They made her sit there and shake while they dragged the steel tub into her cell and filled it, a simple garden hose and its stream of cold water, little drops landing on her knees when it splashed. She was rope-bound, of course; she was always bound these days, both for easier handling and because they’d discovered it aroused her. One of them lightly rubbed the knot at her pussy back and forth as the water level slowly, slowly rose. Her pulse refused to climb back down out of her throat. She was very, very afraid, and very, very humiliated that the hose wasn’t the only thing in the room that was gushing.

“I can only hope,” said her doctor, when the tub was about half full, “that our subject understands the reason behind this disciplinary action.”

She looked up at him frantically and dipped her nose down three times, the silent way she’d been taught to ask for permission to speak.

“Granted,” he said.

“P-please, I promise, I wasn’t breaking the rules of my treatment plan,” she said quickly. “I know that it’s important for my own welfare not to viol–to violate the–”

“The evidence speaks for itself,” he said, bending down to rub the wet spot on her sheets between his fingertips, then inspecting them. “You were observed to take restricted actions during lights out, and the recording suggests strongly that you achieved orgasm by means of that action.”

“I didn’t–I’m sure I didn’t–it was a dream!” she said. “I didn’t even know it was happening! I only woke up when you–when the orderly entered my cell and, and began inspection.” She couldn’t tell if she was pale with fear or flushed with embarrassment.

“Do you know what the medical standard for measuring pain tolerance is, Anya?” said the doctor. “Cold water. One simply times the seconds for which a patient can hold their hand and forearm submerged. It’s simple, consistent, and harmless.” He rinsed his fingers in the tub, which was rapidly filling to the top now, and wiped them on her chest.

“It wasn’t my fault!” she said, voice rising to a hysterical little-girl cry.

“That’s not important,” he said gently. “Your body took actions that are contrary to the goals of your treatment. Whether you intended those actions is irrelevant. We will now reinforce, to your body, that humping the corner of your bed as a form of masturbation leads to negative consequences. You will internalize the induction of pain and the restriction of oxygen, and next time, your eager little clitoris will hesitate before it drags the rest of you down to its level.” He nodded to the orderlies.

One of them took the rope that ran down the front of her body and back behind her, tying it to the bar of her cell so that her head wouldn’t hit the bottom of the tub. The other slipped his arms under her shoulders and lifted her, tilted her forward, and let go.

They could all see the air burst from her lungs just after she broke the chilly surface; they watched, the doctor scribbling a couple of notes, as she thrashed in panic, hair drifting wild around her head. “Someone got their watch on?” he asked. “I’d say give her another thirty seconds. Just for the first dip.”

“How many rounds today, do you think?” asked the first orderly, pressing one heavy knee to the back of her pelvis so that he could continue the inspection of her genital response to new stimulus.

“Oh, until we get paged for something else,” the doctor shrugged. “It shouldn’t be long, really. But from what I’ve seen, I think she’ll be good to the last drop.”

(You might also enjoy my water tag, or–for a crueler take on this–one of the chapters of my Literotica story, “Enhanced Interrogation.”)


Party Animal

“Okay,” Peyton said, biting her lip, “dare.”

Two of her friends glanced at each other; the third took a swig from the filched bottle of sickly-sweet coconut rum. “You going to get it out or not?”

Peyton looked back and forth, a little giddy from her own pass at the rum, from nerves and excitement and flirty energy. “Get WHAT out?” she teased. “I’m not going down on anyone for a dare, you guys–”

The friend she had a crush on held up one hand. There was a black rubber collar in it, with a little blinking box attached.

“Dare you to try it on.”

“Oh my god,” Peyton laughed. “Is that one of those things your dad uses to train dogs? You are such a perv!”

“Dare stands,” said her friend, head cocked. “I mean, unless you’re going to puss out.”

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever, I bet it doesn’t even work. Or doesn’t hurt if it does.” She tried putting it around her neck, then had to hold her hair out of the way while someone else helped get the buckle done. There was a satisfying little click when it worked, and then she could feel the light pressure against the sides and back of her neck, cold little nubs of metal warming to her skin. “Tada!” she said. “Okay, my turn, right? UmmOW!”

Her friends were staring at her, a little startled. “Holy shit,” said one of them, “it works.”

“YEAH it fucking works!” a little laugh came bursting out of her, significantly more nervous than it had been before, though the excitement was oddly lingering. “Jesus! I am so making one of you try this on next.” She tugged at it, trying to find the complicated buckle, but as soon as only one of the metal contacts was touching her, the second delivered a warning buzz that made her almost lose feeling in both hands. “Ahh! Shit!”

“You can’t take it off once it’s on unless the remote is unlocked,” said the other friend she had a crush on. “I read in the manual.”

“You read in the–” Peyton stared. “Um, did you guys like, plan this?”

“Truth or dare, Peyton,” was the only answer she got.

“It’s my turn! I get to” SNAP. She yelped again, clenching her fists, drawing her knees up in a protective curl that of course would not protect her. But still the helpless giggle came bursting out of her, even though part of her was starting to think this was very, very bad. “FUCK! Okay, okay, truth!”

The friend she had a crush on–the pretty one, with dark eyes and long lashes, and sun freckles on that bitten lip–said “You really have to put a better password on your laptop.”

Peyton’s heart jerked sideways. “My what?”

“Truth. Peyton. Do you like to watch videos of girls getting hurt?”

She was caught, breath coming fast for so many complicated reasons. “I don’t–why were you–that’s NOT cool to–”

A warning thumb rested on the remote button.

She was so fucking embarrassed. “Okay! Yes! I mean. Sometimes.” She took a deep breath. “Can I have some more rum now?”

“Yeah,” said her third friend, the one she’d sometimes been a little scared of, the one who had been in her dream last week. “But you gotta come over here and sit between us first.”

She stood, unsteadily. Two steps across the room, the next shock came, and dropped her to her knees.

“Oh my god,” she was panting, still laughing a little, on the verge of hiccups. “Oh fuck.”

One of them stood up, leaned down, and took her collar in two fingers. Peyton found herself stumbling forward on her hands and knees, being led like a reluctant puppy, and feeling–weirdly–comforted when that warm hand brushed her neck.

They put her in the middle of the couch, sprawling kind of sideways, one of them pulling her hips back so that her legs fell a little open while the other kept that grip on her collar and pulled her head in close to rest. “Truth or dare.”

“Truth again,” said Peyton, as they lifted the bottle to her lips and let her drink.

“Truth. Are you turned on right now?”

She bit her lip, met her crush-friend’s eyes, wouldn’t answer. SNAP.

This time, when the shock came, she let her hips roll and her back arch a little, and the noise that came out of her was some kind of gigglegaspmoan.

There was a hand on her thigh, then a hand at the top of her leg. There was a hand working its way up her shorts. Peyton closed her eyes and bit her lip and let it ride the soft, fuzzy skin to the dip where the tendon of her leg stood out against the swell of herself, then edge cautiously underneath the edge of her underwear.

“Rules clarification,” said someone. “If she tells the truth but doesn’t use her mouth, does that mean she’s cheating?”

“It means I win,” she said, grinning, and braced herself to get what she deserved.


Sick Day, Part Three

She tried to push the panties out of her mouth to answer him, but he reached forward to push them back in, grabbing her chin and pulling back to make her arch. Then he touched the buzzing vibrator to the side of the thermometer, just above where it was pushed inside her.

She couldn’t control herself at that sensation, bucking and jerking as he held her tight to keep her from wriggling away. Her hands scrabbled at the sheets. Muffled sounds of outrage escaped her; it wasn’t painful, but not exactly pleasant either. It was sure as hell stimulating.

Then she felt him release her chin, reach back, and undo his belt.

She stilled, even as he continued to toy with the vibrator: the learned response to the slithering sound of leather through loops overrode her urge to squirm. He doubled it and let it brush slowly across her lower back, then the tops of her thighs, the places she knew he could make it hurt worse if he wanted to. Then he gave her one sharp snap on her left cheek.

She bit down on the sodden wad of fabric in her mouth and slowly exhaled, a little helpless mewl, but he didn’t spank her again. He just took her wrists, one by one, and crossed them on her back once more. Then he let the dangling end of the belt tap her on the shoulder.

She lifted her head. He tucked the belt under her, around her throat, and looped it through the buckle. He wrapped it around his fist, and she slid back on her elbows, presenting herself. Slick and swollen, dark pink, ready.

The angle of it made her gasp, when he pushed inside. It wasn’t the first time he’d fucked her while teasing her ass, but it was definitely the first time he’d fucked her from behind with a glass rod buried inside her while obstructing her breathing with her own underwear and a convenient choke-leash. When he sat back on his heels, pulling her hips into him, and pressed the vibrator up against the top of her slit, she more or less lost the ability to think.

It was a nice position for him; he could make her fuck back against him by tugging the belt, and adjust her vertically to his preference via upward pressure on the vibe. The way this combination made her strain and struggle, gasping and trying to find her balance, was all that kept her from coming. She wanted him deep, wanted him to just plunge all the way into her, but he liked to keep it shallow sometimes: the head of his cock popping just in and out of her lips, teasing her needy cunt.

“Do you feel,” he panted, “any better?” But her only answer was a stuttered groan.

He made her come first. She could feel herself clenching tight around the thermometer. Distantly, she wondered if he was watching, if he could see it moving with each involuntary contraction–not that it would have been easy, given the way the rest of her was thrashing around. Just as she was coming down, he pulled out the glass plug and his cock, flipped her over on her back with one scoop of his arm, and jacked off onto her belly and chest.

Feeling his warmth spatter on her skin gave her a startling aftershock; she did spit out her gag, finally, chest heaving for air as the rush went through her and she collapsed out of her orgasmic arch.

He flopped down next to her, eyes barely open, grin very self-satisfied. “Are we sorry?”

“Yeah,” she said, after a couple of tries.

“Are we well?”


His hand was between her legs again, lightly testing the feel of her closed lips with all his fingers. She shivered; usually she was capable of revving right back up afterwards, but then usually she didn’t come quite that hard. He dipped a finger into her and then out, wetly slipping over her clit, which–well. Huh. Apparently she was ready to rev back up after all.

“I’m going to ask you to take over on this for me in a moment,” he murmured, “while I go get the laptop. And then, to make sure today’s lesson sticks, you’re going to walk me through every tab you have open. Every post you liked. Every line of conversation that made you this wet.”

“Now?” she said, startled.

“I took the afternoon off to take care of you,” he said, with that smug and sleepy smile. “And I intend to. As many times as necessary.”

She bit her lip. “Um. Okay.”

“That’s right, okay.”

“Some of it might just be… a little… weird to you,” she admitted.

“I certainly hope so,” he laughed, and kissed her temple. “My little sicko.”


He could tell as soon as he walked in the door, the way she blushed and darted her eyes around, toe of one shoe twisting on the floor.

He didn’t ask at first. He took his time, removing his jacket and hanging it up, setting his briefcase on the table, unlacing his shoes. He let the silence lengthen. He let it build until she had to break it herself.


He didn’t look up at her yet. “Yes, little one.”

“I have to tell—um, did you have a good day at work?” She caught herself, remembering the protocol.

“It was fine, thank you for asking. And how was your day here?”

“Kinda boring. Um. Daddy.” She took a deep breath.

He pushed a chair out from the table. “Stand here,” he said quietly. “Hands on the back. Good posture. There’s my girl.”

She was shaking a little as she assumed her position. He stood and began to pull her clothes off, calmly, treating her as he would an easily-panicked animal. “Now,” he said, “your confession.”

“I played with your toys today, Daddy,” it tumbled out in a rush. “I’m sorry! I’m really sorry. I know I wasn’t allowed to. But I did almost all my chores, and I was so good, I was waiting for you, but I just got so bored, and then—”

He had her down to her underwear and socks now; he unsnapped her bra and gently tugged it off her shoulders. His hand drifted up her belly to stroke the underside of her breast. “These toys?” he said.

She bit her lip, trembling, and nodded. “And others. Daddy.”

“It’s not your fault, Princess,” he explained, his mouth close to her ear, making her whole body tingle. “My toys should have known better than to help you break the rules. So I have to punish all the toys that you touched. I have to remind them why they don’t disobey Daddy. You understand, don’t you, little one?”

“B-but Daddy, I–I mean they tried so hard, I—”

“Little one,” he murmured, a little growl in his voice, “you’re going to drop your panties to the floor now. You’re going to carry them to your room—in your mouth—and put them in your dirty girl laundry, and come back with the soft cuffs you keep in your special drawer. And then we’re going to play a little game with my toys together. Say, how long that pretty little bottom can keep from lifting off this chair.”

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice from going squeaky. “Yes, Daddy!”

“GOOD girl,” he chuckled. “I promise, tomorrow, you’ll all be MUCH better behaved.”


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?]


They’d caught her probably six or seven hours ago, though this windowless room made it hard to keep track. Jane had tried everything she could to play innocent–she was just an innocent guest who got lost; okay, no, she’d been bribed to carry something but she had no idea what it was–but once they’d searched her (quite roughly) and found the little microdrive, there was no question of escape.

In a last-ditch attempt, she’d made an attempt to seduce the man who caught her, whispering in his ear and grinding herself against his rough hand. He’d just laughed and spun her around, locking her wrists behind her back as he pushed her into the elevator and escorted her to the interrogation room. “Sweetheart,” he said, “by the time he’s done with you you’ll do a lot more than that.”

Then he’d walked in, and with a quiet, businesslike attitude, began to work her.

She had expected torture: electricity, waterboarding, stress positions, sleep deprivation. Jane had been trained to handle that, and while she was scared, she believed she could handle it until an extraction squad arrived to get her. She had not expected this.

He’d stripped her to the waist in total silence, then he’d yanked down her panties from under her skirt and forcibly began to manipulate her pussy. Over her inarticulate cries of protest, he’d controlled her like a simple machine, turning her frantic resistance into helpless squirming of another kind entirely. She didn’t want to like this, to take pleasure in her assault. But her body had other ideas.

He seemed to know everything about her cunt–when she wanted pressure, when she wanted penetration, how fast to grind against her and when exactly pain began to become something that wasn’t necessarily bad. She had stopped shouting, saving her breath for the struggle, but she was still surprised when a little moan slipped out of her mouth instead.

That was when the band of leather slipped around her throat.

He edged her. Jane would freeze, stiffen, arch and open her mouth, and he’d tighten his grip, restricting and then cutting off her breath as he slowed the hand using her clit until she felt she was tingling and aching and painfully close to coming–and then he’d stop and hold her there, struggling to breathe and not even realizing she was moving her hips against the empty air. He’d keep her there for two heartbeats, three, four, on the verge of a forced orgasm, before he released the strap and let her gasp in lungfuls of air. And as she collapsed forward, his hand would find her clit and start driving her up again.

This was the part where Jane started to lose track of time. She could have struggled to fight him off; soon she was only struggling to get more from his infernal hand. Everything he did made her want to lift herself against him and squeal with need. She could barely think. And that was before he yanked her back down and began to punish her breasts.

It hurt. Of course it hurt. It just hurt in a way that made her cunt clench and her back arch and her whole body flush with heat. Jane ground her dripping pussy against the chair and forgot her code name, her mission, her training, everything except her body and her need and the gasping breaths of air he allowed her.

Forgetting wouldn’t be all bad, she told herself as she edged again on the pain of his slap on her breast. After all, eventually he might start asking questions.


Do you know what he likes about you, little girl? Your soft places. The parts of your body that seem to be made for squeezing, gripping, slapping. Exposing. Hurting.

Sometimes that will be your cute little butt, up in the air, wiggling over his lap as he raises his hand and lets you anticipate the fall. Sometimes that will be your pretty pink mouth, his thumb rolling from your lower teeth to your lip as he holds you firmly by the chin to make sure you know you’re being used. And sometimes, he’s going to tie you up, pull your clothes just far enough out of the way, and lean down as he pulls your crotch rope up to make you curl like a roly-poly bug.

It’s convenient, you see. He can grip and squeeze and pinch your sweet breasts, and then he can reach down just a little bit and warm up your naughty little pussy, and then go back and start again. He can do it as many times as he wants. He can make you very very wet, and very very sore. He will. And then maybe he’ll see how you react when he puts himself inside you.

He gets so hard, you see, and it really is your fault–you make him that way. So he needs to take some softness from you.

I’m sure you don’t mind. After all, good little girls share, don’t they?


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.


Behavior correction case file #763: Dr. Ellie Graves. Subject was formerly the lead therapist of Division G, a promising young doctor with a great future at the Institute ahead of her. Surveillance of her personal Internet traffic, however, revealed plans to take certain concerns about Institute policies to federal authorities. Subject was admitted as quickly as possible and it is not believed that she was able to disclose any sensitive patient information at this time.

Ellie completed an extensive personality profile during her application process, which provides a number of insights into a proper treatment plan. Subject fears but is fascinated by electrostim and predicament bondage. Subject can deal with nudity, but is easily embarrassed by slow, gradual removal of clothing. Subject has had mostly female sexual partners but reported intense responses to forceful sex with men. Subject has speculated about being conditioned to climax on command.

As might be expected, subject has employed the listed techniques on previous patients, several of whom (case files 188, 242, 439 and 751) have responded with enthusiasm to the prospect of being personally involved with her rehabilitation. They are to be given a large degree of autonomy in working with her, but sessions should be monitored to make sure the subject is not in excessive danger.

While some of the staff of Division D have what would be considered an existing relationship with the subject, and would normally recuse themselves under Institute rules, this is a special case and the division heads have given permission for her handlers to indulge any previous speculation on the subject’s sexual ability.

Hypothesis: while knowledge of our standard practices should provide the subject with a modicum of resistance at first, within a month of commencing treatment, she will be malleable, fully sexually activated and compliant with all standard training guidelines for a female patient. While she will unfortunately no longer be useful as a colleague at the Institute, she will be in no danger of reporting anything to anyone, which will mark a successful rehabilitation.

When all involved are satisfied with her correction, Ellie is to be placed on fucktoy rotation, level 9.


Behavior correction case file #34: █li███. Subject admitted und██ ████ █y for kn███ █████ █████y. █████ to Dr. ██████ █or ba████.

███████ ██ to previ███ █wn██, but init████ ██sts produc██ █████ ████ss. Instead, Divi████ █ ███ds decid██ to engage in an exp██████ ██ur██, det████ed ███lo██

█████ is consi████d a distinct requirem███, in addit██n to ██urly stimul██ ██ ████oris, “g-█████ █nd nipples; ana█ ███████ ██ ████mended. Should subject reach a ██████, discou████ ████ ███ █ENS unit. Also consider appl███g su██ ████████ if subject brin██ ██ "re█████," ███ghts” or “██████.” Verbaliza███n of any kin██, ██ ████ ██ █o be puni█████

Under NO circum███nc██ is the subj███ to be ███mitted orgasm. ███itor vita███ at al█ ██mes and be sure ██ forc█ ██ █east 24 edg██ ███ day, ██ting that su███ct respo██s to tradi██████ █████chistic implem███s as well as forc██ ███asure.

NOTE: Drs ██████ and ████████ are known to ha██ ███sonal histo██ with th██ ████ct and sh████ recuse them██████ fro█ any con█████████ ██ ███ █████ment plan. The Ins██████ is a place of ████y and tr███████, not cru███ or ███geance.

████mended durati██ ██ ██████ is fo██ █o six ██████. Any l████r and we will lik███ see per███████ ████ges to subje███ █████ ███ █████ █ell-be███.

(Ah fuck, another one of these? We have GOT to improve our backup policy. Just… keep doing what we’re doing, I guess? Her current handler certainly seems to enjoy the work. –DT)


Behavior correction case file #253: Chrissy. Subject is a “screamer,” unable to control the volume or pitch of her voice during sexual activity. While vocal enthusiasm is a highly prized trait here at the Institute, it comes second to self-control when so ordered.

Chrissy will first be conditioned to associate being gagged with arousal and a need for stimulation–a common course of reeducation for new subjects. Once complete, we will begin building the idea that the gag is her own responsibility, and must remain in her mouth in order to reach orgasm. Opening her mouth to scream (or biting the gag too hard) will result in a series of bouncing, weighted tugs on her nipples, and cessation of clitoral stim.

After the first failure, she will also receive a series of punishments of ascending intensity to her vulva, and will be required to beg–in a whisper–for the gag to be replaced between her teeth.

Subject is not a quick learner. Reassess case progress at two weeks or two successful orgasms, whichever comes last.

(Tip of the hat to Z.)


Ashlyn’s been a “patient” at the facility for six months. Every day, they clip a long pole to her thick collar, make sure she’s wearing the proper footwear (and nothing else), and drag her into the treatment room to strap her down.

Only once she’s inside, secured, tied tight and completely exposed, do they unlock the belt and remove the fitfully buzzing toy attached to it. (Batteries need charging, after all.) The first time they unplugged her, Ashlyn gasped with relief from the constant teasing, but that was before she knew what they’d do next.

It’s amazing, the number of things you can find to do to a girl who can’t squirm away or close her legs. They fuck her, of course, when it suits them, and they punish her needy pussy with the crop or dripping wax or the horrible snapping wand. They’ve had every other girl in the facility in the room, at one time or another, eager tongues lapping away at her swollen clit, chins and noses and fingers and cheeks–Ashlyn never knew she could distinguish between so many different sensations on her lips. They’ve used overpowered vibrators and water jets to drive her to the edge (and oh, it’s cruel when the water is cold), and they’ve held her there with feathers and oil-wet paintbrushes. The only thing they have never, ever done is permit her to come.

She screams and thrashes, of course, begs and bargains, not that she believes it’ll do any good. But it’s all she has left. That, and the skylight.

The treatment room is the only place in the facility with an open window to the sky. At her deepest moments of desperation, cunt pulsing, raw with broken need, she can look up and see the deepening blue of afternoon, or the red underbellies of sunset clouds. Ashlyn clings to it. She believes it’s their one remaining mercy.

She’s wrong, of course. By now the conditioning is almost complete, the association locked. When she is finally released from the facility–perhaps transferred to another training center, perhaps to the tender care of a private practice–Ashlyn will never be able to look up again without remembering that she is helpless, and wet, and owned.



“What happens when I do this, hm?”

She lets out a whimper, her mouth opening wide, faltering along the way. 

“I want an answer, pet. Now.”

She bites down on her lip, pausing to try and take a deep breath. “I feel it down there, Sir. I… I know I’m getting wet.”

He raises an eyebrow, unable to keep from smiling at her predicament. “And if I twist a little bit, what then?”

She moans, her back arching from the bed. “Please, please touch my pussy, Sir!”

“Oh, not a chance, little one. I’m having fun with this. I love when you squirm for me, so I’ll enjoy it for as long as I see fit.”

He tugs until she’s tight, stiff and trembling, then runs the backs of his nails down the sides of her breasts. The skin prickles all the way from her ribs to her collarbone: she jerks and gasps when he finds her nipple again and flicks.

All five fingertips circle the peak and slowly spread apart: stroking her, soothing her, letting the skin slowly start to relax. She feels a tiny bit of relief, thinking maybe he’s about to move on, but disappointment too. All that focus and attention on one place is powerful: she never thought she could be controlled so effectively with just one hand, and nowhere near her pussy.

Then his hand slides up to her throat.

“S-sir,” the word comes frantically, but he’s not gripping tight, just… holding. His palm molds to her and his thumb and finger rest just behind the corners of her jaw, soft but undeniable.

“Tell me again what’s happening to your pussy, girl,” he says, and she can hear the smirk in his voice.

It’s fucking gushing, that’s what’s happening. “Uh. Sir. It’s wet because y-y-youOH!” He’s finally taken his mouth to her breast, rolling her nipple between lip and tongue, pulling back to puff a little air and watch it tighten up again so fast it aches.

“It’s wet because I’m playing with my property,” he finishes for her, his lips brushing again and again against her as he speaks. “Just one tiny piece of my property, albeit a flawless one. Do you like it when I play with the things I own, pet?”

“YES, Sir,” she says, arching to try to get her breast into his warm mouth again, but he chuckles as he pulls back and gives her another flick.

“What did you want me to do with that pussy again?”

It’s a trap, of course it’s a trap, but what is she going to do? “Please touch it. Please!”

“What will you do for me if I agree to touch your wet, warm, needy, throbbing pussy right now, girl?”

It pours out of her: promises, bargains, pleading and cajoling. She won’t touch for a week. She’ll touch every hour for a week. He can fuck her in any hole, use her, punish her, rent her out and watch. She’ll use her body in any way he pleases, go naked, go belted, go collared, go anywhere he orders her if he’ll please just touch…

The tiniest fraction of tightness on her throat, and she understands. Her mouth clicks shut.

“I’m going to touch you now–because I choose to, not because you are particularly convincing–but rest assured I will hold you to each and every one of those, pet. One at a time, thoroughly, and at length. Understand?”

“Always, Sir,” she whispers.

When his hand finally slides up each side of her velvety, bare lips, touching her pussy without a hint of penetration or pressure on her clit, the noises that come from her throat are kittenish and desperate. He takes his fingers up and down, again and again, drawing closer and closer to her inner lips, and then withdraws–

Only to land flat with a sharp, wet smack.

Convulsing, clenching, edging, crying out from the shock more than the pain, she wonders if he was taking notes or what.




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.