Just a random collection of the sick, depraved things that I find. Usually femsub, degradation, patriarchy, BDSM stuff. 48, Male, UK. If you're a dumb little slut who likes to play with herself while looking at the stuff I post, send me a message and admit it. Currently very curious about blackmail. Mostly fantasy. Feel free to ask me if you can cum.
An image which really, should need no caption. Every detail is stark, cruel, immediately clear.
The thick, suffocating puffer suit in the glass box in the summer sun against the breathable office wear.
The sticky, crawling sweat, the gagged mouth against the clink of ice in the cup, the beads of condensation which drip.
The keys which jingle when she moves, useless to her yoked hands, clinking with each movement, just near enough that she can brush the key-ring with her fingertips if she strains and strains.
Why is she in the box? A punishment? Perhaps. She has done nothing wrong, she knows she has, but to them it makes no difference. Perhaps the other is the real culprit, here to rub it in. Sweet, gloating mockery.
She stares at the drink, but the woman (perhaps the real culprit), only smiles.
"Still haven't unlocked yourself? Silly girl."
"Mmmmmf!"
"Hot, isn't it?" She takes out a silken kerchief, wipes at the sweat between her breasts, lets out a satisfied sigh.
"Nnnnnnnmmmmgh!!!!" The maddening itch between her breasts has never gone away since the day they put her in the suit, though they'd said it was 'self-cleaning'.
"Sorry, dear, couldn't quite catch that." She giggles, a light, mocking sound, brings the cup right up to the glass.
Slow, sticky dripping of sweat. Please. Just a sip, even a drop, of cold water, of ice-cold condensation.
The woman swirls the cup, letting her hear every lovely clink of ice against ice, takes a long sip. A drop of sweat crawls, and another. A furious, gagged sound. The woman laughs, does it again.
You'd planned for months, but had been waiting for three agonizing weeks. You went to the same coffee shop as always, at the same time as always. Medium, hot, oat milk, 2 sugars. Turned the same way exiting, tracing the same route to the same library you visited every weekend.
She was the first girl to really get it. Your last ex left you because you wanted to do a safeword ignoring scene. Well, they said it was for other reasons. But you knew. You knew you really understood kink, and needed people who really understood kink in your life.
So when she steps out from the side alley, knife in hand, you play out the scene as planned. You don't have to work as hard you thought to make the trembling convincing. She's brusque, in person, and the knife is much bigger than you thought. Your heart races as she ratchets the zip cuffs around your wrists, and places the bag over your head. You wrinkle your nose, it stinks.
"Zoe, can you-"
"No talking. Move." She kicks at your calf, and you have to stumble forward, catching yourself by half steps, landing face first in what must be the open trunk. Musty blankets and itchy trunk liner. Hands, groping in your pockets for wallet, phone, keys. Zoe grabs your thighs, and lifts. Grunts. You dolphin a bit, folding yourself into the trunk. Its not accurate, but you don't want the scene to get stuck here.
The trunk slams shut. You're left in hot, scratchy silence. Short breaths. Musky might be the right word for the smell.
The car kicks to life. Your knees press uncomfortably against the trunk edge as Zoe accelerates. A sharp turn - your head smacks into the side wall. She's not a very good driver. You try to count the turns, the time between jerks of acceleration. How you would if this was real. But your focus is drawn away by what comes next, and it all blends into an uneven gait beneath you.
This is what your idiot former partners never understood. Light bondage here and there, oh, yea, indulge the idiot pervert girl in her damsel fantasies. None of them had been willing to do this for you. Zoe had never failed. She texted every morning, and remembered every detail.
Finally, the car rolls to full stop, and rumbles off. And you wait. And wait. This is it. The climactic scene where she stops "on the side of the road" and forces you to service her at gunpoint. Really, her backyard. With takeout after.
The trunk clicks open.
"Out."
You unfold sore limbs, helped not too kindly by Zoe's yanking. You stumble, catching the ground, and let her lead you by the wrists. She stops.
"There's three steps down in front of you. Right foot first."
There were no steps, in the plan. Your heart races. Zoe added something extra, just for you. You tentatively reach down, and hear the hollow metal clank of a steel stair. Two. Three. She has her hand on your neck, and ducks you through what must be a inner short door of a bulkhead entrance. Shuffle forward on stone.
A metal clasp bites around your exposed ankle. The hood comes off, and even the gloom is blinding for a moment.
Every post you've ever written. Some you didn't write, where you added long and rambling tags. DMs to her. Messages in public servers. Posts from accounts you never told her about, Instagram and LinkedIn. Photos rendered in flat, laser-printer color. Taped together in a sprawling mosaic across the concrete wall of a small room of her basement. You turn back to see the stairwell you'd descended. Heavy interior door, open to the stairs up to the storm door.
And the shackle, unplanned, padlocked onto your leg, a thick, short chain anchored to the corner, where a dog bed sat.
"Zoe, uh. Wow, this is amazing. You really added to the scene. Can. Can I get a check in before we keep going?"
Zoe looked at you with a pitying stare, and a lazy grin. She turns back to the stairs.
"I've got to go tie up some loose ends. Quit your job, send some mean texts to the friends you have left, dump your phone at a bus station. Hard to wait when I'm so close but, it's just a few more hours. I'll be back to talk about our new life together, sweetheart."
She closes the inner door of the storm stairs with a solid thump, plunging you into true darkness.
I want you to forget you're a woman. Forget the value you see in yourself as an intelligent capable female. Put your modesty, dignity and pride out of your mind completely and simply be the naked, three holed set of tits drinking from the bowl at My feet. Feel the freedom in your slavery... the freedom to be what you always should have been.
Your husband sat you down with a tablet with a lot of tabs open. "You told me that you wanted to be molded into my perfect woman. So I will do exactly that. But I want you to understand why I want each change."
His hand cupping your cheek. "I know you want to be a good girl. And I know that not knowing what is expected of you, gives you anexity. I don't want you filling your silly little head with worries like that. So I am going to make sure you know exactly what my expectations are. And before each change we will review it."
"So pull up your dress and get your hands in your panties. I know how me mansplaning gets you wet. That is something I want to encourage. I enjoy knowing I can make you wet with my words."
my favorite part of submission is the sense of comfort and certainty that comes with loaning your free will to your Betters. From abdicating responsibility of your personhood to someone else, someone with ambition and a goal in mind for you. It makes everything so easy, things they want are rewarded and things they don't want aren't. you don't have to think, just follow, and you'll end up better than you started.
it's comforting knowing that They are in the driver's seat now. becoming a passenger to your own life, and relaxing into the cushions as you're driven far, far away.
Remember, you exist to do things that make Men happy. Weither you like it or enjoy it doesn’t matter. But learning to enjoy it does help you learn to accept your place and be happy.
