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And as soon as you’re ready we’re gonna let you cum.
“Mmmm! Mmmhmnngh.
Oh… you do want to cum, don't you?
"Mmnngh hhhmmnngh! MMNNNnnngnh! Gggrgglllghh!"
I love your cute little needy noises. You must be so close.
“Gghhrrg… pppblbbrrrhhh…”
Mmm, oh that feels so good so deep in your tight little throat. You’re doing such a good job with your deepthroat training. I don’t feel any teeth at all.
“Uhngrmbmblffsthguhl pbbuggghkk muhhh…”
You’re very welcome. Oops! Keep it in there… all the way down, if you can. Mmm. It feels so nice. I’m definitely going to cum really soon, right down that pretty throat. How about you, little one? Are you ready for a nice orgasm for that needy little cunt?”
"Aaaannnnghh!"
Haha, I’ll bet. Stay really close then. It's just like we said, if you want to cum, all you have to do is ask nice and politely and I'll let you have a nice, big, full orgasm.
Oh, careful! You mouth slipped off my cock for a second! I’m really close, so let me help you, okay? There we go. No more slipping.
“Fffthh-hhrrr-rrrr….”
Oh look at you shaking. I can see just how close you are. I’m almost at the edge, too. Just say the word and I’ll give you permission. Maybe we’ll cum together… But, it’s okay if you don’t want to. You never ever have to cum if you don’t want to.
“Fggffgthhrrr…hrrrrr…hrrrr…”
Unnngh… better be quick, little cunt. Mmmmhhh… Once I cum we’ll be all done and ohhhh your throat feels so nice…”
“Nnnnnggggoooooookkkhh, FFkktthhrrr…”
We’re both so close! Maybe it’s time? Time to cum? It’s been so long for you. So, so long…
Oh god… oh, little one… stop that thrashing… stop moving… be so still… so very still… so Sir can cum… so Sir can… Unnnnnngghhhh… ohhh… oh, my good girl… my good, good girl… oh, look at you. Still so close. Oh my goodness!
“Thhhir, pghleezz-”
No, no, no… you swallow… swallow. Swallow it all down like a good girl. Don’t be rude, okay? There you go. That’s it. Good girl. Good girl!
“Ggkhaaahhh… No, Sir, please!”
No? You’re not a good girl?
“No!… I mean yes… I mean… thank you, Sir, but-”
Oh you’re a little flustered, huh. That was a big orgasm you gave up for me.
“No, Sir I didn’t mean give it up! Please, can I have it?”
Oh, sweetie, we talked about the rules this time. You needed to ask me before I had my orgasm, silly girl. Did you forget?
“No, Sir, I didn’t forget! I tried and tried, but-”
But you just couldn’t do it, huh.
“No, Sir.”
I guess something stopped you. Maybe it’s how we’ve been talking about how much I enjoy keeping you needy and denied. Do you think so?
“Um… I think… I just couldn’t say it cause you had the big one down in my throat, so I couldn’t talk.”
Oh! Well, maybe that’s part of it, but I’ll bet another reason was because some part of you is wanting to stay being a good girl for me. Remember how we talked about how that’s probably gonna happen more and more?
“Yes, Sir, I remember, but-“
Don’t you think there’s a part like that in you?
“I… um… yes, Sir, and I do want that, but I just… I need… I mean I really want to cum still.”
Ohhhh, I see. But, I already know that! We talked about it, remember? About how you’re always going to want it, even when you’re all done forever. That wanting it feeling is never going to go away. But we’re training that little brain to always remember that good girls don’t cum, and to remember all the good good reasons why. Do you remember the reasons?
“I… I think so…”
Hmmm, that doesn’t sound so sure. Why don’t you make me a nice list for tomorrow of all the ones you remember and we’ll go over it again, okay?
“Mhm, okay, Sir, but-”
But don’t worry about how much you want to cum. It’s okay to have that feeling. I like how much you want it when I take it away. That makes it extra nice for me. You remember that, right?
“Mhm. I remember, Sir.”
Good girl! You’re really pretty smart about good girl stuff.
“Mmm, thank you, Sir!”
Now there’s a pretty smile! You’re welcome, little one. Now, I know my cock was making it a little hard to speak clearly, but I actually didn’t feel you trying even as much as usual.
“Really?”
Really. I truly do think a bigger and bigger part of you is wanting to be a good girl for me. I like that.
“I hope so, Sir. I’m… I’m sorry for trying…”
That’s okay. I know you wish you could give them all up already, but it’s really hard and it takes nice patient training from your Sir, okay?
“Mhm. Okay, Sir.”
You are a good girl. If you listen to me and do as I say, before you know it you’ll be all ready to give them all up and be a perfect good girl for me. I promise. But until then, it’s okay if you have to ask and even if you have one - with permission of course. But I’m really so glad you didn’t tonight. It made mine feel so much better. Thank you for that.
Me, too. And now it’s in your belly - just where it belongs! How ‘bout we get you over here where you belong, and have a nice cuddle while Sir rubs that little cunt some more. Sound good?
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Fucking her face roughly first thing in the morning, checking her phone for her as she gags and chokes because I'm a gentleman.
"Your mom wants that recipe you were talking about."
*gluck gluck gluck*
"Oh neat, your friends went to that glass museum. We should do that!"
*gluck gags gluck gluck moans gluck gluck*
"We'll have to mind the weather today— fuck, swallow pet, there ya go, there ya go... just like that.... Yah I think you'll need a jacket my little cocksucker. Let's check out that museum, c'mon!"
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.
I always come back to gratitude. Specifically about how fun it is to make someone say thank you and mean it while I’m doing something terrible to them.
It starts simple. I make you cum and I tell you to say thank you and you do because that’s easy. That one makes sense. Someone made you feel good, and you express gratitude, that’s just good manners. You don’t even think about it. Thank you. Of course. That felt amazing. Thank you.
But then I have you say it again the next time while my hand is around your throat. Say it. And you do, thank you, a little choked and sputtering, and something about forcing the words out while you can barely breathe makes them feel different in your mouth. Heavier. More real. You said thank you while I was hurting you and you meant it and that’s a new piece of information about yourself that you have to carry around.
Then I start expanding the territory. I want to hear it when you’re wet. Not just when you cum. When you’re wet. The moment you notice that your body is responding to me I want you to stop whatever you’re doing and say thank you. Because that arousal doesn’t happen without me. That drip between your legs is something I built. I put it there through weeks and months of conditioning you to respond to my voice and my hands and my words and the least you can do is acknowledge where it comes from. So every time you feel it. Thank you. In the morning when you wake up thinking about me and you’re already soaked before you’ve opened your eyes. Thank you. In the middle of your workday when something I said three nights ago surfaces in your brain and suddenly your thighs are pressing together under your desk. Thank you. You text it to me like a little status report. Like a prayer you send throughout the day to the person responsible for keeping you this ruined.
But we can push further. I’ll have you thanking me for the things that should horrify you: Thank you for taking your limits away. Say it. Thank you for crossing every line I drew. Thank you for making me need this. Thank you for making it so I can’t cum without your permission. Thank you for showing my friends what I look like when I beg. Thank you for the bruises. Thank you for the photos you keep in a folder I pretend I’ve forgotten about. Thank you for making me say all of this out loud.
Say it after I make you do something new and degrading, and hear the thank you come out before you’ve even processed what just happened to you. Your brain skips straight past the shock and the shame and lands on thank you as your default setting. No matter what I do to you the first thing your body produces in response is a thank you that I’m the one doing it.
The way some people moan or gasp or cry. You say thank you. That’s your sound now. That’s what comes out of you when you’re overwhelmed and desperate and completely under my control.
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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.
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.
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