This is for your protection

i dont make the rules, using the thesaurus always ends in a passionate jerking off session

record the amount of time it takes to cum. set the next timer for that amount of time. see if it can beat its own record.

repeat. and repeat. and repeat. how fast and pathetic can it be? how much can you ruin it's stamina? can you get to the point where it cums within mere minutes of being touched? seconds?

once it's trained like this do away with the timer. start employing strict punishments for cumming too quickly/without permission. you've primed it to fail.

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.