Hours of this.
Amen.
“Sorry hon!” said the text message. “Stuck in traffic! Be back with the replacement keys any minute. Hang on tight! DEFINITELY home by morning!!”
They wanted her to see the hook: Annika had figured that out pretty early. It hung directly above the table and its stirrups, attached to a chain wound up around a heavy-duty winch. It looked like it could pull a car out of a lake. And it was positioned directly above her wide-spread thighs.
They had a whole medical theme here; the current vogue in oppression was the idea that dissidents were “sick,” and needed treatment to become proper citizens. It was just a veneer on the same brutality the regime had always longed to inflict. Annika had been passing information for two years now, and knew the risks, but of course she had thought she was invulnerable. Then someone had ratted her out.
Staring at the winch, stripped, shivering and strapped down tight, she tried to convince herself she’d never do the same, never turn on any of her friends.
Not that she’d have much opportunity if they kept the gag in place.
“Good afternoon, Annika,” said the monster when he walked in, lab-coated, pleasantly flipping through a chart. “You can call me Doctor. I see we’ve got a little issue with your political loyalties! Not to worry, we get cases like yours all the time. We’ll get you patched right up.”
She rolled her eyes at him, not that she could do much else. The body straps were tight enough that even breathing was an effort, and she’d already tired herself out testing the others. They clearly had experience here with immobilizing girls.
“Let me give you a little run-down of our standard treatment plan,” he said affably, pulling a rolling stool up to the head of the table and perching on it as he tugged on a latex glove. “Right now all areas of your body with lots of nerve endings–areas you instinctively try to protect–are exposed to me.” He pulled her lips back from her teeth and probed under her tongue; Annika trembled with the humiliation of it, as if she were a sick animal. “I’m going to work on those areas–stimulate them, provoke response. Meanwhile I’m going to hook up some sensors to your wrists, throat, underarms and heart. They’ll let me watch your body’s response in real time.”
Annika stared at him. This was their pretense? This was how they tried to justify imprisonment and torture? He wasn’t giving the faintest excuse about “curing” her at all.
He caught her eye and smiled. “That’s just the diagnosis stage–and it will take a little while. But it will let us identify exactly where in your body this subversive sickness resides.” He leaned in closely. “I have a hunch–just a hunch–that it’s either here…” He tapped her nipples casually, making her flinch. “Or here.” This time he patted her pussy in a horribly familiar way.
“And once we have found it for certain, our real work begins.” He turned to the wall and flipped on a large monitor. To Annika’s horror, it was a video of her former contact Liliya, dangling from that awful hook in a cruel hogtie as this man forced his slippery, gloved hand inside her, while the other pressed a buzzing steel-pronged tool of some kind against her clit.
“Annika!” Liliya was squealing, jerking desperately in her bonds. “Her name is Annika, she lives at 2240 Gerstin, that’s all I know! PLEASE!”
“That’s how we know the treatment has begun to take hold,” said the monster brightly, turning it off again. “Well, Annika. Why don’t we get started making you better?”
You can’t say you have a rape fetish and then say you don’t condone rapists you fucking idiot. BDSM is degrading to women you sick cunt
StandardAssuming women always take up a submissive role is sexist.
Assuming all participants in BDSM are straight is heterosexist.
Assuming all participants subscribe to the gender binary is transmisogynist.
Calling someone a “sick cunt” for expressing their sexuality is perpetuating misogyny.
Queer people disregarded oppressive gender roles and were the first to openly embrace BDSM communities. Cishet people appropriated it and started using it as an excuse to objectify women. Don’t blame us for cishet people tripping like they always have.
Wonderful response. Wonderful.
I’m just gonna bring this back for a hot second. Refresh your memories, perhaps.
Ugh, I can’t stand girls with fake books.
I had a weird thought tonight that I’m trying to work out. It’s like this: I’m not a sadist, not really. I like control during sex, both self-control and control of you, but I don’t have the instinctive, immediate urge to express that through pain. When I do try it, I am usually overcome with concern that I’m doing it wrong, or overdoing it, or will cause actual injury due to inexperience or misjudgment.
Yet I like to watch women being hurt, in certain ways, to some degree. It gets me off. I’ve always tried to reconcile that as “some things are just more fun in imagination,” which is true, but isn’t quite it.
My current hypothesis is that part of my brain wants the fantasy, the novelty, the variety of the tumblr pornstream of faces and bodies.
And another part, almost as strongly, wants to punish them for not being you.
Stretch marks?
You mean sick ass lightning tattoos
“It’s a lovely little thing,” he murmurs in your ear as you rest yourself on his thigh, squirming a little. “Warm to the touch, and yielding. Find it for me.”
Shyly at first, then with some enthusiasm, you reach down into the pretty sparkly band of fabric and brush your fingers over yourself: smooth where he shaved you, velvet-soft where you can feel the beginnings of just a little swell.
“Don’t be shy,” he grins, and then both his hands are there, pressing to rock you back against him and pull you up a little bit under his fingertips. He doesn’t go underneath the panties, not quite, but the pressure is perfectly clear. You inhale.
“There. Try it like that. Like Daddy showed you.” You follow his movement, hand on the outside and pressing against your mound, then deeper under to rub the seam against your clit. It’s nothing you haven’t done before, not exactly, but it’s different somehow–like you’re acting as his hands, even as his other pair roams up and down your tingling back.
“A good girl knows how to play with the toys her Daddy got her.” He’s settling into the rhythm of his words, calm and low, his voice rumbling a little through his chest against your back. “You wouldn’t want me to think it’s not being put to good use, would you? I might have to take it away…”
Spurred on, fumbling a little with excitement, you slide your hand underneath again and spread yourself, wet your fingertips. It’s a lot easier than it was a moment ago. His hands move down to rub your thighs, encouraging you to spread a little wider. You feel yourself contract, pulse, hunger, and the sudden heat in your belly makes you lean your other hand on his knee for support.
“There we go,” he says, and the pleased tone in his voice is as effective as a vibrator. You’re rubbing yourself in earnest now, humping his leg and your hand–no, his hand–as your wetness begins to seep downward into the sparkly, lacy, glittery pretties he got to decorate his toy.
“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” he whispers. “Beautiful little puzzle, little heat pump, the place I enter to bring you home.” You can’t quite stay quiet at that, all shyness gone now, rocking your throbbing clit like a clumsy teenager flooded with need. “You’re shiny and new every time I touch you, my present. And as long as we both want to play together, I’ll never need any new toys.”
Behavior correction case file #32: Laura. Subject has no deviant behavior patterns in a range outside the norm, nor does she exhibit any signs of danger to herself or others. Simply put, the Institute sometimes requires a baseline subject or two to establish the expected results of therapy. In the experimental model, these subjects are the controls.
Laura was stripped, waxed and bound in the back of the Institute’s response vehicle before she ever entered its grounds. Inside, she is to be isolated and kept in restraints at all times, with rope preferred over cuffs for practical reasons. She will be addressed only in pejorative terms, when she is spoken to at all. “Subject” is the common term, but “girl,” “cunt” and “hole” are also acceptable.
The majority of the subject’s time here will be spent in focused, direct stim. She will be placed in a modified presentation strappado, quite roughly if necessary, and will have basic heavy tools applied from morning bell until the evening shift has concluded each day. This is a therapy normally only used at such significant doses on subjects capable of multiple orgasm; it is not established whether this subject has such capability, nor does it matter. The object of the therapy is to break the subject, which end it will achieve regardless of which forced orgasms are pleasurable and which are painful. (However, monitor logs should note effective refractory period over time, to see how it is affected.)
After the study concludes, orderlies and practitioners alike are welcome to run small-scale experiments on the subject as they see fit. In the meantime, however, isolation remains paramount. Subject is to see only her handler and monitor, when necessary, at unpredictable intervals. Her world will soon be reduced to pain, pleasure, struggle, orgasm, and surrender.
Current diagnostic criteria: subject will be marked a success when she can beg for more and make her handler believe her. Other suggestions for testing the subject’s permanent acquiescence are welcome. [Note from DT: Have any ideas?]
After shipping, it’s typically recommended that you cut away the straps.
But who are we to rush you?
“I know it’s been a little while,” he said, chuckling as he patted her flank. “But I’ve been busy, and your warranty doesn’t start until I take you out of the packaging, you know. There’s no point running it out before I have time to take you for a proper test drive, now is there?”
Elise could do little but glare up at him. The straps still kept her perfectly immobile, and the matching ring gag held her mouth open in a perfect O, “TRY ME!” still emblazoned on the tag next to her cheek.
“Now, I did finally have a chance to sit down with the manual,” he said, as if this were reassuring. “I just skimmed it, really, but one thing stuck out to me. It says you actually can’t enter ‘full functionality’ mode until you’re unstrapped. That is, you can react and feel and lubricate, but try as hard as I might, I can’t make you come. Did you realize that?”
She stared, open-mouthed, as if she had a choice. Surely he wasn’t–he couldn’t. No.
“I thought I’d just give that limit a spot check,” he grinned, lifting her out of the box and up onto some kind of work table. Beside it was a pegboard, hung with tools–probes, clamps, voltmeters and a heavy, well-used Hitachi. He picked up the last and tested it against the palm of his hand; it buzzed like the world’s biggest, angriest bee.
“The other thing I read,” he said, setting it down next to her face where she had to stare at it in fearful anticipation, “was that you have some diagnostics enabled. Voltage output indicators, for instance. Here and here.” The red and black alligator clamps snapped onto her nipples before she could move, but she arched and squirmed and tried to shake them off anyway.
“See?” he took her face in one hand, pressing it tightly and twisting her head to look at the needle bobbing at the left side of the meter. “But then when we apply stimulation…” He flicked the Hitachi back on and started to work it down between her tightly bound legs.
The vibration was incredibly strong–strong enough that it didn’t have to be anywhere near her clit to start sending pulsing waves of irresistible pleasure through her. Elise thrashed some more, but she wasn’t going anywhere, and the tool was wedged tightly against her. The needle rose, and rose, and rose… and stopped, hovering close to the right side but not going any farther.
“They weren’t kidding,” he grinned, delighted. “You absolutely do have a built-in lock. And I can keep you pushed right up against it for as long as I leave this thing turned on.” He turned to get out a roll of black electrical tape and began winding it around her to keep the Hitachi in place. “Oh yes, little toy, I think we’re going to have quite a few tests to do before we decide to ruin your collector’s value.”
Whimpering, throbbing and already beginning to grow frantic with frustrated need, Elise started to wonder if her warranty would cover a broken brain.
(Photos by dollygasm.)
We know each other well, and I’ve heard a lot of your secrets, and I don’t want to seem ungrateful for that. The problem is that deep honesty isn’t enough; even total honesty wouldn’t be enough. Everything you decide to tell me only stokes this hunger for more of who you are.
I want to know more than just the pretty parts of you, is the problem–and they are such pretty parts. But I want to know how you sweat and itch and bleed and get sick, how your eyes look with a fever. I don’t want you to cry, not really, but if you do I want to be there. I want to see the places where you hurt yourself.
I wish I could feel every nerve in your body when you stand or stretch or ache or masturbate; I wish I could know exactly what you felt when I touched the back of your neck. I want to know where you get dry skin and which patch you missed, shaving your legs. I want to know every permutation of your smile lines and watch you pluck gray hairs or stray eyebrows. I want to catch you biting your fingertip to the quick.
I want to know who you were five years ago, and ten, and fifteen. I want the boring data, all your school papers and instant messages and emails to friends and lovers and, fuck, people you were trying to get to hire you. I want to see you gain weight and drop it, chop your hair off and grow it out. I want to have been there when you didn’t feel comfortable in your own skin. I want to watch you get old. I want to watch you grow into who you are.
I want to know which questions you won’t ask and which you won’t answer. I want to know what you dislike, and what you’re ashamed of hating. I want the things that make you proud, and whatever it is that embarrasses you. I want your moments of genius. I want your mistakes. I want every feeling and impulse. I want every single word you think.
If anything about this is unflattering, it’s unflattering to me: this borders on obsession, at best, and it’s not something I’m proud of. But when my control slips and I let on about how hungry I am, you always tell me time that you get it. It intrigues you. And I think that maybe we’re even, and just as much as I want to know you, you want to be known.
It’s been too long since I’ve tied you up with a vibrator and sat back to watch you thrash and squirm through orgasms.
“Let’s try this again, Kinsey. Did you, or did you not, invite me up to your dorm room for the express purpose of tricking me?”
She shook her head, hair falling down over her eyes, which were large and dark and innocent.
“So the toy currently seated inside you–did you buy that in the belief that you could somehow humiliate me by getting me to, ah, insert it? Or did you buy it for your own use?”
Her eyes darted back and forth, not sure which answer made her look worse.
“Have you already forgotten? Let’s remind you exactly what I’m talking about.” He slapped a button on the side of the remote, turning it on to full.
The toy was not a small one, and its high-discharge battery pack had barely started. Kinsey yelped through the tape and wriggled around, which only made her little black shorts ride up and tuck the vibrator more firmly into its place inside her. She opened and closed and flexed her hands, bound with tape even more securely than her mouth, unable to get to any position that would help. Little frustrated grunts of breath escaped through her nose as he watched. And waited.
Finally he slapped it again, and she sagged in relief. “So. You remember exactly which toy I’m talking about, Kinsey?”
This time her nod was quick and emphatic.
“Let’s continue with the sequence of events. You plied me with alcohol–inexpensive alcohol. You challenged me to a card game. You lost deliberately but lightly, while getting me to what you believed was a point of intoxication where I’d take you up on some rather outlandish wagers. Do you agree with any of that assessment?”
Kinsey rolled her eyes as she nodded. He flicked the switch just for a second. She jumped, and kept her eyes on his face when she nodded again.
“And then you tried to cheat.” This time it wasn’t a question. He tapped the remote against his chin. “And I caught you.”
Kinsey tried to protest at length through the tape; he let her, watching carefully, not letting the cheap scotch in his system show in his face. (Though maybe in his actions.)
“Now, you didn’t disagree with that, Kinsey,” he said when her muffled words ran out. “Which is good! I’m glad you’ve decided to adopt a little honesty. But we still have to figure out what an appropriate forfeit is.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed, in a face that clearly said: I thought this was the forfeit.
“Nope,” he said, smiling cheerily as he turned the speed dial down to low and flipped the switch back on. Kinsey started to squirm again, but this time she was watching him, starting to figure out where he was going. “The forfeit, I think, is this: I get to use this toy you so kindly bought for me until the batteries die. And I get to record it. On the camera I strongly suspect you hid in that closet.”
She panicked, jerking and kicking desperately as he slowly turned up the speed, but the tape held fast. He turned and flicked open the closet door with one finger, smiling at what he found.
“Well, Kinsey,” he said, “little cheater, it looks like I’m the one who’s going to have the blackmail footage when we’re done with the evening’s games. Might just be that I pocket it before I get around to untying you. Might just be that unless you want it distributed, I get to come back here any night I want, and bring some fresh batteries, and start a new game.”
The power was all the way up now, and Kinsey could barely get a squeak out for gasping. He slapped it off. Then on. Then off. Then on again. Each time, she thrashed like a caught animal, even as her big, pretty eyes were starting to glaze over with pleasure and a rapidly growing need.
“The thing I like about games is the element of chance,” he grinned, picking up the scotch bottle. “And there’s a chance I’ll get tired of this before I make you beg me to leave it switched on.” He took a swig and settled down in the chair, smiling, tapping on, off, on, off, on. “Or there would be. If I were going to play fair.”
Holy shit, there are 500 of you?
Considering that I don’t post anywhere near as often as the people I admire on here, that I used to consider this just a distraction from writing on Literotica, and that I don’t upload pictures of my butt, I am genuinely surprised every time I get a new follower–and I certainly didn’t expect to be looking at this kind of big round number. Wow.
I like you all! I check out every single one of your blogs, and I’ve found some amazing writers and curators that way. I thought I’d pay some of the follow-love forward to a few of the tumblrs I feel closest to in spirit (and, you may notice, reblog with wild abandon).
- If you like my stuff and aren’t reading femsubdenial, you’re doing something terribly wrong. I still suspect you all came from either him or the mighty yourbadgrrl.
- Thinkivykink is smarter and braver than me, and a hell of a lot cuter. I admire her, and you should too.
- Lightningbugjune and thesimplestpleasure started writing around the same time as I did, and I kind of feel like we were in the same orientation group. They do some of the best, most personal writing about submission I’ve ever found.
- Welldeservedrestraint doesn’t need a little fish like me to throw them followers, but if you haven’t checked them out, I feel like I owe you that favor.
- For sheer consistency and high-quality image selection, you can’t beat female0rgasm, takeitslut and petiteboundgirl.
- And I only recently discovered spinal-knobs, who posts a great mix of cute butch girls and really hot porn.
There are lots more–I follow a hundred of you, and if I do it’s because you have met a pretty high standard–and I’m sure I’ll have to post an update to this at some point, but there’s a start. Thanks for reading, everybody. You are all very special, and I promise that someday I will experiment on you one by one.
EDIT: I already realized I forgot one of my longtime favorites–Crimson, who posts as crimson-and-bare and crimson-uncovered.
I’m being absolutely sincere and not (I think) fetishistic when I say this: I love that you can see her stretch marks.
“Do you want to fool around later?” he asked you when he got home, casually, as he pulled off his tie. You grinned at him a little and raised your eyebrows, playing saucy. He gave you a steady look and let it wait.
“Do you want to be touched now?” he said that evening, and something in his tone and the shift in language made things contract deep in your belly. He stood behind you and began to unbutton your dress, and you felt yourself go still, his hands tracing the curve of your spine as he carefully parted the sides and let it fall.
“Do you want to be touched?” he murmured, holding his hands so close to the skin of your bare flanks that it prickled. As you drew breath to answer, he grabbed you by the hair and lifted you, throwing you over the counter to yank your panties down your thighs. He got you crouched up on top of it, making you present yourself from behind, and started to grind against your pussy with clear and firm intent.
“Do you want to touch?” he chuckled after he’d worked you up to the point of stuttering gasps, your hands clenching helplessly where he held them at the small of your back. You were already desperate, but he’d barely even begun. He smacked you and made you yelp, he pushed two and then three fingers inside to fill you, he got you slick with your own sopping wetness and rubbed your aching clit in little circles until you were dizzy.
“Do you want?” You’re on the floor now, somehow, your ass squeaking as he makes you fuck his hand, sliding on the hardwood where you’ve dripped all over it. He presses against your breast while you struggle to keep your legs apart where he wants them. All you can do is try to fuck his strong, controlling hand, your whole being reduced to a very specific motion of your hips, the movement a girl-cunt makes when it wants, when it is want–no, when it’s a hungry little wet hole of need.
“Do you ever want me to stop?” he whispers in your ear, holding you close, but as with all his questions, he already knows the answer.
“Nice watch. Wanna fuck?”
“You do understand what we’re doing here, don’t you, Stacy?” he said, cupping her breast in one hand as her body shook slightly from the motor working away behind her. “I mean–breaking you, certainly, that much is obvious. Breaking you systematically, down into a collection of screaming nerve bundles and drooling holes. But beyond that?”
Stacy lolled her head back and tried to focus her eyes on him, panting through the ring. The double pump shifted its angle slightly, and a little whine escaped her throat, her aching back stiffening a little as the rods found a new place they hadn’t pummeled as thoroughly yet.
“We’re making you a part of something more.” He laced his fingers through her cotton-candy-fine hair and helped her meet his gaze, grip tight and sure. “We’re making your body understand that it’s a machine too. An uncomplicated machine, beautiful in its elegant simplicity. A machine that serves.”
A few days ago she would have glared at him; a week ago she would have fought like a wild animal. Now, after enough time trapped, helpless, fucked and used by the tireless device, she could barely manage to keep herself from sobbing–for mercy or for more, she wasn’t sure anymore.
“Machines have controls, Stacy.” He released her breast, just long enough to slap it sharply with one hand, then again, then again. She jerked reflexively with each blow, but in truth she could barely distinguish pleasure from pain, and he knew it. “Machines can be turned on. Or turned off.” His hand found her throat and squeezed just a little. “Machines do what they’re built to do. And we will build you back up again… starting very soon.”
He let go of her throat, and she sagged, shuddering. He toyed with her hair again, undoing the snaps on his fly and freeing his cock. “Would you like me to show you what the next piece of your construction is, what’s-left-of-Stacy?”
As he began to fuck her open mouth, all she could think through her own moaning was that she finally felt complete.
Okay, as a more serious answer to yesterday’s ask, and also because I’ve had a sudden (very welcome!) spike in followers and should probably reintroduce myself.
I’m a white cis man in my 30s with a collection of kinks you can probably divine pretty easily. This blog is a mix of wry captions and short-form fiction; I also have a Literotica account with longer stories. There are a few posts here tagged “personal,” “intro” or “politics” which are not fiction, which I hope is obvious. It’s safe to assume everything else is invented, especially if it’s tagged “erotica.”
As an extension of that: I believe strongly that everyone’s body is their own, that we must learn and teach a culture of consent, and that intersectional feminism is something I’ll be learning about and working toward my whole life. I write about BDSM and nonconsent because it gets me off, and if you’re reading this it probably gets you off too. That’s okay. All of the above can be true. We contain multitudes.
I am not currently looking for play partners, long-distance or otherwise. I am always looking for interesting and carefully curated new blogs to follow, but I don’t get to check in that often, so if you post in high volume I may not follow you even if I like you very much. Thanks for your attention, dear reader; even if I write in an arrogant persona, you humble me.
My single favorite attitude from a sub is this one: “yeah? Is that all you’ve got?”
The stuff you post on here isn’t real, right?
StandardAre YOU real?