The nice thing about having more than one pet is that they can keep each other from getting bored during the day.
Galleries
Behavior correction case file #833: ??? Subject arrived in secure packaging from the Institute’s sister establishment in Austria. As part of a patient exchange program and experiment in double-blind testing, we know very little about her personal history or any specific conditions. Instead, our goal is to treat her based entirely on what we can divine from empirical evidence.
While bondage-tape dressings may be changed, the subject is not to have blindfold or gag removed for the duration of her stay, so as not to provide data that might contaminate the experiment. Subject appears to have been mechanically stimulated at random for the duration of her transit, and now displays a high-adrenaline response to the specific frequency sound of the vibrator that was packaged with her. Consider using this sound to discourage behavior if necessary.
Upon arrival, the subject was placed in an examination table and spread open, from which we learned the following:
- subject is a healthy female in her mid-20s, with sexual experience, who has never given birth.
- subject is functionally orgasmic given sufficient stimulation, and displays signs of multiorgasmia upon extended heavy stim.
- subject’s reactions to tickling, ice, hot wax, and cropping are all within expected parameters.
- subject responds in a manner consistent with modest experience in anal sex.
- subject’s available holes provide pleasant use, somewhat enhanced if play is left in restraints so that subject can struggle.
Next stage in diagnosis is to ship her down to the garage, where subject will be tried on each of fucking machines 6 through J, one 24-hour period each. Measure vaginal pulse amplitude over time, anal contraction, and degree of struggle versus blood oxygenation, and take a periodic sample of nipple firmness.
(When series is complete, have her reboxed and delivered to my satellite lab. I have a few fairly exotic works in progress that could use a blind test. I wonder how she’ll take the Corkscrew. –DT)
When the Sirens get bored.
Sometimes, with a new victim, it’s just fun to leave her panties on.
Behavior control case file #214: Sam. Subject was recommended to the Institute by a number of former partners, as part of our new pilot program to identify undiagnosed problem patients at large in the community. Subject has reportedly been manipulative, dishonest and selfish to a pathological degree, particularly in her sexual dealings with others.
Sam needs to internalize the lesson that attempting to simply take what she wants will lead only to pushing it further away. The most obvious reward to be withheld is orgasm, of course; upon admission she is to be strapped down and stimulated to edge four times per hour by orderlies for forty-eight hours, at which point sleep deprivation and denial should make her more pliable. However, food, water, and pleasurable bathing rights (as opposed to the nightly hose-down) should also be used to demonstrate this principle.
Regular treatment will consist of a series of frustration bondage scenarios like the one depicted above. In addition to regular exposure bondage, subject’s hands will be wrapped in duct tape to reinforce the uselessness of manipulation. Electrostim pads will be applied to the inner thighs to keep muscles jerking and prevent the subject from sitting still; a powerful vibrator will be lowered to rest against the subject’s vulva, but any movement–such as the jerking produced by the stim pads–will cause the wand to bounce and swing away before gradually returning, then beginning the cycle again.
Orgasm under these circumstances is extremely unlikely, and Dr. Y has a hypothesis that the subject will remain at high edge in this manner for potentially weeks. Subject will be given opportunities to apologize, recant or beg only after at least ten days of treatment; until then she is to be tape-gagged, with a small cloth scented from her cunt and stuffed in her mouth, replaced at one-hour intervals.
When the tape-removal process reveals that the subject has become an incoherent, desperately begging mess, she will be permitted to request forgiveness from each of the former partners she treated poorly; only upon their unanimous consent will she be moved into recovery. Otherwise, return her to the treatment cycle, possibly with added nipple or anal stim.
“Seriously, if we keep getting distracted we’re NEVER going to be ready for nationals.”
Seeing the person using the tools on your body is a privilege, girl. And you haven’t earned it yet.
That’s not a gag. That is a very simple piece of duct tape, lightly pressed to her face, and by now even the slightest sheen of sweat has probably robbed it of any adhesive power it might have had. It’s not something she’s trying to get off. If anything, she’s probably struggling to keep it on.
Why? Because she’s fantasized about this, about herself and her little blonde roommate stripped and bound and helpless. Over and over again, quietly fucking herself, one hand working at her clit and one stuffed in her mouth to keep quiet: she built up a very detailed scenario in which they’d be attacked, used, forced to do all manner of sick things to their captors and each other. And she got off to it every night.
So the guys she hired off of Craigslist are better at rope than they are at tape. Whatever. It’s still got her heart beating triple-time and her mind racing, not to mention the waterfall between her legs. They’ll be back in a moment, carrying a black duffel bag, and all she has to do is keep the duct tape on long enough for one of them to stuff something else in her face.
The most interesting part, of course, is that they did the same halfhearted gag work on her roommate, who didn’t know about the setup, who must believe this is a real home invasion, who has no idea what’s coming next.
And she’s keeping hers on too.
Oh dear. From the looks of it, you were trying to tie yourself up with one of those nifty diagrams you found, but you only got halfway through it before the knots came loose, or you realized you’d secured your arms too well to finish the work on your legs.
It’s complicated, isn’t it? Things like this are why it’s so nice to have a partner. Someone who can work with you, and sometimes surprise you, and reach the places you can’t reach.
Turn around, little one.
Let me help.
With her hands tied behind her back, Cassie can just about manage to support herself and keep her face above the surface, though she strains and trembles with the effort. They’ve left her there to just float, sometimes, feeling the water cool slowly around her as she listens to them going through her things, inspecting her computer.
Then one or two of them will come back in and resume their little game.
She’d call it an interrogation except that they long ago stopped asking questions. They just grip her hair–or sometimes, with an odd tenderness, touch her forehead–and begin to push her under. She used to take the deepest breath she could manage. By now she’s almost stopped trying.
They play with her while they hold her down, squeeze or grope her breasts (nipples wet, cool and stiff) or her belly, her hip or throat. At first she convulsed and thrashed and tried to throw them off, to absolutely no effect except that her oxygen ran out faster–and for every time she splashed them, they started dropping in a tray of ice cubes. Now she just tries to ride it out, wait for the panic to rise in her throat and her body to start arching desperately upward for air. It’s going to happen every time. It’s going to keep happening. They’ll take all the time they want to make sure the conditioning sets.
And it is conditioning, and the conditioning works. Down at the other end of the tub, where her knees are doubled and locked tight to keep her from getting out, dangles the shower head. It’s an expensive one. It can spray, or stream, or send a stuttering thud of water pressure wherever they point it. Every time they push her under, they aim it at her clit.
At least, she tells herself as the older one strokes the gently waving hair from her forehead, it’s not easy to see that she’s wet.
Because you’re mine,
You walk the line.
It takes at least a few hours to stop heaving and shaking after the unfreezing process; Maris had no chance to protest, much less fight back, when they pulled her out of the hissing cryo chamber and bound her taut in the echoing warehouse.
“Wh-what the fuck is g-going AUGH!” she managed, before a sharp smack landed on her bare pussy. You’d think being frozen would numb you, but no: every nerve in her body was tingling as if she’d been naked in the snow and then thrust in front of a fire.
“Interesting thing about cryogenics,” said her captor, a blurry face and a dangerously soft voice. “Did you know that if you’re frozen 364 days out of the year, you’re legally dead? A strange little provision for experimental treatments, I understand.”
“But I’m–I don’t even know why I was–let me G-GO!” Maris hiccuped, squirming in the ropes. Condensation dripped down her shivering body as she felt her legs drawn slowly farther apart.
“Oh, I don’t know why you were frozen either.” A shrug she could read through her blurry vision. “All the records for this facility were destroyed in a terrible accident. Isn’t that awful to hear?”
“Look, I can tell you, my n-name is Maris–” And with that, before she could react, she felt the ball gag forced between her chattering teeth.
“Ah ah ah! Don’t want to use your real name in this kind of video. Not while you’re being streamed live.”
“STMMMED?”
That vicious little chuckle again, as one finger traced a droplet of moisture from her throat to her stiff nipple. “Oh yes. You’re our twenty-third show of the year, ice princess, and people pay quite a lot of money to see what we do to popsicles like you.”
Maris was finally starting to recover, but that sentence set her pulse to an alarm-bell pace. She cast her gaze around wildly, trying to make her eyes focus on what must be cameras and spotlights.
A hand drew itself down her body, gathering the slippery lube that had been used to keep her skin from freezer burn, and then slowly began to push up into her. Maris squealed as she realized the nerves inside her cunt were just as oversensitive as the rest of her. She tried to buck and jerk, but all her body would do was slowly writhe.
“There’s a good little dead girl,” laughed her captor. “Don’t worry–it’s only twenty-three hours and forty-two minutes before your time is up and we put you back on cold storage. In the meantime, we can do anything we fucking want to your perfectly preserved and helpless body, and no matter how many screens you appear on, no one’s going to do a thing about it. So settle in and enjoy yourself. You’ll get a year off to rest soon, after all.”
The click of a buzzing vibrator; the testing whistle of a whip. “Of course, I suppose it’s going to SEEM like every waking day is like this now. But don’t worry, sweet icebox. The novelty’s not going to wear off for me…”
The rope around her waist and under her crotch goes over a pulley. At the end of the pulley is a bucket. On the wall is a large television. On the television is all the hidden camera footage of her room for the last week.
Her Daddy already watched the tapes, and he’s marked certain time codes and synced them up to a mechanical hopper just above the bucket. Little Nessa was supposed to be on no-touch while Daddy was traveling on business, you see. And oh, little Nessa was naughty.
Each time the time-lapse video reaches an instance of Nessa sneaking a hand into her little cotton panties, the hopper drops a marble into the bucket. Each time it reaches a time when Nessa misbehaved in the extreme–when she humped the pillow, or the furniture, or her little playmate girl from next door, or worst of all, when she came–it drops a billiard ball.
There is one other complication to this setup. Strapped tight to the rope, above the bucket, is the big fat magic wand vibrator, set to high. The more the rope digs into her crotch, the more intensely the vibrations travel through it, into her aching lips and helpless clit.
Nessa knows she is not to come today. She needs to be a good girl, a very very good girl, no matter how much the rope makes her arch and squeal and squirm. No matter what, until Daddy gets home.
After all, if she can’t make it through this one simple task without indulging her greedy cunt, the hopper will drop its last prize: the bowling ball.
Trembling, tiptoed, slowly working herself back and forth against the painful-pleasurable-cruel taut rope, Nessa wonders exactly how heavy that ball’s going to feel, and whether Daddy will drill her three holes afterward too.
“You look confused, Melanie. Perhaps you expected to wake up in a more compromising position? Or perhaps you simply never expected to see me again. You thought I’d dropped out of sight and out of your life. Oh, silly girl. I’ve just been biding my time.”
“I admit in my early stages of planning I fantasized about tying your legs open–I’ve got plenty of pipe down here to use for spreader bars, as you see. But my observation of your habits taught me better. Keeping your legs open is hardly your problem. In fact, you little slut, I had to go back for thicker rope to make sure the knots would keep them closed.”
“No, we’re going to play a different game. Your breasts are rather sensitive, as my nocturnal surveillance indicated, and I like a challenge. I wonder if that’s amplified by the adrenaline you feel now, hmm? I wonder how you deal with stimulation while you’re bound, mute and helpless. I wonder exactly what I can do to you without removing either your jeans or your shirt.”
“Yes, that’s just duct tape on your face, and I know it’s not much of a gag. In fact, with the things I’m about to do to you, I imagine you’ll sweat off the tape rather quickly. So here’s a challenge to me, I suppose. Using just my hands and mouth and these lovely little tools, can I reduce you to incoherent begging before you manage to get the tape off your mouth? Can I get you wet despite yourself? Can I get that omnivorous pussy of yours to soak right through your jeans?”
“I believe I can. Let’s get started, shall we? And try not to wriggle too much–I’d hate to have to chain these clamps to a pipe just to get you to hold still.”
Have you ever tried to balance yourself without using your hands?
You’re blindfolded and bound with tape, tight and squirming. On a table just behind you are five things: a crop, a candle, a feather, a bowl of ice, and a vibrator. Standing in front of you are the four people who paid for an hour in this dim room.
The game is simple. They each get three five-minute turns, and they can invite one of their fellow players to join them, though they are not required to agree. They’re not allowed to touch you, not with their hands or body: only with the tools.
They can whisper to you. They can lie to you. They can stroke and tease and punish you, and the way you’re bound, you won’t be able to close in on yourself or hide your most sensitive places. You have to stay open and exposed to them. And they have to resist the urge to physically push.
If one of them pushes, they’re out of the game, immediately–and there are no refunds for this very expensive hour. But if they manage to do it, if during one of those turns they manage to make you tilt or jerk or convulse off the side of the little platform–if you fall–well then you’ve just found your new owner.
Do you think you can make it the whole hour? Do you think you’ll want to? Do you think–when you finally give in and tumble down, collapsing onto your side without your hands to break the fall–that the one you picked will be kind enough to catch you?
I like the idea that the reason the shackles are so long is because they’re not for bondage. Not really.
They’re because she comes with the bed.
Some of you have noticed the “more stories” link on my page, and a few have been kind enough to tell me you’ve checked them out. I don’t post nearly as often on Literotica–I work a lot harder on them,and of course there’s just so much more text to generate–but if you like the things I post here you’ll probably like the stuff there as well. (Forgive the earliest chapters; I was still figuring out how to do this. I’ll rewrite them someday.)
I know I have some crossover readers here who have been waiting years for a new installment, so I thought I’d let you know: chapter 7 of Housebound is up. As always, I’d be happy to hear what you think. Enjoy.
This looks like a stock photo shoot suddenly got really interesting.
“Ugh, doesn’t this one come with a case? Or some twist ties or something? It’s got wires dangling everywhere.”
“No, it’s more fun this way! We can always buy a sheath later if we want, but this way all the fun ports and buttons are exposed. We can get in there and tinker, you know?”
“What if I don’t WANT to tinker? What if I just want to use the stupid thing? Does it even have a remote?”
“Yes! Look, it’s programmable–”
“God. Whatever, you can play with your kit as long as you want, but it stays in the corner when you’re not using it.”
“You’ll like it once you try it. I promise.”
“I’m not dusting it.”
“Believe me, gathering dust is the last thing it’ll be doing.”