You've been cramping all day. That deep dull ache that makes you curl up, press your face into the pillow, and cancel plans. You're bloated and sore and you feel disgusting. You've been lying in bed with a heating pad on your stomach scrolling mindlessly. You're convinced this is the least attractive version of yourself. You're wrong of course, but you won't believe me so I'll just have to show you instead.
It starts with me pulling your panties off. You start to say something about the mess, about waiting a few days and how you're not really in the mood even though we both know that's a lie. You're flushed and aching and so tender that when I slide my fingers across your clit your whole body jolts.
I push my cock inside you. This thick wet give that makes your mouth drop open because your body has been begging to be filled all day and now someone is finally listening. I can feel how different you are in here right now. Everything is tighter, softer, hotter. Your walls are so engorged that I can feel this slow heavy squeeze every few seconds. I'm dragging against every ridge and fold because there's no space that isn't flushed and full and I can feel you gasping at angles that wouldn't normally make you flinch.
The relief on your face when I bottom out. I want to talk about that. Your jaw unclenches. Your shoulders drop. Your cramps are easing with every thrust because your muscles finally have something to relax against. And you're pulling me deeper with your legs and your hands and this desperate grinding of your hips. Trying to get me further inside you than I can possibly go.
And the mess. My cock is covered in you, this deep pink that gets darker every time I pull out. It's on my stomach. My thighs. The sheets are done for and neither of us cares because you just came so hard your legs locked around my waist and your back lifted off the bed and you held me there through every wave of it, clenching and shaking and making sounds I've never heard you make before. I think your body had been saving that one for someone who'd get in there and earn it.
In Heat. "Pup's got a big year ahead," master says. Beer in hand. Casual. It's the way he talks about everything involving you, like it's all so ordinary it barely warrants a change in tone.
There are two other men at the table. His close friends. The ones who know. At this point they hardly bat an eye at you being curled up on the floor beside master's chair during poker nights. You're just part of the household now.
"Here we go." That's the one with the beard. He doesn't look up from his cards but he's grinning. "Every time you get that tone I know you've been planning something fucked up for weeks."
"It's not fucked up! It's developmental."
"And the last time you said 'developmental' pup started eating dinner out of a bowl."
"And pup loved it. Didn't you, pup?" His foot nudges you under the table. You nuzzle closer to his ankle. "See? No complaints."
The other one, the quiet one, tosses chips into the pot. "So what's the plan this time?"
"The mind stuff is done. That took a while, but pup's fully there. Knows what it is. Responds to commands, stays in pup-space for days at a time." He takes a pull of his beer. You hear the bottle hit the table a little too hard. Master gets like this when he's excited. When he's building toward something. His voice picks up speed, his hands move more. You've learned to read every one of his tells. Good pups pay attention. "But the body hasn't caught up yet."
"Meaning what?"
"Pup still cums like a person." He says it the way you'd say a dog still pulls on the leash. A behavior that hasn't been corrected yet. "Whenever it wants, however it wants. No structure. Pup thinks like a pup, but the body still operates on a human schedule."
The bearded one lets out a low whistle. Cards stop moving. "And you're going to fix that?"
"Exactly. We're restructuring when pup is allowed to cum. Ovulation only." A sip of beer. "Pup's body already has a heat cycle built in, it just needs a reason to use it." Another sip. "Deny it everywhere else, flood it during that window, and eventually the body figures out the rest." He leans back. You can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "Then pup goes into heat like an animal because pup is an animal."
"You're out of your mind," the beard says. But he's leaning forward. They're always leaning forward when master talks about you. "That can't actually work."
-----
The first month is the hardest because understanding something and living inside it are two very different things.
No cumming until ovulation. You understood the concept when he explained it. You nodded. You said yes, master. And then the reality of it started to settle in.
He pulls everything away. All at once. He doesn't fuck you. Doesn't finger you. Doesn't let you grind against his thigh while you watch TV, which had become such a habit that you didn't even register you were doing it until the night he caught your hips and said "no" and moved your body off of him like he was repositioning a dog that climbed onto furniture it wasn't allowed on.
Below the waist, you cease to exist for him, and by day five your body starts sending distress signals. You wake up grinding against the mattress, hips working on their own, chasing friction in your sleep. You clench your thighs together at dinner and he hears the shift of skin against skin and says "no" again without looking up from his plate. You stop because you always stop when he says stop, but your pussy is swollen and aching and confused. Pup's brain understands the program. Pup's pussy has no idea why it's being denied.
That's the gap he's closing. The distance between the animal mind and the animal body. And the bridge, it turns out, is built out of deprivation.
Two weeks in and your skin belongs to a stranger. Too sensitive. The shower is almost unbearable. Master's shirt against your nipples when he holds you is certainly unbearable. Every nerve ending is cranked to way too high a frequency, and the wet between your legs is constant plea that no one is answering
Then the calendar hits the window. Ovulation. Two, maybe three days.
He doesn't ease you into it.
He bends you over the kitchen counter the morning of and fucks you so hard spice jars rattle off the counter, shatter on the tile, and neither of you even flinch. You cum in under a minute. After two weeks of nothing, sixty seconds of his cock is all it takes. Shaking. Sobbing. Your pussy clamping down on him in contractions so hard it surprises even him. He grunts and grabs your hips and keeps going. He's not done.
You cum again. And again. He fucks you on the counter, the floor, the bed. He even eats you out on the couch while some show plays on the TV that neither of you will ever be able to name. You cum on his tongue and it drips down his chin. He looks up at you with his mouth glazed and smiles like you just performed a trick he's been waiting for you to learn his whole life.
For three days it's constant. He fucks you before work. Fucks you when he gets home. Wakes you up at 2 AM with his cock already nudging between your thighs, and you arch you ass into him before your eyes are open because your body doesn't need to be awake to know what this window is for. You're soaking, swollen, used in every direction, and deliriously, stupidly happy. Pup is getting what pup needs. The body and the brain, for the first time, are speaking the same language.
Then the window closes.
Everything stops.
No touch. No relief. You go from being fucked five times a day to absolute zero and your body screams. The comedown is so brutal you actually shake through the first night. But he's there to hold you and pet your hair and murmur, "I know it's hard pup, I know. We'll get through this together."
-----
The second month is when the pattern starts to print.
The weeks without touch are still hard, but something is shifting. Your body is beginning to understand the cycle the way an animal understands seasons. Instinctually. The drought has an end. You can feel it approaching the way you can feel the pressure change when a storm rolls in, this gathering tension in your lower belly that builds a little more each day.
You still soak through your underwear. You still catch yourself grinding against the arm of the couch without deciding to. But underneath the desperation there's a patience that wasn't there in month one. A trust that lives in your muscles. Pup will get to cum. Pup just has to be good and wait.
When ovulation hits the second time, you wake up flushed and burning. Your pussy is so wet the sheets are damp beneath you. Your nipples are hard and sore and everything smells like him. The whole apartment saturated with his scent in a way that you know is your brain chemistry doing something new, something animal, cataloguing the nearest male and flagging him as essential.
"There it is," he says that morning, watching you squirm at the breakfast table, your thighs pressed together, your fork halfway to your mouth and forgotten. "There's my pup."
Those words settle into your bones.
They stay there for the next three days while he breeds you. That's the only word for it now. Breeding. Purposeful and biological. His cock inside because this is when your body is ready and he's giving it what it needs. He cums inside you every time. Fills you up and plugs you with his fingers. Keeps you that way with your hips tilted, his cum pooling deep and staying there. You whimper and nuzzle into his neck and feel so full, so claimed, so perfectly kept that language starts to feel like a tool that belongs to a species you're not sure you're part of anymore.
-----
Month four.
You're getting into a rhythm. The first week of each cycle is calm. Manageable. You can work, cook, function, form complete sentences. You're still pup, but you're pup in maintenance mode, padding around the apartment, kneeling at his feet, sleeping at the foot of the bed. Quiet and content. The ache is there but it's low, a background hum you've learned to carry without it pulling you under.
Then the middle weeks.
The heat builds so gradually you almost don't notice until you're inside it. A warmth starts around day eight and spreads outward, a slow blush that moves through your body like ink dropped in water. By day ten your skin is sensitive enough that the wrong fabric makes you cry. By day twelve you're restless, circling the apartment, unable to settle, pressing your face into his pillow when he's not home and inhaling until your head swims. By day fourteen the wetness is constant and your clit is swollen enough that walking is a specific kind of torture. It's this hollow feeling inside you that deepens into something that borders on grief. Your body mourning an emptiness it's been trained to find unbearable.
Then the shift.
It happens overnight. You go to bed restless and wake up in heat.
Your skin is on fire. You're so wet you can feel it on your thighs before your feet touch the floor. It's an emergency and only master's cock can fix it. Your pussy keeps clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, trying to grip something that isn't there.
You find him in the kitchen. Press yourself against his back. You're panting. Your hips are grinding against him before you've said a word, your fingers clawing at his shirt, and you whine. High and thin and desperate. Animal sounds from an animal body that has finally, fully caught up to its animal brain.
"You need it bad, don't you, pup," he whispers. Turns around. Cups your face. Studies you with that calm, proprietary warmth that you'd do anything to keep directed at you.
He gives you what you need.
The breeding window is the only time you fully exist now. The weeks between have become a waiting room, a grey space you move through on autopilot, conserving energy for the days that matter. And when those days arrive your body ignites with a purpose so singular it burns everything else away. You fuck like it's the last weekend on earth. Ride him until your legs give out and then he flips you over and keeps going. You're drooling into the pillow, babbling, words fragmenting into sounds that can only mean: Breed me. Fill me. Please. Don't stop. I need it. I need it. I need it.
He tells his friends at the next poker night.
You're on the floor beside his chair. Cheek against his knee. Floating in that warm, post-window haze where the world feels soft and safe and very far away. His hand rests on your head.
"It's working," he says. "Better than I thought. You should see pup when the window opens. Full heat. Panting, whining, can't function until it gets fucked. I didn't even think it would take this completely, but pup's body just accepted the whole program."
Cards shuffle. They all laugh.
His fingers scratch behind your ear.
"Real proud of this one."
Your eyes close. He's proud of you and that pride lands somewhere deeper than any orgasm, deeper than the breeding, deeper than the three days of being so thoroughly filled that your brain dissolves. His pride is the bedrock. Everything else is built on top of it.
You press closer to his leg. He keeps petting you.
"Keep it up, pup."
-----
Month six.
Ovulation.
You wake up and the heat is so intense you can't stand. Not figuratively. Your legs won't hold you. Your whole body is trembling, flushed, slick between your thighs, and when you try to get up your knees buckle and you catch yourself on all fours and realize that this is correct. This is how pup moves when pup is in heat. Walking is for the other weeks. Walking is for the version of you that passes as a person. That version isn't home right now.
You crawl to him.
Down the hallway, hands and knees on the hardwood, the drag of your nipples against the oversized shirt you slept in sending sparks straight to your cunt with every movement. You're leaving a wet trail on the floor. You can feel it. You don't care.
He's in his office. He hears you coming. The chair pushes back from the desk.
He's waiting when you crawl between his legs. You press your face against his crotch and drool. He's already hard. He's learned your schedule as well as your body has. Probably woke up knowing today was the day. Probably drank his coffee thinking about what you'd look like crawling to him, and here you are, face buried in his lap, mouthing at his cock through his boxers, tasting him through the cotton, making sounds that would humiliate you in any other state of mind.
But you don't have another state of mind. You have this one. This singular, burning, wordless need that has scoured out every other thought and left only the essential thing: get bred. Get filled. Take his cum as deep as your body can hold it. That's all you are right now. That's all pup needs to be.
He unzips. Pulls you up into his lap. Sinks you down onto him.
The feeling of being full after weeks of emptiness hits so hard you cum before he moves. Instantly. Your pussy spasming around him in hard, greedy squeezes, your face buried in his neck, your whole body jerking and clenching while he holds you steady. He strokes your hair. Lets you shake and twitch and ride it out.
"It's okay, pup," he says. Soft. So soft. "I know. I know it's a lot. I've got you."
You cling to him and tremble and he hasn't even started fucking you yet.
When he does, when his hands grip your hips and start bouncing you on his cock, you understand that something has changed since last month. The conditioning has crossed a line you can't uncross. You're not performing. Not playing a role. Not thinking about what pup would do and then doing it. You're in heat the way an animal is in heat, mindless and desperate and single-purpose, and the only thought your brain can produce is one word on a loop. Breed breed breed breed breed.
He cums inside you and you feel every pulse, every hot thick pump, and your body seizes around him, pulling, milking, your walls working him with a greed that has nothing to do with your conscious mind. Your body knows what ovulation means now. Your body has been trained to understand this window as the only one that matters, and it is going to wring every drop out of him because that's what pup's body is for.
You stay on his cock until he's hard again. It doesn't take long. You're grinding on him, your pussy still fluttering with aftershocks, and he laughs against your throat. Breathless and amazed and a little bit awed by the thing he built.
"You're really in heat, huh."
You bark. It's the only answer you've got.
"Okay, pup. Okay. Let's take care of you properly."
"That's what you said about anal and I couldn't sit right for three days."
"But this is natural. This is how God intended it."
"Don't bring God into this!"
He's on top of you already, which isn't fair, because his weight on you does something to your decision-making that you've never been able to explain to anyone. His hips are between your thighs. He's pressing right there, with just the thin cotton of your panties between his cock and your soaked pussy, and every time he shifts you can feel the whole length of him drag against you. Your resolve can’t take much more.
"I'll pull out," he says. "I swear on my life."
"You swear on your life a whole lot."
"And I'm still here. That has to mean something." He props himself up on one arm, looks you dead in the eyes. Completely serious. "I am discipline personified. You have never met a man with more self-control than me."
"You ate an entire sleeve of Oreos in bed last night."
"It’s different. That was emotional. This is physical. I am a fortress."
You're laughing now, which is a problem because when you laugh your body loosens up and he can feel that. His hips roll against you and the laugh catches in your throat and becomes something else entirely.
"I just want to feel you," he says, and his voice has dropped now, the joking gone out of it. "For real. Not through some filter. Condoms are like trying to see you with my eyes closed. I want to actually know what you feel like when you're wet for me."
Your breath stutters. Goddammit.
"Just the tip," he says.
"Nobody in the history of the world has ever meant just the tip."
"I mean it."
"You don't."
"I do." He reaches between you and pushes your underwear to the side and you feel the head of his cock slide against you, bare, skin on skin, and your hips buck up before you can stop them.
"See?" His voice is strained. "Just this. I'm not even inside you and you're already begging for it."
He's running the tip through your folds, dragging through the wetness there, nudging your clit on every pass. Your fingers are digging into his shoulders and you can feel every ridge of him, every vein, the heat of him so different without the barrier. You understand in this moment exactly what he was talking about because ... Oh, that's what he feels like.
"Say yes," he murmurs against your neck. "Just for a minute. I'll pull out. I promise."
And you are so tired of fighting something you stopped wanting to fight three minutes ago.
"If you don't pull out I'll kill you."
"I swore on my life, babe."
He pushes in.
The sound you make is obscene. It's involuntary, pulled from somewhere deep in your chest, because the feeling of him bare inside you is so different it doesn't even register as the same act. Every inch of him is vivid. You can feel the way your walls stretch to take him, can feel the heat of his skin against yours with nothing between you. He sinks in slow, achingly slow, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged against your lips.
"Fuck," he says. Just that. Like the word fell out of him.
He starts to move. Slow. Careful. Controlled. The fortress, doing his best. Short strokes, shallow, like he's rationing himself. His arms are braced on either side of your head and his jaw is tight and you can see the effort it's costing him to hold back. Something about that, the visible restraint, the way his whole body is taut with the discipline of not giving in, makes you wetter than any of the actual fucking.
"Okay," he breathes. "Okay. This is fine. I've got this. I'm in control."
He is not in control.
You can feel the exact moment it shifts. His hips snap forward, harder than he meant to, and he buries himself all the way. You both groan, and his hands grab your wrists and pin them above your head. His pace changes. No more shallow strokes. No more careful. He's pulling almost all the way out and driving back in deep and your ankles lock behind his back on instinct.
"Fuck. Baby. Fuck." His voice is wrecked. "You feel so good. You feel so fucking good. I can't think."
"You said you'd pull out."
"I know."
"You~nghh~you promised." It’s getting hard to talk as he fucks the words out of you.
"I know. I know I did." He's not slowing down. If anything he's going harder, pinning your wrists tighter, his hips slamming into yours with a force that scoots you up the mattress. "I'm going to. I will. Just not yet. Give me one more minute."
The minute passes. He doesn't pull out. You didn't think he would.
His face is buried in your neck and his grip on your wrists has gone vice-tight. You can feel him thickening inside you, getting harder, that telltale throb that means he's close, and he starts apologizing between thrusts.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, baby, I can't. You feel too good. I tried."
You want to be mad but you can't because he’s so, so deep. So deep that your thoughts dissolve, and every thrust pushes a sound out of you that you can't control. Your legs are shaking. He's everywhere. Inside you, on top of you, his weight pinning you on the bed, his breath hot against your throat.
"I'm gunna cum, baby" he says, and it's not a question anymore. Not a negotiation. "I have to. I'm sorry. Don't kill me."
"You're~ahh~a fucking~~hah~liar."
His hand slides between your bodies and his thumb finds your clit and starts rubbing in fast, tight circles. The combination of that pressure — coupled with the stretch of him bare inside you — is so much that your vision blurs. You can feel it building at the base of your spine like a wave pulling back from the shore.
"Just cum with me, babe" he says. "You know your pussy is too good. You can’t blame me..."
You try to argue but his thumb presses your clit harder, and his cock drives in deeper, and then you break. Your walls clamp down on him as you cum. Then you feel it, the moment he lets go too, the hot rush of him spilling inside you in long, heavy ropes. He groans into your neck and his hips stutter and jerk as he empties himself into you.
…
…
…
Stillness. Both of you panting. Him still inside, receding slowly, the mess of him leaking out around the base of his cock.
He lifts his head. Looks at you. Has the audacity to grin.
"See? That was worth it."
"You are in so much trouble."
"Was it good though?"
You don't answer. Your silence is damning enough.
He kisses your forehead. Stays inside you. Doesn't even have the decency to look sorry about it. You close your eyes. Your body is still buzzing, still clenching around him in lazy aftershocks.
You stare at the symbols on the page, but all you see is a mess of x’s and y’s. Your brain is overheating the longer you look. You’re just not getting it.
"You’re lost again?"
You don’t look up. You can’t. The heat crawling up your neck is already unbearable. You just nod, your hair falling over your face.
"It’s the chain rule. We’ve gone over this three times." His voice is sharp. "Are you even listening or is your head just full of air?"
Your thighs press together under the table. This is the problem. Not the math problem, but the problem. The reason you keep flunking calc and scheduling these tutoring sessions.
He taps an impatient finger on the textbook. "The derivative of the outside function, times the derivative of the inside function. That’s it. Why is that so hard? Being a dumb little girl isn’t an excuse."
Dumb little girl.
Your brain stops working every time you hear that annoyed edge in his voice. The numbers blur. All you can think about is the wetness pooling between your legs. Your panties were dry an hour ago; now they’re sticking to you. Soaked.
"I… I don’t know," you manage to get out. Your voice is a pathetic little squeak.
"I don’t know." He repeats it, mocking you. "Of course you don’t know. You can barely stay focused."
His shadow falls over you as he leans forward. He’s so close. His scent makes your head swim.
"Look at me."
You lift your head slowly. His eyes are dark, narrowed with frustration. You think he might just grab you and shake you.
"Are you even trying? Or are you just wasting my time?"
"I’m trying," you whisper, and it’s true. You are. You’re trying not to squirm in your seat. You’re trying not to let him see how his disappointment makes you drip.
He runs a hand through his hair. "I’m starting to think this is pointless. You’re just not getting it."
The words land like little stones, and with each one, you leak a little more. It’s too much. If this goes on any longer it’s going to be impossible to hide the wet patch forming on the plastic of the library chair. You have to get out of here. You have to fix yourself.
"I need to… I need the bathroom." You push your chair back, the legs scraping loudly on the floor.
He waves a dismissive hand, already looking back at the textbook as if you’re not even there anymore. The humiliation of it is a fresh thrill. You practically run from the room.
In the bathroom, you splash water on your burning face. You lean against the sink, breathing hard. You’re a mess. Hopeless. You press a wad of toilet paper between your legs, trying to soak up the evidence of just how pathetic you are for him. After a few minutes, feeling a little less likely to fall apart, you head back.
When you walk in, he’s not looking at the book anymore. He’s staring at your empty chair.
"What the fuck is that?"
You follow his gaze. On the smooth, beige plastic of the seat is a dark, damp patch. A perfect little outline of where you were sitting. Your heart stops. Your blood runs cold, then hot.
He looks from the chair, to your face, then back to the chair.
"Did you get so scared of a little math problem that you wet yourself?"
Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. This is so much worse than him thinking you’re stupid.
He stands up, walks around the table, and stops in front of the chair. He crouches down, inspecting the wet spot like a detective at a crime scene.
"No," He looks up at you, "you like being humiliated. I bully you a little, and you get this wet."
You can only stand there, exposed, barely able to breathe.
"Well, the least you can do is clean up your own mess."
You stare at him, confused. "I… I can get a paper towel…"
"No" He shakes his head. "You clearly need some discipline. Lap it up with your tongue, slut."
The words don’t compute at first. He can’t be serious.
"Lick it clean."
His hand shoots out and grabs the back of your neck, his fingers digging in. He forces you down to your knees in front of the chair.
"Don’t waste my time."
Your face is inches from the plastic seat. You can see the damp sheen of your own arousal. The scent is faint, but it’s there. Humiliating. You hesitate for a second too long, and his grip tightens, pushing your head forward until your nose bumps against the chair.
There’s no use fighting it. You give in.
You stick out your tongue and give a tentative lick. He grunts, the first sound of approval you’ve heard today. You close your eyes and start licking in earnest, trying to erase the spot, your tongue swiping back and forth, back and forth.
His hand slides down your back. It rests on your ass for a moment, then hooks into the waistband of your shorts. With a single, sharp tug, he yanks them down to your knees, taking your wet panties with it.
Before you can even react, two fingers shove right inside you.
You gasp, your mouth falling open against the chair. You’re so, so wet. He doesn’t need any prep. You’re a fucking fountain for him. His fingers are brutal, plunging in and out, ramming against you.
"You’re so fucking pathetic," his voice is rough, right against your ear "Leaking all over the goddamn library furniture like a stupid bitch in heat."
Every thrust of his fingers is a spark. Your hips start to buck against his hand, a mindless, needy motion. You’re on your knees, your face pressed to the chair, lapping up your own mess while he paws at your cunt. It’s the most disgusting thing that has ever happened to you.
And you’re about to cum.
"Sir I'm—I’m…" you whimper, barely even processing what’s happening.
"Get it over with." He drives his fingers in deeper, harder.
You can’t form words. Your brain just… shorts out. The pleasure is too sharp, too laced with humiliation. It builds and builds until your whole body locks up. You collapse against the chair, twitching, your inner muscles clenching violently around his fingers. He holds you there until the last aftershock fades, and then pulls his fingers out with a wet schlick.
"Get up."
You stumble to your feet, not even having the sense to pull up your shorts. You see him, already back at his side of the table, unzipping his jeans. He pulls out his cock. It’s thick and hard, jutting out from his pants. It’s everything you’ve been imagining and more.
"Sit down," he says, pointing not at your chair, but at his lap. "We’re not done until you understand the problem."
Your legs move on their own. You go to him, turn around, and slowly, carefully, lower yourself onto his cock. You gasp as he slides inside you. It’s a tight fit, stretching you, filling you up. He reaches around you, his arms caging you in, and grabs the textbook.
He holds it in front of your face. "Now. The derivative of x-squared plus one, all to the power of three. Fucking do it."
You stare at the symbols again. They’re still just squiggles. You can’t think. You can only feel him, thick and hot inside your ruined pussy.
"I… uh… three times…" you start, your voice trembling.
"Three times what? Use your words."
"Three times… x… squared…?"
"Wrong."
He slams his hips up, driving his cock deep into you. "No, you stupid slut!" he snarls, and the force of the thrust makes you cry out. "Derivative of the outside first! Three times the whole goddamn function to the power of two! How many times do I have to say it?"
You sob, a tear rolling down your cheek. "I’m sorry…"
"Don’t be sorry. Be right." He grabs your chin, forcing you to look at the page. "Now the derivative of the inside. What’s the derivative of x-squared plus one?"
You’re shaking. Every time you breathe, you can feel the head of his cock rubbing against your cervix. "Two… two-x?"
"Finally." He rewards you with a slow, grinding rotation of his hips. A moan escapes your lips. "See? You’re not completely useless."
He walks you through the rest of the problem like that. Every correct step earns you a slow, teasing grind. Every mistake, every hesitation, earns you a brutal slam of his hips and another venomous insult. He calls you dumb, a whore, a worthless cunt who’s only good for one thing. And with every insult, every punishing thrust, you get closer and closer — to the right answer — and also to cumming again. It’s a cruel form of reinforcement learning spurred on by his cock and the hateful words in your ear. "Now write the final answer," he commands.
You can’t. Your hands are gripping his arms like a vice, the pressure building and building to an unbearable peak. You’re about to cum again, just from the friction and the filth. You shake your head.
His grip tightens on your waist. "Write it."
Somehow, you obey. Your hand is trembling so badly you can barely hold the pencil. You reach over, your whole body stretched taut over his cock, and scrawl the final, correct equation on the page.
He looks down at your shaky handwriting. At the right answer.
"Good girl."
He slams his hips up into you one final time. That’s all it takes.
Your whole body rattles. You come apart, an endless orgasm that leaves you completely undone, twitching and whimpering against him. He lets you ride out the aftershocks, then he floods you, his hot cum shooting ropes deep inside.
He pulls out. Abruptly. You feel suddenly empty, hollowed out. A thick, creamy white trail drips from between your legs, running in a messy line down your inner thigh.
He pushes you off his lap and you stumble, barely catching yourself on the edge of the table. Then he glances down at the textbook, at the perfectly correct answer you wrote in your final, desperate moment.
"Looks like you’re finally getting it."
He stares back at you, a mess of sweat and cum and tears.
"But we’ll have to make sure we reinforce today’s lesson. Same time tomorrow."
I thought I’d tried everything. Gentle words. Shaking your shoulder. Pulling the covers off. You’d just grumble and curl tighter into a ball, dead to the world, absolutely useless.
But I’ve finally found something that works.
I push your thighs apart while you’re still half-asleep. You mumble something, not quite conscious yet, not quite understanding what’s happening. And then my palm connects with your pussy. Sharp. Quick. Not hard enough to really hurt, but hard enough to wake you up.
Your eyes fly open. Your hips jerk. You make that confused little gasp, somewhere between shock and arousal, before your brain has even caught up to what your body is feeling.
"Good morning!"
Another slap. Your thighs try to close on instinct, but I’m already between them. You’re wet. You’re always wet in the morning, but this is different. This is your body snapping to attention, waking up all at once.
"I’m awake," you whimper. "I’m awake, I’m—"
Another one. Watching you jolt, watching the pink bloom across your pussy, watching your sleepy confusion melt into desperate, needy want.
"Are you though?" Slap. "Are you really awake?" Slap. "Or do you need a few more?"
You’re squirming now. Dripping onto the sheets. Eyes wide, mouth open, so pretty and pathetic.
"There she is." I smile at you. "There’s my girl."
You stumble out of bed flushed, trembling, and desperate… suddenly very motivated to start the day.
gangrape that's more like a stray animal emergency rescue mission than rape. i'm thinking "careful careful careful eeeasy" and "it’s just scared, poor thing" and "it's okay, it's okay we've got you"
wanna be taken care of :( wanna be gently held in someone's lap while they make sure i have a stuffie in my arms, then they play with my hair while their other hand rubs me over my boxers... cooed at and told what a small, sweet boy i am and that everything's okay, mama's got me and he's taking care of his baby boy
rutting into his hands and making soft noises, all while he tells me how cute i am, how proud he is of me for letting mama take care of me, how much he loves when i get relaxed and soft and pliable like this <3
cumming into their hands after just a few minutes and being gently teased the whole time.... need to be a tiny baby boy in my mama's arms :(
"It's not wrong if you just fuck my thighs." very wet little brother vs "fuck i accidentally slid in oh god I'm so sorry-" hard and guilty older brother
tags tested and approved by my most feral animalmutuals so i'll make them permanent, wearing skimpy clothes and talking to all of you in the pet voice btw 🥰🥰🥰
lazy Saturday morning omo where she wakes up needing to piss but wants to sleep in more, so she rolls over and ignores her need. every time she’s pulled away from sleep, she just readjusts herself, first simply laying on her side with her legs together, but soon bunching up her blankets tight between her thighs. eventually, her bladder won’t let her go back to sleep fully, but she still doesn’t want to get up, still wants to relax and doze off, so she pulls the covers tighter and crosses her ankles for good measures. the pressure her legs feels good when she shifts and squeezes, and she soon has to in order to keep control. subtle thigh clenching becomes occasional rubbing and eventually desperate little ruts while she pulls the cover tighter up. when it reaches the point of really urgent, the level of desperation where she knows she’s going to start leaking soon if she doesn’t bolt now, she’s muffling moans in her pillow and humping the blanket from more than just desperation. her thin pyjama shorts are wet long before she leaks, sticking to her quivering pussy and swollen little clit. every time it rubs on the covers, she feels herself pulse inside and add to the wetness. when she first leaks, she doesn’t even feel the difference because of how wet she already is, only experiencing a flash of heat before it joins with the rest. gasping, she crosses her legs, the cover still trapped between them, and hastens her pace. when the drops turn to full spurts, she only doubles down on her grinding. heat rises inside her with every thrust against the wet material and every pulse of warmth. there’s a growing wet spot on the blankets, one that’s approaching real troublesome to deal with, but she’s too turned on and too close to care. she keeps spurting, keeps humping and biting down breathless little gasps of pleasure, and every time it feels like a tantalizing glimpse of the orgasm building up. when she loses control for several long seconds, a loud hiss resonates and she almost panics, pulling the covers as tight as she can between her legs. the flow dims, is forced to stop by sheer pressure, she trembles, and then her muscles throb again, allowing another spurt out, and that’s when she finally comes. it takes her almost by surprise, and quite violently too. she gasps, tenses all over, and shivers, as her pussy uncontrollably throbs and clenches down. she humps hard and fast with no rhythm or reason, rubbing her clit right into the covers, as she squirts and gushes all over them. by the time pleasure starts receding, she’s shaking and unable to keep holding at all. she finally empties the rest of her bladder, letting go of all the tension in her body, allowing it to happen now that it’s too late anyways. she gently grinds through it, savouring the aftershocks and the relief of finally letting go.
seems like this Saturday will be a laundry day then.
keeping her legs forced open by pinning her thighs with my knees, fingering slapping and flicking her clit over and over and over, forcing orgasm after orgasm out of her. I can feel her convulse and twitch under me as I overstimulate her little cunt, until shes eventually just pissing uncontrollably, her eyes rolled back with tears as her stupid broken brain is unable to cope with the constant torture I apply to her.
I could be your over excited puppy & you the kid I was bought for. We romp and play for hours until we're both panting and you collapse into a heap, ready for a nap, but a puppy's energy never dies!
I nip at fingers and pull on the hem of your shirt but you just push me away and tell me to settle down now. A puppy doesn't know any better though, especially when you lazily push yourself up to get out of sweaty clothes and fall back onto the bed.
A puppy only cares about play and I'm prone to hump whenever and whatever I can get my paws on. And maybe you squeal and flail, eyes widening when you feel my cock pressed against you, vying for a warm hole to slip into. You don't know any better either when I move just right, sending a shiver up your spine and maybe you open your legs to soak up more of the sensation.
Maybe when you move your hips back it makes the funny feeling in your tummy ignite and I pant above you, rutting against you mindlessly. Maybe you've looked at grown up books on how to care for puppies and there's funny images of one dog on top of another with diagrams of their knot so you think you can do that too as you struggle to at least lift your hips and open your legs wider for me.
I could rut into you, making you squeal and it hurts when it finally pushes inside, the kind of pain that begs of you to scramble away, but you're stuck and soon enough the pain subsides into that sweet burn that makes you want it more and more until your vision swims with the force of your orgasm. You come to after a few moments of bliss to the sobering realization that puppy isn't done with you yet :)!!!
