From the blog 'tildaswintonismyfursona', April 23, 2021:

Have I mentioned that Master is kind of a sadistic asshole? I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm totally a masochistic bitch, so we go together like chocolate and peanut butter, but I want to make it clear that he is officially Twisted as Fuck. Like, if you had a measuring stick that went all the way out to Fuck, and you measured his twisted... um, osity... you'd find an exact match. Not even one tiny twist short. The point here is that I'm officially doomed, and I'd really like all you sick fuckos who read my blog and masturbate to take just a moment to pity me for my plight.

Or, you know, cackle. Some of y'all be like that.

But the point is--well, you know what? The point isn't that Master is a sadistic asshole. I've dated sadistic assholes before, and they're fucking boring. There's always some dipshit out there who thinks that 'more' is the same as 'better', and if you like being spanked until your ass is pink, you're going to love being spanked until your ass is black and blue. Most of my biggest, worst break-ups have been with dudes who think that 'louder and meaner' is a goddamn personality. Master's not like that. Master's not a sadistic asshole--he's a *creative* sadistic asshole. That's the best part... but sometimes, like when I'm super fucking horny and he did what he did yesterday, that's the worst part, too.

Because oh my GOD yesterday. It started when I woke up horny--and before you say, 'Hey, wait a second, Kitten, don't you always wake up horny?', this wasn't in the morning. This was at five o'clock in the afternoon, about an hour after I got home from work, and I didn't remember falling asleep. That is, as they say, Not a Good Sign. Because it means that Master dropped me as soon as I walked through the door, and Master never drops me right away unless he's got some kind of Evil Scheme that he's been scheming all day and he can't wait even one second to get into my head and start programming me.

And it's not like I remember what he programmed me to do, because my subconscious has taken to hypnotic amnesia like a turtle to glowing green ooze. Every time I try to recall the details of one of Master's trances, I just get this warm, happy, impossibly pink feeling in the back of my head that's just... it's just pleasure. That's it. That's all I get. 'It felt good, bitch,' my deep self tells me. 'What, you really think you care about anything more than that?' And I have to admit in the end that nope, I really, really don't.

(I was a total brat once! Seriously, go back and read my first few posts!)

So anyhoo, here I was, waking up on the couch from a trance I don't remember sinking into and seeing Master staring at me from the doorway to our Humble Living Room and knowing, just absolutely knowing that he put a suggestion into my brain and he was watching me to see when it's going to hit home. And fuck if that wasn't the sexiest goddamn thing I could imagine. It was just liquid fucking sex, poured straight onto my horny little brain with a motherfucking turkey baster, and I couldn't fucking stand thinking about it for two fucking seconds without jamming my fingers into my wet pussy and jilling off. I wriggled out of my dress--of course I didn't have panties on, I didn't even think I needed to explain that but this is probably somebody's first post, seriously, go and read the archives, Master flips up my skirt every morning to check if I'm bare down there and I always am--and just started going to town, right there on the couch. I didn't even put a towel down, I was just, 'Fuck it, that's what the carpet shampooer is there for, right?'

And, I mean... god, it was hot. I was thinking about what it must have been like when I walked right in the back door, kicked off my shoes and tossed my purse by the door, and heard, "Oh, Kitten?" And just looked over at Master and his pretty pendant and felt all the will drain out of my mind until I was just a slack-jawed, drooling zombie. And I just couldn't fucking stop masturbating over it. My free hand was yanking up my shirt and pawing at my big titties through my bra, and then I was pulling down the bra and pinching my nipples, and I was just, 'Oh fuck, oh god, oh fuck, oh god, I'm really a brainwashed slut for really real, oh that's so fucking sexy, oh, oh fuck....'

And it was a good five minutes before I realized I couldn't fucking cum. It went from, 'Shit this is hot' to 'shit this is so hot that I don't want it to be over just yet' to 'shit this is so hot but I can't quite get over the edge' to 'god fucking dammit where's my fucking climax, I'm so fucking horny my goddamn brain won't work' to a very loud, very plaintive "MASTER?!" delivered in a petulant squeal that made me sound like a five-year-old who needs a motherfucking nap. Which is not, generally, the kind of brat I try to be.

And he just looked at me with the Innocent Puppy Dog Face he only gives when he has absolutely, one hundred percent done something so fucking shitty to me that he knows I'm going to be horny and furious at the same time (furny? horious? anyway) And he said, "Yes, Kitten?" like he didn't know I'm lying on the couch with my ankles around my ears and three fingers jammed into my cunt just sawing the fuck away without a hope in hell of getting over the hump and losing my goddamn mind in orgasm the way I want and need to. Which, unless he had been stricken with a sudden case of the blindness, he absolutely did.

And I wanted to brat, I really did. I wanted to be all, "Oh, um, nothing," and just keep fucking myself even more lewdly and openly until his dick got so rock-hard watching me splayed out like that with my cunt leaking all over the couch that he lost his self-control and climbed on top of me to give me the good hard fucking I needed. (I probably still wouldn't have been able to cum, but... look, I wasn't exactly thinking clearly just then, okay? Jeez. Give a hypnotized gal a break.)

But instead, I just heard myself whimpering, "I'm horny, Master," like I was some sort of needy little slut with the brains of a concussed spaniel who couldn't figure out orgasms for herself. "I need to cum, but I don't know where the cummie is inside my needy pussy." I... seriously, god motherfucking dammit. I'm looking at those words right now, I remember saying them and thinking they made perfect sense, but jesus FUCKING christ "the cummie"? I actually called it "the cummie"? I know this is a constant refrain on this blog lately, but I've become everything I ever hated.

And god does it feel so fucking good.

Master chuckled, and I swear to fucking god I almost broke my fucking fingers my cunt squeezed so hard around them. Like, as much as I used to get off watching Master get all kerfuffled over how to deal with his bratty little bitch and her utter refusal to do what she was told when she was told, that's how wet and horny I get now watching him laugh at his stupid little slut trying to make her Weak and Feeble Brain struggle to swim upstream against his hypnotic control. It just... it reminds me how helpless I am, you know? And I guess that's kind of what I originally got out of bratting, that feeling of absolute helplessness when I tried to defy Master and he just took me in hand and broke my will like my resistance meant nothing.

We've just skipped all the defiance part and gone straight to the breaking. Um. Shit that sounds hot.

So where was I? Oh right. Master. He put on this really condescending voice, which annoys the fuck out of me and goes straight down to my clit at the same time and don't even ask me how that works, and said, "That's because it's not in her pussy anymore! Master took it out and hid it somewhere in this room." And the crazypants part is, that actually made sense to me. Like, I didn't remember the hypnotic suggestion he gave me all of a sudden, but I suddenly understood that something somewhere in the room was the physical representation of my orgasm, a literal fucking fetish that he'd managed to put my climax inside, and if I found it, then I could come. Like, I know how bonkers that sounds now, but at the time it was just, 'Oh, yeah, I'm going to find this and I'm going to get my cummie out and then I'm going to have a great big cum!'

But there was that 'Step Two: ???????' to deal with. "Where is it, Master?" I whimpered, looking around the room like I was going to just spot an Orgasm Medallion sitting on one of our many shelves of anime statuettes. And I mean, it wasn't like I stopped finger-banging myself for any of this, no. I was going to town so hard on my pussy that I could feel it drooling onto my tight little asshole. The more I fucked myself, the more I needed to cum, and the more I needed to cum, the more I wanted to fuck myself. My cunt was just a goddamn mess.

But this is where the 'sadistic asshole' part of 'creative sadistic asshole' came in. "Why don't you have a little look around for it, Kitten?" he purred, and I literally wailed in frustration. I mean, there I was, feet practically up behind my head, cunt stretched by three fingers, reclined on the couch in the classic pornstar masturbation position, and he's all, 'Oh, that's nice, but really you should take a stroll'. But I didn't really get what a twisted, deviant, wonderful man he was until I went over to the video cabinet and heard him say, "Cold."

And I mean... yeah, I was so fucking horny I couldn't think straight. My clit was throbbing pulses of static into my brain that made it impossible to hold a train of thought for more than about five seconds at a time, and I was awkwardly waddling around with three fingers jammed into my snatch and actively thrusting while I tried to search. I had the brains of a golden retriever right about then, you know? Like, if he put my climax in a tennis ball and faked throwing it, I probably would have run across the room to get it before I figured out it was still in his hand. But even in that state, I knew what 'cold' meant.

"Oh, you fucking little shit," I groaned. Then I went over to the shelves on the far wall.

That didn't get me a spanking, but it did get me a "Colder", which was way worse. I went up and down the length of the shelves, lifting every figurine, but I just kept hearing, "Cold, cold, ice cold now, really fucking cold...." And I gotta tell you? NOT. FUCKING. TRUE. The more I looked, the wetter and hornier I got, until my thighs were sliding against each other like they'd been fucking oiled up or something. I don't know why I kept looking there--maybe it was a little bit of my bratty instincts coming back, or maybe I just thought that he was playing some sort of double-bluff secret torture game with me and 'colder' really meant 'hotter' or something.

(Master would be really good in a porno version of the 'Saw' series. Just sayin'.)

And I finally gave up and headed for the computer desk next to the door, and I'll be honest--the way my pussy throbbed when I heard the word "Warmer," well... it was just fucking amazing. It was pure liquid pleasure, sex and submission and satisfaction all rolled up in gooey caramel and popped right into my brain. I was just so ready to cum by then that figuring out Master's puzzle was going to make me the happiest girl on earth.

But it wasn't there. Again, I didn't know what I was looking for--he didn't hide it in a little commemorative coin that said, 'Kitten's Next Orgasm', or something. (Although I'm not telling him about the place that prints custom coins. I don't want to give him ideas.) I had to pick up every piece of paper, every pen and pencil, every little tchotchke he plays with when he's waiting for his code to compile and ask my sneaky, skanky subconscious, 'Is this the thing?' And every time, the answer was always 'Nope.'

But Master kept saying, "Warmer, warmer, warmer," right up until I was at the edge of the desk, down on my knees, going through the drawer with one hand and masturbating with the other, and it still wasn't there... and of course right next to the desk was Master himself. With a big old tent in his jeans at just about eye level. Even with a very Weak and Feeble Brain, I knew where my climax had to be waiting.

But something, a hypnotic compulsion or a bratty instinct or just a warm pink mist in my brain, made me check to be sure. I kissed his shoes ("warmer....") I nuzzled my way up his leg ("warmer....") I rubbed my face against his crotch ("you're so hot now, Kitten, you're red hot now....") And finally I undid his fly and swallowed his whole cock in one gulp.

And oh GOD did I fucking cum. It took me twenty fucking minutes with the carpet shampooer to get the stain out, I gushed so hard. I was just moaning and squealing and grunting around his cock like a little piggy at feeding time, and my climaxes were stacking up like flights at O'Hare during a blizzard. I just couldn't stop bobbing my head up and down his big hard shaft until his balls smacked my chin, and everything was this warm, wet sea of bright red pleasure. I literally do not remember how many times I came. I just know it was... it was so fucking good. God, no wonder I can't brat properly anymore.

And then he shot his load down my throat, which is how all the best stories end (you hear that, Charles Dickens?) and rubbed my face in the musky mess on the carpet and told me to clean it up, and of course that just felt so fucking hot and filthy and dirty that I kept leaking while I shampooed and I kept having to get the new spots and finally Master had to drag me out onto the linoleum and fuck all the excess horny out of me before I could do the job right. And then we ordered pizza for dinner because I was too tired to cook and he was too tired to make me.

And so yeah, that's just one more thing the incredibly clever, incredibly inventive, incredibly sadistic asshole has to hold over me now. 'I have literally hidden your orgasms inside my cock and you have to suck it to get them back.' Pray for me, won't you?

Nah, I get it. I wouldn't either if I was reading this.

THE END