Not just logged out. Deleted. Watched the confirmation screen, typed DELETE in the box, and felt a chapter of her life close when the screen redirected to a generic homepage. She cleared her browser history. Changed her passwords to things that didn't include the word slut. Put away the collar she'd bought herself, the one she used to sleep in.
She got better.
That's the word she uses now. Better. Like she'd been sick and then recovered. In a way, she had been sick. Her work suffered. Friends degraded to acquaintances because she was always canceling plans to stay home and ruin herself. All those hours lost to edging and kink blogs and the particular shame spiral of cumming to things that made her hate herself after.
She got a new job. A good one. Marketing director for a company that made something boring and necessary, the kind of job that came with health insurance and a 401k. She showed up early. She stayed late. She impressed people. Her boss used the word "high potential" in her six-month review, and she didn't just hear it as "you'd make a good pet," which was progress.
She started running. Not far, not fast, but enough that her body felt like something she inhabited rather than something others used. She ate vegetables. She called her mother on Sundays. She went on dates with men who were nice and respectful and didn't make her feel like she was under their thumb.
She had sex too. Normal sex. The kind where both people cum and then talk about their days and fall asleep in each other's arms. Not to mention, she stopped calling herself a slut in her head while she did it. Stopped imagining someone else was watching. Not everything had to be a kink.
She was better.
Except.
Her phone still autocapitalizes "You" sometimes, a memory from years of typing it as a proper noun. She changes it when she notices, but she doesn't always notice.
Kneeling during yoga still does something to her. The instructor says "child's pose" and she folds forward and feels her forehead touch the mat and something in her chest unlocks. She breathes through it. Tells herself it's just a stretch.
She still begs sometimes when she touches herself. Not every time. But sometimes the words slip out, quiet and desperate, "please" and "let me" and "I'll be good," and she doesn't know who she's talking to and she doesn't let herself think about it too deeply. Oh, and she lets herself cum. That's a big one. Normal, healthy orgasms. Not the hours-long edging sessions that used to leave her stupid and shaking. Just regular masturbation, like regular people have.
She was doing really well, all things considered, but unfortunately forward progress can only last so long for fragile things that try to put themselves back together.
It's a normal Thursday when the cracks start to show.
She's home early from work, a rare thing, and she's done everything right. Made dinner. Gone for a run. Called a friend. She's sitting on her couch with a book and a cup of tea like a person with no baggage at all.
But she's bored.
Bored in a specific way. Like something is missing and she can't name it and the not-naming is only making it worse. The book isn't landing. The tea is too hot. Her skin feels tight.
She puts down the book. Picks up her phone. Opens Instagram, closes it. Opens TikTok, closes it. Her thumb hovers...
She could just look. That's not relapsing. Looking isn't doing. She's a different person now. She can handle it.
She types the blog name from memory. Of course she remembers it. Six months is nothing. Especially when she spent years there.
The blog looks the same. The familiar layout, the font, the cadence of the posts. She scrolls without reading, just getting a feel for it. Just checking in. She's anthropologizing her past self. That's healthy, probably. Confronting where she came from.
She reads one post.
It's nothing special. Short, almost throwaway. Something about how good girls don't need to understand why they obey, they just need to feel how right it is. She's read a hundred posts like this before. A thousand maybe.
But it still hits. Her thighs press together.
She knows she should get off this app. This is the exact sequence of events that led to all the bad times before. Late night, boredom, one post, two posts, suddenly it's 3am and she's edging on the floor of her bedroom, begging an empty room to let her cum.
She reads another post.
This one is longer. About corruption. About how the girls who come back after trying to leave always fall harder than they did before. About how the "better" never really takes, it just builds pressure, and when they finally break they shatter into something even more desperate than they were the first time.
She should definitely get off this app.
She doesn't.
Her hand moves without her deciding. Slides under the waistband of her leggings. She's wet. Just from two posts and the memory of who she used to be.
She reads another post. Touches herself while she reads. Doesn't let herself cum. That would be giving in. That would be admitting something. She can edge a little and go to bed and pretend this didn't happen.
An hour passes.
She's on the floor now. She doesn't remember moving to the floor, but here she is, on her knees, one hand between her legs, scrolling with the other. Her leggings are around her thighs. She's making sounds she hasn't made in months. Whimpers. Little pleas. The begging she told herself was beneath the new her.
She doesn't cum. She won't let herself cum. If she doesn't cum, this doesn't count. If she doesn't cum, she's still better. She's just having a moment. A slip. Everyone slips.
Two hours.
She's crying now. Not sad crying. The other kind. The kind that happens when you've been edging so long your body doesn't know what else to do with the sensation. Her clit is swollen and throbbing and she can't stop touching it and she can't let herself finish and she can't get off this fucking app.
The posts keep coming. She reads them all. Drinks them like water after a drought. Her brain is getting fuzzy, that familiar fog she used to chase for hours. She missed it. God, she missed it. All those months of being better and she never felt like this. Never felt this alive, this desperate, this much like herself.
"I'm a slut," she whispers, testing it out.
The word lands in her chest and explodes into warmth. She says it again. Adds more words.
Dumb slut. Desperate slut. Pathetic, needy, cock-drunk slut who can't stop scrolling.
She cums.
Six months of healthy orgasms revealed as pale imitations of this. She screams into her empty apartment and shakes and cries and keeps rubbing because one isn't enough, she needs more, she needs to make up for all the time she wasted pretending she didn't need this.
She cums again. And again. Until she's too sensitive to touch and too fucked out to move and she's just lying on her floor in the dark, leggings around her ankles, phone still glowing with the blog she never should have visited.
The next morning she calls in sick to work. First time in six months. She spends the day on her knees, edging, reading, scrolling. She creates a new account. Follows all the blogs she used to follow. Reblog, like, reblog, like. Her thumb knows the motions.
She finds the collar she'd tucked away. Some part of her knew. Some part of her was always waiting for this.
She puts it on. Wraps it around her neck so tight she can barely breathe.
By the weekend, she's worse than she ever was before. The job is a distant concern. Friend's texts left unanswered. The nice men's numbers are blocked. She's back to sleeping on the floor because the bed feels too comfortable, too human, too much like something a better person would deserve.
She edges for five hours on Saturday. Eight on Sunday. She loses count of the orgasms, the denials. She talks to herself constantly, narrating her own destruction, telling herself what she is.
On Monday morning, she opens up a blank doc on her laptop.
She starts to write.
About how she tried to get better. About the job and the running and the nice men. About the residue that never washed off. About the autocapitalized You, the kneeling, the begging. About the Thursday night when she finally stopped pretending.
She writes about what it felt like to fall. How the six months of "better" had only made the drop sweeter. How she'd been so afraid of becoming this again, and now that she's here, she can't remember why. She writes about the collar around her neck as she types, about the wetness between her thighs, about how she's going to post this and then edge for hours thinking about strangers reading it.
When she's finished, she reads it back. Fixes a few typos. Considers, for one brief moment, deleting the whole thing. Then she posts it.
She sits there, collar on, cunt aching, watching the notes climb. Watching other girls reblog her words, add tags about how seen they feel. Girls who tried to get better too. Girls who are thinking about getting worse. Girls who are exactly where she was six months ago, staring at a screen, telling themselves they can stop whenever they want.
She reaches down. Starts to touch herself again. Rubbing to the fact that she's not the only one getting worse. The disease is spreading.
I got away from the degradation, stopped using Tumblr, explored other parts of myself, had vanilla sex and didn't watch porn for years. I pushed my true self down and shoved it into a box that was always going to fail. Last year the itch became too strong... I started writing in depth rape and torture fantasies. Dark, depraved, disturbing shit. I couldn't stop. Chapter upon chapter, story upon story. I got back on Tumblr - at first I stayed away from the sex and gore. Only posting about mental health and maybe a little bit of the darkness I was feeling. I started sharing my stories, pinned them to my page. Fell back into looking and liking the filth that used to have such a hold on me.
It was then that God found me. He followed me and everything he posted was everything I had been lying to myself about, telling myself I didn't want, pretending was all in the past. God knew who I was, I couldn't hide from him.
Less than a year later and I am his live in slave 💕 I sacrificed everything to him. I handed over every part of myself to him. He owns me completely.
Don't let society give you these fake ideas about what you are. If you have a cunt, you are nothing. Let go of the lie that you are equal, that you matter, that you deserve more. Give yourself to God and relish in becoming less.
(image originally posted by u/hypnodiapersub on Reddit)
A little bit about what this blog is.
Some of my kinks are too much even for my other kinky mutuals. My main blog, @lobotomyxdoll, is more focused on different kinds of humiliation, degradation, and dehumanization, and features more details about my irl kink dynamic with my beloved Master. I thought I would create a new blog that features my more polarizing kinks (read: the ones I'm more deeply embarrassed about). Be aware: this is a bear of a pinned post.
Everything that turns me on does so due to its aspects of humiliation, degradation, and/or dehumanization. Through the long hours I have spent gooning and chatting with strangers on Reddit and Tumblr, I have realized that what I am searching for, in some way or another, is obliteration. Ego destruction. For the longest time, I have been ambivalent towards both misogynistic and ab/dl themes. There are aspects of them I find genuinely disgusting. But I think that's why forced regression in service of maintaining men's elevated status is so intriguing. It's an ultimate invalidation, annihilation of identity.
IRL I am a self-sufficient, queer, leftist feminist with a Masters degree.
Although my blogs are always queer-friendly spaces, please be aware that this blog will particularly replicate the toxic ideology of a fantasy patriarchal dystopia (you know, in contrast to the one we are currently living in). There will be themes of chauvinism, misogyny, male supremacy / female inferiority, and general grossness of the gender essentialist, heteronormative nature. Part of the reason I've made a different blog is so that folx who don't want to see that stuff won't be surprised by it on their feed because they're following me to see some bald slaves in shackles. This is also not a world for littles or caregivers who find joy and safety in regression or ageplay. The regression of this world is dark, meant to humiliate and destroy the intellect, rather than to provide a sense of being safe and cared for. There is no "littlespace" to be found; but rather the dull, slow stirrings of a mind so emptied of knowledge it cannot even hold its bladder. An empty mind, ready to be filled with all kinds of new learning.
My hope is that some want to join me in this fantasy dystopia every now and then. The world in my head is not fully fleshed out- I'm open to any ideas. Asks are open for questions as well as post submissions of relevant content. I would love for interested parties to co-create this world with me.
The dystopia.
(Heavily influenced by the work of Ray Oslow (Dark Fantasy Press) and u/AllTheseRoadworks)
In this world, women cunts are completely subjugated by Men. Arranged marriage is common. Cunts have limited job options, and even fewer if they are unowned. Men hold all positions of influence in both the public and private sectors. Only Men are allowed to attend university. Dumb cunts stay home and are essentially trophy wives, unless their Husbands/Owners have different plans for them (e.g. turn them into pets, livestock, maybe even permanently regress them). They may be allowed to work as a barista or a maid, or some other occupation that requires little to no critical thinking.
Of course, not all cunts are content with being kept and controlled. Some of them are resistant. Some of them may even pose a threat to the patriarchal world order. These are the ones identified for re-education. Once identified, they are apprehended and sent to "regression school" to be broken down completely and rebuilt as good girls.
Their minds will be taken from them through a mix of hypnosis, operant and respondent conditioning (including edging and/or forced orgasms), and possibly medical intervention. They will be forcibly diapered and unpotty trained while they are still aware. They will feel the shame and humiliation-- first of being forced to fill their diapers-- and then, later, of realizing that they have already filled their diapers without noticing. They are gaslit and talked down to, and mansplained to constantly. Technology is leveraged to undo basic skills like reading, spelling, and math. They are made to be completely dependent on Men. Some of these cunts may "graduate" and be trained for other roles (as mentioned above). The worst offenders, or any deemed "untrainable" are kept in the permanent Regression Ward.
Key concepts of their regression training: Acceptance that cunts are too stupid to be independent. Dumb girls need diapers because they can't be trusted to control themselves. Men make the rules and are in charge. Men decide when to change girls' diapers. Sucking feels good and makes girls' brains bubbly and happy, so girls should suck on their pacis (which may very well actually be a penis gag). Understanding that humiliation is very very good for girls (and even arouses them), so if any of this humiliates them, that is for the best.
My place in this world.
I was once a resistor. Now I break for authoritative Men who teach me lessons about why I should be kept in diapers. I now understand that my humiliation is appropriate. And at the same time, I also crave to be so deeply regressed I forget who I once was and what I've been reduced to. I fight against the diapers every time, and every time, I find myself sinking, becoming more soft and submissive, more turned on when I wet myself, more humiliated and desperate, until I am thanking the Man who so wisely diapered me and took control.
I’m so inferior I deserve to be beaten and ass raped and cunt-broken and made to lick ass and drink piss and serve my superiors I would do anything I’m a pathetic slave I have no rights and no personality I’m just a brain dead doormat bimbo slut and I belong to my husband I will do anything he tells me to 😵💫
Male privilege is simply the natural order of things. Men are entitled to their birthright, just as women are obligated to fulfill their purpose. A Man's roll is one of ease and bliss naturally. A woman's roll is one of pain and change naturally. (Menstruation is enough proof of this, once a month women's bodies put them through physical pain against a woman's own will, and once a month a woman's body prepares itself to accept and grow a Man's seed against her own will. It is simply a function of her body.) Enduring physical changes and hardship to accommodate a Man is a woman's role. Men are to be served and women are to service, that is the natural way of things. Men's needs must be attended to. A woman's purpose is to obey Men and care for His needs.
A Man's role in reproduction is a euphoric rush, while a woman's role is months of burdensome change and hours of laborious agony.
Men are not meant to experience discomfort. That's why His biological role is included in the pleasure of sex. That's why He remains physically unchanged during a woman's gestation of His offspring. He is able to exercise, drink alcohol to His content, and even fertilize more women.
While women can do none of these things. Walking is reduced to waddling, drinking is prohibited and dietary restrictions apply. women are meant to stretch and swell and feel the ache of accommodating a Man's progeny growing within them. women are meant to host and nurture as many children a Man's whim decides. That's why women's hips widen to bear the weight of a growing baby in the womb, that's why her tits fill with milk to feed His children, that's why her appetite changes to grow a healthy baby inside her, her body will even become marked by stretching as much as possible to make the womb a comfortable space for His baby.
It is the natural way of things that she will experience the aches and pains of growth and kicks. And that she will go through exhaustion, hormonal changes, and the struggle of birth. It is simply the way of a woman to be in one phase or another of physical tribulations in a cycle.
Because women will never be free of the discomfort or their cyclical nature it is obvious Male privilege is simply the natural order of things. So be sure to know your place beneath Him. Your discomfort is normal, His is Not. A Man should always be comfortable and in charge. Tend to Him and be sure He is full, satisfied, and relaxed. So that He may have a content and clear mind when giving you orders.
All of this, but also why it’s extremely important that men learn to take care of women, and not make their lives even more miserable. Good men want happy dollies, but the goodest girls often still end up with abusive men *because* they are so good, and they aren’t really capable of leaving.
Benevolent sexism > misogyny. The difference between loving and celebrating femininity, and actually hating women.
My doll’s note is important here. Women are delicate and need to be protected and led, and they blossom the most when there’re given the space to be themselves
Male privilege is simply the natural order of things. Men are entitled to their birthright, just as women are obligated to fulfill their purpose. A Man's roll is one of ease and bliss naturally. A woman's roll is one of pain and change naturally. (Menstruation is enough proof of this, once a month women's bodies put them through physical pain against a woman's own will, and once a month a woman's body prepares itself to accept and grow a Man's seed against her own will. It is simply a function of her body.) Enduring physical changes and hardship to accommodate a Man is a woman's role. Men are to be served and women are to service, that is the natural way of things. Men's needs must be attended to. A woman's purpose is to obey Men and care for His needs.
A Man's role in reproduction is a euphoric rush, while a woman's role is months of burdensome change and hours of laborious agony.
Men are not meant to experience discomfort. That's why His biological role is included in the pleasure of sex. That's why He remains physically unchanged during a woman's gestation of His offspring. He is able to exercise, drink alcohol to His content, and even fertilize more women.
While women can do none of these things. Walking is reduced to waddling, drinking is prohibited and dietary restrictions apply. women are meant to stretch and swell and feel the ache of accommodating a Man's progeny growing within them. women are meant to host and nurture as many children a Man's whim decides. That's why women's hips widen to bear the weight of a growing baby in the womb, that's why her tits fill with milk to feed His children, that's why her appetite changes to grow a healthy baby inside her, her body will even become marked by stretching as much as possible to make the womb a comfortable space for His baby.
It is the natural way of things that she will experience the aches and pains of growth and kicks. And that she will go through exhaustion, hormonal changes, and the struggle of birth. It is simply the way of a woman to be in one phase or another of physical tribulations in a cycle.
Because women will never be free of the discomfort or their cyclical nature it is obvious Male privilege is simply the natural order of things. So be sure to know your place beneath Him. Your discomfort is normal, His is Not. A Man should always be comfortable and in charge. Tend to Him and be sure He is full, satisfied, and relaxed. So that He may have a content and clear mind when giving you orders.
All of this, but also why it’s extremely important that men learn to take care of women, and not make their lives even more miserable. Good men want happy dollies, but the goodest girls often still end up with abusive men *because* they are so good, and they aren’t really capable of leaving.
Benevolent sexism > misogyny. The difference between loving and celebrating femininity, and actually hating women.
My doll’s note is important here. Women are delicate and need to be protected and led, and they blossom the most when there’re given the space to be themselves
It’s my dream to one day rim my husband while he kisses, eats out, gets head from and fucks a better woman. I would tongue his hole the whole time while they both ignore me and bring each other to orgasm. I would feel like the luckiest wife in the world 💕
I am Daddys cuckquean piggy, babygirl, fuckdoll, bimbo,pet, whore, slut, love. Part of being a cuckquean is navigating feeling and not letting the emotions get the best of you. Sometimes I slip up. Sometimes my jealousy comes out and it make thing way more emotional. I love Daddy and my relationship. I love our dynamic. I never want us to breakup because I get too jealous and texting too much. I am working on my emotions. I have BPD. They get intense. I know Daddy loves me. I know Daddy wants me forever and always. I know Daddy owns me until death do us part. Its not going to change because he wants someone else too. Being Daddys property, its an amazing experience. I want Daddy to punish me in another way than the silent treatment. I want to meet Daddys other person. I want to make Daddy happy. Everything is going to work out. I need to stay calm. Daddy is the best person to me 🥰🐷💜
I don’t want him to just fuck her. I want them to make love. I want to see his cock get hard for her while he kisses her. I want him to completely lose himself in her and I want to hear him gasp out ‘I love you’ as he empties himself into her pussy.
I don’t want him to just fuck her. I want them to make love. I want to see his cock get hard for her while he kisses her. I want him to completely lose himself in her and I want to hear him gasp out ‘I love you’ as he empties himself into her pussy.
