The last few days have been all about wanking like this: on my front, my Doxy jammed against my clit, wishing that someone was there to tie my hands together and taunt me as I squirmed my way to an orgasm. One of the fantasies in my mind has been of a rough, dirty garage-floor fuck…
My arms are tied behind my back.
Just to see if I could, I’ve tried to get to my feet a few times, but rough hands – and on one occasion a sturdy boot – made sure I didn’t get up. It’s not that I want to escape, so much as I want to know that I can’t.
I need to know that I’m completely helpless.
They’ve been kind: there is a tarpaulin and a clean sheet laid down, so I’m spared lying on the cold concrete floor.
“Look at the little slut – she’s already dripping, even though we haven’t begun to play with her yet…”
I’m not spared the mocking words for having already made a mess of that sheet, though, and I know that their teasing is making me wetter.
It’s not my bound arms that leave me completely at their mercy: it’s fact they gagged me with my own soaking wet knickers, stuffing them into my mouth even as I squealed, and buckling on a spider-gag to keep me from spitting them out. (I did that earlier and learnt the hard way that begging for someone to touch my clit will only earn me some harsh spanks to my cunt.)
The only noises I can make are muffled moans and squeals and whines, leaving me unable to beg them to stop. Or beg for more.
Which isn’t too much of a problem until they do start playing with me.
They’ve been teasing me for a while as I lie there, squirming on my front. Fingers dipping into my cunt, sly pinches that would have made me yelp if I could have, and harsh smacks with hands and belts… but now strong hands slap my thighs and tell me to spread my legs. An object – cold, all metal and silicone – is pushed between my legs and against my cunt. I hump against it gently, and it feels so good against my soaking cunt and aching clit.
Their jeers rise to laughter as they flick a switch and the object starts to rumble beneath me. It feels like a cross between a power tool and a vibrator, and I scream though my gag as they increase the intensity of the vibrations. It’s almost painfully intense, and I squirm desperately against the… fucking machine? I don’t know what it is they’re using on me, but it’s extremely powerful.
I squirm and try to tell them that I need it to stop – that I need a break for just one second – but I can’t. My mouth is forced open by the gag, and drool is running down my face, adding to my shame. I cannot beg… but they can interpret my muffled groans however they want.
“What, you want more, little slut? Aww, our slut wants us to turn the toy up!”
I curse as the rumbling vibrations get more powerful, because with my hands tied behind me like this, I cannot angle them against my clit in a way that will make me come.
“The slut deserves a little comfort, surely?” someone says, and for a second, I hope I’m going to get a little relief. Then my watchers laugh, and someone pulls on my hair, forcing me to lift my head up. When I drop my head again, it’s onto a soft pillow that I sink into. Even with turning my head to the side, its suddenly a little harder to breath… and then I realise that the pillow raises my head, having the effect of pushing my cunt more directly into the machine underneath me.
And just at the point when it feels like it’s going to rip an orgasm from my poor, tortured clit?
The bastards turn off the machine.
Image sourced through Pixabay.
Quinn Rhodes (he/him) is a queer, trans, disabled sex writer with vaginismus. He’s a slut and a sex nerd who writes about his adventures in trying to fuck without fucking up. Quinn can usually be found wearing stomp-on-the-patriarchy boots while falling in love every time he fucks.