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.



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.




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.


She’d bought the little white flower panties on his instructions; he liked to yank them to one side when he spanked her, or stuff them in her mouth. She kept them after they broke up, because hey, no point in throwing away perfectly functional underwear.

The first time she masturbated in them she didn’t even get off: she’d been frustrated and moody a lot since the breakup anyway, and sometimes she just got tired, shut the laptop and went to sleep. But the next morning, seeing them in the laundry bin, she couldn’t stop thinking about the way they’d felt. Different than the regular, smoother cotton-nylon she was used to. They rubbed. They clung.

Too impatient to wait for a load of laundry, she went out and bought another pair. The texture was even more pronounced on those, fresh out of the package with a little starch still in the fabric. She didn’t even bother pulling up her porn tumblr. She just pulled them on and squeezed her legs together.

Breathless. She was her younger self again, the way she never had been with him, no matter how many times she called him Daddy or got turned over his knee. Instinctively, she fumbled for a pillow and shoved it up against herself the way she had done before she learned to use her hands: she needed them to stifle herself, anyway, with the sounds that wanted to squeak out of her throat at that feeling.

She never came, pillowfucking, pantyfucking, but it wasn’t even about that. She got a dozen more pairs and soaked them through every day, drifting along in a haze of arousal and squirmy need and that addictive thread of shame. Once, she bought a pair of someone else’s panties online, feeling like a perverted basement-dweller and blushing to the roots of her hair the whole time. When they finally arrived, she wadded them against her face and humped her own brains out all night.

She’d figured out what she had once known and forgotten: she didn’t need to hand-feed her pussy. She didn’t need to let it have a moment of release. And if she kept it stoked, kept it hungry, kept it nestled in flower-fresh clean white fabric, all she had to do was come along for the ride.


Mornings at the Institute. Dr. Kelling poured hot water over the Chemex, waiting for the bloom to rise, while Dr. Jackson rolled her eyes at him and sipped the double shot she’d picked up at Starbucks on the way in. “All right, weekly assessments,” she said, tapping a few keys and bringing up a six-camera multiview on the screens above them. “Let’s do the ones in fully automated treatment first. Case file… uh, 877? Hannah.”

Kelling swiped idly down his tablet, scanning the highlights of her case. “Right. Twenty-one, admitted back in January, initial response meters 2/7/6, A-cup. Under personal treatment for a month after intake, transitioned to partially automated care in February, encouraging results…” He squinted up at the screens. “She’s in a modified Jelenko rig, right?”

“Shows a surprising amount of tolerance for it, actually,” mused Jackson. “It reconfigures her stress position every few hours, but she’s been able to take sustained penetration and nipple stim at intensity level 7 for most of the day, most days.”


“One permitted every ten days, if she shows progress… huh, she’s a little overdue, actually.” Jackson leaned forward to a microphone and activated the remote address system. “The subject will identify herself.”

“S-subject 877!” Hannah just managed to choke out, whimpering as the machine continued to pound her cunt. “This subject is happy to be used as a wet hole! This subject is–nnngAAHH!” She arched and jerked as the nipple stimulators engaged their electrical mode. “Th-this subject is eager to comply with treatment! This subject is sorry for her l-loss of composuOH GOD!”

“What is the subject’s chief concern?”

“Service! Oh fuck, PLEASE allow this subject to be of service!”

Kelling made a wry face and leaned into the mic as well. “Is the subject just saying that because her needy cunt wants to come?”

“N-no! I mean–th-the subject means YES, doctor, her needy cunt wants to come, but NO doctor, she is telling the tru–”

Jackson cut the sound. “Eh, I don’t think she wants it bad enough. Let’s check in again next week. Maybe get somebody in to make sure the Jelenko is equipped to do DP as well.” She watched the screen a little longer, as Hannah babbled on in silence and Kelling tapped out some notes. “What was she originally admitted for, anyway?”

“Hmmm. Looks like… occasional attitude problems and possible attention deficit.”

Jackson let a little smile cross her face. “Well. I’d say she’s getting better all the time.”


Behavior correction case file #874: Andrea. Subject is a journalist who has been publicly critical of the Institute and its methods, and who has gone to great effort to publicize our rather discreet facility and draw media attention. The Board was content to maintain our policy of not talking to the press until it became clear that the subject had compromised the privacy of patient records as part of her crusade. With the help of the Institute’s friends in influential government positions, subject was admitted to determine the extent of her dangerous obsession.

Andrea poses a conundrum: how are we to combat her monomania with regard to our organization without, in turn, reinforcing said monomania? Our current plan is to replace her focus on the Institute with one more immediate and pressing, and then begin to work on her generalized priorities while her superego is decommissioned.

To that end, subject has been assigned to an experimental new form of storage locker, designed for violent or problem patients. She will be exposed, locked into rigorous restraint, and fitted with an anal contraction monitor that will monitor her approach to orgasm. This monitoring, in turn, will inversely control stim level, as well as oxygen restriction via throat chain.

Combined, this simple system has shown the ability to keep test subjects at a full 99.9% edge for at least 72 hours at a stretch. Interestingly, the technique is more effective when the subject is resistant to the training method, which gives us high hopes for this application. Sleep deprivation is a useful side effect for molding the subject’s worldview, as well.

Be sure to check the subject every day or two and assess current ability to vocalize, answer questions, and recall simple facts; within months she should reach a state of sufficient pliability to record a voluntary admission statement, waiver, surrender of power of attorney, and so on. We can then draw up a fuller treatment plan that will incorporate the desires of the many staff therapists who would like to work personally with her.

Obviously, even after the first stage of treatment is complete, subject is to be clitlocked and have self-touch permissions withheld. Soon climax will be her only conceivable goal, and all her investigative reporting will fade from public consciousness. Estimated time to first orgasm: one year.


Behavior control case file #214: Sam. Subject was recommended to the Institute by a number of former partners, as part of our new pilot program to identify undiagnosed problem patients at large in the community. Subject has reportedly been manipulative, dishonest and selfish to a pathological degree, particularly in her sexual dealings with others.

Sam needs to internalize the lesson that attempting to simply take what she wants will lead only to pushing it further away. The most obvious reward to be withheld is orgasm, of course; upon admission she is to be strapped down and stimulated to edge four times per hour by orderlies for forty-eight hours, at which point sleep deprivation and denial should make her more pliable. However, food, water, and pleasurable bathing rights (as opposed to the nightly hose-down) should also be used to demonstrate this principle.

Regular treatment will consist of a series of frustration bondage scenarios like the one depicted above. In addition to regular exposure bondage, subject’s hands will be wrapped in duct tape to reinforce the uselessness of manipulation. Electrostim pads will be applied to the inner thighs to keep muscles jerking and prevent the subject from sitting still; a powerful vibrator will be lowered to rest against the subject’s vulva, but any movement–such as the jerking produced by the stim pads–will cause the wand to bounce and swing away before gradually returning, then beginning the cycle again.

Orgasm under these circumstances is extremely unlikely, and Dr. Y has a hypothesis that the subject will remain at high edge in this manner for potentially weeks. Subject will be given opportunities to apologize, recant or beg only after at least ten days of treatment; until then she is to be tape-gagged, with a small cloth scented from her cunt and stuffed in her mouth, replaced at one-hour intervals.

When the tape-removal process reveals that the subject has become an incoherent, desperately begging mess, she will be permitted to request forgiveness from each of the former partners she treated poorly; only upon their unanimous consent will she be moved into recovery. Otherwise, return her to the treatment cycle, possibly with added nipple or anal stim.


The rope around her waist and under her crotch goes over a pulley. At the end of the pulley is a bucket. On the wall is a large television. On the television is all the hidden camera footage of her room for the last week.

Her Daddy already watched the tapes, and he’s marked certain time codes and synced them up to a mechanical hopper just above the bucket. Little Nessa was supposed to be on no-touch while Daddy was traveling on business, you see. And oh, little Nessa was naughty.

Each time the time-lapse video reaches an instance of Nessa sneaking a hand into her little cotton panties, the hopper drops a marble into the bucket. Each time it reaches a time when Nessa misbehaved in the extreme–when she humped the pillow, or the furniture, or her little playmate girl from next door, or worst of all, when she came–it drops a billiard ball.

There is one other complication to this setup. Strapped tight to the rope, above the bucket, is the big fat magic wand vibrator, set to high. The more the rope digs into her crotch, the more intensely the vibrations travel through it, into her aching lips and helpless clit.

Nessa knows she is not to come today. She needs to be a good girl, a very very good girl, no matter how much the rope makes her arch and squeal and squirm. No matter what, until Daddy gets home.

After all, if she can’t make it through this one simple task without indulging her greedy cunt, the hopper will drop its last prize: the bowling ball.

Trembling, tiptoed, slowly working herself back and forth against the painful-pleasurable-cruel taut rope, Nessa wonders exactly how heavy that ball’s going to feel, and whether Daddy will drill her three holes afterward too.


“And all the girls in this dorm have had a standard dose?”

“An average of 10 ppm in the drinking water, yes. It took eight days to build up to steady-state accumulation. There is some natural resistance–about three of them haven’t displayed any effects at all.”

“Three out of two hundred. Not bad.”

“We’ve sequestered them for further study. The rest of the subjects have… well, as you see, largely sequestered themselves.”

“Physical condition?”

“The fugue state only lasts about four hours at a stretch, so they seem to be able to take care of themselves. Eating, drinking, sleeping, all sufficient if a bit groggy. Then we play the trigger frequency and… this… begins again.”

“She’s really incapable of stopping, isn’t she?”

“And rather frustrated, from the evidence. We plan to verify when we can, but if they are capable of orgasm, it certainly doesn’t seem to satisfy them.”

“Have you seen any effects of… how do I put this… physical restraint?”

“Tie her hands, she’ll hump anything within reach, animate or otherwise. Bind her completely and… well… we think the effects are harmless, but I’ve never seen anyone quite so desperate. I think she would have agreed to just about anything to be touched.”



“We may have to add a new protocol to the test. See what their behavior is like if they’re all, say, frogtied, and locked in a room together.”

“Noted. And do you still want to reserve the most promising two or three subjects for your personal tests at the lab?”

“Do you really have to ask?”


Behavior correction case file #328: Maura. Subject masturbates compulsively, to the point of interference with social life and career, seclusion, and possibly self-harm. Subject known to spend multiple hours per day on Tumblr.

Maura has already undergone one round of treatment for her disorder at a similar facility, but the results of attempts at aversion therapy were impermanent, and she was referred to the Institute as a special case. The course of treatment proposed relies on overcompulsion instead.

Subject will be fitted with a small pacemaker-like contact implant at the base of the spine, supplying a regular electrical stimulus to the nerve but interfering with normal signals from the pelvis. Past experiments indicate that this will both keep the subject physically aroused–almost unbearably so–and inorgasmic. No amount of pleasure, physical or otherwise, will allow her to climax.

Subject will stay in an apartment on the Institute grounds similar to her own home, permitted toys but not clothing, and will have pornography from her own browser history selected and played on screens in each room. She will be monitored in this environment until she reaches a point of desperation considered dangerous for her own safety (estimated time: 36 hours).

She will then be informed that, if she chooses, she may enter an adjacent closet-sized chamber, crouch, lock her hands and ankles into a stockade, and present her orifices for use. Doing so will deactivate the implant. Subject will then be available for use by any staff member, visiting colleague, or other patients with grounds privileges. The rate of such engagement will obviously be variable and random. After sufficient begging, polite thanks to her partners, and 10-12 orgasms, the stockade will unlock and the implant will reactivate. The chamber will not reopen until subject once again reaches a level of extreme desperation.

NOTE: it is possible this course of therapy will require several months to take effect. All staff in Division E are encouraged to make use of the subject during her availability periods and discuss her progress at weekly check-in.



Is this how you imagine me, Sir? Stripped, then bound tightly to the horse, every hole vulnerable to your abuse, your caress. Dripping and aching for your touch, subject to your whim, your need, your demons…

There are a dozen identical benches in the long, dim corridor, all currently occupied with a taut, arched girlslave. It’s almost always full, here; this is the holding pen, where acquisitions who have had basic testing and conditioning are placed for a few weeks, between the dark cattle-cages below and the bright, sterile niche-training units above.

If it sounds a bit like a purgatory, it is one. The days there certainly blend together into an endless blur, with feedings, cleanings and lubrication staggered to keep any of them from guessing how much time has passed. It is a place intended to break girls. It is utterly, brutally effective.

They are edged, of course, by a bored higher-class slave on her turn in the chore rotation. They can hear her clacking down the aisle in her heels, heavy vibrator swinging in one hand, picking a victim at random and grinding its bulbous head against her clit for exactly the length of time scrawled on her lower belly. (Basic testing, you see.)

They’re also used. As you can see above, any trainer who needs a quick break can hop in, find a hole to his liking, give it a quick test for wetness (rarely failed) and fuck away until he’s satisfied.

The girl in the picture was once named Alice. She will someday be renamed Slip, for the ease with which her cunt takes penetration, but for now she is only Station 8. At this point, her initial captivity in the cages is a hazy blur, and her life before that a dreamlike memory. She clenches the moment she feels a finger push into any orifice, and she is almost incapable of orgasm without command.

It’ll be another month before they unstrap her and carry her squirming, dripping vessel of a body upstairs.


I know how gifs work, but stick with me a second: the little skip between cycles on this one made me think of a dungeon with a time trap. Sci-fi, fantasy, whatever, just some method of consistently snapping the contents of one room back… say, thirty seconds or so…

See, Kiri here is a synthdoll: she’s wealthy, very wealthy, wealthy enough to have had a remote body custom-fabricated from the DNA on up. They’re legal, mostly, as long as you have a visible registration marker (like, say, those gorgeous fractal tattoos). Her original self is resting peacefully in a chamber, safe at home, her mind linked to this beautiful puppet via quantum entanglement.

The thing about diving synth is that it makes you reckless. There are automatic switches to cut out pain if it goes above a set threshold, and a maintenance contract to repair any damage you can imagine, to the point of growing an entire new doll if necessary. Rich girls like Kiri can taste the choicest poisons, cliff-dive without hesitation, seduce or be seduced by anyone they like and fuck away the consequences. Her synth doesn’t develop any bad habits, but Kiri is addicted to risk, the rush of danger with the safety of the automatic killswitch if anything goes bad.

So when a beautiful stranger at a glass-sheathed bar bet her she’d break in his little one-room chamber of delight and torment, she laughed and laughed and took him up on it.

He didn’t mention the chronoswitch, but then, she didn’t ask, did she?

They had the usual fun at first–dragging her in through the heavy door by her hair, letting her fight it a little, a rough kiss to bruise her lips and a grip on her breast to make her arch and gasp. None of it really hurt though, certainly nowhere near the safety cutoff level. Kiri was enjoying herself.

She squirmed and bit his tongue for fun, and he tore her very expensive little red dress getting it off her. Kiri bucked against him, and he had his wrists in her hand, pinning her back over a cheap block of plywood as his cheek brushed the tattoo under her arm. She was surprised to discover that she was sensitive there, very much so, but not unpleasantly. Somewhere, on a cushioned bodyrest, she smiled a little.

Then he flipped her over and slapped a little lube on his hand, pushing a couple fingers into her, letting her squeal in mock dismay as he spread her lips and thoroughly, efficiently wet her inside and out. She was starting to wonder if he’d played with dolls before, and let her tart little tongue make a joke to that effect, which is how she got the ball gag.

She was breathing fast, pulse pounding, riding exactly the kind of risk she loved as she felt his cock nudge through his pants against her slippery pussy. Then he hauled her back away from the block, cuffed her hands up above her head, and kicked her ankles apart until autoshackles snapped onto them as well.

He stepped back, letting her glare at him as she shook her hair down over her eyes. What was he going to do? Whip her or something? That would end things quickly, kick her out and drop the doll limp until its retrieval company showed up. Not much fun… but no, he was doing something else, sliding a piston dildo under her and flipping it on.

The buzzing fuckrod slid into her easily, and she gasped and curled her fingers over the cuffs, letting herself enjoy it in the role-play of victim, damsel, toy. His hand traced her hip down to the little patch of fuzz, then found her clit, making firm circles in time with the machine as she struggled to tilt her hips.

It didn’t take long to bring her to the edge. She was panting around the gag, arching, dollbody stretched taut and trembling, certain she was going to come any second…

He stepped back again, just beyond a small ring of lights embedded in the floor. She was puzzled, but maybe he just wanted to watch. There was no stopping her orgasm now anyway. Fuck, she thought, oh fuck, oh fuck, here it was–

Then a skip, a hiccup, and her body twitched in a way she didn’t understand.

She was back on the edge, exactly at the point where he’d stepped away from her. The machine thrummed and thrust upward, stretching her, pushing her toward the edge–closer–closer–


The edge reset and rose again, making her ride it. She was definitely going to come this time, no question. Oh my, oh god, her body just starting to clench and then–


It began to dawn on Kiri that something wasn’t right.

He grinned at her from beyond the boundary marker and tossed a little ball of paper. Just as she arrived yet again at the point of no return, when the paper was about to touch her skin, it



Oh shit.

“How many edges do you think you can take?” he asked conversationally. “Me personally, I’d only last a few dozen before I snapped, but you’re a tough little double, aren’t you, girl?”


“See, if you were really in there, your memory would reset every thirty seconds with the rest of your body, and this little trap wouldn’t have much of an effect at all. But you’re not. You’re tucked away somewhere nice and safe, ready to retreat at the first onset of pain. But I didn’t say I was going to hurt you. I said I was going to torture you.”


Somewhere, Kiri was panicking. The pleasure was as real to her as anything, and the desperate need rising in her over and over again was unavoidable, the synthdoll reacting exactly as it had been when he first threw the switch. But there was no release, there would be no release: her doll wouldn’t get sore or tired in the timetrap, wouldn’t get thirsty, wouldn’t trigger any of the safety cutouts to get her back out. Not for hours. Not for days.


FUCK, she had been close that time! No no no no, she didn’t think she could take two more of these, much less a dozen, but here it was again, the pulse inside her and the flood of electric need rushing up her spine before–


“Takes a lot to afford a doll that flawless,” he grinned, “and I think you’re going to share it with me, girl. I think that before very long, you’ll break, and you’ll be willing to give me anything to unplug you. Your mind, your money, your cunt–this one or your real one, whichever I please. But you won’t be able to tell me where you really are with that gag in. Which means I’m going to have to get a list of registered dolls in the city and knock on doors… one… at… a time.”

The thought of actually being found did something to her, closed a short circuit in her dollbrain, and oh FUCK that was it–she was coming–the first microsecond of a massive, crashing–


She screamed through the gag, thrashing, the machine still buried inside her as she was dragged back over the edge like a raw nerve, her orgasm ripped away before she could taste it.

“It’s going to be some time, I’m afraid,” he murmured, letting his eyes drink in the sight of her sobbing body once more. “But I’ll find you, girl, don’t worry. And by the time I finally let you out of this trap, you’ll be more than ready to be MY puppet. Once and for all.”

The door slammed closed on another desperate edge, and she was left staring after him, tears leaking from her synthetic eyes before they vanished as if they’d never been.







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…



I know, Sweetheart, I know.

Life’s so hard sometimes.

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

That was her problem, really; gambling.

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

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

Then they clamped her clit.

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

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

The helpless jerk of her own aching hips–

The metal chain brushing her nipple–

Her breath so loud in her ears–

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


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

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

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




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.