i’m into misogyny not in a “hehe girls are dumb!” way but in a “the role i have been assigned is one in which i am subservient to a class of people who are physically stronger than me and no matter what i do my social value is tied to my sexuality and i will always be perceived as such and despite knowing this i can’t rebel against it because being treated this way and being taken against my will turns me on and i can’t tell if it’s innate to who i am or if i’ve been subtly brainwashed into being this way since i was born and in the end it doesn’t matter because it still turns me on and it’s only a matter of time until i break and become someone’s plaything legally bound through marriage” way, if u can handle that kinda freak
Thoughts on “Dykebreaking” -- Your sexuality is Servant.
So there are so many posts out there about fucking a lesbian straight. So called "dykebreaking". This isn’t one of them.
Oh don't get me wrong the idea making a lesbian my sex slave is hot as Hades, but I don't want to "fuck her straight". No, not at all. And if we are being intellectually honest it;s not going to happen. But it doesn't matter.
Because I don’t want to turn her straight. I don’t want her to lust after or crave men, or cock. Not at all. But I do want to break her so she will serve me. Training her so she can perform better than a high-end escort, to do things that would make most porn starlets blush, to know exactly how to use her hands and her mouth to please a man.. To be the best cocksucker imaginable, worshiping my cock and balls. Teaching her how I expect her to ride my cock to make it feel amazing for me, to clench her cunt around my cock as she rocks on it. To know how to make it last so I don’t cum to fast, to draw out the pleasure I take in her body. Making her take my cock in her ass, to suffer through it for me. She may not like sex with men, but she will become very very good at it.
I want to break her down, and train her to be the best fuck doll any girl could be. But all the while she craves the touch, the scent of a woman. I want sex for her to be an act of service, a duty she performs, and a stellar performance. But not something she wants or enjoys.
Maybe, just maybe, if she's good enough, I'll let her fuck another woman, but only while I watch, and only with the understanding that the two of them are putting on a show for me, the even then it's for my enjoyment
I want to make her sexuality “servant” and I want her to be very, very good at it Better than any het girl
of course your girlfriend didn’t mind you going to your classmate’s flat to work on a lab report. she didn’t bat an eye, thinking nothing of it. he was a man, and you were a lesbian, so what was there to think of it?
you didn’t think much of it yourself as you got yourself ready, asking to borrow your girlfriend’s skirt cause it’s damn hot out and you need something breezy. didn’t think much of it as you stepped past the threshold of his flat and set out your papers to work. didn’t think much of it as he leaned over to your laptop to read the paragraph you’d added, and the sound of his soft breathing by your ear sent goosebumps up your skin.
you only began to wonder if, maybe, this may have been a bad idea, after all the papers had been put away and the project was finished far ahead of schedule, and he leaned back in his seat to eye you up and down. “damn, i lucked out with you. you’re pretty smart.”
because why should it matter what a random guy thinks? why should his praise send a wave of arousal through your system that made your face run hot? of course you’re smart. you’re here at the same college as him, aren’t you?
but you didn’t snap back at him. nor did you tell him that you ought to get home to your girlfriend when he offered you a glass of wine. you tell yourself it doesn’t matter, just a friendly chat with a classmate after a study session. even as the whole time you sat there with the same fluttering feeling in your tummy as you did on your first date with your lover.
soon enough, with two glasses of wine in your system and his disarming laugh ringing pleasantly in your ears, you stopped thinking about it. stopped thinking of your girlfriend altogether. you were too focused on the way his gaze raked over your body with an intensity that you could feel tickling your skin. the way his lips curled in a smile that suggested much more than polite interest in your words. did he scoot his chair nearer at some point? when did his face get so close to yours?
“pretty thing like you must have a boyfriend, don’t you?”
you should say you have a girlfriend. or that you’re a lesbian, and you aren’t into men like that. but with his voice so low and his face so close, the woman you loved was the farthest thing from your mind. all that left your mouth was a simple, “no.”
“good.”
you’re… fairly sure he was the one who kissed you first. maybe that makes it marginally better. you try not to think about the fact that you're the one who snakes your hand around his neck and deepens the kiss. that you’re the one who slides off your chair and onto his lap.
your skirt—or rather, your girlfriend’s skirt—pools around you as you straddle him on the chair, and his hands wrap around you, sneak beneath the fabric, and grab firmly at your ass. the feel of it makes you gasp and buck your hips, and suddenly you’re grinding yourself onto him and you couldn’t stop if you tried. later, you'll tell yourself you did try, that his hands kept moving your hips and encouraging the movement and you could do nothing to stop him.
it’s not long before you end up on the same dining table you did your report, your laptops shoved to the corners and papers strewn across the floor. your panties end up somewhere in the mess of papers, tossed aside and forgotten. your shirt hangs limply off the side of a chair, and your skirt is bunched up around your middle, your soaking cunt all in display.
you’re almost surprised with how easily he’s able to bottom out inside you. you can’t remember the last time you got this wet without a ton of foreplay in advance. but here he is, sinking every single inch into you without any resistance.
he fucks you deep, and you can feel his heavy balls against your ass with each thrust. it’s an unfamiliar sensation that you can’t help fixating on. just as you fixate on the sound of his low groans, the feel of his large hands gripping your tits, and the heat of him as he stretches you.
you’re thankful he had the foresight to pull out, because you’d completely forgotten about any sort of protection. you weren’t used to thinking about it. aren’t used to thinking about thick loads of cum or the fertile womb inside you. you feel defenseless in a way you never have before. you hoped desperately that pulling out was good enough, and frantically dug through your memory to old sex-ed classes—the parts you purged as they didn’t apply to your life. they were probably exaggerating its ineffectiveness, right?
he didn’t seem quite so worried about it as his fingers work your clit, rubbing circles that mingled his cum with your wetness, and his eyes roam your body like he was admiring a work of art. “anyone ever tell you how gorgeous you look covered in cum?”
your face might as well be on fire from how flushed you feel. suddenly you’re aware of just how much there is. on your pussy, your tummy, your tits. your skin burns under each streak. you shouldn’t be covered in cum. but he doesn’t miss the way your hips buck and you whimper at the words.
“oh,” he said with a smirk. “you like that?”
no, no, no, i don’t, you tell yourself. you shut your eyes tightly and cover your face with your arms.
then those perfect circles he was rubbing into your clit stop abruptly, and you tense.
“oh, no,” he tells you as he grabs each of your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand. “you’re not cumming unless you look right into my eyes and show me how much you’re loving this.”
does he have any clue how much he’s tormenting you right now? you stare back at him with wide, nervous eyes of your own. “you’re gonna fucking ruin me.”
he only chuckles as he brings his free hand back to your aching pussy.
you don’t want to cum on a man’s fingers, looking into his eyes, listening to his sweet words. but you give your wrists a weak wriggle and feel him tighten his grip in response.
maybe… if you don’t have a choice. if he won’t let you go until you do.
despite how desperately you cling to that little lie, you don't struggle again. you only buck your hips up, inviting him to press harder against your swollen clit.
you writhe and moan in the pleasure of his hands on you, and as the praises fall from his lips, the pleasure magnifies. “that's my good girl. so fuckin' pretty. keep making those noises for me and i might just have to fuck this perfect pussy for another round.”
the promise of it sends you over the edge, and you make no effort to muffle yourself. all the pleasure you're too ashamed of acknowledging spills out from lips, unwanted and yet uninhibited. it goes on and on, drawing all your muscles into tight knots and shaking you with the force of it.
he talks you through the seemingly endless orgasm, though you can barely hear the words over your own screams of pleasure. but you can see the look on his face—his pupils blown wide, hungrily taking in every detail before him—and you can surmise it’s more of those delicious praises.
the hand that had been holding you in a tight vice slides down to sweetly cradle your cheek, grounding you in this moment of freefall.
your hands, now free, move of their own accord, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him down to you. you’re not even in control of your body enough to kiss him properly, but you need him close. you need him. he gets the message clearly enough, and peppers kisses along your cheek and forehead and neck and every part of you he can reach.
and there you stay as the wave finally passes, and all your muscles unclench. as they do, you feel every ounce of energy leave your body, leaving you completely limp. your mind feels just as spent as your body, and all you can do is turn your head to catch his lips with yours.
you don’t know how long you stay there, in that happy afterglow, exchanging languid kisses. distantly you register that this position on the hard wooden table is rather uncomfortable to the point of being mildly painful, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care when you feel as if you’re floating on a cloud.
when he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, he runs a hand through your hair and smiles down at you. “damn, you must have really needed that, huh?”
you give a weak nod, still feeling too dazed and woozy to speak properly. the ditzy smile on your lips is more than enough for him.
he sneaks his hands beneath you and pulls you to a sitting position just at the edge of the table, with him standing between your open legs. his hips press forward, and you can feel that his cock is hard all over again. with a playful lilt in his voice, he asks, “you don’t have anywhere to be tonight, right?”
and just like that, the realization of what you did struck, popping the happy little bubble around you. you do have somewhere to be. you have someone to be with.
his eyebrows knit together in worry as he sees the sudden change in your demeanor. “hey, are you al—?”
but you’re pushing him away, scrambling to get back into your clothes and grab your things. “this was— i didn’t— i have to leave.” what time is it? how long were you here and not with your girlfriend? you shove your laptop into your bag forcefully and cover your exposed self with your shirt, not even registering that you wore it inside out, or that his cum was still drying on your skin only to be soaked up by the cotton fabric.
you ignore his calls after you as you dart to the door and walk back through the dark evening to your own place.
it’s not a long walk in the slightest, but with the shame weighing on you like an anchor, and the feeling of his sticky dried cum burning on your skin, it feels like an eternity. a cool breeze blows, and you feel it on your wet and exposed skin, and you realize with a start that in your panicked rush you’d forgotten to put your panties back on. were they still on his floor? you pull your skirt down a little and hold your arms by your side lest the wind expose your shame even more.
it’s late enough that your girlfriend is already in bed when you arrive, and you breathe a sigh of relief as you sneak past her to the bathroom. you peel off the sweaty, grimey clothes into the hamper and take the hottest shower you can, hoping to scald the disgust off your skin. you scrub yourself raw and wash your hair twice more than usual, hoping desperately that the smell of him won’t linger on you.
when you finally crawl into bed, your girlfriend stirs awake. she gives you a sleepy greeting, pulling you into her arms and pressing a kiss to your shoulder before sinking right back into sleep.
the next morning, you woke to a half dozen texts from the very same classmate that has made such a wreck of you. worried check-ins and panicked apologies and questions of whether he’d misread your interest and taken things too far. your heart constricted at his care. you knew, deep down, he wasn’t the one who’d done anything wrong. and despite that, you couldn’t bear to respond, and instead left his messages read and unanswered.
as you made your way to the living room, you found your girlfriend nursing a mug of coffee and absent-mindedly watching reruns of an old comfort show. she perked up at the sight of you and made room for you on the couch to snuggle up beside her. you forced a smile and made your way to her, laying your head against her in a way that would normally be comfortable, if not for the pit in your stomach.
she droned on about her plans for the day and other random thoughts running through her head. too preoccupied with your own worries, and too groggy to think straight anyway, you didn’t pay too much attention as she simply thought aloud.
until, that is, a single word snapped you to attention. skirt.
“what was that?” you repeated sluggishly, trying to hide the nervousness in your voice.
“oh, just that i tossed in a load of laundry and noticed a weird stain on my black skirt. was that always there, or was it from when you borrowed it?”
your heart hammering in your chest, you scrambled for the first lie that came to mind. “oh, my lab partner ordered gyros for us when our study session ran late. must have been some garlic sauce i spilled or something.”
she seemed to buy it, rambling on about dinner plans and laundry and an event later tonight she wanted to wear the skirt to. you nod along, halfheartedly listening to her, but your thoughts were elsewhere. namely, about how you really stained her skirt. and how the memory of it alone made your cunt ache with a need that wasn’t even close to being sated after one reckless night. and how the thrill and the shame of lying about it only made the need stronger.
the moment the washing machine beeped and left the couch to del with it, you opened the chat on your phone. without a second thought, you replied to the messages from last night.
hey. i’m sorry i ran out like that. you didn’t misread things at all. i just freaked out a bit, it was totally a me thing.
you look over to your girlfriend, across the floor of your shared apartment, turning the laundry over to the dryer. she catches you staring and blows you a little kiss. you return it with a kiss of your own. then you turn back to your phone and add,
need to start an argument abt something that genuinely upsets me just to end up on my knees sucking dick and desperately apologizing and explaining why i’m so wrong
the shyer or more reserved men slowly getting more comfortable with that fact that you're his. grabbing you and pulling you into him without fear of rejection. letting his hands wander without asking. voicing his desire without embarrassment. pressing his hips into your ass without hesitation.
holding onto the sides of his face as he fucks you and you’re mindlessly babbling about how good his cock feels, how good he’s fucking you … and he is laughing softly, kissing your lips, asking: “yeah? that feel good, pretty? yeah?”
i want a scripted, demeaning interaction that i must always engage in as a means to put me in my place whenever im getting out of line...
we agree on it - if you ask me, at any time, "do you deserve rights?" i must always respond "no, only you. thank you for reminding me"
i can only imagine being genuinely fussy and having my gf quiet me with it. i want to talk about the issue, i want to be heard... instead, i'll finally follow our script and then just sit in the shame of how i need to be controlled in this way to behave
and of course my gf will feel good about putting me down, a good mood boost for her! bonus points if she rubs it in by making some comment about how it's a good thing i have tits bigger than my brain or else she might have felt less forgiving :(
i have always loved the word bitch, especially as a term of endearment. "he's bringing his bitch," things like that. it's because it's right. that's what you are. his bitch. your place is underneath him as far as you're concerned. you're lucky he even looks at you. he's more than you'll ever be, after all. you're just his bitch, his toy, his plaything. he only keeps you around because you're fun right now. he'll discard you if you aren't anymore. maybe he'll keep you if you do things right, wind you up when he's bored, stuff you full, you might even sleep next to him at night, but at the end of the day sweetheart, that's all you are. his bitch.
