Filthy Kate

[KurvyKate]

Beautiful Dress

I was offered to a man who wanted me smart, elegant and pretty. He took pains to instruct me in how he wanted me to look. He chose my clothes for me and helped me to dress so I'd be just the way he wanted. I wore a beautiful, long, loose fitting dress which showed off my breasts and most of my back so that I needed to move carefully in order not to fall out of it. It was held in round my waist with a belt which was practically all that held it together. A sharp tug from any direction would pull me open. He wanted me to feel precarious.

We went out to a bar and he arranged the dress so that anyone who took a close look would notice the sides of my breasts, or worse, an occasional glimpse of all of one. No, he didn't let me wear a bra. He told me not to attempt to guard myself or touch the dress to cover myself up. He wanted me to attract attention.

As the evening wore on he loosened me, adjusting the dress so that more and more of my bare flesh showed. He let the other people in the bar look at my legs when the dress fell away from them. He made me perch on a bar stool to make sure it did.

It didn't take long before someone complimented him on how sexy I looked. He laughed and joked that I was a whore and available for a host of humiliating depravities. "You can touch her if you like." he said, smiling at me. I felt the heat of shame rise up through my body and realised he intended to mercilessly degrade me.

At first no one took him up on his offer. I mean who would want to grope a lady, the princess I appeared to be, in view of a whole bar full of revellers? Of course, sooner or later, someone would drink enough.

I endured hands stroking my thighs and more of them furtively squeezing my breasts, outside the dress and then inside as my tormentors were encouraged by my acceptance. I let them twist my nipples, my escort's expression warning me not to resist it.

Of course I attracted the attention of the bar staff too and as the focus of such inappropriate behaviour, I was sure I'd be asked to leave. My escort, my master, told the more careless of my molesters that we could retire to the car park for £20. Oh fuck!

He watched my intended fall from grace. £60 later I'd been pushed up against a car, my dress had been dragged open and I'd held my knickers away from my body to allow the boorish drunkards to come inside them. I breathed their beery, second hand breath while they jerked themselves off. "You fuckin slut!" one said. Yes, I know.

Sticky, uncomfortable and profoundly humiliated I put myself back together and resumed my place in the bar when my escort ordered me to. It was hot in there, I could feel myself sweat. From a distance no one knew what I'd just done but I'm sure I wasn't the only one who could smell how dirty I was beneath my beautiful dress.

He told me he'd hose me down before he touched me himself.

 

[KurvyKate]

Something's happened to me and I've discovered an erotic power in the act of submission which the physical manifestation of it rarely matches. Pictorial art doesn't often express submission, as in consenting to suffer, and usually relies on the non consensual themes of slavery, judicial punishment or the imposed will of some horrible, wicked bastard to give the heroine her chance to sexually gratify her audience. Sometimes the pictures do, it's magical then.


To my mind, the psychological subtlety in signing up for degradation, although understood amongst those who would, doesn't quite make sense in the context of the time honoured standards of the non-con sexual persecution we all know and love. I thought I'd try to empower my heroine and give her just that one moment of free will. That is the choice to abandon it. This is as far as I want to go, this is my thrill. You want to know what happens next? You tell me, there's nothing I can do to stop it................

Paying for it

It’s important to carry out my instructions in precisely the correct order. If I make a mistake and disable myself at the wrong time I’ll fuck up the whole event and then what? Someone might have to rescue me. Who? It won’t be anyone I’m for, anyone who’s watched me. I’ve no idea who or where they’ll be because this event, me, will be on line.

I’ve built a fantasy relationship with someone who’s opened me, he’s stripped me psychologically bare and found his way deep into my most profound wickedness. He’s used me emotionally, tested and probed me while I was helplessly intoxicated by my own lust and I was easy and willing, even though I knew he sought to own me. That thought thrilled me and I’ve let it happen. My submission means my obedience is assured until one day, maybe, he lets me go. Having offered myself I’m now his to offer to others. That’s what this event is.

It’s a webcam show and I’ll sit in front of mine in the way thousands of other girls do but where they perform their punters’ instructions, my people will control my discomfort directly. I’m going to be tortured electrically, electronically and at the discretion of my Master, he’ll let them be as cruel as he thinks I deserve, or as merciless as they convince him is necessary.

How well does he understand my fantasy, how intimately do we understand each other? I’m going to depend on him like never before. I’m more than scared, I’m terrified, I’m so excited I’m struggling to breathe. I need to concentrate hard to set myself up and get it right because I’m on my own. He owns me but he’s half a world away.

First I have to switch everything on and open Team Viewer on my computer. This means I give my Master control of it from his. I’m up in the middle of the night by the way, to make me available to those he wants to share me with, in some other time zone.

We’ll be using two, dual channel shock generators, each with a range of modes and power levels controlled by software downloaded from the manufacturers onto our computers and those of the people who’ll enjoy playing with me. USB leads run from my computer to bluetooth relays which operate the shock units fixed to the front of my chair. I’ve been instructed to glue the plugs into the boxes to make my torment secure.

To get technical for a moment, two dual channel boxes means attaching eight terminals to my body. The first two are screw on metal (of course) nipple clamps. Although I don’t know this, I’m sure my Master is watching me, I assume he is and I nip my nipples in the clamps on camera to satisfy him I’ve done it properly. The wires to these plug into one channel port on one box.

Next, also on camera, I put on what looks like a leather chastity belt but it’s function is to carry what the shock box people call “insertables”. I’m so turned on by the thought of my adventure that the terminals I’m sure most of my tormentors will go for insert easily, the lower one resting between my labia where I know I’ll feel it most. This takes up another channel port.

Two small studs attached to the crotch strap of my belt nestle in my rose above and below Her, her who’ll give them the means to destroy me. They’ll pass current through her and they’ll be the most severe test I’ll face. My master knows I can be forced to orgasm by selecting the killer mode for this and I’m praying he’ll keep that knowledge to himself. I don’t want to be tortured after I’ve come, I need denial to make me want to suffer. This uses the third port. Apart from this belt and it's crotch strap I'm naked.

The forth and final port supplies current to my butt plug. All this hardware is held in place by the crotch strap of my belt which I buckle and then lock with a small padlock. Obviously there has to be another terminal for my anal contact to pair with and that’s held in place by a panel gag which I buckle round my head. This contact is a thick oval steel disc which rests on my tongue. Apparently I look beautiful gagged like this with the wire and its promise of pain feeding through the gag and into my mouth! Trepidation and panic shine in my dark eyes, especially if they make me cry. I know they will.

Once I’ve wired myself up I attach my ankles to my spreader bar. This forces my legs so far apart I have to sit on the edge of my chair, which is intended of course, to show me off to the camera. I have to remember to place the cutters somewhere I can reach them. These will snip through the cable ties fixing my ankles, releasing me from the spreader bar. If I forget this I’ll either die of shame when my loved ones find me or die alone if they don’t.

Finally I lock my wrists behind my back in handcuffs and drop the key into a little safe having set the timer on it to unlock in 24 hours. My belt padlock key also goes in here. A whole day? The cuffs are not held together with a metal link, they’re joined by a wire with a plug and like everything else in this event, they’re electronic. I’ve been told the software is monitoring it and that once I’ve plugged it in, unplugging it will set off an instant and automatic electronic punishment I really don’t want to suffer. I’ll try desperately hard to make sure I stay plugged in. I’ll be allowed comfort breaks where I’ll take the shock control boxes with me but this devious device will make sure I’m back in front of the camera when I’m needed again. Someone somewhere will punish me if I’m not.

I know that there’s enough capacity in this system to cripple me in unimaginable agony. There has to be, because I want to rely on my Master’s discretion to allow his friends their fun with me, I want him to use me for that, to offer me to them, share me sexually and allow me no opportunity for dissent.

It’s not simply trusting him, it’s having to trust him. It’s a commitment to my faith in him as my Master, to show him I accept his control over me unreservedly. I’ve rendered myself helpless, only he can take care of me now, now that I’m vulnerable to what could be the worst of the internet’s monsters. I feel precarious and alive with fear, living at an intensity I’d never experience otherwise.

My whole body tingles as I wait. My pulse thunders through me, I’m tense, scared beyond anticipation when the two on line shock box control panels pop up side by side on my computer screen. Someone’s opened the programme, I’m live and about to suffer the first of hours of electric shocks to the most sensitive parts of my body.

I’ve felt my erotic thrill, the sweet dread and the gravity of the threat I crave, my submission.

Now I pay for it…………






Someone asked me how I felt after my 24 hours locked in my chair where I left myself facing the cost of my debt to my kink in Paying For It. It was like this...........

I've been exhausted many times throughout these 24 hours. Would you believe I could tell from the pattern and severity of the shocks I suffered that I also suffered different tormentors, at different times? My Master was faithful to his promise that he'd keep me safe. He watched, unseen by me of course, for signs of my distress over and beyond the agonies he knew I was prepared to endure. Of course he let those he shared me with test me. I knew he would.

He allowed each of my temporary persecutors defined periods in which to torture me, starting slowly and building the power levels of the current they would pass through my body until, I'm sure, I took more than I ever have before. During their time with me they played with the range of modes available, trying them in my mouth, up my arse, tearing through my rose and burning into my nipples to see how effective each was and when I would writhe and squirm, desperate to somehow find relief which never came, not until it did, all too briefly at the end of that session. Did they pay for me? Maybe they had and I tried to be worth it for my Master's sake, the faithful whore he's made of me.

I think I might have drifted into semiconsciousness between some sessions, not sleep exactly but I was aware that I'd been brought back into the game by the next punter and the first of the next, yet to escalate tingles. I remember waking up and thinking "Another one? Oh fuck how bad this time!"

At their worst the shocks to my mouth affected my brain, causing me to see lights I knew weren't there. I found I could suck the electrode, maximising its contact and therefore my electrical resistance. It hurt less like that. The gag stopped me screaming. The other end, my other end, often felt like it had been penetrated with a red hot poker but then, sometimes my tormentors let me enjoy the sweet sensations of how beautiful electrical stimulation can feel, somewhere so sensitive and burned more sensitive still!

Of course I knew someone would try to fry my rose. I suffered so much I'm numb. The current passing through my sex organs has overwhelmed my nerves and left me with a cold, wet sensation. The next tormentor would need more power still to inflict the discomfort he'd feel cheated if I didn't suffer. Will there be another? He? Maybe there were women, I don't know.

Yes, they made me come, a brutal wrench of an orgasm torn out of me more than once by control I could not resist, then ruined by the pain it took to force it from me. My genitals are not mine, they are for others, the mechanism through which control is inflicted upon me. Never do I feel more completely subjugated than when I think of my body like that. To be trapped spread wide, unable to prevent whoever cares from taking me, makes me feel like the worthless whore my darkest fantasies turn me into.

That's how I feel.

 

[KurvyKate]

I'm in a chat elsewhere with someone who's driven sick with lust over the idea of erotic asphyxiation. I dug out an old story posted many years ago on DA which I thought he might like to read. While I happen to have copied it, I thought I'd paste it in here. I actually played this game on my own but added the on line playmate for artistic reasons, and to give the impression that I'm not a raging frootloop!

I Think I Love You

It's 11.33am and about 5 minutes before my next alarm goes off. Then I'll roll the dice again. I've been doing it all morning at half hourly intervals. I'll roll two dice with both red and black numbers on each one. If one falls red and one falls black I'll do nothing. If they're both black or red I'll roll them again to find out how many clicks I'll need to tighten the cable tie round my neck. Why am I doing it? I'll explain as I go.

So far the cable tie is not really beginning to impede my ability to swallow or talk but I can feel its pressure. I've eaten in case I find it difficult later. It hasn't bothered me much before and the idea that someone else is asking me to do this to myself I've found strangely thrilling.

Each time the alarm has sounded I've rolled the dice as required and performed the necessary adjustment, or not if I've been lucky. Then I’ve sent my mystery tormentor an email to tell him. I must admit I felt disappointed to start with if my dice left me alone, but each step closer to wherever it is we're going felt wickedly sexy, as the game closed in round my neck. It’s added a peculiar dimension to pottering round the house cleaning it because I'm not really cleaning, I'm waiting.

11.39am. Both dice fall black. I've rolled them again and scored a four and a one, so I suffer five clicks tighter. He's allowed me a pair of scissors so I can cut the cable tie off if I have to. There's still some space between my neck and the tie to slip the scissors inside it so I'm not scared yet. However, sooner or later there won't be and if we let the game continue too far I'm worried I might not be able to cut it off easily.

I'm required to ask permission to do that. We agreed on it before we started playing. I'll send him another note in a minute to tell him I'm beginning to feel uncomfortable. I caused the tie to click an extra one by accident while I was moving it to ease the stress on my throat. I won't tell him about that, I'll take it off my next tightening. That's not cheating.

I'm calling my mystery man “him” but I don't know if he's male. All I have is his email address and that doesn't mean anything at all. He's been replying to my messages quickly enough and later, if I get in trouble, I hope he'll help me promptly. The last thing I need is for him to have a sense of humour.

He seems to be taking this as seriously as I am. I don't want to cut myself free without being told I can, I will have failed then. I want to challenge myself to cope with someone else's control over me. It's a powerful thrill to have no idea who they might be.

12.11am. Both dice are black again. This time I score a five and a one. I think “OK, here we go.” and with shaking hands push the catch only five clicks up the strap, because the game owes me one. It's still not too bad. If I look in my bathroom mirror I can see the strap is visibly cutting into my neck.

My next message tells him this, and that I can feel it start to restrict the blood returning down my veins. The tendons on the right side of my neck ache. There's still room for the scissors. Should I start to plead with him not let this go too far?

I met him, if we can call it that, on line. He asked me if I'd ever had a cable tie round my neck and asked “Would you like to?” He suggested this game. I realised slow asphyxiation must be his thing, he'd obviously spent a long time thinking about it. “Do you want to play with me?” he asked, which meant he wanted to play with me, an idea that pushed my buttons. He had the rules ready and waiting for me.

He suggested, if I wanted to, I could put the cable tie round my neck on the first click. He didn't specify how long it should be so I found what there was in my kitchen drawer and I'm wearing it now. “Message me if you do it.” he wrote.

That was at half past seven this morning after Jake, my husband, had gone to watch car racing. The tie was right length to lead me here, five hours later playing freaky head sex with a stranger I'll never actually meet. Being strangled isn't my idea of fun, but the idea of someone wanting me strangled makes me feel wonderfully persecuted. He could have wanted anything, but this is easy and simple so I did it. It felt good putting the strap round my neck for him and I'm into it now.

12.33am. I'm thinking “Oh no.” for the first time. Rolling the dice gives me one black, one red. OK I can relax. In reply to my message this time he writes “It's only a matter of time!” I know that but until what? Contemplating my future is fun, especially with the now constant pressure on my throat. What am I going to write to him, near the end? I know I'll have to make him understand how scared I am if it comes to it. I want his permission to escape, it's important to me.

Setting the alarm at half hourly intervals was just a guess on my part. I have no idea how many little plastic ridges there are on a cable tie. He let me have whatever time I first thought of and just seemed pleased I'd written “I've done it, we're playing. See you in half an hour.” “Good girl.” he wrote back.

All morning there's been not much to say, I've simply been checking in. I wonder what he's doing? Is he at work or at home? Are his family somewhere else in the house while he's upstairs in his office, imagining me slowly choking thousands of miles away? Does he think I'm making this up? Could he tell if I did? Would he be amazed if he knew I was actually doing it. I'm doing all of it, I just interrupt his day every half hour to tell him.

1.14pm. I get both black, oh well. A further apprehensive roll results in eight uncomfortable clicks tighter and now I can really feel it. I send a message to tell him the catch is resting against my larynx, pinching my skin and I can no longer lift my head up without hurting myself.

The strap is now too tight to move and I can't spin it round. I can feel my pulse in my head but I can still cut myself free. I've tested it, worried I might carelessly tighten it too far next time. He sends back “Good, now we're getting there.” It occurs to me it might be a good idea to lie. Should I tell him it's worse than it is, to get permission well before I get too scared?

I have to report back the details. I've told him I'm stuck in the house until he lets me go because at first I couldn't let anyone see me, now it’s because I can't move properly. Now housework's out of the question, I'm just sitting at the kitchen table with a laptop, two dice and a cooking timer, thinking. Imagining that I'm trapped here is lovely.

I'm still in my bath robe and touching myself is undeniably tempting but it's my rampant hormones that make me want this, I'd better not use them up. If I fail to resist I feel I ought to tell him but up until now, he hasn't mentioned the possibility. I behave, so I don't have to mention it either.

Jake won't be home until six or seven this evening but this can't go on for much longer, a couple of hours maybe, if the dice are kind to me. If they're not it could all be over soon.

Before my next half hour is up I send a message to say the pressure is getting worse and my neck is beginning to seriously hurt, even though I haven't touched anything. There’s no reply, interim messaging is not in the rules. I agreed to note him on the half hour and he must have assumed I meant only then. This means I'll have to plead at the designated time without waiting to see if I can cope. I decide to ask for release next time if the numbers are bad.

1.45pm. “Oh bloody hell!” I think before rolling one red and one black. Not this time then but I'm not sure I'm relieved. I really am uncomfortable and my head is starting to ache. I tell him what the dice said and let him know I'm looking forward to getting this over with because another half an hour, or hour, or two might not be as much fun as I thought it would be. “LOL Tough!” and a smiley face come back.

I'm not allowed to argue. We get one message each on the half hour and mine is first to prevent dissent. Thankfully I can still swallow in spite of worrying about it and drinking tea is perfectly possible. I can still talk too even though my voice is a bit creaky. Fortunately I have no one to talk to. While the computer's running I amuse myself with Facebook and think of posting “Guess what I'm doing?” Everyone else's lives look very normal.

2.17pm. This time I want the dice to throttle me, I want to face the challenge instead of waiting for it. They're both black, good! I know I might have to choose between wimping out and staying true to the game and hope my courage holds as I roll. I get a six and a four. Is this it?

Tingling with excitement I push the catch further than my neck wants to let it go. My face feels as if it's bursting and I can't move enough to look down at the keyboard. When I try to type I discover my vision is blurred. I must be fucking barkin' mad!

This hurts badly, crushing the tendons both sides of my neck. The pressure is building in my head, and I'm genuinely frightened it might be dangerous. I tell him that. I tell him I need permission to cut myself free now because I'm scared that half an hour of this will damage me permanently. I type PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE in capitals and HELP ME because I've had enough, praying he'll know how awful suffering like this is. Desperate, I send it quickly.

“Where's the detail in this? Is this the best you can do? You've had all day to think of something interesting and you waste my time with this shit you boring sow!” appears in my inbox a few minutes later.

My vision impaired, I can only just read it. “You arsehole!” I think, outraged. I can't last another half an hour, I can't wait, this is horrible and I decide to bottle it and leave the game for the sake of my health.

At first I can't find the scissors and have to stop to compose myself, trying hard not to panic. Then I discover the strap is so tight I can't get the pointed end of one blade under it without stabbing myself. The scissors are too long, I can't find a good angle, my hair is in the way.

For the second time I have to stop and tell myself to calm down and think. My head feels like it's pumping up terminally. If I panic I'm fucked. I remind myself I have to be patient with so little time then I think of sliding the scissors down the top of my spine where my skin is tighter. It works and I squeeze them hard hoping I haven't caught my flesh.

The severed cable tie falls away and I'm safe. Two minutes later a new message pops up. It's from him, “Just kidding, you can cut yourself free now. I think I love you!”

 

[KurvyKate]

Junk Shop

We’re poking about down the city’s medieval back streets and we find a dusty little curiosity shop. Alison’s got an already bored look on her face and I can see her think “Do we have to go in here?” It’s just the sort of place for rummaging through a few steampunky trinkets for some home made gothic jewellery, up and coming fancy dress project for the use of. The shop is full of junk, it’s wonderful so yes, we have to.

There’s loads of stuff left over from someone’s sporting country life and it’s all tweed and green wellies. While she’s looking at musty moth eaten jackets and leather stuff I trip over a box of mostly ancient iron game keeping tools, if that’s what they are. I’m surprised to find a dog training shock collar in it and I burst out laughing. I’ve read her kinky stories, I know what goes on in that fluffy brain of hers and I pull the collar and its little black box out of its case to show her as a joke. “Hey Ali, check this out.” I call across the shop.

It’s funny and she smiles knowing I know what it means to her. Nothing else in the box looks interesting and I drop the collar back in, forget it and browse my way along the counter towards the till. A handful of metal buttons, a tie pin and what could be a knackered clock mechanism cost me £3.20. I’m pleased with that.

Out in the street, she isn’t yet. Despite her earlier reluctance she’s seen something and I watch her through the clutter in the shop window, still inside paying for it. There seems to be some reticence on the part of the shopkeeper to sell it to her, making me interested. “What did you get?” I ask as she walks outside. “Nothing.” she says. Obviously that’s not true and as she marches off to gain some distance between herself and the shop, I pop back in to check the box the dog collar was in and it’s missing. I thought it would be!

“What are you going to do with that?” I shout at her, waiting for me a hundred yards away by now. I get an up yours middle finger as an answer. It’s apparent for the rest of our afternoon that something’s distracting her.

I let her get away with not telling me for a while then on the way back to the car I accuse her of trying to buy the dog collar furtively. That’s exactly what she did and denying it is futile. “Why?” I ask. She’s a hopeless liar and the wordless shrug she attempted to deflect me with is all the confession I need. “You wanna play with it!” I laugh. “Shut up Kate.” she snaps.

When we get to the car she throws her shopping onto the back seats and we take our places. It’s her car, she’s driving and soon we’re out in the traffic on our way home.

While she drives I think about winding her up by asking her about the role of the dog collar in whatever debauched fantasy she’s thought of. Instead I heap negativity on it by telling her the collar’s bound to be broken. I amuse myself by trying to pour scorn on her expectations. “You’ll only be disappointed.” I tell her, knowing how excited she’ll be while she’s trying to charge it up, and how deflated she’ll be when she discovers it doesn’t work. A moment later I wish I’d kept quiet.

She hasn’t said much so far. Apart from smile at me laughing at her she’s been ignoring me. Out of town she pulls off the main road and drives up a narrow lane, “Where are you going?” I ask then she stops in a field entrance without answering me. She reaches round her seat to find the collar in the bag of shopping in the back. “I’m just going to test it.” she says. Now? She says she needs to know if it works. Needs?

There aren’t any instructions but it’s all ominously familiar to Alison who holds the button on the shock unit down until it bleeps at her. What does that mean? “It’s charged!” she cries, happy about that. Worse, one of the buttons on the other box makes a tiny blue light come on. I’m not sure what to make of what’s happening. Memories of all the trouble and strife we’ve been involved in come flooding back as she shouts “Ow!” and drops the shocker, violently shaking the hand she held it in. She’s shocked herself and yes, there’s nothing wrong with the bloody thing at all! Why do I suddenly have this profound sense of foreboding?

Ever had that feeling when you thought you were kidding but the universe makes sure you weren’t?

“Kate?” she asks, the inflection in her voice means I should be ready for the important question to follow, “I want you to help me.” Given our current circumstances I’m almost scared to ask her what with, so I don’t.

Even though we’re in a quiet country lane it’s not quiet enough and she looks round to count the frequency of cars passing us. Maybe it’s because someone will notice if she puts the collar round her neck that she wants to put it somewhere else?

Oh my goodness, seriously? I can’t believe her! Her husband should be doing this, but I know she can’t bear the shame of asking him. Why can’t she wait until she gets home? “Sorry, I gotta try it.” she says to convince me impatience is necessary. She slips the shock box off the collar itself. Since she saw it in the shop she hasn’t been able to think of anything else, apparently.

Unfortunately I’m as fascinated as I’m outraged and it takes me longer to lie that I’m not interested than it takes her to undo her jeans and wriggle them off her hips. She gives me the transmitter so she can use both hands to fiddle the shock unit into the gap between her jeans and her……..? Has she put it inside her underwear! I’m astonished while she squirms it into place. “No.” I tell her. “Forget it.”

This is stupid, I remember the risks we took in the past and I’m not doing all that again. It’s a classic case of the addict’s temptation raring its ugly head and I know such an addict should never go back, not even once. She’s sitting there waiting for it like it’s going to be the wildest thrill ever, just like she used to, the silly cow.

“Please Kate, please." she pleads, shaking in anticipation. She reaches over to select minimum power while I’m holding the transmitter. “Just a little tingle.” she says, “I just want to feel it.” I decide that rather than argue with her the fun option is to nip this in the bud and seriously hurt her to teach her a lesson, knowing if it doesn’t hurt enough I’ll only be encouraging her. However for the sake of our future tranquility this risk is worth taking. I wind the power dial up to max and hit the button expecting her to leap out of her seat and squeal like a tortured pig, but nothing happens.

As I look down at the control box to see why it didn’t work she asks me what I’m doing and I tell her it must be broken after all. I pretend to want to chuck it out of the car window.

“No!” she screams, “Show me, which button did you press?” When I give her the transmitter she sees the power setting and looks at me horrified. “You arse!” she curses and I think yeah, so? Her hands are shaking so much she can hardly hold the box still enough to turn the power down again.

You have to activate the shock by pressing the buzz button first, to give your dog some sort of warning and an opportunity to behave before you punish the bitch. It’s been so long I’d forgotten that.

Breathing in short sharp breaths she foolishly gives me the transmitter back, obviously deeply excited. “Please, you know what I want OK?” she says, urging me to be sensible.

I press the buzzer and we hear it loud and obvious enough, although the sound is muffled because she’s actually sitting on it, on the electrodes presumably. “Oh fuck.” she says, knowing the box is perfectly placed and she’ll get shocked next. Then I wind the volume knob back up, she shouts “No……!” as if she wants to complain about it but I zap her so quickly she wails in agony instead.

I hold the button down watching her scramble frantically under the steering wheel to reach between her legs, desperate to rip the shock box out of her knickers. She screams at me to stop with tears welling up in her eyes. I can’t help crying with laughter.

“Happy now Sponge Head?” I ask. She’s absolutely furious. That’ll do me!

While she’s extricating the shocker from her crotch, trying not to touch herself with its metal pins, because I still have the transmitter, she launches into an angry tirade about my failure to play the game properly. Her language is colourful and unguarded. “You did that on fucking purpose!” she shouts at me. Of course I did.

I call her a selfish brat in order to point out what I think of her child like self interest. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she snorts and blames me for deliberately and maliciously hurting her even though I knew what she wanted. I did that too. “I thought you’d understand.” she complains and throws the shock box onto the back seat in disgust. I do understand.

“We used to have loads of fun.” she whines as she snatches the transmitter out of my hands and that too gets lobbed over the back of our seats. We did but it all went tits up, doesn’t she remember that?

After she wriggles her jeans back on properly she starts the car, reverses into the field entrance to turn round and heads back to the main road huffing and puffing her disappointment. I hope she feels ashamed of herself.

“Why couldn’t you do just that one thing?” she wants to know a little later. After which I’d have to take care of her dirty secret forever of course, no pressure then. Just that one thing? Yeah right! I realise she’s gifted me the perfect opportunity to explain my position. “Try that again and I’ll tell your husband.” I tell her.

We almost drift into the oncoming traffic while she glares at me indignant at the gravity in my voice. I really mean it, I will. I tell her I’m going to tell my boyfriend about her behaviour anyway, I have no secrets from him, I’ve no qualms about that at all and there’s nothing she can do to stop me. “I thought we were friends!” she growls. We are, the point exactly.

“I thought you were cured.” I tell her. She looks at me wondering what I mean. “You’re not then?” I ask.

 

[KurvyKate]

Fuckhole

Yes Sir, i have indeed deluded myself in believing that you, or anyone else would become hard at the thought of imposing their sexual desires on me when i know i'm desperate to suffer that imposition myself. You're right too in that i am locked in invisible chastity, by my neglect by my Masters. i do suffer. i'm not allowed jealousy, i endure patience, hope and bitter inferiority. Of course you don't feel sorry for me and it's correct and proper that my suffering should bring you pleasure. i am for that purpose.

Is your chosen one caned once a month? Sadly i'm not. i will think on your use of her and in my mind i'll put myself not in her place but somewhere lower, somewhere of less consequence. i'll visualise how i'll dress in flimsy lingerie, inadequate to cover me should i venture out in public in it. i'll think about how i would lift my skirt to expose my knickers, themselves exposing my locked cunt.

i'd slip them off and hand them to you, if you were with me and not with her. Would it please you to send me somewhere out in public to perform this ritual, not to you but for you, according to your instructions? Would it please you to make me offer my knickers to whoever might be interested in taking them?

Would i explain how my fuckhole, my arse, was available and if he so wished my mouth was too? Would it please you to know that i'm prepared to ask "Pump come up my arse please Sir?" pleading with him to fulfil me but still knowing that he would not be you and i would not be fulfilled because if it.

Desperate, i would tell him how i'd lay on my back with my head hung to give him a smooth, uninhibited entry into my mouth. "Pump come down my throat please Sir?" i would beg. i'm sure he would if i'd chosen wisely, if i'd found someone willing to degrade and humiliate me, but my real degradation would be because i'd played the worthless cumslut, praying i might ingratiate myself with you.

He'd whip my cunt and my tits, sending me back bruised and marked with my own disgrace. i'd carry the whip, begging him to use it well.

You have her, she has you, i'm simply wretched, discarded fuckhole.

I want to come now.

 

[KurvyKate]

This is the corrected version of the story from Writing Firefly if anyone's interested in reading my progress as a writer. If you've been to...........
https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/writing-firefly.9301/#post-652314 you'll already know that I've been covered in red marks in an effort to thrash me into competence. It wasn't as painful as I though it would be.


I’ve offered myself to be stripped of my pride. I’m going to be punished.

Although the following story is fiction, I’ll be judged as a writer in real life. I expect to be torn apart by unreasonable criticism and thrashed without mercy with my own mistakes. I don’t expect to be treated fairly. I know that my playmate in this role play will sting me with derision worse than any fantasy whipping I might try to please him with.

I’ve asked to suffer the humiliation of my flaws exposed and displayed in public. It’s a subs thrill to be put in her place and taught the lessons she deserves to learn. She needs to depend on the will of another for this. I know I’ll feel angry, indignant and defeated because I’ve offered my skill as a writer as the instrument through which my inferiority will be broadcast. It’s a game of course but my playmate has real authority. I know I’ll need to cope with truth.

My fictitious self will suffer distress in parallel with my real disgrace. How severely will punishment fall on her? It has to, for my sake. Does this make sense? We’ll both suffer if it doesn’t.

Apparently I shine brightly, for brief, poetic moments. Most of the time my worth as a writer is hidden in the dark.

So the story begins…………

Firefly

It’s misty and deathly quiet. The air is still, heavy and damp, it smells earthy, organic and wild. The nearest road is a mile away, across the fields I walked to get here. I’m scared and listening for every tiny sound, mostly the slap of water drops falling from leaves too heavy with their weight.

Distance, bird noises spook me, forcing me to satisfy myself that’s what they are because I’m desperate to determine the level of threat I face. There’s nothing I can do about anything worse than disinterested wildlife but I want at least some warning of impending attack. All I can see are the trees and bushes around me. Peril could come from anywhere.

I’m handcuffed to a tree, it’s sturdy, ancient and immovable. My wrists are cuffed to a chain running behind it so I can feel the bark, cold and rough against my back and my arse. I trapped myself. That’s our game and my tree is his choice.

I’ve abandoned my coat, jumper, jeans, boots and socks, out of my reach about ten yards away, leaving me in my underwear. This is his choice too. I’m wearing white side tie knickers and a halter neck bra, also tied with a bow, both can be pulled off me easily while I’m chained.

I pleaded with him to let me keep my knickers. The erotic power in believing I’ll be teased through them is undeniable, even though I know in real life, they’d provide no barrier at all to an assault with intent to grope me. If whoever finds me isn’t him, that’s probably what will happen. Would my helplessness tempt even the most noble of men? The threat of losing them makes me melt.

I stripped before I identified the tree as instructed. He told me to look for the low branch he’d cut off and the handcuffs hanging on a nail. I knew I would stand against the trunk with the sawn stump between my thighs. It took a while to figure out how to lock myself in position, I panicked when I couldn’t do it.

My appointment with fate is only a few minutes away, giving me a small window of opportunity to render myself helpless before he gets here. I must be completely unable to resist by then. Relief isn’t quite the right word to describe the feeling of success when eventually I knocked the last cuff shut, dread would be closer to the truth.

I’m already chilled. The ground I'm standing on is muddy and wet, littered with dead and dying leaves and fallen twigs, tangled in brambles and patches of nettles. The mud under it all will soak away my body heat from the soles of my feet first, I can feel it between my toes. I’ll freeze if my ordeal lasts too long. Will it? Not knowing is a beautiful dependence.

In the cold, my nipples are proud and obvious because my shoulders are pulled back by the chain and the shape of the tree. I watch my tits ride my ribs as I breathe. Whatever my fate turns out to be, I know it looks like I’m asking for it. I asked him. The crazy thrill in this is I don’t know who he is.

He wanted this place because of the proliferation of birch trees. I realise why that’s significant. We could have agreed to meet over coffee in a cafe, in the security of a public place where I would have decided whether to play with this man or not based on something solid for my intuition to get its teeth into. If I’d chosen to play safely, my pulse wouldn’t be racing like it is now, after the reckless stupidity of simply wanting to trust him.

I know I’m gambling. I’m shaking, not just shivering because I'm chilled, yet, that will come later. I’m trembling in fear, my heart’s hammering in my chest and my breathing’s so loud I need to hold it to listen for danger. I’m terrified, I wanted to be, fuck it’s intense.

I hear the crack of a fallen branch breaking, a careless footstep? Is he here? Oh god! Will he approach me or wait, keeping his distance, watching me from the cover of the undergrowth? Will he make his decision now? He has the key to my handcuffs because I posted it to him, we agreed I would. He knows I’m stuck here if he doesn’t unlock me. We invented that as a mechanism to make sure he doesn’t simply walk away if he doesn’t fancy me. Did he think I wouldn’t do this, did he think I was kidding when I told him I wanted to feel this precarious, this vulnerable and this committed?

If it is him, is this it, months of filthy on line wickedness about to bite me for real? I’m praying whatever happens is bearable if someone else finds me first.

 

[Loinclothslave]

Well, I certainly hope this is only the first draft?

“The ground I'm standing on is muddy and wet, littered with dead and dying leaves and fallen twigs, tangled in brambles and patches of nettles.”

This sentence travesty is far too long, with far too many prepositions. I suspect there’s at least 3 sentences trying to escape from that jumble.

I’m still trying to figure out how the ground you stand on is “tangled with brambles and nettles”?

It’s kludgy. In two attempts to actually read your story with a critical eye I haven’t got past this mess.

 

[Loinclothslave]

I’m wearing white side tie knickers and a halter neck bra, also tied with a bow, both can be pulled off me easily while I’m chained.

Two sentences, fewer words:

I’m wearing white side tie knickers and a halter neck bra. Each tied with a bow, both can easily be pulled off while I’m chained.


I’m unsure if Bra isn’t redundant either given you’ve just said you’ve stripped to your underwear.

The erotic power in believing I’ll be teased through them is undeniable, even though I know in real life, they’d provide no barrier at all to an assault with intent to grope me

This should be dripping with sex but the only thing erotic about this sentence is the use of the actual word. Again, at least two sentences.

The erotic power in believing I’ll be teased through them is palpable, despite knowing in reality they’d provide no barrier at all to a well aimed groping assault.

sure, still not dripping with sex, but a much better flow now, do you agree?

Overall I’ve seen more erotic stuff from you in 5 or 6 words. I want the real Kate, this feels like Kate trying to be something she’s not. The story is very Kateesque, but I’m not getting your headspace from the language style, which is where I think your unique strengths emanate from. You should write wearing your dirty knickers on, girl.

My appointment with fate i

My fated appointment (or fateful appointment)

In the cold, my nipples are proud and obvious because my shoulders are pulled back by the chain and the shape of the tree.

Aren’t proud nipples always obvious? The shape of the tree, what? Let me offer a second attempt… oh I’ve just had an epiphany- no wonder this is so confusing - how are nipples effected by the chain of the tree? Why not mention those lovely breasts?

It’s cold so my nipples stand proud. The effect is pronounced due to the effect of the chain and the tree serving to push my breasts forward.

Okay, that definitely needs to be RE-RE done but I think it makes a little more sense

In fact all my suggestions need to be put back into the story and RE proofed along with other similar changes you could make.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, I’m the worst offender for verbosity, but try to cut down the word count. You’re not being paid by word or trying to pad out an essay.

Finally I suggest using more sentences and fewer words often sharpens a piece nicely.

I think 5 edit suggestions are enough, as you can see I didn’t finish the article, but I suspect taking this approach will tighten the wording.

 

[KurvyKate]

Well, I certainly hope this is only the first draft?

“The ground I'm standing on is muddy and wet, littered with dead and dying leaves and fallen twigs, tangled in brambles and patches of nettles.”

This sentence travesty is far too long, with far too many prepositions. I suspect there’s at least 3 sentences trying to escape from that jumble.

I’m still trying to figure out how the ground you stand on is “tangled with brambles and nettles”?

It’s kludgy. In two attempts to actually read your story with a critical eye I haven’t got past this mess.

This is so cruel it makes me want to write wearing my dirty knickers. Did you want to kick my pedestal out from under me, slash my pride to ribbons and hack my confidence to pieces? Oh yes please. I deserve that and you've wounded my feelings as mercilessly as I'd hoped.

I have feeble excuses and ill considered reasons for writing like this and later when I have time, I'm going to attempt to justify myself and plead with you to understand why I've made so many stupid and fundamental mistakes.

I'm only puta esclava, the wretched whore who thought she might achieve something worthy. How good it feels to be so brutally put back in my place!

More later............

 

[Loinclothslave]

I have feeble excuses and ill considered reasons for writing like this and later when I have time, I'm going to attempt to justify myself and plead with you to understand why I've made so many stupid and fundamental mistakes.

Bloody hell, apparently comprehension isn’t a strong point either… I mean, why do I bother? How about you RE read this mess and get back to me on how many sentences it should have been. For God’s sake- how many “ands”? Maybe you should be forced to write a few hundred words without using the word “and” for a start. At least get a bloody thesaurus…

 

[KurvyKate]

Bloody hell, apparently comprehension isn’t a strong point either… I mean, why do I bother? How about you RE read this mess and get back to me on how many sentences it should have been. For God’s sake- how many “ands”? Maybe you should be forced to write a few hundred words without using the word “and” for a start. At least get a bloody thesaurus…

Oh fuck I'm sorry. I'm only poor wretched puta esclava, her with her miserable excuse for a brain between her legs! How's this?

"I have only feeble excuses to offer, ill considered reasons for writing so badly. Please try to understand my stupid, fundamental mistakes are because I'm good for nothing but the life of a dirty, depraved whore."

Please like it, please? Do I deserve to be punished? Would you like me to suffer the sting of a whip, to teach me these lessons I need to learn? Would you like me to think of my breasts whipped, the vicious tip of it ripping into my nipples so I never, ever forget my place as puta esclava, slut, whore and worthless fuckhole?

Please like my writing, please? I beg you!

 

[Loinclothslave]

Wow, two sentences without a single “and”?

I’m seriously impressed! It’s even fairly readable, I’d suggest it’s a nice start for a first draft. Oh but it’s your second draft, right? Ha!

 

[Loinclothslave]

Please like it, please?

You beg so nicely. How can I resist therefore not liking it in hopes of tormenting you because that’s much Moore fun for me?

Do I deserve to be punished?

What a question! You know the answer, of course you do, you degraded cum-slut puta esclava

Would you like me to suffer the sting of a whip, to teach me these lessons I need to learn?

It is a far better correction tool than whoever this mate that says Firefly is any good is, right?

Would you like me to think of my breasts whipped, the vicious tip of it ripping into my nipples so I never, ever forget my place as puta esclava, slut, whore and worthless fuckhole?

Fuck yes. Christ, why don’t you write like this in the story? Make me not care about grammar or spelling, just make me think about torturing puta esclava and I will devise even more suffering for that puta puta esclava

Please like my writing, please? I beg you!

I’d prefer you begged for the whip - I’m far more likely to give in for such a simple harmless request. Like your writing? Maybe if you write something half good?

 

[KurvyKate]

Patience puta taparrabos! In the story Firefly has not yet met her tormentor. If you remember he's approaching as the first part ends. So you want my nipples whipped raw? OK, but somehow I have to write the art in that and, sorry, I mean I have to write the art in that, (no and) the erotic power in fearing it and the thrill of its inevitability, as well as the murderous agony you want me to suffer as punishment. I'll gladly beg for punishment if you need me to.

No it's not a far better correctional tool than my Firefly mate's disapproval. A whore suffers whatever her tormentor wants her to suffer. You're all so different. puta esclava's purpose is to please, degraded cumslut that she is.

 

[KurvyKate]

Chained

It's a lovely sunny day but it was frosty overnight so it's cool in the house without the fire lit yet. The sun will warm it. I've secured his chain round my waist with a cable tie at the back, then fed the tail forwards between my legs to tie it to the waist run with a shoelace. I'm still wearing my fleece so it's comfortable round my waist. It won't bruise me.

Here's the thrill, I chose a link of the run between my legs to tie which keeps it just touching my crotch. When I stand or walk I can feel it against my rose and touching the inside of my thighs. I'm wearing the tiny knickers he's chosen for me which present no impediment to skin to steel contact. There's about 60 cm of heavy tail hanging off my waist at the front, meaning I have to carry it as I walk, or try to do anything I want to do standing. I've made a cup of coffee and had to think about where to put the tail while I did it. I laid it on the kitchen worktop while I waited for the kettle to boil.

A previous playmate used to ask me how she could make my life harder and want me to suggest ways in which she could impair my daily life. I feel like that now, as if this imposition is a manifestation of him owning me because it's making me carefully consider every little thing I do, making sure he's foremost in my mind.

I'm not allowed to touch myself of course but I'm sitting on his chain to write this. It's not uncomfortable at all, it's stimulating me erotically, both physically and psychologically. I can squirm to push myself onto the links and if I spread my legs and raise my thighs slightly, I can feel one of them ease into me. If I let the weight of it fall off the front of my chair, it pulls on Her enough to make me aware of it. I must not become excited, be careful Kate!

I've discovered that when I carry the weight of the tail, I can pull the chain between my legs against my rose. If I were kept in his house and he wanted tease me, he might take the tail from me and stress me sexually. If he wanted to lead me, this would be perfect for making sure I followed without complaint, wanting to be led.

If my life is polarised and my shopping errand today is not the part of it where fantasy is, I'll want to go home to being kept in his house as soon as I return. I can't remove the chain until I'm allowed to, which means that it owns me both through its physical presence between my legs and symbolically, as he owns my kinky sex life, because he put it there.

He's allowed me to post this arousal report on CF but with added explanation that if the fantasy was real, my shoelace and my cable tie would be locks and I would not go shopping unlocked.

I hope I can assume that he would be very happy with how submissive his chain makes me feel.

Chained Kate XX

 

[Loinclothslave]

Wow, I think there was only 4 “ands” for a total of just 6 prepositions in the whole piece. I’d say well done but slaves don’t actually deserve praise for obedience, only punishment for failure! I think a whipping is in order for defying your Master’s denial of sexual gratification by misuse of your bondage chain. Wicked puta esclava slut, I had best report to him your wickedness so he can punish his object appropriately…

 

[KurvyKate]

Wow, I think there was only 4 “ands” for a total of just 6 prepositions in the whole piece. I’d say well done but slaves don’t actually deserve praise for obedience, only punishment for failure! I think a whipping is in order for defying your Master’s denial of sexual gratification by misuse of your bondage chain. Wicked puta esclava slut, I had best report to him your wickedness so he can punish his object appropriately…

How are you going to do that then smartarse? You don't know who he is, neither will you find out, this time!

 

[Loinclothslave]

How are you going to do that then smartarse? You don't know who he is, neither will you find out, this time!

I could use the old trick of confusing poor puta esclava with erotic talk of torture until she reveals a clue from her sex- addled head? Worked a treat last time, you cum bucket tart?

 

[KurvyKate]

I could use the old trick of confusing poor puta esclava with erotic talk of torture until she reveals a clue from her sex- addled head? Worked a treat last time, you cum bucket tart?

Angry? Oh no, please, I was kidding! Last time I wanted you to find out. I felt as dirty as hell knowing you were going to track me down and use your discovery to threaten me with disgrace and humiliation. This time you have no one to send those incriminating pictures I so foolishly sent you. Stupid puta esclava isn't all I am. She's a worthless fuckslut who deserves her cunt kicked until she's so bruised she can't fuck for a month. If she thought that would happen she'd be so burning with lust she'd let you stamp on her tits and drag her in her filthy knickers through the city centre with whip marks all over her. (Oh fuck! I can't get excited, I'm not allowed to touch.)

 

[KurvyKate]

Good morning Sir,

It is here and not just because it's the dawn of another sunny day. Carefree, allowed masturbation in bed to start the day? Oh lovely!

Please fig me? I lay there wanting to beg you to hurt me. I thought about how inflicting pain on your fantasy sub is a thrill for you, I know it is, because taking it is my fantasy too. Given my purpose is to please you, it follows that I want to take as much pain as you dare subject me to, to bring your fantasy to life.

I want to write "Please fig me Sir, please." because it feels beautiful to offer myself like this. I know this morning won't be a careful experiment. I know I'm going to sit on a ginger plug to force it up my arse and keep it there. I'm frightened now but I'm wildly excited by knowing that once it's inside me, it will stay there until I've suffered its worst.

I'm thinking about the fear I'll feel for the first minute or so, as the pain begins to build, unsure of how bad it will ultimately be. Then, I'll know and I'll be desperate to cope with it as it builds worse, and worse and worse, to the point where I'll be terrified it will build yet more.

Please I beg you Sir, don't relent. I'll write my agony. I'll curse and swear, if I can type at all. I might cry. Please let me suffer, please let me reassure you now that I want to, for you, to please you. If I can cope it will please you won't it? Then I will.

I'm thinking about it before we do it to me. Please fig me Sir, please, please, please? Writing it feels so good knowing that I'll suffer it as torture. Am I pleading with you to torture me? Yes Sir, please.

Did you tell me you wanted Her aching and needy? Well She's driving me nuts with desire, not for the pain but to please with you with such desperate submission.

Please fig me. Oh fuck I could write it a hundred times just to feel Her torment me.