put her canine teeth in the side of my neck

Since I’m turned on but not actually touching myself or anything, I’ve been crossing and squeezing my legs and squirming. This made me wonder what my (hypothetical) dom would do if they noticed. He couldn’t just let it go without a remark — then I’d think that he didn’t notice my desperation and maybe I’d sneak off and come without permission. So he orders me to take my pants off, bends me over the nearest couch arm or table, and has a good look. My discarded boxers are soaked, of course, and my cock is hard, prominent in between my legs. He coaxes me into spreading my legs — a slap to my thighs helps ease my resistance — and now they’re too far apart for me to get any pressure or friction from squirming. Everything is on display, but by now I’m so needy that my embarrassment doesn’t stop my from rocking my hips and pushing onto his hands as he inspects me, spreading me apart as my holes clench and my dick twitches and grows.

My dom decided this is a good time for some training. I need to learn to enjoy need without touching, without any satisfaction. So he puts me in spreader bar and slides a fat, heavy plug into my ass as I moan. He touches my dick lightly, and I start trying to hump his hand, but he quickly puts on a pump and gives it a few squeezes. He leaves the tube and handle to dangle, the suction keeping them attached to my body. The weight and pull are unbearable.

Now, he could restrain my further, but he doesn’t. I am to keep my arms outstretched, back arched, ass up, and remain leaning over whatever surface he put me on. He goes to work in the same room, facing the other way. If I stand up, wiggle, try to hump something or touch myself, hell hear it, and I’m already in the perfect position to be spanked. I can’t get away quickly with the spreader bar in place. So I stay in place, obedient, need growing, my entire body on fire. My cock gets puffier and harder in the pump and my face burns with embarrassment at being left like this. The only relief I can get is by arching my back even further and clenching around my plug, making me drip down my legs and onto the floor.

I cry when you pull out of my cunt, tremble and sob as your fingers play with the rim of my gaping hole, pinching and stretching and fucking in so easily. You’re gonna keep me open, you tell me, and you shove a beer can into my cunt. 

It hurts, but it’s also cool against my overheated flesh. I can feel the beer inside it sloshing around against the thin aluminum sides. 

You pull up my briefs to keep it in place and help me stand. It’s painful, and I can’t walk without waddling around. It’s embarrassing enough with just you there. When your friends start to show up, I can barely meet their eyes. 

You don’t need me to meet their eyes. You turn me around, bend me over whatever’s closest — the kitchen table, the arm of the sofa — pull down my pants and show them the can. They laugh, tapping the top of it, fucking it in and out of me in short, shallow thrusts. My cheeks burn. Tears well in my eyes. 

When all of your friends have arrived, you take me out to the back patio, strip me down, and lay me out on the rough concrete. They tower over me, leering and laughing, drinks in their hands that I should have made but I couldn’t because my hands were so shaky and I could stand up straight enough to reach the liquor cabinet. 

You’re here. Down on your knees with me. You push the beer can back inside me when my pussy tried to force it out. You laugh at me, too, but there’s pride in your eyes when you do. Then you start fucking me. 

The beer sloshes inside the can as you shove it in me, pull it out, and shove it in again. It hurts. It feels so good. My body doesn’t know what to do with it. 

Your friends are still talking and laughing. Somebody has a phone aimed at me, filming. Another crouches down and works my clit. 

Tears spill over. You fuck me harder. Faster. I’m so wet, so needy. You fuck me with this huge thing and I can’t help but love it. Love you for hurting me so exquisitely. 

When I feel my orgasm getting close, I ask, beg you to let me come. You smile, tip my hips up, and say, “yes.” 

The new angle hurts more, feels strange, but doesn’t stop the pleasure. 

When I come, you stop fucking me and I’m confused for a moment at what your hands are doing, until I hear hiss-pop of the can opening. Until I feel the explosion of it, beer and foam spilling over me, over you, over the ground. It’s like I’m squirting, like I’m ejaculating. It covers me. Spattering my chest, dripping from my thighs, pooling on my belly. I understand, now, why you brought us outside. 

It smells like beer. Everything smells like beer. You lick some of it off me. You pull the can out and I scream and you pour the rest of the beer all over me, face and body and cunt. 

You’re covered in it, too. My come. 

You leave me there, lying in the puddle of it, your friends taking pictures and videos. The one whose fingers were on my clit has the same fingers in their mouth, tasting me. 

My cunt feels so empty now. After being so full for so long, it gapes open like it was made to be stretched wide and needs something hard to clench around. Like it’s ruined. It will never be the same again. 

It sits in your lap. Through the front of your shirt you can feel its naked back. Your own back resting against a pillow, though you can feel the wooden headboard through it. Beneath the entangled two of you lay a mess of blankets. Ten minutes ago they were neatly tucked in, but your toy's been a bit too excited. In your right hand, your fingers gently hold its leash, with much of its length wrapped up further. Your left hand runs free along its body.

Control. To order, limit, or rule something, or someone's actions or behavior. For you, control is the essence of power. Control is with one hand limiting and restricting the motion of your toy's body to the point where it can't even escape your lap. Control is the way it shivers at your touch and the way it speaks at your whim. Control is found in the marks of ownership you've left on its mind and body for all who behold it to see and know you by.

Your fingers idly twist and pull around its leash. The back of your thumb clicks along the grooves in the nylon webbing. You never fully erase the slack, but you've kept the length shifting. Partially it's just stimming. Enjoying the feel of the smooth polymer cord against the calluses of your hand. But even more it's to keep an awareness of the leash in your toy's mind. You can see how the leash affects its movement. Even when it's shuddering in pain or pleasure at your touch, it never strays too far, never fights it, never tries to escape.

At this high point of control, you feel relaxed. Every inch of your toy's body belongs to you. Not in a loose sense of possession, but in a real sense of knowledge. You know how it will respond to your fingers wherever they may land, and you adjust your touch accordingly. That epistemic claim is held in the forefront of your brain, and fits like a gemstone set in a crown. Each moment further polishing your claim through observation, and verifying it through action.

The fingers of your left hand dance across the dimples, grooves, and bends of its body. Where your toy expects you to touch it, it writhes. Shifting away or toward your left hand as its body demands more pleasure or less pain. Your hand approaches the right place and it shies away. Red and purple marks out spots you've already gone to work enough to cause a flinch. But, it shifts back as well, knowing what you expect and knowing that the choice to continue is yours, not its. On occasion it moans, when the lightest touch is still enough.

Today's exercise of control has been one of marking. Further trial and error with your toy's body, exploring the kinds of marks that may be left and how to best leave them. It's a slow and methodical process, and your toy sometimes grows bored of such exercises, so between targets you take the time to keep your toy's mind engaged. Pressing down on bruises, groping sensitive spaces, biting when it doesn't expect you to, or simply whispering the right words at the right time.

The moment shifts and a decision is made. Left hand snakes up back of neck while right hand pulls it back from fighting. Flat hand reaches into hair before making a fist. A squeal of shock with a hint of moaning underneath. Twist to the side, revealing the neck, and bite down. Enjoy the moan. Listen to its volume and depth, keep it from getting too loud and press harder when it gets too steady.

This goal lies in keeping your toy's mind from ever moving too far from shivering in pain or pleasure, from panicked anticipation of your next action, from desperation and expression of desire. On some level, this is your primary task and your primary skill. Everything else supports it, from the trappings and the signifiers to the expressions and the substance.

It writhes and shakes against you. Hips press up and down and bone hits bone but clothing dampens it. The pain makes you giggle. Its naked flesh lightly bounces in front of you. The rhythm of the writhing enough to cause such motions. The pain reaches another high point and it starts breathing out swears before you pinch it through its hair and the sounds become apologies.

Can you imagine being that sub? There's something about the permanence of it. You're naked, helpless, kneeling on the deck surrounded by fully clothed men. Feeling the metal straps around your limbs and hearing the drill screw you in.

Start by playing with me. I'll protest a bit, but we both know it's all for fun. Undress me, slap my face a few times, rub my cunt roughly. "To get it ready," you tell me.

Tie me spread eagle to that mattress, using the anchor points on the inside of the van, so it's nice and secure. I still don't know what your plan is, I'm too lost in the pleasure of your fingers inside me.

The cherry on top is you gagging and blindfolding me. You look back to admire your work, and I whimper at the lost friction of your hand.

Like, slow warmup stretches, getting handsy and very close. Talk me through it, and if I make a noise smirk and say "oh? You like it when I stretch you out?"

Watch my ass bounce as I jog on the treadmill. Really listen to my heavy breathing as it turns into panting.

Spot me on the bench press and make sure I'm looking up your shorts directly at your dick. Brush it against my lips "on accident".

Make me do too many leg presses, so when I get off the machine I can't stand up. Use the pretense of helping me walk to molest me covertly.

I had driven to his house out in the suburbs that night because on Wednesdays his wife has girls night. She'll be out of the house until 8:30.

Their house is nice and meticulously clean. Family portraits hang on the walls. There's a cross by the door.

He told me yesterday over text that he wanted to meet up. That he has a problem: he loves his wife, but he's a pervert and she's not. So he gets sluts barely older than his own son and ruins them. He needs to, he explains, so he can continue to live a happy normal life.

The porch light is off, and my hand has just risen to knock on the door when it opens suddenly.

"Come in, come in. Hurry up. Did anyone see you?" He pulls me inside, off the dark street, and closes the door.

"I don't think anyone saw me."

He's big. A little fat, heavily muscled. I watch his anxiety about being spotted settle in to a predatory gaze. I can't help squeezing my things together.

"Good. Good. I don't want to have to explain why I had a such a dirty little slut at my place. Look at those perfect tits, Jesus." He grabs one over my braless T-shirt, thumb circling my nipple slowly. "Call me daddy."

"Yes, daddy," I tell him as I squirm just a little. He starts pulling on my nipple, coaxing it to stiffness. His other hand roams down and rubs my pussy through my jeans. I moan breathily; a pornstar moan. My pussy is wet already. "Thank you, daddy," I say, my voice hitching when his grip on my nipple tightens and he twists painfully.

"Take off your clothes, I want to see your tight young cunt drip for me."

As I strip he takes out his cock and strokes it lazily. Other than that he stays completely clothed.

"That's a good whore. Now spread your pussy. Show me what I'm about to ruin." I follow his orders.

He touches me everywhere. My ass, my tits, my thighs, the back of my neck. He takes him fingers and explores the inside of my mouth. Then he inspects my cunt. At first they're rubbing, then one easily enters my pussy. "Clench," he tells me, so I do.

"Good, you'll do just fine." He grabs a handful of my hair and leads me through the sparkling kitchen and into the garage. There's a laundry machine in the corner, his car, an empty spot for hers, and an old couch in front of a tv.

He promises a good night, all on him. He says to dress nice, cause we're going out.

I get into his car at 6 and he takes us downtown to that new restaurant everyone's been talking about. I don't notice how many cocktails I've had, I'm just enjoying the night, flirting with this man and being spoiled. He leans over and snakes an arm around me, hand feeling my nipple through my binder.

"Damn, you're too hot. I can't fucking help myself." He says, low in my ear.

He pays the bill and we leave quickly.

His apartment isn't far. It's one of those luxury modern ones, with floor-to-ceiling windows whose view stretches across the entire city.

As I'm admiring the view I see his reflection coming up behind me. With a spike of fear and arousal I notice how imposing he is. Large frame and well cared for muscles. He puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Now, I've spent all this time and money on you. Don't you think it's time to even the balance? You can't have thought you were getting all that for free, could you?"

My cunt starts to ache. I involuntarily squeeze my thighs together. "What do you want me to do?" I ask, the teasing edge gone from my voice, replaced by need and fear and complete submission.

"First, I want you to know about the rules in my apartment. Little sluts like you don't get clothes in here. Take them off and fold them by the door. Once we get that ground rule out of the way, then we can talk about repayment."

I turn and lock eyes with him while I strip, looking up through my eyelashes, but keeping my face still. He sits back on the couch and watches me. It briefly flashes through my mind that this must be what cows up for auction feel like.

His eyes follow me as I set my clothes beside the door in a neat pile and return to him. He's still fully dressed, shoes and everything. He's got his dick out and is stroking it lazily, enjoying how small and helpless I look, naked before him in his apartment. The lights are on, and I realize that even from this high up people on the street could still probably see my bare ass facing the huge window.

It starts off casual, we all smoke and watch a shitty movie while chatting, a few drinks here and there. I'm at ease but still sober enough to be aware of everything.

You don't want me fully intoxicated, you want me to remember this.

I'm sitting in your lap when the conversation starts to drift and a couple people complain about being bored.

"I have something for that" you say. Then suddenly I feel your hands pushing at my waistband, I squirm and look at you, confused.

Then, as if planned, your friends hold me down while you slowly strip me. I protest and struggle the whole time but I'm no match for a group. I whimper and start to cry as you spread my boycunt with your fingers. Someone gropes my chest and another person pulls out their camera to get a good shot.

"I think he can keep us entertained for a while" you say cheerfully, starting to firmly rub my tdick, getting me wet and ready for your friends cocks.

You hold me as each of your friends takes their turn raping my tight hole, spilling their seed deep in me, continuously stroking my cock making me helplessly moan and cum at my rape.

I'm so full of cum that it leaks and dribbles out, i fully give up my feeble struggles, going limp and brainless.

Then it's your turn.

You bend me over the coffee table, and fuck me slowly in front of everyone, draining the last ounce of dignity from me.

"beg to cum on my cock, beg to cum and put on a show like a good boy" you whisper in my ear, your thrusts getting faster as you climax.

And I beg, what else can I do? I cum harder than ever before with all those eyes on me. And it's not really rape if I like it, right?

I'm the centerpiece of the evening now, I realize.