around. Just as she was coming down, he pulled out the glass plug and his cock, flipped her over on her back with one scoop of his arm, and jacked off onto her belly and chest.
Feeling his warmth spatter on her skin gave her a startling aftershock; she did spit out her gag, finally, chest heaving for air as the rush went through her and she collapsed out of her orgasmic arch.
He flopped down next to her, eyes barely open, grin very self-satisfied. “Are we sorry?”
“Yeah,” she said, after a couple of tries.
“Are we well?”
“Yeah.”
His hand was between her legs again, lightly testing the feel of her closed lips with all his fingers. She shivered; usually she was capable of revving right back up afterwards, but then usually she didn’t come quite that hard. He dipped a finger into her and then out, wetly slipping over her clit, which–well. Huh. Apparently she was ready to rev back up after all.
“I’m going to ask you to take over on this for me in a moment,” he murmured, “while I go get the laptop. And then, to make sure today’s lesson sticks, you’re going to walk me through every tab you have open. Every post you liked. Every line of conversation that made you this wet.”
“Now?” she said, startled.
“I took the afternoon off to take care of you,” he said, with that smug and sleepy smile. “And I intend to. As many times as necessary.”
She bit her lip. “Um. Okay.”
“That’s right, okay.”
“Some of it might just be… a little… weird to you,” she admitted.
“I certainly hope so,” he laughed, and kissed her temple. “My little sicko.”
Sick Day, Part Two
She didn’t even know what that meant, but she was shivering a little as he took her wrist and pulled her to her feet. Guilt, her old companion. Shame and embarrassment and feeling very small. She had been Bad. She was In Trouble.
(And yet, deep down, the little secret core of her was warm and safe and unafraid, the way only he could make her feel.)
In the bedroom, he tapped the footboard with his open hand. “Belly down, please.” She squirmed up onto it and felt him tug her t-shirt up, her panties down. She didn’t even realize she’d automatically parted her thighs until she felt him having to tug harder to get them past her knees. She could hear his little chuckle at that.
He crossed her wrists behind her back, his grip reminding her–as always–that he could easily twist them to control her if she wriggled. He touched the back of her neck, and she could feel the heat under her skin as he brushed away a stray curl. Then the bed creaked as he climbed off and left her lying there.
She lifted her chin and tried to peer back out of the corner of her eye to guess where he’d gone, but she didn’t quite dare turn around. She could almost feel his hands still on her wrists. He returned quickly, anyway, holding something she couldn’t quite make out…
“When a girl can’t be trusted to confess her symptoms honestly,” he said, “it becomes suspect whether she can be trusted to even take her own temperature. Do you know how one checks for a fever in subjects who can’t be trusted to keep their hands where they belong?”
… Wait. He wasn’t really going to–
She heard a drawer slide open and shut, and the tiny click of a plastic bottle opening. Next to her face, burning scarlet against the bedspread, she saw the little plastic tab of a disposable sterile wrapper flutter down.
Then he started pushing the thermometer into her ass.
She squealed. There was no other word for it, and she certainly didn’t feel articulate enough to express herself with words at the startling, slender penetration. He’d lubricated it–which, a detached part of her thought, probably interfered with its actual function–and it didn’t hurt, not exactly. It just felt…
Well, it felt fucking humiliating, and pretty hot.
“Now, we’re going to have to leave it there for a moment to make sure it’s got a good read,” he said, and she could hear the fucking grin in his words. She took a deep breath to tell him exactly what she thought about this disproportionate response, but just as she did, he fucking moved it. Twisted it. Made her indrawn breath burst out of her in another little squeak and made her body react, helplessly, trying to wriggle away or aside or… something. She and her body never could reason with each other.
He had his hand at the base of her neck again, tangling in her hair, pulling back and up to make her arch. Her mouth dropped open, and that was when he stuffed her damn traitorous underwear between her teeth.
She could still feel her own cooling wetness there, and taste the evidence of her lazy, blissful, disobedient morning. She’d been so relaxed and confident that she had all day that she hadn’t bothered to get herself off the whole time. If only she’d fucking known…
“Three infractions. Is that what I said, girl?” he asked, leaning in close to her ear. She had to nod, still blushing so hard her cheeks had gone past red and into white. “So. Three demerits. One in your ass. One in your mouth. I have a couple ideas for the last one. Where do you think it should go?”
She heard him pick up the vibrator he’d taken from the closet drawer. And she heard him unzip.
Sick Day, Part One
She jumped a little when she heard his key in the lock, yanking her hand out of her panties and leaning forward to click the tabs closed as quickly and quietly as she could. It hadn’t been that long already, had it? She checked the clock–12:30. No, he must have just come home for lunch. Since when did he come home for lunch? She grabbed the quilt off the back of the couch, pulled it over herself, and tried to look tired.
“Still asleep?” he called softly from the entryway, but before she answered he was rounding the corner from the entryway and smiling when he saw her face. She offered a little wan smile of her own and stretched out her arm. “I was trying to nap on the couch,” she improvised, “but I wasn’t sleepy enough. You didn’t have to come home!”
“What, and leave you to suffer through a sick day all alone?” He walked over and squeezed her hand, just as she glanced down at the computer screen and noticed that–oh shit–she’d forgotten she had a window minimized. A window she’d intended to come back to. With evidence that would definitely, definitely give her away.
He kissed the part in her hair and touched her forehead. “Hmm, you do still feel a little feverish,” he murmured, and looked carefully at her face. “And flushed. But you’re damp, too.” She tried to control her reaction to that word as he brushed his thumb over her cheeks and temples. “See? So maybe your fever is breaking.”
“Yeah, I feel a little better,” she managed, trying to keep her eyes off the incriminating laptop screen. Why hadn’t she just shut it? Dumb!
“Did you take an Advil already?” He said. “I can fix you something to eat. Comfort food. Peanut butter and banana sandwich, maybe.” He smiled again, and she nodded, attempting to express frailty, innocence, affection and exhaustion at the same time. When he went in the kitchen she could close the window and be home free. Any second now.
But when he got up, he reached down and picked up the laptop, and she swallowed a sound of startled protest.
“No wonder you couldn’t sleep, if you were staring at a screen,” he chuckled. “Checking your email, huh? I know it’s hard to control that impulse.” He started to lean down and set it on the coffee table. She held her breath. “Hmm.” He paused; she bit her lip. “And… checking tumblr too, I see.”
FUCK. How did he always know what she was trying to hide? “Oh, is that still open?” she mumbled. “I must have forgotten…”
“Still open and still quite active,” he said dryly. “As is this chat room, I see. And a couple of your favorite stories.” He turned back, his mouth quirked, a tiny glint of dangerous amusement dancing in his eyes. “Well. So not feeling too sick to play after all, are we?”
She couldn’t meet his gaze.
“So now I begin to understand your flush,” he said thoughtfully. “And the dampness of your brow. And elsewhere…?” He gathered her blanket and pulled it down her body; embarrassed, she drew herself up into a little ball, but his strong, cool fingers pulled her legs down and open, exposing the evidence of her morning activities. “Yes. I see.”
“I was just–” she started to protest, but couldn’t actually think of what she wanted to follow that up with. “Trying to doze off?”
“Mm hmm. I count at least three infractions. First: shirking, taking a sick day when in fact I don’t think you were ever feeling sick at all.” He watched for a sign of protest; everything she thought of to say sounded so weak and transparent, and the blush was creeping up her ears to her hairline. “Second: playing with yourself without permission. Third: lying to me about both of the above. Am I wrong?”
Pulse pounding, throat tight, she said “I really did feel bad. This morning. I wasn’t lying.”
“But you’re better now, yes? And you lied about it after the fact, which renders that irrelevant.” He stood, pulling off his blazer, unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeves. “I think, young lady, that we’re going to have to establish how you feel in a more concrete manner…”
Oh hello there.
Thanks to a generous couple of links by the amazing pleasuretorture, I seem to have picked up… kind of a lot of new followers. Hi. I’m DT, a straightish cis man in my 30s. I started out writing porn on Literotica and still do sometimes. I don’t have any set schedule here, and I only post when I have time, inspiration and opportunity, which is honestly not often.
All the same, I appreciate that people read and enjoy these things, and I’m always curious about my readers. If you follow me, I’ll probably try to click through and learn a little about who you are, when I have the chance. (No guarantees; I’ve been trying to do that for a while, and I can’t always keep up.) I mostly only follow other porn blogs back, and only those with low to medium post volume–there are some blogs I admire but don’t follow, because they would swamp my dash.
My tumblr consists of adult material and the occasional personal aside. Sometimes I write about softer stuff, like the Daddy/little stories. Other times I include themes of fear, manipulation, training, mechanical implacability, and–as may be obvious from my username–clinical settings and orgasm control. Regardless, my posts should be assumed to carry a content warning for potential sexual violence, nonconsent and dubious-consent fantasy, general creepiness, and the male gaze.
I personally find the misogyny and rape culture of the world we live in real and awful, and try to do what I can to work against them. I think it’s pretty well settled that this is not incompatible with any of the above, but if you catch me falling into any of the tiresome patterns of thought the patriarchy has tried to ingrain in me, I appreciate being called out. My askbox is always open.
Time and attention are all we really have to give each other; thank you for spending a little of yours on me. I promise I’ll try to make it worth your while.
Good to know. And don’t worry! At the Institute, we know just what to do with those who have trouble admitting things.
You and I are friends. It’s not appropriate to be thinking of you the way I’m thinking of you right now. It’s not my place to wonder whether you stayed up too late, and what I could do about that, if I were there. I shouldn’t be coming up with ideas for how to give you a bedtime, and be firm in its enforcement.
I shouldn’t imagine how you’d wriggle and squirm as I told you this was for your own good. Let’s not go into how I’d check you over and watch you toss your head, trying to blow your hair out of your face. No need to go into my hand on your lower back, settling you, feeling you gradually relax and yield. My thumb against your throat. Holding you between your legs. Little movements until you whimpered and arched and stilled and came. The stroke on your cheek as the tension went out of you, and your eyes began to flutter shut.
I shouldn’t let my mind wander like this. I might lose it.
Behavior correction case file #10011A. Subject was followed, observed and recorded by a specialty team for two weeks before intake, in order to establish an unbiased diagnosis. Subject’s attractiveness is not in question, and indeed monitoring her habits while alone and when consuming pornography indicate no significant problem with nudity in concept or practice. The operative part of her stated problem is indeed a fear of exposure. We will therefore begin with exposure therapy.
Subject will of course be stripped upon intake, and will remain unclothed for the duration of her stay. She will also be blindfolded, and both her vision and her movement will continue to be constrained during each session with her treatment team. Said team will inform and remind her that they were assigned to watch her at all times during the assessment period, through every private moment, and that there is nothing left for her to hide from them. They will reinforce this message with touch therapy and manual stimulus. Subject’s physical arousal will be taken to edge steady-state and held there for the duration of each session; data on the subject so far indicates that such a state will depress her overactive executive function and generally augment the effectiveness of treatment. Only at the conclusion of each session, during an extended orgasm, will the subject’s blindfold be removed long enough for her to be forced to watch herself–exposed and observed at a moment traditionally granted only in intimate settings.
Over time we believe the subject will not merely grow used to nudity, which would be simple to accomplish but also miss the deeper issue. In addition, she will acquire a conditioned arousal response to all feelings of exposure or humiliation that bypasses her hesitation and doubt entirely. Such a response should not only alleviate any sexual performance issues she had experienced in the past, but will make her a valuable addition to the therapy objects stored in Annex G2. This treatment plan gives us, at least, a great deal of confidence.