Times Up. The room is dim. Expensive furniture reduced to shapes in the darkness. The only sound besides your own breathing is a quiet hum from a digital timer mounted on the opposite wall. Red numerals glow in the gloom: 00:59:57.
Just under one hour.
"You're awake." The voice comes from somewhere near the door. You crane your neck, wrists already testing the leather restraints, and watch him step into the faint light. You don't know his face. But you recognize the way his eyes move over your body. Roaming. An inventory assessment.
He's carrying things. Metal glints.
"The rules are simple," he says, approaching the bed. His footsteps are unhurried. "When the timer hits zero, I undo the restraints. The door opens. You leave." He pauses at the edge of the mattress, looking down at you. "One small addition."
Cold metal touches your nipple. You gasp as he fastens the clamp, the bite sharp and immediate, radiating heat straight down to your core. The second clamp follows. You arch involuntarily, straining against the leather.
He produces a vibrator. Sleek. Expensive looking. You watch him lower it between your legs, watch the silicone part your folds and settle against your clit. He turns it on.
"Every time you cum, an hour gets added to the clock."
You look at the timer. You look at yourself. Spread open, clamped, vibrating.
One hour. You can do one hour. You just have to not cum.
He steps back. Settles into a chair at the side of the bed and watches.
You try to focus on the numbers. Try to think about other things. Work emails. Grocery lists. The pattern of shadows on the ceiling.
But the clamps send sharp little signals with every breath. The vibrator hums against flesh that's growing wetter by the minute. You clench your jaw. Breathe through your nose. Don't cum. Don't cum.
He hasn't moved. He's just watching.
Your hips twitch. You didn't tell them to. The pressure is building low in your belly, a warmth that spreads and tightens simultaneously. You're wet enough now that the vibrator glides, hits new angles.
You bite your lip until you taste blood.
The numbers blur. 00:47:23. You've been holding on for twelve minutes. It feels like hours. Your thighs are trembling. Your breath comes in sharp little gasps you can't control.
He knows. You can see it in his stillness. The way he's leaned forward slightly. Waiting.
"No," you whisper. To yourself. To your body. To the orgasm building like a wave you can't outswim.
It hits you anyway. Your back arches off the bed, a sound tears out of your throat that you don't recognize, and you're cumming so hard your vision goes white at the edges. It rolls through you in pulses, each one a betrayal, each one exquisite.
When you can see again, you look at the clock.
01:46:12
"Impressive effort," he says. He's standing now, holding a remote. "Let's try a different setting."
The vibration changes. Pulsing now. It mimics something. A heartbeat. A thrust. Your overstimulated clit throbs in response, too sensitive, too raw, and somehow already building again.
"No... please.." you gasp out, the words weak.
"Please what?" He moves closer. His fingers trail along your inner thigh, impossibly light. "Please make you cum again?" He dips a finger into the wetness pooling between your legs, holds it up so you can see. "You're dripping. Your body knows what it wants."
You shake your head. But your hips are rocking against the vibrator, tiny movements you can't seem to stop.
This time when you cum, you're crying. Tears streaming down your temples into your hair. The clock resets: 02:38:47.
He fucks you for the first time somewhere around hour four.
Slow, at first. Long strokes that let you feel every inch, that build friction to an unbearable degree while the vibrator keeps humming against your clit. You cum on his cock within minutes. The clock adds another hour. He doesn't stop. Doesn't even pause.
He switches to something harder. Brutal. Each thrust punches the air out of your lungs, drives you up the bed until the restraints catch. You cum again. You can't help it. Your body has stopped consulting you. It just responds. Takes. Shatters.
He introduces other things. Hot wax pooling in the hollow of your throat, dripping down between your breasts. Ice traced along your inner thighs until you're shivering and burning at once. His mouth on your cunt, tongue flicking precisely where the vibrator has made you most sensitive, most ruined.
He talks through it the whole way. That's probably the worst part. "You get wetter when you're scared." "That's three in a row. You're getting efficient." "We have so much time now."
The clock climbs. Six hours. Eight. Twelve. You stop being able to track it. The numbers lose meaning. Everything loses meaning except the next wave, the next peak, the next hour added to your sentence.
Somewhere in the blur, you realize you've stopped wanting it to end.
The thought surfaces between orgasms, when you're floating in that shattered space where language doesn't quite work. You should want to escape. You remember wanting that, vaguely, like a dream you had as a child. But the wanting has curdled into something else.
He slows down. You're not sure when. The frantic edge bleeds away, replaced by something almost gentle. The vibrator stops. He removes the clamps. Your nipples throb with the renewed blood flow, a pain that registers as pleasure now. Everything registers as pleasure now.
You blink at the clock. 00:06:43.
Six minutes. After everything. How?
He's undoing the restraints. Your wrists fall free. Your ankles. You can move. You can leave.
The thought sends ice through your veins.
Leave? Leave this room? Leave him? Go back to a world where no one touches you like this, where you're responsible for your own orgasms, where pleasure is something you have to chase instead of something that hunts you down and devours you?
The silence of outside presses against the walls. Empty. Ordinary. Unbearable.
He steps back. Gestures toward the door. "It's almost time."
Your hand moves own between your legs, finding your clit, swollen and slick and excruciatingly sensitive. You rub with clumsy desperation, chasing the build.
"Don't," you hear yourself say. Begging. Sobbing. "Don't make me leave. Please. I need to cum. I need more time."
He goes still. Watching you fuck yourself on his bed, desperate to add another hour to your captivity. The pressure is building fast, your ruined body trained now, eager.
"Let me stay. I'll be good. I'll cum as many times as you want. Just don't make me go."
Four minutes on the clock.
Your fingers work faster. You're so close. So close to another hour in this room, in this darkness, in this endless cycle of being broken and put back together wrong.
I've been at my desk for three hours and I've written maybe four sentences because I can't stop touching my cock. It's been hard since I woke up. That kind of hard where it throbs against your stomach, where every shift in your chair reminds you it's there and it's not going away until you do something about it.
So I stroke it. Just for a second. Just to take the edge off. Except the edge doesn't come off. It gets worse. Now my hand is wrapped around it and I'm thrusting up into my fist, slow and lazy, pre leaking down my shaft, and I've completely lost whatever thought I had about the email I was writing. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the squeeze of my hand and the fact that it's not enough. My hand is never enough when I'm like this.
I need you. I need a slut who'll crawl under this desk and let me bury my cock in their mouth so I can finally think about something else. Or better yet, park you in my lap and let me work with my cock stuffed inside you. Just keeping it warm. Keeping it somewhere tight and wet so it shuts up and lets me focus. You don't even need to move. I just need to be in something. Something that clenches and reminds me it's there every time I shift my weight.
That's all I'm asking for. A place to put it. A good little cock sleeve who'll sit still and let me finish this fucking email.
After Hours. You're halfway down the hall, a stack of graded midterms under one arm, a coffee going cold in your other hand, and you almost keep walking. His office door is closed, which isn't unusual. The professor holds office hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and students trickle in and out all afternoon with questions about citations and thesis statements and whether their C+ could maybe be reconsidered.
But it's Friday. And an unmistakable sound stops you mid-stride.
Muffled. A moan that someone is clearly trying to suppress. You freeze. Your shoes squeak on the linoleum and you hold your breath, convinced you gave yourself away, but nothing changes behind the door. Another moan, longer this time, followed by a low murmur that you recognize instantly as his voice. You've spent months listening to that voice lecture about modernist literature. You know its rhythms, its cadences, the way it drops when he's making a point he considers particularly important.
It's doing something very different right now.
You realize this is a side of him he’s never shown you, and you should absolutely leave. You should walk to the elevator, go home, and never think about this again.
You take one step closer.
The door isn't fully latched. There's a gap, maybe half an inch, where the old wood has warped away from the frame. You can't see anything. But you can hear everything.
"Relax." His voice. Low and calm. The same tone he uses when a student interrupts his lecture. The same authority. But underneath it, something darker. Something that makes your skin prickle. "You wanted to learn. So hold still and learn."
A whimper. Then a sound you can't immediately place, wet and rhythmic, and your brain cycles through possibilities before landing on one that sends heat flooding to your face and between your legs simultaneously.
"Good girl. Just like that."
Your hands are shaking. You press your back against the hallway wall and stare at the ceiling. You’re trying to force yourself to move, but your body has decided independently that you're not going anywhere, and your ears are tuned to the frequency behind that door with a precision that borders on predatory.
You hear her gag softly. Then his breath, a sharp intake followed by a slow, controlled exhale.
"Slower. You're rushing. Take your time with it." A pause. "Use your tongue. Yes. Right there."
Your thighs press together. The pressure makes it worse.
"You've been thinking about this." That voice, god, that voice. Measured and certain, like he's walking her through a close reading of a passage, pointing out things she missed. "Haven't you? Sitting in the first row, staring at me, thinking about being right here."
A muffled sound that might be a yes.
"I could tell. You're not as subtle as you think." The wet sound again. His breathing changes. "Deeper. Come on. You can take more than that."
She gags again. Louder. Then a gasping breath and the sound of her coughing.
"Easy. You're doing well. Breathe through your nose and try again."
Your hand is pressed flat against your stomach. Your heart is slamming against your ribs so hard you're afraid they'll hear it through the wall. Every nerve in your body is lit up in a way you've never experienced, not from the porn you've watched out of curiosity, not from the few times you've touched yourself in the dark and felt more confused afterward than satisfied. This is different. This is real, happening ten feet away, and the man making it happen is someone who handed you a stack of papers this morning, said "nice work on the Woolf analysis" and smiled at you in a way that made you feel, briefly, like the smartest person in the room.
That man is currently getting his cock sucked in his office and coaching her through it. He's giving her a private lesson you can only dream about.
"Open wider. Relax your jaw. Let me in." A groan, his, the first sound he's made that doesn't sound completely in control. "That's it. That's perfect. See? I knew you could do it."
You close your eyes. Behind your lids, against every effort of your rational mind, you picture it. Him in his desk chair. Her on her knees between his legs. His hand in her hair, directing. His cock in her mouth, and you don't even know what his cock looks like but your brain is constructing one anyway: thick, the head pushing past her lips, her cheeks hollowed around the shaft. His slacks open, but his shirt still buttoned, still dressed like a professor from the waist up while she works him with her mouth.
"I'm going to finish," he says, and his voice has roughened, the composure finally fraying at the edges. "And you're going to swallow. And then we're going to discuss your thesis, because it still needs a lot of work. Understood?"
A sound that you interpret as agreement.
Silence. Then a long, low groan, restrained, followed by the sound of her swallowing, small and effortful, and then both of them breathing hard.
"Good." His voice settling back into place. "Take a minute, then let's look at your argument structure."
You finally run.
Ungracefully. Your coffee sloshes over your wrist and the midterms nearly scatter across the floor. You make it to the elevator and press the button fourteen times and stand there panicking until the doors close and you're alone. Your reflection stares back at you from the brushed steel, flushed and wide-eyed and undeniably, catastrophically turned on.
Rotation. The blunt comes back to you. You take a long, slow drag, holding the smoke deep in your lungs until your head feels light and floaty. The edges of the room are getting soft, the low rumble of men’s laughter blending into the music. You pass it on, your fingers clumsy, your whole body humming with a pleasant buzz.
You just want more.
The next time the blunt comes around, the man next to you holds it just out of your reach. He’s got a lazy smirk on his face.
"You want another hit?" he asks, his voice a low drawl.
You nod, your eyes fixed on the thin trail of smoke curling towards the ceiling. You can almost taste it.
"Gotta earn it," another one chimes in from across the circle. "Make it worth it for us."
The other guys are in agreement. Your cheeks flush hot, but the craving for another hit tears at your resolve. You need to get higher. You need to chase that feeling until you fade out completely.
"Like what?" you hear yourself ask, your voice sounding small and distant.
"Let’s see your tits," he says, his eyes glinting. "Show off a little."
For a second, you hesitate. Then you look at the blunt, so close. It’s an easy trade. Your hands, feeling like they belong to someone else, move up to the front of your shirt. You cup your breasts. You give them a squeeze. You bounce up and down like a brainless whore. A cheer goes through the room.
He grins and hands you the blunt. You take the deepest drag yet, the smoke searing your throat in the best way. The world tilts, and you melt back into the couch with a satisfied sigh.
The next round, it’s the same game. The blunt is held hostage.
"You can do better," another voice demands. "Get naked, slut!"
The world is syrupy now, your thoughts a slow, happy river. The idea isn’t embarrassing anymore. It’s just part of the game. Part of the price. You pull your shirt over your head and toss it onto the floor, then you move on to your jeans, panties, and bra. Their eyes are all over you, hungry and dark, watching the performance. You’re starting to feel a different kind of high, one that starts between your legs. You get your reward, sucking down the smoke greedily.
You’re so fucking high. Your head is a messy puddle of pleasure and fog. When the blunt is denied again, a genuine whine escapes your lips. You’re desperate.
"You really want it that bad?" the guy next to you asks, a real challenge in his voice this time. "Fine. Get over here and bounce on my cock for it."
The room goes quiet. They’re all watching you, waiting for you to blush and refuse. They think they’ve finally found your limit.
But the thought isn’t even shocking. It’s… right. The idea slides into your hazy mind and fits perfectly.
Without a word, you push yourself off the couch and crawl over to him. You hear the sharp intake of breath from the other guys. You hear the sound of a zipper being pulled down. You look up at him, and his smirk is gone, replaced by stunned, raw hunger.
His cock is already thick and hard, springing free from his jeans. You reach out, your hand closing around him, and he groans. You don’t hesitate. You guide yourself down onto his lap, the head of his cock pressing into your pussy.
You start to bounce. Softly at first, then with more purpose, grinding down. It’s so intense. It's so much better when you're high. So much better.
Then, hands are on you. Someone is behind you, his fingers digging into your hips, another guy’s mouth is on your neck, sucking hard. Hands cup your breasts, fingers pulling at your nipples.
You’re pulled off his lap and pushed down onto your hands and knees on the floor. Someone’s tongue invades your mouth while another positions his cock at your entrance.
He shoves inside you without warning. You scream, but it’s a sound of pure pleasure. He fucks you rough, his hips slamming against you. Before you can even catch your breath, another cock thrusts into your waiting mouth. You take it all, gagging as you suck, your eyes rolling back in your head.
The one fucking you from behind slams into you one last time, his hot cum flooding your pussy as he groans your name. He collapses onto your back, spent.
For a moment, there’s a lull. The room is thick with the smell of sweat, sex, and stale smoke. You’re on all fours, trembling, your mind a blissful, empty void. Then the craving hits again.
You turn your head, your eyes hazy and searching. Another guy is kneeling in front of you, his cock ready in his hand. Your mouth waters.
"Another hit," you beg, the words tumbling out before you can think. "Please… I need another hit."
He understands the new game perfectly. He grabs your hair and guides your mouth onto his cock. You take him in eagerly, sucking down on him like you’re trying to pull smoke from an ember. You suck until he’s groaning, until his hips start to buck, until he’s pushing your head down, fucking your throat. He cums fast, a rush you swallow without thinking.
He pulls out. Another is already there to take his place.
It become a new rotation. They use your mouth, your pussy, your ass. You’re passed between them, a communal toy. And with every new cock, you beg for it.
"One more hit… please," you whine as you’re tossed onto your back, your legs pulled wide open.
A new guy settles between them, his cock pressing against your soaked cunt. He slides in and you cry out, the feeling of being stretched and filled all over again making you squirm. You wrap your legs around his waist, taking every brutal thrust. Your head lolls to the side, and you see another cock waiting by your mouth. You don’t even need to be told. You open wide and take it, your cheek pressed to the ground, your body being used from both ends.
You take their cocks, drawing out their pleasure, making them groan and shudder. You don’t stop until they’re spent, until they’ve given you everything.
Finally, you’re lying on the floor, a trembling mess. Your body is a beautiful ruin of spit and sweat and their cum. You’re dazed, your muscles aching. But the craving is still there, a low thrum deep inside you.
"One… more… hit…" you whisper up at them, your voice barely there.
They surround you, and you look up at them through barely open eyes, your mouth falling slack in invitation. This is it. The final, perfect drag. One by one, they give you what you’ve been begging for. Hot streams of cum cover your face, your tits, your stomach. It splashes across your cheeks, drips from your chin, paints your body white. You just lie there, taking it all. Drenched and shaking under the weight of their release, you finally feel it. The high you’ve been chasing.
The Clearing. You’ve known about the place for months. A friend of a friend mentioned it at a party, half-laughing, as if she wasn’t sure she believed it herself. A spot in the woods outside town. Girls go there, she said, and men know to look for them. It’s not official. It’s not like there’s a signup sheet. You just go and wait for the worst to happen.
You laughed too. Called it a ghost story that suburban kids make up because they don’t have anything real to be afraid of.
Still, it stuck with you.
You went home that night and searched for it. Found a forum, then another, then a rabbit hole of firsthand accounts that made your face hot and your panties wet. Girls describing what happened to them in that clearing. How they walked in nervous and walked out ruined. That they didn’t see faces and didn’t exchange names. Hands just grabbed them from behind before they even heard footsteps.
At this point you’ve read every account at least twice. Some of them you’ve read while touching yourself, cumming with your hand over your mouth, imagining it was you on your knees in the dirt with a stranger’s cock down your throat.
You’d never go yourself. You’re not the kind of girl who does things like that. You’re careful. Cautious. Always double-checking that you locked the door. Texting your friends when you get home safe. You don’t walk into the woods alone and wait to be taken by men you’ve never met.
Even if you can’t stop thinking about it.
About going somewhere and giving up control completely. Skipping all of the awkward "so what are you into?" conversations, and getting straight to someone grabbing you by the throat. Being used so thoroughly until there’s nothing left of you but raw sensation.
You finally go.
Just to have a look and see if it’s real. To satiate your curiosity. And you can always turn around and run if things get out of hand. That’s what you tell yourself.
You park at the trailhead as the sun starts to drop. The directions from the forum are specific, and you’ve read so many stories you basically know the way by heart. The woods are quiet. Golden light filtering through the leaves.
As you get closer to the point of no return, you remind yourself yet again that you could go back. You could go home and make dinner and watch porn and touch yourself to the fantasy instead of the reality. Just stay the girl you’ve always been.
But all those tiny reassurances feel hollow compared to the excitement of finally being here. Of a world opening up to you as the tree line thins out.
You step into the clearing.
It’s smaller than you imagined. A rough circle of grass surrounded by trees, private and enclosed. Late sunlight slants through the branches. It’s almost peaceful.
You stand in the center and wait.
Nothing happens. Five minutes. Ten. You start to feel foolish. The whole thing was probably made up. Some elaborate fiction for lonely people to jerk off to. You’re about to leave when you hear it.
Footstep behind you. Not on the trail, they’re coming through the trees.
You freeze, a scared doe that’s forgotten how to run, standing perfectly still, fists clenched at your sides, heart pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears.
The footsteps stop. He’s close. You can feel him there, just behind you.
"You came here on purpose?"
You nod. It’s all you can manage in the moment.
"You know what happens to girls who come here."
Another nod. Your legs are shaking.
A hand fists in your hair. Yanks your head back. You gasp, and then his mouth is at your ear.
"Then get on your knees."
You drop. Leaves and twigs pressing into your skin through your jeans. He keeps his grip on your hair, keeps your head pulled back at that sharp angle, and you still haven’t seen his face. Not that you’d look if you could. Even you know better than to make a mistake like that.
"Hands behind your back"
You comply. He lets go of your hair long enough to grab your wrists, and you hear a zip tie ratchet tight around them. Your pulse spikes. It’s actually happening. You’re in the woods with a stranger and your hands are bound and you’re so wet you can feel it soaking through your panties.
He comes around in front of you. You keep your eyes down. See his boots, his jeans, his hand working his belt open. He’s stroking himself slowly, already hard, and you watch as his cock dangles in front of your face.
"I own you until I cum. So open up, slut."
You open your mouth. He feeds himself in without ceremony, one hand gripping the back of your head, pushing deep enough that you gag. He holds you there. Your eyes water. Your throat spasms. Saliva pools around his shaft and drips down your chin.
"Breathe through your nose."
You try. It’s hard to think. His cock is thick and hot and alive in your mouth and all you can do is take it, let him use your throat.
He fucks your face with no tenderness at all. Long strokes that make you choke, that leave you gasping each time he pulls back. You’re drooling. Crying a little. Your arms ache from being pinned behind you. You wonder if he’ll ever finish. If you’ll be trapped here forever.
When he finally pulls out you gasp for air, chest heaving, and he’s already hauling you up by the arm, spinning you around, bending you over a fallen oak. Your cheek presses into rough bark. His hands yank your jeans down, your underwear, and then his fingers are sliding through the wet mess between your legs.
"Soaked," he says. Almost to himself. "Knew you would be. You sluts always are."
He pushes two fingers inside you. You cry out, hips jerking, cunt clenching around the intrusion. He fingers you roughly, carelessly, like he’s testing your limits. Finding out how much you can take.
"It’s usually the eager whores like you that end up here."
He says it with a laugh as his fingers withdraw and then the head of his cock is pressing against you, pushing in, stretching you open around him. He bottoms out in one long stroke and starts fucking you like you’re nothing, like your only purpose is to be a warm place for him to empty himself.
Your bound hands chafe against your lower back. The bark bites into your cheek and breasts. He’s gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, pulling you back onto his cock with each thrust, and you’re making sounds you’ve never heard yourself make. Animal sounds. Desperate, wordless begging.
You cum without warning, your whole body seizing around him. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. Just keeps pounding into you through the spasms, through the second orgasm that builds right on top of the first.
"One more," he says. "Give me one more and I’ll fill you up."
You shake your head. You can’t. You’re too sensitive and raw and broken.
"Yes you can."
His hand snakes around, finds your clit, starts rubbing in tight circles while he fucks you. The pleasure is almost painful. Too much. You’re crying now, really crying, tears and snot and drool smearing all over
"Come on. Give me what I want. Be a good whore."
The third orgasm rips through as if it had claws, and you feel him slam deep and hold there, feel his cock pump ropes inside you, feel the hot rush of him filling you up just like he promised.
He pulls out slowly. You feel his cum leak down your thigh. He cuts the zip tie, and your arms fall to your sides, numb and tingling.
You hear his belt buckle, his footsteps retreating back into the trees. And then you’re alone in the clearing, bent over with your jeans around your knees and your cunt full of a stranger’s cum.
Your mind is quiet for the first time. Like someone reached into your head and turned off the noise that’s been buzzing there for years.
You pull up your jeans slowly. Wipe your face with the back of your hand. Your legs are unsteady as you make your way back to the trail, back to your car and the rest of the world.
You sit in the driver’s seat for a long time without starting the engine. Your body throbs. Your wrists are marked. You can still taste him in the back of your throat.
You’ll come back. You know that now. You’ll come back next week, or the week after, and wait in that clearing for whoever shows up to use you.
I love when you can clearly tell a young new porn actress is regretting all her life choices during a scene <3 they're being so much meaner and rougher than she had expected and she's so overwhelmed but she's stuck there letting it happen <3
I'll never forget this one I had seen years ago where a cute little thing was roughly pushed to her knees and she really gave it her all enthusiastically, trying to suck him so well and please him but he kept face fucking her instead, he forced her against the wall so he could just use her like a toy, she kept trying to cooperate and actively suck but at some point it became clear to her that he just wanted to hurt and break her, fuck he used her so brutally
later he still fucked her cunt so damn mercilessly god and the naive little thing kept trying to be good for him but it didn't fucking matter
it really seemed like he cared less about his physical pleasure than just giving her a really fucking bad time
by the middle of the video she was just crying and taking it
I felt so concerned for her and so bad but it also got me dripping wet and made me cum so hard
kianamaiart
dailybridgerton
yousharknotpass
titsay
ellievsbear
