bondage – Page 3 – Not A Real Doctor

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…

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.”