Imagine... Objectification (d/s, exhibition, humiliation)

Imagine... I send you directions to my house by Email. We have never spoken or exchanged pictures. You are told to be here on Saturday morning, come inside when you arrive. Once here, you find a note and a matching set of leather collar and four shackles waiting for you in the entryway. The note instructs you lock the door behind you, remove all your clothes, put on the leather, then to open the door and crawl up the stairs on your hands and knees. It also warns you to expect a second note on the stairs and not to talk unless told to speak.

Half way up the stairs is the second note and a blindfold. You can't see into the room yet. The note says to blindfold yourself and come the rest of the way upstairs. When you look up you notice a whip draped over the couch...

And so you tie the blindfold and come into my house. Vulnerable, naked, blinded, shackled and collared, not knowing what I look like or what I will do with you. You don't even know if we are alone. You feel terribly exposed and beyond shy. But your exposure has not even begun. Firmly, yet gently, I take you by the arm and lead you slowly to a place in the room. You know there are windows all around from the brightness and warmth of the sun on your skin.


I take you firmly by the arm and direct you to a wicker armchair. You sit and allow yourself to be positioned. Your arms are pulled over your head and behind the chair, wrists affixed to the back of the chair. I pause now, stroke your cheek, relishing your first helplessness, then tell you what you are already sure of: "Now I can take my time with you. There is nothing you can do to stop me. You are mine now."

I attach belts to your thighs, just above the knees, lift first one leg, then the other, and tie them back to the wicker. Other lines are attached and you feel your legs pulled wide, opening you and laying your legs over the arms of the chair. Additional lines hold the ankles wide. It is a terrible struggle for you to submit to such exposition, your most feminine and private place lewdly opened to a man who you have never really met. Leaving you momentarily, I return and slap a hot, wet towel over your sex.


He has not asked permission! Still, you don't squirm, don't make any sound at all as he mixes the lather. It is not, after all, your pussy anymore.


You sit, helplessly bound, breasts, pussy, ass all exposed and available for pleasuring. The lips of your pussy, now shaved smooth, offer no resistance to penetration. But that is not the end of your opening. I have a device, made especially for you. Several devices, really. Clothespins, each attached by a long elastic band to a distant wall or the ceiling above you. The first of the clothespins is fastened to your sex. The elastic spreads the lip, pulling, distorting, and pinching. A soft whimper escapes you despite being silenced. The other side is similarly opened, then additional clothespins are attached until your sex is laid open completely, the nether lips pulled flat by six elastics, six clamps on your lips, everything exposed.

You're keening plaintively now and I come to you, stroke your face, reassure you. You are lost. The fire between your legs slowly ebbs into a dull ache as it dissolves in your helplessness, and you only twitch occassionally as the terms of your surrender are dictated to you. "Give to me," I say. "It's all right. Sssh. Kiss me," I command as I turn your face to me. And you do. Passionate, deep kisses. Desperate kisses. I reach between your legs and, taking some of the liquid seeping from your sex, I stroke you softly. Panting, frenzied kisses, straining at your bonds, you are possessed, controlled, punished, and pleasured.

Gently, so as to leave you in control of your silence, I leave you. Panting with your struggle, you sit exposed. From behind a disembodied voice whispers to you: "Do not resist him. Obey. Remember always how vulnerable you are. Your most sensitive flesh is exposed. No matter what happens, you must be silent. Silent. Remember, he can punish you as easily as look."


You feel a soft, wet stroking of your sex, so soft that at first you are unsure of it. Yes, you're sure now: a gentle licking, intense pleasure growing more unbearable with each soft stroke. The Bastard. He's trying to make you cry out. You squirm. He licks lightly, teasing the lips but staying away from the swelling clitorus. Slowly he lays his lips on you, slipping over you, wet. Teasing. He doesn't touch you the way you need it. Still you pump, straining at your bonds, praying silently that he will let you cum, and dreading the consequences. He grazes your clit and your hips shudder. He leaves you. 'NO!' you want to scream, but you stay silent. Instead you do what you can. Using whatever slack is in your bondage, you push your pussy out to him. Silently begging 'Please, Sir, please finish me. Please...'

A wet kiss settles softly, slowly on your clit and you begin pumping immediatly, but he stops! When you have stilled he begins again, stopping when you move. Soon you understand, and you stay still for him, allowing him access, allowing him control, the power to decide when you will cum. You lay still as lightly sucking and smoothly sliding lips move over you, teasing you perfectly. Your special agony. Tongue working you directly to orgasm. You cannot bear it. Still, you may be silent. You think. Maybe.

(I'm gonna come!)

Your mouth opens and you scream silently. You may make it. Another wave rolls over you, again you contort your face in silent agony. No sound. Just breath expelled in ragged punctuation to your contractions. Still he is on your sex, coaxing silent screams from you. He feels you tighten again and as your mouth opens for another round of contortions he clamps his hand over your mouth and plunges cock into you! The reaction is instant and you cry out, screaming loudly despite the muffling hand. He rides you as you strain at your bonds, holding cock in you, pressing the clothspins between your pubic bones. Making you take every inch, he watches you struggle, fascinated.


I do not cum, but pull out slowly. It goes on. You are mine. And you are in need of discipline. Such a noisy little bitch you are. Your correction awaits.

I sit before you, a pop, smell of grape, and you know that I am casually drinking a glass of wine as I contemplate my options. Your legs burn but you dare not move them until you're told to, and so you hold your pussy out. Your sex drips lubrication, betraying its delight at its own exposition. Your face and chest burn crimson with both shame and arousal. You are exposed and helpless.


"You have a question? Speak."
"What will you make me do?"
"Anything I want."
"Yes, Sir."


An image forms in your mind. You are on your hands and knees, naked, on a coffee table in the center of the room. Your knees are spread and you're not allowed to sit on your heels. Everywhere you turn a cock hangs in your face. There are men behind you, too, doing things to you there. You ignore them as best you can. You have work to do. But you keep your pussy easy for them, allow them to rut with you.

There are many men in the room. They talk about your body and the things they'll do to you. Things they'll watch you do.

Keep your mind on your work.

Poor, poor girl. How did it ever come to this?

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