Envy

For those who have difficulties saying heart or heartbeat, are you worse when saying stethoscope? I realized I am. Yup, saying stethoscope feels far worse. Repeat after me, "steth-o-scope." Again. "Steth-o-scope." Once more time. "Steth-o-scope." Now go say it to people. Oh HELL no. Whereas it's dreadful saying heart, it's mortifying saying stethoscope, or maybe not, or maybe so.

Mmm, my eager little bat 🦇

Back on your knees already? How predictable… and how fucking delicious.

I like knowing my words have you this worked up — heart hammering, hand slipping between your thighs before you can even pretend to be composed. A fellow smut writer taking notes? That’s almost cute. But we both know you’re not just studying technique. You’re soaking through your panties because the way I write makes you feel owned.

You want me to edge you? Or overstimulate you until you’re shaking and crying and can’t remember your own name?

I’d do both, princess. Slowly.

I’d tie you down nice and spread, stethoscope pressed to your chest so I can listen to every frantic thud while I tease that pretty clit for hours. Bringing you right to the edge with my tongue and fingers, then pulling back the second your heart starts to lose control. Over and over until you’re begging, sobbing, promising to be the best little slut I’ve ever had.

And when I finally let you cum? I wouldn’t stop. I’d keep my mouth on you, fingers buried deep, pushing you straight into overstimulation while I listen to that overwhelmed heart try to keep up.

You’d be a beautiful, dripping, whimpering mess by the end.

I saw your words. Read them slow, like I was already tasting the tremble behind each line.

You like rules. You like being told what to do. You like praise that melts you into a needy little puddle and degradation that leaves you dripping down your thighs.

Good. Because I’m in the mood to give you both.

Imagine this. You’re on your knees in front of the mirror, exactly where I want you. Hands clasped behind your back, thighs spread just wide enough to feel exposed. No touching. That’s rule one.

I’m not even in the room, but my voice is. Low, steady, collaring you through every syllable. “Look at yourself,” I’d tell you. “Look how your chest is already rising and falling like a desperate little slut who needs to be controlled.”

Your heart would start racing. I know it would. That pretty traitor pulse hammering under your ribs, giving you away before your mouth even opens. Cardiophilia has its uses, pet. I’d make you press two fingers to the side of your throat and describe it to me, beat by frantic beat, while you fight the urge to grind against nothing.

Praise when you obey: “That’s my good girl. Keeping still even when your cunt is aching for it.”

Degradation when you squirm: “Pathetic. Already leaking just from my voice pinning you in place. Can’t even follow one simple rule without dripping all over the floor like a broken toy.”

You want restraint? I’d have you hold position until your legs shake. Want control? Every breath measured, every twitch reported. Rough words? They’d come easy. Spanking? Only if you earn it by begging properly, voice cracking while you thank me for every strike that leaves your ass marked and your mind quiet.

You said break you gently or don’t. Tonight I wouldn’t be gentle. I’d unravel you slowly, deliberately, until the only thing left is that soaked, obedient mess who lives for being watched. Watched falling apart. Watched trying so hard to be good and failing beautifully.

Because that’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? To be seen. To be owned by rules and words and the steady, unrelenting dominance that makes your pulse race and your pussy clench.

So here’s your first command, little one.

Come here, little bat 🦇

First, I want you to hear this clearly: your body is not broken, and it’s not “unfortunate.” It’s yours, and it responds exactly the way it’s wired to. Some girls come from penetration, some don’t. Some need their clit worshipped like it’s the center of the universe. That’s not a limitation. That’s just information I get to use.

If you were mine, an exam with me would be slow, deliberate, and completely focused on what actually makes you fall apart.

I’d have you on the table, naked, legs spread and secured in the stirrups so you can’t hide anything from me. Electrodes on your chest, pulse ox on your finger, BP cuff on your arm. The monitor glowing beside us. Then I’d warm the stethoscope between my palms and press it right over your heart.

“Breathe for me, baby. Let me hear how she sounds when she knows she’s being watched.”

While I listen to your baseline, my other hand would start teasing you exactly where you need it. Slow circles over your clit, never rushing, learning every little twitch and flutter that makes your heart rate spike on the screen.

I’d narrate everything:

“There it is… your heart just jumped the second I touched your clit. So honest for me.”

I’d edge you for a long time like that — fingers and mouth focused entirely on your clit, sucking, licking, stroking, while I keep the stethoscope pressed to your chest so I can hear every desperate acceleration, every skip, every frantic thud as you get closer.

When you’re shaking and begging, I’d keep my voice low and steady against your ear:

“Don’t fight it, little bat. Let Daddy feel how hard your heart races when you cum for me. I want to watch the monitor light up while you fall apart.”

I’d keep my palm flat over your chest as you finally cum, feeling every wild beat while I work your clit through every wave, never stopping until you’re a trembling, whimpering mess.

After? I’d pull you into my lap, still wired up, and hold you while the monitor slowly settles. Soft kisses on your forehead, my hand still resting over your heart, praising you quietly.

“You did so well, baby. Look how beautifully your heart performed for me.”

Our bedroom is perfect now.

Highest quality sheets over a luxury California king mattress nestled in a custom bed frame. Beautiful, dreamy curtains decorating gorgeous bay windows that I know she loves. Quirky little touches here and there, a vintage lamp, a cedar wood drawer set, all chosen meticulously to match her style and preference.

It was only missing one final touch. Her.

And now she’s finally here.

She’s finally mine.

I've been dealing with a mental health issue for months now. And it's one that takes a physical toll on my body.

Over the last few months, I've noticed some weird things about my heartbeat.

Early in the morning or after not moving for several hours, my heart tends to skip or pause in its beats. And I can feel occasional skips. Like it beats 3 times, pauses, and corrects itself. And sometimes a double beat is thrown in.

And then, lately, when my heart is under stress (exercise, sexual stimulation, etc), it races. Which is normal, obviously. But when I hold my breath (which... I've done during self pleasure as a kink thing), it skips. Hard and throws multiple PVCs and sometimes doesn't stop for several seconds even after I let my breath out. Which I don't think has ever happened before. I've done stuff like that in the past and it's always been normal.

And sometimes, my heart will beat a steady rhythm but it'll be forceful. Like I'll be laying there and my you can faintly see my chest move with each beat.

I'm genuinely concerned about it because it's never done any of this before. Before this started, I drank caffeine and never experienced it. I've vaped for a year now and never experienced it.

But... I'm terrified I'm overreacting. Because it's probably nothing and I'm just being a hypochondriac or an attention seeker. Not to mention, being a cardiophile complicates this because my heart is a very intimate and sexual thing to me. And some part of me thinks I'm just being a pervert and hoping for something that isn't there.

It gets worse when I eat. I'll be resting after I eat and my resting rate is near 130. 160 ish on standing.

How would you treat a sub who has a chronic illness that affects their heart? I personally have suspected POTS and IST.

Pray tell, how would you treat me and my chaotic heart?

Oh, sweet thing.

I see you there, carrying that weight in your chest every day. The way your heart decides on its own rhythm, racing when it shouldn't, dropping you low when the world tilts just wrong. POTS keeping you on edge with every stand, IST turning rest into its own kind of storm. It's a chaotic little pump you've got, isn't it? But chaos has always been my favorite playground.

In this space we build, you'd never hide it from me. The second you step through my door, the top comes off. No negotiation. Just skin and the truth of every visible beat: that frantic carotid at your throat giving you away before you say hello, the apical bounce under your left pec slamming like it's already begging for attention. I'd keep the room cool on purpose, watch the goosebumps rise while your abdominal pulse throbs low and insistent, a soft reminder that even at rest, she's never truly quiet.

We'd start every session with the basics. You on the edge of the bed, me with the stethoscope in hand. Cold bell pressed right to your apex, no warm-up. I'd listen to her baseline first, that elevated thud-thud-thud from the IST, steady but too fast, like she's always halfway to a sprint. Then I'd have you stand slow, one hand on your shoulder to steady the POTS rush. Feel her spike hard, that postural gallop hitting the metal like a fist. Dizzy yet? Lightheaded? Good. That's her telling me exactly where the edges are.

Play would be careful, controlled, because I don't break my toys on accident. We'd talk limits first, always—your meds, your triggers, your signals for when the fog rolls in too thick or the rate climbs too high. But once you're strapped down (soft cuffs, nothing that cuts circulation), I'd lean into what she gives me. The stethoscope stays on, tubing snaked under the restraints so I can hear every shift while I tease. A finger tracing your carotid, pressing just enough to make her stutter without dropping you low. My mouth on your nipple, sucking slow until the apical impulse shoves back harder, that visible bounce turning frantic under my palm.

When I finally slide inside you—slow, deliberate, no rush—she'd go wild. That IST baseline cranking higher from the thrill, POTS echoes making her trip if I shift you upright mid-thrust. I'd pause there, buried deep, stethoscope bell wedged between us. "Feel that gallop? She's loving every second, even if the rest of you is spinning." I'd keep you horizontal most days, legs elevated if the dizziness creeps in, but the tease of standing play? That's for when you're feeling steady, when I want to watch her rocket and pull you back down before the fog takes over.

Punishments? Light. Teasing. A cold pack on your chest to slow her down, or my hand over your mouth and nose for a few controlled seconds—watching the monitor, feeling the skip, releasing before she protests too hard. Rewards when she's behaved: my thumb on your clit in time with her rhythm, syncing the circles to every thud until you come clenching around me, her rate spiking beautifully in the stethoscope like applause.

Your chaotic heart isn't a flaw here. It's the star. The thing I listen to first and last, the rhythm that tells me exactly how far to push. She'd learn to dance for me—skip on command, race when I whisper "faster," settle when I say "easy." And you'd thank me after every session, voice shaky, body spent, knowing I claimed her without breaking what makes her yours.

But remember, this is fantasy. In the real world, we'd map every symptom first, have safewords sharper than knives, and stop at the first sign of real trouble. Your heart's chaos deserves care, not conquest.

That’s the prettiest surrender I’ve heard all week.

You want to be kept long-term. Not a weekend plaything, not a one-off rush. A fixture. My personal cardio toy, wired and monitored, heart always on display for me to toy with whenever the mood strikes.

I like the permanence of it.

You’d live shirtless in my space. Always. No negotiation. The moment you cross the threshold the top comes off and stays off. I want constant access to every visible rhythm: the quick flutter at your throat when I walk past, the steady apical bounce under your left pec that betrays you before your mouth ever opens, the low throb of your abdominal aorta when you’re trying to act calm while I’m deciding whether to play or not.

The stethoscope stays on the side table like a remote control. I pick it up without warning. Press the bell wherever I feel like: apex, carotid, right over the pulse in your wrist if I want to feel how small and helpless the beat gets when I’m close. You don’t get to flinch. You don’t get to cover up. You stand (or kneel, or bend, or lie back) and let me listen while your heart throws itself against the metal like it’s trying to crawl into my hand.

Training starts simple.

“Faster.” One word. Your pulse obeys before your brain catches up. “Skip.” That sweet little hitch I taught you, the one that makes your breath catch and your cunt clench empty. “Slow.” The deliberate drag downward until every beat stretches long and heavy, almost painful in how much control I have over something you can’t fake.

Then we build.

I’ll edge you for hours with nothing but my voice and the stethoscope. No hands between your legs. Just me holding the bell firm over your apex while I tell you exactly what your heart is doing: “Listen to her gallop… she’s so close already and I haven’t even touched your clit.” “Feel that stumble? That’s her begging to come for daddy.” “Slow it down again. No. Slower. Good girl… now hold it right there while I count to thirty.”

You’ll learn to come from cardiac commands alone. A whispered “now” while I press harder over the point of maximum impulse, feeling the muscle slam upward as your whole body locks and shudders and floods without a single stroke to your cock or cunt. The orgasm starts in your chest and ripples outward until you’re shaking, leaking, gasping, heart racing so wild the stethoscope can barely keep up.

Long-term means rituals.

Morning check: you stand naked in the kitchen while I press the bell to your chest and decide if you slept well by how steady (or frantic) she is. Evening wind-down: you kneel at my feet, head on my thigh, while I auscultate slow circles and murmur degradations that make her skip on cue. Anytime I want: I snap my fingers, you present chest-forward, I listen, I command, you obey. If she misbehaves (races without permission, skips when I didn’t ask), there are consequences. A tight collar around your throat for the rest of the day. Or my hand closing over your mouth and nose until she drops low and slow and desperate, only to be allowed air when she’s trembling on the edge of blackout.

You’ll bruise beautifully there too. Finger-marks on your throat, faint handprints over your pec where I held too hard while she fought to beat through the pressure. Little souvenirs of how completely she belongs to me.

And when I finally decide to fuck you?

I’ll keep the stethoscope in place. Let you feel every thrust mirrored in the frantic rhythm slamming against the bell. I’ll make you come again and again just by changing the pace of my hips until your heart can’t keep up anymore and she stutters into that perfect, terrifying silence for a few seconds before roaring back to life while you’re still clenching around me.

That’s what long-term looks like.

You, wired to my voice. Heart on permanent display. Every beat, skip, and stop belonging to me.

So kneel for me right now, princess. Chest out. Let her show me how badly she wants to be claimed.

The Heart Fetishist's Game, a heart torture simulator for us dark cardiophiles.

More updates, tools and features are coming soon. It's a work in progress, so some things may be wonky. Feel free to message me about any issues you encounter or any suggestions/ideas you may have!

Mobile friendly browser game, no download required.

Donations are in BTC and ETH so all support is anonymous.

I wake in a dungeon, a hooded figure standing over me. My arms are bound above my head and my chest is constricted by a strange leather harness. Though the light is low, I can see an array of strange instruments on a cart next to the figure. I don't want to learn what they're for, but I have a feeling I'm about to. I don't know what this person could want, and the only clue is the stethoscopes strapped firmly over my pounding heart...