The other day, after edging, Daddy told me to write down a fantasy that I think about whenever I edge. This is the result.
Iâm strapped down on some sort of table. My arms and legs are spread, and I can barely move my head to look around. All I have is a little patch of ceiling to look at. I hear a door opening, and then a voice says in my direction, âHow is clitty today?â Sometimes the voice is female, and sometimes itâs male. Sometimes theyâre very obviously speaking like a doctor, and Iâm aware that Iâm in a hospital. Other times, itâs just someone that decided to drug me and take me home with them to play around with their new toy. Either way, they always sound infuriatingly condescending. I pull at my bonds in response and tell them to let me go, and they slap me across the thigh. âShut up, slut. I wasnât talking to you.â They bend down and look between my legs. Their breath is brushing my cunt, and they slowly start to prod their fingers around down there. âAww, clitty looks so shy today! Whoâs a shy clitty? Is it you?â They never touch my clit directly, but they pull back my hood and lightly stroke my folds.
This goes on for a whileâ them humiliating me and treating me as if my clit is something separate from me. Every time I speak, Iâm met with a slap. I try to squirm, but Iâm strapped down too tightly. I try so hard not to let it get to me, but, eventually, their fingers start to feel good. I can feel a bit of wetness trickle out of my hole, and their fingers go down to collect it and swirl it around my clit. âGood clitty! See, you donât have to be shy. This feels good, doesnât it?â Iâve given up on speaking. All I do is whimper and moan and continue trying to squirm away from my captor.
After some time, I can glean together bits of what theyâre saying. Their mission is to make sure all clitties feel âconfidentâ, and Iâm their guinea pig for this new studyâ what the fuck does that even mean? But they keep rubbing and stroking, sometimes brushing their fingers along my inner thighs or my stomach, and itâs pretty easy to figure out what theyâre trying to do. They just want my clit to be swollen, denied, and begging for stimulation.
What happens here changes depending on when I fantasize about it. Sometimes they start to fuck me with their fingers, sometimes they pop some kind of pill in my mouth, sometimes they just start rubbing faster and harder around my clit, but no matter what, they never touch it. However it happens, they bring me to the edge. Iâm gasping and writhing and my clit feels like itâs on fire. If only something could touch it for just a second, I might be able to cum.
Once Iâm on the edge, they slowly start stimulating me less and less. If they had a finger inside of me and one rubbing circles around my clit, theyâll take out the finger that was inside. Once I get to the edge again with just the one finger circling my clit, theyâll make the circle larger and wait until Iâm on the edge again. Itâs agonizing. Finally, all theyâre doing is tapping my outer my lips every few seconds. If they just tapped a little harder, a little more, a little faster, I might be able to cum, but of course they never do that. They stop tapping, and then it clicks for me. Iâve lost. Iâm on the edge, and itâs not going away. Iâm not coming down and the only way to get closer to cumming is some sort of physical stimulation, and it never comes. I canât move or think clearly, but all I want to do is buck my hips towards their fingers againâ my only chance of escape.
Usually by this point, Iâm actually already on the edge, and I just keep thinking about that feeling of helplessness and desperation that goes with being trapped there, along with the frustration in the fantasy of never having my clit touched. If Iâm not on edge thoughâ
Theyâll somehow move me (donât ask me how theyâd move me without inducing orgasmâ fantasies donât have to make sense) and put me on display in a museum. Iâll be laid down in a small glass box with just enough air circulating through to keep me conscious. People come by and look at the girl whoâs eternally on the edge. I canât move, stillâ either by some sort of paralyzing drug or just fancy glass chains to match the box. People come over and look into my eyes. They enjoy looking at the hopelessness and frustration in them. Thatâs what the display is about, after all. Sometimes theyâll talk at me or tap on my box to make me twitch. Sometimes, I hear a tour guide coming near me with a little audience of 15 people or so, and he recounts the whole story of how I came to be here. Then heâll do is favorite trick to impress them. Heâll come up right next to where my head rests and start whispering any manner of dirty and depraved things to me. Heâs done this countless times, and by this point he knows exactly what to say to make me cry. Thatâs his goal. Get the girl to cry for the audience. They laugh and clap for him, and he moves on to the next display.
amandla
dailybridgerton
jimmyeatworldofficial
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
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