when you ask your dear friend kyle to help you with your pregnancy, you expect him to donate some sperm, drive you to your ivf appointments, etc etc.
what you don't expect is him to press your knees to your chest one evening, slamming his cock so deep inside of you that you swear you can feel it entering your womb.
"s'fuckin' good for me," he groans, applying more pressure to the back of your thighs, "takin' my cock like a champ, baby," somehow he manages to thrust deeper, a soft whine leaving your lips.
he doesn't stop praising you throughout the whole ordeal, admiration entering one ear then shooting down into your body, pussy squeezing after every phrase.
such a sweet girl. absolutely perfect. gonna be such a good mama.
the way you tighten up at that last bit has kyle gritting his teeth, eyes clenched up before opening to reveal fully dilated pupils, "yeah? you like when i call you that? mama?" the word gets the same physical reaction from you, and kyle grins.
he adjusts himself, chest nearly touching yours as he raises his hips till only the tips insde. then, he slams home.
"can't wait to make you a mama. gonna ruin this cunt every day till it takes. yeah? you want that?" the drag of his cock inside of you is so distracting, addicting. you almost don't answer his question, but the high-pitched mewl he punches out of you is answer enough.
he keeps talking to you, how excited he is to watch your soft belly expand, to see your tits swell up, have your stretchmarks extend.
you hear him say something along the lines of i'll be such a good daddy, mama, jus' you wait, but you blame the cotton in your ears. after all, the only thing you can focus on is the warm feeling of his cum coating your insides and making good on his previous promises.
So what if you think about cock more than girls now.
So what?
It doesn’t mean anything. The whole point of a kink and a fetish is that it’s exciting, right? That it’s fun and new and something different. Something out of your ordinary. Right? So why wouldn’t you indulge that? It feels good, it’s nice. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re not changing.
You’re not changing.
It’s not really affecting you.
So what if you can’t even get off unless there’s a cock.
So what?
It’s not actually there. You’re just watching a girl get fucked, that’s all. Or watching her suck cock. Or suck cock and get fucked. Or imagining her. Imagining the sound she’d make and the look on her face as a big, fat cock slid into her. How her whole body would stiffen when he finished inside her. How his cum would look dribbling from her fucked cunt and the beautiful, dazed, cockdrunk expression she’d have. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re not changing.
You’re not changing.
It’s not really affecting you.
So what if you’re starting to get jealous of those girls.
So what?
It just looks like fun. It looks fun to be a slut for a man. To let him just use you. To be so, so full of him. To have his weight pinning you down as he lined himself up and slid in as you squirmed helplessly underneath him. It doesn’t mean anything if that gets you wet, it’s an exciting idea, it’s not your fault. So what if you like to imagine that you’re the one he’s cumming inside? You’re not changing.
You’re not changing.
It’s really affecting you.
So what if you only cum with a man’s permission now.
So what?
It adds something. You could easily do it if you wanted. It’s not as if he could stop you, right? So why does it matter that you only will if he says so? It’s just playing along. It’s just part of the experience. It’s just better to listen to him and to obey a man. It just feels more natural. More natural to the fun, that’s all. It was still your choice anyway, to give up choice, so really you’re still the one in charge, the one actually in control. You’re not changing.
You’re changing.
It’s really affecting you.
So what if he owns you now.
So what?
It was just the natural next step. You already needed his permission to cum, and then to touch, so just admitting that he owned your cunt wasn’t really going much further anyway. And if you've already done that, why not say he just owns all of you? Easier. Besides, he’s a man, he can look after your cunt better than a dumb, ditzy girl like you. That’s just common-sense. You need his control otherwise you’d just spend all day rubbing yourself to cocks and watching other girls getting fucked - he said so, and you know he’s right. He’s so good for you, you’re so glad he’s helping you. He said you’re better now. You do feel better, so obviously he’s right. He said you're changing. You’re changing.
Our Entertainment. The dining room buzzes with chatter and the clink of wine glasses as you step inside. Your eyes snag on it immediately... your seat. It’s parked at the head of the table, a sleek, sturdy thing with a matte black finish, and jutting up from the chair is a thick, glossy dildo, shameless and impossible to ignore. My friends are already here, interspersed around the table, half drunk and grinning, their curiosity pinging between me and that obscene piece of furniture.
"What’s with the setup?" one of them asks, jerking his chin toward the chair. His smirk says he’s already got a guess.
I don’t dodge it. "It’s for her," I say, locking eyes with you. "Keeps her cunt busy while we drink. She’s the night’s entertainment."
Their laughter ripples through the room, and you feel the heat crawl up your neck. You’re still standing there, frozen for a second, but I nod towards it. "Go on. Sit."
You hesitate, but the pull’s too strong — my voice, their stares, the promise of what's waiting for you. You ease yourself down, and the dildo slides in slow, stretching you open with a dull, insistent pressure. A ragged little sound slips out of you, and someone across the table snickers. I work quickly, looping rope around your wrists and ankles, tethering you to the chair’s frame. Your arms flex, testing the give, but there’s none. Your legs are splayed, locked wide, and that dildo’s buried deep now, pinning you in place.
"Can’t have you pawing at yourself," I say, loud enough for everyone to hear. “That'd ruin the fun.”
I step back, letting them see you. All of you. Your thighs twitch, muscles jumping under your skin as you adjust to the fullness. I dip my fingers between your legs, brushing the edge of where the dildo’s sunk into you, and pull them back glistening. "Look at that," I say, holding up the evidence. "Soaked already!"
They lean in, eyes glinting, and the questions start flying at you. "Does it feel good?" one asks, teasing. "You like being stuck like that?" Another chimes in, as if he's just discussing the weather.
You try to answer, but your words come out fragmented, sliced up by the shudders rolling through you. "It’s... mmphhh... it’s a lot," you manage, and then your breath gets caught as the first orgasm slams into you, yet another uninvited guest. Your head tips back, lips parting, and a moan spills out, raw and loud. The table erupts with laughter, a few claps, someone muttering, "Wow, that fast?"
I don’t let you settle. I circle behind you, resting my hands on your shoulders, and nod at the man closest. "Go ahead. Touch her." He doesn’t need telling twice. His fingers graze your chest, finding a nipple and tugging hard. You yelp, a high, desperate sound, and your body jerks against the ropes. Another hand joins in — someone’s pressing two fingers into your mouth, sliding them along your tongue. You choke a little, drool pooling at the corners, and they laugh at you, delighted.
"She’s a mess," they say, impressed. "You trained her well."
"She’s a good fuck doll," I agree, casual as anything. "Watch this." I remove their fingers, grip your jaw, tilting your head back, and shove my cock into your mouth. You whimper; eyes glassy. "See? She’ll take whatever you give her."
You’re fighting the restraints now, hips shifting, chasing friction that isn’t there. The initial entrance pushed you to orgasm, but now that you’ve settled in, it’s not enough. The dildo is filling you up but not moving, not giving you what you need. It’s maddening, and I can tell. I see your breath turn shallow, the way your fingers curl into fists. I love it. They love it. The whole room is feeding off your desperation.
Another hand snakes out, latching onto one of your nipples, pinching it tight and rolling it slow between their fingertips. Your moan comes out choked, garbled around my thick cock shoved deep in your mouth. "She’s loud," one says, grinning at me. "Is that the only way you can shut her up?"
"Pretty much," I say back, voice flat and smug. "Only keeps quiet when I’ve got her throat stuffed" That earns a burst of rowdy yells, glasses clinking in approval. "Don’t be shy now, I’m the only one that can fuck her, but you all can touch!"
And just like that, they swarm you. Hands everywhere, a frenzy of grabbing, stroking, yanking at your skin. Fingers are digging into your thighs, palms smacking your chest, someone raking nails down your side. It’s a flood of sensation, too much to track, hitting you like a shockwave that leaves you squirming, ropes creaking as you strain against them.
You’re trembling now, sweat beading on your forehead, and I can see the strain in your arms as you pull against the ropes. Another orgasm is building. Your thighs clenching, the little gasps you can’t hold back. Even more of the tells that I've learned to track. "Go on," I mutter. "Show them how greedy you are." It hits you hard, your whole body locking up as you cum again, a strangled cry breaking free. The table’s a chaos of noise. More cheers, filthy comments, a fist on the table. You’re panting, chest heaving, and I slide a hand down between your legs, stopping just short of where you want it. "Good girl," I say, voice carrying over the racket. "Keeping us entertained."
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.
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.
Wish there was a chip or something that could store your orgasms so that whenever you'd typically climax it'd just get stored into this chip until someone decided to release it. Spending hours edging without ever getting over to the edge because it's locked away, the key in someone elses hands. Then when you least expect it they just unleash all those pent up orgasms into one huge rush of euphoria. Be out grocery shopping and suddenly your knees buckle under the intensity. Going through an important meeting trying to keep it together as cum leaks downs your leg. Eventually you'd just have to stay home and be a perfect doll to save yourself from the humiliation.
Need a dom to put their hands down my pants, rub my tdick and tell me I’m such a good boy for getting hard for them, then they finger me and suck me making me cum over and over again even though I can’t take any more they tell me I’m doing such a good job and it’ll only be a little longer until they’re done with their toy
Seven minutes in heaven, but it's you and another sub bound together tightly in a dark closet with a powerful vibrator tied between you. You can't do anything but make out, grind your bodies together, and cum your brains out all over each other, until you're so needy and dumb from all the forced orgasms that you don't even notice it's been a lot longer than seven minutes.
i need to be knocked up. i need to be pumped full of cum deep inside my cunt till my belly swells just from the seed at first, and then quickly with a litter of babies. i want my tits to grow from a flat chest to huge ballooning breasts that leak milk at the slightest touch. fuck my belly so huge i can barely move. make me so dumb and focused on sex that i always jump at the chance to feel your cock inside and constantly need to be fucked and milked. make me your groaning, pregnant, fucked out pet that only thinks about breeding even more
i love submissive men, i touched him in front if our friends and almost gave him a handjob in front of them like it was nothing and he was so fucking pretty. not a single thought in that head of is, just the need to be touched and fucked like the slut he is.
something i never anticipated being a problem is that I actually do yap a lot and it can really impede anything happening and I really really need someone to Put Something In My Mouth to shut me up even if I really don't want you to at first like I have more to say hold on wai- mfshhffhg! mhhhh…
He was listening, or looking as if he was. Eye-contact, nodding, sounding as if he was taking it in. Then all at once he frowned and said:
"Finger yourself."
She'd been midway through something and it took her a second or so to register. After another word or two she tailed pff, blinked, and looked at him.
"What?"
He said nothing. Didn't need to. She'd heard.
Blushing, she lifted up the oversized shirt she was wearing and snuck a hand down into her panties. She was already a little wet - almost always was, now - so ine finger was easy. In it slide. She gasped quietly, breath hitching as she started working on a gentle rhythm.
"You were saying?" He asked.
Her eyes, half-closed, opened a little and fell on him again.
"Hmm?"
"Keep going."
Took her brain a moment to figure that one out. He wanted her to keep talking. Or try to. What had she been saying? Finger working, she thought back.
"Uh..."
He put his hand up between her legs, pressing it on hers, making her finger push in. She gasped.
"Go on. It was very interesting. Keep going."
His other hand had gone to her waist to keep her steady as he pressed his palm up harder into her. Her brain fizzled, her mouth hung open.
"Nothing?" He asked.
A thin string of drool started to stretch from her lip as she panted wordlessly, humping gently against her hand and against his. He tutted, shook his head.
"Mustn't have been that important," he said, the hand from her waist moving up so he could feed a thumb into her open mouth. Given the contented hum she made and the way her eyes closed, he doubted she'd heard him.
Not that it really mattered either way.
Fuck me like an animal @loudtoy - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
