An Itch You Can't Scratch
I wake up with a gasp, my head pounding, vision blurred. The first thing I feel is the cold bite of metal cuffs around my wrists and ankles, anchoring me to a reclined chair. My arms are held above my head, my legs spread obscenely wide, straps digging into my thighs. The air smells sterile, clinical.
A spotlight burns above me, casting my naked body in harsh light. Then I see him, looming just beyond the light, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Ah, finally awake!" he coos, stepping forward. His voice curls around the words, playful yet menacing. He grabs my chin, forcing me to look him in the eye. “This is going to be much fun.”
I part my lips to ask a question, beg for freedom, say anything but before I can get a full word out, he shoves his fingers into my mouth. I gag around them and tears flood my eyes immediately. He doesn’t give me time to recover when I feel a pill hit the back of my throat and he swiftly pushes it down, forcing me to swallow the drug he’s just given me.
He pulls his fingers free and wipes my saliva across my chest and smirks. I choke and cough, drool escaping out from the corner of my mouth and I finally get to speak.
"P-Please," I stammer, my voice trembling. "What do you want? What did you just give me? L-Let me go. I-I won’t tell anyone, I swear!”
He chuckles, stepping closer. His fingers trail up my thigh, making me flinch. "Oh, sweet girl," he purrs. "We are just getting started."
"No!" I jerk against the restraints, tears welling up. "P-Please, let me go, please, I- ah! Fuck, what did you do to me? Ah—”
The drug hits me hard. My skin burns, every nerve ending sparking to life, hypersensitive. I pant, squirming in my restraints.
He laughs. “I see our lovely aphrodisiac medley has kicked in.”
My eyes widen as I understand. But before I can react further, he fastened noise-cancelling headphones over my ears and a blindfold over my eyes. The world plunges into deafening silence and darkness. It’s so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat and the echoing sound of my breaths.
I have no concept of sound as I beg for him to let me go.
Then, suddenly, a touch.
Feather-light, skittering over my ribs. Fingertips dancing along my sides, my stomach, the undersides of my arms. I scream, but I can’t even hear myself.
Skittering up my ribs, digging between my toes, tracing the creases of my thighs. I jerk against the restraints, a silent scream trapped in my throat. It’s tickling, but worse, so much worse, because the drug turns every brush into electric torment. My muscles spasm, laughter bubbling up as tears soak the blindfold.
I can’t hear myself, but I feel the hysterical vibrations in my chest.
I’m losing my mind.
Every brush of skin is torture, pleasure*.* My nipples pebble, my clit throbs, my cunt clenching around nothing.
The tickling doesn’t stop. It escalates. Pinprick-light strokes under my arms, between my toes, the insides of my thighs, everywhere sensitive. The sensations become agony and then something worse: pleasure-pain, humiliation, need. I’m drooling around the gag, hips jerking pathetically.
Then it gets worse.
Feathers.
Soft. Ticklish. Dragging over my soles, my stomach, the insides of my thighs.
My back arches as laughter fights its way out, muffled and desperate. My hysteria on display for him but deaf to myself. Tears soak the blindfold. I’m drowning in sensation, squirming, begging in my head for it to stop.
Just when I think I’ll pass out from the torment…
The headphones are ripped away.
The blindfold torn off.
Light sears my vision. Sound crashes in. I’m flushed, tear-streaked, drooling. I get my bearings just in time for me to hear him purr, "Now, let’s play with this pretty little clit, yes?"
A cold clamp snaps shut around the swollen bud. I shriek, arching against the restraints, but he just laughs, twisting the clamp, tighter, tighter. Until my whole body is trembling, my thighs shaking.
"Oh pretty girl, does that hurt?” he taunts, watching my face contort in desperation.
He flicks the clamp.
I sob. The aphrodisiac still thrums through my veins, underlining the aching pain with torturous pleasure. He flicks the clamp rapidly in succession and the scream I let out doesn’t even sound human.
He laughs. Flick. Scream. Flick. Sob. It doesn’t stop.
Every flick sends jagged bolts of agonizing pleasure through me, my clit pulsing against the unforgiving metal.
At some point he shoves a gag into my mouth, muffling my begging and sobbing.
When he finally stops flicking the clamp, I’m nearly incoherent. But there’s no relief because with a harsh pull, he yanks the clamp off.
I scream so loud the gag isn’t enough to muffle me.
The rush of blood back into my clit is almost enough to make me cum. A searing, throbbing fire that makes my head spin. I can feel every heartbeat in it, the swollen flesh hypersensitive and burning, a product of the physical torture and the aphrodisiac throbbing through it.
He licks his lips as he watches me writhe. "Mmm. Look at that little clit. All red and ruined." He drags a finger over it, lightly, and I nearly faint from the overstimulation.
He grins at me and waves a metal speculum in my view. I shudder, my eyes wide with fear as I shake my head, desperate pleas coming out muffled behind my gag.
“Oh, pretty girl, I don’t think anyone can understand you,” he murmurs with false sympathy. “But it’ll be okay, I promise, you’ll get to use your pretty voice soon.”
I feel the cold metal of the speculum brush against my pussy and I scream again, my body straining uselessly against the restraints.
“Look at you, little messy cunt’s dripping so much from all that clit torture, what a whore. I don’t even need lube,” he laughs, dipping the metal into my pussy before pulling it out, forcing me to see the lewd string of wetness that follows, the low light shining off the wet speculum as evidence of how much my body craves this.
I moan pathetically, my body long gone from the control of my own mind.
He slides the speculum back in, pushing it in fully, the cold metal making my body jerk. Then I hear the ominous clicking off the device as he opens it.
The sensation is overwhelming. The fullness makes my toes curl and my back arch, the press of cold, hard metal against my hot wetness is almost unbearable. My pleas dissolve into wordless sobs as he cranks the speculum wider, leaving my pussy open for whatever he wants.
He steps away for a moment and returns, holding a long paintbrush and a jar of some kind of cream. His grin promises horrors that I can’t even imagine.
I sob behind my gag when he runs the paintbrush along my sensitive skin. He tsks under his breath, “Look at that little red clit. That clamp really did a number on you didn’t it, pretty girl? Maybe this will help.”
He runs the brush against my clit and I let out a strangled scream. The bristles of the brush run across every crevice of my sensitive nub, the earlier clamping combined with the drugs having already pushed my nerves to a breaking point. He doesn’t stop, running tight circles over my clit, ensuring that every single nerve feels the tortuous sensation. I can’t even clench my pussy given the speculum’s rigid form holding me wide open.
Pleasure and pain have become one and my body and mind are running out of ways to rationalize this torture. I can feel my sanity cracking under his ministrations.
Finally, he pulls the brush away and grins at how wet the bristles are from my slick.
“Now, let’s move onto the main event.”
My heart drops, I can’t take anymore. He doesn’t care.
I watch him screw open the lid of the cream he’d shown me earlier. My eyes are wide with fear and he chuckles. “You look so scared, pretty girl. Don’t be, this will be good for you.”
I shake my head desperately.
“See this is a special little concoction, a little something for that dripping cunt of yours.” He winks at me as he uses the brush to scoop a sizable dollop of the cream out of the jar. Then, he slides the brush inside my open pussy.
I choke out a gasp at the feeling of the bristles against my sensitive walls, the speculum holding me open such that he gets access to every single bit of my cunt. At first, all I feel is the brush, painting evenly across my insides. He coats me in the cream, working like an artist to cover every single inch, including my cervix and g-spot and clit. When he finishes, he sets the brush and cream down and looks down at me with a chilling smile.
“Don’t worry, it’ll kick in soon.”
I whimper, not understanding. And then I do.
The sensation starts slow, a slight tingling sensation coming into focus. Then it gets worse. Tingling turns into throbbing which turns into an overwhelming tickling sensation. My hips start to jerk involuntarily and half-muffled whines leave my gagged mouth.
He smiles. “There it is. Do you like that?” His voice is filled with faux sympathy and mockery. “That’s a specially formulated itching cream designed to stimulate your nerves with an overwhelming tickle sensation. My personal recipe.”
My hips jerk uselessly, muscles spasming as the itch crawls deeper, worse, lighting up every nerve. My clit throbs, swollen and hypersensitive, the cream seeping into the folds, everywhere.
I can only moan in despair as the sensations seem to multiply by the second. The sensation is pure torture, everything too overwhelming to comprehend.
He cups my face as he leans down. “Now let’s hear what you have to say, sweet girl.” He unclips the gag and pulls it from my lips, a line of drool escaping as the gag leaves my mouth.
I’m sobbing as pleas fall from my lips.
*"*No, no, please—I can't take it anymore, please stop—! Please, mercy, I can’t handle this, make it stop!”
Every plea is punctuated with sobs and gasps. My voice sounds broken to my own ears and my begs interwoven with whimpering and wordlessly whining. The itch burrows deeper, my very cervix throbbing in time with my clit.
"P-please," I gasp, voice cracking. "It hurts, it—ah!—it itches, please, please take it off—!"
He tilts his head, feigning concern. "Oh? But, sweet girl, we’ve barely started."
He leans in, blowing a soft breath over my exposed flesh. It’s agony*.* The air makes the itch flare, turning it into a white-hot need, an unstoppable, unbearable craving for relief.
"Now, darling," he murmurs, stroking my cheek as I pant beneath him. "Let’s hear what you really want." My catatonic mind is too far gone to analyze what that sentence means.
A speaker crackles to life.
And then…
My own voice.
But it’s wrong. It’s been altered, it’s not me, it’s breathier, needier, saying words I’ve never said.
"Please, more… more pain, more torture, I need it, I’m just a slut for you…"
I scream and moan pathetically. “No! Stop! That’s not me! No! I didn’t say any of that!”
“Please, I’m just a slut and I need to be punished and tortured. Give me more, please!”
It’s not me, that voice in the recording can’t be mine. I never said those words. It’s not me. Unless… it is?
He smirks as my voice comes through the speakers again.
"Please, more, torture me more, yes, please. I love it, I love when you use me. I need this, please!”
I shake my head as if I can shake the sound away. It’s not real, it’s not me, that’s not how I feel. I don’t want more, I don’t love it… right?
My voice bounces around the room, sound overlaying to create an auditory experience from hell as the torment from the itching cream continues.
At some point, I break. I stop begging for him to stop. I start begging for him to keep going. My voice, coming from my mouth, joins in with the altered recordings. I say what I hear. I mean it.
I beg to cum, beg to be his whore, beg to do whatever he wants. I jerk against the restraints when he brings out a vibrator and presses it hard against my tortured clit. It’s too fast, too much, too quick. My body is already riding the knife’s edge of pain, pleasure, and overstimulation. The itching doesn’t stop. It merges with the vibrations, growing stronger to complement the orgasm that’s fast approaching.
The orgasm is torture. My back arches as pleasure crashes through me, but the itch remains, worse now, sticky and wrong against the oversensitive flesh. I sob, shuddering, as the vibrator keeps going, forcing another wave, another, until I’m gasping, drooling, ruined, the sound of my voice begging for more, coming from both the recording and my own vocal chords, mixing with my broken need for what only he can give me.
