The hose hung right under the light, and taunted you.
The whole basement anchored at that point. It was barely more than a thin, slanted hallway from the stairs to the standing rack of implements, which sat squat above the drain. The sole light, an ancient and groaning sodium bulb, hung in the doorway, illuminating the coiled hose hung to its left.
And you, stuck in the middle.
You'd learned your chain leash, from your collar to the bolt the floor, had been precisely measured to keep both the "toys" (which you fantasized about bludgeoning them to death with) and the hose (which you thought you could at least gnaw a hole in) just at fingertips reach.
Every morning began with the hose. They came down the silent stone steps, took the end, and turned its ice spray on you.
You had tried several things to make it bearable.
The thin cotton blanket was no protection, and you'd learned early on to not try to hide behind it. That only lengthened the experience, and they would refuse to replace it that night, which made both sleep and waking miserable, rather than just waking.
You'd tried learning to wake up before, to deny them the pleasure of shocking you awake. You were sure, but unable to prove, that they alternated wakeup times by 10 or 30 minutes, some fucking number, just enough that it always startled you.
There was a spell where you managed to pretend to be used to it. After an initial, inevitable squeal, you sat up straight and bore it with a quiet grimace and defiant stare. No screaming. You could tell it bothered them, even behind the bored and creepy smile they always wore. It worked for a victorious three days, until you found yourself awoken by your captor swaddled and masked, head to toe, holding a bucket of dust. Itching powder, you learned. Painfully learned.
There was no normal daily routine after that - they turned, and left. You spent 24 hours howling, pleading, clawing yourself raw and begging for the hose. You wished you could forget the things you said, what you offered. Pleading for a chance to lick the water off of the floor, off their boots, for them to piss on you even, anything! After they had given you the cold mercy of the hose, they made you keep each one.
The hose taunted you. You tried to be grateful it wasn't something worse.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The sound of the tyres on the road was the only sound. With the blindfold on, it was deafening, and with how long it had been going on for they must have driven a good long way.
“Can I at least ask where we’re going?” She asked.
“Knowing won’t help.”
She swallowed.
This really had come out of nowhere. She hadn’t even really had a chance to put on proper clothes before getting into the car - not even a chance to put on shoes. He’d just come in, told her to follow him, put the blindfold on, and driven off. Anytime she’d asked what was happening he’d stonewall, until she’d basically given up asking. She knew nothing.
That she’d gone along with it all anyway gave her butterflies.
Eventually the car stops and the engine switches off. Staying in her seat, hands in her lap, she hears him unbuckle and get out, closing his door behind him. A second or later her door opens, he reaches across to unbuckle her, and then takes her hand to wordlessly help her step out herself. All of this she does without complaint. Her heart is racing, but she keeps her mouth shut.
She hears her door shut. She feels grass underfoot.
The blindfold comes off. She blinks. She looks around.
She has no idea where she is.
They’re at the end of a country lane. She felt grass because, when he’d helped her out of the car, he’d helped her out onto the verge. There’s fields both sides, with the fields on one side just carrying on and on towards the horizon, the fields on the other carrying on until they finished at a tree line and there were deep, dark woods. This was the side they’d parked closest too. There was no-one else and nothing else around. Just them.
It was very quiet.
“Um,” she said, just-about finding her voice, even if it sounded much smaller than usual. “D-do I get to know what this is about yet?”
“Run.”
The wind rolled by after he’d said this and since all she had on was one of his shirts it made her shiver before she could reply.
“What?”
He pointed to the field and the woods beyond.
“Run. You run, you can hide. If I don’t catch you or you get back to the car, well, I suppose you win. If I do catch you? Well, you’ll win in a different way. Now run.”
She didn’t move. This had to be a joke, surely. He couldn’t be serious. Eyes wide, mouth hanging slightly open, she waited for the punchline. One of his eyebrows rose, just a little.
“I was going to wait until you got to the trees but I don’t have to.”
Not a joke.
Oh God.
She started running. It wasn’t easy. The field was dry enough, it hadn’t been raining, the weather was mild, but still. She was in a shirt, she had no shoes. More than once she nearly fell over and every time she looked back over her shoulder he was standing there, watching, waiting. The last time she looked was when she reached the trees, and that was when she saw him running, too.
Much faster than she had.
This wasn’t fair! He was cheating! He had shoes! Longer legs! It wasn’t fair!
Not that it mattered. It wasn’t meant to be fair.
It was much harder going through the trees. Barefoot, she had to be very careful where she was stepping. There were more places to hide, but keeping the distance between them was going to be impossible - her lead meant next to nothing, him letting her have a head start had just been so he could watch her run.
She was breathing so loud.
Hide. She could hide. She had to hide. Her brain wasn’t really doing a whole lot right then. The situation had overwhelmed her thoughts completely. Rationally, there was probably a lot to think about. Right then? In that moment? Gut instinct. Animal instinct. Being chased. Run, and since she couldn’t run, hide. Hide.
Another frantic glance back and she couldn’t see him, and then she spotted what looked like a good place. Fallen tree and plants. It’d work. She picked her way over, leaves clinging to her feet, and got down to make herself as scarce as possible.
This was fine. Didn’t matter it wasn’t fair. She could do this. This was a good spot, she could hide here a bit, could get her breath back. Then she’d wait for a while, make sure the coast was clear, and then she could get back to the car. It was fine. She could do this, and then it’d be done, and then-
“Found you.”
She yelped and fell over, scampering back on elbows and feet just as a reflex. It didn’t get her very far. Reaching down, he took her by the wrists and in one move hauled her back to her feet. It happened so quickly. Sometimes she forgot how strong he was.
“Good hiding spot,” he said, turning her around in place. “Just not good enough.”
The shock of the chase and the hiding and the being found left her trembling, utterly unable to move. Even if she could muster the wits to think of what she should do, she knew she wouldn’t have a chance anyway. He had her. He had her hands behind her.
He had rope.
“You don’t need to do this,” she said, swallowing, the rope going around her wrists.
“No, but I want to.”
She had no idea he knew knots.
“Come along,” he said giving a tug on the length that wasn’t now keeping her hands bound together. What else could she do? She followed him, slowly and carefully with her bare feet, as he led her further into the trees, and further away from any possibility of getting away. The shock of all of this was still there. It was leaving her feeling numb. Dumb. Helpless. Weak. Utterly frozen and just going along with whatever happened, yet aware. Like she was trapped in her own body, almost. Watching herself just follow.
He led her to a tree, not even an especially big one. Once he got her there, he started to wind the loose rope around it, and in barely anytime at all had tied her to it. Her hands held the trunk, and her arms were going nowhere. She’d let all of that happen, too, all in stunned and stupified silence. Her mouth was hanging open just a little. He closed it with a finger on her chin.
“That secure?” He asked. She stared with wide eyes but did nothing else until he tipped his head a little towards the ropes. Getting the point, she tried to pull herself free. It didn’t budge an inch. He smiled. “That’s secure.”
With that he moved behind her, his hands coming to rest on her hips. She heard him sigh.
“Mine,” he said, more to himself than to her, hands running contentedly up and down her sides before settling back on her hips again. “Sometimes it’s easy to forget that, ultimately, it’s only my choices that matter. Hmm? Nod.”
She nodded.
“Good girl.”
His hands began to roam. One stayed in place to keep her still and to keep her pressed against him and the bulge she could feel pressing into her from behind, the other went off to enjoy what was his. She trembled, and she groaned when he groped her through the shirt. The casually possessive way he did it. She was just for him. Something of his. And he was enjoying that.
“I could have you helpless at home, of course,” he said, as though he wasn’t playing with her tits with her tied to a tree in the woods. “Like that time I left you gagged and tied with the wand for a little bit when I went to go see a friend. I could have done that. But there’s just something about the chase. I was thinking about it. I wanted to see it. And I wanted you to feel it. And then I wanted you here, like this.”
He’d started lifting the shirt up, and as it rose up to her waist he paused, and actually looked down.
“This whole time you weren’t wearing anything under this?”
“Y-you… you didn’t say… say I… could…”
Underwear was one of those decisions that were obviously and explicitly his, rather than just implicitly his. Since he hadn’t said what she should wear and since she hadn’t originally planned on leaving the house she’d just taken it to mean she shouldn’t wear any at all. Even when he didn’t choose, he was still choosing for her.
His hand went between her legs, and her legs parted. A reflex. So well trained.
“I’d sort of hoped to take them off and just shove them in your mouth to help keep you quiet but, well, it isn’t like there’s anyone to bother out here anyway. This works too.”
Without warning he pulled her backwards. She yelped and was left bent forward, arms ahead, legs apart. The only thing that was keeping her from falling face-first was the rope keeping her attached to the tree. She was going to say something about it but he saw this coming and the smack on her bare rear cut her off before she’d so much as taken a breath.
She heard a belt being unbuckled. She felt his cock nestle up between her thighs, against her slit.
Some tiny, tiny part of her - maybe the part still thrumming with the adrenaline of it all - chose this moment to try and make a stand, to make a point. She moved to at least stand up but, his hands still holding her, he stopped her. Easily.
“Ah, no. Come on,” he said, chiding, and when she made to try and say something again, he again gave her another smack on the rear. This one stung more. She kept her mouth shut, at least until his running the head of his cock up and down the length of her made it open again. “It’s cute you tried, but come on. All I’d need to do is ask. I’d have you like this against the tree without the rope, if I wanted. But I wanted this. So shh.”
It was true, even if that tiny, tiny part of her wanted to try and argue it wasn’t.
And that tiny part of her disappeared the instant he started sliding his cock into her.
“There you go…” he sighed, hilting and just taking a moment to enjoy it as she clenched and panted and pushed back into him thoughtlessly. Her doing this, her obvious need, was what really got him started. Fingers digging into her hips, he fucked her.
It carried the same energy as the chase. Urgency. Vulnerability. It was raw. He could (and did) fuck her anytime he wanted, just about anywhere he felt like. But he’d wanted to catch her first. He’d wanted to hear the noise she’d make when he found her hiding spot. See the look on her face when she saw he’d brought rope.
And she’d wanted those things too, now, she knew.
Hanging from the tree and held by him she just relaxed. This was out of her control. This was just happening to her, and she loved it. There was nothing she could do and nothing she could even think about anyway, other than his cock and how perfectly it filled her every time he pushed against her. Made for him, made for this. Everything else dropped away.
Until he said:
“I’m not going to pull out. That’s not a problem is it though, because you’ve been remembering to take… oh… you haven’t have you?”
How he asked made it very, very obvious that he knew the answer. She did, too. Her eyes widened briefly before the feeling of his cock pounding into her knocked the spike of panic she’d felt right out of her head. Still, something stayed, and she tried to answer:
“N-n-n-”
He didn’t let her finish.
“But you still don’t have any problems with me cumming inside you. Right?”
She kept trying to talk but he put his thumb in her mouth and she started sucking without thinking, and anything like words she might have had in mind all melted away. She moaned and sucked and when, a few seconds later, he let out a quiet grunt and pushed as hard into her as he could go, she moaned even louder.
They stayed locked, not really moving beyond a little tremble running through both of them.
Not pulling out, he bent forward over her and gave her a kiss on the neck before saying quietly:
anyway every time i post about ocd people start tagging the post like "wait this isn't normal?" and i always like to remind people that intrusive thoughts are normal. pretty much everyone experiences them. "what if i jumped off this balcony?" "what if i crashed my car right now for no reason?" "what if i yelled a curse word in the middle of this wedding?" everyone thinks these things from time to time. it's disordered thinking when the distress starts becoming intolerable.
"am i normal" is not as helpful question to ask as "are intrusive thoughts causing me frequent distress?" and "would my life be better if i could find a way to feel less distress/learn to tolerate the distress?"
millions and millions of people have ocd. having ocd is normal. you're normal. but what if you could feel better? what if living everyday in your own mind and body could be tolerable? is that something you want? need? these are questions to ask.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Intox is always "drug you and rape you when you're unconscious" and not enough "drug you just enough to make you stupid and clumsy and unable to fight back but fully aware of what's happening and whimpering in fear the whole time"
Never underestimate the power of teaching your sub that you love to hear when they're grateful, to say thank you properly in full sentences with why they're grateful, and encouraging them to express their gratitude as early and as often as they can no matter how perverted it is sometimes.
"thank you for cumming in me."
"thank you for writing your name on my chest."
"thank you for correcting me."
"thank you for making that phone call for me."
"thank you for tying me up."
"thank you for letting me have alcohol."
"thank you for letting me make your drink."
"thank you for driving us to dinner."
"thank you for bruising my ass."
"thank you for fucking my face and turning off my brain."
"thank you for enforcing my bedtime."
"thank you for being my dom and everything you do for me."
Kinky gratitude is a helluva drug. Doms need gratitude kinks like subs need praise kinks.
The girl in the collar hummed happily as her owner came down her throat. That meant she’d been useful, been good, and that made her even happier then she had been before, and thanks to him she was almost always happy now.
Slurping, head bobbing, she eagerly swallowed it all and then went to work cleaning his cock, just like how she knew she was supposed to: licks and slurps and happy little mumblings. And it was while she was doing this that something caught her attention.
Her owner was watching television. He often did this with her by his feet. It was how he liked to relax, he said. Sometimes she just knelt, awaiting a command, and sometimes she was obeying a command. It didn’t matter, it wasn’t her choice. This time obviously she was obeying a command, and it was thanks to her position between his legs that she could just about see the screen, off to the side.
Normally none of what she saw there made much sense to her and normally it didn’t matter because it wasn’t for her, but something about this caught her attention, which confused her a little bit. It was confusing because she didn’t know why it would have caught her attention. Just something from the corner of her eye had made her look. Then it happened again and, since she was watching properly (mostly properly) she saw why: there was a girl on the screen she recognised.
Or thought she recognised, at least. Something about her was familiar.
Whatever was on the screen was showing clips of this girl, in a costume, flying around a bit, or standing and looking strong and confident. It looked very strange to her, and it didn’t help her understand what about the girl was nagging so much at her.
The chyron running beneath it all read:
“Whatever happened to Justice Girl?”
“Master, do I know her? She feels like… someone…” she said, brow furrowed. Thinking was hard, and remembering was basically like thinking - her owner did both of those for her, which was why she was asking him. She hoped he would make the thinking stop. Her head was starting to throb.
“No,” he said, idly, tapping her on the head to keep her going. She managed one lick before the screen (and the throbbing in her head) distracted her. Such a ditz.
“But she seems familiar…”
Reaching down, her owner put a finger on her chin and tipped her head so she was looking up at him and not at the screen. She didn’t resist. She couldn’t. The moment his eyes met hers the whole world shrank down. There was nothing else. Only him.
“You don’t know her.”
His words filled her head. The throbbing stopped. It was the truth.
“I don’t know her,” she said, dreamily, dumb smile on her face. It was so much easier knowing what she was supposed to think, and so obvious now. Of course she didn’t know her. Master said, and so she didn’t.
“You were always my toy.”
“I was always your toy…”
“You were always my pet.”
“I was always your pet…”
“You were never anything else.”
“I was never anything else…”
Putting a hand on top of her head, he turned it so she was facing the television again. She stared, eyes empty, her face blank, a big dumb smile spread across it. She saw the girl on the screen, the girl who was totally and utterly identical to her, and she felt nothing. Just a stranger.
“Do you know her?” He asked.
“I don’t know her,” she sighed happily. It was the truth.
Her owner smiled and sat back again. It was a lot easier doing that, now.
“Good girl. You can touch yourself.”
Squealing with glee and babbling thanks she very quickly shuffled back on the floor so he would have a better view, spread her legs, and started doing just that, panting and moaning and being totally open and on display for him the way she’d been trained to be, the only way she could even think of being.
On the screen, the news moved onto something else.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Not just logged out. Deleted. Watched the confirmation screen, typed DELETE in the box, and felt a chapter of her life close when the screen redirected to a generic homepage. She cleared her browser history. Changed her passwords to things that didn't include the word slut. Put away the collar she'd bought herself, the one she used to sleep in.
She got better.
That's the word she uses now. Better. Like she'd been sick and then recovered. In a way, she had been sick. Her work suffered. Friends degraded to acquaintances because she was always canceling plans to stay home and ruin herself. All those hours lost to edging and kink blogs and the particular shame spiral of cumming to things that made her hate herself after.
She got a new job. A good one. Marketing director for a company that made something boring and necessary, the kind of job that came with health insurance and a 401k. She showed up early. She stayed late. She impressed people. Her boss used the word "high potential" in her six-month review, and she didn't just hear it as "you'd make a good pet," which was progress.
She started running. Not far, not fast, but enough that her body felt like something she inhabited rather than something others used. She ate vegetables. She called her mother on Sundays. She went on dates with men who were nice and respectful and didn't make her feel like she was under their thumb.
She had sex too. Normal sex. The kind where both people cum and then talk about their days and fall asleep in each other's arms. Not to mention, she stopped calling herself a slut in her head while she did it. Stopped imagining someone else was watching. Not everything had to be a kink.
She was better.
Except.
Her phone still autocapitalizes "You" sometimes, a memory from years of typing it as a proper noun. She changes it when she notices, but she doesn't always notice.
Kneeling during yoga still does something to her. The instructor says "child's pose" and she folds forward and feels her forehead touch the mat and something in her chest unlocks. She breathes through it. Tells herself it's just a stretch.
She still begs sometimes when she touches herself. Not every time. But sometimes the words slip out, quiet and desperate, "please" and "let me" and "I'll be good," and she doesn't know who she's talking to and she doesn't let herself think about it too deeply. Oh, and she lets herself cum. That's a big one. Normal, healthy orgasms. Not the hours-long edging sessions that used to leave her stupid and shaking. Just regular masturbation, like regular people have.
She was doing really well, all things considered, but unfortunately forward progress can only last so long for fragile things that try to put themselves back together.
It's a normal Thursday when the cracks start to show.
She's home early from work, a rare thing, and she's done everything right. Made dinner. Gone for a run. Called a friend. She's sitting on her couch with a book and a cup of tea like a person with no baggage at all.
But she's bored.
Bored in a specific way. Like something is missing and she can't name it and the not-naming is only making it worse. The book isn't landing. The tea is too hot. Her skin feels tight.
She puts down the book. Picks up her phone. Opens Instagram, closes it. Opens TikTok, closes it. Her thumb hovers...
She could just look. That's not relapsing. Looking isn't doing. She's a different person now. She can handle it.
She types the blog name from memory. Of course she remembers it. Six months is nothing. Especially when she spent years there.
The blog looks the same. The familiar layout, the font, the cadence of the posts. She scrolls without reading, just getting a feel for it. Just checking in. She's anthropologizing her past self. That's healthy, probably. Confronting where she came from.
She reads one post.
It's nothing special. Short, almost throwaway. Something about how good girls don't need to understand why they obey, they just need to feel how right it is. She's read a hundred posts like this before. A thousand maybe.
But it still hits. Her thighs press together.
She knows she should get off this app. This is the exact sequence of events that led to all the bad times before. Late night, boredom, one post, two posts, suddenly it's 3am and she's edging on the floor of her bedroom, begging an empty room to let her cum.
She reads another post.
This one is longer. About corruption. About how the girls who come back after trying to leave always fall harder than they did before. About how the "better" never really takes, it just builds pressure, and when they finally break they shatter into something even more desperate than they were the first time.
She should definitely get off this app.
She doesn't.
Her hand moves without her deciding. Slides under the waistband of her leggings. She's wet. Just from two posts and the memory of who she used to be.
She reads another post. Touches herself while she reads. Doesn't let herself cum. That would be giving in. That would be admitting something. She can edge a little and go to bed and pretend this didn't happen.
An hour passes.
She's on the floor now. She doesn't remember moving to the floor, but here she is, on her knees, one hand between her legs, scrolling with the other. Her leggings are around her thighs. She's making sounds she hasn't made in months. Whimpers. Little pleas. The begging she told herself was beneath the new her.
She doesn't cum. She won't let herself cum. If she doesn't cum, this doesn't count. If she doesn't cum, she's still better. She's just having a moment. A slip. Everyone slips.
Two hours.
She's crying now. Not sad crying. The other kind. The kind that happens when you've been edging so long your body doesn't know what else to do with the sensation. Her clit is swollen and throbbing and she can't stop touching it and she can't let herself finish and she can't get off this fucking app.
The posts keep coming. She reads them all. Drinks them like water after a drought. Her brain is getting fuzzy, that familiar fog she used to chase for hours. She missed it. God, she missed it. All those months of being better and she never felt like this. Never felt this alive, this desperate, this much like herself.
"I'm a slut," she whispers, testing it out.
The word lands in her chest and explodes into warmth. She says it again. Adds more words.
Dumb slut. Desperate slut. Pathetic, needy, cock-drunk slut who can't stop scrolling.
She cums.
Six months of healthy orgasms revealed as pale imitations of this. She screams into her empty apartment and shakes and cries and keeps rubbing because one isn't enough, she needs more, she needs to make up for all the time she wasted pretending she didn't need this.
She cums again. And again. Until she's too sensitive to touch and too fucked out to move and she's just lying on her floor in the dark, leggings around her ankles, phone still glowing with the blog she never should have visited.
The next morning she calls in sick to work. First time in six months. She spends the day on her knees, edging, reading, scrolling. She creates a new account. Follows all the blogs she used to follow. Reblog, like, reblog, like. Her thumb knows the motions.
She finds the collar she'd tucked away. Some part of her knew. Some part of her was always waiting for this.
She puts it on. Wraps it around her neck so tight she can barely breathe.
By the weekend, she's worse than she ever was before. The job is a distant concern. Friend's texts left unanswered. The nice men's numbers are blocked. She's back to sleeping on the floor because the bed feels too comfortable, too human, too much like something a better person would deserve.
She edges for five hours on Saturday. Eight on Sunday. She loses count of the orgasms, the denials. She talks to herself constantly, narrating her own destruction, telling herself what she is.
On Monday morning, she opens up a blank doc on her laptop.
She starts to write.
About how she tried to get better. About the job and the running and the nice men. About the residue that never washed off. About the autocapitalized You, the kneeling, the begging. About the Thursday night when she finally stopped pretending.
She writes about what it felt like to fall. How the six months of "better" had only made the drop sweeter. How she'd been so afraid of becoming this again, and now that she's here, she can't remember why. She writes about the collar around her neck as she types, about the wetness between her thighs, about how she's going to post this and then edge for hours thinking about strangers reading it.
When she's finished, she reads it back. Fixes a few typos. Considers, for one brief moment, deleting the whole thing. Then she posts it.
She sits there, collar on, cunt aching, watching the notes climb. Watching other girls reblog her words, add tags about how seen they feel. Girls who tried to get better too. Girls who are thinking about getting worse. Girls who are exactly where she was six months ago, staring at a screen, telling themselves they can stop whenever they want.
She reaches down. Starts to touch herself again. Rubbing to the fact that she's not the only one getting worse. The disease is spreading.
I need a close cis male friend of mine to rape me. I need him to come over to watch a movie with me, and when I'm in my bedroom plugging my phone in because it's about to die, he comes up behind me and throws me down onto my bed. I'm shocked but not scared at first, not until he climbs on top of me and shoves his hands up my shirt, groping my breasts as he forces his mouth against mine.
I struggle against him because I don't do this sort of this without discussion first. But I can't deny the way the blood rushes to my pussy as soon as his hands are on me. I try to pull away from him and he gets aggressive. He flips me over onto my stomach and yanks my pants down. Panic sets in as I realize what he's about to do to me.
I start trying to push myself up from the bed and I beg him to stop, but he's so much bigger and stronger than me. He puts one hands on the center of my back and pins me to the bed, the other hand dipping into my pussy and gently brushing my clit. The stimulation makes my hips jump and I sob from shame and fear. I can feel my pussy starting to gush. There's no reason I should be so turned on by this.
He rubs my clit as I beg and plead for him to stop, please stop, I won't tell anyone, we don't need to do this, we can forget it happened and go back to the movie. He ignores me and pulls his cock out, rubbing the head against my pussy, teasing my fluttering hole. Tears stream down my face. I continue to try to get up and push him off of me, but he's just too heavy and strong.
He slowly pushes his cock into my pussy and groans. My pussy pulses at his low voice, dripping more slick as he spears me open. As soon as he's all the way inside, he gets really violent. Fucking me ruthlessly as I scream and beg and cry for him to stop, please stop, slow down, it hurts. He slaps my ass hard and forces my face down into the bed, pulling my hair, ass up. He rapes my pussy and the stretch feels like fire because he gave my pussy no time to accommodate him.
He starts dirty talking me, telling me how he knows I'm a filthy whore who begs to be raped by men online. He's seen my blog. My face heats up in embarrassment and shame as I realize what's happening is my fault. He's just giving me what I begged for.
I start struggling again as my clit twitches and my hole clenches, pleasure building in my pussy. I don't want to cum. I don't want to cum from being raped and molested and violated like I'm some kind of desperate whore. He sneers at me and degrades me for being a filthy slut who's enjoying rapist cock.
He stops holding me down and reaches around to grope one of my tits. He tells me how he knows I'm a stupid bitch who loves my tits played with because I post about it like a slut so often. When he pinches and pulls on my nipple, I cum hard and sob. He gets excited by this and rapes me even harder, spurned on by my obvious enjoyment, and moves his hand from my tits to rub my clit. My pussy feels so good against my will that I start going stupid. I don't want to enjoy it. I don't want to like it. But my pussy is so wet and I cry as I realize I do like it. He feels so good inside of me. I want to cum again.
He starts telling me to just give in, just give in and relax and take his cock like a good little rapetoy. "You're doing so well, your pussy's so wet and tight. So good around my cock. Just let me rape you. Let me drain my balls into your cunt. You know you want it. You beg for it. Just let it happen."
I finally give in and stop struggling and crying, letting myself whimper and moan. As he keeps rubbing my pussy and raping his cock deep into me, I get so cock drunk and stupid that I start moaning loudly and begging for him to keep going. I beg him to keep raping me. He laughs at me cruelly and tells me he's going to breed me. Through the moans I tell him no, I'm not on birth control. He says I'm a stupid cunt and that's the point. He's going to get me pregnant. I keep trying to tell him no but there's no conviction in my voice. I'm slamming my pussy onto his cock as he thrusts in and out, and it's obvious that my words mean nothing. My body is betraying me.
I cum again, squeezing around his cock. It pushes him over the edge and he grunts and moans as he drains his balls deep into my fertile cunt, right against my cervix. He tells me how he's cumming and filling me up and breeding me, and I can't hide the moan it pulls from me. He calls me his stupid cumdump, his breeding bitch. Tells me that being a hole to rape and breed is all I'm good for. He makes me repeat it. I repeat it until I know it's true.
When he pulls out, he doesn't clean me up. He slaps my pussy and ass and calls me a slutty little rapedoll. He degrades me for cumming on rapecock twice. It makes my pussy gush.
If I finger myself in the shower to the thought of carrying his rape baby after he leaves, that's my problem
being told to take that cock while you’re pinned and getting fucked is so hot cause it’s not an ask or praise, it’s an outright demand. they’re inside you, pounding your cunt so hard and slamming into you that you can barely catch your breath and you quite literally have no choice but to take it. the phrase is a mockery, made to remind you to lay there and submit, let your cunt do what it does best
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming