(Part one, part two.)

After initial visual inspection and baseline vitals were established for Ivy (hereinafter “subject”), the session proceeded as per standard protocol. Subject was responsive and aroused. Subject was vocal despite attempted self-restraint.

Of particular interest for this exam were the subject’s orgasmic threshold, pain threshold, and verbal or physical cues to indicate their approach. The following techniques were employed to glean data.

  • Subject’s glans clitoris and labia were stimulated manually.
  • Subject, while sight-deprived, was allowed to hear a nitrile glove being donned.
  • Subject was offered and accepted synthetic lubrication.
  • Subject’s vaginal canal was penetrated with a single finger. (note: concern about diameter expressed here, unusually early)
  • Subject was stimulated via vibrating wand fitted with silicone diffuser head.
  • Subject was induced to choose between body weight on said wand or sustained stress posture. (note: she chose tiptoes)
  • Subject was bent at the waist, and manual impact stimulus was employed.
  • Subject was eventually persuaded to count manual impact stimulus aloud. Impact was extended to the upper thighs and the soles of the feet, in addition to the traditional posterior site, as part of this persuasion
  • (Note that by this point self-lubrication had made synthetic reapplication redundant.)
  • Subject was penetrated with two gloved fingers. Vocal protest increased sharply. Significant pressure noted.
  • Subject was turned onto reverse side to allow for tactile examination of breast tissue and, again, application of the wand.
  • Subject’s legs were repositioned to allow for maximum exposure.
  • The exam proceeded to phase three.

As audible cues had proven effective in exciting the subject so far, she was granted another one: the sound of a speculum being unscrewed and opened. While recent advances have brought some comfort and convenience to the apparatus, it remains apparent that the traditional steel-and-screw mechanism carries the strongest connotations. As stated at the outset, the objective was to establish thresholds, physical and emotional. Connotation was therefore considered paramount.

Subject’s vocal reactions increased in volume again and began to lose coherence as the device was secured in an open position. Visual examination of the canal, while not a focus of this visit, revealed healthy tissue. Subject was palpated deeply on the anterior surface of the lower abdomen while still dilated, which produced significant vocal reactions as well.

It may be that the reader wonders, at this point in the report, what makes it worth recording in such detail. After all, procedure according to protocol can be condensed to a terse note or two. But beyond personal interest in the subject, it is here that the events of the session become particularly noteworthy.

The subject was stimulated with the wand a third time, with the longest duration yet. In this case the wand was applied directly to the base of the speculum, which was still expanded internally. This led in short order to an orgasmic response, despite the fact that vibration was transmitted primarily to the internal body of the clitoris and not the glans. Subject voiced a sustained, high-volume response and displayed mild muscular convulsion.

Subject was evaluated verbally once verbal capacity appeared to return. Subject’s feet were also observed to uncurl as time went on. While she was engaged in light conversation and offered a lightly mocking taunt for her failure of self-control, subject was observed and evaluated for refractory period.

When it was judged that said refractory period was elapsing, subject—still blindfolded, restrained, and splayed open—was given another auditory stimulus: the sound of the vibrating wand being reactivated.

This is the part where Ivy clenched in fear so hard that she forced the speculum out.


“Hi, baby. Can you hear me?” He squinted at the screen, looking at the little mirror image of himself in the corner, then tilted it so the camera wasn’t pointed directly into the light.

Her face appeared, frozen for a second, then block, then moving, grinning. “Hey!” she said. “Is it working? Is it there?”

“Yeah!” he stepped away from the monitor so she could see their surrogate, kneeling on the bed, lace mask pulled over its face and implant status light pulsing slowly at the nape of its neck. It was nude and still but for its breathing, curled slightly in on itself, waiting.

On the monitor, she bit her lip. “Fuck. You got a cute one.”

“Aww, you like it? I tried to pick one as close as I could get to you.” He looked down at it, tugging at his lip, his eyes hungry. “Wanna try it out?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” She picked up the collar and its trailing wires, fastened it, and made sure the cold contact metal patches were touching her throat. “Okay, try something.”

He reached out and ran the backs of his nails down the surrogate’s chest, around the side of its breast to its inner arm. Goosebumps rose on its pale skin. Through the speakers, she gasped.

“Fuck. Oh man. I didn’t think it would be that clear!” She wrapped her arms around herself and giggled. “Do it again. God, I miss you. It feels so good to have your hands on me again…”

He squeezed its arms, its shoulders, then settled his hands on its hips and pulled it in close to his chest. She let out a little hum of pleasure, feeling the heat of his body against her back. “Should I, like… move it so it’s sitting like you are?” he asked.

“I think you should move it so it’s sitting on your dick,” she said, hand stealing down into her shorts.

He laughed. “You sure?”

“Baby, I have been fucking starving for you,” she growled. “We can cuddle after. I wanna see just how much of you I can feel…”

Needing little encouragement, he wriggled out of his shirt and pants, springing out hard and lifting the surrogate’s yielding body up to part its thighs. It was wet, of course, warm and slick, and if it didn’t feel exactly like she did, well…

“Oh fuck,” she gasped, arching a little on the screen. “Oh my god. Oh fuck, I didn’t think… I can feel how tight it is AND how hard you are, baby… you don’t have to put on a condom or anything, right?”

“Nah, the service takes care of all that,” he grunted, pushing deeper inside it. “God. This is so much better than jacking off to your snapchats, I can’t believe we didn’t try it before!” He picked it up and started to rock its hips back against him, and she groaned and lifted herself a little off her chair.

“They must be so well-trained–there’s no way I’d be able to hold that still if you were really inside me.” She bit her lip. “Can you make it move some more?”

“I think there’s a command, yeah. Um. Kivirmak?

It had already been trembling a little, holding back, but now it arched and bucked and–he thought–barely contained a whimper of its own. He grinned with pleasure, slowing his thrusts, and both she and it squirmed with frustration.

“You playing with yourself, baby?” he said, panting a little.

“Yeah, why? Are you–oh my GOD,” she said, eyes going wide as he reached down to roll its clit between finger and thumb. “Holy fuck! I can feel–you and it and me–all on top of each other–”

He moaned, grabbing it by the shoulder and settling back on his heels, pulling its weight down on top of his cock and making it bounce a little. He could feel its breath hitching; he gave it a playful slap between its legs. Both of them jumped, and she let out a little squeak.

“Is it close, baby?” she managed. “Because I am.”

“Sure feels like it,” he said. “Mmmmfuck. But I don’t think it can have an orgasm unless I give that command too.”

Her eyes were dark and glittering, and she had one finger between her teeth as she rolled her hips against her other hand. “Do it,” she said. “Make it come.”

Hadi,” he said.

The surrogate definitely did let out a little noise then, legs shaking, gripping the sheets. On the monitor, she caught her breath and rubbed herself faster. “Fffffuck,” she whispered, “it’s like I can feel it but not actually go over–oh God–can you–can you make it go again?”

He did, and that time, watching it and feeling it clench and writhe and shudder, they both came with it.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said lazily, afterward, running his fingers over its goosebump skin again, “but I kinda wanna rent one for when we actually do this again in person too.”

“Fuck yes,” she murmured. “Let’s get two.”


The Exam: Protocol Delta

Among the goals of the study currently in progress is to test a number of approaches in decoupling orgasm from pleasure, and vice versa, in physically healthy young women. The subjects of the study themselves are best able to assist each other with socially induced sexual stimulus, and have proven compliant when instructed to make withholding orgasm part of such sessions. In the converse case, however, a more clinical approach is necessary.

When beginning a Protocol Delta session, the subject is to be brought to the procedure room in the morning, stripped, and restrained in such a way as to provide convenient access to all orifices and erogenous zones without inducing undue stress. Lubrication may be used, or in some cases avoided; at any rate, most subjects self-lubricate upon restraint anyway.

Begin by clamping and drawing away the glans clitoris, to avoid introducing undue sensation to the session and interfering with the objective (though clitoral manipulation may play a role later on, after it is certain that the subject will derive little pleasure therefrom). Use a standard speculum to open the vagina, and if necessary, a modified McPherson speculum to open the mouth as well. The approach to the anus is to be determined based on the day’s objective.

Statistically, across all subjects, the strongest vaginal contractions and most vocal objections are achieved with the following method: insert a ¾" gauge probe anally; apply focused pressure to the anterior wall of the vagina, with speculum in place; constrain breathing via oral penetration and holding the nostrils shut manually; and deliver a series of low-amperage electrical pulses to the root of the pudendal nerve. This method reliably achieves climax with little or no pleasure, and will quickly exhaust the subject through successive orgasms if sustained.

Of course, individual subjects will vary in response, and may be induced to more intense reaction by introducing other factors. Several subjects have been caused to ejaculate, with or without orgasm, by adding manual pressure just below the ridge of the pelvic bone. Some have been observed to climax with sufficient electrical stimulus of the nipples. Each subject has a different response to the introduction of a urethral or cervical sound; be sure to document these thoroughly.

A given session conducted under Protocol Delta should last eight to ten hours. The most recorded separate orgasmic events during this period is forty-eight, though we believe that it is possible to break fifty under the right conditions. While subjects may display reluctance or resistance to the start of this protocol, several have confessed during recovery periods that they fantasize about it, and have even provided additional ideas for techniques to explore. Sessions will therefore continue in the current manner as long as we believe we still have much to learn.


You don’t actually have to communicate voluntarily in any way for this assessment. In fact, your statements would be more likely to hinder the process. The goal is to derive directly from your bodily response the levels of stimulus at which you feel pleasure, at which pleasure starts to transition to pain, at which you achieve edge, and at which you are driven to orgasm regardless of preference. Even if you were able to do more than gasp and squeal, we trust the level of muscle tension and blood flow in your pussy more than your mouth.

That’s what the contact patches on your lower abdomen are for, you see: assessment of the tiniest change in reaction as our tech works you over. We can chart your growing arousal as we apply pressure and vibration, heat, cold, and pain. We can watch it spike when we control your breathing. We can see what it does to you when we chuckle at your helpless squirming, and which of our selection of degrading terms for you produce the strongest effect.

You’ll be glad to have completed the examination when it’s over, no matter how you may struggle while it’s in process. Trust us. With the plans we have for your next phase of treatment, knowing where to start stretching your limits will be helpful for all involved.


Behavior correction case file #108: Lillian. Subject arrived at the Institute intoxicated, with what she claimed was a “groupon,” entitling her to “sexy orgasm lessons.” Subject became belligerent and demanded to learn how to achieve female ejaculation. Her phrasing at the time was “don’t you guys do this kinda stuff? I wanna squirt, dammit!”

Lillian ejaculated for the first time within fifteen minutes of initiating therapy. As of this writing, one week into continued work with her, she has been induced to ejaculatory orgasm 82 times. While she expressed increasingly strident regret and anger about entering the Institute once sobriety returned, such behavior is common among new patients, and can be ignored under the terms of the release she signed voluntarily.

At any rate, as treatment continues, the subject is less and less vocal and seems to have difficulty articulating complex ideas or indeed finishing sentences. The current goal of her program is to mold her body into a training model for future ejaculatory therapy, to be stored and “checked out” by staff and instructors as needed. When not in use, she will be mechanically stimulated to orgasm once per hour, and hydrated by means of throat intubation.

If this pilot program is successful, we envision a growing library of such single-focus training models, possibly to be housed in the unoccupied room B of the annex. Other useful exemplars might include electrostim, extravulvar orgasm, trigger-word subconscious response, or gag reflex suppression.


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?]


“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.


Behavior correction case file #834: NAME EXPUNGED. Subject shown after being fitted and prepped for custom travel unit. Our half of the exchange for #833, she proved reluctant to fully engage with our therapies here, despite the certain fact that we had only her best interests at heart. It is our hope that our Austrian colleagues will find her more receptive.

Subject has had all previous forms of identity removed, not merely from the Institute’s databases but from all public records as well. She is now identified only by a bar code tattooed inside her right wrist, and is legally nameless, stateless and essentially without rights. This should ease her transition across borders, since she is shipping classified as livestock.

The transport rig has been tested for rugged security and will withstand even a prolonged struggle to escape, even if the subject demonstrates the rather vigorous thrashing she has been known to display during orgasm. The underside of the platform is loaded with high-capacity batteries, which should power the Hitachi for eleven minutes out of each hour of the trip. Subject has previously shown time to climax of 5-15 minutes at full stim. The pressure gauge probes fitted into both of her lower holes should provide a useful graph of orgasmic activity over time at the end of her trip.

The batteries will also power the electromagnet manipulating subject’s nipple chain, as well as her headphones, which are playing a 400-minute loop of her previous therapy sessions in the Problem Patients wing. Subject was required to confess to her own flaws, willful attitude and aberrant desires after each session, but would inevitably later recant. It is our hope that listening to herself for emphasis will drive the point home.

While all of us at the Institute will miss working with NAME EXPUNGED, we believe this trip will be good for her and for our relationship with the Austrian facility. They have promised to spare no expense or method rehabilitating her, and will keep us up to date with regular video dispatches.


Behavior correction case file #413: Katrin. Subject is a part-time lifeguard during summers between college terms and has been repeatedly caught by pool owner engaging in surreptitious masturbation, high-risk sexual activity and other inappropriate behavior on the grounds. Rather than risk a mark on her employment record and possible misdemeanor charges, subject agreed to behavioral therapy at the Institute.

Katrin is a less complicated case than subject #328 and will likely respond to straightforward aversion therapy. She is required to wear a swimsuit similar to her lifeguard uniform at all times, though this one is fitted with microscopic body monitors and electrical stim units to aid in analysis and reinforce direction of guidance.

As per standard Institute policy, subject will be shackled to bed when not in treatment and woken each morning by an orderly who will provide manual stimulus until her monitors indicate sufficient arousal. She will then be taken to our own swimming pool and, while in an environment similar to the one that has caused her such problems, be treated with Hitachi therapy as per standard orgasm control/induction regimen B. (You know how this goes–make her beg to come then make her beg to stop–pretty straightforward. DT) The obvious potential for breathplay and cold-water shock should be explored as well.

A week of such treatment should be more than sufficient to reform the subject. However, subject has already agreed to spend two months at the Institute voluntarily. Division D has expressed interest in continuing treatment and observing subject’s behavior on a daily basis. What are her reactions to an extended forced pleasure regimen? Will temporary aversion become a more permanent fetish related to the environment, clothing, or bondage in use, and will this fetish affect normal sexual function? Will the subject bond with a single handler or grow accustomed to rotation through a group of staff? The Institute stands to learn a great deal from this case.


There wasn’t actually a bed in the house. The owners slept on a big slab of Ikea foam right on the floor, which was probably just as comfortable anyway, except that the lack of bedframe made it hard to tie someone down. That was the third complication the burglars faced. The second was that they hadn’t realized Cassie would be housesitting at all.

She’d been a couple days late–so what, the plants would be fine, she thought. Unfortunately, she timed her arrival while the three thieves were still in the house. They grabbed her before she could figure out what was happening, made it clear what would happen to her if she screamed for help, and improvised.

Tacks, hammer, scissors and an old nylon tie-down from the garage. Cassie found herself stripped quite efficiently and pinned down at twenty-four points, right in the middle of the living room where they could keep an eye on her. Then they went through her bag, and her misfortune doubled.

Cassie had planned on having a little time to herself at the house, so she’d brought her Hitachi, along with the rubber gag she liked to bite down on when she came. She hadn’t expected anyone to see them. She definitely hadn’t expected her captors to see her visible trembling or the flush that crept up her neck when they stuffed it in her mouth. She hadn’t expected them to figure out quite so fast what this situation was doing to her flooding cunt.

The owners would be back in five days or so. Nobody really expected to hear from Cassie in that time. Nobody would be coming by the house. The burglars had several days to do whatever they wanted to her taut and helpless body, and the nice thing about a Hitachi is that it doesn’t have batteries to exhaust.

Because the first complication they’d found–the one they were pretty sure Cassie could help them solve, once sufficiently persuaded–was the safe.

They had plenty of time to try combinations themselves, while they kept her pinned down and squirming, the vibrator thrumming against her aching pussy. They could hear it every time she came–the straining against the nylon, the squeaking of her teeth against the ball. Over a day of forced orgasms, well into the dozens, and Cassie was more than ready the combination–

If only she knew.

If only she could say so.

If only she wasn’t afraid of what would happen if they found out she lied…


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.



“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.




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.