Gallery – Page 10 – Not A Real Doctor

Is this worth passing notes in class, girl?

“Well?” The tap of the ruler against the tops of her thighs. “Is it?”

The ruler was such a joke. He kept it on his desk in a jar of pencils, and everyone could see that the numbers were faded to the point of illegibility. What was he going to measure anyway? He was a fucking English teacher.

He was also fucking hot, crazy, movie-star hot, with a taste in dress shirts and a cruel wit that maintained the rapt attention of every girl in his class. There were rumors, too, about things he’d done with past students after they’d turned 18. Nobody could prove anything–certainly none of the office aides had been able to find a written complaint–but everybody knew somebody whose cousin used to go here, and she said that her friend…

“Answer me.”

The ruler tapped a little harder, the flat on her skin making a sharp sound as she jerked in the cuffs. Brienne tried again to swallow, unused to the gag, and shook her head no.

He’d humiliated her in front of the class when he caught the note going from her hand to Maddy’s, made her apologize to them from the front of the room, then leaned over and murmured that she’d need to come see him after school. She had expected a dressing down. Rumors aside, she hadn’t really expected to be dragged to a windowless supply room, wordlessly blindfolded, cuffed, gagged and bent over, his fingers undoing the top few snaps of her blouse without touching her skin.

She knew she was really in trouble when she heard the jingle of the collar he’d taken from her bookbag.

“Is this yours, Brienne?”

She hesitated. The ruler on her thighs was not gentle this time.

She gasped, nodded, shook her head, nodded again. (She’d borrowed it–well, it was a gag gift she’d given Maddy, then taken back–but how was she supposed to explain that with her mouth wedged open?)

The leather of the collar against her neck: he began to buckle it into place and her knees almost buckled too. He’d still barely even touched her, but every nerve in her body was on alert, straining for the slightest sensation; the brush of his thumb against the sensitive skin of her throat made her pulse jump.

“There are a number of things you’ve done that require attention,” he said, running his fingers over her collarbone to just brush the upper skin of her chest. “First, the note. Second, carrying sexually deviant paraphernalia in a bag intended for textbooks. Third, failing to speak up for yourself when a teacher displays absolutely inappropriate behavior toward you.”

The ruler was back, this time on its edge, sliding up between her thighs to press sharply against her; Brienne made a helpless noise and went up on her toes, but he followed her, pushing, forcing her to feel the damp patch on her white panties. She could feel the flush in her cheeks and neck; she twisted her wrists against the steel and arched, trying to give her shoulders some relief.

“You’ll be working with me in a series of extracurricular sessions to make sure you’re prepared for graduation. Each Tuesday, you’ll meet me here after school, in uniform, prepared to be attentive, quiet, and obedient. You will bring this,” he tugged at the ring of the collar, “as a reminder of your transgressions. Do you understand?”

The ruler left. His fingers replaced it. Brienne moaned, humiliatingly, involuntarily grinding herself against them for the brief second before he took the pressure away.

He jerked her underwear down, grabbed her hair to hold her, and then there it was, the cold flat of the ruler pressed against her cheeks.

“Do you,” he said, “understand?”

Brienne tried to nod, and wondered if he understood she’d had to pass that damn note forty-eight times.

Oh, you think those are going on your nipples, hmm? You wish, pet.

I would do specific, precise, extensive, long-lasting things to Emilia Clarke.

yourbadgrrl:

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.

artisticsub:

thesimplestpleasure:

I blush just thinking about this. It’s the examining that gets to me, I think. The closeness, the intimacy, the inspection – the fact that this is a man merely looking at what he owns and doing with it as he sees fit. The fact that I damn well better sit still no matter what his fingertips do because he expects me to be good and let him explore.

So. Mean.

Every inch of you, smooth as velvet, groomed just as he instructed. Your pose picture perfect, legs apart for him, wrists crossed behind your head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. The slow, calm, methodical humiliation of your naked vulva.

He’s had to wipe you down several times, using the wadded wreck of your own panties to sop up your wetness as the heavy clamp stand keeps the Hitachi in place against you. There’s a dimmer switch on it, of course–you can’t decide whether that’s for kindness or cruelty–which he adjusts occasionally, always a microsecond before you think you’re about to go over the edge. Or lose it.

He likes to keep you here, almost delirious with need, where he can watch you pulse and throb under the gentle brush of his probing finger. It’s almost dissociative. It reminds you that the cunt in question just happens to be attached to you: his property in your helpless, trembling body, to be tested and explored at his leisure. To be subject to pleasure or punishment in precise increments. To come, or not to come, only when he decides as much.

Of course, realistically, you know this is the easy part. Eventually he’s going to get bored and spin that dimmer all the way up. He’s going to paddle that pussy with his hand until it splashes, as is his usual manner. And he’s going to wait for you to start begging, between squeals and gasps, for your orgasm.

Then he’s going to turn on the camera and make you repeat yourself.

You think you’re blushing now?

You’d be surprised how easy it is to find an unused storage room down in the subbasement of the theater and communications building, and even more surprised how easy it is to fill it with scavenged materials. A bench. a clip-on scoop light. A rolling cart. A wheeled frame. Padlocks. Chains.

Of course, Kelly couldn’t borrow everything–some of it she had to order through the departmental Amazon account, furtively tapped out during her work-study shift and snagged from the office before anyone could open the boxes. Cuffs. Lube. That ridiculous dildo.

Not that any of the equipment ever got much use. She just snuck in there to stare, fantasize, shove a hand down her shorts, and have massive, fist-biting orgasms.

It was hers and only hers, and as the semester went on she grew more and more daring. She started spending the night there, just smirking when her roommate asked curiously who she was hooking up with. She played with cuffs, tightening them around one ankle, then both. She challenged herself to see how fast she could wriggle out of her own ropes.

It was addictive, but, Kelly told herself, it was harmless. None of the stuff was actually stolen–it hadn’t even left the building. And she wasn’t one of those sick sadists who actually hurt people for pleasure. She was just having a little fun.

She discovered that if she locked her wrists AND her ankles, she could come just by squeezing her thighs.

It was in just such a situation that she found herself, late one Friday night after all her classmates had drunk themselves into stupor. She liked to hide the key in the laces of her shoe, so it couldn’t possibly get lost, but she really had to work to get it up in range of her–fuck. Was that the door handle rattling?

No. No no no no no–

“But it’s just four days. And two of them are the weekend!”

“Not all of us get a summer break, college girl,” he said, smiling a little. “There are disadvantages to pursuing older men.”

She hated that, hated knowing it. It had been hard enough being away from him at school; their time together in these few months was precious, and thinking about spending it without him made her anxious, needy and fretful. Some part of her needed more than just his body, it needed the sense of trust they’d built, the certainty of his guiding hand. Without it, she could feel the old patterns creeping up: bad habits, sleepless nights, the dark fog and the worry of being unable to trust herself…

“But Andrea and Charlotte are going to be there!” She poked his leg with her toe. “Come on. All three of us in a beach house, running around in our bathing suits, drinking margaritas…” She worked her toe a little farther up his leg. “And you know how, um, flexible Andi gets when she’s drunk. That doesn’t tempt you?”

“You’re trying to persuade me to neglect my job by promising your friends’ impaired consent,” he said dryly.

“And tits,” she said.

“Go put on the bathing suit,” he said. “See if that affects my judgment.”

She came prancing back into the room in the stripy black and orange bikini, grinning, quite certain he wouldn’t be able to say no much longer. He leaned back on the couch and made a little stirring gesture with one finger, and she twirled for him, indulging herself in the thrill of it, the sure power her body could give her.

“Convincing,” he said. “I didn’t know you’d bought a halter top.”

She turned again and lifted the mass of her hair to show him the knot. “I saved up my allowance,” she teased him, just before she felt his hand grip the cord behind her neck.

“Do you know what a halter is?” he said quietly, his lips close to her ear.

Her body had gone still but trembling, responding to his shift in tone, the feel of his starched cotton shirt on her bare back. “It’s–it’s for horses.”

“It’s for animals. Animals who need to be led. Animals who need to be controlled.”

“Yeah, well, that’s not what I’m wearing,” she said, squirming a little impatiently as she let her hair drop.

It worked. He took the back of her bikini bottoms in his other fist and swung her easily to one side, making her yelp as the fabric cinched up against her crotch. She stumbled and caught herself with her hands against the top of the couch back, knees half-bent just at the edge of the cushion, her hair falling around her face.

“Stay,” he said.

She froze.

“Was it expensive?” he asked, running his thumb slowly down her spine and watching her skin prickle.

“They always are,” she said. “Sir.”

“So you wouldn’t want it to get stretched out–much less absolutely torn apart–by having me rip it off, wrap it around your head like a real halter, and use it to hold you in place while I fuck you out of your mind,” he said. “Would you.”

She bit her lip. There was absolutely no right answer.

He fished in his pocket and pulled something out. “I suppose it would be reparable, on a temporary basis.” The tiny sound of metal being pinched, then released. He slid his hand familiarly inside the left cup, pushing it out of the way and letting her soft breast spill out. “Do you think–if I tore it–we could fix it with this?”

The point of the safety pin dragged a little circle around her areola, and she gasped as she felt her skin contract against it–then held her breath, barely daring to breathe. He didn’t break her skin at all. He was far too careful. But she could feel the little scraping sharpness of it tracing around her, angled to make her prickle but not bleed.

Two circles, and then over the inner slope of her breast before he started drawing a thin line down her trembling skin to her belly. “You’re a sensitive beast,” he murmured, as goosebumps followed his hand. “Not one used to burdens. A soft one, and one prone to arching and mewling. A kitten? But kittens don’t take so well to the halter… and they certainly don’t take orders.” He brought his knee between her legs and pushed up, putting a little of her weight onto the shifting muscle of his thigh. “For instance, if I said: grind.”

“Y-yes,” she managed, and tried to move her hips without flexing her abdomen against the warning point of the pin. It was fucking hard. He was teaching her a lesson, she realized: she’d forced him to react with her body, and now he was forcing her body to react to the smallest possible point of pressure. She was swollen and throbbing, wet against the pressure as she started to soak through the flimsy scrap of fabric.

“This is what my good girl does,” he whispered to her, and the catch in his voice made it clear that he wasn’t as self-possessed as he wanted to sound. “Do you want to be my good girl even while you’re away?”

“Yes!”

He pulled his knee away and tugged the fabric aside to expose her, and then the sharp little pin was there, pressing its flat against her trembling clit. She couldn’t contain a cry of something, fear and lust and sheer pounding abandon–

He took it away. “Don’t,” he said, “move.”

She didn’t.

When he returned he had something in his hand, a soft silver cord that he fastened around her neck; she felt a small metal shape bump against her throat. “There are eight cards in here,” he said as he clasped it, “and each morning and each night you’re away, you’ll find a moment to yourself and draw one out. You’ll obey it, and you’ll think of me, and that’s how I’ll be with you: my hand will be your hand on your body, your mirror will be my eyes. You’ll like that, won’t you, my little animal, my little girl?”

Something in her relaxed, finally, and she sagged back against him. His hand. His eyes. His sharpness, keeping her aware of every nerve in her skin.

“Of course,” she said.

He let her keep the pin too.

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–

Skip.

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–

Skip.

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

Skip.

vanished.

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?”

Skip.

“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.”

Skip.

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.

Skip.

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–

Skip.

“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–

Skip.

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.

Skip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only she knew.

If only she could say so.

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

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.

OH HI.

Thanks to some reblog love from the fantastic Yourbadgrrl, I’ve, uh, just about doubled my followers in the last week or so. (Thanks, YBG!) Dear new friends: I don’t post often, but when I do it’s usually short-form erotica about stuff dominant hetero guys like, plus bondage, machinery, consensual nonconsent, and orgasm control.

I don’t get into it so much under this identity–no need to distract from the smut–but I also like to think of myself as a feminist and queer ally. I hope that context informs the things I publish here, and I don’t believe there’s any inherent contradiction when I say that. Even the degrading aspects of BDSM can be a way to show that you respect and value someone.

Okay, that’s it. I basically wanted to write this to say that it is fascinating to see the “normal” tumblr identities with which people follow porn blogs. We’re all pervs underneath, aren’t we?

I am not actually a doctor. I am actually a tease.

collegesubmissive:

“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.

girl-on-edge:

royb8771:

Oh damn, that is a video I would love to see. 😀

This makes me think… I would love to see (or be) a sub, teased relentlessly to the edge for hours or days, tied up not quite in reach of a vibrator, sybian, or other toy. The fact that she isn’t on the toy yet made me think this. Truss up one frustrated sub in a way that they can get stimulation if they REALLY TRY, but make the source of stimulation so far away that it is nearly impossible for them to get to, and, once that have contorted and strained their body, impossible to maintain that posture for more than a short time. Tell them they can cum… If they do it themselves. Then watch the struggle become more and more desperate.

I know she’s in reach of this toy, the picture just made it occur to me.

girl-on-edge has an interesting idea there, and here’s what it made me think of: a theremin.

What you do is, you set up a magnetic induction switch under the Sybian, one that controls its rate of vibration. It vibrates the fastest when the girl’s body is held at a very precise distance from it–say, when the tip of the dildo is juuust inside her. As she lowers herself onto it, and toward the more intense vibrating ridge, the sensor makes it slow down… slower… slower… until trying to press herself down against the toy makes it almost stop completely.

Here’s the catch: the device has an override switch too, built into her collar. If someone else touches that ring on the front, completing a circuit, it goes into overdrive regardless of where she is. So her controller can walk in, unzip, grab her throat and pull her mouth forward to be used, and she’ll be stimulated quite thoroughly as long as she’s of service.

She’ll get so close. So close. But if she seems to be getting distracted at all, the hand moves from the metal to the leather of the collar, leaving her to edge and work frantically with her mouth to try to earn the vibration back again. It doesn’t take long to get off when you’re standing above, watching her, using her.

Her controller cleans up, wipes the hair from her sweaty forehead, and leaves. And then, as soon as she’s alone, the struggle to find a workable position–pussy clenching, legs cramping, arms helpless to hold her up long enough–begins again.

She’s allowed to come. It’s explicitly permitted. If only she could just get a little closer…

A shot like this is all about the details.

Her wrists are chained, but her hands are gripping the metal bars (stirrups?) and they look pretty strong. She’s allowed to use her arms to pull herself up off the vibrator if she can. But there’s no leverage, and she won’t be able to stay up for long. Then it’s back down onto the relentless, tortuous buzzing, so powerful it pounds her swollen clit and sends waves through her entire pelvis.
She’s forced to wear the battery pack wired to those nipple clamps on a belt around her waist. The rack she’s chained to is fixed, but the batteries are portable. That means she can be taken off, led around, dragged to a different device, or caged for the night–all without a second of relief from the pressure or electricity.
That ball gag has a hole in it. She can be watered, maybe even fed, through a tube without being permitted to speak. She is here to be used, tormented with forced pleasure, and slowly, slowly broken down, and her only protests will be wordless.
She’s still wearing her jewelry–the navel ring and the little pendant under ner neck, trapped under the top belt (look closely!). She is stripped of modesty but not of decoration. She’s here to be punished, but also to be seen: she is adorned, and she is an adornment.
Each time she comes–and she has come, and will come, again and again, no matter how she struggles–her mind accepts a little more of what her body already knows: she is a toy, she is owned, she was made to be used. Her body and her orgasms belong to her owners, to be withheld or forced upon her as they please. And when she finally breaks, she’ll know herself in a way she never imagined.

It started as a harmless game, when they were girls: bet I can hold an ice cube longer than you. Bet you you’re more ticklish. Bet you I give a better back rub. Bet I’m a better kisser.

As they got older, it became a more serious rivalry–and more focused on their growing awareness of their bodies. Bet you I can win at strip poker. Bet I can pin you down. Bet you can’t keep quiet. Bet I can make you wet.

They only see each other over the summer and on breaks, now, but she braces herself every time, a mixture of pride, fear and burning anticipation. She’s not going to lose this year. There are more consequences at stake than just a momentary triumph. Whoever loses the stakes loses the day: she’ll have to do whatever her best friend says, anything her best friend says, until the next morning.

It’s how she lost her last two boyfriends. It’s how she got that belly button ring. It’s how she got that speeding ticket, and those rope burns, and that constant nagging need.

They don’t have to say the wager aloud anymore. It’s always the same. One of them stares at the other across the room, cold challenge in her flushed face, and starts to undress. The other hastens to catch up. They slide onto the bed, bodies just barely touching, not showing a sign of weakness even though they tremble every time.

Bet you come first.

It’s hard to want to win.

Just for reference, and clarification.

This is my porn blog. I post here about sex, most of it involving some aspect of BDSM, female submission, and often degradation or nonconsent. These things get me off, and they seem to get a number of other people off too, so I’m happy to share.

But I should be very clear: I describe rape fantasy. I don’t condone rape culture.

As kinksters we like to pride ourselves on ethics, and there’s some good reason for that. Signaling, safewords, upfront negotiation, check-ins: these are all pretty solid consent technology. Moreover, since scening is by definition performance, it seems to help us grasp gender as performance too. It’s certainly helped me.

That said, securing a few words of informed consent before you tie somebody up and smack them is not the end goal, the final gamestate. If you’re reading this in English you probably exist in a culture that is frighteningly determined to propagate a contrived, confined, transactional model of women’s physical existence. Rape is a matter of course on this planet because that model works well for rapists. And if you’re not aware and disputing that in your speech and actions, every day, your ethics are bullshit, and the rapists are winning.

Consensual nonconsent can be, at its best, a safe place to explore and understand your own sexuality, on both sides of the actor/reactor divide. But the dangers of indulging the extant paradigm should be clear. If you ever find yourself agreeing–or not vocally disagreeing–that

not saying no is consent
a relationship is automatic consent
intoxication is ever consent
nice people can’t be rapists
prison rape is just
she led him on
she should have known better
he deserved it
it was her fault

Then you need to take a step back and check your fucking head.

This is really just a 101 post. I’m not a scholar on this subject and I have a lot to learn (failure to challenge and educate yourself is another way the system wins). There are many more and subtler aspects to rape culture than just the normalized act of rape. But I wanted to make it clear where I stand.

Thanks for reading past the cute pic with the butt and handcuffs. We now return to tying people up and smacking them around.

collegesubmissive:

PLEASE, SIR?

Yes, it’s National Masturbation Month. I certainly expect you to participate, in the morning, in the afternoon, furtively in the car or the bathroom, frantically in the shower, lazily in bed.

But nobody said anything about cumming, girl.

lightningbugjune:

ninh:

“You’ll have cum enough for me when you’re too weak to arch off the table.”

I want to be forced to orgasm so many times I’m a mess on the floor, incapable of a single coherent though.

She’s slick with sweat, slippery enough that she’d probably be able to slip the ropes–if she could think clearly through the steps involved. Every few hours he jams a straw in her mouth and holds her nose until she drinks, some faintly sour electrolyte solution to keep her going, then snaps on a glove and lubes her holes with firm, thorough attention. And then he starts again.

He doesn’t use the Hitachi all the time, of course; on its high setting it tends to overwhelm her, make her go mercifully numb, which he discovered early on. First he’ll take the prod and wake her up, work her little breasts and belly until she’s squealing, and then dump a bucket of ice-cold water over her thrashing body. It’s almost a relief when he tightens the ropes on her legs, keeping her spread wide, and begins to work with the toys again.

The relief doesn’t last long. She used to be the kind of girl who didn’t always get off, the kind who took care and persistent attention; he’s broken her of that. He’s systematic, efficient, and relentless. He knows exactly when to ease off on the bullet against her clit and shift the heavy, thrumming weight up against her g-spot; when to start working the plug between her cheeks, and when to slowly draw it out.

She can’t form words but, she’s discovered, she can still cry out when she comes. She cries out at least every ten minutes, and if he’s found a new angle on her writhing body, she often cries out four or five times in a row.

They aren’t cries of pleasure. She remembers orgasm being pleasurable, once, when it was more than just a mechanical contraction of exhausted, aching muscles. Each one takes her a little farther from herself. Each one leaves a little less speech in her hazy mind.

Sometimes he’ll run his fingers lightly down her damp flanks, in the aftermath. Sometimes he’ll push something wide and heavy inside her, letting her cunt or ass try to squeeze it, intensifying each pulse. Sometimes he’ll just put the bar of his forearm against her throat, hold her down, and begin to spank her pussy until she screams.

When he decides this particular orgasm has been reinforced enough, he leans down and pulls her damp hair back from her ear. “What did you just do, girl?” he whispers.

She tries to remember the word, struggles, sobs for air through her trembling lips.

“What,” he says, reaching for the prod threateningly, “did you just do?”

“C-come,” she manages, a miracle every time. “Come! COME!”

He smiles, and picks up a clit pump this time, or a blunt steel hook, or maybe the Hitachi. She arches up again as soon as he touches her, a response trained so deeply now that she isn’t even aware of it. Only when he’s taken that final word from her mouth, when she can no longer remember the distinction between breath and pain and orgasm, will he even think about letting her rest.

collegesubmissive:

This is what is so fucking appealing to me about rope. The process of it, the intricacy of it, the intimacy of it, the fact that while cuffs may be convenient for time or general restraint purposes, when you consider rope…

I want to feel his fingertips pulling and twisting and gliding over every inch of me, while simultaneously taking away my freedom of mobility. I want that time leading up to the end result, to know exactly what is coming and to have that anticipation impact every single bit of my body and mind. I want to willingly offer myself for such helplessness and enjoy whatever process he allows me.

“Look, you can just come right out and complain if you want to.” It’s been a very long week. You managed to down three glasses of wine while getting into your PJs, and your feet hurt, and again: this fucking week. You’re sure as hell going to take it out on someone, and well, that’s what roommates are for, right? “So I leave a few of my makeup things lying around on the sink. You know what? You moved in with a girl, that’s what you’re going to live with, homeboy.”

He looks up from his tablet and blinks at you. He still hasn’t said anything, which is blatantly unfair when you’re trying to start a fight.

“And you know what else? Yeah, I leave dishes out! Biiig fucking deal, you don’t have to just like… passive-aggressively wash them. Which you DO. I would get to them if you’d leave them. And so sue me if my bedsprings are a little loud, okay?” He’s studying your flushed face and you get the feeling he’s not really listening. “Hey! What? Is this the silent treatment?” You laugh a little too loudly. “Because if that’s the kind of thing you think is going to get to me–”

There’s a soft tap on your wrist. You look down.

Now where did he get that?

“I mean, I can… talk for both of us just fine if…” you hesitate.

He’s just holding it there, a loose knot in a length of white nylon rope, pressed lightly to your arm. You watch as he takes the short end and passes it through the knot, once, twice, three times, then cinches the knot. Now your wrist is held in a firm loop, wide enough not to burn, tight enough to hold but not cinched.

“Do you just… keep that under your chair?” you offer weakly, before he runs the long end under his foot and stands on it.

It’s shorter than you thought and the sudden shift in weight makes you bend at the waist. This is not normal roommate behavior. It’s so far outside the bounds of what you expected that you’re still trying to figure out what to say when he takes one step around you, deftly catches the hem of your threadbare t-shirt, and flips it over your head.

I mean, he’s seen you topless before: the occasional dropped towel, the hot tub party last month, whatever. They’re just boobs. He’s pulling your shirt off, over your arms and down the rope to the floor, and you have no idea why you’re making excuses for him.

He just took your shirt off. He’s wrapping the rope just below your breasts.

“I must have missed this on the house rules board,” you say. “Do we not know each other well enough to talk? Sir?” It’s supposed to come out sarcastic. It really, really doesn’t.

The rope is doubled and split now, between your breasts and back up over your shoulders: a second wrap, above them this time. His fingers have barely touched your skin: only the rope. There’s no actual restraint to it–no hindrance of movement–but for some reason with each turn you feel tightened, anchored, contained.

A doubled loop of rope touches the hollow of your throat, and his thumb touches the tag at the back of your loose shorts. For the first time all night, he’s asking you a question.

You don’t have any words left, but you nod.

He winds the rope around your neck five times: loose, careful, but undeniably present, and each time he passes it by you can feel the pulse bob under your skin. Then he’s threading the last few feet down, under your soft white harness, over your navel–

He tugs a string, and your shorts fall to your ankles.

You stand with your feet just a little apart because you know instinctively that you should. The rope is passing between your legs, then back up behind you, and when he begins to tighten it upward you let out a sound like a kitten.

“If you want to,” he murmurs in your ear, finally taking your new collar in his fist, “go ahead and complain.”

thinkivykink:

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.

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