Pleasurekitten
Registered User
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2015
- Messages
- 3
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- 3
She hadn’t expected to see him again. Certainly not like this.
She’d come to his house on a dare, maybe curiosity, maybe a flickering masochistic ember she’d convinced herself was dead. It wasn’t. It never had been. One look into those glacier eyes, that voice that dragged behind it a trail of old sin like smoke, and she should have turned and run.
Instead, she opened her mouth. Said something cocky. She didn't remember what now, because it was all eclipsed by the sound of the lock clicking shut behind her. That smooth, metallic snap that signaled the end of her choices.
She was naked by the second room. His hands hadn’t even needed to touch her yet.
She was bent in half now. Arms locked tight behind her legs, wrists cuffed to ankles in iron stocks that gleamed obscenely beneath overhead track lighting. Her spine curved like a question mark, her ass thrust high and helpless, her face nearly brushing the padded leather of the bench beneath her. No part of her was spared exposure. Her pussy was spread open, obscene in its helplessness, held apart by cruel little speculums that tugged her labia wide, revealing the soft trembling folds within. And her clit — oh, that wicked little nerve-ending jewel — was bulging between a set of tight leather isolation straps, encased but protruding, tender and puffy and twitching already from the first round of teasing.
He hadn’t even started properly. Just a little brushstroke. Just a whisper of vibration.
“Still got that bratty little pout,” his voice murmured from somewhere behind her, dragging across her skin like silk dipped in heat. “But look at you. Look at how you spread yourself the moment I said ‘get in.’ Bent over like a slut in heat. Pussy so wet I could drown an orphan in it.”
A whimper broke in her throat, choked by humiliation. Her thighs twitched involuntarily, but the spreader bar locked between her knees kept them wide, helpless.
She felt the first contact again — something soft, ticklish. Featherlight.
The paintbrush.
Tiny bristles kissed the apex of her clit, tracing lazy circles across the exposed flesh. Each movement felt like a whisper shouted directly into her brain. Her hips tried to jerk away, but the position made that impossible. Her asshole clenched tight, her lips parted on an exhale.
“Nnnghh—!”
“Oh, you felt that?” he crooned, crouching beside her so his voice curled into her ear. “This brush was dipped in your own slick, baby. Tastes like surrender. I could paint a mural in your flavor.”
The brush kept circling. Upstroke. Side. Down again. A flick right at the center that made her squeal.
He laughed. Not cruelly — worse. He laughed like a man enjoying fine wine. Leisurely. Cultured. Mean only in how effortlessly he handled her.
Then he added the second implement.
The first vibrator came to life with a low buzz, cradled in his palm, resting just barely at the base of her clit. Not pressing. Just a threat. His other hand kept that brush dancing. Back and forth. Swish-swish. Her knees buckled within the restraints.
Her moans began in earnest now — a long, slow "Nnngh—ahhh—hahhhfuck—"
He held the vibe steady for a moment. Then pressed it in. Just a little.
She screamed into the bench.
“Still so sensitive,” he murmured, licking up her spine with words alone. “I remember the first time you came just from my tongue spelling out the alphabet on your clit. You cried at ‘Q,’ if I recall.”
He flicked the vibrator up a level. Her thighs shuddered violently.
“W-wait—!”
“No,” he said calmly, brushing the underside of her clit with the paintbrush while the vibe now pulsed on the top. “See, that’s where we part ways, sweetheart. You don’t get to say ‘wait.’ You don’t get to say ‘stop.’ Not after what you did.”
She gasped. “What—what did I do?”
“You left me,” he whispered with mock pain, circling the brush harder now. “You left this dick. This house. This dungeon. You thought I was gonna just go find another pair of thighs to ruin?”
He clicked on the second vibrator. Smaller. Higher pitched. And he wedged it under the clit. A cruel, perfect sandwich — one vibe up top, one below. Each one throbbing at a different rhythm, like syncopated drums torturing her rhythm into chaos. Her toes curled. Her abs clenched. Every nerve in her slit screamed.
“I—I didn’t mean—oh fuuuck!”
“There it is,” he purred, hands busy now. One vibrator in each hand, applying pressure and tilt, modulating the angles. “That filthy little voice. Like you’re about to cry and cum at the same time.”
She tried to hold herself back. She tried. But the stimulation was relentless, impossible. With her clit isolated and vibrated from both sides, with the labia pulled tight and nerves humming like electricity through her core, her pussy twitched, juices dribbling down her thighs.
And still the brush returned. Drawing a little heart. Then a spiral. Then a mean, slow stroke right up the middle.
“I think you’re getting close,” he sang softly.
“No—no please—”
“No what?” he mocked. “No, I’m not allowed to make your greedy little clit explode? No, I shouldn’t rub you raw until you forget your own fucking name?”
He shut off both vibrators at once.
Her whole body jerked.
The silence was deafening.
“NNNNnnnnggghh—you bastard!”
He laughed. “Ohhh, now she’s mad. So cute. So goddamn cute when you beg with your hips.”
He unlatched the clit isolator straps. Just for a moment. Let blood rush back into it, the pressure flooding like agony.
Then he slathered on the itching lube.
She didn't know what it was at first. Cool. Almost refreshing. Then the burn began.
Her scream ripped through the room. Her thighs fought the restraints like they could teleport her away.
“Shhhh, shhh,” he said mockingly, rubbing it in with two fingers. “It’s just arousal, baby. It’s just your poor, desperate little bud realizing how badly she wants attention. You left her untouched too long.”
“I—I’m gonna lose my mind—!”
“Oh, I hope so,” he grinned. “This is only round one.”
Then he brought out the dildo. Long. Thick. Ribbed. Vibrating.
And he slid it inside her.
She felt every fucking ridge.
It was cold going in, then suddenly warm — self-heating tech. God, he’d invested in toys since their breakup.
The dildo locked in place with straps, vibrated deep and slow, while he resumed tormenting her clit with the brush.
“Let me cum,” she sobbed, voice cracking. “Please—please—just—fuck—”
He crouched in again, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Not until you say it.”
“Say what?” she wailed, clit now fire, dildo grinding with mechanical rhythm, brush dancing like it was painting a masterpiece across her suffering.
“Say you’re mine again.”
She clenched her fists, trembling.
He pressed the brush down hard, twisted the vibe settings up by two notches, and slapped her ass so hard it left a glowing red handprint.
“Say it.”
Her breath was a ragged symphony of whines and tremors now, chest heaving where it was mashed beneath her, nipples stiff and dragging across leather with every little body quake. That dildo inside her purred cruelly with slow, thick rotations, ribbing stretching her inch by inch on its lazy, endless spin. Her clit — fuck, her clit — it pulsed like a living wound, smothered in that evil lube that made every nerve ending scream itch and ache and need but with nothing to soothe it. Not even the air. Not even mercy.
He was behind her again, watching. Still. Always. One hand resting on the curve of her ass like it was property. Like it never stopped being his. The brush returned in lazy figure-eights over her hood, barely touching now, just a ghost of pressure, but she still shuddered like he’d slammed her there.
"You're quiet," he murmured, dragging the tip of the brush along the lower edge of her exposed slit, not touching her clit directly, just whispering beside it, making her cry from the threat of contact. “Did that mean little nerve finally tap out?”
She made a garbled sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, mouth pressed to the bench, saliva pooling on the cushion.
“Or is she holding out?” he mused, clicking the dildo up again — a whirr of deeper vibration, now with a pulsing pattern that punched into her walls. Her whole body lurched. “Still hoping her stupid owner will beg. That she’ll earn her orgasm by being a good little girl.”
"Please—" she croaked, voice raw.
He leaned in close, lips an inch from her ear. “That didn’t sound like the right title.”
She shook her head, panting. “Please… Sir.”
His groan was low and dark, like thunder rolling up her spine. “There she is.”
He gripped the isolation straps again, refastening them tighter, crueler, cinching them until her clit bulged red and furious. Then one, two, three buzzing eggs slapped into place around it. A ring of vibration — above, below, and now to either side — bracketing the swollen nub like a fucking bullseye. Her breath hitched. Her mouth dropped open.
The moment the last one turned on — bzzzzzzZzzT — she screamed.
“Sir, Sir, Sir! It’s too much—!”
He stroked her ass, gentle now. “You can take it. Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”
Her pussy gushed around the toy locked inside her, juices coating her thighs, slicking the leather. Her legs trembled so hard the stocks creaked. The vibrations swarmed her clit from all sides — and he still had the brush, using it like a scalpel now, zeroing in on the dead-center of her clit’s exposed tip and flicking it, over and over, as if he were taunting it with tiny paint lashes.
"I need to cum—!"
"You think I care what you need?" he laughed, not cruel, not kind — just victorious, like he was savoring a meal after starving for weeks. "You left me, sweetheart. Walked away from this. And now you want to nut like a filthy little animal without paying penance?"
She moaned like it broke her.
The dildo pulsed deeper. She clenched on it, grinding involuntarily, rutting like a bitch in heat despite herself, slicking the whole thing with honey. One of the bullet vibes surged to a new frequency — not just faster but sharper, like it had a heartbeat that belonged to a god of punishment. The itching lube still tingled, still burned. He hadn't even reapplied it yet. He could.
"Please let me—let me cum, please Sir, pleaseplease—"
"You always begged prettier with your mouth full," he chuckled. "Should’ve gagged you with my cock. Maybe later. Right now, I want to hear the exact words."
“I—” she gasped, flinching as the brush struck her clit again, this time harder, an actual smack. “I’m yours! I’m yours again!”
“Not enough.”
Her eyes rolled. Tears streaked her cheeks.
“I’m yours, Sir—always was—!”
“Mmm.” He stood slowly, rising to his full height behind her, the sounds of his belt unbuckling punctuating the silence like a gunshot.
“And?” he said darkly, guiding the base of his cock along the wet mess between her thighs, letting her feel how hard he was without giving her an inch.
She knew what he wanted.
“You can do this to me… whenever you want, Sir—f-fuck, please, do it whenever—!”
CLAP.
His palm slammed into her clit. Every vibe stayed on. Every nerve detonated.
She came so violently her voice cracked. A scream ripped through her that bordered on feral, all high notes and despair. Her pussy clenched around the vibrating toy, the sensation of fullness erupting into crashing waves of tortured release. She bucked in the stocks, drooled into the bench, and sobbed into her own orgasm like it had stolen her sanity.
He leaned over her again, this time whispering in a voice that wrapped around her like chains.
“Good girl.”
She hung limp in the stocks, spent but not spared. Her clit still throbbed, still pulsed. Not with release, but with the desperation that she might.
Because he hadn’t touched it since.
All four vibrators had been turned off.
The straps still held tight. The blood still pooled in the swollen tip, bright and tender, tingling with the phantom memory of stimulation. But nothing touched it now. Not a whisper. Not even air. Just unbearable stillness.
And somehow, that was worse than anything.
She whimpered into the bench, hips flexing, instinctively trying to nudge the clit toward something — friction, pressure, fucking carpet burn, anything. Nothing. Denied.
“Poor little thing,” he crooned, brushing his fingers along the edge of her ass. “She’s crying, isn’t she? Look at her. Pouting. Pulsing. Still puffed up and pink like she’s waiting for dessert.”
“P-please,” she mewled. “I can’t—she needs—”
“I said no,” he snapped, tone sharp as a whipcrack, and her body froze.
Then, softly: “But that doesn’t mean we’re done playing.”
His fingers parted her ass cheeks with gentle command, exposing her completely. Her hole winked tight in response, the perineum beneath twitching with aftershocks. The paintbrush returned, trailing from the base of her spine, down the cleft of her cheeks, stopping to circle the rim of her tight little star.
“No,” she moaned, muffled by the leather. “No, no, not there—”
He ignored her, brushing in lazy spirals, so light it barely registered — yet enough to drive her wild. Her asshole clenched defensively with every stroke, but there was no force here, just unrelenting tease.
And then — cold.
The itching lube.
He dripped it, slowly, directly onto her rim. One... two... three drops, pooling like molten ice. It sank into her puckered skin, slid along her perineum in a slow, traitorous trail. And the burn started. God.
She shrieked. Her spine arched so hard it dragged her wrists in the cuffs. The itching was unreal — inside, under the skin, in the folds. Not pain. Not pleasure. A desperate, maddening need to squirm, to scratch, to shove something deep just to chase it away.
And he hadn’t even started vibrating yet.
“Oh fuck—Sir, fuck, please—!”
“Language,” he chided. “A good girl says ‘my hole is tingling, Sir, thank you.’”
Her eyes rolled back.
The brush began again. Now dipped in the lube itself, trailing it around the rim of her asshole, tracing symbols, letters, writing poetry in agony.
Then she heard it.
Bzzzzzzzzz.
The electric toothbrush.
He pressed it right to the perineum — not her clit, not the lips, just the tender patch of skin between her slit and her asshole. The buzz rattled through her like a tuning fork. Her thighs flexed, her hole clenched, the lube worked deeper, tingling, stinging, setting nerves on fire.
He began to circle the toothbrush. Slow, tight spirals, right on that narrow strip of flesh, the edge of the buzz catching her rim now and then. Every pass made her whimper, sob, giggle involuntarily — the tickle was unbearable.
“Ohhh god, Sir— it's too much—”
He licked his lips, watching her squirm. “Too much where?”
“Th-there! My asshole—my p-perineum—!”
“Good,” he grinned, dragging the brush in a long line directly across her taint, up and over the burning rim, then back down again. “You’re being honest. Let’s reward that.”
The brush flicked. Then again. Light little circles. The lube made it worse — made her hole itch like it was on fire, like her body was begging for something to fill it just to cool it down.
Her moans turned into broken laughter. Not joy — helpless ticklish agony.
He dragged the toothbrush back to her perineum and held it there.
She screamed.
“AHHHHhnnn— Sir, it’s—t-ticklefuckburn—!”
He leaned in, tongue nearly touching her skin, speaking in a low, hypnotic growl: “I could tongue this hole for hours. Bet you’d scream even louder. Maybe I should spit in it first.”
The brush moved again. This time, he traced a figure eight. The lube was doing its job, her rim twitching constantly now, the entire area lit up like an open nerve. Her thighs shook. Her wrists pulled hard enough the stocks groaned.
And still. Her clit sat untouched. Visible. Weeping. Purple. Beating like a second heart. Waiting. Ignored.
He smacked her ass. Hard. Then again. The vibrations of impact rattled through her, making the toothbrush sting sweeter.
“Such a sensitive ass,” he murmured, brushing her rim with his thumb now. “Maybe I’ll slide something in next. Just a little. Just the tip of the toothbrush…”
“NO—!”
“Oh yes. But not yet. First I want to see what this does.”
He angled the electric buzz just right — so the tip pressed directly on the taint, the shaft buzzed against her rim, and the vibration echoed through both holes. The result? Her scream cracked into pieces. She howled. She choked. She giggled in hysterical, helpless madness.
Her body writhed like she was being electrocuted.
He purred.
“There’s my good little toy.”
She was a mess of slick and shudder. Her hole twitched, still tingling from the last session, and her perineum was flushed pink with overstimulation, but her clit — that flushed, lonely little pearl — remained untouched. Lonely and so very, very alert. Puffing, swollen, lips trembling apart to expose its hungry bead with no friction, no comfort, just the helpless heat of air and anticipation.
He stood beside her again, brushing his fingers down her spine, speaking in a lazy hum that vibrated with the delight of a man about to ruin something delicate.
“Do you know what I should do to you, sweetheart?” His voice curled around her like smoke. “I should lock you away like this. Keep you caged. Hung in these stocks for days. Feed you through a straw, keep that needy little **** and asshole clean just so I can play with them. Not fuck. No. Just tickle. Just torment. Just… watch.”
She whimpered into the bench, her back aching from the position, but her thighs couldn’t close, her body couldn’t twist away. She was displayed like meat. Obscene. Wet. Shameful.
He crouched again and exhaled right onto her clit — a slow, deliberate breath that made it twitch and pulse like it had its own heartbeat. She sobbed at the sensation.
“Look at her,” he whispered, one hand spreading her ass cheeks wide again while the other plucked up the thinnest brush he had — sable, narrow, nearly weightless. “Look at your pretty little clit. God, she’s excited. She missed me, didn’t she?”
He trailed the brush up the inside of her thigh first, bypassing the clit deliberately. Teasing the crease of her hip, the edge of her labia, the soft skin just around the fold.
“She’s such a good girl,” he cooed, bringing the brush in now, finally, skimming just the very edge of her clit hood with a stroke so light it might’ve been imagined. “So eager. So puffed up. She wants to be touched, doesn’t she? Look how she throbs. Look how she begs.”
Her thighs shuddered violently, but her moan was broken — desperate — more air than sound.
“Do you want to cum?” he asked gently, still brushing, just the outer edge of the clit, never the tip. “Does your needy little slutbutton want to explode for me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes Sir. I need it—”
“Ohh but that’s not up to her anymore,” he grinned, dragging the brush in a tight loop just around the base. “She lost that privilege when you walked away.”
The brush withdrew.
She gasped, a high hiccup of despair.
And then — tickling.
This time to her ass. He used his nails, light and deliberate, dragging them over the flushed rim. Her whole body flinched. He smirked and used both hands now, flicking, tracing, brushing over her rim with fingertips that didn’t press but hovered and flitted like insects.
The sensation was unbearable — humiliating and maddening. It tickled in a way that forced laughter and tears all at once. She shrieked when he caught a perfect nerve, a tremor of laughter escaping before her moans returned.
“Oh fuck—Sir, I c-can’t—!”
“You can,” he murmured, now using the thin brush again. This time on her asshole, dragging it around the rim like he was painting target circles.
“I should stretch you open,” he hissed. “Ram a fat plug in here. Split you wide. Let every inch of your insides twitch just from the thought of me stuffing them.”
“No—n-no, please—!”
He laughed softly. “Not yet. I just like knowing how scared you get when I say it.”
The paintbrush flicked her rim. Then again. Then slid gently down the crease to trace the perineum, then back up. Meanwhile, he whispered: “You’re so fucking helpless like this. You realize that, right? If I wanted to train you to orgasm just from rim tickling, I could. A week. Maybe two. You’d cum without me touching your clit at all.”
She whimpered, shuddering in place.
“Maybe I should make that your new orgasm rule. No more clit. Just ass. Just humiliation. Just this pretty little hole fluttering like she’s saying please, Sir.”
And then he did it.
He reached under the bench. Something cold. Metal. She felt the tip before she saw it — just barely pressed to her asshole. Not inserted. Just… touching.
A hook.
He held it steady there, kissing her rim with steel, the threat as heavy as the toy was light.
“I’m going to bend you so far back,” he whispered. “So far open you’ll forget you ever walked upright.”
He slid the hook in. Slow. So slow. One inch. Two. Curving just enough to catch behind the rim. Her breath caught as her body tried to clench.
Then the tug.
A rope. Pulled tight from the hook… to her hair.
She gasped as her scalp yanked back — not cruelly, but firmly — lifting her head, arching her spine into an obscene C-shape. Her clit pointed down. Her asshole up. Her hips tilted now at an impossible angle, presenting every soft inch of her back end to him like a gift wrapped in agony.
She sobbed. “F-fuck—S-Sir please—!”
“Oh, baby,” he said with a dark grin, stepping back to admire her. “I could hang a chandelier off this ass now. So perfect. So pink. So exposed.”
And then: bzzzZZZz.
One vibrator. Right beneath the clit. Pressed up.
Another. bzzZZZz. Right on top. Strapped down.
Sandwiched between the vibrators.
Her clit was no longer part of her body. It was a prisoner. A trembling, pulsing, swollen traitor caught in a perfect vice — the twin vibrators, strapped in place with merciless precision, buzzed above and below, boxing it in like the meat in a pressure-cooker. They weren’t powerful, not yet. That was the cruelty. They were gentle. Teasing. A steady hum, just strong enough to keep her on the edge. Not enough to tip her over. Just enough to keep her fighting not to.
And with the hook buried in her ass, tied to her hair, her whole spine arched into that wicked crescent. Her head pulled back, her ass thrust into the air so high for him to desecrate at will.
She couldn’t twitch. Couldn’t escape.
And the worst part? He hadn’t even touched her in minutes.
The vibrators did all the work. Constant, relentless, insidious.
She sobbed into the bench, her body shaking. Drool had started to string down her chin, but she didn’t care anymore.
“Ohhh fuck, look at her,” he murmured from behind, voice soaked in wicked pleasure. “You see that twitch, baby? You see your clit trying to run? She’s scared. She’s tired. But she just can’t stop.”
He leaned in, crouched beside her, one hand stroking her inner thigh. The other tightened the strap keeping the top vibrator perfectly seated against the very tip of her clit. It pulsed into her with a steady, merciless rhythm.
bzz—bzz—bzzzzzz—pause—bzz—
Below, the second vibrator stayed constant — a quiet hum like a purring cat, soft but present, never letting her forget.
“She’s such a dirty little thing,” he whispered. “She likes being trapped. I can see her pulsing for me. That means she’s excited, right? That means she wants this.”
“N-no—” she moaned. “Sir—no more—”
“No?” He tilted his head. “You say no, but your little clit says yes. Look at her. Red. Fat. Leaking. You’re drooling from both ends, sweetheart.”
She groaned. Her hips tried to buck, but the restraints held firm.
“Your clit’s not just swollen anymore, baby,” he said, moving behind her again. “She’s glassy. You see that shine? That’s your own slick gluing the vibrators to her like a seal. That’s how bad she wants it. She’s suctioning her own torment on.”
He chuckled darkly. “Greedy little *****.”
“P-please,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “Just let me—Sir please—”
“I love when you beg,” he murmured, adjusting the tempo of the top vibrator. It shifted into a pattern of rapid-fire flicks — machinegun pulses that tapped the exposed clit like a cruel drummer working a snare.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-buzz-TAP-tap-tap—
Her thighs screamed in restraint. She arched harder, a sob wracking her frame.
But he didn’t stop.
He spoke again, voice dripping into her like venom. “Do you feel how she jumps every time I hit her like that? Like a tiny slut trying to get fucked? Oh, she wants it. She wants to cum so badly, but guess what?”
He leaned in close.
“I’m going to keep her like this. For hours.”
She screamed — not from pain, from the sheer overwhelm. Her clit had been vibrating for too long. Too intimately. No stroking. No pressure. Just the vibrations rolling through it like soundwaves in a bottle, pinging every swollen nerve from inside.
It throbbed now. Twitching uncontrollably, reacting to every little change in frequency. The lower vibe buzzed deeper now, a low, thrumming hum that worked the base of the clit — the root hidden in her folds — while the top one danced, faster and faster.
bzz—bzzzz—bzz-bzzzz—BZZZZZZZ—
And he watched. Kneeling behind her, eyes locked on the tight space between those vibrators where the poor, swollen button sat, dripping, quivering, suffering.
“Do you think she can handle this?” he whispered, barely audible over the humming. “Do you think she’s strong enough to last ten more minutes? Twenty? An hour?”
She cried. Her whole body pleaded.
He reached down now. Not to touch her clit — he never touched her clit — but to tap one vibrator, just lightly. A little jolt of stimulation. She shrieked.
“Every tap makes her think it’s time,” he murmured. “That maybe, just maybe, I’ll let her cum.”
He smiled.
“I won’t.”
The vibes continued.
She moaned, so loud it turned into a scream. Her toes curled behind her, her wrists yanked in the cuffs, and her ass — stretched, trembling, hole spread by the hook, her back pulled taut — just twitched in place.
He leaned close again, brushing his lips to her ear. “You want to cum, little clit slut?”
“Yes—”
“You think you deserve it?”
“Y-yes, yes, please Sir, I—I’ll be good—!”
“No, you won’t. You’ll cum without permission like the greedy little thing you are.”
She shook her head violently. “No, I—I can hold it, I—!”
“You can’t,” he hissed. “And when you do, I’m going to punish you.”
She tried to hold back. She did. But the top vibrator was too much now. He’d turned it up — just a bit, a single notch, but it was enough. The vibrations struck like arrows, each pulse a bullet to her core. Her clit had nothing shielding it. No hood. No covering. Just raw exposure to relentless rhythm.
BZZZZZZ—BZZZ—bzzz—BZZZZZZZ—
Her breath hitched. Her thighs trembled. Her pussy gushed. And before she could stop it—
She came.
Hard.
She screamed, her orgasm ripping through her like lightning — not pleasure, but detonation, uncontrollable, violent. Her clit convulsed between the vibrators, twitching like it was being electrocuted, soaking the bench beneath her with wetness. Her sobs turned into screams.
And he knew.
“Ohh,” he said softly, standing. “You. Didn’t.”
She shook her head, tears streaming. “I—Sir I—I didn’t mean—!”
He shut off the vibes. Let the silence hang heavy.
Then he grabbed her hair and yanked.
The hook in her ass pulled hard — not painful, but commanding, bending her further, tighter, until her spine bowed like a torture rack, until her pussy gaped and her clit twitched in the empty air, weeping from the betrayal.
“You came without permission.”
Her breath stuttered. “I’m s-sorry—Sir—please—”
“You want punishment?” he whispered. “You earned it.”
She was still twitching. Her orgasm hadn't faded—it lingered, a guilty aftershock pulsing in her clit, echoing through her thighs, glowing in her cheeks. She couldn’t believe she'd done it. She’d warned herself. Had begged for mercy, promised obedience, clutched to her last scraps of control like a drowning girl.
And she'd failed.
And now she knew what was coming.
He was silent.
The worst kind of silence.
She couldn’t see him, head forced back by the hook tied to her hair, but she could feel him behind her—moving, preparing, humming softly to himself like a craftsman laying out tools for a piece that wasn’t just destruction but art.
He wasn’t angry. He was… focused.
“You know,” he finally said, stepping close, one palm resting on the small of her back, “I knew you’d break.”
Her breath hitched.
“You tried so hard,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down the curve of her ass. “Held back for me. So desperate to be good. And in the end?”
His fingers slipped lower, brushing the still-puffed clit with no pressure, just enough contact to make her yelp.
“You betrayed me.”
“I’m—” she gasped. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t—I—”
“Oh, no, no,” he chuckled, running the back of his knuckles up her perineum. “No excuses. Not from a little clit-slut who oozed all over my bench like a feral animal.”
His voice dropped, and it hit her like a nail hammered into her spine.
“You’re not going to cum again tonight.”
That sentence echoed through her like a death sentence. Her body trembled, the memory of the orgasm still raw on her skin—but the way he said it, flatly, as fact, as law, made her whimper in sheer dread.
“I’m going to break that greedy little clit,” he said, “and not let her finish. Not once. Not even when you beg until your voice is gone.”
The first thing he did was lock the vibrators back on.
Different ones now.
These were stronger.
Meaner.
They hummed with industrial fury, the kind of buzz that rattled her bones and reached deep, vibrating through the meat of her sex instead of just the surface. He strapped them tight—one under, one above again—but closer. Pressed in. Squeezing that puffy little pearl between two pulsing devils until it felt like it would rupture.
“Oh fuck—” she cried, clit twitching immediately, flinching from overstimulation.
He didn’t stop.
“You’re going to feel every single second of this,” he whispered. “You’re going to beg for the edge and then pray not to go over it. And then I’ll keep you there.”
He turned the top vibe up.
The rhythm changed—fast, high-pitched pulses that struck like hammer-blows. The clit convulsed between them. She shrieked.
“Sir, Sir, please, I can’t, I just came—!”
“That’s why it hurts,” he growled, pressing the bottom vibe up harder. “That’s why it’s perfect. Your clit’s still raw, still swollen, and I’m going to cook it.”
She wailed. Her thighs flexed helplessly.
Her clit wasn’t even pleasure-full anymore—it was too much, too exposed, the pleasure circling so fast it hurt. It beat between the vibrators like a thing possessed. Her pussy leaked uncontrollably, but the orgasm never rose—only a need that felt like it would split her in half.
He grabbed the brush again.
Not for her clit. No—he circled her asshole with it, teasing the rim with slow, relentless spirals while her clit suffered.
“Now she wants to hide,” he whispered. “But she can’t. She’s trapped. No hood to protect her, no escape. Just constant buzz.”
She sobbed. “P-please, I won’t—I won’t do it again—”
“No,” he said. “You won’t. But not because I believe you.”
He reached beneath her again and smacked her clit—just once, through the vibrators.
The pressure sent her screaming, the brief impact turning the trapped stimulation into a full-body shockwave that rolled up her spine and down her legs.
“You won’t,” he repeated, “because you’re going to be too scared to cum without my say-so again.”
She shook, broken sobs ripping from her chest.
He tugged the hook in her ass again, tightening the rope to her hair. Her spine bent deeper, her body trembling, the angle obscene. Her swollen clit pointed down now, fully presented, shining with slick and pinned between cruel mechanical torment.
“Now,” he murmured, reaching for one last tool, “let’s see how long you can stay right there—at the edge. Right on that line. Burning.”
And he held her there.
The vibrators hummed, boxed her in, ravaged her with no release. Her clit twitched like it wanted to crawl out of her body, throbbing visibly between them. She cried, she begged, she screamed and whimpered. The orgasm never came.
He just watched.
Punishment had only just begun.
She was going to break.
It wasn't a metaphor. It wasn't a poetic exaggeration. Her mind was fracturing—right down the center, cracking like glass under heat—because the pleasure had stopped being pleasure fifteen minutes ago, and now it was something new. Something deeper. Something inhuman. Her body had learned a new kind of language: a scream made of moans, a sob made of muscle spasms, a prayer whispered through grinding teeth and slurred through spit and tears and drool. Her clit had become an oracle of suffering.
And he loved it.
The vibrators stayed locked in place—tight, perfect, merciless. That red, fat little clit, once the center of her pride, now looked abused. Trapped. Terrified. It pulsed helplessly between the buzzing pads, slick with so much arousal it looked like it had been baptized in her own shame. It had tried to cum again. More than once. And every time—
Denied.
Every time, he watched.
Her voice was a hoarse rasp now. “Sir—Sir—Sir please—I’m—I’m not gonna make it—please, please I need it, please—”
“Oh, you’ll make it,” he whispered, squatting beside her so his breath could slide down her ear. “You’ll make it because I say you will. Because your job isn’t to cum. It’s to suffer.”
The words hit her like a lash.
And then he did something worse than turning the vibrations up.
He kept them exactly the same.
Not more. Not less. Just the same.
“Do you feel that?” he whispered, brushing his fingertips along the rope that held the hook buried in her ass. “That steady hum? That never-changing rhythm? That’s what breaks people, baby. Not chaos. Repetition.”
She sobbed again. Her clit was numb with sensation, overfilled, every throb a hallucination. It had become impossible to tell if she was close or not. Her body kept jerking like she was falling off a cliff, but the fall never ended.
“Every second you think it’s coming,” he murmured, voice low, cruel. “Every twitch says ‘this is the one.’ And then—nothing. Just more vibration. Just more heat.”
Her ass twitched around the hook. Her thighs flexed and seized.
“You know what happens to girls like you?” he whispered. “Girls who cum without permission? Girls who think they own their orgasms?”
He pulled her hair, dragging the hook tighter again. Her spine bent into something inhuman, her asshole fully tilted open now, and her clit—dear god, her clit—was fully exposed in the open air, still trapped in its vibrator cage, twitching like it was trying to scream through flesh.
“They forget how to cum,” he whispered. “Eventually your body stops trying. Your clit just gives up.”
She shrieked. “Please don’t—Sir, please—!”
“But that’s not your fate, is it?” he mused, trailing his fingers down her perineum again. “You’re too needy. Your clit’s still trying. Look at her. She’s begging for me. Still twitching. Still fighting.”
And it was true.
Despite everything.
Her clit was still throbbing.
Still swollen.
Still hopeful.
He laughed. “That’s so cute.”
Then he slapped her ass. Not hard. Just enough to make the vibration shudder through her body. Her whole frame shook like it had been hit by a wave.
“Every slap pushes the vibes deeper,” he whispered. “Like forcing the buzz through your skin. Does that make your little button jump?”
“Yes—” she moaned, hips twitching violently.
He slapped again.
Again.
Her clit throbbed on cue every time, reacting like it was trying to seize the moment, to climb, to catch the rhythm and explode. But the orgasm never came. Not once. Just that desperate almost—that horrifying peak with no drop.
“You’re staying right here,” he said, and pressed his finger gently—just gently—on the top vibrator.
Her scream hit the ceiling.
Her thighs thrashed in the restraints, and she babbled through her teeth, drool leaking down her chin again. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh god Sir—Sir I’m gonna—I can’t I—I can’t stop—”
And then.
Right on the edge.
He shut them off.
Silence.
Stillness.
The absence of vibration hit her like a loss.
Her clit twitched, empty. Desperate.
She made a broken, keening sound—an animal whine. Her hips humped at the air uselessly, searching for the hum, for anything. Her **** was soaked. Slick dripped from her like she’d been wrung out.
He crouched again, licking her inner thigh slowly. Tenderly.
“Do you know what I’m going to do now?” he whispered.
She shook her head, barely breathing.
He grabbed the hook.
And yanked.
Not cruelly. Just enough to arch her harder. Her back cracked. Her clit jolted in the air, and her mouth dropped open in a wordless scream.
“I’m going to do it all again,” he said.
And he turned the vibrators back on.
She’d come to his house on a dare, maybe curiosity, maybe a flickering masochistic ember she’d convinced herself was dead. It wasn’t. It never had been. One look into those glacier eyes, that voice that dragged behind it a trail of old sin like smoke, and she should have turned and run.
Instead, she opened her mouth. Said something cocky. She didn't remember what now, because it was all eclipsed by the sound of the lock clicking shut behind her. That smooth, metallic snap that signaled the end of her choices.
She was naked by the second room. His hands hadn’t even needed to touch her yet.
She was bent in half now. Arms locked tight behind her legs, wrists cuffed to ankles in iron stocks that gleamed obscenely beneath overhead track lighting. Her spine curved like a question mark, her ass thrust high and helpless, her face nearly brushing the padded leather of the bench beneath her. No part of her was spared exposure. Her pussy was spread open, obscene in its helplessness, held apart by cruel little speculums that tugged her labia wide, revealing the soft trembling folds within. And her clit — oh, that wicked little nerve-ending jewel — was bulging between a set of tight leather isolation straps, encased but protruding, tender and puffy and twitching already from the first round of teasing.
He hadn’t even started properly. Just a little brushstroke. Just a whisper of vibration.
“Still got that bratty little pout,” his voice murmured from somewhere behind her, dragging across her skin like silk dipped in heat. “But look at you. Look at how you spread yourself the moment I said ‘get in.’ Bent over like a slut in heat. Pussy so wet I could drown an orphan in it.”
A whimper broke in her throat, choked by humiliation. Her thighs twitched involuntarily, but the spreader bar locked between her knees kept them wide, helpless.
She felt the first contact again — something soft, ticklish. Featherlight.
The paintbrush.
Tiny bristles kissed the apex of her clit, tracing lazy circles across the exposed flesh. Each movement felt like a whisper shouted directly into her brain. Her hips tried to jerk away, but the position made that impossible. Her asshole clenched tight, her lips parted on an exhale.
“Nnnghh—!”
“Oh, you felt that?” he crooned, crouching beside her so his voice curled into her ear. “This brush was dipped in your own slick, baby. Tastes like surrender. I could paint a mural in your flavor.”
The brush kept circling. Upstroke. Side. Down again. A flick right at the center that made her squeal.
He laughed. Not cruelly — worse. He laughed like a man enjoying fine wine. Leisurely. Cultured. Mean only in how effortlessly he handled her.
Then he added the second implement.
The first vibrator came to life with a low buzz, cradled in his palm, resting just barely at the base of her clit. Not pressing. Just a threat. His other hand kept that brush dancing. Back and forth. Swish-swish. Her knees buckled within the restraints.
Her moans began in earnest now — a long, slow "Nnngh—ahhh—hahhhfuck—"
He held the vibe steady for a moment. Then pressed it in. Just a little.
She screamed into the bench.
“Still so sensitive,” he murmured, licking up her spine with words alone. “I remember the first time you came just from my tongue spelling out the alphabet on your clit. You cried at ‘Q,’ if I recall.”
He flicked the vibrator up a level. Her thighs shuddered violently.
“W-wait—!”
“No,” he said calmly, brushing the underside of her clit with the paintbrush while the vibe now pulsed on the top. “See, that’s where we part ways, sweetheart. You don’t get to say ‘wait.’ You don’t get to say ‘stop.’ Not after what you did.”
She gasped. “What—what did I do?”
“You left me,” he whispered with mock pain, circling the brush harder now. “You left this dick. This house. This dungeon. You thought I was gonna just go find another pair of thighs to ruin?”
He clicked on the second vibrator. Smaller. Higher pitched. And he wedged it under the clit. A cruel, perfect sandwich — one vibe up top, one below. Each one throbbing at a different rhythm, like syncopated drums torturing her rhythm into chaos. Her toes curled. Her abs clenched. Every nerve in her slit screamed.
“I—I didn’t mean—oh fuuuck!”
“There it is,” he purred, hands busy now. One vibrator in each hand, applying pressure and tilt, modulating the angles. “That filthy little voice. Like you’re about to cry and cum at the same time.”
She tried to hold herself back. She tried. But the stimulation was relentless, impossible. With her clit isolated and vibrated from both sides, with the labia pulled tight and nerves humming like electricity through her core, her pussy twitched, juices dribbling down her thighs.
And still the brush returned. Drawing a little heart. Then a spiral. Then a mean, slow stroke right up the middle.
“I think you’re getting close,” he sang softly.
“No—no please—”
“No what?” he mocked. “No, I’m not allowed to make your greedy little clit explode? No, I shouldn’t rub you raw until you forget your own fucking name?”
He shut off both vibrators at once.
Her whole body jerked.
The silence was deafening.
“NNNNnnnnggghh—you bastard!”
He laughed. “Ohhh, now she’s mad. So cute. So goddamn cute when you beg with your hips.”
He unlatched the clit isolator straps. Just for a moment. Let blood rush back into it, the pressure flooding like agony.
Then he slathered on the itching lube.
She didn't know what it was at first. Cool. Almost refreshing. Then the burn began.
Her scream ripped through the room. Her thighs fought the restraints like they could teleport her away.
“Shhhh, shhh,” he said mockingly, rubbing it in with two fingers. “It’s just arousal, baby. It’s just your poor, desperate little bud realizing how badly she wants attention. You left her untouched too long.”
“I—I’m gonna lose my mind—!”
“Oh, I hope so,” he grinned. “This is only round one.”
Then he brought out the dildo. Long. Thick. Ribbed. Vibrating.
And he slid it inside her.
She felt every fucking ridge.
It was cold going in, then suddenly warm — self-heating tech. God, he’d invested in toys since their breakup.
The dildo locked in place with straps, vibrated deep and slow, while he resumed tormenting her clit with the brush.
“Let me cum,” she sobbed, voice cracking. “Please—please—just—fuck—”
He crouched in again, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Not until you say it.”
“Say what?” she wailed, clit now fire, dildo grinding with mechanical rhythm, brush dancing like it was painting a masterpiece across her suffering.
“Say you’re mine again.”
She clenched her fists, trembling.
He pressed the brush down hard, twisted the vibe settings up by two notches, and slapped her ass so hard it left a glowing red handprint.
“Say it.”
Her breath was a ragged symphony of whines and tremors now, chest heaving where it was mashed beneath her, nipples stiff and dragging across leather with every little body quake. That dildo inside her purred cruelly with slow, thick rotations, ribbing stretching her inch by inch on its lazy, endless spin. Her clit — fuck, her clit — it pulsed like a living wound, smothered in that evil lube that made every nerve ending scream itch and ache and need but with nothing to soothe it. Not even the air. Not even mercy.
He was behind her again, watching. Still. Always. One hand resting on the curve of her ass like it was property. Like it never stopped being his. The brush returned in lazy figure-eights over her hood, barely touching now, just a ghost of pressure, but she still shuddered like he’d slammed her there.
"You're quiet," he murmured, dragging the tip of the brush along the lower edge of her exposed slit, not touching her clit directly, just whispering beside it, making her cry from the threat of contact. “Did that mean little nerve finally tap out?”
She made a garbled sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, mouth pressed to the bench, saliva pooling on the cushion.
“Or is she holding out?” he mused, clicking the dildo up again — a whirr of deeper vibration, now with a pulsing pattern that punched into her walls. Her whole body lurched. “Still hoping her stupid owner will beg. That she’ll earn her orgasm by being a good little girl.”
"Please—" she croaked, voice raw.
He leaned in close, lips an inch from her ear. “That didn’t sound like the right title.”
She shook her head, panting. “Please… Sir.”
His groan was low and dark, like thunder rolling up her spine. “There she is.”
He gripped the isolation straps again, refastening them tighter, crueler, cinching them until her clit bulged red and furious. Then one, two, three buzzing eggs slapped into place around it. A ring of vibration — above, below, and now to either side — bracketing the swollen nub like a fucking bullseye. Her breath hitched. Her mouth dropped open.
The moment the last one turned on — bzzzzzzZzzT — she screamed.
“Sir, Sir, Sir! It’s too much—!”
He stroked her ass, gentle now. “You can take it. Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”
Her pussy gushed around the toy locked inside her, juices coating her thighs, slicking the leather. Her legs trembled so hard the stocks creaked. The vibrations swarmed her clit from all sides — and he still had the brush, using it like a scalpel now, zeroing in on the dead-center of her clit’s exposed tip and flicking it, over and over, as if he were taunting it with tiny paint lashes.
"I need to cum—!"
"You think I care what you need?" he laughed, not cruel, not kind — just victorious, like he was savoring a meal after starving for weeks. "You left me, sweetheart. Walked away from this. And now you want to nut like a filthy little animal without paying penance?"
She moaned like it broke her.
The dildo pulsed deeper. She clenched on it, grinding involuntarily, rutting like a bitch in heat despite herself, slicking the whole thing with honey. One of the bullet vibes surged to a new frequency — not just faster but sharper, like it had a heartbeat that belonged to a god of punishment. The itching lube still tingled, still burned. He hadn't even reapplied it yet. He could.
"Please let me—let me cum, please Sir, pleaseplease—"
"You always begged prettier with your mouth full," he chuckled. "Should’ve gagged you with my cock. Maybe later. Right now, I want to hear the exact words."
“I—” she gasped, flinching as the brush struck her clit again, this time harder, an actual smack. “I’m yours! I’m yours again!”
“Not enough.”
Her eyes rolled. Tears streaked her cheeks.
“I’m yours, Sir—always was—!”
“Mmm.” He stood slowly, rising to his full height behind her, the sounds of his belt unbuckling punctuating the silence like a gunshot.
“And?” he said darkly, guiding the base of his cock along the wet mess between her thighs, letting her feel how hard he was without giving her an inch.
She knew what he wanted.
“You can do this to me… whenever you want, Sir—f-fuck, please, do it whenever—!”
CLAP.
His palm slammed into her clit. Every vibe stayed on. Every nerve detonated.
She came so violently her voice cracked. A scream ripped through her that bordered on feral, all high notes and despair. Her pussy clenched around the vibrating toy, the sensation of fullness erupting into crashing waves of tortured release. She bucked in the stocks, drooled into the bench, and sobbed into her own orgasm like it had stolen her sanity.
He leaned over her again, this time whispering in a voice that wrapped around her like chains.
“Good girl.”
She hung limp in the stocks, spent but not spared. Her clit still throbbed, still pulsed. Not with release, but with the desperation that she might.
Because he hadn’t touched it since.
All four vibrators had been turned off.
The straps still held tight. The blood still pooled in the swollen tip, bright and tender, tingling with the phantom memory of stimulation. But nothing touched it now. Not a whisper. Not even air. Just unbearable stillness.
And somehow, that was worse than anything.
She whimpered into the bench, hips flexing, instinctively trying to nudge the clit toward something — friction, pressure, fucking carpet burn, anything. Nothing. Denied.
“Poor little thing,” he crooned, brushing his fingers along the edge of her ass. “She’s crying, isn’t she? Look at her. Pouting. Pulsing. Still puffed up and pink like she’s waiting for dessert.”
“P-please,” she mewled. “I can’t—she needs—”
“I said no,” he snapped, tone sharp as a whipcrack, and her body froze.
Then, softly: “But that doesn’t mean we’re done playing.”
His fingers parted her ass cheeks with gentle command, exposing her completely. Her hole winked tight in response, the perineum beneath twitching with aftershocks. The paintbrush returned, trailing from the base of her spine, down the cleft of her cheeks, stopping to circle the rim of her tight little star.
“No,” she moaned, muffled by the leather. “No, no, not there—”
He ignored her, brushing in lazy spirals, so light it barely registered — yet enough to drive her wild. Her asshole clenched defensively with every stroke, but there was no force here, just unrelenting tease.
And then — cold.
The itching lube.
He dripped it, slowly, directly onto her rim. One... two... three drops, pooling like molten ice. It sank into her puckered skin, slid along her perineum in a slow, traitorous trail. And the burn started. God.
She shrieked. Her spine arched so hard it dragged her wrists in the cuffs. The itching was unreal — inside, under the skin, in the folds. Not pain. Not pleasure. A desperate, maddening need to squirm, to scratch, to shove something deep just to chase it away.
And he hadn’t even started vibrating yet.
“Oh fuck—Sir, fuck, please—!”
“Language,” he chided. “A good girl says ‘my hole is tingling, Sir, thank you.’”
Her eyes rolled back.
The brush began again. Now dipped in the lube itself, trailing it around the rim of her asshole, tracing symbols, letters, writing poetry in agony.
Then she heard it.
Bzzzzzzzzz.
The electric toothbrush.
He pressed it right to the perineum — not her clit, not the lips, just the tender patch of skin between her slit and her asshole. The buzz rattled through her like a tuning fork. Her thighs flexed, her hole clenched, the lube worked deeper, tingling, stinging, setting nerves on fire.
He began to circle the toothbrush. Slow, tight spirals, right on that narrow strip of flesh, the edge of the buzz catching her rim now and then. Every pass made her whimper, sob, giggle involuntarily — the tickle was unbearable.
“Ohhh god, Sir— it's too much—”
He licked his lips, watching her squirm. “Too much where?”
“Th-there! My asshole—my p-perineum—!”
“Good,” he grinned, dragging the brush in a long line directly across her taint, up and over the burning rim, then back down again. “You’re being honest. Let’s reward that.”
The brush flicked. Then again. Light little circles. The lube made it worse — made her hole itch like it was on fire, like her body was begging for something to fill it just to cool it down.
Her moans turned into broken laughter. Not joy — helpless ticklish agony.
He dragged the toothbrush back to her perineum and held it there.
She screamed.
“AHHHHhnnn— Sir, it’s—t-ticklefuckburn—!”
He leaned in, tongue nearly touching her skin, speaking in a low, hypnotic growl: “I could tongue this hole for hours. Bet you’d scream even louder. Maybe I should spit in it first.”
The brush moved again. This time, he traced a figure eight. The lube was doing its job, her rim twitching constantly now, the entire area lit up like an open nerve. Her thighs shook. Her wrists pulled hard enough the stocks groaned.
And still. Her clit sat untouched. Visible. Weeping. Purple. Beating like a second heart. Waiting. Ignored.
He smacked her ass. Hard. Then again. The vibrations of impact rattled through her, making the toothbrush sting sweeter.
“Such a sensitive ass,” he murmured, brushing her rim with his thumb now. “Maybe I’ll slide something in next. Just a little. Just the tip of the toothbrush…”
“NO—!”
“Oh yes. But not yet. First I want to see what this does.”
He angled the electric buzz just right — so the tip pressed directly on the taint, the shaft buzzed against her rim, and the vibration echoed through both holes. The result? Her scream cracked into pieces. She howled. She choked. She giggled in hysterical, helpless madness.
Her body writhed like she was being electrocuted.
He purred.
“There’s my good little toy.”
She was a mess of slick and shudder. Her hole twitched, still tingling from the last session, and her perineum was flushed pink with overstimulation, but her clit — that flushed, lonely little pearl — remained untouched. Lonely and so very, very alert. Puffing, swollen, lips trembling apart to expose its hungry bead with no friction, no comfort, just the helpless heat of air and anticipation.
He stood beside her again, brushing his fingers down her spine, speaking in a lazy hum that vibrated with the delight of a man about to ruin something delicate.
“Do you know what I should do to you, sweetheart?” His voice curled around her like smoke. “I should lock you away like this. Keep you caged. Hung in these stocks for days. Feed you through a straw, keep that needy little **** and asshole clean just so I can play with them. Not fuck. No. Just tickle. Just torment. Just… watch.”
She whimpered into the bench, her back aching from the position, but her thighs couldn’t close, her body couldn’t twist away. She was displayed like meat. Obscene. Wet. Shameful.
He crouched again and exhaled right onto her clit — a slow, deliberate breath that made it twitch and pulse like it had its own heartbeat. She sobbed at the sensation.
“Look at her,” he whispered, one hand spreading her ass cheeks wide again while the other plucked up the thinnest brush he had — sable, narrow, nearly weightless. “Look at your pretty little clit. God, she’s excited. She missed me, didn’t she?”
He trailed the brush up the inside of her thigh first, bypassing the clit deliberately. Teasing the crease of her hip, the edge of her labia, the soft skin just around the fold.
“She’s such a good girl,” he cooed, bringing the brush in now, finally, skimming just the very edge of her clit hood with a stroke so light it might’ve been imagined. “So eager. So puffed up. She wants to be touched, doesn’t she? Look how she throbs. Look how she begs.”
Her thighs shuddered violently, but her moan was broken — desperate — more air than sound.
“Do you want to cum?” he asked gently, still brushing, just the outer edge of the clit, never the tip. “Does your needy little slutbutton want to explode for me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes Sir. I need it—”
“Ohh but that’s not up to her anymore,” he grinned, dragging the brush in a tight loop just around the base. “She lost that privilege when you walked away.”
The brush withdrew.
She gasped, a high hiccup of despair.
And then — tickling.
This time to her ass. He used his nails, light and deliberate, dragging them over the flushed rim. Her whole body flinched. He smirked and used both hands now, flicking, tracing, brushing over her rim with fingertips that didn’t press but hovered and flitted like insects.
The sensation was unbearable — humiliating and maddening. It tickled in a way that forced laughter and tears all at once. She shrieked when he caught a perfect nerve, a tremor of laughter escaping before her moans returned.
“Oh fuck—Sir, I c-can’t—!”
“You can,” he murmured, now using the thin brush again. This time on her asshole, dragging it around the rim like he was painting target circles.
“I should stretch you open,” he hissed. “Ram a fat plug in here. Split you wide. Let every inch of your insides twitch just from the thought of me stuffing them.”
“No—n-no, please—!”
He laughed softly. “Not yet. I just like knowing how scared you get when I say it.”
The paintbrush flicked her rim. Then again. Then slid gently down the crease to trace the perineum, then back up. Meanwhile, he whispered: “You’re so fucking helpless like this. You realize that, right? If I wanted to train you to orgasm just from rim tickling, I could. A week. Maybe two. You’d cum without me touching your clit at all.”
She whimpered, shuddering in place.
“Maybe I should make that your new orgasm rule. No more clit. Just ass. Just humiliation. Just this pretty little hole fluttering like she’s saying please, Sir.”
And then he did it.
He reached under the bench. Something cold. Metal. She felt the tip before she saw it — just barely pressed to her asshole. Not inserted. Just… touching.
A hook.
He held it steady there, kissing her rim with steel, the threat as heavy as the toy was light.
“I’m going to bend you so far back,” he whispered. “So far open you’ll forget you ever walked upright.”
He slid the hook in. Slow. So slow. One inch. Two. Curving just enough to catch behind the rim. Her breath caught as her body tried to clench.
Then the tug.
A rope. Pulled tight from the hook… to her hair.
She gasped as her scalp yanked back — not cruelly, but firmly — lifting her head, arching her spine into an obscene C-shape. Her clit pointed down. Her asshole up. Her hips tilted now at an impossible angle, presenting every soft inch of her back end to him like a gift wrapped in agony.
She sobbed. “F-fuck—S-Sir please—!”
“Oh, baby,” he said with a dark grin, stepping back to admire her. “I could hang a chandelier off this ass now. So perfect. So pink. So exposed.”
And then: bzzzZZZz.
One vibrator. Right beneath the clit. Pressed up.
Another. bzzZZZz. Right on top. Strapped down.
Sandwiched between the vibrators.
Her clit was no longer part of her body. It was a prisoner. A trembling, pulsing, swollen traitor caught in a perfect vice — the twin vibrators, strapped in place with merciless precision, buzzed above and below, boxing it in like the meat in a pressure-cooker. They weren’t powerful, not yet. That was the cruelty. They were gentle. Teasing. A steady hum, just strong enough to keep her on the edge. Not enough to tip her over. Just enough to keep her fighting not to.
And with the hook buried in her ass, tied to her hair, her whole spine arched into that wicked crescent. Her head pulled back, her ass thrust into the air so high for him to desecrate at will.
She couldn’t twitch. Couldn’t escape.
And the worst part? He hadn’t even touched her in minutes.
The vibrators did all the work. Constant, relentless, insidious.
She sobbed into the bench, her body shaking. Drool had started to string down her chin, but she didn’t care anymore.
“Ohhh fuck, look at her,” he murmured from behind, voice soaked in wicked pleasure. “You see that twitch, baby? You see your clit trying to run? She’s scared. She’s tired. But she just can’t stop.”
He leaned in, crouched beside her, one hand stroking her inner thigh. The other tightened the strap keeping the top vibrator perfectly seated against the very tip of her clit. It pulsed into her with a steady, merciless rhythm.
bzz—bzz—bzzzzzz—pause—bzz—
Below, the second vibrator stayed constant — a quiet hum like a purring cat, soft but present, never letting her forget.
“She’s such a dirty little thing,” he whispered. “She likes being trapped. I can see her pulsing for me. That means she’s excited, right? That means she wants this.”
“N-no—” she moaned. “Sir—no more—”
“No?” He tilted his head. “You say no, but your little clit says yes. Look at her. Red. Fat. Leaking. You’re drooling from both ends, sweetheart.”
She groaned. Her hips tried to buck, but the restraints held firm.
“Your clit’s not just swollen anymore, baby,” he said, moving behind her again. “She’s glassy. You see that shine? That’s your own slick gluing the vibrators to her like a seal. That’s how bad she wants it. She’s suctioning her own torment on.”
He chuckled darkly. “Greedy little *****.”
“P-please,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “Just let me—Sir please—”
“I love when you beg,” he murmured, adjusting the tempo of the top vibrator. It shifted into a pattern of rapid-fire flicks — machinegun pulses that tapped the exposed clit like a cruel drummer working a snare.
Tap-tap-tap-tap-buzz-TAP-tap-tap—
Her thighs screamed in restraint. She arched harder, a sob wracking her frame.
But he didn’t stop.
He spoke again, voice dripping into her like venom. “Do you feel how she jumps every time I hit her like that? Like a tiny slut trying to get fucked? Oh, she wants it. She wants to cum so badly, but guess what?”
He leaned in close.
“I’m going to keep her like this. For hours.”
She screamed — not from pain, from the sheer overwhelm. Her clit had been vibrating for too long. Too intimately. No stroking. No pressure. Just the vibrations rolling through it like soundwaves in a bottle, pinging every swollen nerve from inside.
It throbbed now. Twitching uncontrollably, reacting to every little change in frequency. The lower vibe buzzed deeper now, a low, thrumming hum that worked the base of the clit — the root hidden in her folds — while the top one danced, faster and faster.
bzz—bzzzz—bzz-bzzzz—BZZZZZZZ—
And he watched. Kneeling behind her, eyes locked on the tight space between those vibrators where the poor, swollen button sat, dripping, quivering, suffering.
“Do you think she can handle this?” he whispered, barely audible over the humming. “Do you think she’s strong enough to last ten more minutes? Twenty? An hour?”
She cried. Her whole body pleaded.
He reached down now. Not to touch her clit — he never touched her clit — but to tap one vibrator, just lightly. A little jolt of stimulation. She shrieked.
“Every tap makes her think it’s time,” he murmured. “That maybe, just maybe, I’ll let her cum.”
He smiled.
“I won’t.”
The vibes continued.
She moaned, so loud it turned into a scream. Her toes curled behind her, her wrists yanked in the cuffs, and her ass — stretched, trembling, hole spread by the hook, her back pulled taut — just twitched in place.
He leaned close again, brushing his lips to her ear. “You want to cum, little clit slut?”
“Yes—”
“You think you deserve it?”
“Y-yes, yes, please Sir, I—I’ll be good—!”
“No, you won’t. You’ll cum without permission like the greedy little thing you are.”
She shook her head violently. “No, I—I can hold it, I—!”
“You can’t,” he hissed. “And when you do, I’m going to punish you.”
She tried to hold back. She did. But the top vibrator was too much now. He’d turned it up — just a bit, a single notch, but it was enough. The vibrations struck like arrows, each pulse a bullet to her core. Her clit had nothing shielding it. No hood. No covering. Just raw exposure to relentless rhythm.
BZZZZZZ—BZZZ—bzzz—BZZZZZZZ—
Her breath hitched. Her thighs trembled. Her pussy gushed. And before she could stop it—
She came.
Hard.
She screamed, her orgasm ripping through her like lightning — not pleasure, but detonation, uncontrollable, violent. Her clit convulsed between the vibrators, twitching like it was being electrocuted, soaking the bench beneath her with wetness. Her sobs turned into screams.
And he knew.
“Ohh,” he said softly, standing. “You. Didn’t.”
She shook her head, tears streaming. “I—Sir I—I didn’t mean—!”
He shut off the vibes. Let the silence hang heavy.
Then he grabbed her hair and yanked.
The hook in her ass pulled hard — not painful, but commanding, bending her further, tighter, until her spine bowed like a torture rack, until her pussy gaped and her clit twitched in the empty air, weeping from the betrayal.
“You came without permission.”
Her breath stuttered. “I’m s-sorry—Sir—please—”
“You want punishment?” he whispered. “You earned it.”
She was still twitching. Her orgasm hadn't faded—it lingered, a guilty aftershock pulsing in her clit, echoing through her thighs, glowing in her cheeks. She couldn’t believe she'd done it. She’d warned herself. Had begged for mercy, promised obedience, clutched to her last scraps of control like a drowning girl.
And she'd failed.
And now she knew what was coming.
He was silent.
The worst kind of silence.
She couldn’t see him, head forced back by the hook tied to her hair, but she could feel him behind her—moving, preparing, humming softly to himself like a craftsman laying out tools for a piece that wasn’t just destruction but art.
He wasn’t angry. He was… focused.
“You know,” he finally said, stepping close, one palm resting on the small of her back, “I knew you’d break.”
Her breath hitched.
“You tried so hard,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down the curve of her ass. “Held back for me. So desperate to be good. And in the end?”
His fingers slipped lower, brushing the still-puffed clit with no pressure, just enough contact to make her yelp.
“You betrayed me.”
“I’m—” she gasped. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t—I—”
“Oh, no, no,” he chuckled, running the back of his knuckles up her perineum. “No excuses. Not from a little clit-slut who oozed all over my bench like a feral animal.”
His voice dropped, and it hit her like a nail hammered into her spine.
“You’re not going to cum again tonight.”
That sentence echoed through her like a death sentence. Her body trembled, the memory of the orgasm still raw on her skin—but the way he said it, flatly, as fact, as law, made her whimper in sheer dread.
“I’m going to break that greedy little clit,” he said, “and not let her finish. Not once. Not even when you beg until your voice is gone.”
The first thing he did was lock the vibrators back on.
Different ones now.
These were stronger.
Meaner.
They hummed with industrial fury, the kind of buzz that rattled her bones and reached deep, vibrating through the meat of her sex instead of just the surface. He strapped them tight—one under, one above again—but closer. Pressed in. Squeezing that puffy little pearl between two pulsing devils until it felt like it would rupture.
“Oh fuck—” she cried, clit twitching immediately, flinching from overstimulation.
He didn’t stop.
“You’re going to feel every single second of this,” he whispered. “You’re going to beg for the edge and then pray not to go over it. And then I’ll keep you there.”
He turned the top vibe up.
The rhythm changed—fast, high-pitched pulses that struck like hammer-blows. The clit convulsed between them. She shrieked.
“Sir, Sir, please, I can’t, I just came—!”
“That’s why it hurts,” he growled, pressing the bottom vibe up harder. “That’s why it’s perfect. Your clit’s still raw, still swollen, and I’m going to cook it.”
She wailed. Her thighs flexed helplessly.
Her clit wasn’t even pleasure-full anymore—it was too much, too exposed, the pleasure circling so fast it hurt. It beat between the vibrators like a thing possessed. Her pussy leaked uncontrollably, but the orgasm never rose—only a need that felt like it would split her in half.
He grabbed the brush again.
Not for her clit. No—he circled her asshole with it, teasing the rim with slow, relentless spirals while her clit suffered.
“Now she wants to hide,” he whispered. “But she can’t. She’s trapped. No hood to protect her, no escape. Just constant buzz.”
She sobbed. “P-please, I won’t—I won’t do it again—”
“No,” he said. “You won’t. But not because I believe you.”
He reached beneath her again and smacked her clit—just once, through the vibrators.
The pressure sent her screaming, the brief impact turning the trapped stimulation into a full-body shockwave that rolled up her spine and down her legs.
“You won’t,” he repeated, “because you’re going to be too scared to cum without my say-so again.”
She shook, broken sobs ripping from her chest.
He tugged the hook in her ass again, tightening the rope to her hair. Her spine bent deeper, her body trembling, the angle obscene. Her swollen clit pointed down now, fully presented, shining with slick and pinned between cruel mechanical torment.
“Now,” he murmured, reaching for one last tool, “let’s see how long you can stay right there—at the edge. Right on that line. Burning.”
And he held her there.
The vibrators hummed, boxed her in, ravaged her with no release. Her clit twitched like it wanted to crawl out of her body, throbbing visibly between them. She cried, she begged, she screamed and whimpered. The orgasm never came.
He just watched.
Punishment had only just begun.
She was going to break.
It wasn't a metaphor. It wasn't a poetic exaggeration. Her mind was fracturing—right down the center, cracking like glass under heat—because the pleasure had stopped being pleasure fifteen minutes ago, and now it was something new. Something deeper. Something inhuman. Her body had learned a new kind of language: a scream made of moans, a sob made of muscle spasms, a prayer whispered through grinding teeth and slurred through spit and tears and drool. Her clit had become an oracle of suffering.
And he loved it.
The vibrators stayed locked in place—tight, perfect, merciless. That red, fat little clit, once the center of her pride, now looked abused. Trapped. Terrified. It pulsed helplessly between the buzzing pads, slick with so much arousal it looked like it had been baptized in her own shame. It had tried to cum again. More than once. And every time—
Denied.
Every time, he watched.
Her voice was a hoarse rasp now. “Sir—Sir—Sir please—I’m—I’m not gonna make it—please, please I need it, please—”
“Oh, you’ll make it,” he whispered, squatting beside her so his breath could slide down her ear. “You’ll make it because I say you will. Because your job isn’t to cum. It’s to suffer.”
The words hit her like a lash.
And then he did something worse than turning the vibrations up.
He kept them exactly the same.
Not more. Not less. Just the same.
“Do you feel that?” he whispered, brushing his fingertips along the rope that held the hook buried in her ass. “That steady hum? That never-changing rhythm? That’s what breaks people, baby. Not chaos. Repetition.”
She sobbed again. Her clit was numb with sensation, overfilled, every throb a hallucination. It had become impossible to tell if she was close or not. Her body kept jerking like she was falling off a cliff, but the fall never ended.
“Every second you think it’s coming,” he murmured, voice low, cruel. “Every twitch says ‘this is the one.’ And then—nothing. Just more vibration. Just more heat.”
Her ass twitched around the hook. Her thighs flexed and seized.
“You know what happens to girls like you?” he whispered. “Girls who cum without permission? Girls who think they own their orgasms?”
He pulled her hair, dragging the hook tighter again. Her spine bent into something inhuman, her asshole fully tilted open now, and her clit—dear god, her clit—was fully exposed in the open air, still trapped in its vibrator cage, twitching like it was trying to scream through flesh.
“They forget how to cum,” he whispered. “Eventually your body stops trying. Your clit just gives up.”
She shrieked. “Please don’t—Sir, please—!”
“But that’s not your fate, is it?” he mused, trailing his fingers down her perineum again. “You’re too needy. Your clit’s still trying. Look at her. She’s begging for me. Still twitching. Still fighting.”
And it was true.
Despite everything.
Her clit was still throbbing.
Still swollen.
Still hopeful.
He laughed. “That’s so cute.”
Then he slapped her ass. Not hard. Just enough to make the vibration shudder through her body. Her whole frame shook like it had been hit by a wave.
“Every slap pushes the vibes deeper,” he whispered. “Like forcing the buzz through your skin. Does that make your little button jump?”
“Yes—” she moaned, hips twitching violently.
He slapped again.
Again.
Her clit throbbed on cue every time, reacting like it was trying to seize the moment, to climb, to catch the rhythm and explode. But the orgasm never came. Not once. Just that desperate almost—that horrifying peak with no drop.
“You’re staying right here,” he said, and pressed his finger gently—just gently—on the top vibrator.
Her scream hit the ceiling.
Her thighs thrashed in the restraints, and she babbled through her teeth, drool leaking down her chin again. “Oh fuck oh fuck oh god Sir—Sir I’m gonna—I can’t I—I can’t stop—”
And then.
Right on the edge.
He shut them off.
Silence.
Stillness.
The absence of vibration hit her like a loss.
Her clit twitched, empty. Desperate.
She made a broken, keening sound—an animal whine. Her hips humped at the air uselessly, searching for the hum, for anything. Her **** was soaked. Slick dripped from her like she’d been wrung out.
He crouched again, licking her inner thigh slowly. Tenderly.
“Do you know what I’m going to do now?” he whispered.
She shook her head, barely breathing.
He grabbed the hook.
And yanked.
Not cruelly. Just enough to arch her harder. Her back cracked. Her clit jolted in the air, and her mouth dropped open in a wordless scream.
“I’m going to do it all again,” he said.
And he turned the vibrators back on.
