One-Off: Session 00103

by RookConrad

Tags: #cw:noncon #bondage #D/s #dom:male #humiliation #pov:bottom #sub:female #exhibitionism #sadomasochism #solo

An anonymised and slightly modified write-up of a session with a subject, in which a previously SFW dynamic shifts into BDSM and CNC territory.

Summary of a recent session. 
**Themes:** Denial, submission, mindscape, CNC.
**Potential Triggers:** Heights/falling, begging, kidnapping, forcible restraint/confinement, physical (nonsexual) assault, public humiliation, sexual humiliation. 

Initially, the sessions were to be kept SFW - non-sexual, non-BDSM. An exploration of technique and style. As comfort levels rose, that began to erode - by mutual interest and consent, mainly but not entirely in terms of kink. This session was a marked escalation.
The first major shift was in the tone of the induction. The modality remained broadly the same as in previous sessions: a gateway mindscape, where the subject was immersed in a scene and then guided with visual and kinesthetic imagery into a trance state. But previous sessions had done so with resist/release cycles: The subject fights against a progressive sensation of being pulled into a representation of their trance state, then submits, and is brought under over a handful of iterations.

This time, though, she wanted to beg for it. To have me make her beg to drop into trance. Since the session was on short notice, I did not have time to properly prepare an outline for what to so with the subject once in trance, so we negotiated a kidnapping mindscape. The subject would be brought under, then guided into a space partitioned off from the rest of her mind, where she would be abducted, forcibly restrained, brought to an undisclosed location, and then degraded/humiliated for an anonymous crowd's enjoyment. 

So with that in mind, the induction began.

A few deep, slow breaths, and then she was on the edge of a cliff set up for rapelling. Peering over the cliff's edge, the subject saw a valley filled with fog that got deeper the further down into the valley you went. The fog represented trance. Being relaxed, happy, and empty. The lower the subject rapelled, the more they would become filled with that fog, and the deeper into trance she would go. She was eager to begin, and so got into position, then began to go down...

And then, stopped. Something was blocking her. The fog refused to let her through. Try as she might, push as hard as she willed, she could not break through. Could not go down. But she wanted to go down. Not being able to go down frustrated her, and so she fought harder, pushed harder. But all that did was made that desire to go under worse. There was a word, she knew, that would let her go under. She knew the word, it was right there on the tip of her tongue. But whenever she reached for it, the word just melted away. And besides, even if she could remember it, the word wouldn't work if she said it. It had to be me. I had to give the word, give the command. I had to give her permission to go down into trance, or she wouldn't go down at all.

Ugh, but what was the word? Dive? Descend? Fall? No, those were close, but wrong. Dive. Descend. They weren't right. They meant the same thing, but they were still so very wrong. All hearing or thinking them did was make her want the right word even more. Make her more and more desperate for my command, for my permission, to go down into trance. To let go of her mind and body. To surrender to the fog, let it make her become relaxed, happy, and empty. Not dive. Not descend. It hurt, how badly she needed to hear me speak the right word. How desperately she craved my permission to go under.

While all this played out in the subject's mind, already enthralled by my voice, I got to enjoy watching her body's response. Pouting became wriggling, squirming, and whimpering, her face became suffused with frustrated longing. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little turned on from watching how readily she accepted my suggestions, knowing that I already had this much control over her, and that I was giving her exactly what she wanted. 

She needed my permission to go under. She needed to convince me to give her the right word, give the command, speak the trigger that would let her escape this agonizing, all-consuming need to go under. The word that was not dive or descend was the only thing in the world that mattered to her. Who knows what she would have done for me, or to me, in that moment, if it meant I would relent and give her the release her mind and body were dying to feel.

And were I less ethical, or if we'd negotiated for it before beginning, things might have taken a very interesting turn here. But, no. I have my boundaries, and she has hers, and a hard rule for us both is no renegotiating, under any circumstances, once the session begins. So instead I told her "ask nicely, and maybe I'll let you go under."

"Please?" she replied, soft and full of need.

"No, not good enough," I told her. "I need you to show me how badly you want to go under. Make me believe you need to go into trance." A pause, then, "Beg for it." She obeyed immediately.

"Please please please please let me go under. Please?" On and on she went, still writhing with need, imploring me with a litany of pleases. It was music to my ears, and a feast for my eyes, to see how much power she'd already given me over her. But, it wouldn't be fair to just keep on denying her, and I needed her down for what I had planned next.

"Good girl," I told her once I was satisfied. Then, I gave her what she needed. The trigger. The right word.


She obeyed, instantly and completely. Her head fell forward, her body went limp, her mind falling deep into the fog. Normally it would take hearing the trigger as many as half a dozen times before she'd let it take. But that was when she was bratting, fighting it, fighting me. Making me earn her submission. But this time, she was the one doing the earning, and submission was her reward rather than mine. "Good girl," I praised. "Very good girl, you're doing such a good job." But I was having too much fun to let her off that easy, so the next words out of my mouth were "Now, up-up-up!"

She couldn't resist the command to come out of trance, no matter how much it hurt to obey. No matter how cruel it must have felt to have the sweet release of such a deep trance snatched away so soon after being granted it. And in mere moments, thanks to my voice, the need to go back down made her once again squirm, whimper, writhe, and beg.
God, she was so much fun. I didn't make her beg for quite as long this time, but enough to make me squirm, just a little, for an entirely different reason. "Drop," I commanded, and again she obeyed. More praise. More "Good girl," more "good job," reinforcing how good it felt to be in a relaxed, happy, empty trance. One more round, for fun. "Up-up-up!"

She was too out of it to properly form thoughts, let alone words. Maybe even too foggy to properly have feelings. But the need was there already, even before my voice made her whine and beg a third time. Her mind was mine, to do with as I pleased, and what pleased me was just a little more begging me to let her drop.
"Good girl. Very good girl. Drop." And down she went.

From here, the next phase of our session could begin. In truth, I would later find out, I'd put her too deep to fully enjoy what was coming next, but she'd still had an amazing time. Something to account for in the future, that. But here, in the present, it was time to have some more fun with her. 

The door formed in her mind, guided by the words my voice planted there. A plain door with a steel handle. A doorway into another world, separate from this one. One that she could exit at any time, by activating the failsafe I'd installed in her early in our dynamic. An emergency eject trigger that she could use any time she needed to red out of a scene, and come back out of trance fully awake and alert. But so long as she was inside, I controlled everything she experienced. My voice would not just be her thoughts, but her entire world, crafting the bones of this new, temporary reality which her own subconscious would flesh out.

Through the door she stepped onto a sidewalk, in a neighborhood familiar enough to know it wasn't exactly safe for her to be. Not alone, not at night, and certainly not dressed as she was: her high heels, short skirt, and revealing top made her a beacon for predators. But she'd chosen this route, chosen to be here, chosen to walk down this dangerous stretch of sidewalk with only the orange street lamps to light her way. She heard the sound of rubber on asphalt, then turned to see the unmarked van slow down. Stop for a moment, as whoever was inside took a good, hard look at her and what she was wearing. Then start moving forward again, slower this time, just barely faster than she could walk. Fuck. She knew what that meant. Knew she needed to get away. But there were no alleys to duck into, no open bars or coffee shops for shelter. Just boarded-up storefront after boarded-up storefront down a seemingly endless stretch of deserted sidewalk. 

She picked up the pace, but the van kept closing. Broke into a run, but the van adjusted effortlessly. Closing slowly but inexhorably, closing in on her. Twenty feet behind. Then ten. Then five. Then the hood passed her, the side door opened, and three men jumped out. She tried to fight. She was strong, she was trained. She wouldn't go down easy. But the men were stronger. Better-trained. It was barely a contest at all, and then she was tossed into the van. Bound, gagged, and blindfolded, zip ties digging into her wrists and ankles. As the van drove off, her captors began joking about her. Wondering how much of a slut she'd turn out to be. How much fun they might have if they took turns fucking her. One of them declared he'd go first, running a hand up her bare thigh. But then another voice barked, quieting them, reminding them that she was off-limits to them. They weren't part of the show. Small comfort as the van hit a pothole, sent her flying up, then down hard on her thigh, elbow, and shoulder.

Check-in time. An inflection point in the story. "Use your hand to tell me how you're feeling." We'd agreed to use ASL as a way to keep the traffic light system in place for when she was too deep to be verbal. Green for all good, yellow for hitting a limit, and red... well. If we hit red, she'd eject. Didn't need my permission for red, and in truth I didn't want her to even think of asking first if it came to that. But she signaled green, with a little waver. "I'm good, but don't push too much harder."

It was impossible for her to tell where the van was taking her. Too many twists and turns. Too much of her captors lusting over her, then being shouted down when they got on the edge of breaking protocol. They backed off each time, and kept their hands off her, but she could feel their eyes boring running greeidly over her, trying to bore through what little fabric she'd chosen to wear. Eventually the van reached its destination, coming to an unceremonious stop. The zip ties holding her ankles together were cut, but not the ones around her writsts. Her gag and blindfold stayed in. Rough, uncaring hands pushed her out the now-open door, into more that manhandled her towards whatever further abuse lay in store. Through another door, down some stairs, then another door.

The shift in the air was palpable as she was shoved through. After just barely keeping her balance, she heard the low din of voices muttering and whispering, felt hungry eyes once again roaming over her thighs, tits, and ass. 

How could she have been so stupid? Walking alone, at night, in a neighborhood she knew wasn’t safe, dressed like a whore… what did she expect would happen to her? Of course she was targeted. To be fair, she’d never been the best at making smart decisions. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened to her. 
Someone put a leash around her neck, then jerked her forward. As she followed, the reality of her situation sunk in. She was completely helpless, at the mercy of whoever had brought her here. They’d taken her sight, her voice, her hands… even her dignity, though you could argue she hadn’t brought all that much with her. The skirt barely covered half her ass, the top left her back and most of her chest exposed, the heels were sexy but also impractical as hell. She’d dressed to turn heads and raise cocks, and she had to imagine several were standing at attention right now.

Onward the was pulled, tugged if she slowed down, paraded like a show dog for the viewing pleasure of the crowd seated all around her. She tried to listen to what they were saying, hoping for some clue as to why she was here. But their murmurs were indistinct, undecipherable, save for a few stray words like “stupid,” “bitch,” “slut,” and “whore,” always spat with contempt… and a hint of lust. She felt something wet and sticky land on her calf… spit. Phlegm. Someone had spat on her. Then another, and another. Most missed, but more than a few loogies ended up peppering her shins before the crowd fell unto smug chuckling and clinking of glasses. Then is was back to whispers, stupid, bitch, slut, and whore.
Her cheeks flushed underneath her layers of makeup. Her knees wanted to buckle and collapse. It was horrible, all of it. She’d never been so humiliated in her entire life. Never been so ashamed, or afraid. But that wasn’t the worst part. No, the worst part was the dawning, damning realization that it wasn’t just shame coloring her cheeks, nor only fear that made her knees weak. That the burning humiliation was making a wholly different sort of heat bloom between her thighs, and causing her nipples to stiffen against the inside of her bra. That she would have moistened her lips to match her cunt, if the gag wasn’t stopping her.

She was getting off on it. Getting off on being helpless. Getting off on being reduced to something less than human, a collection of curves and holes for the crowd to defile with their mouths and fuck with their eyes. Getting off on knowing she had no choice but to obey the leash pulling her along like a naughty pet on its way to be punished.
We’d discussed these themes before the session had begun, of course. Degradation, humiliation, and helplessness. But there’d been no way to know how she would ultimately react until we got there, and so it was time to check in again. “Use your hand to tell me how you’re feeling,” I commanded once more. Completely green this time, not a hint of waver. “Yes, please. More, please,” the “okay” gesture told me. And so I continued right along.
By the time she heard the clinking of the chain-link fence that no doubt had something to do with their real plans for her, she’d pretty much written off her panties as ruined. She hated it, of course. Hated her body for how enthusiastically it responded to the leering contempt of the crowd, and the pitiless silence of the man holding her leash. Hated her mind for craving the release which came from knowing that for once in her life, nobody expected anything from her except to do what she was told.


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