Handoff, Part Five

(Parts 1-4.)

How do you feel?

That’s all right.

Oh yes? Not a big girl right now?
It’s not like being… young, for me. Just small.

Like something I could hold in my hand?
Yes, Mister.

Like I’m doing right now.
Yes, Mister.

Do you feel safe here?
Uh huh.

Do you feel all used up? All worn out?
… Maybe.

Or do you think you can take a little more?
A little more what?

Oh, so you are coming back to yourself a little.
Maybe. Mister.

“Maybe.” Well. Maybe I want to do a little something you won’t bounce back from so fast. Maybe I want you to be thinking about this for a long time.
Uh uh.

You think I won’t? Or you think I can’t?
I dunno.

Maybe I want you to beg before I let you leave this room.
I bet you can’t make me.

Guess we’ll have to see how much more you can deal with, then, won’t we?

It wasn’t far from the armchair to the bed; I stood up, took a few steps and dropped her back onto it. She made a little show of squirming to one side. I retrieved her and administered several blows with the flat of my hand. Despite several nervous statements earlier about how she was actually a bit of a pushover in the pain department, Ivy stayed mute and stubborn: the bratty side resurgent.

She’d also made several claims about her own tightness, and how she had to be really wet to take any kind of thick penetration, even her own fingers. The speculum exam had borne that out to some degree, but I decided that the hypothesis needed another test.

My fingers are noticeably larger than hers, but as before, she took the first two just fine.

Ivy’s wrists were still tied together at this point, which made it entertaining when she wriggled up onto her elbows and tried to crawl away. Her reward for that was being dragged face-down across the bed again, and another series of smacks. I hooked my thumb into her vaginal canal and, using the wetness that had transferred to the base of my first two fingers, worked on her swollen clit for a little while. Judging by her vocal reaction, this seemed to produce a complex emotional reaction for her.

“Are you ready to—“

“No, Mister,” she cut me off.

I don’t know if she knew she was taking three fingers, after that, but she did begin to emit muffled sounds of distress.

The series repeats: I’m not sure if it was in the same order, but the basic series of squirming, spanking, stimulation and penetration, making her take a little more with each step. She wasn’t wrong about being a tight fit. She had no trouble producing more than sufficient lubrication, though.

Around the time you get four fingers inside a human being, you start needing to contend with the basic skeletal structure of your recipient. The vaginal canal is a flexible structure composed of elastic muscle, which can be shifted and stretched, but the bone and ligament of the pelvis are fundamentally stronger and more rigid than that of the hand.

“How does that feel?” I asked, testing to see how far I could push the tapered shape of my fingers, whether I could press against her clit from inside.  “Too much for you, little girl?”

“No, Mister.” (I’ve omitted the onomatopoeia which would have lengthened this statement considerably.)

“Oh, then you think you can take more than this.”

“I don’t know, Mister,” is what I think she was attempting to say.

“Don’t worry, Ivy,” I said. “I believe in you.”

I don’t know if she quite understood what was happening—being face down and all—but when I pushed all five of my fingers into her cunt, she took it like a champ.



Handoff, Part Four

(Parts 1-3 here.)

Every weekday morning, my bus to work passes the hotel D took me to. I’ll look up and, subconsciously, shift a little in my seat. It’s almost become a part of my commute now, seeing the hotel and remembering being spread open, being made small and helpless. I have felt myself become wet before, the sharpness of my memory manufacturing another sort of Pavlovian drooling entirely.
It wasn’t some sleazy hourly motel. Inevitably, I’ll see professionals in neatly pressed suits with their efficient black suitcases rolling along on the pavement behind them. Not to say that it was particularly swanky either. But I suppose my point here is that when I pass the hotel, I realize that I am perhaps the first and only person to have ejected a speculum onto its sheets.

The vibrations that had taken me over the edge were intense. At first, the speculum had rattled inside me when D lowered the head of the wand to the implement’s base. But I suppose I had clenched around it, because once it was still it was like a column of vibration, like something drilling into the earth. It went so deep that I nearly saw white. I don’t remember if I gave any cue that I was cumming – it’s become routine now for me to have to ask for it with partners – but I was before I knew it.

Afterwards, I had managed to steady my breathing. For whatever reason, over the past couple of years, I’ve been getting really good – if you can even call it a skill – at orgasming vaginally without clitoral stimulation. However, it’s often not nearly as intense. But my body doesn’t hold itself to its own rules. There’s this feeling that I get when I orgasm this way, like something in my head’s shifted just slightly and then something – endorphins? – is freed to rush out. Like twisting the kink out of a garden hose to release the pent up water. It’s more localized in my head than it is anywhere else in my body. But the feeling still lingered this time, made every part of me still feel alight and coiled. Even my clit was still tingling when I heard D switch the vibrator back on. 

So I flinched at the idea of having more stimulation applied to it. I clenched up. And that’s when I felt the speculum slip out and found the telltale heat of shame crawling up the back of my neck.

”Ivy, we are going to finish this examination,“ I heard D say over the scrape of the speculum being closed. “Even if I have to bend you over the bed and insert it that way. Do you understand?” 

I whined, but nodded nonetheless. The truth was that I was relieved to feel the speculum slide back inside me. I wanted it there, had missed the feeling of being held open almost immediately after the speculum had been pushed out. For as vulnerable and exposed as it made me feel, it also felt really, really good.
This time it wasn’t nearly as cold, and it slid home almost effortlessly. I wasn’t sure if he’d reapplied lube or if I was just that wet.

"Are you going to be a good girl and keep it in this time?” D asked, not waiting for my reply before he lowered the head of the wand to just above the hood of my clit. When D turned the vibrator on, I sucked in an inhale so sharply that it stung the arc of my hard palate. 

D focused almost entirely on my clit this time, bringing me up near the point of orgasm before withdrawing once I neared the peak. A few minutes later, he’d done it again. Then again. Then again. Each time the window constricting slightly, even as he managed to get me closer and closer to plunging over with each edge. Soon, I was trembling, I was barely coming down between them. D was dragging the kind of cries out of me that scraped my throat raw as he worked me up and then withdrew, wordlessly, over and over.

For a while, it all blurred together. I don’t remember if I begged or not. I don’t remember when he withdrew the speculum. I recall being told to hold the vibrator against my clit by trapping it between my bent knees, but my legs quaked too hard for me to keep it still, even after two attempts and a sharp slap to my thigh. And I don’t even remember if he ever let me cum and, if so, how many times he did, though he must have. Because when he removed the bandage from my eyes, the room was for a moment soft and swollen. I felt like I was floating despite the heaviness in my limbs.

D had lain down beside me on the bed. As I blinked my vision back to steadiness, he pulled me into him. We’d take a break, he explained. He wasn’t done with me yet. “But I’m going to keep you just like this for a moment,” he murmured against my skin. “I want you to stay right here." 


(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.


Handoff, Part One

“Take a moment and really LOOK at the diorama!” said the museum docent. “And close your eyes.”

“What?” I said. “Why?”

“Don’t just picture it! Try to feel it. Hear it,” she urged.

I peered at the fanciful nineteenth-century taxidermy case, which featured two lions fighting a probably racist caricature. Ivy, standing a few feet away, was waging her own battle with contained laughter.

“What do you hear?” said the docent.

“Screaming?” I said.

“Are you in creative writing?”

I looked at her, a bit furrowed. I realize that higher-education students come from many age brackets, but I am pretty far from passing for an undergrad.

“No?” I said, with a bit of hesitation; I mean, writing was—in a way—the reason I was here to visit.

“Well, if you were writing a story about this moment,” she forged on, “what would it feel like?”

I looked at the sand heaped around the bottom of the case, and the wild-eyed, splay-legged camel within.

“Hot?” I replied.

Ivy and Flora, actively pretending not to know me, were no help at all. It took me a few more minutes to escape and flee toward the larger east gallery, blessedly free of taxidermy, during which they were busy charming each other.

It was another hour before Ivy sidled up to me, alone, in a side room filled with burial artifacts that no one had ever bothered to sort.

“Usually when I’m considering whether to have a scene with someone,” I said, “I’d start with a conversation about our… you know, kinks and interests.”

“Right,” said Ivy. “But I think we’ve got that covered.

“Has it really been that many years since the first time we interacted?”

“Yup,” she said. “I was a baby.”

I winced.

“Cheer up,” she said. “I’m all grown up now!”

Later still, at the hotel, I ran my fingertips down her arms and felt her prickle and shiver. She was standing very still, lips parted; I ran my fingers back along her thigh, drawing her skirt up, and up, and up—until it became clear that she had chosen to forgo her panties for this first meeting with a new old friend.

“Naughty girl,” I murmured, smiling. “Is it all right if I call you that?”

She nodded, and took a deep breath. “What should I call you?”

“Well, we are almost strangers,” I said. “Why don’t we try… ‘Mister?’”

“Okay, Mister,” she said, in a voice that didn’t sound very grown up at all.



Did something naughty yesterday with a certain somebody, and I feel all glittery and sore today.

I swear, the measures some people will take to get me back on tumblr.

I did something really naughty today.


I did something really naughty today.

I don’t know how to ask this without sounding judgemental, but I hope you take it as a serious question, not an attack. We all agree that rape is horrible and I’m glad that there’s a campaign to address how wrong society’s mentality is about it. Yet you have said you have rape fantasies. I know it’s a “fantasy” in an environment of trust and consent, but why would you, being so outspoken about this issue, fantasize with something as rape? I’m just trying to understand the logic behind it.



So what you’re basically telling me is I’m a hypocrite for being outspoken about rape when, in fact, I fantasize about and engage in consensual nonconsent. What I love about messages like this is you’re really not trying to get the logic behind it at all, because people far more articulate and established than I have certainly written quite a bit on the subject. What you’re trying to do is either make me feel guilty or corner me into a “gotcha” to try to take away my credibility. Or you’re trying to reveal some underlying Daddy issue or make me admit whether or not I’ve been raped so you can pathologize me. 

Let me start by saying that we live in a society where some of our most admired characters on television and in movies are drug lords, murderers and criminals. I highly doubt you would ever message someone who enjoyed The Godfather but who thought murder was unacceptable with this sort of message. I highly doubt you would accuse a teacher who would report statutory rape in a heartbeat but teaches Romeo and Juliet of being a hypocrite.

I like the term lived messiness. I am aware of my sexuality, I can problematize it, but I’m not going to crucify myself for it. Saying a feminist is a bad feminist for enjoying something is pretty damn anti-feminist.

It’s funny that you say “I know it’s a ‘fantasy’ in an environment of trust and consent” and still ask this question. Because, once again, you’re not really even asking a question here. If you acknowledge that I am behaving in an environment of trust an consent, how can you even call it rape? What I do in the privacy of my bedroom is so completely divorced from the act of rape it isn’t even funny. I don’t even call it a rape fantasy anymore, I call it consensual non-consent. 

Rape is not a sexual act as much as it is an act of violence, power and control. Why am I so outspoken about this issue? Because it’s wrong and it’s horrible and it’s PREVENTABLE and it’s happened to entirely too many people.

Consensual non-consent is something that I do with a partner that I trust and respect, who reciprocates those feelings. While rape is an act that attempts to rid the body of autonomy, I feel that consensual non-consent only confirms my autonomy over my body by allowing me to grant my partner the privilege of being rough with it. (And on the subject of roughness? I love it. I love the adrenaline.) While rape is an act of betrayal, consensual non-consent is an act of trust. And while rape is about misinformed entitlement, consensual non-consent is about giving someone the privilege to something. 

So, I could sit here and castigate myself and call myself a contradiction. Which is kind of exactly what the patriarchy wants me to do. Or I could continue to fight for the destruction of rape culture and the patriarchy while understanding the lived messiness of my sex life. My libido works a certain way, and I’m not going to suddenly drop this important cause just because I like my sex a little rough.

Oh, and by the way? “I don’t know how to ask this without sounding judgmental” falls under the same category of phrases like “I’m not trying to be racist/sexist/rude but…” 



I’m over the whole concept of the infallible dom. The whole strong man stereotype who is always right and never messes up and is suave every moment of every day. Men who demand that sort of esteem are a little absurd, and a culture that perpetuates that role is harmful to both these people and the people that love them.

Bottom line: I love that he trips. I love that she smirks. And I love that he is sometimes that domineering presence and sometimes, yeah, he’s a guy who hasn’t quite gotten the hang of a punching bag just yet.

So let’s talk about this. A few things have been rattling around in my head ever since Ivy posted her (perceptive and valuable) take.

  1. Dominance and submission are, to my mind, deeply valuable as ways of being understood.
  2. You can only understand a human by understanding a human.
  3. Asking someone to understand you is asking them to see your flaws as well as your gifts. This is scary, and carries risks.
  4. So dominance and submission are expressions of vulnerability by everyone involved.

“The sub has unstated power over the scene” isn’t exactly groundbreaking kink theory, but it has implications like these that maybe don’t get examined as much. When you top you can get hurt or exhausted, emotionally or physically. You can be pressured into doing things you wouldn’t normally consider, just like a sub. I’ve topped in consensual nonconsent scenes that left me shaking and kind of fucked up afterwards, and I’m fortunate that I had a (submissive!) partner who was really good with aftercare for me. When I asked her to understand me, in a moment when I was fallible, she said yes.

So as fun as it is to write and fantasize about implacable, aloof or flawless Dom-monsters, it’s a little silly–and counterproductive–to try to bring that into real life. Inhabit the character when it suits and leave it behind when it doesn’t. Being vulnerable with the right person is one of the most rewarding things I’ve done in my life, as I think many subs would agree. Opening up your own humility and humanity in a dominant role will pay you back over and over, and I think seeing more representation of that experience would be a really good thing.


Behavior correction case file #440 UPDATE: Ivy. While the subject has shown marked improvement under treatment so far, recent indications are that progress has plateaued. It may simply be that we have reached the limitations of what can be achieved by coaxing and instructing, and need to move on to working directly with the subconscious.

Simply put, Ivy will be put on overload. Each week, her chart will be updated with a randomized stim schedule, with staggered rest periods at irregular intervals to disorient her and induce repeated fugue states. She will spend the majority of shifts in some form of sensory deprivation combined with vibration, penetration, focused impact, and utilitarian bondage or encasement. She will never know exactly who is using her body, how long a session will last, or whether she will be permitted (or punished for) orgasm. Any information she gleans about her current circumstances will be drip-fed and incomplete. Monitor pulse levels, and feel free to switch things up to keep them high.

Between these sessions, Ivy will be folded into a small case and transported to the recovery chamber on level 4. She will spend recovery time unbound but collared, and dressed in minimal decorative garments, which are to be referred to as “pretties.” She will see a small, consistent set of supervisors during these periods, who have already been briefed on treating her gently but addressing her in diminutive and reductive terms. Soothing, petting, and cuddling are encouraged. Subject is to feel as if she is receiving special treatment (which is in fact true), but also in firm and careful hands.

Until, upon waking, she finds herself at full use again.

The overarching goal in this case is to simulate a fractured reality. The subject should come to believe that her stim sessions are a dream when she is in recovery, and that her recovery is a dream when she is under stim. The alternating stresses of this contradiction should provide opportunity to examine and manipulate her psyche to an otherwise unattainable degree.

The closest we have come to using this form of therapy in the past has been as a punitive measure against hostile actors bent on harming the Institute. The intent for those subjects was to break them. With Ivy, however, it must be clear that our intent is pure and therapeutic. We do not expect her to break; we expect her to blossom.



This reminds me of someone who can probably come up with a significantly better caption for this than I.

The vitals monitor on your wrist indicates that you are frightened, and I can think of a number of reasons why that might be. You are here increasingly against your will but cannot effect any articulate protest: that might be one. You don’t even know where “here” is, for that matter. You have been stripped and strapped down, only able to move your hips and thighs when I adjust these stirrups. Oh, and you’ve just felt the speculum slide inside you to open you up for my inspection.

Cold, isn’t it? Poor thing. Let’s apply a little clit stim to distract you.

There. Now, as I was saying: those things really shouldn’t be at the top of your list of concerns. (Sensitive there, aren’t you? Interesting.) What should concern you is the blindfold–not the fact that you can’t see, but the fact that those two patches each fit perfectly over one of your eyes. The fact that this collar is sized just so to the length of your neck. The ball gag, and the way it fits into your mouth with no gap.

These straps were made just for you, girl. You’ve been watched. Stalked. Measured. Certainly, they can tighten–but that’s for control, not fit. This bondage is bespoke. And now, with you wide open and helpless on my table, I’m going to take one final measurement for my records.

Don’t worry. I promise, it won’t hurt a bit.


They wanted her to see the hook: Annika had figured that out pretty early. It hung directly above the table and its stirrups, attached to a chain wound up around a heavy-duty winch. It looked like it could pull a car out of a lake. And it was positioned directly above her wide-spread thighs.

They had a whole medical theme here; the current vogue in oppression was the idea that dissidents were “sick,” and needed treatment to become proper citizens. It was just a veneer on the same brutality the regime had always longed to inflict. Annika had been passing information for two years now, and knew the risks, but of course she had thought she was invulnerable. Then someone had ratted her out.

Staring at the winch, stripped, shivering and strapped down tight, she tried to convince herself she’d never do the same, never turn on any of her friends.

Not that she’d have much opportunity if they kept the gag in place.

“Good afternoon, Annika,” said the monster when he walked in, lab-coated, pleasantly flipping through a chart. “You can call me Doctor. I see we’ve got a little issue with your political loyalties! Not to worry, we get cases like yours all the time. We’ll get you patched right up.”

She rolled her eyes at him, not that she could do much else. The body straps were tight enough that even breathing was an effort, and she’d already tired herself out testing the others. They clearly had experience here with immobilizing girls.

“Let me give you a little run-down of our standard treatment plan,” he said affably, pulling a rolling stool up to the head of the table and perching on it as he tugged on a latex glove. “Right now all areas of your body with lots of nerve endings–areas you instinctively try to protect–are exposed to me.” He pulled her lips back from her teeth and probed under her tongue; Annika trembled with the humiliation of it, as if she were a sick animal. “I’m going to work on those areas–stimulate them, provoke response. Meanwhile I’m going to hook up some sensors to your wrists, throat, underarms and heart. They’ll let me watch your body’s response in real time.”

Annika stared at him. This was their pretense? This was how they tried to justify imprisonment and torture? He wasn’t giving the faintest excuse about “curing” her at all.

He caught her eye and smiled. “That’s just the diagnosis stage–and it will take a little while. But it will let us identify exactly where in your body this subversive sickness resides.” He leaned in closely. “I have a hunch–just a hunch–that it’s either here…” He tapped her nipples casually, making her flinch. “Or here.” This time he patted her pussy in a horribly familiar way.

“And once we have found it for certain, our real work begins.” He turned to the wall and flipped on a large monitor. To Annika’s horror, it was a video of her former contact Liliya, dangling from that awful hook in a cruel hogtie as this man forced his slippery, gloved hand inside her, while the other pressed a buzzing steel-pronged tool of some kind against her clit.

“Annika!” Liliya was squealing, jerking desperately in her bonds. “Her name is Annika, she lives at 2240 Gerstin, that’s all I know! PLEASE!”

“That’s how we know the treatment has begun to take hold,” said the monster brightly, turning it off again. “Well, Annika. Why don’t we get started making you better?”



After shipping, it’s typically recommended that you cut away the straps.

But who are we to rush you?

“I know it’s been a little while,” he said, chuckling as he patted her flank. “But I’ve been busy, and your warranty doesn’t start until I take you out of the packaging, you know. There’s no point running it out before I have time to take you for a proper test drive, now is there?”

Elise could do little but glare up at him. The straps still kept her perfectly immobile, and the matching ring gag held her mouth open in a perfect O, “TRY ME!” still emblazoned on the tag next to her cheek.

“Now, I did finally have a chance to sit down with the manual,” he said, as if this were reassuring. “I just skimmed it, really, but one thing stuck out to me. It says you actually can’t enter ‘full functionality’ mode until you’re unstrapped. That is, you can react and feel and lubricate, but try as hard as I might, I can’t make you come. Did you realize that?”

She stared, open-mouthed, as if she had a choice. Surely he wasn’t–he couldn’t. No.

“I thought I’d just give that limit a spot check,” he grinned, lifting her out of the box and up onto some kind of work table. Beside it was a pegboard, hung with tools–probes, clamps, voltmeters and a heavy, well-used Hitachi. He picked up the last and tested it against the palm of his hand; it buzzed like the world’s biggest, angriest bee.

“The other thing I read,” he said, setting it down next to her face where she had to stare at it in fearful anticipation, “was that you have some diagnostics enabled. Voltage output indicators, for instance. Here and here.” The red and black alligator clamps snapped onto her nipples before she could move, but she arched and squirmed and tried to shake them off anyway.

“See?” he took her face in one hand, pressing it tightly and twisting her head to look at the needle bobbing at the left side of the meter. “But then when we apply stimulation…” He flicked the Hitachi back on and started to work it down between her tightly bound legs.

The vibration was incredibly strong–strong enough that it didn’t have to be anywhere near her clit to start sending pulsing waves of irresistible pleasure through her. Elise thrashed some more, but she wasn’t going anywhere, and the tool was wedged tightly against her. The needle rose, and rose, and rose… and stopped, hovering close to the right side but not going any farther.

“They weren’t kidding,” he grinned, delighted. “You absolutely do have a built-in lock. And I can keep you pushed right up against it for as long as I leave this thing turned on.” He turned to get out a roll of black electrical tape and began winding it around her to keep the Hitachi in place. “Oh yes, little toy, I think we’re going to have quite a few tests to do before we decide to ruin your collector’s value.”

Whimpering, throbbing and already beginning to grow frantic with frustrated need, Elise started to wonder if her warranty would cover a broken brain.


Holy shit, there are 500 of you?

Considering that I don’t post anywhere near as often as the people I admire on here, that I used to consider this just a distraction from writing on Literotica, and that I don’t upload pictures of my butt, I am genuinely surprised every time I get a new follower–and I certainly didn’t expect to be looking at this kind of big round number. Wow.

I like you all! I check out every single one of your blogs, and I’ve found some amazing writers and curators that way. I thought I’d pay some of the follow-love forward to a few of the tumblrs I feel closest to in spirit (and, you may notice, reblog with wild abandon).

  • If you like my stuff and aren’t reading femsubdenial, you’re doing something terribly wrong. I still suspect you all came from either him or the mighty yourbadgrrl.
  • Thinkivykink is smarter and braver than me, and a hell of a lot cuter. I admire her, and you should too.
  • Lightningbugjune and thesimplestpleasure started writing around the same time as I did, and I kind of feel like we were in the same orientation group. They do some of the best, most personal writing about submission I’ve ever found.
  • Welldeservedrestraint doesn’t need a little fish like me to throw them followers, but if you haven’t checked them out, I feel like I owe you that favor.
  • For sheer consistency and high-quality image selection, you can’t beat female0rgasm, takeitslut and petiteboundgirl.
  • And I only recently discovered spinal-knobs, who posts a great mix of cute butch girls and really hot porn.

There are lots more–I follow a hundred of you, and if I do it’s because you have met a pretty high standard–and I’m sure I’ll have to post an update to this at some point, but there’s a start. Thanks for reading, everybody. You are all very special, and I promise that someday I will experiment on you one by one.

EDIT: I already realized I forgot one of my longtime favorites–Crimson, who posts as crimson-and-bare and crimson-uncovered.


Behavior correction case file #440: Ivy. Subject is regressive, and struggles with denial and reluctance to acknowledge her own sexual needs. Subject has also demonstrated a marked difficulty with remaining still.

Ivy is to be restrained at all times until she has internalized the basic fact that struggling, while rewarding in the short term, has long-term consequences. Orderlies are advised to use consistent manual contact in order to accustom her to being handled, as one would a small domestic animal. Restraint position should be changed regularly to keep the subject from relaxing too far into subspace. To prevent excessive struggle during rope changes, consider use of toys: subject may respond to a combination of oral occupancy (finger/pacifier) and clitoral stim. Use a gentle tone of voice at this time and keep up a stream of verbal praise–again, as one would soothe a small pet, or a child.

Subject is expected to maintain a high baseline level of lubrication and should be manually stimulated to edge at random intervals; color and temperature of facial surfaces and throat provide a useful gauge of current arousal. The promise of orgasm will be used to motivate behavior, but should be largely withheld even when subject behaves properly (this is not expected). Provide spurious reasons to withhold orgasm: minor infractions of unspoken rules, embarrassing observations from case file, and so on. Upon objection, alternate spanking with further edges.

Once per day, subject is to be blindfolded, partially declothed (panties at ankles, etc), and brought to an observation chamber via nipple clamp leash to answer questions about her progress. Phrase questions in degrading, belittling ways, and use anal stimulation to reward answers in the same idiom. Discourage silence, impertinence, or other attempts at dignity via freeform means. Observers and questioners will rotate: it is considered important that the subject know she is humiliating herself verbally in front of an ongoing series of unknown people.

If subject should maintain a full week of proper behavior, good conduct and appropriate self-degradation, set her existing conditions as a new benchmark and impose new ones until she reaches failure state (aka “tantrum”). Suggestions: display orifices for sexual partners until such time as they choose to acknowledge and make use of them; insert tail, apply bondage mitts and serve food and water in floor dishes; installation bondage in lobby to allow exploration/stimulation by guests waiting for admittance.

Admittance of this subject is open-ended and therapy is set to end only when subject herself believes that she is “cured.” Division D has prepared her cell for an indefinite stay and will document and, if helpful, publish each step of her correction online.



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.