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It wasn’t a real border crossing detention center; she’d figured that out when they stuffed the ball gag between her teeth. It had cut off the sputtering protests about her passport and questions about where they’d taken her friends quite effectively. Something told her that there would come a time soon when they’d start asking pointed questions; they just probably wouldn’t care what she answered.
In the meantime, though, they had dragged her off into one of the cinder-block cells for the “courtesy” of a private pat-down. The agent assigned to her seemed much more concerned with some areas than others. At one point, he rummaged in his pocket, pulled out a little plastic bag with a foil packet in it, and tossed it nearby.
“Oh, it was very unwise to try to import this particular substance,” he purred, holding her squirming body against the hot concrete. “The minimum sentence is five years of labor. Labor for which you will need very thorough training. And if we find anything else tucked away inside you, tourist girl…” He shoved her dress up and adjusted the glove on his fingers, grinning. “There may be a corporal element to your sentence as well.”
Panting in fear, knees trembling, undeniably dripping with things other than sweat, she got the distinct feeling that she’d find one particular thing tucked inside her very soon.
“Aaaaand… forty! Good girl. Okay, I’ll just play with your nipples until you come down off the edge. You’re so close! Only ten more until we put the belt back on and lock you away for the night.”
The dormitory common rooms at St. Tantalus Academy For Wayward Young Ladies are well-appointed, comfortable, and a fine opportunity for girls to study together and make new friends.
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.
“Daddy?”
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.”
Dreams can come true!
“Ugh, can you put that down and help me for a minute? We’ve got a fighter over here…”
“Wait, really? You can’t handle her on your own?”
“Come ON! She’s really squirmy, I don’t want to drop her.”
“Christ. All right, let me put this one down. I keep telling you, if you get a grip on the collar and then shove a few fingers in the other end, they’re a lot easier to hold onto. See?”
“Yeah, yeah. Hey, careful, you just left the keys on the ground there…”
“Eh. Let her stare at them for a minute and whimper. What’s she going to do?”
Somebody has been wearing her big-girl sassy panties lately.
Somebody has been getting a little mouthy about what other people should or shouldn’t do with their time.
Somebody believes she can make manifest her desires in the world with magic.
Somebody has expressed fantasies about being shackled, boxed, plugged, and shipped off to be just one more helpless squirmy pet in a whole collection of girltoys.
Somebody should be very careful what she wishes for.
It’s hard to enjoy fantasies about the objectification and possession of women when you know what happened yesterday in Isla Vista, and honestly, it fucking should be.
The man who murdered six people there did so because his culture had taught him that he was entitled to the bodies of women. When they weren’t offered to him, he believed he was justified in killing them. This is what the worthless garbage receptacles who talk about “men’s rights” teach and propagate, but they’re just a particularly violent boil on the underlying infection. The world we live in is sick, and it kills women.
I know that what I write here is fantasy. You know it too. But if we claim to hold ourselves to a high standard of informed consent, we have a responsibility to deal with it when the rhetoric of our fantasy veers uncomfortably close to real life.
I’m talking to (cis, het) men who run porn blogs and engage with male-dominant kink in particular: this week, and in fact all weeks, you should be listening to and amplifying the voices of women who are speaking up about the fear, assault and violence they’ve had to deal with. You should be conscious that the use of women’s bodies for your pleasure and validation—even in pictures, even in text—is a political act with consequences, and that you have work to do to balance that act against what you actually believe.
No matter how clean we try to keep our hands, we are neck-deep in polluted water. The world is constructed of patriarchy and reinforced by violence. None of us really gets the choice to disengage from that, but the least, the very least we can do is try to bring it to light.
“I knew it was a bad idea to get HBO hooked up down here.”
Mornings at the Institute. Dr. Kelling poured hot water over the Chemex, waiting for the bloom to rise, while Dr. Jackson rolled her eyes at him and sipped the double shot she’d picked up at Starbucks on the way in. “All right, weekly assessments,” she said, tapping a few keys and bringing up a six-camera multiview on the screens above them. “Let’s do the ones in fully automated treatment first. Case file… uh, 877? Hannah.”
Kelling swiped idly down his tablet, scanning the highlights of her case. “Right. Twenty-one, admitted back in January, initial response meters 2/7/6, A-cup. Under personal treatment for a month after intake, transitioned to partially automated care in February, encouraging results…” He squinted up at the screens. “She’s in a modified Jelenko rig, right?”
“Shows a surprising amount of tolerance for it, actually,” mused Jackson. “It reconfigures her stress position every few hours, but she’s been able to take sustained penetration and nipple stim at intensity level 7 for most of the day, most days.”
“Orgasm?”
“One permitted every ten days, if she shows progress… huh, she’s a little overdue, actually.” Jackson leaned forward to a microphone and activated the remote address system. “The subject will identify herself.”
“S-subject 877!” Hannah just managed to choke out, whimpering as the machine continued to pound her cunt. “This subject is happy to be used as a wet hole! This subject is–nnngAAHH!” She arched and jerked as the nipple stimulators engaged their electrical mode. “Th-this subject is eager to comply with treatment! This subject is sorry for her l-loss of composuOH GOD!”
“What is the subject’s chief concern?”
“Service! Oh fuck, PLEASE allow this subject to be of service!”
Kelling made a wry face and leaned into the mic as well. “Is the subject just saying that because her needy cunt wants to come?”
“N-no! I mean–th-the subject means YES, doctor, her needy cunt wants to come, but NO doctor, she is telling the tru–”
Jackson cut the sound. “Eh, I don’t think she wants it bad enough. Let’s check in again next week. Maybe get somebody in to make sure the Jelenko is equipped to do DP as well.” She watched the screen a little longer, as Hannah babbled on in silence and Kelling tapped out some notes. “What was she originally admitted for, anyway?”
“Hmmm. Looks like… occasional attitude problems and possible attention deficit.”
Jackson let a little smile cross her face. “Well. I’d say she’s getting better all the time.”
I can think of a few evil uses for such an implant; what would you do? 😉
Granted it’s for those who have difficulty with orgasms…but still…SO EVIL
Mmm… imagine if it were designed so you couldn’t cum without it.
Yeah. This. This thing. Yeah.
I can’t even begin to decide how I feel about it.
It’s not a remote control unless it has an off switch, now is it?
You don’t actually have to communicate voluntarily in any way for this assessment. In fact, your statements would be more likely to hinder the process. The goal is to derive directly from your bodily response the levels of stimulus at which you feel pleasure, at which pleasure starts to transition to pain, at which you achieve edge, and at which you are driven to orgasm regardless of preference. Even if you were able to do more than gasp and squeal, we trust the level of muscle tension and blood flow in your pussy more than your mouth.
That’s what the contact patches on your lower abdomen are for, you see: assessment of the tiniest change in reaction as our tech works you over. We can chart your growing arousal as we apply pressure and vibration, heat, cold, and pain. We can watch it spike when we control your breathing. We can see what it does to you when we chuckle at your helpless squirming, and which of our selection of degrading terms for you produce the strongest effect.
You’ll be glad to have completed the examination when it’s over, no matter how you may struggle while it’s in process. Trust us. With the plans we have for your next phase of treatment, knowing where to start stretching your limits will be helpful for all involved.
For heaven’s sake, yourbadgrrl, I haven’t even been posting lately. (But thanks for the reblog love, as always.)
All right, kids. Any suggestions on what I should write when we break 1k?
“Okay, one of us is definitely holding the instructions wrong.”
This looks like a Gary Roberts drawing in real life.
(Watch his thumb move on the back of her neck.)
It’s just so fucking good, sometimes, to have all thought of choice taken away.
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.
- Dominance and submission are, to my mind, deeply valuable as ways of being understood.
- You can only understand a human by understanding a human.
- Asking someone to understand you is asking them to see your flaws as well as your gifts. This is scary, and carries risks.
- 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.
“You could have left the little gown on, you kn–oh well.”