hiyo! I'm Eden! I'm a 24 year old lesbian trans girl and am a submissive and a masochist and I love when my sex gets kinky and heavy.
This blog is gonna be an outlet for me to express some of those desires, a bit of writing, a bit of horny posting, and the occasional nude.
KINKS:
CNC, free use, bondage, masochism, pet play, denial, degradation, humiliation, exhibitionism, intox, kidnapping, and probably many more that I don't remember right now
Minors and cis men please don't interact!!!
DMs are open if you wanna make fun of me for being such a slut, just don't be weird or your getting blocked.
Anywayyyy enjoy my ramblings and happy horny posting!!
Everything clambers for your attention in the absence of normal stimulus. Hot air, skin sticking with sweat, pain points from constriction. Tongue tacky from dehydration. Head pounding low with dizzy fear. Pressure on your ears, over your eyes, blocking everything.
You saw nothing of your assailants, and they ensured you continued seeing nothing. With muffs went the hearing. With binds went your ability to thrash.
Hot, heavy silence now. Pillowy darkness pressing up against your vision.
You arch, the only movement available to you. You feel the binds shift, suspect metal chains, but hear nothing from it. No clatter, no crinkle, rustling, creaking. Your brain senses the materials by touch and considers hallucinating the expected sounds for you, but you're not that far gone yet.
There's you heaving with breath, muffled whooshing, which comes faintly to you through the small bones in your ears connected to your jaw. There's the intermittent bass pounding of your heart, more feeling than sound, but occasionally too loud to bear.
All of it competes to be noticed. You fixate only on the tightness of the space.
Walls just far apart enough to hold you. You couldn't tell what was happening until you slid into place and the air went still after some movement from above. Limbs already pinned in by the binds but held still further by the physical boundaries.
The walls hold you closer than you've ever been held before. You could swear they're pressing in, but it's just you coming further apart.
Time stretches forever as you shift, pant, cry out. Weep into the foam-padded blindfold. Grind your teeth into the gag. You can't even form words to keep you company, just useless sounds joining the saliva soaking the cloth. Gut taut with sickly panic, teeth aching from gnawing.
And still nothing changes.
Your inner ear tells you you're upright, that your box is motionless. Why dump you in here? Are they not transporting you elsewhere? Are you stored for later use? Will you die here?
The air cools slightly, but its lingering sense of suffocating stillness remains. The wet breath and sweat become clammy, and you shiver from exhaustion, strain, waves of fear, tomb-like cold. Your organs send warning pangs up to your brain for water, food, more air, less tension, begging for movement of any kind.
At some point, the body surrenders its panic, nervous system collapsing in, and you can't hold your head up or eyes open. Neither of those things change your current experience. Have minutes become hours? Panic turns seconds into days. You doze against your will.
Nothing changes. You'd say something breaks in you each time you return to the thought, but it's a continual process, pieces ground smaller and smaller every time you check back.
When you at last come alert some hours later, it's the reverberation of footsteps.
The movement transfers through the material to you, closer until it's just before you. You can't hear them, how many, what they say. It doesn't matter. The water lost through your renewed tears can't be helped, either.
As a hand lands on you, you cry out, straining with every muscle towards it. You sob, any fear left evaporating, with blind, delirious relief.
You can't believe how good it feels. All of it. Every bit of it. Moving through the air, tight hands dragging you, your body hitting the ground. Clothes being cut away. Gag being pried free.
The exposed skin is so sensitive that it hurts. It all hurts, and yet in contrast to the terror of deprivation, you drink it in. When the blade knicks you, you groan and struggle to feel enough shame at how deep and needy it hits you. The sound that you can barely hear rumbles up from your core, your guts, where the disgust and relief churn together.
When they pin your arms up out of their way by the wrists, you jackknife with animalistic fear. No, no, no, not restricted again, not tied up again–
And the punch to your stomach winds you, threatens to make you throw up bile. You suddenly feel grounded, leaden with ice cold seriousness, with real, practical fear. You don't need frivolous panic when your legs are spread and there are scissors or knives in their hands.
Clearly, they know their craft.
Whoever it is doesn't start right away. They peel back your ruined clothes and pin your limbs out of the way. Letting the cool air flow over you, your body intermittently tense on the hard floor and limp with exhaustion.
Water on your lips, and you drink.
A hand on your nape orienting your face, and you oblige.
Just a drop of water or a brush of their fingers makes you lurch, sick with relief, unable to resist relief, wanting more. Terrified of pain to come but desperate for every bit of contact.
All without warning, in total darkness and silence. Nothing but footsteps or shifting weight to hint at what's coming next.
They arrange you, and the pauses give the pacing of a photoshoot. You can't hear a thing, but you imagine it so clearly, you can almost hallucinate a real camera shutter. They pull your knees up. Click click. They tilt your chin to expose your neck. Click click. The last of your underwear is cut away, leaving nothing but restraints. Click click.
You're dizzy and scared, ashamed by your own arousal they carefully evoke. Fingers grazing erogenous edges with expert skill, just brushing where you fear most direct contact. Forcing your mind to fixate on what touch will come until your whole body is taut with anticipation.
Of course you get aroused. Of course they tease it out of you. Of course they make it worse and worse until your body is drooling in need and you're trembling in revulsion.
Then they use you. Properly grateful and warmed up, you make for a good fuck now. You don't know how long it goes on, how many, but who cares? The heat and pressure and breath against you, fingers digging into you hungrily, eagerly pulling at you that forces you to make sound you can't imagine.
Even when it hurts, it's ecstasy compared to your hours of motionless isolation. When you cum, you don't have shame left to feel, and it's not like they notice anyway.
And you dread it ending. Part of you knows with dead certainly you'll be going back.
You know what will happen. They clean you up, rinse you briskly, let you piss, then redress you in strange clothes.
It means you're being tied back up, sealed away. Back into the velvet, painful darkness. You beg and don't even know if they're affected, and the gag goes back in soon enough. Until then, you barter and bargain and try to offer obedience, servitude, anything.
But you belong locked away when not in use, and the unboxing is half the draw of their content. If you're not truly broken by containment beforehand, the audience can always tell. And then you'd be no use at all.
if only you could see how stupid and vacant its eyes were here...
might keep this newsletter around as a recurring bit to flesh out my kidnapper persona. once again, many thanks to my pathetic and beautiful victim @freeusebait :)
you can expect at least one new photo from this set per week until we do another shoot. next photo will be a different torture method :)
There we go, let's get these fingers all nice and tucked away, no? Into your mitts. I'll tighten them. You won't be needing these. Now open up. No words now, you don't need words. And there you are, let's strap those legs in, heel to thigh, heel to thigh. No standing for you, isn't that right? That's a good pet, you know I'll take this all off just as soon as you get everything you need.
Look at you, so perfect. So helpless. Can't speak. Can't reach the counter. Couldn't dial a phone if you wanted to. That's my little one. Yes, I know you're eager, I know, I know. But sit here for me, right here. That's it. Let me feel you at my feet, against my legs. Look up. Up. Those pretty eyes. There you are. No, no blindfold today, I want to see them.
You're aching for it, aren't you? Hush, rest your head on my thigh. Such a good pet. Let it ache. I want you to want it so much that it hurts. And there's not a thing you can do about it, is there? That's it, just be here for me. Perfect, so perfect.
Im gonna brag to a sadist right on the edge of hunting me down and making me deepthroat their pistol about how to their to much of a stupid idiot coward to do anything before giving them my address >:3 nothing bad will arise from this
You know, you're awful scared for a girl who constantly tags her posts #snuffbait. Where's the cockiness from our chats? Does it feel different now that its real? Knowing that my impulse control is the only thing keeping you alive?
thanks once again to the beautiful and perfectly pliable @freeusebait for being my model in this shoot. plenty more to come :)
Stupid stupid why did I tempt fate like this!! I should have known better, I should have seen the warning signs. Stupid!!! I should have got out when I was able. I guess this what dumb fucking whores like me deserve...
I deserve this I deserve this I deserve this I deserve this I deserve this I deserve this
Okay I know this is supposed to be a horny blog, but I've got something bouncing around in my head that I just need to talk about, so bear with me here.
I'm currently in Berlin on vacation and I visited the Alte Museum, a very old collection of ancient Greek and Roman relics. It was a very beautiful exhibit with some beautiful statues and artifacts, but one in particular has stuck with me. It was hidden in a corner exhibit that they called a "love" exhibition, but really it was a place where they wanted to keep things deemed too "Sexual". And then I saw this statue.
The title is "Hermaphroditus" and apparently represents a mythical son of Hermes and Aphrodite. I'm no expert on history so I won't attempt to refute this, but when I look at this statue I see something different.
I see a trans girl.
To me this feels less like a retelling of myth, and more of a portrait of those that existed before. Her soft features, her budding breasts, The feminine headscarf she wears... this just feels like an image of what a real person could have looked like. She reminds me of myself in my early transition, or friends I know who are currently going through the same struggles.
I cried in front of this statue. Never have I felt more connected to history. We have always been here. Even when cis people refuse to recognize us or believe us, we exist in spite of it. Even in 500 BCE we were here.
To be Trans is to be human. Nothing will ever change that.
Alsooooo, Semi unrelated I saw "Who's afraid of Red, Yellow, and Blue IV" and Oh my god....
I turned the corner and saw this and felt my heart jump out of chest, It was truly indescribable. If you're ever in berlin, absolutely check out the Neue Nationalgalerie, no words I could ever use would give this painting justice.
Okay I know this is supposed to be a horny blog, but I've got something bouncing around in my head that I just need to talk about, so bear with me here.
I'm currently in Berlin on vacation and I visited the Alte Museum, a very old collection of ancient Greek and Roman relics. It was a very beautiful exhibit with some beautiful statues and artifacts, but one in particular has stuck with me. It was hidden in a corner exhibit that they called a "love" exhibition, but really it was a place where they wanted to keep things deemed too "Sexual". And then I saw this statue.
The title is "Hermaphroditus" and apparently represents a mythical son of Hermes and Aphrodite. I'm no expert on history so I won't attempt to refute this, but when I look at this statue I see something different.
I see a trans girl.
To me this feels less like a retelling of myth, and more of a portrait of those that existed before. Her soft features, her budding breasts, The feminine headscarf she wears... this just feels like an image of what a real person could have looked like. She reminds me of myself in my early transition, or friends I know who are currently going through the same struggles.
I cried in front of this statue. Never have I felt more connected to history. We have always been here. Even when cis people refuse to recognize us or believe us, we exist in spite of it. Even in 500 BCE we were here.
To be Trans is to be human. Nothing will ever change that.
I love that I lactate now so fucking much. Ever since my captor started abusing my tits Ive been able to squeeze it out. I'm rolling my nipples in my fingers and soooo much is dribbling. It's so fucking hot and tastes so good. I wish there was some hormone regiment I could start so I would just leak allll the time. Big stupid tits constantly leaking milk, always horny to the touch, never leaving a shirt unstained. Just a stupid whore constantly letting the world know my tits are free game to grope and squeeze and pinch......
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.
You hope it won't bruise. How in the world could you possibly cover it. You can still feel her hands on you. Grasping around your neck, pushing in tighter and tighter. Your throat feels swollen, punished. It's hard to swallow, even a bit harder to breathe. As you run your fingers across it you can feel where her thumbs jammed into you, when she took your breath away. Even when you began to thrash and fight and beg for air she didn't stop. The marks are evidence enough of that.
You can't be too mad though. It's all your own fault. You did, in fact, beg for it. She was just giving you what she knew you needed.
So is it free use or for rent? Like, rent implies that it isn't free
I was going for like a... "for sale: baby shoes, never worn" type thing? Maybe I should rephrase it more like how people try to give couches away on facebook marketplace... Much to consider
But to answer your question, it is very much free. I would never engage in the horrible practice of capitalism.
Free Use Pet, please use to your heart's content @freeusebait - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
