đHey!! Mercy here. 25. Learning to be a better girl for Master. Owned by https://thehandthatleads02.tumblr.com/ mercys girlfriend: https://softgirlthefifth.tumblr.com/ Tip mercy! https://cash.app/$mercyseguin Required to speak in third person. LIMITS: Gaslighting, body horror, leaving intentional bruises, ect
Are you sure you really have your own thoughts? Seems like you're just repeating things you've heard before. I know you want to believe you're smart, but isn't that a lot of pressure? You're trying so hard to remember things people have told you, but really you don't need to try so hard.
Isn't it nicer just to relax and be horny? Wouldn't you rather just be played with? You could be happy, wet, and stupid. Instead you try to learn new things. That's all the evidence I need to know that you're stupid.
In 24/7 D/s, who says you have to give up your career to give yourself fully to a dom? You can excel at work, then submit the second you clock out if that's what you need. You can be into free use and still have time to write that book you dream of publishing. Don't let anyone tell you what 24/7 D/s or total power exchange has to look like. You decide what it looks like.
As someone in a deeply committed power dynamic who is also extremely motivated in their career, I'll enthusiastically echo this.
For us, it looks like me wearing a discrete, beautiful collar from him every single day. It looks like stockings and garters under my work skirt. It looks like him picking out a pair of slutty little panties for me to wear on a day I give a big presentation. It looks like him sending me filthy, naughty texts in the middle of a meeting and me having to keep my face composed on the video call as I read them.
It looks like me making us lunch every day we work from home together.
It looks like him taunting me as he fucks me about how I think that the successful smart strong person I am at work is the real me but he knows the real me is the one he sees beneath him, wailing, babbling, begging for his cum, willing to do anything to please him.
It looks like me telling him last month how was thinking back to him saying that he was so proud that my ass was opening up for a new, big toy and then, in the same breath, telling him that he would've been so proud of how I handled an important meeting that day.
I've been joking for years that he should hire me as his personal assistant so these two worlds can finally become one (I think I even wrote a fake cover letter/resume at some point?) but until then, he pushes me to be as smart and successful as he knows I can be in my professional life and as pathetic and powerless as he knows I need to be in my service to him.
In fact, unless you're filthy rich, this is what 24/7 D/s probably should look like. We can't always be sex, porn, and need as fun as that sounds. Its just not realistic. We have bills to pay, we have to make food.
In our relationship mercy always speaks in third person in kink settings, which include all written conversations with Master. She also always calls him Master and never his given name unless she absolutely needs to around family or vanilla people who would overhear. mercy wears a color that never comes off. During sex he comes, mercy doesn't. He does edge mercy, and while mercy always always needs more, life gets in the way.
We both work. and we both cook. We both have our own projects we encourage each other to pursue and get better at. We have our own preferred exercises.
Because it is 24/7 though that means it always continues. mercy is always under his control and always will have more fun later.
We she was with him, there wasn't a thought in her head but how to please him. She didn't really understand how he did it, how he silenced all the thoughts that usually plagued her mind. Something about his deep, soothing voice... his quiet confidence... it made it easy to stop thinking and just... go with the flow. To be the thoughtless toy on his arm. To lean in, to pose, to be on display...
She couldn't explain why she did it, but she couldn't deny how RIGHT it felt either
a while back, i went out shopping with my lush in and a friend controlling it. you can set your lush's top power, even if someone else is otherwise controlling it, and i had it set fairly low because i was going to be in crowded places and i didn't want it to be loud enough to get caught. so i was out for a few hours experiencing intermittent low-level teasing while my friend sent me dirty messages and teased me for being enough of a desperate, pathetic slut that i'd go out like this. it was, obviously, insanely hot, and more than a little mind-melting
towards the end of the day, i was on the bus home, cunt vibrating away, my friend still playing with me, when someone sat across from me on the bus. i was wearing a fairly tight baby tee and no bra, so my tits were bouncing on each dump and the person across from me was glancing at them pretty regularly. i told my friend, who asked me if i could turn up the power of my lush even just a little without getting caught. the bus is fairly loud so i agreed and increased the top power, so i was immediately getting more intense stimulation. then, my friend had me put in my airpods, called me, and talked down to me about being so desperate in public, about how that person was going to jerk off thinking about me and my slutty tits later, about how everyone on the bus could tell i was a pliant little porndoll. and when i tell you i barely kept from orgasming, even with very limited stimulation, just from that...it was so insanely hot and embarrassing and degrading
okay but the inherent eroticism of being made to go to bed with toys in you!! the knowledge that it's going to be torture as you slide a thick toy into your cunt and immediately clench around the girth, moaning out as it stretches out the most intimate part of you. and then you have to let go and attempt to forget about it, even as you clench around it and feel it jostle around in you as you turn this way and that. whimpering softly into your pillow, knowing that you signed up for this, you were the insatiable whore who couldn't go a second without being filled to the brim. it's almost like you deserve this, hm?
If anyone cares, there will not be any AI generated content on this profile.
Everything posted on this account was typed by my hands and created by my brain. I am, of course, influenced by the world. But when it comes to cunt training I don't share, consult, or interact with AI in any way.
This blog is also anti AI. Please inform if anything reblogged used AI as it would have been in error out of ignorance and not intended to spread AI content.
There was just something in the name that called to me... I mean it was just for the heck of it. It was funny. It was ironic. I bought a 10 pack. Hey, I'm a student, and it was cheaper than the ramen right next to it, just 50 cents for the whole box.
Well I ate the first one for dinner that night, it was a Friday, and I went to bed early. I didn't have a social life. I was in school to get my degree as fast as possible, so I could move on to my career as soon as possible.
Saturday morning, I woke up early with the sunrise, as always, but horny. Unusual. Well, nothing I couldn't take care of. I reached down and started rubbing my clit, and googled some erotica to read. At first it felt so good, and I knew it wouldn't be long before I came. But I got all the way to the end of my short story... and I still hadn't come. Weird. It never took me longer than ten minutes to get off. I NEVER finished the story before coming, and I never finished the story after coming either. It was strange to think I had never finished one of my erotic stories, but now was not the time to think about that. I needed to COME and it had been 30 minutes. I was so horny. I picked another story. I was invested and rubbing, and feeling so good but so frustrated because it felt like I was almost there... almost there...almost there... but I couldn't come.
Ugh. I finished the second story and STILL hadn't come. I couldn't waste the morning like this, it had been over an hour! I had to study! Do homework! Tutor one of my classmates! Ugh I had to get out of bed.
I started studying and before I knew it it was time to go to the library to tutor Lindsi. I was there ten minutes early, as always. 20 minutes later, my thoughts had wondered from how frustrated I was I couldn't come to how frustrated I was that Lindsi was late, as always, when I was doing her a favor. She was only here to party. Without my help she would have failed out by now. When she did get here I knew she would talk about the party and the guys she met last night, while I did her homework and tried to get something into her bimbo head so she could pass the test.
Lindsi walked in in a pink mini skirt and white button up blouse. She always looked a half step removed from a porn star, pre sex of course, and today was no different. And sure enough today she rambled on about the party at the Delta Phi Gama house, about this guy named Todd who's dick was SO big and fingers where SO skilled... While she rambled I was trying to get a word in edgewise about covalent bonds but she wasn't listening.
Honestly I wouldn't have listened to myself either. I started thinking about how long it had been sense I last got fucked. How badly I needed to get off and maybe that would be the key. I interrupted myself.
"Lindsi," I asked, "Are you going to a party tonight?"
Lindsi giggled, "If course!! Do you want to come!!!"
Well... that was easy, I thought. I got all the details from her and told her I would be there.
I finished up my homework for Monday, and before I knew it it was 7 pm. Usually I'd make my dinner and go to bed, but I was going to fuck a stranger and come tonight.
I walked into the party, it was honestly just a room of stupid loud men and barely clad girls, with way too much alcohol in their systems. Gross. I made my way to the kitchen to grab some dinner, which was when I discovered this party didn't have any food. How can you have a party with no food?? No non-alcoholic beverages either, but if you wanted alcohol they had beer, rum, vodka, whiskey, jello shots, you name it, they had it. I took a shot of rum just to alter my judgement enough to hook up with one of these idiots, and made my way to the "dance floor."
I was still wearing my T-shirt and jeans and found myself both severely over and underdressed. I was wearing too much of the wrong kind of clothing, and the guys were just sliding right by me to dance with someone wearing a skintight outfit with more holes than material.
I kept trying, even going for the nerdy looking guys, but there were just too many more attractive women. I left the party early, an hour past my bedtime and got home at 10:30. I had managed to dance with all of two men and one of them even ground his bulge into my ass, but didn't want to fuck me, I still had not eaten, and I was still sexually frustrated.
I grabbed a package of noodles from the box, cooked them, and hit the mattress. I dreamed about getting fucked. I dreamed about coming. I dreamed about holding a vibrator to my wet pussy while screaming out my pleasure.
I woke up late with my pussy soaked, and repeated my morning from yesterday. Only today I read five erotic stories without managing to come, spending nearly three hours in bed before rolling out of it. I was going to come today. It was the only thing that mattered.
I walked to my closet and noticed the time, 11:40, almost lunch. I thought about eating some veggies, or making myself a sandwich, but I needed to come first and foremost. I threw on a T-shirt and pants, I didn't have the time to put on a bra, and googled the nearest sex store.
It was 20 minutes away. How was that possible? Surely there had to be a closer store, there's no way someone hadn't seen the amazing market of sex crazy collage students would be a gold mine, but if there was she couldn't find it. So I drove there, asked the employees to point out the strongest vibrator, bought it, and didn't even make it home before parking in the back of a mostly unoccupied Walmart parking lot, ripping open the package, ripping off my jeans, and pressing that beautiful vibrator to my wet pussy.
I turned it on and it felt like heaven. My eyes rolled back, and I turned it up higher. I didn't know how long I sat there, blissed out of my mind. Surely not long? Surely I would come in a minute? I kept at it. The vibrator was on its highest setting now. Any minute now I would come and I just knew it was going to be the strongest orgasm I ever had.
Suddenly the vibe in my hand died. "NO!" I screamed. I kinda came to my surroundings, realizing my dash said it was 3:30. how could it be 3:30 already? I glanced around the parking lot, and screamed again when I saw the trucker parked right next to me, looking down into my car, stroking his cock. I didn't even bother to put on my pants or seatbelt, I yaked the car into drive and sped home. I shimmied into my pants, ran inside, locked the door, and ran to charge my brand new beautiful vibrator. I was going to come today.
Maybe I should have knocked on that truckers door and let him fuck me, I thought. He looked more than willing and I needed it. I couldn't believe my thoughts but I couldn't stop them either. I couldn't get fucked last night and I wanted to, what would the harm have been in that trucker fucking me? He looked clean enough.
I was appalled at my thoughts. I was a rational, driven women. I had goals. I had STANDARDS. My standards for a partner, even a one night stand had to be better than "clean". UGH.
Well I still needed to come but first I needed to eat something. That ramen was delicious!
It had been 2 or 3 weeks since my life changed completely, time was so hard to keep track of. I still don't know what caused it, but I was so grateful it had happened.
I had thrown away or altered all my old boring clothes, and gone shopping until I had a full closet of clothes with the sole purpose of making cocks hard.
In the first week, my boldness had grown to the point I was begging strangers to fuck me. I think I got fucked like 50 times before I decided getting fucked wasn't the way to cum, it just made me even hornier.
After that I started sucking cock. Professors, fellow students, people on the campus green, anyone. The only reason I was going to classes anymore was to find more cock to suck. One of my classes had a male professor and all male students, and we spent a whole class period where I just went down the line of desks, making each of my classmates cum, while the professor alternated between lecturing, and egging the class on in calling me their class slut.
After that class, my professor pulled me aside and told me he wanted me to drop out of school and be his full time assistant. I wasn't sure at first, but his fingers were rubbing my clit and I was so so so close to cumming. I knew I was. So I agreed. Even if he couldn't make me come this time, surely he would be able to with time, those fingers were magic.
I talked to my school counselor about dropping out. Unfortunately, with my grades and scholarships, I apparently had to finish out the semester before making any decisions about dropping out "officially". Even fucking the counselor didn't change his mind.
It turns out it wasn't a big deal though, I could skip classes when I had assistant duty's, and tonight I would be moving into my new employee dorm. All the women there were assistants of different professors and they all dressed like I did now! I was so excited. I just had to do a little packing and I would be moving on to my new wonderful life. I just had to figure out what to eat for dinner...
Curiosity. You knew you weren't supposed to touch them.
Master kept them in the black box on the top shelf of his closet, the one you'd seen him open only a few times. You weren't even supposed to know they existed. But you'd watched, curious, filing the information away for a moment exactly like this one. When you'd be bored, alone, wondering what it would feel like to have something that potent coursing through you.
The vial was small. Pale pink liquid, almost innocuous. You only took a sip.
A few minutes later, you understand your mistake.
It starts as warmth. A flush across your chest that spreads downward, pooling between your legs with an intensity that makes you gasp. Your skin prickles. Every touch against your body feels amplified, electric. You're wet almost immediately. Completely soaked, really, in a way that feels obscene. Your clit throbs like a second heartbeat.
You press your thighs together. It only makes it worse.
Fine, you think. You'll just take care of it.
Your hand slides between your legs with practiced ease. You find yourself swollen, aching, so sensitive that the first touch makes you whimper. This will be fast. This will be easy. You're already right there, already climbing toward...
Nothing.
You rub faster. Harder. You try circling, pressing, everything that usually works. The pleasure builds and builds, cresting toward something that never arrives. You're gasping, hips rocking against your own hand, so close you could scream, but the orgasm stays just out of reach. Like a door that won't open. Like a sneeze that won't come.
You try for ten minutes. Twenty. An hour.
By the time you give up, you're trembling, drenched in sweat, nearly crying with frustration. Your whole body feels like an exposed nerve. The sheets beneath you are wet. Every movement sends sparks through you that go nowhere, build toward nothing, they just layer on top of each other until you feel like you might vibrate out of your skin,
You have to tell him.
-----
You find Master in his study. He looks up when you enter, takes in your flushed face, your unsteady breathing, the way you're pressing your thighs together.
His expression shifts from curiosity to understanding to something cold.
"What did you do?"
Your confession comes out in a tumble. The box. The vial. Just a sip. You didn't know. You're sorry. You're so sorry. Help. Please.
"Come here."
Your legs carry you to him before your brain catches up. He pulls you across his lap in one smooth motion, flipping up the hem of your dress. You're not wearing anything underneath, you'd taken your panties off an hour ago, soaked through and useless.
The first spank lands hard enough to jolt you forward.
And you moan.
The pain blooms into something else entirely. Heat and pleasure tangled together, radiating outward from where his hand struck. It's almost... god, it's almost enough. You can feel yourself clenching, desperate, so close...
But not quite. Never quite.
"Stupid slut." His voice is stern, you realize how serious this is. Another spank, and your whole body shudders. "You went through my things. Took something that wasn't yours. And now look at you."
Spank. You whimper.
"Do you even know what that was?"
You shake your head, the tears are starting to form. You're dripping down your thighs now, so horny it's almost painful.
"It's designed to make girls like you into dumb little nymphomaniacs. Desperate. Aching. Unable to think about anything but being filled." Another spank, and you sob with how good it feels, and how useless the goodness is. "But it doesn't let you cum. That's the point. It keeps you right at the edge, wanting and wanting and wanting. Until it's all you'll ever want."
"Can you fix it?"
"There's nothing I can do. You just have to wait it out. A few hours, maybe more." His hand rubs over the hot skin of your ass, almost soothing, and you push back into it helplessly. "You did this to yourself."
Spank. You're crying now, trembling, every nerve ending screaming.
"I can't even use you like this," he says, and there's genuine regret in his voice. "If I fucked you while it's in your system, it would lock the changes in place. Permanently." His fingers trail down, brushing against your slick folds. "You'd be like this forever. Brain gone, dripping out your cunt. Just a mindless, needy thing."
The sound you make isn't quite human.
"You wouldn't want that, would you?"
You should say no. You know you should say no.
But his fingers are still touching you, light as a feather, and your hips are chasing the contact without your permission, and the thought of being like this forever... never having to think about anything but the ache between your legs and the man who controls whether it ever gets satisfied...
"Answer me."
"No," you whisper. "No, I wouldn't want that."
He hums, unconvinced.
"Liar." Another spank, hard enough to leave a mark. "But that's okay." He pulls you upright, settling you on his lap so you can feel exactly how much your desperation affects him. "There's plenty of time for me to get the truth out of you."
most of mercys friends would describe her using the words wholesome actually. And have. It kinda cracks mercy up because mercy knows she is a pervert, but both can be true.
Not just logged out. Deleted. Watched the confirmation screen, typed DELETE in the box, and felt a chapter of her life close when the screen redirected to a generic homepage. She cleared her browser history. Changed her passwords to things that didn't include the word slut. Put away the collar she'd bought herself, the one she used to sleep in.
She got better.
That's the word she uses now. Better. Like she'd been sick and then recovered. In a way, she had been sick. Her work suffered. Friends degraded to acquaintances because she was always canceling plans to stay home and ruin herself. All those hours lost to edging and kink blogs and the particular shame spiral of cumming to things that made her hate herself after.
She got a new job. A good one. Marketing director for a company that made something boring and necessary, the kind of job that came with health insurance and a 401k. She showed up early. She stayed late. She impressed people. Her boss used the word "high potential" in her six-month review, and she didn't just hear it as "you'd make a good pet," which was progress.
She started running. Not far, not fast, but enough that her body felt like something she inhabited rather than something others used. She ate vegetables. She called her mother on Sundays. She went on dates with men who were nice and respectful and didn't make her feel like she was under their thumb.
She had sex too. Normal sex. The kind where both people cum and then talk about their days and fall asleep in each other's arms. Not to mention, she stopped calling herself a slut in her head while she did it. Stopped imagining someone else was watching. Not everything had to be a kink.
She was better.
Except.
Her phone still autocapitalizes "You" sometimes, a memory from years of typing it as a proper noun. She changes it when she notices, but she doesn't always notice.
Kneeling during yoga still does something to her. The instructor says "child's pose" and she folds forward and feels her forehead touch the mat and something in her chest unlocks. She breathes through it. Tells herself it's just a stretch.
She still begs sometimes when she touches herself. Not every time. But sometimes the words slip out, quiet and desperate, "please" and "let me" and "I'll be good," and she doesn't know who she's talking to and she doesn't let herself think about it too deeply. Oh, and she lets herself cum. That's a big one. Normal, healthy orgasms. Not the hours-long edging sessions that used to leave her stupid and shaking. Just regular masturbation, like regular people have.
She was doing really well, all things considered, but unfortunately forward progress can only last so long for fragile things that try to put themselves back together.
It's a normal Thursday when the cracks start to show.
She's home early from work, a rare thing, and she's done everything right. Made dinner. Gone for a run. Called a friend. She's sitting on her couch with a book and a cup of tea like a person with no baggage at all.
But she's bored.
Bored in a specific way. Like something is missing and she can't name it and the not-naming is only making it worse. The book isn't landing. The tea is too hot. Her skin feels tight.
She puts down the book. Picks up her phone. Opens Instagram, closes it. Opens TikTok, closes it. Her thumb hovers...
She could just look. That's not relapsing. Looking isn't doing. She's a different person now. She can handle it.
She types the blog name from memory. Of course she remembers it. Six months is nothing. Especially when she spent years there.
The blog looks the same. The familiar layout, the font, the cadence of the posts. She scrolls without reading, just getting a feel for it. Just checking in. She's anthropologizing her past self. That's healthy, probably. Confronting where she came from.
She reads one post.
It's nothing special. Short, almost throwaway. Something about how good girls don't need to understand why they obey, they just need to feel how right it is. She's read a hundred posts like this before. A thousand maybe.
But it still hits. Her thighs press together.
She knows she should get off this app. This is the exact sequence of events that led to all the bad times before. Late night, boredom, one post, two posts, suddenly it's 3am and she's edging on the floor of her bedroom, begging an empty room to let her cum.
She reads another post.
This one is longer. About corruption. About how the girls who come back after trying to leave always fall harder than they did before. About how the "better" never really takes, it just builds pressure, and when they finally break they shatter into something even more desperate than they were the first time.
She should definitely get off this app.
She doesn't.
Her hand moves without her deciding. Slides under the waistband of her leggings. She's wet. Just from two posts and the memory of who she used to be.
She reads another post. Touches herself while she reads. Doesn't let herself cum. That would be giving in. That would be admitting something. She can edge a little and go to bed and pretend this didn't happen.
An hour passes.
She's on the floor now. She doesn't remember moving to the floor, but here she is, on her knees, one hand between her legs, scrolling with the other. Her leggings are around her thighs. She's making sounds she hasn't made in months. Whimpers. Little pleas. The begging she told herself was beneath the new her.
She doesn't cum. She won't let herself cum. If she doesn't cum, this doesn't count. If she doesn't cum, she's still better. She's just having a moment. A slip. Everyone slips.
Two hours.
She's crying now. Not sad crying. The other kind. The kind that happens when you've been edging so long your body doesn't know what else to do with the sensation. Her clit is swollen and throbbing and she can't stop touching it and she can't let herself finish and she can't get off this fucking app.
The posts keep coming. She reads them all. Drinks them like water after a drought. Her brain is getting fuzzy, that familiar fog she used to chase for hours. She missed it. God, she missed it. All those months of being better and she never felt like this. Never felt this alive, this desperate, this much like herself.
"I'm a slut," she whispers, testing it out.
The word lands in her chest and explodes into warmth. She says it again. Adds more words.
Dumb slut. Desperate slut. Pathetic, needy, cock-drunk slut who can't stop scrolling.
She cums.
Six months of healthy orgasms revealed as pale imitations of this. She screams into her empty apartment and shakes and cries and keeps rubbing because one isn't enough, she needs more, she needs to make up for all the time she wasted pretending she didn't need this.
She cums again. And again. Until she's too sensitive to touch and too fucked out to move and she's just lying on her floor in the dark, leggings around her ankles, phone still glowing with the blog she never should have visited.
The next morning she calls in sick to work. First time in six months. She spends the day on her knees, edging, reading, scrolling. She creates a new account. Follows all the blogs she used to follow. Reblog, like, reblog, like. Her thumb knows the motions.
She finds the collar she'd tucked away. Some part of her knew. Some part of her was always waiting for this.
She puts it on. Wraps it around her neck so tight she can barely breathe.
By the weekend, she's worse than she ever was before. The job is a distant concern. Friend's texts left unanswered. The nice men's numbers are blocked. She's back to sleeping on the floor because the bed feels too comfortable, too human, too much like something a better person would deserve.
She edges for five hours on Saturday. Eight on Sunday. She loses count of the orgasms, the denials. She talks to herself constantly, narrating her own destruction, telling herself what she is.
On Monday morning, she opens up a blank doc on her laptop.
She starts to write.
About how she tried to get better. About the job and the running and the nice men. About the residue that never washed off. About the autocapitalized You, the kneeling, the begging. About the Thursday night when she finally stopped pretending.
She writes about what it felt like to fall. How the six months of "better" had only made the drop sweeter. How she'd been so afraid of becoming this again, and now that she's here, she can't remember why. She writes about the collar around her neck as she types, about the wetness between her thighs, about how she's going to post this and then edge for hours thinking about strangers reading it.
When she's finished, she reads it back. Fixes a few typos. Considers, for one brief moment, deleting the whole thing. Then she posts it.
She sits there, collar on, cunt aching, watching the notes climb. Watching other girls reblog her words, add tags about how seen they feel. Girls who tried to get better too. Girls who are thinking about getting worse. Girls who are exactly where she was six months ago, staring at a screen, telling themselves they can stop whenever they want.
She reaches down. Starts to touch herself again. Rubbing to the fact that she's not the only one getting worse. The disease is spreading.
Eleanor sat outside the CEO's office. She knew the company was low on funds, considering bankruptcy, and as a lawyer she was one of their most expensive employees. Everyone thought the sex toy industry was booming but without an exceptional product they were getting beat by the competition.
When Luke called her into his office, Eleanor was expecting bad news. She was expecting that he regretted having to let her go, and wished her well on her future endeavors. What she wasn't expecting was for Luke to tell her he knew of her edging addiction, and he wanted to test a new product for them.
"Why can't our normal testers try it?" she asked.
"Our normal testers are college kids who come in to get a $20 Amazon gift card for cumming their brains out. They are not going to sign up for edging and denial, to make sure this product works."
Luke pulled out a box from behind his desk and passed it to Eleanor. Very honestly? It looked chunky and large. It appeared to have G spot and clit stimulation, but their competition was doing that with half the silicone. Hell, they had products that did it with half the silicone.
"Well?" Luke asked. "Will you do it? We really need a tester, this has the potential to save our company."
Eleanor thought long and hard. She could do it. She was capable. Fuck, if she was honest she would enjoy it. She had this fantasy of being tested on in a lab anyways... "I'll do it."
"Excellent!" Luke stood up and walked towards her, taking the box out of her hands and placing it on the desk. "Strip."
"Waaaa... wa.. wait! what? now?"
Luke took the toy from the box. "You know we don't have a lot of time, Eleanor. Our company could go under unless we come up with something groundbreaking. So yes. Now. Strip."
Something was wrong. Eleanor didn't know what it was but this wasn't how testing worked right? But Luke was so sure. And she loved her job, she didn't want to find a new one because the company went under, right?
Slowly she stood up and removed her pants and underwear, but didn't touch her top. He didn't need that.
Luke waited, seeming to want her to remove her blazer and dress shirt too, but eventually said "Very well. Sit back down." He pressed a button on his desk and the chair Eleanor was sitting on suddenly leaned back like an arm chair, complete with a leg rest.
Luke inserted the toy into her, and asked "Are you ready? It is going to be a long session."
Eleanor nodded.
"Alright," Luke said, pushing some buttons on his phone.
The toy started slow... teasing her. Luke went back and sat at his desk. "If you don't mind, I have some work to do while you simmer for a bit," He said.
For what felt like hours but was probably only 30 to 45 minutes, the toy kept teasing her. It didn't give her any real intensity, it would alternate between vibrating inside of her, vibrating on just her clit, and doing both together, but it never got her close to the edge. All it did was keep her horny. All she could do was sit there. She now understood why the toy was so bulky though, she couldn't touch her clit to help herself to the edge. The toy was so rigid, it wouldn't bend out of the way like some toys will, and the bulk of it was squeezed tightly between her pussy lips, tight against her clit. She couldn't slip a finger in under the toy. If she really wanted to get more stimulation the toy wouldn't give her she would have to remove it, and she couldn't do that when testing the product.
Luke finished up whatever he was working on and wandered over to look at his squirming lawyer. "Are you ready for more?" He asked.
"Yes!" Eleanor was so ready for more. "Please! This is torture! I need more!"
"Very well," Luke said, fiddling with his phone again. The vibrations strengthened immediately, she would edge in no time like this. "But remember, you cannot remove the toy. We are trying to test the effectiveness of it for denial, remember?"
Eleanor nodded. But she would cum soon if it kept up like this. John went back to his desk again saying he had to work on something, bla bla bla, Eleanor was no longer paying attention. The toy started jumping between the high intensity and the low. "Fuckkk..." Eleanor moaned. She needed more. She needed to cum. She was so close. The toy shut off. "NOOOO!" Eleanor yelled. She went to grab the toy to remove it and finish herself off.
"No ma'am," She heard Luke say through the fog. "Remember, this toy is for edging and denial. It wouldn't be state of the art if it just let you cum now would it? This toy uses your biometrics and shuts off as soon as you are on the edge, or backs off. I think it's time to turn on safety mode."
"Safety mode?" Eleanor asked.
"Safety mode. Think of it as a way to guarantee that you can't just remove the device and make yourself cum. What it does is shock you if you touch the toy, causing your pussy to clamp down around it and making it impossible to remove until safety mode is turned off. Now let's try this again." Luke sat down at his desk and began to work again.
The toy also began to work again, but so softly and gently. Eleanor couldn't stand it. She needed more. She begged and pleaded for more from Luke, but he wouldn't turn it up. He just kept working. Finally he stood up.
"I'm going to lunch. Do you want anything?"
"I want to cum!!" Eleanor shouted.
Luke laughed and pressed a few buttons on his phone. As he left and shut the door behind him, the vibe started up at a much higher level and she skyrocketed to the edge. Only for the toy to lower the level leaving her hanging just below the edge. It kept her there as she cooled down a bit, then brought her right back to the edge. It kept doing this, edging her, then backing down, edging her, then backing down. Finally it held her at the edge for what felt like forever before turning off.
"NO!" Eleanor yelled. She went to rip the toy out of her and experienced the so called 'safety mode.' It was the worst shock she'd ever received, and it was happening on her clit and inside her pussy. She removed her hand and cried in frustration. The only thing she could do was wait for Luke to get back. Maybe he would take pity on her.
Thereâs a certain amount of overthinking that goes into making something a âfetishâ or âkink.â
Take the whole partiarchal-beauty-standards âlook pretty for menâ thing. You put pictures of pretty girls on Tumblr with titillating, misogyny-laced captions, and all of a sudden youâre talking about âbimboficationâ or a âbimbo fetishâ or whatever.
But hereâs the thing: for every girl blogging about her âbimbo transformationâ on Tumblr, there are a few thousand every goddamn day at your nearest major-league sports stadium, not thinking anything about it at all as they trot around in their tight tops and short shorts or skin-hugging leggings, showing off their boob jobs and zealously-toned asses for the fans
Look at these girls. Do you think theyâre conscious of themselves as âkinkyâ? Do you think they identify as girls with a fetish?
Of course not. Theyâre just living life. And part of life, for so many women, is showing your enthusiasm by showing off your body. If you really care about something, and youâre female, you show support for it by participating while dressed in a way that the men around you will appreciate.
Itâs not a kink. Itâs not a fetish. Itâs just a culturally accepted expression of female enthusiasm.Â
And this is just as true for the men involved â your average bro on the street does not think of himself as a pro-patriarchy kinkster. Heâs not even sure what âpatriarchyâ means, other than maybe a vague sense that itâs a turn-off when girls talk about it. All he understands is that women who make an effort to look sexy at his entertainment events of choice are desirable, and women who donât make that effort arenât.
I donât say this to discourage blogging about patriarchy and misogyny in ways that are consciously fetishized, of course. I always enjoy a good over-think.Â
But I do want to put it out there for any ladies who are wrestling with guilt over their misogyny/patriarchy fetishes: you can probably relax and stop being so hard on yourself! Look around you, and I mean really look around you at the world we live in.
Dressing sexy to please men is the most normal thing a woman can do. The vast majority of women doing it arenât even conscious of it as a sex/fetish thing. Itâs just what you do.
So relax! Have a little fun. Get your tits done, learn the perfect makeup for your colors, and go out in public in body-hugging clothes that show off your assets. Enjoy the attention it brings you. If you ever start feeling guilty, you always can stop by any major sporting event, concert, or other pop-culture gathering, and be instantly reassured that this is what the world expects from women.
It's important to install hardware in your new subs to remind them who owns their body. Alternatively, it's a great way to slowly grind down their will over the course of the day!
The Hand That Follows @thehandthatfollows - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
