Hiya, you can call me Envy (play on enby haha). I've been a cardiophile for a long time and have joined the community in the last few years as well.
I'm a non binary 23 year old with a love of hearts! I'm still hoping to get my own stethoscope at some point but unfortunately, I don't know how to do so discreetly yet.
I tend to mostly post light NSFW content as this is a hugely sexual thing for me so... you guessed it, 18+ please! I do not wanna catch a case lmao.
I'm open to talk about hearts or anything else. I don't listen or share though, nor do I roleplay. All I ask is you respect those boundaries. I don't bite, promise 💜 (unless you're a fucking creep, then I bite).
I hope you all enjoy my blog my lovely cardiophiles ♡
I saw your words. Read them slow, like I was already tasting the tremble behind each line.
You like rules. You like being told what to do. You like praise that melts you into a needy little puddle and degradation that leaves you dripping down your thighs.
Good. Because I’m in the mood to give you both.
Imagine this. You’re on your knees in front of the mirror, exactly where I want you. Hands clasped behind your back, thighs spread just wide enough to feel exposed. No touching. That’s rule one.
I’m not even in the room, but my voice is. Low, steady, collaring you through every syllable. “Look at yourself,” I’d tell you. “Look how your chest is already rising and falling like a desperate little slut who needs to be controlled.”
Your heart would start racing. I know it would. That pretty traitor pulse hammering under your ribs, giving you away before your mouth even opens. Cardiophilia has its uses, pet. I’d make you press two fingers to the side of your throat and describe it to me, beat by frantic beat, while you fight the urge to grind against nothing.
Praise when you obey: “That’s my good girl. Keeping still even when your cunt is aching for it.”
Degradation when you squirm: “Pathetic. Already leaking just from my voice pinning you in place. Can’t even follow one simple rule without dripping all over the floor like a broken toy.”
You want restraint? I’d have you hold position until your legs shake. Want control? Every breath measured, every twitch reported. Rough words? They’d come easy. Spanking? Only if you earn it by begging properly, voice cracking while you thank me for every strike that leaves your ass marked and your mind quiet.
You said break you gently or don’t. Tonight I wouldn’t be gentle. I’d unravel you slowly, deliberately, until the only thing left is that soaked, obedient mess who lives for being watched. Watched falling apart. Watched trying so hard to be good and failing beautifully.
Because that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? To be seen. To be owned by rules and words and the steady, unrelenting dominance that makes your pulse race and your pussy clench.
So here’s your first command, little one.
Read this again. Slowly. Feel exactly where it hits. Then tell me, in your next message, which part made your heart stutter the hardest.
Hey sir, I had a... question for you, if you will. How would you treat a little one who's body doesn't exactly... respond to internal stimulation? Me personally... I cannot orgasm from anything aside from clitoral stimulation. My g-spot is, unfortunately, permanently offline. So... what exactly would an exam be like for me? How would you get my heart racing for you? - 🦇
Come here, little bat 🦇
First, I want you to hear this clearly: your body is not broken, and it’s not “unfortunate.” It’s yours, and it responds exactly the way it’s wired to. Some girls come from penetration, some don’t. Some need their clit worshipped like it’s the center of the universe. That’s not a limitation. That’s just information I get to use.
If you were mine, an exam with me would be slow, deliberate, and completely focused on what actually makes you fall apart.
I’d have you on the table, naked, legs spread and secured in the stirrups so you can’t hide anything from me. Electrodes on your chest, pulse ox on your finger, BP cuff on your arm. The monitor glowing beside us. Then I’d warm the stethoscope between my palms and press it right over your heart.
“Breathe for me, baby. Let me hear how she sounds when she knows she’s being watched.”
While I listen to your baseline, my other hand would start teasing you exactly where you need it. Slow circles over your clit, never rushing, learning every little twitch and flutter that makes your heart rate spike on the screen.
I’d narrate everything:
“There it is… your heart just jumped the second I touched your clit. So honest for me.”
I’d edge you for a long time like that — fingers and mouth focused entirely on your clit, sucking, licking, stroking, while I keep the stethoscope pressed to your chest so I can hear every desperate acceleration, every skip, every frantic thud as you get closer.
When you’re shaking and begging, I’d keep my voice low and steady against your ear:
“Don’t fight it, little bat. Let Daddy feel how hard your heart races when you cum for me. I want to watch the monitor light up while you fall apart.”
I’d keep my palm flat over your chest as you finally cum, feeling every wild beat while I work your clit through every wave, never stopping until you’re a trembling, whimpering mess.
After? I’d pull you into my lap, still wired up, and hold you while the monitor slowly settles. Soft kisses on your forehead, my hand still resting over your heart, praising you quietly.
“You did so well, baby. Look how beautifully your heart performed for me.”
So no, angel. Your body not responding internally doesn’t change anything. It just means I get to focus all my attention on that pretty, sensitive clit until you’re completely undone.
Highest quality sheets over a luxury California king mattress nestled in a custom bed frame. Beautiful, dreamy curtains decorating gorgeous bay windows that I know she loves. Quirky little touches here and there, a vintage lamp, a cedar wood drawer set, all chosen meticulously to match her style and preference.
It was only missing one final touch. Her.
And now she’s finally here.
She’s finally mine.
The thought thrums through my veins like a drug, soothing every ragged edge of my obsession.
She tied delicately to the bed, wrists bound in silk scarves (no rough rope for my darling, never for her), her breath coming in shaky little gasps. Her eyes are wide, glistening with tears, but I know she’ll understand soon. I’ll make her understand.
"Shhh, sweetheart," I murmur, stroking her cheek. She flinches, but I don’t mind. She just needs time. "I’ve waited so long for this. You have no idea. But you’re finally here, finally mine. You have no idea how good I’m going to make you feel."
Her breathing is quick, panicked. “Stop, please—”
I grin, trailing a fingertip down her bare arm. Her skin prickles under my touch, and I shiver at the reaction. “Shh, sweetheart. I’ve got you now. You don’t have to be scared.”
She whimpers, twisting her hips, trying to pull away, even though the restraints won’t let her. It’s adorable. She’s so alive, so reactive, so present.
I lean in, pressing my lips to the delicate skin of her throat and I hum against her, satisfied. “You smell so good,” I murmur, dragging my teeth lightly over her pulse. “Like home.”
She’s perfect. Every slope, every curve—memorized in my mind a thousand times, now finally under my hands.
Her breath hitches when my hand slides down, fingertips brushing over her ribs. I know she’s ticklish here, I’ve seen her laugh when her friends accidentally graze her side. But right now, she’s not laughing. She’s trembling.
“Please, stop—”
I don’t. Instead, I press my palm flat against her stomach, feeling the rapid rise and fall of it. “You’re so soft,” I whisper, sliding my hand higher, cupping the swell of her breast. She whines, arching, whether to escape or press into my touch, I’m not sure.
But I don’t care.
She gasps when my fingers finally, finally brush over her bare nipple. “See?” I murmur, circling the stiff peak lazily. “You like this. You’re getting wet for me already, don’t lie, darling. I can smell it.”
She shakes her head, but her body betrays her. I pinch lightly, just to hear her breath catch again, and then trail my fingers down.
“Oh, fuck,” she whimpers when I find her clit. I know how sensitive she is. I’ve watched her touch herself before, seen the way she bites her lip to keep quiet.
"There we go… that’s it. Just like that." Her clit is swollen already, so pretty, and when I flick it lightly, her back arches off the bed with a sob.
"Ah-ah, none of that," I chide, pinning her hips down. "You’re going to take it. You’re going to come for me, over and over, until you forget you ever resisted."
I rub faster, my fingers finding the perfect rhythm against her throbbing flesh. She moans, high and desperate, and I grin. "See? Your body adores me. It’s begging."
My thumb presses down in slow circles, relentless, and her legs jerk, trying to close, but I’m between them, holding her open. "No hiding, princess. I want to watch you fall apart."
I dip my fingers lower, gathering her slickness before dragging it back up, coating her clit in her own arousal. She shudders, her breath coming in short, desperate pants. I watch her face, how her lips part, how her lashes flutter. She’s fighting it. She doesn’t want to enjoy this. But I can see the truth in the way her thighs tremble, in the way her clit pulses under my touch.
Her breath catches, her back arching off the bed. "P-Please—" she gasps, and her desperate, ruined voice sends a thrill through me.
"Please what, my love?" I murmur, leaning in to lick a stripe up her neck. "Tell me. Do you want me to stop? Or do you want more?"
She doesn’t answer, biting her lip, but her body does, her hips rocking against my hand, chasing the pleasure she can’t resist. I chuckle darkly, increasing the pressure, rubbing faster now, relentless. "That’s it," I breathe. "Let go. I want to feel you come for me."
She sobs, her whole body tensing, and then she shatters. Her clit throbs under my fingers as she arches, her thighs trembling around my hand as waves of pleasure wrack her body. I don’t stop, dragging out every last pulse of her orgasm, whispering praise into her ear like a prayer.
When she finally collapses, limp and shuddering, I press a kiss to her forehead, stroking her hair.
"Oh, sweet thing," I sigh, watching her chest rise and fall in frantic little hiccups as she comes down from her first climax. "That was just a taste. You’ve never felt anything like me, have you? No one’s ever worshipped you like this."
My fingers glide through her slick, gathering it up, painting it back over her swollen clit. She whines, thighs trembling, but I don’t stop. Not when she’s this perfect. "Shh, don’t fight it. You’re beautiful like this, so wet, so desperate. I can feel how tight you are, how much your body aches for more."
I press two fingers inside her, crooking them just so, and her back arches off the bed with a sharp cry. "There it is," I murmur, kissing her trembling stomach. "That sweet spot no one else ever found. Bet you didn’t even know you could feel this good, did you?"
Her hips jerk, trying to escape the overwhelming pressure, but I hold her down, my thumb resuming its slow, torturous circles on her clit. "No, no, you don’t get to run. You’re going to take every second of this. Look at me."
Tears spill down her cheeks, but her pupils are blown wide, her lips parted in a silent plea. "That’s right," I croon. "See? You want this. Maybe your mind hasn’t caught up yet, but your body, fuck, your body belongs to me."
I scissor my fingers, stretching her, relishing the way her walls flutter around me. "You’re so small here," I tease. "So tight and untouched. No one’s ever filled you up like this, have they? No one’s ever ruined you so perfectly."
Her breath comes in ragged gasps as I curl my fingers again, rubbing that spot inside her with merciless precision. "You’re going to squirt for me, princess. I can feel it, your body’s so close, just dripping for me."
She shakes her head, a weak sob escaping her, but I laugh, low and dark. "Yes, you are. You can’t stop it. I’ll make you do it over and over until you beg for it."
I press harder, faster, my thumb a relentless counterpoint to the thrust of my fingers. "Come on, darling, let go."
Her scream rings out as her hips buck, her body seizing. A rush of warmth floods my hand, her thighs trembling violently as she soaks the sheets beneath her. "Good girl," I breathe, watching in awe. "Look at you, fuck, you’re perfect. No one’s ever made you feel like this, have they? No one but me."
She’s limp now, boneless and dazed, but I don’t stop.
Her body is still shuddering from squirting when I press my palm flat against her soaked cunt, applying just enough pressure to make her whimper. "Aw, so sensitive," I coo, watching her hips twitch away instinctively. "But we've only just begun, pretty girl. You have no idea how much more pleasure I can pull from this perfect little body."
The first drag of my tongue along her swollen folds makes her gasp, a high, startled sound that turns into a moan halfway through. I savor it, the way her thighs tense but can't close, the way her fingers clutch uselessly at the silk restraints. "Mmm, you taste divine," I murmur against her, breathing her in. "All mine. Every drop."
I don't give her time to adjust. My tongue flicks over her clit in quick, relentless circles, and her back arches off the bed with a broken cry. "There we go," I purr, slipping two fingers back inside her with obscene ease. "Your body wants this. Look how easily you take me."
She's so tight, so hot, clenching around me like she's trying to pull me deeper. I chuckle, curling my fingers just right.
Her breath hitches, her thighs trembling as I speed up, my tongue never leaving her clit. "Come on, sweet girl, give it to me," I urge, my free hand pinning her hips down. "I want to feel you lose control again."
And she does.
Her orgasm crashes into her with a sob, her entire body seizing, her cunt fluttering around my fingers in the most beautiful rhythm. But I don't stop.
"Sh, shh," I soothe, even as my tongue laps at her oversensitive clit, even as my fingers continue to pump into her, dragging out every last shuddering wave. "It's okay, baby, just feel it."
She's crying, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks, but her hips are still rocking weakly against my mouth, chasing the pleasure even as it borders on pain. "That's it," I praise, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "You're made for this. Made for me."
I slide a third finger into her, stretching her even further, and her breath stutters, her eyes rolling back. "You can take it," I murmur, watching her face intently. "I know you can. You're so good for me."
Her next climax hits her like a train, her whole body jerking, a strangled scream tearing from her throat as she squirts again, soaking my hand, the sheets, everything. "Fuck, look at you," I groan, fascinated. "So messy. So perfect."
I lean down, licking a stripe up her trembling stomach, tasting salt and sweat and her. "You're ruined now," I whisper against her skin. "No one will ever make you feel like this but me."
She’s perfect like this.
Boneless, whimpering, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of what I gave her. Her skin is flushed, her lashes damp with tears, her lips parted in exhausted little gasps. I stroke her cheek, humming softly as I untie the silk scarves from her wrists, rubbing the faint pink marks with my thumbs.
"There we go," I murmur, pressing a kiss to each wrist. "See how good I take care of you? No one else would be this gentle."
She shivers when I lift her into my arms, her head lolling against my shoulder. I carry her to the bathroom—our bathroom, the one I designed just for her, with the deep soaking tub and the lavender-scented oils she loves. I turn on the hot water and let her go limp into my arms while the tub fills.
"Let’s get you cleaned up, hm?" I lower her into the water, my hands skimming over her hips, her waist, her chest, washing away the sweat and slick with a soft cloth. She tenses when my fingers brush between her thighs, still oversensitive, but I just chuckle, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Shh, I’m not going to tease you again."
I massage the shampoo into her hair, working out the knots with careful fingers, my voice low and soothing. "You did so well for me. Took everything I gave you. You’re mine now, you know that, right?"
She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to. I already know.
After the bath, I wrap her in a towel, drying her off with slow, deliberate strokes before slipping one of my shirts over her head, oversized, smelling like me, like us. I carry her back to the bed. Fresh sheets. Fresh blankets. A glass of water with a straw, held to her lips until she drinks.
"I’ll cook for you soon," I whisper, tucking her under the covers, brushing her hair from her face. "Your favorite meal. And then, when you’re ready, I’ll make you feel good again."
She whimpers, curling into herself, but I just smile, stroking her back in slow circles.
"Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll always take care of you."
Hey, slightly serious post here. I need some advice from other cardiophiles.
I've been dealing with a mental health issue for months now. And it's one that takes a physical toll on my body.
Over the last few months, I've noticed some weird things about my heartbeat.
Early in the morning or after not moving for several hours, my heart tends to skip or pause in its beats. And I can feel occasional skips. Like it beats 3 times, pauses, and corrects itself. And sometimes a double beat is thrown in.
And then, lately, when my heart is under stress (exercise, sexual stimulation, etc), it races. Which is normal, obviously. But when I hold my breath (which... I've done during self pleasure as a kink thing), it skips. Hard and throws multiple PVCs and sometimes doesn't stop for several seconds even after I let my breath out. Which I don't think has ever happened before. I've done stuff like that in the past and it's always been normal.
And sometimes, my heart will beat a steady rhythm but it'll be forceful. Like I'll be laying there and my you can faintly see my chest move with each beat.
I'm genuinely concerned about it because it's never done any of this before. Before this started, I drank caffeine and never experienced it. I've vaped for a year now and never experienced it.
But... I'm terrified I'm overreacting. Because it's probably nothing and I'm just being a hypochondriac or an attention seeker. Not to mention, being a cardiophile complicates this because my heart is a very intimate and sexual thing to me. And some part of me thinks I'm just being a pervert and hoping for something that isn't there.
I don't know what to do. I'm afraid a doctor is going to dismiss me or laugh in my face...
Update so I think I have some form of dysautonomia. My resting rate for my heart is in the 100s. I feel very heavy and like there's lead in my body if I stand too long. My heart rate goes nuts when I do the smallest shit (like rolling over in bed), and walking across a parking lot can make my heart spike to 150.
It gets worse when I eat. I'll be resting after I eat and my resting rate is near 130. 160 ish on standing.
Can I afford to get this checked out? Haha no, the american healthcare system is trash.
Sometimes when it's late, my fiance is dead asleep, and I'm horny, my brain wanders.
First off, having a suspected chronic illness (POTS and maybe IST) sucks.
HOWEVER-
From a cardiophile standpoint... I cannot stop imagining things now. Someone getting me high again and listening as my heart struggles to beat. Holding me against his chest with the stethoscope pressed over my flailing heart. Me, too weak to even comprehend what's happening.
He acts all concerned, telling me my little heart is just too fast.
He plays with my breasts, listening until my heart gets faster from just a few flicks on my nipple.
Then when he finally makes me orgasm, my little heart can't take it and I black out. And trust him to take care of me.
Hey, I absolutely adore your blog and your cardiophile stories. But as a chronic illness person myself... I have to ask.
How would you treat a sub who has a chronic illness that affects their heart? I personally have suspected POTS and IST.
Pray tell, how would you treat me and my chaotic heart?
Oh, sweet thing.
I see you there, carrying that weight in your chest every day. The way your heart decides on its own rhythm, racing when it shouldn't, dropping you low when the world tilts just wrong. POTS keeping you on edge with every stand, IST turning rest into its own kind of storm. It's a chaotic little pump you've got, isn't it? But chaos has always been my favorite playground.
In this space we build, you'd never hide it from me. The second you step through my door, the top comes off. No negotiation. Just skin and the truth of every visible beat: that frantic carotid at your throat giving you away before you say hello, the apical bounce under your left pec slamming like it's already begging for attention. I'd keep the room cool on purpose, watch the goosebumps rise while your abdominal pulse throbs low and insistent, a soft reminder that even at rest, she's never truly quiet.
We'd start every session with the basics. You on the edge of the bed, me with the stethoscope in hand. Cold bell pressed right to your apex, no warm-up. I'd listen to her baseline first, that elevated thud-thud-thud from the IST, steady but too fast, like she's always halfway to a sprint. Then I'd have you stand slow, one hand on your shoulder to steady the POTS rush. Feel her spike hard, that postural gallop hitting the metal like a fist. Dizzy yet? Lightheaded? Good. That's her telling me exactly where the edges are.
Play would be careful, controlled, because I don't break my toys on accident. We'd talk limits first, always—your meds, your triggers, your signals for when the fog rolls in too thick or the rate climbs too high. But once you're strapped down (soft cuffs, nothing that cuts circulation), I'd lean into what she gives me. The stethoscope stays on, tubing snaked under the restraints so I can hear every shift while I tease. A finger tracing your carotid, pressing just enough to make her stutter without dropping you low. My mouth on your nipple, sucking slow until the apical impulse shoves back harder, that visible bounce turning frantic under my palm.
When I finally slide inside you—slow, deliberate, no rush—she'd go wild. That IST baseline cranking higher from the thrill, POTS echoes making her trip if I shift you upright mid-thrust. I'd pause there, buried deep, stethoscope bell wedged between us. "Feel that gallop? She's loving every second, even if the rest of you is spinning." I'd keep you horizontal most days, legs elevated if the dizziness creeps in, but the tease of standing play? That's for when you're feeling steady, when I want to watch her rocket and pull you back down before the fog takes over.
Punishments? Light. Teasing. A cold pack on your chest to slow her down, or my hand over your mouth and nose for a few controlled seconds—watching the monitor, feeling the skip, releasing before she protests too hard. Rewards when she's behaved: my thumb on your clit in time with her rhythm, syncing the circles to every thud until you come clenching around me, her rate spiking beautifully in the stethoscope like applause.
Your chaotic heart isn't a flaw here. It's the star. The thing I listen to first and last, the rhythm that tells me exactly how far to push. She'd learn to dance for me—skip on command, race when I whisper "faster," settle when I say "easy." And you'd thank me after every session, voice shaky, body spent, knowing I claimed her without breaking what makes her yours.
But remember, this is fantasy. In the real world, we'd map every symptom first, have safewords sharper than knives, and stop at the first sign of real trouble. Your heart's chaos deserves care, not conquest.
I want to be your long-term cardio toy.... use any tools you please 😉
That’s the prettiest surrender I’ve heard all week.
You want to be kept long-term. Not a weekend plaything, not a one-off rush. A fixture. My personal cardio toy, wired and monitored, heart always on display for me to toy with whenever the mood strikes.
I like the permanence of it.
You’d live shirtless in my space. Always. No negotiation. The moment you cross the threshold the top comes off and stays off. I want constant access to every visible rhythm: the quick flutter at your throat when I walk past, the steady apical bounce under your left pec that betrays you before your mouth ever opens, the low throb of your abdominal aorta when you’re trying to act calm while I’m deciding whether to play or not.
The stethoscope stays on the side table like a remote control. I pick it up without warning. Press the bell wherever I feel like: apex, carotid, right over the pulse in your wrist if I want to feel how small and helpless the beat gets when I’m close. You don’t get to flinch. You don’t get to cover up. You stand (or kneel, or bend, or lie back) and let me listen while your heart throws itself against the metal like it’s trying to crawl into my hand.
Training starts simple.
“Faster.” One word. Your pulse obeys before your brain catches up. “Skip.” That sweet little hitch I taught you, the one that makes your breath catch and your cunt clench empty. “Slow.” The deliberate drag downward until every beat stretches long and heavy, almost painful in how much control I have over something you can’t fake.
Then we build.
I’ll edge you for hours with nothing but my voice and the stethoscope. No hands between your legs. Just me holding the bell firm over your apex while I tell you exactly what your heart is doing: “Listen to her gallop… she’s so close already and I haven’t even touched your clit.” “Feel that stumble? That’s her begging to come for daddy.” “Slow it down again. No. Slower. Good girl… now hold it right there while I count to thirty.”
You’ll learn to come from cardiac commands alone. A whispered “now” while I press harder over the point of maximum impulse, feeling the muscle slam upward as your whole body locks and shudders and floods without a single stroke to your cock or cunt. The orgasm starts in your chest and ripples outward until you’re shaking, leaking, gasping, heart racing so wild the stethoscope can barely keep up.
Long-term means rituals.
Morning check: you stand naked in the kitchen while I press the bell to your chest and decide if you slept well by how steady (or frantic) she is. Evening wind-down: you kneel at my feet, head on my thigh, while I auscultate slow circles and murmur degradations that make her skip on cue. Anytime I want: I snap my fingers, you present chest-forward, I listen, I command, you obey. If she misbehaves (races without permission, skips when I didn’t ask), there are consequences. A tight collar around your throat for the rest of the day. Or my hand closing over your mouth and nose until she drops low and slow and desperate, only to be allowed air when she’s trembling on the edge of blackout.
You’ll bruise beautifully there too. Finger-marks on your throat, faint handprints over your pec where I held too hard while she fought to beat through the pressure. Little souvenirs of how completely she belongs to me.
And when I finally decide to fuck you?
I’ll keep the stethoscope in place. Let you feel every thrust mirrored in the frantic rhythm slamming against the bell. I’ll make you come again and again just by changing the pace of my hips until your heart can’t keep up anymore and she stutters into that perfect, terrifying silence for a few seconds before roaring back to life while you’re still clenching around me.
That’s what long-term looks like.
You, wired to my voice. Heart on permanent display. Every beat, skip, and stop belonging to me.
So kneel for me right now, princess. Chest out. Let her show me how badly she wants to be claimed.
Tell me exactly how fast she’s going while you read this. I want the number. And I want to know which command you’re already aching for me to give her first.
The Heart Fetishist's Game, a heart torture simulator for us dark cardiophiles.
More updates, tools and features are coming soon. It's a work in progress, so some things may be wonky. Feel free to message me about any issues you encounter or any suggestions/ideas you may have!
Mobile friendly browser game, no download required.
Donations are in BTC and ETH so all support is anonymous.
I wake in a dungeon, a hooded figure standing over me. My arms are bound above my head and my chest is constricted by a strange leather harness. Though the light is low, I can see an array of strange instruments on a cart next to the figure. I don't want to learn what they're for, but I have a feeling I'm about to. I don't know what this person could want, and the only clue is the stethoscopes strapped firmly over my pounding heart...
Full video with more of the little bottle and some breathplay on my OF!
Most of my cardio fantasies begin with me strapped to an exam table.
In this one, I'm in a packed lecture hall, nude and restrained, my legs spread wide and a speculum between them. I'm hooked up to a 12-lead, and my heart's already pounding before anything's begun, stimulated by a cocktail of hormones and nerves.
There are hundreds of medical students watching, all taking notes, as the lecture begins. The study? To examine the effects of various stimuli on the human heart--looking around I see syringes, paddles, and various sex toys set up on a table to my side, and as the instructor proceeds with his lecture his hundreds of students watch with rapt attention.... first things first, I'm administered a potent aphrodisiac, which easily gets me squirming.
The instructor comments on my body's reactions with a cold, clinical formality. His assistant covers my chest in ultrasound gel and begins to probe my heart... "Watch as the patient's sexual response cycle begins with increased heart rate and engorgement of the vulva and clitoris--" and, on the projector behind us is a split-screen display of my heart on the ultrasound, my spread cunt, and an internal view of my canal, proudly documenting every flutter and twitch of my walls. The instructor straps a wireless steth to my chest, and suddenly the lecture hall is filled with a frantic *lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub--*
"Observe the sharp, forceful quality of the heart sounds." Each of my valves is auscultated. "Trivial regurgitation in the pulmonic and tricuspid valves."
Next, the real experiments begin. I'm quickly dosed with epinephrine, and as my heart rate skyrockets into the 150s a vibrator's strapped to my clit, set to medium intensity. I'm doing my level best not to writhe at this point. "Involuntary vocalizations at 0:3:50 and 0:4:35. Note decreased cardiac output as the heart rate increases dramatically."
Everyone is scribbling thorough, methodical notes, and the whole affair is being filmed for publication in a medical journal, data to be preserved for eternity. Each new experiment brings me closer and closer to the edge--and my heart pounding harder and faster--and they just will not stop dosing me with adrenaline...
"Maximum heart rate exceeded by 60 beats per minute..."
I'm moaning and squirming like an idiot now, every erogenous zone in my body angry and electric--but my heart can't take the pressure for long and descends into frenetic runs of VTach with long pauses in between, like it wants to stop entirely. And it does, descending into quivering fibrillation as it tries to maintain an impossible speed. The EKG sounds a warning alarm.
It's orgasm that brings me back, another shock of adrenaline from my brain to my heart forcing it back into rhythm as my angry red clit pulses for everyone to see...
Wow this turned out longer than I thought haha. Basically I dream of being a science experiment... I'm huge on "cardio exhibitionism", and it'd be a total dream for my heart to be the center of attention for such a large, engaged audience. And the whole thing would have to be filmed, of course... for science!
The rope is a work of art, a cruel masterpiece. It cinches my wrists together above my head, the knots biting into skin, keeping my arms immobile. More coils, tight and unforgiving, bind my ankles, my knees, and my thighs, pinning my legs apart, spread wide enough to make my hips ache. A final, thick band is looped around my torso, anchoring me to a heavy, immovable table in the center of the room. I can’t twist. I can’t shift. I am a statue of flesh and fear, laid out on a table like a feast, naked except for my panties, a humiliating display of vulnerability.
He moves into my limited field of vision, a tall, lean shadow that blots out the light. He doesn’t speak. He simply stands there, looking down at his handiwork, at me.
In his hand, he holds a single, white feather. It’s absurdly delicate, almost beautiful. My breath hitches, a tiny, pathetic sound. He notices. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face.
“Comfortable?” he asks, his voice a low, smooth murmur that seems to vibrate through the floorboards and into my bones.
I can’t answer. My throat is too tight. All I can do is stare, wide-eyed, at that feather.
He comes beside me. He doesn’t touch me yet. He lets the feather drift through the air, a whisper away from the thin cotton of my underwear. The anticipation is its own kind of agony. My skin prickles, every nerve ending screaming a warning. I try to clench my muscles, to tense against the inevitable, but the ropes hold me in a state of vulnerable openness.
“Please,” I whisper, the word tearing itself from my lips. It’s barely audible.
“Please what?” he asks, tilting his head. The feather’s tip rests lightly on the inside of my thigh. A tiny, almost imperceptible touch. A jolt of pure, electric sensation shoots through me, fear and terror accentuating every nerve. I jerk against the ropes, a futile spasm that only makes the rope dig in deeper.
“Please don’t,” I manage, my voice trembling.
“Don’t what?” He drags the feather upwards, a torturously slow ascent along my inner thigh. The sensation is maddening. It’s not pain. It’s so much worse. It’s a light, skittering, unbearable tease that bypasses all rational thought and goes straight to the primal core of helplessness. A choked giggle escapes me, immediately followed by a sob of humiliation. I hate it. I hate the way my body betrays me, twitching and squirming on its own.
He reaches the edge of my underwear. He pauses. The feather hovers. My entire world narrows to that point of impending contact. I’m panting now, my chest heaving against the constricting rope.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” he purrs.
Then he applies the feather.
It’s a light, fluttering stroke, right over place where my thigh creases. A shriek, half-laughter, half-anguish, rips from my throat. My body arches in a violent, useless convulsion against my bonds. The ropes hold. The sensation is unbearable, a tickling, tingling, excruciating stimulation that offers no release, only escalating, maddening tension.
“Stop! Please, stop!” I beg, tears springing to my eyes. I’m laughing a hysterical, broken sound. I thrash my head from side to side, but there is no escape.
He doesn’t stop. He runs the feather along the edges of my panties, stroking the sensitive skin mercilessly. My thighs tremble violently, trying to clench, to protect themselves, but the binds hold them open, offering me up to this relentless atrocity.
“Shh, shh,” he soothes, but his eyes are alight with a dark, hungry joy. “Don’t fight it. It’s just your body. It’s so much more honest than you are.”
He’s not wrong. A traitorous, fizzy sensation is bubbling under my skin, a biological response I have zero control over. The touch of the feather becomes more deliberate, tracing the subtle dips beside my hip bones, scribbling over the soft, vulnerable plain of my stomach. I squirm, a useless, pathetic motion. A giggle, sharp and involuntary, hiccups out of me.
The feather traces up, drawing a torturous line up my stomach, following my flesh as I futilely shudder away. With deliberate slowness, he runs the tip of the feather around my breasts.
I’m panting, tears streaming from the corners of my eyes from the effort of holding in the laughter, from the shame. “Please…”
“Please what, pet?” he whispers. “Please stop? Or… please don’t?”
The feather moves before I can answer. A quick, light brush directly over both nipples.
I arch off the table with a sharp cry that dissolves into helpless, hysterical giggles. The sensation is unbearably acute, a direct line of fizzing, torturous sensitivity. He does it again, and again, a rapid, touch that has me thrashing my head from side to side, shaking helplessly.
He finds a sporadic, unpredictable rhythm. Each contact is a lightning strike, a burst of sensation so intense it borders on agony. My back arches off the table, my chest thrusting upward, as if trying to escape the touch by meeting it more fully. It’s a horrible, involuntary offering.
He drags the feather across the tight peak of my nipples, side to side. It’s a rasping, whispering torment that feels like he’s stroking a live wire. The sensation is unbearable, a dizzying, nauseating swirl of ticklish fire that has sobs wrenching from my chest.
“There we are,” he coos, his breath warm against my ear as he leans in to observe his work. “See how beautifully you react? A perfect little instrument. We can play such pretty, desperate songs with you.”
He focuses now, holding the feather steady and dancing it along my skin. The quiver transfers through the delicate tip, creating a constant, fluttering buzz directly on my nipples. It’s the epicenter of a storm of sensation. My entire world shrinks to that one point of maddening, fluttering contact. Pleasure and torture fuse into one inseparable, degrading whole.
Time blurs. My throat is raw from screaming, laughing, begging. My muscles ache from the constant, futile straining. The tickling is a constant, humming torment, a live wire attached to my soul.
“Please… I can’t… I’ll do anything,” I sob, the words slurred with exhaustion and hysteria. My pride is gone, dissolved in a puddle of sweat and tears on the floor. I am a thing made entirely of raw nerve endings and desperate, abject pleading.
He leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “I know,” he whispers. “That’s the point.”
And he finally, mercifully, pulls the feather away from my skin. But what comes next is so much worse.
From his pocket, he produces something new. A small, delicate brush with stiff bristles so fine they looked like spun silk. He plays with the brush absentmindedly as he fixes his gaze on my ruined form, his eyes catching on my core, the one place he’s avoided until now.
“Look at the state of you, all because of a little feather,” he murmurs, his voice a low, condescending rumble.
My eyes are squeezed shut, but I can feel his attention like a physical weight between my legs. I can feel the undeniable, humiliating slickness that the tickling agony has drawn from my pussy.
“Absolutely soaked,” he continues, a chuckle in his tone. He doesn’t touch me yet. He’s making me listen. “All that squirming, all those pretty little noises… and this is the result. Your body is so much more honest than you are, pet.”
I feel the blunt, wooden end of the brush then, not the bristles. He uses it to hook into the waistband of my panties, the last pathetic shred of my modesty, now transparent and clinging with the evidence of my own unwanted arousal. He gives a little tug, a grotesque parody of a playful gesture.
“These are ruined,” he announces, as if commenting on a mundane topic. “Drenched through. What a useless, messy little thing you are. They’re not even serving their purpose anymore, are they? Just a wet rag hiding the evidence.”
With a pair of shears, he cuts my panties and pulls the ruined fabric off my body. The cold air hits my fully exposed sex, making me flinch. He holds the drenched scrap aloft between his thumb and forefinger, dangling it in my line of sight like a trophy.
“There she is,” he coos, his voice a mockery of a lover’s encouragement. “There’s the greedy little thing. So wet. So swollen from just a bit of tickling. You’re making such a pretty mess for me. Come on, now. Don’t be shy.”
A fresh, cold dread, sharper than any before, plunged into my gut. I tried to shake my head, a feeble denial. “No… no more, please...”
He ignores me.
The first touch of the brush is not a stroke. It's a placement. The very tips of those impossibly soft bristles come to rest, with pinpoint accuracy, directly on the hypersensitive peak of my clit.
A sound escapes me that is not human. It's a sharp, choked gasp, followed by a high, thin whine. It isn't pain. It's an overload. A direct, concentrated surge of sensation so intense it short-circuited every other thought. My back arches off the floor as much as the ropes would allow, a rigid bow of shock.
He begins to move the brush.
It's the lightest possible motion. A microscopic oscillation, a vibration more than a stroke. It isn't tickling in the giggling, squirming sense anymore. This is surgical. This is precise torture.
The sensation is unbearable. It's a screaming, electric buzz of pure, undiluted sensitivity. It built with terrifying speed, a cresting wave of agonizing stimulation with no peak, no release, just an endless, escalating plateau of torment. I can't laugh. I can't even scream properly. My voice is a ragged, gasping scrape.
“Too much… it’s too much… stop, stop!” I beg, my words dissolving into incoherent moans. My hips try to buck, to twist away from the unbearable focus of that brush, but the ropes hold them in a vise, forcing me to accept every devastating micro-movement.
He watches my face, his own a mask of fascinated intensity. “Such a powerful little thing,” he muses, not slowing his relentless, minute motions. “So much control, locked away in such a small space. And now it’s all mine to play with.”
He changes the brush strokes. Tiny, meticulous, agonizingly slow circles, right over the hypersensitive nub.
“Please! No! Not there! Anywhere but there!” I scream, my voice cracking. Tears stream down my temples, pooling behind my ears. I’m laughing, a high, broken, hysterical sound that has nothing to do with joy. It’s the sound of my sanity fraying.
“Oh, but it has to be there,” he chides softly, not pausing his relentless, gentle strokes for a second. “Everywhere else is just… foreplay. This is the main event. This is where I break you.”
And he is breaking me. The constant, light stimulation is building something terrible inside me. It isn’t pleasure. It is a pressure cooker of sensation with no release valve. My hips buck and twist in tiny, frantic circles, trying to escape the brush, trying to lean into it, my body a traitorous mess of conflicting impulses. I’m splayed open, completely debased, reacting like an animal under his clinical, detached touch.
“Look at you,” he said, his tone dripping with disdainful amusement. “A quivering, begging mess. All your dignity, gone. All your strength, evaporated. Reduced to this… this pathetic, twitching thing. And we’ve only just begun.”
He changes his technique. Now it’s light, rapid flicks. Each one sends a jolt through me so intense I see white behind my eyelids. My pleas dissolve into incoherent babbling, half-words, sobs, and that incessant, humiliating laughter.
“I can’t… I can’t take it… I’ll die… please, I’ll die…” I choke out.
“You won’t die,” he scoffs, pausing just long enough to let the unbearable tension coil tighter. “You’ll just wish you had. This is what you were made for. To be taken apart. To be shown what you really are.”
The pressure builds past any point of endurance. The maddening, tickling torment, the utter helplessness, the complete domination, it all fuses into a white-hot singularity of sensation. My body, against my will, against my very soul, begins to climb a peak it was never meant to reach like this.
“No… no, no, no, don’t let me… please don’t let me…” I beg, knowing what was coming, horrified beyond measure.
“I’m not making you do anything,” he says, his voice thick with pleasure. “This is all you. Your filthy, eager little body.” A dark, triumphant gleam lit his eyes. He increases the pace, the brush becoming a blur of gentle, devastating motion.
I’m chanting a litany of no, my words my last, useless defense any the inevitable.
"Come on, you worthless thing," he commands, his voice low and hypnotic with cruelty. "You don't get to decide. Your body is mine. That little button is mine. Give it up. Show me what a ticklish, desperate whore you really are. Come for me.”
It hits me like a wrecking ball made of torment and sensation.
It’s an orgasm, but it’s unlike any other. There’s no pleasure, only an catastrophic, involuntary release of all the tortured tension. My body convulses violently against the ropes, a series of sharp, jerking spasms I have no control over. A raw, guttural scream is torn from my throat, a sound of utter ruin. Wave after wave of sensation flood my senses, each one a fresh humiliation, a brutal confirmation of my total defeat. I’m sobbing openly, great heaving cries of despair, as my own body betrays me in the most fundamental way possible.
Except it’s not over.
Before the last shudder has even left my body, before the blinding white noise in my head has cleared, the brush is back. The same ruthless motion on my clit, which is now a raw, screaming nerve-ending.
“NO!” I shriek, the sound pure animal panic. The sensation is unbearable, a searing, painful overstimulation that shoots through my oversensitive flesh like shards of glass. I thrash wildly, the chains clanking, my pleas dissolving into incoherent babbling. “Stop, please, it’s too much, it hurts!”
He doesn’t stop. He leans closer, his eyes alight with fascinated cruelty. “Hurts?” he echoes, mocking. “But look at you. You’re still dripping. Your body is begging for more even as your mouth lies.” He increases the pressure, the bristles scraping mercilessly. “This is what you want. This is what you are. A thing that cums from being tortured like this. A wet, responsive toy. Now be quiet and take it. Let’s see how many times I can make you break.”
The pain-pleasure is a continuous, horrifying loop. Every movement of the brush is agony, yet my traitorous flesh still clenches, still produces another trickle of slickness that he uses as proof of my complicity. He’s right. In the deepest, most shameful part of me, the part he owns now, my body is still responding, turning violation into a twisted, unwanted echo of ecstasy, and that truth is the most devastating torture of all.
Hey so I know I've been MIA on here for ages (life been shit lmao) but my heart is still beating and I do lurk on here often.
Anyway I have been playing this game my best friend told me about called Love And Deepspace and I just see this in the story mode and I short-circuited so here have this screen shot for your horny purposes.
