bambi

I bet you feel shamed how quickly that anexity loop fell away. How long did it take before your mind was overwhelmed with being a needy little cunt? You have no idea but you know you didn't resist. A serious woman would have held out. But you didn't even try. Because for all of that public modesty, the whore is right below the surface. And the whore is the real you.

The modest dresses, attending a liberal church, that's your mask. That is you bringing status to your husband's reputation. But the good girl inside you, the real you knows that if your husband wanted you naked on a leash with his cum on your face, you wouldn't hesitate. He decides what good is. And if he wanted everyone to know you were his whore, you would do it head held high.

Not watching it. Becoming it. Being reduced to something consumable, something that exists for someone else’s arousal. The thought shouldn’t appeal to you as much as it does. But it does. And you should probably examine that.

To do it properly, you need to be in the right state of mind. Honest. Open to uncomfortable truths about yourself.

And that’s really best done when you’re touching yourself.

"Oh dear, someone looks very full!" Marcie exclaimed cheerfully, barely even keeping up a pretense at sympathy as she unsnapped the straps on Rory's dress to send it tumbling down and expose her lush, heavy tits. "Oh, sweetie, it's no wonder you came over a little bit early today, your udders have to be absolutely aching right now!" Rory furrowed her brow in a desperate attempt to figure out why Marcie called her breasts 'udders', or what she meant about coming over early, or really just anything that had been going on over the last several weeks, but it was so hard to think with that constant ache of pressure in her chest and she instead found herself wandering over to the kitchen island and bracing herself against it in a surprisingly familiar pose.

"That's a good girl," Marcie cooed, placing a steel pail on the stool just underneath Rory and giving her right breast a playful squeeze. "You're getting to be so well-trained now, and doesn't that feel so nice, sweetie? Doesn't it just feel so wonderful to come to me whenever you need help with those big pretty udders of yours?" Rory didn't know why she nodded, and she understood even less why the verbal response she'd planned to make had been replaced by a loud, lowing moo, but before she could begin the seemingly impossible task of unpacking it all in her feeble brain Marcie gave her nipple a tug and everything gushed out of her mind in a long, steady stream of creamy milk.

It wasn't even that it felt good on a physical level, although the sense of release and the hot, tingling pleasure of having her sensitive nipple played with was enough to make Rory's eyes roll back in her head with mindless arousal. It was more that it felt so satisfying, that on some level she couldn't escape a profound degree of contented fulfillment from just bending over with her tits out and her mind rapidly descending into stupefied ecstasy while her neighbor from down the hall milked her like a piece of livestock. Being a cow seemed so much easier than being a person, and Rory's muddled thoughts finally found a single clear and blissful memory as she recalled that first glorious day when her breasts began to express those first few drops of milk. "Good cow," Marcie murmured, and Rory couldn't help agreeing.

She wound up giving almost a full pint that afternoon, with Marcie's hands going from one breast to the other until she was finally drained, and by then she was so turned on that she let herself be led to Marcie's sybian with a blank and blissful smile on her flushed face. Marcie settled Rory down onto the vibrating saddle, purring, "I'm so proud of my pretty little cow," and then she put on a video that emptied Rory's mind out almost before she knew it was even happening. Rory grunted and moaned as the buzz finally satisfied the urgent throb between her legs, fully convincing her subconscious to go along with the programming her waking mind barely even remembered now, and by the time she finally slumped over it was almost time for her to go to bed. But Marcie made sure she got one last milking in, just to ensure she slept well when she trotted vacantly back to her own apartment to sleep.

i am a doll. i am a fucktoy. i am a set of tits and holes.

the weird part is when the eroticism of it loses its excitement and becomes sort of baseline. thinking “i am a fucktoy” no longer makes me cum because i think that all the time. it does make me spaced out and turned on and drippy all the time though. and that increased baseline level of arousal keeps me going. chasing that initial high that i know is pushing further and further away from me, but feeling more and more addicted to convincing myself i am a sex object.

Or maybe it’s the opposite fully awake, trembling with excitement at a single command. Instantly needy at the snap of their fingers, desperate for approval, eager to carry out humiliating tasks you once would’ve mocked without hesitation. Now you’d do anything just to earn a little attention.