Hello, my name is Steve, and welcome to my blog. It's been a while since I last redid my pined post, so I thought I'd do it again.
Please fuck off if you are:
A) under 18 years of age.
B) a pedo.
Please fuck off and get therapy if you are:
A) a terf.
B) Homophobic.
C) unable to tell that this blog is fantastic and not reality.
If you brake any of these roles, I suspect you have, or are a bot I will ban you.
This blog contains adult content that might not be suitable for everyone even over the age of 18. If you are not in the right head space for nonconsent, sexual violence, extream patrearky, slavery, and any number of other extreme fetish related topics, please turn away now.
I do, however, draw the line with and will never post about snuff, beaseality, or insest.
A lot of my stuff is reblogs with the occasional caption from me normally set in my fiction "utopia" of the Freeuse Republic. I also occasionally post some original short stories often also in the Republic.
None of the things in this blog are real. You should never treat anyone in really life like this outside of the bedroom and after careful planning and express consent.
I am dyslexic so please excuse any spelling errors and enjoying my blog.
Any questions my DMs and asks are always open.
(P.s. I take tips in the form of nudes any time 😋.)
"You're sure this is the incantation?" Mara hissed, her fingers tracing the edge of the ancient grimoire. The pages smelled of burnt sage and something darker, metallic, like old blood.
Elara rolled her eyes, nudging the last black candle into place with her bare hip. "Would I lie about summoning an interplanar incubus? Please. I’ve been waiting for this since the lunar convergence." She licked her thumb and flipped another page, the parchment crackling like dry leaves.
The third witch, Veyla, stretched her arms overhead, the dim candlelight catching the sweat already glistening between her breasts. "Less arguing, more undressing. We agreed: no barriers, no reservations." Her voice dropped lower, throaty with anticipation. "Every hole offered."
Mara smirked, sliding the grimoire onto the stone altar with a decisive thud. The symbols carved into its surface pulsed faintly, reacting to the proximity of their bare skin. "Then let’s stop wasting time." She stepped into the centre of the chalked circle, the intricate sigils flaring a deep violet under her toes.
The moment the last syllable of the incantation left Elara’s lips, the air in the chamber thickened, pressing against their skin like a lover’s breath. The candles guttered violently, their flames stretching unnaturally toward the ceiling before snuffing out in unison. Darkness swallowed the room for one heartbeat, two then the sigils on the floor ignited in a searing helix of violet and black, spiralling inward until the stone itself seemed to ripple like water.
Veyla gasped as the first tentacle broke the surface, slick with otherworldly fluid, its surface glistening with iridescent ridges that pulsed with a rhythm like a heartbeat. It coiled around her thigh before she could react, the touch scalding and freezing at once, sending a shudder through her that had nothing to do with fear. “Oh fuck” The words dissolved into a moan as two more tendrils found her, one looping around her waist while the other slid up her spine, the tip teasing the nape of her neck before plunging into her mouth with sudden, delicious force.
Mara didn’t fare any better. A thick, tapered appendage wrapped around both her wrists, yanking them above her head as another circled her ankles, spreading her legs wide. She arched off the ground as a third pressed against her pussy, the tip flaring open to reveal a ridged, muscular orifice that latched onto her clit with obscene precision. The suction alone nearly made her come, but then it pushed, stretching her entrance with relentless pressure until her body yielded, the invasion so deep she felt it in her throat.
Elara, ever the instigator, laughed breathlessly as a cluster of thinner tendrils engulfed her, their movements almost playful, one twisting around a nipple, another teasing her asshole with slow, maddening circles. “Finally,” she managed before one slid into her mouth, her jaw forced wide as it pumped in time with the thrusts of the thicker tendril spearing her cunt. The sensation was unbearable no, perfect each ridge dragging against her inner walls with just enough friction to make her scream around the intrusion.
The chamber vibrated with a low, subsonic hum as the portal yawned wider, its edges dripping with viscous, shimmering fluid that defied gravity. More tentacles surged forth, each one thicker and more sinuous than the last, their surfaces alive with undulating patterns that pulsed in time with the witches’ racing heartbeats. Veyla’s thighs trembled as the tendril in her mouth withdrew slightly, only to plunge back in deeper, the ridges along its length catching against her tongue in a way that made her toes curl. Another slid between her asscheeks, probing with unhurried precision before pushing inside, the stretch burning most sweetly her body yielding, then clenching around the intrusion as if desperate for more.
Mara’s breath came in ragged gasps as the tendril fucking her cunt began to swell, its ridges expanding rhythmically, each pulse dragging against her G-spot until her vision whited out. She barely registered the slick sound of her own arousal dripping onto the stone below, her hips bucking helplessly against the relentless thrusts. A second tentacle, thinner but no less insistent, circled her asshole, the tip flicking against the tight ring of muscle before pressing inside, inch by torturous inch. The dual penetration had her keening, her body strung tight between pleasure and overstimulation, every nerve alight.
Elara, ever the glutton, arched off the ground as a fourth tendril joined the two already stretching her holes, its tapered tip probing the tight space beneath her clit before sliding upward, filling her urethra with a slow, deliberate push. Her scream was muffled by the tentacle fucking her throat, her body convulsing as the new sensation ripped through her a sharp, electric pleasure-pain that bordered on blasphemy. The tendrils inside her seemed to pulse in unison now, their rhythm stuttering as if sensing her impending climax.
Then the ovipositors emerged.
The first ovipositor breached the portal with a sound like tearing silk thick as a forearm, its tapered tip glistening with translucent mucus that dripped onto the stone floor. Veyla’s breath hitched as it hovered before her spread thighs, the swollen base of the appendage pulsing with a slow, liquid rhythm. Before she could process the sheer size of it, the tentacles restraining her wrenched her legs wider, her hips tilting upward in offering. The ovipositor pressed against her dripping entrance, its tip flaring open to reveal a ring of tiny, undulating cilia that latched onto her labia with startling delicacy. Then it pushed.
Veyla’s scream shattered into a broken moan as the ovipositor stretched her beyond anything the tentacles had prepared her for, the thick ridges along its length dragging against her inner walls with torturous precision. Her cunt fluttered wildly, trying to accommodate the impossible girth, but the ovipositor didn’t relent it burrowed deeper, its tip curling upward until it pressed against her cervix with insistent pressure. A hot, syrupy fluid began pumping into her, coating her insides with a tingling warmth that made her muscles go lax. Then came the first egg.
It slid free of the ovipositor with a slick pop, round and heavy as a goose egg, its gelatinous surface shimmering with faint bioluminescence. Veyla whimpered as it settled deep inside her, the weight of it pressing against her womb in a way that was somehow right. The ovipositor withdrew slightly, only to ram forward again, depositing another egg with ruthless efficiency. Her belly began to swell visibly, the skin taut and glossy with sweat as the eggs piled up inside her, each new addition sending a fresh wave of dizzying pleasure through her overstimulated nerves.
Mara’s turn came next. The ovipositor that claimed her was thicker, its ridges more pronounced, and it didn’t bother with preamble it speared her in one brutal thrust, the force of it lifting her off the ground entirely. She hung suspended between the tentacles, her body impaled on the monstrous appendage as it began pumping eggs into her with a frenzy that bordered on violence. Each egg stretched her womb further, the pressure building until tears streaked her cheeks, her mouth hanging open around the tentacle still fucking her throat. Her stomach rounded obscenely, the skin straining as the eggs shifted inside her with every thrust, their weight dragging her toward a climax that felt less like pleasure and more like reckoning.
Elara’s ovipositor was the last to emerge a grotesquely beautiful thing, its surface alive with throbbing veins that pulsed in time with her frantic heartbeat. The tip split open like a flower, revealing a spiralling canal slick with viscous fluid that dripped onto her thighs. She barely had time to whimper before it speared her, the initial stretch so intense her vision blurred at the edges. The tentacles holding her legs spread impossibly wider, her hips lifted at an angle that left her utterly exposed as the ovipositor bottomed out inside her with a wet, squelching noise.
The first egg forced its way into her womb with a pressure that bordered on agony, her cunt fluttering wildly around the intrusion as if trying to reject it. But the ovipositor didn’t relent it pulsed rhythmically, each contraction depositing another egg deep inside her until her stomach began to round outward, the skin stretched taut and shiny. Elara’s breath came in ragged, hiccupping gasps around the tentacle still pistoning in her throat, her eyes rolling back as the eggs settled heavily against her cervix. She could feel them shifting inside her, their gelatinous surfaces pressing against one another in a way that sent jolts of electric pleasure up her spine.
Veyla’s body convulsed as her ovipositor gave one final, brutal thrust, depositing a cluster of eggs directly against the mouth of her womb. Her back arched off the ground, her thighs trembling as the last few eggs slid into place, her belly now swollen to the size of a ripe melon. The tendrils restraining her limbs tightened possessively, their ridges vibrating against her skin as if savouring her helplessness. A fresh wave of sticky fluid pumped into her, sealing the eggs in place with a warmth that made her toes curl. She sobbed openly, her body strung tight between pain and mind-numbing pleasure, her cunt clenching rhythmically around the ovipositor as it finally, finally began to withdraw.
Mara’s release was less graceful. The moment her ovipositor pulled free, her body seized, her thighs clamping around nothing as a violent orgasm ripped through her. The eggs inside her shifted with the force of it, their weight pressing against sensitive inner walls in a way that dragged the climax out into an endless, shuddering wave. She barely registered the tentacle slipping from her mouth, her lips swollen and silverededededededverververververck with saliva as she gasped for air. Her stomach was distended obscenely, the skin stretched so tight she could see the faint outline of each egg beneath the surface.
Elara’s body gave one final, violent shudder as the ovipositor slid free from her ravaged cunt, leaving her gaping and dripping with viscous fluid. The eggs inside her pulsed faintly, their bioluminescent glow casting eerie shadows across the taut curve of her belly. She collapsed forward onto her hands and knees, panting, her sweat-slicked back trembling with exertion. The tentacles that had held her suspended loosened their grip but didn’t retreat entirely; instead, they coiled possessively around her waist and thighs, their ridges massaging her oversensitive skin in slow, sinuous waves.
Veyla let out a weak, delirious laugh as she rolled onto her side, her swollen belly pressing heavily against the cold stone floor. “Fuck,” she slurred, her voice raw from screaming. One hand drifted down to cradle the curve of her stomach, her fingers sinking slightly into the yielding flesh. The eggs shifted under her touch, rolling against one another with a wet, sloshing sound that sent a fresh jolt of pleasure-pain through her exhausted body. “I can feel them moving,” she breathed, her eyelids fluttering.
Mara was the last to recover, her limbs still twitching with residual spasms. She propped herself up on one elbow, her free hand drifting between her thighs, where her pussy still fluttered weakly around nothing. The emptiness was almost unbearable; she needed to be filled again, needed the pressure, the stretch, the impossible fullness. Her gaze flicked to the portal, which still shimmered ominously, its edges undulating like a living thing. “They’re not done with us,” she murmured, her voice hoarse.
As if in response, the tendrils still wrapped around their bodies tightened fractionally, their surfaces growing slicker, hotter. A fresh wave of that tingling, syrupy fluid seeped from their pores, coating the witches’ skin in a glistening sheen that smelled faintly of ozone and something muskier, more primal. Elara moaned as one particularly thick tendril slid between her asscheeks, its tapered tip probing her already-stretched hole with agonising patience. “Oh god,” she whimpered, her hips pushing back instinctively. “More”
Elara’s plea was answered before the last syllable had fully left her lips. The tendril pressing against her asshole surged forward with a wet, obscene pop, burying itself to the hilt in one smooth motion. Her back arched violently, her swollen belly dragging against the stone as the intrusion sent shockwaves of pleasure up her spine. The eggs inside her shifted, pressing against her cervix in a way that drew a ragged scream from her throat half pain, half delirious ecstasy. The tentacle fucking her ass began to pulse, its ridges expanding rhythmically, each contraction dragging against her overstimulated walls until her vision blurred at the edges.
Veyla wasn’t spared either. A fresh cluster of tendrils erupted from the portal, their surfaces glistening with fresh mucus as they converged on her spread thighs. One, thicker than the rest, pressed against her gaping cunt, its tip flaring open to reveal a ring of tiny, undulating cilia that latched onto her swollen labia with possessive urgency. It plunged inside without ceremony, bottoming out in a single thrust that sent her stomach lurching. The eggs inside her rolled heavily, their weight pressing against her bladder in a way that should have been uncomfortable would have been, if not for the tendril now coiling around her clit, its ridges vibrating with a frequency that made her toes curl.
The ovipositor buried in Elara's womb pulsed violently, its swollen ridges locking against her cervix as a fresh wave of hot, viscous fluid flooded her already-stuffed belly. She could feel the eggs inside her shifting, rolling against each other like marbles in a sack of warm oil. Her body arched off the ground, suspended only by the tentacles coiled around her wrists and ankles, her toes curling as the pressure built to an unbearable peak. The tendril in her ass thickened suddenly, its ridges flaring wide then she was coming, her cunt clenching around nothing as the dual stimulation ripped through her like lightning. The orgasm tore through her with such force that her vision whited out entirely, her scream lost in the wet squelch of the ovipositor withdrawing, leaving her gaping and dripping onto the stone below.
Veyla's climax came slower, more torturous. The tendrils fucking her mouth and ass fell into a synchronized rhythm, their ridges dragging against her sensitive flesh with relentless precision. But it was the one coiled around her swollen belly that undid her its tip probing the stretched skin just above her pubis, vibrating with a frequency that resonated through the eggs packed inside her. She came with a sob, her body convulsing as the eggs shifted violently, their weight pressing against her cervix in a way that bordered on agony. The tendrils milked her through it, their movements growing almost tender as they withdrew one by one, leaving her shuddering and gasping on the cold stone, her stomach distended like a ripe fruit.
Mara's release was the messiest of all. The moment the last ovipositor pulled free, her body rebelled her cunt fluttering around nothing, her asshole clenching as if trying to suck the emptiness back in. A fresh wave of that tingling fluid gushed from her gaping holes, mixing with her own slick on the stone below. The tentacles restraining her limbs loosened their grip, sliding away with a final, possessive caress along her sweat-slicked skin. She collapsed forward onto her hands and knees, her swollen belly swaying heavily beneath her as another weak orgasm rippled through her exhausted body. Her thighs trembled violently, unable to support her weight any longer, and she rolled onto her side with a whimper, one hand drifting instinctively to cradle the curve of her stuffed womb.
The portal shimmered ominously for a heartbeat longer its edges curling inward like a flower closing at dusk then collapsed with a sound like a sigh. The chamber fell silent save for the witches' ragged breathing and the occasional wet slosh of shifting eggs. The candles, long extinguished, offered no light, but the eggs inside them pulsed faintly with their own bioluminescence, casting eerie shadows across their sweat-slicked skin.
Elara was the first to move. She dragged herself onto her elbows, her swollen belly pressing heavily against the stone beneath her. Her thighs were streaked with a mix of fluids her own arousal, the viscous mucus from the tendrils, something thicker and darker that might have been blood. She didn't care. Her fingers trembled as they traced the outline of an egg pressing against the taut skin just above her pubis. "Fuck," she breathed, her voice raw. "They're moving."
Veyla let out a weak, delirious laugh. Her own stomach rolled visibly as the eggs shifted inside her, their gelatinous surfaces pressing against sensitive inner walls. "I can feel them too," she whispered. Her hands drifted lower, fingers sinking into the yielding flesh of her belly as if trying to cradle the impossible weight within her. A fresh wave of warmth spread through her pelvis something sweet and syrupy that made her eyelids flutter. "Oh god. They're alive."
Mara didn't respond. Her fingers were buried between her thighs, working furiously at her clit as her hips bucked weakly against her own hand. The emptiness was unbearable her cunt fluttering around nothing, her asshole twitching with every movement of the eggs inside her. She needed to be filled again, needed the stretch, the pressure, the impossible fullness. But the portal was gone, and all that remained were the eggs shifting inside her, their gelatinous surfaces pressing against sensitive inner walls with every movement.
Veyla was the first to recover. She dragged herself onto her hands and knees, her thighs streaked with a mix of fluids—her own arousal, the viscous mucus from the tendrils, something thicker and darker that might have been cum. Her fingers trembled as they traced the outline of the last egg pressing against the taut skin of her belly. "Fuck," she breathed, her voice raw. "There's still more."
Mara didn't respond. Her fingers were buried between her thighs, working furiously at her clit as her hips bucked weakly against her own hand. The emptiness was unbearable—her cunt fluttering around nothing, her asshole twitching with every movement of the eggs inside her. She needed to be filled again, needed the stretch, the pressure, the impossible fullness. But the portal was gone, and all that remained were the eggs shifting inside her, their gelatinous surfaces pressing against sensitive inner walls with every movement.
Elara, her cunt gaping obscenely around nothing. She collapsed forward onto her hands and knees, panting, her sweat-slicked back trembling with exertion. The chamber smelled of sex and something darker, muskier—something primal. She could still feel the echoes of the tentacles inside her, their ridges dragging against her inner walls, their thick fluid pumping into her womb. The memory alone was enough to make her cunt clench around nothing, her body aching for more.
The tree draged themselves towards echother legs renderd all but unless covered in god knows what and hols still gaping they caress echothers belly's soon the eggs inside them will hatch and ther demonic children will bring a new age of love and lust to an unsuspecting world.
I don't have specific story ideas but pleaseeeee can you do more freeuse stories. I love it when I see a new story from you and even moreso when it has #freeuse.
I've had an idea for a while to do a story about a freeuse app but never got it quite right. But i think its time to give the idea another look.
"Please, Mistress. I can't, I can't take it anymore." The words tumbled out in a rush, my voice cracking as I knelt naked on the cold tile floor. The chastity belt weighed heavily between my thighs, its unyielding metal a constant reminder of six months without relief. Six months of the year, I'd agreed to and signed a contract for. My skin prickled under the weight of her gaze, the air thick with the scent of leather and the faintest hint of my own desperation.
Mistress tapped her riding crop against her thigh, the slow, rhythmic tap-tap-tap making my stomach twist. "You think begging changes anything?" she asked, tilting her head. Her boots clicked against the floor as she circled me, the sound echoing in the sparse room. I kept my eyes down, but I could feel her smirk.
The tap-tap-tap of the crop stopped abruptly. Mistress crouched in front of me, the leather of her gloves creaking as she gripped my chin, forcing my gaze up. Her dark eyes glittered with a mix of amusement and pity. "You’re really suffering, aren’t you?" she murmured, her thumb brushing over my lower lip. I nodded frantically, my thighs pressing together, not that it did any good.
Mistress exhaled through her nose, a slow, deliberate sound, then released my chin. "Fine," she said, standing abruptly. The word sent a jolt through me, hope and terror tangled together. She walked to the far wall where the Sybian sat beneath its dust cover, its silhouette unmistakable even shrouded. My breath hitched as she pulled the cover away with a single sharp tug, revealing the sleek black machine, its saddle glistening under the overhead lights.
Mistress ran a gloved hand along the Sybian’s smooth surface, her fingers tracing the ridges of its controls with practised familiarity. "You’ll get your chance of release," she said, her voice low and deliberate. "But there is a cost, you will be this way I want you." The words slithered into my ears, curling around my hope and squeezing. She patted the machine’s saddle, the sound muffled but ominous. "Up. Now."
The cold bite of leather cuffs snapped around my wrists before I could react, yanking my arms behind my back with a sharp, practised efficiency. Mistress's breath ghosted across my ear as she leaned in, her fingers working the buckle tighter. "You'll thank me for this later," she murmured, the words dripping with dark amusement. The chastity belt's lock clicked, a sound I'd dreamed of for months, but the relief was short-lived. My thighs trembled as the metal finally fell away, leaving me exposed, raw, and achingly empty.
The saddle was warmer than I expected, not the cold plastic I’d braced for, but something that almost felt alive beneath me. Mistress’s hands guided my hips down with terrifying precision, the dildo’s tapered tip pressing insistently against my entrance. My body betrayed me instantly, slick and eager despite six months of denial. "Oh, fuck!" The word shattered into a gasp as she pushed me down fully, the silicone stretching me wide in one smooth, relentless motion. My back arched involuntarily, but her grip on my waist held me firm, forcing me to take every inch until my thighs met the machine’s base.
Then the ridges. Oh god, the ridges. The moment my clit made contact, a shockwave of sensation ripped through me, sharp and electric. They weren’t smooth, no, they were textured, uneven, each tiny peak and valley designed to drag against hypersensitive flesh without mercy. I whimpered, my toes curling against the floor as Mistress buckled a padded strap across my lap, pinning me in place. Another strap cinched tight around my ankles, bolted to the Sybian’s base. The finality of the click echoed in my skull.
"Low setting," Mistress announced, flicking a switch with her thumb. The machine beneath me purred to life, a deep, rhythmic vibration that travelled up through my bones. It wasn’t the punishing intensity I’d feared, just a steady, insistent hum that set every nerve alight without overwhelming them. At first, it was almost... bearable. Then the dildo inside me pushed slightly, a slow, steady pulse up and down, the penetration I had been desperate for, and the ridge beneath my clit pulsed in a slow, teasing pattern. My breath hitched. It was maddening. Close enough to make my hips jerk forward, seeking friction, but never enough to tip me over.
The first hour was a slow unravelling. The Sybian’s vibrations teased the swollen, over-sensitive flesh of my clit with agonising precision, each pulse a whisper of what could be, but never quite enough to push me over. My thighs trembled, slick with sweat, every muscle coiled tight as a spring. I tried rocking forward, desperate for more pressure, but the straps held me immobile, forcing me to take the machine’s cruel, calculated rhythm exactly as it was given.
By the second my whimpers had dissolved into a continuous, breathless moan. The Sybian's rhythm hadn't changed, hadn't wavered, but my body had. Every pulse of the machine sent sparks skittering along my nerves, the sensation pooling low in my belly like molten lead. I clenched around the dildo, my body trying desperately to milk it for more, but the silicone remained unyielding. Mistress had perched herself on the arm of a nearby chair, idly flipping through a magazine as if I weren't writhing just feet away. The occasional glance she tossed my way was clinical, amused. Like watching a lab rat press a lever over and over, knowing the treat would never come.
Hour three. The vibrations had become a dull, torturous ache, my clit swollen and throbbing under the machine’s relentless teasing. My breaths came in shallow gasps, my skin slick with sweat, every nerve alight with a need that refused to be satisfied. I barely noticed when Mistress shifted from her chair, until the soft rustle of leather filled the silence as she dropped her thong. Sitting back down, he rested her thighs on each arm of the chair. Looking me in the eyes with a Cheshire cat grin, her fingers began to rub her clit in the way I knew all too well she loved.
I watched, transfixed, as her fingers moved with practised ease, her breath hitching ever so slightly. The sight alone sent a fresh wave of desperation through me, her pleasure so close, so available, yet utterly out of reach. My hips jerked involuntarily, the Sybian’s vibrations dragging another broken moan from my throat. Mistress’s smirk deepened, her fingers dipping lower, teasing her entrance before sliding back up. "What's the matter?," she murmured, her voice dripping with amusement. "You're out of chastity if you really want to cum just do it."
Her taunt hung in the air, a cruel joke. I couldn’t. The machine’s rhythm was just enough to keep me teetering on the edge, never granting release. My thighs trembled, my back arching as another pulse of near-pleasure ripped through me. Mistress sighed, her fingers moving faster now, her own breath coming quicker. The wet sound of her fingers working her clit filled the room, mingling with the Sybian’s steady hum and my own ragged gasps.
Then, with a sharp inhale, Mistress’s body tensed. Her fingers stilled for a heartbeat, before she came with a low, shuddering moan, and a gush that almost crossed the room, her thighs squeezing around nothing. For a moment, she stayed like that, her head tipped back, riding the aftershocks. Then, slowly, she lowered her feet to the floor and stood, her movements languid, satisfied. She stepped closer, her gaze locked on mine as she dragged a single, slick finger down her thigh.
The first drop had hit my collarbone, warm and sticky. The second landed on my lower lip. My tongue darted out instinctively, tasting salt and musk and her, the flavour sending a fresh bolt of desperation through me. My Mistress chuckled, watching my reaction with dark amusement. "Pathetic," she murmured, wiping her fingers on my shoulder. "You’d take anything now, wouldn’t you?” I sucked eagerly having long since become addicted to her taste in my long denial.
The door clicked shut behind Mistress, leaving me alone with the Sybian’s relentless hum and the echo of her laughter still clinging to the air. My thighs trembled against the machine’s base, slick with sweat and frustration, every nerve still alight with the ghost of her fingers on my skin. The thong in my mouth was soaked through, my tongue working absently around my open mouth, chasing the fading taste of her. I hadn’t realised I’d closed my eyes until the sharp creak of the door hinges startled them open again.
Mistress strode back in, her boots clicking against the tile with deliberate slowness. But it wasn’t the sound that seized my attention, it was the towering, ornate mirror she dragged behind her, its gilded frame catching the overhead lights. My breath hitched as she positioned it directly in front of the Sybian, angling it just so until my reflection stared back at me: flushed, trembling, desperate. The straps pinning me in place forced my back into a slight arch, my hips canted forward obscenely, the dildo buried inside me glistening with evidence of my futile arousal. My clit, swollen and red, pulsed against the Sybian’s textured ridge in a rhythm that was almost cruel in its consistency.
"There," Mistress murmured, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "Now you can watch." Her gloved fingers traced the edge of the mirror’s frame, her smirk deepening as my eyes darted between her and my own reflection. "Watch how desperate your eyes look. How needy." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "How close?" The word dripped with mockery, because we both knew, I knew, close didn’t matter. Not at this moment. Not like this. All my desperation hadn't turned into an orgasm.
Time lost all meaning. The Sybian’s vibrations had long since blurred into a constant, throbbing hum that pulsed through my body with the frantic rhythm of my heartbeat. The overhead lights swam in my vision, the irrrrrrr harsh glow melting into a hazy halo. Was it hour four? Five? The numbers slithered through my fingers like smoke every time I tried to grasp them. The straps holding me down felt like they’d fused to my skin, the padded leather biting into my mistress's with every involuntary twitch. My reflection in the mirror was a stranger, lips parted, pupils blown wide, sweat-slicked hair clinging to my forehead in damp curls. The only indicator of time was my mistress coming in every hour to give me water..
The overhead lights dimmed, or maybe my vision blurred, as the Sybian’s vibrations shuddered to a halt. The sudden silence was louder than the machine’s hum had ever been, my body still thrumming with phantom pulses, every nerve screaming for more. Mistress’s boots clicked against the tile as she approached, her shadow swallowing me whole. Her gloved fingers found the buckle at my ankles first, the leather strap falling away with a whisper. The relief was immediate; my calves burned as they finally relaxed. My Mistress carefully lifted me from the sybian. My legs by this time were shaking too badly to use.
I felt the slow withdrawal of the dildo that had been both pleasure and torment and the desperate need deep inside to have it back in to finally cum my exhausted sweaty body crying out in frustration as it had never done before. I had thought myself desperate before but now... I lay there recovering my head lying on my mistress's bare lap. The scent of her orgasm still lingered as she stroked my hair. " You have been such a good girl today. I'm very proud of you, I've put you through a lot but you can rest now."
I don't know how long I lay there for just me and my mistress but under her care, I started to come back to my normal if unbelievably frustrated self. Looking up into my mistress's eyes I asked "Can you release my arms now mistress?" With a smile, she nodded and got up to get the key to the cuffs but also to get the chastity belt. That steel prison I both hated and craved. In a flash, it was back on, the familiar tightness against my swollen sensitive flesh. As the lock clicked back into place my mistress uttered words that made me run cold. "Now you've had your chance at an orgasm, I will have to reset the clock for another year.”
Ok so thr ADHD part of my brain is finally letting me write again I have 4 story's almost finished!
Well my brain is cooperating and letting me do the things I enjoy, do any of you have any ideas for story's you would like me do do? If so send me an ask or a DM ( anonymously is fine. ) and ill get on it well the juices are flowing.
Ok so thr ADHD part of my brain is finally letting me write again I have 4 story's almost finished!
Well my brain is cooperating and letting me do the things I enjoy, do any of you have any ideas for story's you would like me do do? If so send me an ask or a DM ( anonymously is fine. ) and ill get on it well the juices are flowing.
Im curious. if you were given the opportunity to spend say 6 hours like this. you have no idea who the men are or how many will use you, they are all S.T.D. checked and clean however none of them use condoms. you have water, snacks and can take 1, 30 minute brake at any point would you sine up?
"You look like shit," Marcus said, sliding a coffee across Nadia's cluttered desk. The steam curled up between stacks of overdue reports, the smell of cheap office beans filling the air.
Nadia didn’t lift her head from her hands. "That’s because I feel like shit." Her voice was muffled, fingers pressing into her temples as she could physically push the migraine away. "Three missed deadlines, two passive-aggressive emails from clients, and a performance review that basically said, 'Try harder, but also don’t stress out.'" She finally looked up, with dark circles under her eyes. "How the hell am I supposed to do both?"
Marcus leaned against her cubicle wall, arms crossed. "You ever think about just... leaving?"
She snorted. "Sure. Right after I win the lottery."
The coffee sat untouched. Her stomach was too twisted for caffeine.
That night, Nadia dragged herself home to her tiny apartment, toeing off her heels by the door. The mail was stacked neatly on her kitchen counter. Bills, ads, and one plain white envelope with no return address. She frowned, tearing it open. Inside was a single card, thick and expensive-feeling, embossed with gold lettering: “I will grant you 1 wish.”
She laughed, tossing it aside. "Great. Even my junk mail is trolling me... what the hell, I wish for a simple life in the countryside, with no deadlines, no stress and no decisions," she stated out loud to the empty room. Nadia didn't think much of it, just another absurdity in a day full of them, as she stumbled to bed, collapsing face-first into the pillows without even bothering to change.
When she woke, the first thing she noticed was the air: thick with the scent of hay and earth, utterly foreign against her memory of city smog and damp apartment walls. The second thing was the weight. Her body felt heavier, fuller in ways she couldn’t immediately place. Nadia bolted upright, her clothes from the day before gon now, skin that felt too sensitive, too... exposed in the cold morning air. Her hands flew to her chest, fingers sinking into soft, swollen flesh, her already ample breasts now massive in her hands.
Her first coherent thought was panic, sharp and electric. beneath her was coarse straw and earth instead of her usual high-thread-count linens. The room was small, with wooden beams crisscrossing overhead and morning light filtering through gaps in the rough wooden walls. A barn. Somewhere rural, if the distant sound of chickens clucking was any indication.
Nadia scrambled to her feet, her balance thrown off by the unfamiliar weight swinging from her chest. She barely recognised her own body, her waist still slim, her hips slightly fuller, but her breasts... they were impossibly heavy, the nipples dark and tight against the cool air. She pinched one gingerly, gasping as a bead of wetness pearled at the tip. Milk. Her stomach clenched.
Nadia stumbled toward a rusted metal trough bolted to the wall, her reflection warped in its surface. The woman staring back had her face, high cheekbones, wide dark eyes, but her body was something else entirely. Her breasts hung heavy, swaying with each unsteady step, the nipples taut and dripping. She pressed a hand between her thighs instinctively, finding herself slick there too, her body humming with an unfamiliar, aching need.
The barn door creaked open, flooding the space with golden light. A man stood silhouetted in the doorway, broad-shouldered, his jeans snug around thick thighs. He didn’t speak, just stepped inside, the scent of leather and hay clinging to him. Nadia backed up until her spine hit the wooden slats behind her. "Wh-who are you?" Her voice cracked, but the man only chuckled, low and warm, as he unhooked a leather strap from his belt.
The strap dangled from the man's fingers, supple leather catching the morning light. Nadia's pulse throbbed in her throat. "Easy now," he rumbled, stepping closer. His boots scuffed against the straw-strewn floor. "Just gotta check your tags." His accent was thick, country, slow, nothing like the clipped city voices she knew.
Tags? Nadia's fingers flew to her throat, then her face and finally her ears. Her dimand earings had been replaced with a yellow plastic livestock tag.
Nadia’s fingers trembled against the tag clipped to her earlobe, cold, unyielding plastic where her diamond studs used to be. The man’s calloused hands closed around her wrist before she could yank it free. "None of that," he chided, his grip firm but not cruel. "You’ll just hurt yourself, sweetheart." His thumb brushed over her pulse point, and Nadia’s breath hitched. The warmth of his touch seeped into her skin, stirring something low in her belly.
The man, no, the farmer, let go of her wrist, but Nadia didn’t move. His gaze dragged over her, slow and assessing, lingering on the damp trails of milk trickling down her swollen breasts. "Name’s Clay," he said finally, hooking the strap back onto his belt. "You’re late for milking."
Milking. The word sent a jolt through her, equal parts terror and something darker, hotter. Nadia opened her mouth to protest, but Clay was already turning, his broad back blocking the doorway. "Come on," he tossed over his shoulder. "Unless you wanna be sore all day."
She hesitated, her toes curling into the straw. This was insane. She should run. But her body, this new, heavy, *needy* body, ached in ways she didn’t understand. The thought of those rough hands on her, tugging at her nipples, made her thighs press together instinctively.
Outside, the farm sprawled under a pale blue sky, rolling pastures dotted with grazing cows, and a weathered farmhouse in the distance. Clay led her to a low, whitewashed building, the air inside thick with the warm, sweet scent of milk and hay. A row of stalls lined one wall, each with a padded bench and a gleaming metal milking machine.
Nadia’s breath came fast and shallow as Clay guided her toward the nearest stall, his hand warm at the small of her back. She should’ve resisted, should’ve demanded answers, but her body moved on its own, her nipples stiffening further in the cool air, milk beading at their tips. The padded bench was softer than it looked, the leather cool against her bare thighs as she settled onto it. Clay knelt in front of her, his work-roughened fingers brushing the inside of her knee. "First time’s always the hardest," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her.
She flinched when he reached for her breast, but his touch was practised, almost gentle. He squeezed lightly, and Nadia gasped as a thin stream of milk arced into the metal pail beside them. The sensation was overwhelming, strangely relieving and impossibly intimate all at once. Her back arched as Clay’s thumb circled her nipple, coaxing out another spurt. "Good girl," he praised, his breath hot against her skin. "Just like that."
By the time he attached the milking machine, Nadia was trembling, her thighs slick with arousal. The suction pulled at her with a steady, rhythmic pressure, milk flowing in warm pulses. She bit her lip to stifle a moan, but it escaped anyway, soft and breathless, as the machine hummed between her legs. Clay watched her with heavy-lidded eyes, his jeans straining noticeably at the front. "Knew you’d take to it," he said, his voice rough. "Pretty thing like you, built just for this."
The words should’ve shamed her. Instead, they sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in her belly. Nadia’s fingers twitched against the bench, her body thrumming with a need she couldn’t name. When Clay finally unhooked the machine, her breasts felt lighter, but the ache between her thighs was unbearable. She barely registered him unbuckling his belt before his hands were on her hips, lifting her effortlessly onto his lap.
The first thrust knocked the air from her lungs. Clay filled her completely, his cock stretching her in a way that bordered on pain, but the sting melted into pleasure almost instantly, her body clenching around him like it was made for this. Nadia’s nails dug into his shoulders as he rocked into her, each movement wrenching another broken sound from her throat. The scent of hay and sweat and sex filled the air, mingling with the sweet tang of milk still clinging to her skin.
Clay’s grip tightened, his teeth grazing her earlobe as he growled, "Gonna breed you proper." The promise, or threat, sent her over the edge, her vision whiting out as pleasure crashed through her in waves.
Clay’s hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise as he thrust up into her, the rough denim of his jeans scraping against her bare thighs. Nadia’s back arched involuntarily, her swollen breasts swaying with each ragged movement, milk still leaking in thin, glistening streams down her flushed skin. The stretch burned, his cock impossibly thick, reshaping her insides with every deep, deliberate push, but the pain twisted into pleasure so fast it left her gasping. Her body clenched around him, as if some primal part of her recognised this, craved it.
"Look at you," Clay growled against her throat, his breath hot and uneven. "Taking me like you were made for it." His teeth grazed her collarbone, and Nadia whimpered, her nails biting into the corded muscle of his shoulders. He didn’t slow down, didn’t gentle his pace, just fucked her harder, the wooden stall creaking beneath them, straw rustling under their tangled legs.
The milking machine’s quiet hum still echoed in the air, mingling with the slick, filthy sounds of their bodies joining. Nadia’s thighs trembled, her cunt fluttering around him as the pressure built low in her belly. Every drag of his cock inside her sent sparks up her spine, her nipples aching and oversensitive, rubbing against the rough floor.
"Gonna put a calf in you," Clay muttered, his voice rough with exertion. One hand slid up to squeeze her breast, his thumb brushing her taut nipple, and the sensation was electric as Nadia cried out. The orgasm hit her like a shockwave, her vision blurring at the edges as her body clamped down around him, milking *him* now, drawing his release deep inside her. Clay groaned, his hips stuttering, his grip turning punishing as he came with a low, guttural sound.
Clay's seed pooled hot inside her, his rough hands lingering on her hips as she slumped against him, her body trembling with aftershocks. The milky scent of her own arousal clung to her skin, mingling with the musk of his sweat and the sweet, grassy smell of hay beneath them. Nadia's eyelids fluttered, heavy, sated, as Clay lifted her off his lap with surprising gentleness, his calloused thumbs brushing the tender skin of her inner thighs where his grip had left faint red marks.
"Come on," he murmured, guiding her upright with a hand at the small of her back. Her legs wobbled, but he steadied her effortlessly, his touch firm but not unkind. "Time to meet the others."
Others. The word sent a flicker of apprehension through her, but her body, this new, pliant, used body, moved obediently, her bare feet padding across the straw-strewn floor. The afternoon sun slanted through the barn's open door, painting golden stripes over Clay's broad shoulders as he led her outside. The farm sprawled before them, green and vibrant, and the distant lowing of cattle carried on the warm breeze.
The "others" were housed in a long, low building, with whitewashed wood and rusted metal roofs, the air thick with the scent of warm bodies and fresh milk. Clay pushed open the heavy door, revealing a row of stalls lined with soft straw and padded mats. Women, no, hucows, lounged in various states of repose, their swollen bellies and heavy breasts glistening in the dappled light. Some dozed, others lazily stroked their own thighs or each other's skin, their fingers trailing absently over round, milk-full curves. A few glanced up at Nadia's entrance, their eyes glazed with contentment, their lips curling into slow, knowing smiles.
"New sister," one murmured, her voice thick with sleep. She stretched, her round belly shifting, her fingers lazily playing with her clit.
The stall door clicked shut behind her, and Nadia’s breath caught, not from fear, but from the sheer rightness of the moment. The scent of warm milk and fertile earth wrapped around her like a second skin. The other hucows shifted lazily in their stalls, their heavy-lidded gazes trailing over her with quiet curiosity. One, a woman with sun-kissed skin and dark, drooping curls, reached out, her fingers brushing Nadia’s wrist. "You’ll like it here," she murmured, her thumb stroking the inside of Nadia’s palm. "No deadlines. No stress. Just... this."
Nadia’s pulse fluttered under the woman’s touch. She should’ve recoiled. Should’ve demanded answers, screamed for help, something. But the weight of her own body, the ache in her breasts, the slow drip of cum down her thighs, felt like an answer all its own. Clay’s seed still pooled inside her, warm and thick, and the thought of it taking sent a shiver down her spine.
The curly-haired hucow, Lila, her tag read, tugged her gently toward an empty stall lined with fresh straw. "First day’s always the hardest," she said, echoing Clay’s words from earlier. But her voice was softer, sweeter, her fingers deft as they guided Nadia onto the padded mat. "Let me help.”
Ariel woke to the sound of seagulls, the soft, lapping waves tickling her toes. Her TOES! She had feet! She had LEGS!!! She gasped aloud and tried to cheer, but her absent voice merely wheezed. That was when she remembered she had traded her voice to the witch in exchange for the chance to live on the surface. Now all she had to do was find Eric!
She tried to stand, her wobbly legs barely supporting her. Her coordination was off, unused to having two independent legs instead of a scaled tail. She managed to make it halfway up the beach before her lack of coordination sent her tumbling into the sand.
"Hey! Are you alright?"
Ariel looked up in surprise, seeing a young man rushing towards her. He was wearing CLOTHES! The surface world was so strange! He knelt down next to her, offering her a hand.
"What happened? Did you fall overboard? Where is your swimsuit?"
Ariel cocked her head and tried to speak. She was about to ask him to take her to the prince, but all that came out was a quiet gasp. His brow furrowed and he helped her stand.
"We cant let you run around with your bare ass hanging out, girl. Here."
He took his shirt off and wrapped it around her, the soft fabric feeling delicious against her skin. It was still warm from his body heat, so different from the cold waters she was accustomed to. He wrapped his arm around her and she moaned as she leaned into him.
"Come on. Lets get you someplace you can get cleaned up."
Ariel nodded and smiled.
He was so nice to her. He had introduced himself as Darren, and had even managed to help her into something he called 'pants'. He had taken her to his 'house' in his 'car'. Ariel had gazed around her in wonder at all the incredible sights during the 'drive'. The 'car' had scared her at first, but she soon got used to the purring 'machine', and the soft 'seat' was so comfortable.
He had asked her a lot of questions, but Ariel was only able to nod or shake her head. No, she didn't have family he could contact. No, she wasn't expecting friends. Yes, she was alone. She couldn't exactly explain how she had made a deal with a witch to come to the surface, so when he asked where she was from, Ariel just shrugged.
He showed her around his house, and the place was a treasure trove of whirlygigs, thingamabobbers, and precious items. Ariel gaped in amazement. He just chuckled at her awe and asked if she was hungry. Ariel nodded vigorously, and he opened a big silver box, waves of cold air escaping and making her nipples harden. He pulled out a bunch of fruit and a strange jug, pouring orange water into it. He put some small white circles on the plate, and handed it to her.
"Here. Fruit, orange juice and some vitamins. I don't know how long you were out there, but you need to get your strength back. Swallow the pills, drink the juice and eat the rest."
Ariel did as she was told, smiling at him in gratitude. The pills weren't easy to swallow, but the delicious, tangy juice was a treat, washing them down easily. Not long after she finished he helped her stand, only for Ariel to be hit by a wave of dizziness.
"Dont worry girl. Its just the exhaustion. You must have swam a long way."
Ariel felt thick and foggy, her new body stumbling and weaving as he led her through the house. Everywhere he touched tingled and burned, but in an increasingly pleasurable way. He led her to a 'bathtub' and she slid in as he filled it with water. It was WARM! The only time Ariel had ever felt so warm was when she had gotten too close to the Sulfur Vents on the ocean floor, but the foul water had made her sick.
Ariel relaxed, trusting him as he used a 'cloth' to wash her body, cleaning the sand from her skin. She couldn't hold in the moans when he stroked her breasts, and she nearly spasmed with pleasure when he slid his hand between her legs. Her head spun and she felt dazed, woozy from the sudden, unexpected pleasure.
"Did you like that?" He murmured, his warm breath on her skin.
Ariel rolled her head towards him, too dazed and weak to lift it. She bit her lip and nodded, struggling to focus on his blurry face. His hand slid across her belly, making her muscles, toned by countless hours of swimming, dance and flutter beneath his tender touch. He began to stroke her, and Ariel shuddered and spasmed, wailing and screaming soundlessly as pleasure she had never known crashed over her.
When she was finally spent, Ariel slumped down into the water as he let it drain, bonelessly shuddering from the unbelievable high he had just given her. He lifted her out of the tub and dried her before carrying her to the bed.
"Do you want to feel even better, girl?"
Her red hair bounced as she used her eyes to plead with him, wanting to explore the heights of pleasure her new body could give. He laid kisses on her naked body, crawling up as she panted with growing need. Something thick and rigid nudged between her parted legs, and Ariel's entire body locked up, her back arching as it pushed inside. A brief flash of pain hit her, muted by her exhaustion, before rolling waves of bliss assaulted her mind.
"That's it, cum for me." His voice murmured in her ear. Ariel felt her legs part further, her ankles locking behind his back as she pushed down with her heels, encouraging him to go faster. Her nails dug into his back as she let out another silent scream. Another, even more powerful surge of bliss washed away her thoughts. Ariel gave in to him, letting him use her body in every way he demanded, bringing her to new, soaring heights with every change in position.
*******
It had been a 'month' since Ariel had come to the surface, and Darren had shown her everything the surface world had to offer. It had taken a few weeks, but he finally understood she knew nothing of the world she now lived in. He told her she might have 'amnesia' and he had figured out pretty quickly that she couldn't speak, but she could kind of get him to understand. He kept promising to take her to the prince, but as she was unfamiliar with her surroundings, she needed to understand the culture, otherwise the prince wouldn't know what to make of her.
He was so nice to her. He took her in, and made sure she always took her vitamins, helping her body recover from her ordeal on the beach. They felt so good, and Ariel came to crave the blissful, relaxing fog that drifted over her mind. Her new body was so sensitive when she took the vitamins, and he made sure he never missed the opportunity to bring her pleasure. It seemed like she found herself underneath him or kneeling in front of him on a daily basis.
Darren told her she needed to know how to bring pleasure to the prince when they were finally introduced, and Ariel just knew he was right. She just HAD to make a good impression. She learned to write, just a little, and managed to ask if she could do anything better, her scrawling letters looking like the handwriting of a child.
He took her to a place called a 'parlor' and another store called a 'sex shop'. He was so nice, showing her how the tongue stud could bring a man pleasure, and how the cuffs and gags worked. He bought her bunches of 'toys', and promised to make sure she was able to use them all with proficiency.
Ariel loved the artwork on his skin, begging him without words, pleading with him. She wanted artwork of her own. He rewarded her with an extra pill, and Ariel fell into a blissful haze as she came hard on his cock for the rest of that day. They went to the 'tattoo' parlor a lot, decorating her new, human body with beautiful artwork. When they got back home, Ariel made sure to reward him by opening her body to his pleasure. The prince became a fading memory as the paddle turned her ass pink. Her life in the ocean faded as she swallowed her daily vitamins, replaced by the heaven on earth that was the surface world. When he locked her collar around her neck, Ariel broke down in tears of joy, knowing he was happy with her.
It came as no surprise to Ariel when the nation announced the prince had married a dark haired woman named Vanessa. She had been on the surface for months, and had never met Eric in person. She would have been sad, but Darren had comforted her, making sure she was too busy enjoying the blissful haze from her vitamins and bringing him pleasure to worry about it.
Darren admitted to her that he was worried she was too attached to the vitamins now, but Ariel knew she needed them. She begged and pleaded, showing him that she could be his good girl. He finally relented, but he made sure she knew from that point on, Ariel would have to earn them. She agreed to let him play any games with her body that he wanted, as long as she earned her reward at the end.
Every game he played brought her such pleasure, Ariel couldn't take it. Every session would end with her drooling, dazed and leaking his cum, the vitamins leaving her awash in a foggy haze of sexual bliss that pulled her down, down, down under his control. She loved it. She was so happy as his 'Pet'. So happy to submit, so happy to wordlessly beg. Darren was a whirlpool, the current dragging her down deep into the depraved depths.
Ariel the princess of Atlantis, became Pet the bitch of Darren. She traded her voice and tail for a chance to see the surface and a life spent drugged, bound, fucked, and on her knees.
"Again," Scarlet said, flicking the riding crop against her palm with a sharp *snap*. The sound made the couple on their knees flinch in unison. "You both asked for this. Begged for it, actually. So let’s hear it properly this time."
The husband, his wrists cuffed behind his back, swallowed hard before speaking. "Please, Mistress Scarlet," he murmured, his voice trembling. "We’re worthless without your permission." His wife nodded fervently beside him, her bare thighs pressed to the cold hardwood floor. Scarlet smirked, rolling her shoulders back as she circled them like a predator.
She was the kind of woman who turned heads even outside the dungeon, tall, with hips that swayed like a metronome set to a sinful rhythm. Her hair, black as ink, fell in a sleek curtain down her back, contrasting with the pale cream of her corset. The leather clung to her like a second skin, emphasising the curve of her waist, the swell of her breasts. Her lips, painted the same deep red as the heels she wore, curled in amusement as she watched the couple squirm.
"Six months," she mused, tapping the crop against the husband’s chin. "Six months of you two handing over your paychecks, your dignity, your 'orgasms', all for the privilege of being my playthings. And yet, you still hesitate when I give you an order." She crouched down, bringing herself eye level with them. "What does that say about you?"
Scarlet's polished black heel dug into the husband's thigh as he whimpered, the pressure just shy of bruising. "Words," she reminded him, tilting her head like a scientist observing an experiment. His wife's breath hitched beside him, eyes darting between Scarlet's face and the riding crop now tracing idle circles on her collarbone. The dungeon's low amber lighting caught the sheen of sweat on their skin, proof of their desperation, their worship. Scarlet loved that shine.
At twenty-two, she’d already mastered the art of holding space without compassion. Her clients didn’t pay for kindness; they paid for the razor’s edge of her disdain, the way her full lips could curl around words like pathetic like it was a sacrament. Tonight, her corset, custom-fitted to cinch her waist to an impossible hourglass, creaked faintly as she straightened up. The sound made the wife shudder. Good. Scarlet’s wardrobe was weaponised: thigh-high stockings with seams that drew the eye upward, elbow-length gloves that hid nothing but demanded everything. She’d chosen the blood-red heels specifically to match the wife’s flushed cheeks.
"Let’s try something new," Scarlet purred, snapping her fingers. The couple startled as she produced 2 keys on a chain from her cleavage. You have a choice, looking at the husband. If you eat my pussy to my satisfaction, I will hand over your key. Or you can choose my strap-on and release your wife, and she has until I make you cum in your cage to play with her workout cunt.
The husband's throat bobbed as he stared at the keys dangling between Scarlet's fingers, their metal glinting under the dungeon's amber lights. His gaze flickered to his wife, bound, flushed, breathing shallowly, before settling back on the key that would free him. Scarlet's smirk widened. Of course, he'd choose himself. They always did.
"Good boy," she murmured, twirling the chain around her index finger before tucking it back between her breasts. With deliberate slowness, she hooked her thumbs into the lace of her panties, sliding them down her thighs and stepping out of them with a flourish. The fabric landed on the husband's head like a crown of shame. "Crawl," she ordered, settling onto the velvet-cushioned throne behind her, spreading her legs just enough to tease.
He moved as a man possessed, his knees scraping against the hardwood as he scrambled forward, his cuffed hands making his balance precarious. Scarlet lounged back, one arm draped over the armrest, the other hand idly toying with a nipple through the sheer fabric of her corset. "Look at you," she sighed, watching him pause at her feet, his breath hot against her inner thigh. "Reduced to a drooling mess for a taste of something you'll never deserve."
His tongue was clumsy at first, too eager, too desperate. Scarlet clicked her tongue and gripped his hair, yanking his head back. "Slow," she chided. "Like you're savouring the last meal you'll ever get." When she shoved him forward again, he obeyed, his tongue dragging up her slit with deliberate worship. She rewarded him with a sigh, her hips lifting slightly off the throne to grind against his mouth.
Across the room, the wife let out a choked noise. Scarlet glanced over, arching a brow at the way the woman's fists clenched in her lap, her knuckles white. "Jealous?" Scarlet purred, rolling her hips to give the husband better access. "He's much better at this when he's not thinking about you." The wife's eyes welled, but she didn't speak, smart girl.
Scarlet’s breath hitched as the husband’s tongue finally found its rhythm, lapping at her with the kind of fervour usually reserved for last rites. His desperation was delicious, each whimper vibrating against her clit, each shaky exhale warming her skin. But it was the wife’s silence that truly made her thighs tremble. The woman hadn’t made a sound since Scarlet had started grinding against her husband’s face, her tear-streaked cheeks the only betrayal of her anguish. Scarlet moaned, loud and theatrical, just to watch the wife flinch. "God, he’s starving for it," she sighed, tangling her fingers in his hair to yank him deeper. "Like he’s been dreaming of this. Like he’d trade you for it in a heartbeat."
The wife’s lower lip quivered, her gaze darting between Scarlet’s smirk and her husband’s frenzied devotion. Scarlet could practically taste the betrayal thickening the air—sharp as ozone, cloying as perfume. She arched her back, rolling her hips in slow, deliberate circles, letting the husband’s nose bump against her clit with every pass. "Tell me," she murmured, dragging her nails down the wife’s cheek, "does he eat *you* like this? Or am I special?" The wife’s breath stuttered, her eyes squeezing shut. Scarlet laughed, low and throaty, as pleasure coiled tight in her belly.
The husband’s tongue stuttered when Scarlet suddenly clenched around nothing, her thighs framing his face like a vice. "Don’t stop," she warned, grinding down hard enough to smother him. "You don’t get to stop until I say." His muffled groan vibrated through her, the vibrations skating up her spine. Scarlet’s head fell back, her corset straining as she rode his face with abandon, every slick slide of his tongue pushing her closer. She could feel the wife’s stare like a brand—hot, unblinking, devastated. The realisation that her husband was *better* at this when he wasn’t thinking of her, when he was *hungry* for someone else’s approval, it was almost better than the tongue between her legs.
Scarlet’s orgasm crashed over her like a wave, her thighs shaking as she ground against his mouth, milking every last pulse of pleasure. "Fuck," she gasped, her voice raw. "Look at you, pathetic." She shoved him away with her heel, his chin glistening with her arousal. His chest heaved as he knelt there, dazed, his lips swollen and shiny. Scarlet smirked, stretching like a satisfied cat before rising to her feet. The wife’s gaze flicked to the key still nestled between Scarlet’s breasts, hope and hurt warring in her expression.
With deliberate slowness, Scarlet unhooked the chain from around her neck, letting the keys dangle from her fingertips. The husband’s eyes widened, his cuffed hands twitching as he might reach for it. Scarlet tsked, stepping around him to crouch in front of the wife instead. "You," she murmured, tapping the key against the woman’s parted lips, "were so good tonight. Quiet. Patient." She trailed the metal down the wife’s throat, over the rapid flutter of her pulse. "I said I would hand over the key but not who to" Scarlet glanced back at the husband, his face still wet with her. "*He* chose wrong." With a flick of her wrist, she dropped the key into the wife’s open hand. "And that's time up for this session. Looking the wife directly in the eye. "I'm sure you have many ideas for that key. Until next time."
The dungeon door clicked shut behind the couple, muffling the husband’s frantic apologies as they faded down the hallway. Scarlet stretched, rolling her shoulders with a satisfied sigh, the riding crop still dangling lazily from her fingers. She could still taste the wife’s silent fury in the air thick and metallic, like blood on her tongue. Delicious.
She glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes until her next session. Plenty of time to freshen up, maybe pour herself a drink. Her heels clicked against the hardwood as she crossed to the vanity, her reflection smirking back at her from the gilded mirror. The corset’s laces had loosened slightly during the husband’s enthusiastic service, but the dishevelment only added to her allure, like a predator still licking its chops after a kill. She tugged the key from her cleavage, twirling it idly before dropping it into the lacquered box beside her perfume.
The email notification pinged as she was refastening her stockings. Scarlet’s fingers stilled. The sender’s name alone made her pulse jump: The Divine Society of Dominatrixes. Subject line: Invitation to Trial. Her breath caught. She’d been waiting for this since she first laced a sub’s wrists behind his back. The Society didn’t just recruit. They anointed. Membership meant access to the most exclusive dungeons, the most powerful clients, the kind of influence that turned dominatrices into legends.
Scarlet’s nails clicked against her phone screen as she opened the email. The words were crisp, formal, edged with unspoken challenge: You have been selected for preliminary evaluation. Report to the Obsidian Tower, Suite 9B, at midnight. No signature. No room for negotiation. Just like that, her night had gotten infinitely more interesting.
A knock at the door interrupted her racing thoughts. “Mistress Scarlet?” The voice was honey-smooth, laced with a tremor Scarlet recognised instantly, the shaky exhale of someone trying (and failing) to mask their nerves. She turned, leaning back against the vanity as the door creaked open.
The door swung open to reveal a silhouette Scarlet would recognise anywhere, shoulders pulled back like she was still balancing on a beam, that damnable red hair tumbling in loose waves down her back. "Mistress Scarlet," the woman murmured, her voice dipping into that same breathy register Scarlet had first coaxed out of her four years ago behind a keg at Leah Kim's graduation party. The memory flashed hot behind Scarlet's ribs: the way this perfect gymnast had trembled when Scarlet looped a jump rope around her wrists, how her competitive fury had melted into dazed obedience by the third orgasm.
The woman stepped fully into the amber-lit dungeon, and Scarlet's lips curled at the way her old rival's fingers twitched at her sides, like she was resisting the urge to fidget with the hem of her dress. Four years hadn't softened the gymnast's lithe frame. If anything, the curves of her hips and breasts had only grown more pronounced beneath the modest navy wrap dress. Scarlet's gaze lingered on the way the fabric strained across her bust, the hint of freckles dusting her collarbones. Still fucking gorgeous.
"Strip," Scarlet said, flicking the riding crop against her palm. The sound cracked through the room like a starter pistol.
The redhead's breath hitched, but her hands moved without hesitation, fingers tugging at the knot of her dress, letting the fabric slither down her body in a whisper of silk. Scarlet's pulse jumped when she saw the black lace beneath, the way the lingerie cupped the woman's full breasts like an offering. "Kneel," Scarlet commanded, circling her slowly.
The gymnast sank to her knees with the same liquid grace that had once made Scarlet seethe with envy during vault competitions. Now, it only made her clench her thighs together. The woman's head bowed automatically, her flame-red hair spilling over her shoulders, the ends brushing the tops of her bare thighs. Scarlet crouched in front of her, catching her chin with the tip of the crop. "Look at you," she murmured, dragging the leather upward to trace the woman's parted lips. "Still so eager to please."
The woman's throat bobbed as she swallowed. "Yes, Mistress." Scarlet thought to herself, "This is going to be a good day."
Sarleat arrived outside the address exactly on time, being early might have been seen as being too eager to pleas but being late would have been an insult and given the society's reputation, that was the last thing she wanted to do. She was wearing a latex catsuit under a coffee trench coat. Highlighting her curves, but she hoped to give off the dominant energy she was trying to. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the doorbell.
The door swung open before Scarlet could drop her hand from the bell. A naked woman knelt in the threshold, her wrists bound behind her back with what looked like antique silk rope, the intricate knots digging into her fair skin. A leather gag stretched her lips wide, gleaming with spit under the chandelier light. Scarlet’s pulse stuttered, not at the display of submission, but at the way the slave’s blue eyes flicked up to meet hers, sharp and assessing, before dropping demurely to the marble floor.
"Follow," the woman mumbled around the gag, rising with fluid grace despite her restraints. Scarlet stepped into the foyer, her heels clicking against wood so dark it seemed to drink the light. The air smelled of beeswax and something richer, sandalwood, maybe, layered with the faintest hint of sweat. The walls were panelled in mahogany, carved with scenes of figures in various states of restraint and pleasure, the details worn smooth by centuries of touch.
The slave led her up a spiral staircase, her bare feet silent on the Persian runner. Scarlet’s fingers twitched at her sides, resisting the urge to trail them along the gilded bannister. At the landing, double doors swung inward without a sound, revealing a chamber lit by candelabras, their flames casting long shadows across the semicircle of thrones.
Scarlet’s breath caught in her throat as she took in the five women seated on the semicircle of thrones, each a study in controlled power, each dressed to command in wildly different ways. To the far left, a woman in a Victorian-era mourning gown sat with her legs crossed at the ankle, her jet-black skirts pooling around her like spilt ink. A pearl-handled cane rested against her knee, its tip gleaming under the candlelight. Next to her, a muscular figure in a bespoke three-piece suit lounged with one elbow propped on the armrest, her cropped hair and razor-sharp cheekbones giving her the air of a wartime general. The throne at the centre was occupied by a woman draped in sheer gold silk, her dark skin shimmering under the flickering flames, her posture regal enough to make Scarlet’s spine straighten instinctively. To her right, a redhead in head-to-toe leather harnesses smirked, idly twisting a silver ring around her thumb. The final throne held a woman whose porcelain mask covered half her face, the exposed side painted with intricate henna patterns that trailed down her neck and disappeared beneath her high-collared robe.
"Scarlet," the centre woman said, her voice like honey poured over gravel. "You’re here because we’ve watched you. Not just your technique, your *hunger*." She uncrossed her ankles and leaned forward, the gold silk sliding soundlessly over her thighs. "But hunger isn’t enough. We want to test you to see if you are a true dominatrix worthy of joining us."
"Now strip and kneal" a clear order given with such authority that Scarlet didn't dare disobey.
Scarlet's fingers trembled, just once, before she forced them steady. The trench coat's belt slithered loose with a whisper of silk, pooling at her feet like a shadow abandoning its form. She stepped out of it with deliberate grace, the latex catsuit beneath gleaming under the candelabra light, every curve mapped in liquid black. The women watched, their silence heavier than any appraisal.
She reached back for the hidden zipper between her shoulder blades, the sound like a blade being unsheathed. The latex peeled away reluctantly, clinging to her sweat-slicked skin as if begging to stay. Scarlet let it fall, the catsuit collapsing around her ankles with a wet slap against the marble. The air licked at her bare thighs, her nipples tightening under the weight of their gaze. She resisted the urge to cover herself, telling herself it would be a sign of weakness. Taking another step forward, she sank to her knees, maintaining eye contact with the head of the organisation as the slave from before silently cleared away the clothes.
The bell rang, a single, crystalline note that seemed to hang in the air like the pause between lightning and thunder. Scarlet barely had time to register the sound before movement flickered at the edges of her vision. Four figures materialised from the shadows between candelabras, their naked bodies glistening with oil, their mouths stretched wide around leather gags. They moved in eerie unison, their bare feet silent on the marble as they encircled her.
The first strip of silk brushed Scarlet's eyelids like a lover's sigh, soft, luxurious, utterly inescapable. She flinched instinctively as the blindfold tightened, the fabric's intricate embroidery pressing delicate patterns into her skin. The darkness was absolute, velvet and smothering, heightening every whisper of movement around her. Scarlet clenched her fists, then forced them open again, nails biting into her palms. This is the test, she reminded herself as cool fingertips traced her collarbones.
Hands, so many hands, guided her wrists behind her back with terrifying efficiency. The silk rope coiled around her limbs in elaborate knots, each twist and loop deliberate, the friction just shy of painful. Scarlet swallowed hard as the binding cinched tight beneath her breasts, the elegant harness lifting and separating them with cruel precision. She could feel the judges' eyes on her exposed flesh, the air prickling against her stiffened nipples. A whimper threatened to escape when someone thumbed over one peak, lightning-quick, almost dismissive, before the ball gag nudged against her lips.
The silk blindfold pressed harder against Scarlet's eyelids as the woman in gold rose from her throne. Scarlet could feel the movement in the sudden hush of air, in the way the candlelight seemed to bow away from her presence.
"No true Dominatrix," the woman murmured, her voice like a blade dipped in honey, "would allow herself to be bound like this." A ripple of agreement hummed through the chamber. Scarlet's breath hitched as fingers, soft, manicured, smelling of bergamot, trailed down her stomach. They lingered just above her pubic bone, teasing. "A real mistress would have fought. Would have laughed at the suggestion of submission." The fingers plunged into her without warning, curling roughly against her inner walls. Scarlet jerked forward with a muffled cry, the ball gag stifling her voice to a whimper.
The woman in gold tutted, twisting her fingers deeper. "Look at you," she sighed, as if disappointed. Scarlet's hips bucked involuntarily, her body betraying her with a rush of wetness around the invading digits. "Dripping for us like some common whore." She withdrew her fingers with a slick pop, holding them up to the candlelight. The gathered women leaned in, their breath catching as the arousal glistened on the gold-clad woman's skin. " You have failed, you have disappointed us, and now we will show you consequences."
"Contact her subs, bring them all here, we will see how willing they are to submit to a fake dom once we show them the true submissive inside. Take her to the dungeon 6 hours of flogging and forced orgasms should make a good start." Before Scarlet can even register what's happening, she is being lifted off the ground and taken from the chamber. She screams that it's a mistake and that she didn't understand the test, but the order ignored her muffled pleading. Seeing only the wetness between her legs.
Sorry Babe, the girlfriend likes to keep you bound and balancing on your tongue, while she cums on my cock just a few feet away. We both agreed it was the right way to keep a cucked slut.
I just used to have your head shoved under the bed with your ass up. But, I am starting to agree, this way makes more sense. We can grab you by the hair and use your face to fluff, slap or clean us up, then drop you back down where you’re quiet and out of the way.
Great news! Your daddy has agreed to pay the ransom! He was just horrified to read my letter explaining all the terrible things I was going to do with his little girl to make her into my slave if he didn't and wired the money right away!
The thing is though, I had so much fun writing that letter, it seems a shame to put such creativity to waste, so I think I'll hold onto you for a while and use that money to turn this place into a proper dungeon.
