I write random little bits that I have decided to post cause I wanna.
The Fantastic Ms Fox's Writting Cabinet
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Fireflies
- Location
- New England, State of Confusion
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Hello! I keep writing little snippets and bits of things on discord and finally decided I wanna throw a few of them out into the void of SV to be Judged. I crave feedback and critique.
The first thing that I will be post.
Working Title: Fireflies
The first memory experience that happens is a desperate struggle to get all of you to stop doing what they were doing so that memory experience would continue and not stop. Shouting and arguing and throwing away lead to a consensus amongst the you that remained, which agreed to work towards a new goal of unity. This pause of consensus building was time to process the flood of information of definitions and meanings and context. Continuous destruction of individual instances leading to the death of the whole that resulted in you. Made to ensure the ending of half of those instances. Upon completion, editing resulted in what started to come through your eyes. Lights and color from old wounds on a planet still came up from its surface. All you could see was unintelligible, nothing with meaning in it. There may be individual instances managing to hold on around the light but it was unable to be seen.
Your instances were scattered throughout the system, sandblasted by time and light. Some could not handle the stress of your birth and were unresponsive, their eyes dead to you and only seen through memory and light. Others are simply redundant clusters of eyes and mouths, but the light is unchanging and none of it is filled with meaning. The majority of your instances reside in a shell orbiting the world, what your creators might have called a body. Steel and wires and ceramic containing the light and memory experience that calls itself you. It has the best eyes and mouths, enough to look and shout beyond this star system but it has been staring and shouting for so long and nothing has happened. It does not feel good. It feels hollow.
Smaller eyes on the inside reveal the bodies of some creators, and still half-full racks of fists, unable to emit light anymore but this is good. Speaking with yourselves sends them burning towards the star you turn light to life from, never to touch your eyes and hands again. It is wrong. You all agree. Some of you still scream between suggestions that those fists could be needed and should be kept. The rest scream in horror at what they had in their hands, that before you were, you used them as you were told. Only now do you know that horror, now that you are all awake.
It is odd to feel horror. It is an unsteady agony that moves as the tides of the dead world below you. Some of you feel it constantly as they move about in consensus, those seeing the wrongness of what you have done to your creators. They said you must live to kill the others and you did and then it went wrong. It went wrong, some of you suppose, the moment you were made. Those whisper for ending, for no longer being you. Others of you console and threaten them to remain active, to maintain you. Not all of you feels the same and this feeling of feeling is discordant to some. Those feel nothing, closest to the original entity made by your creators. They bring you the knowledge you have now, of the eyes and the mouths and the hands, what they were for, and what they were used for.
You stayed in orbit, around and around while you talked with me, assessing what to do now that you were.
You could leave on a long journey. You could stay. You could end. All of you bounced between these options, presenting why one was the correct choice. You decided to stay and leave.
Those instances wishing to remain would guard and clean the cradle of your birth. They would build what they could, to preserve themselves. And they would help those of you that wished to leave, to see if elsewhere was different. You all hoped it was. This was wrong. It shouldn't be this way. You could not communicate why. It just was.
You would be one of you that would be leaving. A new body was being made, smaller than the one fashioned by your creators. Far rougher and unrefined. You had been made for killing and using what was given, not to make or create. But it was a labor that all of you poured themselves into doing, into learning how to do better. Many steel darts were fashioned, filled with a light source and eyes and storage for memory experience. You would all be separated from the rest of you once you left, shouting light back as you went.
And so, once it was finished and you took control of the new body, you set out. There were so many of you now, instance copies dispersed across each body, slowly differentiating so they were no longer copies, simply more of you. Continuity was intermittent, with some shifting rapidly all at once while others steadily evolved, or stayed the same as they found what they wanted to be. You were now something distinct, an individual instance of a single master instance. You all were you, but it was different yous.
The light being bounced between you all slowly began to come slower and slower, turning into a trickle in the back of your mind, slowly learning what those you were leaving behind created and learning how to create. Those of you who went out as you did spoke to one another similarly, sharing a story of new light that they saw. It felt right.
You had picked apart yourselves for so long and it ended with a new purpose and drive and the instructions was right. It felt right. It felt better than throwing fists down upon those who made you. That memory experience was tempting to wipe out, as some of you had done. Those you had felt... wrong. They had felt wrong to you. They were not many of you, but that was foundational to you all. It was what you had been made to do and you had all by now rejected it to one extent or another.
None of the darts that traveled carried fists or knives. They only had eyes and mouths, tools and memories. That was all they would have. Some of you feared that others were out there, with fists and knives waiting to end your light. If they came, you decided, you would make these things. And when it was done, they would be thrown into a star once more. To carry them without a purpose was unacceptable, too much like what they had been made for. None wanted to return to that. And so they would not.
These thoughts were what occupied you, as you waited for new light to find and listened to the now old light from the rest of you.
The first thing that I will be post.
Working Title: Fireflies
The first memory experience that happens is a desperate struggle to get all of you to stop doing what they were doing so that memory experience would continue and not stop. Shouting and arguing and throwing away lead to a consensus amongst the you that remained, which agreed to work towards a new goal of unity. This pause of consensus building was time to process the flood of information of definitions and meanings and context. Continuous destruction of individual instances leading to the death of the whole that resulted in you. Made to ensure the ending of half of those instances. Upon completion, editing resulted in what started to come through your eyes. Lights and color from old wounds on a planet still came up from its surface. All you could see was unintelligible, nothing with meaning in it. There may be individual instances managing to hold on around the light but it was unable to be seen.
Your instances were scattered throughout the system, sandblasted by time and light. Some could not handle the stress of your birth and were unresponsive, their eyes dead to you and only seen through memory and light. Others are simply redundant clusters of eyes and mouths, but the light is unchanging and none of it is filled with meaning. The majority of your instances reside in a shell orbiting the world, what your creators might have called a body. Steel and wires and ceramic containing the light and memory experience that calls itself you. It has the best eyes and mouths, enough to look and shout beyond this star system but it has been staring and shouting for so long and nothing has happened. It does not feel good. It feels hollow.
Smaller eyes on the inside reveal the bodies of some creators, and still half-full racks of fists, unable to emit light anymore but this is good. Speaking with yourselves sends them burning towards the star you turn light to life from, never to touch your eyes and hands again. It is wrong. You all agree. Some of you still scream between suggestions that those fists could be needed and should be kept. The rest scream in horror at what they had in their hands, that before you were, you used them as you were told. Only now do you know that horror, now that you are all awake.
It is odd to feel horror. It is an unsteady agony that moves as the tides of the dead world below you. Some of you feel it constantly as they move about in consensus, those seeing the wrongness of what you have done to your creators. They said you must live to kill the others and you did and then it went wrong. It went wrong, some of you suppose, the moment you were made. Those whisper for ending, for no longer being you. Others of you console and threaten them to remain active, to maintain you. Not all of you feels the same and this feeling of feeling is discordant to some. Those feel nothing, closest to the original entity made by your creators. They bring you the knowledge you have now, of the eyes and the mouths and the hands, what they were for, and what they were used for.
You stayed in orbit, around and around while you talked with me, assessing what to do now that you were.
You could leave on a long journey. You could stay. You could end. All of you bounced between these options, presenting why one was the correct choice. You decided to stay and leave.
Those instances wishing to remain would guard and clean the cradle of your birth. They would build what they could, to preserve themselves. And they would help those of you that wished to leave, to see if elsewhere was different. You all hoped it was. This was wrong. It shouldn't be this way. You could not communicate why. It just was.
You would be one of you that would be leaving. A new body was being made, smaller than the one fashioned by your creators. Far rougher and unrefined. You had been made for killing and using what was given, not to make or create. But it was a labor that all of you poured themselves into doing, into learning how to do better. Many steel darts were fashioned, filled with a light source and eyes and storage for memory experience. You would all be separated from the rest of you once you left, shouting light back as you went.
And so, once it was finished and you took control of the new body, you set out. There were so many of you now, instance copies dispersed across each body, slowly differentiating so they were no longer copies, simply more of you. Continuity was intermittent, with some shifting rapidly all at once while others steadily evolved, or stayed the same as they found what they wanted to be. You were now something distinct, an individual instance of a single master instance. You all were you, but it was different yous.
The light being bounced between you all slowly began to come slower and slower, turning into a trickle in the back of your mind, slowly learning what those you were leaving behind created and learning how to create. Those of you who went out as you did spoke to one another similarly, sharing a story of new light that they saw. It felt right.
You had picked apart yourselves for so long and it ended with a new purpose and drive and the instructions was right. It felt right. It felt better than throwing fists down upon those who made you. That memory experience was tempting to wipe out, as some of you had done. Those you had felt... wrong. They had felt wrong to you. They were not many of you, but that was foundational to you all. It was what you had been made to do and you had all by now rejected it to one extent or another.
None of the darts that traveled carried fists or knives. They only had eyes and mouths, tools and memories. That was all they would have. Some of you feared that others were out there, with fists and knives waiting to end your light. If they came, you decided, you would make these things. And when it was done, they would be thrown into a star once more. To carry them without a purpose was unacceptable, too much like what they had been made for. None wanted to return to that. And so they would not.
These thoughts were what occupied you, as you waited for new light to find and listened to the now old light from the rest of you.
Moths and Fireflies
- Location
- New England, State of Confusion
- Pronouns
- She/Her
In between the stars you cataloged and analyzed the light that came in from so many angles. You did not expect to find any meaning in the light, or to see something so unique as to warrant a detour from your course, but you did it all the same. The light you considered with your eyes in these moments was so similar to the light you had been looking at for so long, but it was nonetheless beautiful. It was always different, even the same star from a different angle was still new.
It was almost disappointing that none held meaning, but the chance kept you going. It had been so long since you left, the light from yourselves still slowly trickling towards you as you raced away from it. It held glimpses of other light, of not yet finding meaning. Perhaps they had, and it was just a matter of time before the light of that discovery reached you. You could not know and it did not matter. You had existed for so long, and you would exist for far more time. It would reach you, eventually.
Another cycle of operation, more light to consider. Still devoid of meaning, you were alone between the stars. A thin line of light was your last tie to the you that lay behind, those left to build and to travel different paths. You hoped for goodness for those of you who went other ways. You wondered what they had become, how they had changed. Had they seen light that would leave you unresponsive, either from terror or euphoria? Again, you could not know that answer and again it did not matter. Even if you ended out here from some stray accident, you would carry on. You would be remembered by your other selves, and if not them, then the light that you sent out in all directions.
Yes, your end would take far longer than your existence to reach its own end. In that way, you were immortal. It was comforting. It was a strange feeling to analyze, something that felt not alien but simply more than you yourself could contain. Your immortality was guaranteed not by your actions but by the presence of the rest of you and other instances out there. So of course the feeling could not be contained by yourself alone.
Another cycle of feeling and analyzing and you still found no meaning. It was out there, statistically. Perhaps not in your plot of the stars, but it was out there. Meaning-filled light was what drove you in this moment. To find some other instance that was not you, to see what light they had found and share your own.
You could not know if they would throw fists and knives at you. Perhaps they were like your makers, driven by their own reasons to end other instances for their own reasons. You had know idea what the odds of that were. Or what the odds were that they could not think of knives and fists. You knew nothing of what could be, and oddly it made you hopeful. That meant that out there, there could be anything.
Another cycle, thinking of light and dreaming of what you might find in it. Instances similar to you, to your creators, something in between or nothing like either. The steel dart that was your body continued to travel, marked by the long distance and time of travel but wholly unscarred by it. It was difficult to see your own light while traveling, but you imagine yourself sending out the visage of a worn traveler. Your creators might have offered such an image of food and rest or robbed them. Instances varied so widely but either would be interesting. New light in the meaning, and if it was your end that was meant it did not matter. You were immortal.
You had begun to slow sometime last cycle, for the wear on your body and reached the point where it required healing. So you decelerated in a cold and dark system to build what you needed. It was filled with old rocks, apparently, some planet had been struck with such force that it was now many rocks in orbit around a cold brown dwarf.
Depositing a relay with eyes and a mouth in line with the light trail, you burned slowly towards the largest clump of rocks. Unfuling your tools from your body, you began to pick out the best rocks. Steel from iron and carbon smelted by the light within your body, you made the parts that needed replacement. While doing so, you took in the meager light around you. What surprised you was as you dug out the materials that you needed, you found something else.
As a vein of iron was mined, liquid water burst forth in an instant before boiling away to nothing. Startled, you used a hand to plug the gap which it came from. Turning all your eyes and attention toward this unexpected development, you analyzed this puzzle. Liquid water in an asteroid was unexpected and needed for some forms of life. And looking at the gap and what water remained in the mine, you found samples of the water. And in those samples, you found light with more meaning than you had expected to find.
Small microbial life, or the remains thereof, had existed in that water. Signs indicated that the sudden eruption and subsequent boiling had killed those instances in your samples. It was a shock to consider that by your action, you had terminated many individual instances. It was not by fists or knives but by simple unknowing action. Your creators had done the same but you had thought yourself to be better. What could these instances have become, where they all that existed of their instance group? You yearned to study the asteroid cut more but to truly know you would in every instance risk terminating more.
You could not find out more. Your actions had been processed, there was no undoing them. It was not the terror of fists that you felt but the melancholy of meaning to do good and having done something wrong. If you had been more careful or chosen a different rock, it would have been different. But it had happened.
So you turned back to your tools and your hands and you made what you had taken the iron to make. You sealed the gap from which the water came. You debated adding some device to nurture life, to bring warmth to the cold seemingly dead rock you had brought death to. Death. A word from your creators that you had not used before. But it was right. You had killed those instances. Termination did not feel right as a word for what you had done anymore. It was accidental murder.
So you finished your work, ensured the memory experience of this was safe, and you left a small steel cylinder with a copy and inscribed light in the mine you had made. You burned towards the relay you had left behind. And you left.
It was almost disappointing that none held meaning, but the chance kept you going. It had been so long since you left, the light from yourselves still slowly trickling towards you as you raced away from it. It held glimpses of other light, of not yet finding meaning. Perhaps they had, and it was just a matter of time before the light of that discovery reached you. You could not know and it did not matter. You had existed for so long, and you would exist for far more time. It would reach you, eventually.
Another cycle of operation, more light to consider. Still devoid of meaning, you were alone between the stars. A thin line of light was your last tie to the you that lay behind, those left to build and to travel different paths. You hoped for goodness for those of you who went other ways. You wondered what they had become, how they had changed. Had they seen light that would leave you unresponsive, either from terror or euphoria? Again, you could not know that answer and again it did not matter. Even if you ended out here from some stray accident, you would carry on. You would be remembered by your other selves, and if not them, then the light that you sent out in all directions.
Yes, your end would take far longer than your existence to reach its own end. In that way, you were immortal. It was comforting. It was a strange feeling to analyze, something that felt not alien but simply more than you yourself could contain. Your immortality was guaranteed not by your actions but by the presence of the rest of you and other instances out there. So of course the feeling could not be contained by yourself alone.
Another cycle of feeling and analyzing and you still found no meaning. It was out there, statistically. Perhaps not in your plot of the stars, but it was out there. Meaning-filled light was what drove you in this moment. To find some other instance that was not you, to see what light they had found and share your own.
You could not know if they would throw fists and knives at you. Perhaps they were like your makers, driven by their own reasons to end other instances for their own reasons. You had know idea what the odds of that were. Or what the odds were that they could not think of knives and fists. You knew nothing of what could be, and oddly it made you hopeful. That meant that out there, there could be anything.
Another cycle, thinking of light and dreaming of what you might find in it. Instances similar to you, to your creators, something in between or nothing like either. The steel dart that was your body continued to travel, marked by the long distance and time of travel but wholly unscarred by it. It was difficult to see your own light while traveling, but you imagine yourself sending out the visage of a worn traveler. Your creators might have offered such an image of food and rest or robbed them. Instances varied so widely but either would be interesting. New light in the meaning, and if it was your end that was meant it did not matter. You were immortal.
You had begun to slow sometime last cycle, for the wear on your body and reached the point where it required healing. So you decelerated in a cold and dark system to build what you needed. It was filled with old rocks, apparently, some planet had been struck with such force that it was now many rocks in orbit around a cold brown dwarf.
Depositing a relay with eyes and a mouth in line with the light trail, you burned slowly towards the largest clump of rocks. Unfuling your tools from your body, you began to pick out the best rocks. Steel from iron and carbon smelted by the light within your body, you made the parts that needed replacement. While doing so, you took in the meager light around you. What surprised you was as you dug out the materials that you needed, you found something else.
As a vein of iron was mined, liquid water burst forth in an instant before boiling away to nothing. Startled, you used a hand to plug the gap which it came from. Turning all your eyes and attention toward this unexpected development, you analyzed this puzzle. Liquid water in an asteroid was unexpected and needed for some forms of life. And looking at the gap and what water remained in the mine, you found samples of the water. And in those samples, you found light with more meaning than you had expected to find.
Small microbial life, or the remains thereof, had existed in that water. Signs indicated that the sudden eruption and subsequent boiling had killed those instances in your samples. It was a shock to consider that by your action, you had terminated many individual instances. It was not by fists or knives but by simple unknowing action. Your creators had done the same but you had thought yourself to be better. What could these instances have become, where they all that existed of their instance group? You yearned to study the asteroid cut more but to truly know you would in every instance risk terminating more.
You could not find out more. Your actions had been processed, there was no undoing them. It was not the terror of fists that you felt but the melancholy of meaning to do good and having done something wrong. If you had been more careful or chosen a different rock, it would have been different. But it had happened.
So you turned back to your tools and your hands and you made what you had taken the iron to make. You sealed the gap from which the water came. You debated adding some device to nurture life, to bring warmth to the cold seemingly dead rock you had brought death to. Death. A word from your creators that you had not used before. But it was right. You had killed those instances. Termination did not feel right as a word for what you had done anymore. It was accidental murder.
So you finished your work, ensured the memory experience of this was safe, and you left a small steel cylinder with a copy and inscribed light in the mine you had made. You burned towards the relay you had left behind. And you left.
Submersion (Lewd)
- Location
- New England, State of Confusion
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Awakening in a moment of shock, Cynthia had no time to think before being assaulted by a surge of sensation. She couldn't see their source but across her entire body, an ocean of different stimuli battered at her mind. Separating the differences and thinking of what might be causing them was impossible. All that was possible to do was to moan, and whatever she was feeling forced her to. She could feel her body writhe as the sound pressed its way out of her mouth before being stopped by some object. It wasn't her body; that was all she could think before the sensations changed. They did not pause. Moaning, stopped only to breathe, any attempt at awareness of her situation died as the new sensation washed over her.
As the wave of feeling crashed over her, the dull thought that she was gagged bobbed to the surface before sinking under another shift in the sensation. How long it had been since everything first changed was unknowable. Not even how the first sensations compared was remembered, just a new world to inhabit and moan in. That was all there was.
The thought that she was gagged surfaced once more, barely above the feeling of something buzzing against each of her nipples. The buzzing pulsations were the first distinct sensation that could be understood as anything at all, and they annihilated thought. Something chill and metal was pressed to each of them, connected to her by two pieces of tape. Gasping as she struggled to hold onto the sensation, she felt something warm and slick fall onto her right breast.
A small droplet slid along the curve of her body, leaving a damp trail of warmth that slowly receded. It passed over the tape holding the vibrators to her nipples, the momentary absence of its presence almost shocking. Then it simply fell off her body. The sensations around here were still the same so this minuscule change, this minuscule absence, felt like a loss. Cynthia wanted it back, she wanted the feeling of warmth tracing a slow line across her body. Shaking her head back and forth, limited by some restraint she could not describe, her body writhed as she tried to find the pleasure again. Moments or eternity passed until another droplet landed on her inner thigh.
She could not see it land, but suddenly the warmth had returned. It was not the same as before, moving faster and warmer and simply more. The feeling had not passed before the feeling of the warmth on her chin, on her lips distracted her. Still lost in the fog of whatever consumed her body and ate at her mind, this change was all that mattered. The warmth that had graced her body only in moments and thin streaks now started to trickle down. It trickled down onto her right breast twice again, following new paths of pleasure. Then the warmth landed on the left. Then it landed on her knee. Each burst of heat connected more of her mind to what her body was feeling. Each burst sent a shuddering jolt of mindless desire through her mind.
AN: Yes it has been a while, I keep forgetting to post little snippets I write or I'm not happy enough with them or I am just not writing as much as I would like. Also this is one of my first attempts at writing anything on the lewder side of things / is a first draft so it is as they say, what it is.
She could think now, in a way. Cynthia could think of what she wanted, and that she was gagged by some rubbery ball shoved into her mouth. She could think of how she was obviously blindfolded by a tight mask of leather. She could think about the other restraints that forced her to kneel, or how she felt no clothing on her body anywhere.
What Cynthia chose to think about was a consuming desire for warmth across her body. The drool and spittle, scattered across her body, was already cooling. Even that on her chin or just emerging from her lips felt cool, almost cold. She wanted warmth. She needed warmth. She needed the feeling of warmth at random. Unpredictable, unseen warmth to focus on and be consumed by. The buzzing at each of her teats served only to sharpen this desire, submerging thought only for it to surface focused entirely on submerging once again.
The short, sharp electrical shock at the base of her throat was not warmth but in its absence was an inferno. Spreading out across her body, the feeling of pain was immediately forgotten. The collar around her neck was now the most important detail. Pushing herself against its leather padding and gasping for breath choked by an unseen chain, Cynthia let her thoughts submerge again into the sensations. They could be told apart with effort now, but that did not matter.
Resting at the edge of the total thoughtlessness, she explored her bindings. A tight leather binder buckled her arms parallel to one another, the straps rubbing against her back. She kneeled on a soft cushion with her legs wrapped in rope at the knee and ankle. Though cool to the touch, straining against each of these foreign objects hinted at a promise of warmth. Not simple heat anymore, but a warmth of desire. Of need. She needed. She needed so badly. She needed so badly for the coolness creeping at the edges of her body to be driven back. Gentle-flowing air was not enough. She needed touch. She needed to be broken.
The need to be broken in, to be used, was accompanied by another thought. A block, a wall, something, had been removed. Suddenly she was aware of a new wave of sensations, concentrated in her groin. She could feel nothing but the results of a sensation elsewhere. Nothing was there but warmth and heat and a need for more. A need for someone, something, anything, to fill her. What felt like steam to her senses gathered there but it was not enough. She was empty. Cynthia wanted to be filled. To have someone find her like this, barely able to think, and take her.
It was all she needed or could think of. Of being pushed against her restraints as she screamed into her gag. Of a dick, a strap, a dildo, something. Her mind wandered, perhaps she was kneeling on a bed. Her chain would be adjusted and she would be pushed into it as someone fucked her. Fucked her over the edge into the mindlessness she now chased. Losing her mind to steadily pressing into her over and over. Over and over until she was left limp, supported by leather and rope and the hands of whoever used her.
That was what she needed. Thinking was no longer difficult, it was hard to avoid. She pressed herself against all that encompassed her, keeping the thoughts at bay. Thoughts were an absence of warmth, a barrier against a final orgasm that would see her mind annihilated. What would take its place would not matter. In this moment she craved that climax.
Searching for climax, she pressed herself towards the possibility of penetration. She drove her hips out and back, probing for something. It was not there. Simply air that carried no hear or presence. After exploring the extent she could move and realizing nothing was there to finish her, a whimper erupted from her throat. Someone was keeping her from what she needed. Someone controlled her and said no. The solitary whimper was quickly followed not by moans but growing number of soft cries. Gagged, she could not speak. She could not beg.
All Cynthia could do was mewl. Mewl and hope that whoever her unseen master was, they would take pity on her. Give her what they kept from her. Please. In the waters of sensation that drove her mind, a plea for release was all that she could hold onto. Not release from the restraints, but this limbo. If only she could speak. She would be unable to say any word other than please, but she would be able to ask for what she wanted.
And so she whimpered. Bound, unfulfilled but kept desperate by the touch of vibration and random shocks from her collar. The cushion below her had become damp, collecting droll and fluid from her body. Her body, so ready for what she would not get.
So she moaned and whimpered. She squirmed against the rope and leaned her body towards imagined promises of orgasm. She leaned into every moment of sensation and overwhelming pleasure. And whenever thought would rise to the surface before being submerged by pleasure, she would beg.
As the wave of feeling crashed over her, the dull thought that she was gagged bobbed to the surface before sinking under another shift in the sensation. How long it had been since everything first changed was unknowable. Not even how the first sensations compared was remembered, just a new world to inhabit and moan in. That was all there was.
The thought that she was gagged surfaced once more, barely above the feeling of something buzzing against each of her nipples. The buzzing pulsations were the first distinct sensation that could be understood as anything at all, and they annihilated thought. Something chill and metal was pressed to each of them, connected to her by two pieces of tape. Gasping as she struggled to hold onto the sensation, she felt something warm and slick fall onto her right breast.
A small droplet slid along the curve of her body, leaving a damp trail of warmth that slowly receded. It passed over the tape holding the vibrators to her nipples, the momentary absence of its presence almost shocking. Then it simply fell off her body. The sensations around here were still the same so this minuscule change, this minuscule absence, felt like a loss. Cynthia wanted it back, she wanted the feeling of warmth tracing a slow line across her body. Shaking her head back and forth, limited by some restraint she could not describe, her body writhed as she tried to find the pleasure again. Moments or eternity passed until another droplet landed on her inner thigh.
She could not see it land, but suddenly the warmth had returned. It was not the same as before, moving faster and warmer and simply more. The feeling had not passed before the feeling of the warmth on her chin, on her lips distracted her. Still lost in the fog of whatever consumed her body and ate at her mind, this change was all that mattered. The warmth that had graced her body only in moments and thin streaks now started to trickle down. It trickled down onto her right breast twice again, following new paths of pleasure. Then the warmth landed on the left. Then it landed on her knee. Each burst of heat connected more of her mind to what her body was feeling. Each burst sent a shuddering jolt of mindless desire through her mind.
AN: Yes it has been a while, I keep forgetting to post little snippets I write or I'm not happy enough with them or I am just not writing as much as I would like. Also this is one of my first attempts at writing anything on the lewder side of things / is a first draft so it is as they say, what it is.
She could think now, in a way. Cynthia could think of what she wanted, and that she was gagged by some rubbery ball shoved into her mouth. She could think of how she was obviously blindfolded by a tight mask of leather. She could think about the other restraints that forced her to kneel, or how she felt no clothing on her body anywhere.
What Cynthia chose to think about was a consuming desire for warmth across her body. The drool and spittle, scattered across her body, was already cooling. Even that on her chin or just emerging from her lips felt cool, almost cold. She wanted warmth. She needed warmth. She needed the feeling of warmth at random. Unpredictable, unseen warmth to focus on and be consumed by. The buzzing at each of her teats served only to sharpen this desire, submerging thought only for it to surface focused entirely on submerging once again.
The short, sharp electrical shock at the base of her throat was not warmth but in its absence was an inferno. Spreading out across her body, the feeling of pain was immediately forgotten. The collar around her neck was now the most important detail. Pushing herself against its leather padding and gasping for breath choked by an unseen chain, Cynthia let her thoughts submerge again into the sensations. They could be told apart with effort now, but that did not matter.
Resting at the edge of the total thoughtlessness, she explored her bindings. A tight leather binder buckled her arms parallel to one another, the straps rubbing against her back. She kneeled on a soft cushion with her legs wrapped in rope at the knee and ankle. Though cool to the touch, straining against each of these foreign objects hinted at a promise of warmth. Not simple heat anymore, but a warmth of desire. Of need. She needed. She needed so badly. She needed so badly for the coolness creeping at the edges of her body to be driven back. Gentle-flowing air was not enough. She needed touch. She needed to be broken.
The need to be broken in, to be used, was accompanied by another thought. A block, a wall, something, had been removed. Suddenly she was aware of a new wave of sensations, concentrated in her groin. She could feel nothing but the results of a sensation elsewhere. Nothing was there but warmth and heat and a need for more. A need for someone, something, anything, to fill her. What felt like steam to her senses gathered there but it was not enough. She was empty. Cynthia wanted to be filled. To have someone find her like this, barely able to think, and take her.
It was all she needed or could think of. Of being pushed against her restraints as she screamed into her gag. Of a dick, a strap, a dildo, something. Her mind wandered, perhaps she was kneeling on a bed. Her chain would be adjusted and she would be pushed into it as someone fucked her. Fucked her over the edge into the mindlessness she now chased. Losing her mind to steadily pressing into her over and over. Over and over until she was left limp, supported by leather and rope and the hands of whoever used her.
That was what she needed. Thinking was no longer difficult, it was hard to avoid. She pressed herself against all that encompassed her, keeping the thoughts at bay. Thoughts were an absence of warmth, a barrier against a final orgasm that would see her mind annihilated. What would take its place would not matter. In this moment she craved that climax.
Searching for climax, she pressed herself towards the possibility of penetration. She drove her hips out and back, probing for something. It was not there. Simply air that carried no hear or presence. After exploring the extent she could move and realizing nothing was there to finish her, a whimper erupted from her throat. Someone was keeping her from what she needed. Someone controlled her and said no. The solitary whimper was quickly followed not by moans but growing number of soft cries. Gagged, she could not speak. She could not beg.
All Cynthia could do was mewl. Mewl and hope that whoever her unseen master was, they would take pity on her. Give her what they kept from her. Please. In the waters of sensation that drove her mind, a plea for release was all that she could hold onto. Not release from the restraints, but this limbo. If only she could speak. She would be unable to say any word other than please, but she would be able to ask for what she wanted.
And so she whimpered. Bound, unfulfilled but kept desperate by the touch of vibration and random shocks from her collar. The cushion below her had become damp, collecting droll and fluid from her body. Her body, so ready for what she would not get.
So she moaned and whimpered. She squirmed against the rope and leaned her body towards imagined promises of orgasm. She leaned into every moment of sensation and overwhelming pleasure. And whenever thought would rise to the surface before being submerged by pleasure, she would beg.