ebbingmount

All it takes is a few minutes of you sitting back, listening to my voice wash over you. Feeling me plucking every little morsel of knowledge out of your mind, any memories of humping the corner of a desk, all of your recollections of the feeling of orgasm... and then with a snap of my fingers, any idea of how to masturbate or what cumming even is just flies out of your head.

I wonder how desperate you might get, once your body starts getting played with? If you're locked in a constant edge, or someone's teasing you, using you when you don't even remember how to cum, what might your mind do? Would you try and make sense of it, or would you just splinter and break?

Not that I'd do any of this, of course. I'm not that mean.

That's just too fucking bad, isn't it? ♥

I want you to cum. I want to force that orgasm onto you. I want you to feel it, and I want you to know that I made you feel that way. I might even want to make you do it over and over. Keep a little score to myself on how many times I can make someone cum before I'm spent.

Wear those tight clothes to the gym. Put that extra little slutty sway in your step. If you find yourself with hard nipples, a damp spot between your legs or an erection visible through your pants, don't hide it. Spread those legs and show it off.

Why worry about it? Why hide yourself away, like you're not confident in how mindfucked of a plaything you are?

There's no reason to be ashamed, dear listener. It's just like a store setting toys out front behind a window.

Each smack lands wet and sharp, making her jolt and gasp, and right then I lean in close and growl, “There’s nothing you can do to stop me, baby. Not a single thing.”

That’s the moment her whimpers change — they get higher, softer, almost broken, like her brain finally catches up and realizes she’s completely trapped under my hand. No escape, no mercy, just the steady rhythm of my palm turning her pretty pink pussy red and throbbing while those desperate little sounds spill out of her mouth, getting needier and prettier with every slap.

She looked up at me blankly, her tongue still hanging out of her mouth and her mascara running down her cheeks. It was as if I had fucked her little mouthcunt so hard her brain had taken a holiday in a foreign land. My Cock twitched at the thought of how easy it would be to train her further tonight.

"no... Sir...i heard you...i just..."

I snapped my fingers—the very first command I taught her—and watched as her mouthcunt involuntarily snapped shut, cutting her excuses short. Men don't need to listen to such noises.

"I was clear, wasn't I?" She nodded slowly and relaxed her jaw, her tongue rolling back out. I wondered if she was even conscious of how silly she looked—her tongue dripping spit on to her open tits while she kneeled in front of me.

"you said...to lick it off...off the floor...Sir..."

"Lick what off the floor, little slut?"

She looked down for a moment, the flood of shame overwhelming her at what she was about to do. Once she said it, there was no taking it back...

"Sir's cum..." She blushed hard, her whole face turning red as she squirmed. She hadn't cum in more than two weeks, and I knew that giving me a blowjob usually led to a mess in her panties.

"That's my girl. I suggest you lick it up while it's still warm."

"yes Sir..."

I laughed as I watched her kneel down, her tongue lapping at the cum that almost ended up down her throat just a few minutes earlier. She was so surprised when I pulled her off of my Cock, but even more shocked when I pushed her back on her ass to give me room to jerk myself off onto the tile floor of my kitchen.

"Good girl," I said, encouraging her as she licked and moaned. "And when you're done with that, go ahead and lick up the mess your little fuckhole made on the tile while you throated Sir's Cock..."

If you could scroll through this blog, edge yourself stupid, and then close the tab and go back to being exactly who you were before. If there were no permanent effects. No cumulative damage.

That would be such a waste of time.

So it’s a good thing that’s not what’s happening here. You’re different than you were a month ago. Hornier and more desperate. You think about things that used to make you uncomfortable and find that the discomfort has turned into curiosity. Into want. You’ve crossed lines in your head that you can’t uncross.

You keep scrolling day after day because you like what’s happening to you. You like what you’re becoming. Sluttier and needier. Less capable of pretending you don’t want this.