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Delphine in Distress#

Construction#

I never thought being an engineer would lead to… this. Sure, I loved solving problems, designing systems, and creating functional beauty out of raw materials. But as I stood in my basement workshop-slash-dungeon, running a hand over the leather-covered surface of my most recent project, I couldn’t help but marvel at where my passions had taken me.

The bench was a wonderful design, both elegant and functional. Kneeling on it meant surrendering all control. The padded support, perfectly contoured to the body, offered comfort even as the straps promised something far more… restrictive. I’d tested every component myself, of course. The magnetic clasps clicked into place with a satisfying finality, holding firm under any strain but releasing instantly when the power failed—because, safety first.

But the bench was only the beginning. The next item on the build list was… spicier. The whipping machine was still in the prototype phase, but the idea of it was already addictive. A rotating disc, an array of implements, and a stepper motor for precise positioning of each whipping arm—it was precision engineering used for something far more visceral. In testing, I already heard the hum of the motor, and the mean swish of the canes or belts I used for testing. It would produce a sharp sting or heavy thud depending on the implement, and using exactly the programmed force.

This wasn’t just about the technical challenge, though that was part of the allure. It was about pushing boundaries—my own.

The test run was supposed to be a quick proof of concept. I had spent days refining the mechanics, testing the software, and ensuring everything would operate precisely as designed. But when I finally decided to give it a go in my basement workshop-slash-dungeon, I might have let my excitement get the better of me.

I wanted to test the feature that allowed the four whipping arms to operate concurrently. The software I’d developed ensured that no two arms would strike at the same time or cross paths, dynamically adjusting their timing if their trajectories overlapped. It was one of the more complex parts of the system, and I was eager to see it in action. To really put it through its paces, I set the punishment program to random positioning with a ten-minute timer. A good, solid test window, I figured.

Stripping down, I laid myself onto the bench, threading my legs into the knee and foot loops first. Wide straps ran around my thighs and calves, locking me in place. Then I secured the body straps—neck, chest, and waist—each clicking into position closing the magnetic clasps. The waist strap, wide and unyielding, would cinch me like a ribbon corset when pulled. Finally, I slipped my arms and wrists into the arm loops, leaving only the controller within reach.

Two buttons: one to tighten everything to the preset strength and duration, the other to start the punishment sequence. Simple. Elegant. Effective.

I pressed the first button, and the straps pulled taut. The sudden, unrelenting grip of the bindings took my breath away. The pressure surprised me a bit, but I told myself it was just part of the experience. I could still breathe, thankfully. I had set a hard limit on the neck strap based on my neck circumference, but the waist strap pressed into me like steel, while the knee and elbow loops immobilized me completely. The bench held me in a wide, open position, vulnerable and inescapable. I felt exposed, utterly at the mercy of my own design. The word “fuckable” came to mind.

When I pressed the second button, the motors whirred to life. The whipping arms began their warm-up, each implement spinning in its circular path. The variable speeds and swishing sounds of canes, leather belts, and tawses filled the room. My heart raced as the steppers moved the arms into position. The first strike came as a soft slap across my thighs, almost teasing. Another followed, grazing my lower back. The program started with a low strike probability, easing me in.

For the first two minutes, it was almost pleasant—a warm-up of random strikes, enough to make me wince but not overwhelming. It was only when the hits started to layer in quick succession that I realized my mistake.

The asymmetric disc design. I’d engineered it to amplify the intensity of each strike with even moderate speeds, and it worked too well. By the third minute, the random strikes were more effective—and painful—than I’d anticipated. A hard belt strike landed square on my ass, followed by a cane lashing across my shoulders. My breath hitched as I realized I hadn’t truly accounted for how relentless the program could be.

The strike probability increased steadily. By the fifth minute, the arms were working in tandem, delivering double hits. A leather strap lashed my inner thighs as a cane struck the small of my back. I cried out, my voice swallowed by the soundproof walls of the basement. I wasn’t just testing the machine anymore; I was enduring it.

The last three minutes were pure agony. The strikes came faster, harder, in overlapping patterns that left no part of me untouched. The steppers moved the arms with ruthless precision, and the program’s randomness ensured I couldn’t anticipate the next hit. My thighs, ass, back, and even the backs of my calves bore the brunt of the punishment. A triple strike—belt, tawse, and cane—had me screaming, tears streaming down my face.

When the timer finally ran out and the locks released me, I collapsed onto the bench, trembling and sobbing. I was in pain. Real and raw. But as I lay there, catching my breath, I couldn’t help but smile through the tears.

It worked. Every feature, every mechanism, every line of code—it all worked flawlessly.

A total engineering success.

The pleasure systems were a completely different challenge, but no less rewarding. I wanted precision and versatility, something that could match the complexity of human desire and control. If I was going to design for pleasure, why not push the boundaries of what a machine could do?

I started with the basics: three holes to fully fill a human body, each plug custom-fitted to my dimensions. The silicone models were crafted to my precise measurements, laced with wires and contact electrodes to allow for a variety of sensations. The possibilities were endless—vibrations, pulsing shocks, gentle warmth, or a mix of all three. It was the kind of system that could tease, torment, or overwhelm, all with the push of a button.

For practicality, I added lubrication channels to the anal and vaginal dildos, ensuring they’d always glide smoothly into place. Tiny pumps fed the channels with sufficient force, removing the need for any preparation or cooperation on my part. The hydraulic fucking mechanisms I installed weren’t just functional—they were relentless. The vaginal dildo got a faster motor for dynamic stimulation, while the anal one had a more powerful drive, able to apply steady pressure when needed. Feedback sensors monitored force and conductivity, perfect for implementing denial or edging programs. The system could tease me with maddening restraint or drive me to the brink with calculated precision.

The oral dildo, though—that was a personal favorite. It was a masterpiece of design, made to challenge me in ways that were always just beyond comfort. Sized to fill my mouth completely, it pushed boundaries while still maintaining functionality. Like the others, it was lined with electrodes for stimulation, but I hesitated to use them there—at least for now. Instead, I drilled a channel through it, mostly for feeding simulations or, if I dared, training programs for swallowing and endurance.

The real innovation came with the head positioning mechanism. I realized that for the mouthpiece to work effectively, I’d need a way to control my head. That led to one of my more creative ideas: braiding nylon ropes into my hair, creating two reinforced thick braids. With the neck binding removed, I installed a pillory-like headboard featuring tensioner coils mounted on top. The coils would pull the reinforced braids taut, holding my head in place against the headboard.

This allowed for precise control over head positioning. When my mouth was open, the front dildo could slide in seamlessly. If I resisted, the force sensor would detect the tension and engage a punishment sequence until I complied. Just programming that feature made me wet with anticipation, and every time I reviewed the code, I could almost feel the pull on my hair and the cane on my ass.

Reading through the micropython scripts as I tested the logic sent a shiver down my spine. My heart raced at the thought of putting the system to use, but my body betrayed me, slick and ready for the inevitability of it. It was a strange thrill—fear, excitement, and arousal all tangled together in the lines of code that defined my desires.

Testing#

Testing each part of the stimulation system individually seemed like the responsible thing to do before integrating it into the bondage rig. Little did I know how much refinement—and personal discovery—it would require.

The vaginal dildo was my first challenge. It worked well enough on its own, but during initial trials, it became clear that something was missing. That’s when I added the clit stimulator: a small “thumb” with a suction cup, its own embedded vibrator, and electrodes for additional sensation. Balancing the intensity took trial and error. The impulses on the dildo needed to be increased for deep, satisfying stimulation, but the clit stimulator had to be dialed way down. Too much there, and I risked ruining an orgasm rather than enhancing it. It was frustratingly delicate work, but when I got it right, the results were worth it.

The anal dildo was another story. It needed adjustments to its power and patterning, as well as modifications to the feedback sensors to handle the unique contractions it induced. That’s when I discovered something incredible: with the right stimulation patterns, I could trigger involuntary muscle contractions. Not just mild reactions, but helpless spasms. The kind that made my body respond in ways I couldn’t control, no matter how much I tried. That gave me an idea so wicked I almost felt guilty—almost.

Because next up was the mouth dildo. Testing it turned into its own twisted experiment. I wanted a feeding feature, something practical but also humiliating. So, I concocted a paste: white, salty, stringy, packed with nutrients—and absolutely vile. I wrote a program to test the delivery system. The dildo would press against my lips, wait for me to open my mouth, then push halfway in and spurt the paste. Afterward, it would fuck me deeply, engaging the stimulation pads to force me to swallow.

I set up the test with my head fixed in place and a small controller in my hand. The first press of the button sent the dildo to my mouth. I opened out of habit more than anything, and it slid in, stopping just shy of triggering my gag reflex. The paste hit my tongue in a thick, salty gush, overwhelming my senses. I gagged slightly as the excess dripped out of my mouth and onto my t-shirt, but before I could react further, the dildo thrust deeper, relentless.

The stimulation pads activated, and my throat spasmed involuntarily, forcing me to swallow. I tried to fight it, to pull back or resist, but the mechanism worked exactly as designed. My head was immobilized, the dildo pushed too far to retreat, and my body was forced to act, choking down the vile paste in helpless, rhythmic swallows.

When it finally withdrew, I sat there panting, my stomach filled with the paste against my will, my shirt damp with paste, and my panties soaked with something else entirely. The experience had been degrading, messy, and utterly vile. Yet the combination of humiliation and helplessness left me trembling with arousal.

I stared at the controller in my hand, then at the device in front of me.

I was a very talented, very evil engineer. And I couldn’t wait to take it further.

The idea of adding breast stimulators, a milking apparatus, or even a bastonade mechanism had crossed my mind more than once while refining the rig. Each new concept teased at the boundaries of what I could engineer and endure. But for this test run, I decided to keep things “simple.” At least, simple by the standards of half an IoT controller loaded with Micropython.

The new program integrated the dildos and whipping machines into a single, cohesive experience. I designed the vaginal and anal dildos as both a stimulator and a data collector, using its sensors to measure pressure, conductivity, and movement, sensing evasion and muscle contractions. From that data, I wrote a denial program—simple but devastatingly effective. The rig would fuck me senseless in all three holes and, just when it sensed I was about to climax, it would punish me instead.

When I stripped down and strapped myself into the rig, a familiar thrill of anticipation mixed with dread. The straps tightened, the headboard locked into place, and the tension coils pulled my braids taut, forcing my head upward. It was time.

The front dildo moved into position, bumping against my closed lips. I hesitated for just a moment too long, and the punishment function activated without mercy. A tawse struck my bare ass at full force, making me yelp. My mouth instinctively opened wide, and the dildo plunged in, filling me completely. I tried to wiggle free, but all I achieved was pulling my own hair tighter against the coils. The dildo compensated for my movements, staying deeply embedded no matter how much I struggled.

As I fought the gag reflex, the anal dildo made its entrance. Cool and slick with lubricant, it pressed against me with steady, mechanical determination. Resistance triggered another punishment—a sharp strike from the cane that left me gasping silently around the mouthpiece. Millimeter by millimeter, the anal dildo slid in, unrelenting, until it was fully seated. It began to thrust with deliberate precision, its movements relentless and impossible to resist.

The vaginal dildo followed, meeting no real resistance thanks to the bench holding me wide open. It joined the rhythm, syncing its motions with the anal dildo but in smaller, teasing strokes. The stimulation programs activated, testing different patterns, searching for what worked best. My body reacted naturally, responding to the calculated precision of the machine, even as I fought to stay passive and avoid further punishment.

Whenever I tried to lean into the sensations or move with the rhythm, the rig retaliated with cruel efficiency. A cane, a tawse, a belt, or a sharp shock to the clit kept me utterly submissive. The mouth dildo, meanwhile, began to thrust in slow, deliberate motions, filling my throat and pulling my head back further against the tension coils.

The system ramped up, sensing my arousal and fine-tuning its stimulation patterns. It kept me teetering on the edge of release, never allowing me to tip over. My mouth was filled, my ass was relentlessly worked, and my clit was teased and shocked, keeping me engaged, but helplessly unsatisfied. The denial program executed flawlessly, holding me in a state of maddening frustration.

And then the final humiliation came. The mouth dildo delivered its vile feeding paste. It poured into my mouth, coating my tongue, while the dildo pushed deeper, forcing me to swallow as the stimulation pads triggered involuntary spasms.

As the program reached its crescendo, the tawses delivered one last brutal strike to my ass. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, everything stopped. The straps released, the tension on my hair loosened, and the dildos withdrew, leaving me trembling, empty, and overwhelmed.

I lay on the bench, sobbing softly. My body ached, my mind reeled, and my desires were a tangled mess of frustration and arousal. The rig had done exactly what I’d designed it to do: strip me of control, deny me release, and reduce me to a crying, broken mess.

When I first built my contraption, I thought I had everything I needed to push my limits. And for a while, it worked beautifully. I experimented with various programs—denial, edging, punishment, forced orgasms, oral training, anal training—and fine-tuned every aspect.

The additions over time were transformative. I integrated more sensors into the dildos, enabling the system to gather even more nuanced data and adapt its methods. The breast stimulator was a breakthrough, capable of sucking, pinching, twisting, and teasing to deliver an array of sensations. I even created an oral training program that punished me, sometimes painfully, until I learned to use my tongue in ways I hadn’t thought possible. The anal trainer, though, was my masterpiece. Its entire design aimed to train me to associate anal stimulation with pleasure until I could climax from that alone.

But after a year or so, the system lost its edge. It worked, yes—flawlessly—but it became predictable. I knew its limits, its patterns, and even its surprises. What I craved was the chaos, the unexpected twists that only a human touch could deliver. That’s when I decided to take things to the next level.

Deployment#

I created Delphine in Distress.

First, the look. I dyed my hair neon pink and designed a signature e-Girl aesthetic: thick makeup in shades of pink and purple, with LED-lighted cat ears perched on my head. My outfit completed the persona—a white, pink, and violet catsuit with strategic cutouts for my breasts and crotch, paired with matching heels. It was slutty, playful, and utterly on-brand.

Next came the setup. I installed cameras and ring lights for professional-quality streaming, then built an interactive site where paying users could log in and control the rig. They could switch between four camera views, send text or voice messages, and listen to my reactions in real time. The real innovation, though, was the bidding system. Users could pay for control of the rig, but at any time, another user could outbid them, paying off both the current controller and me. It turned every session into a competition, where viewers fought for the chance to dictate my torment or pleasure.

The unpredictability of humans was what I craved, but it also came with its share of monotony. Some users were painfully predictable, falling into well-worn archetypes.

First, there was the Punisher. Always male, often prolific on BDSM forums, they’d crafted elaborate fantasies about degrading and breaking women in their fictional play dungeons. Their control of the rig reflected their lack of finesse: relentless pain, bluntly delivered, without creativity or care. Effective, yes, but boring.

Then there was the Over-Planner. These users treated every session like a science experiment, micromanaging every detail to extract maximum efficiency. They’d use the program to ramp me up, edge me perfectly, then deny me with mechanical precision. While it was undeniably effective, it lacked the emotional rawness I sought.

And of course, the Showoff Dom. They weren’t there to explore or connect—they just wanted everyone to know they were in control. They’d send degrading voice messages, bark commands, and brag about their dominance in the chat. It was performative, predictable, and, honestly, exhausting.

These users paid well, which kept the site running—and kept me in heels and custom latex—but their approach left me longing for something more.

What kept me hooked were the outliers, the users who broke the mold. The ones who brought creativity, unpredictability, or even tenderness to their control. They reminded me why I’d started this project in the first place: to embrace the chaos and surrender to the unexpected.

These rare, exceptional users—the ones who truly stood out—were almost always women. They had a knack for observation, patience, and creativity that elevated their control beyond the predictable bluntness of most men. They’d begin as silent lurkers, paying to watch the cameras and learn my reactions. They studied the rig, my body, and my responses. When they finally stepped in, they came prepared, often with a plan so precise and inventive that it left me breathless.

Pwned#

Oceanmaster was one of those users. From the name, I assumed she was just another Showoff Dom. Her initial silence seemed typical—another observer waiting to pounce for a moment of cheap domination. But when she finally bought control, everything about her approach surprised me.

The earlier session had been grueling, dominated by two or three Punisher types taking turns reducing me to a sweaty, exhausted mess. My body ached, my mind was foggy, and I’d been debating shutting down for the night. That’s when Oceanmaster made her move, paying off the current user and stepping into control.

Her voice came through the system: low, smooth, and unmistakably female. Seductive, but with a command that made me freeze.

“Delphine,” she said softly, “let’s start slow. I want you on the edge of anticipation for as long as possible. Let’s make this a show.”

She activated the breast stimulators first, cycling between suction and teasing vibrations. They were just strong enough to make me squirm, not enough to overwhelm. The clit stimulator kicked in next, delivering soft pulses that sent jolts of need through me. The anal dildo held still, pressing against me without thrusting, while the vaginal dildo moved in shallow, rhythmic strokes—deliberately unsatisfying. The entire setup kept me balanced on the edge, helpless, and vocal. My mouthpiece was removed, letting me moan freely, amplifying the performance for her audience.

At first, I thought this might be a begging session. I braced myself for her to push me into pleading for release. But Oceanmaster had other plans.

“Now, Delphine,” she purred, her voice dripping with control, “I want to see how much you can take before you make a sound. Be very quiet. Each time you make a noise, the stimulation will cease. Don’t disappoint me.”

Before I could process her words, the first strike landed. A sharp cane strike to the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. Pain exploded, and I bit my lip hard to keep silent. She was testing me, challenging me. The stimulation resumed, escalating just enough to make it harder to stay quiet.

Her control was exquisite. The cane strikes came slowly, spaced widely apart, and each one caught me off guard. She varied the target areas and intensity, ensuring the pain lingered just enough to pull me back from the edge. Every time the stimulation ramped up—deep, teasing thrusts from the vaginal dildo, soft pulses on my clit—she’d time the next strike perfectly to disrupt my climb toward release. It was devastatingly effective.

Oceanmaster adjusted the program with deep knowledge of how I functioned, using the system’s sensors to read my arousal levels and resistance. She escalated the stimulation when she sensed I could handle it, and pulled back when I was too close to breaking. I was caught in a cycle of hope and despair, teetering on the brink only to be yanked back by the sharp, stinging pain she delivered.

Her session felt like an eternity. By the end, I was trembling, sobbing, and utterly undone. Every inch of my body was alight with sensation, and yet, I’d been denied the release I craved. My head spun as I tried to process her control, her finesse, her ability to read me better than I read myself.

I thought it was over. I thought I could finally release myself once I unlocked the rig. But Oceanmaster wasn’t finished.

The final strike landed squarely on my exposed snatch. The tawse covered my outer lips and clipped the edge of my clit with perfect, brutal precision and maximum force. Pain erupted, sharp and overwhelming, and I howled into the cameras.

As I lay there, tears streaming, her voice came back, calm and commanding.

“I know you’re about to shut down for the night,” she said. “And I know you’re planning to get yourself off. Don’t.”

I blinked, still sobbing, as her words sank in.

“Stay chaste for me until tomorrow. Sleep locked for me. I’ll be there, first session you come online. Can you do that, Delphine?”

I couldn’t speak. I could only nod into the camera, trembling under her control.

“Good girl,” she murmured, her voice soft and almost tender. “Be a good pet for me. Good pets edge; they don’t come. You know that.”

The connection ended, leaving me alone in the aftermath of her session. When I went offline for the day, the relief of unlocking the rig was short-lived. My body ached as I peeled the sweaty, clingy catsuit from my skin. Every motion reminded me of Oceanmaster’s precision—the way she’d driven me to the edge, then punished me just enough to deny any relief. The sting between my legs from her final tawsing was a sharp and persistent reminder of her control.

I shuffled to the shower, stepping under the warm spray to wash away the sweat and tension. The water felt good, but my need simmered just beneath the surface, an ache that refused to dissipate. My hand wandered downward almost instinctively, seeking some kind of release, but the moment I touched myself, pain flared where her tawse had struck. I winced and pulled away.

Even when I tried again, gingerly, the tenderness forced me to stop. The memory of her calculated strike came rushing back, along with the realization: she’d known exactly what she was doing. Her voice echoed in my mind: “Good pets edge; they don’t come.”

Damn her. My frustration grew with every failed attempt. The shower offered no solace, only the relentless push and pull of need against the physical reminder of her denial.

After toweling off, I removed the remnants of my e-Girl makeup. Without the thick eyeliner and shimmering colors, my reflection in the mirror felt almost alien. Flat-faced and unglamorous, I looked more like my everyday self, but my mind couldn’t escape the memory of the session. The ache between my legs was a constant pull, raw and throbbing. I wanted to touch myself, to find some relief, but even the thought made me wince.

Oceanmaster was right. She’d left me perfectly cornered—too tender to satisfy myself and too frustrated to think of anything else.

Grumbling in defeat, I pulled on an oversized sweater and a pair of loose training pants, hoping for some comfort. It didn’t help. My mind kept drifting back to the rig, to her voice, to the cruel and methodical way she’d kept me teetering on the edge. Need fought with pain in an unrelenting cycle, and I hated how deeply she’d gotten under my skin.

Finally, I surrendered completely. I retrieved my chastity belt and locked it into place, the cold metal snug and unyielding against my skin. The key went into my timed-release safe, set to open just 30 minutes before my next session. By then, I’d be too busy preparing to do anything else. She’d made sure of that, too.

Lying down, I felt the belt pressing against me, a constant, maddening reminder of what I couldn’t have. To stop myself from fumbling with it in a moment of desperation, I locked my hands behind my back with a pair of cuffs, dropping the key into the safe also before I locked them on. The position was awkward, but it worked. There was no escape.

That’s how I spent the night: locked, bound, and unbearably frustrated. Every time my mind wandered to the ache between my legs, the belt and cuffs reminded me of her words. “Be a good pet for me.”

I hated how much I wanted her to buy me again. As I drifted into restless sleep, I could only hope she’d be there tomorrow, ready to push me further—and maybe, just maybe, let me find release.

The morning came too early, my restless sleep leaving me groggy and tense. I lay awake, the chastity belt pressing against me, my hands bound behind me. The timer on the safe still had time to tick down, and I could do nothing but wait. When it finally released the keys, I had only 30 minutes to transform into Delphine in Distress—a barely manageable window.

I rushed through my routine, pulling on the catsuit with trembling hands, strapping into my heels, and applying the e-Girl makeup that had become my signature. Neon pink hair brushed and styled, LED cat ears perched and glowing, I hurried to secure myself into the rig. The process was methodical yet frantic: threading my braids through the tension coils, locking my hands and legs into the bindings, and pressing the first button. The straps pulled tight, immobilizing me, and I was committed.

The second button activated the system, positioning the implements with mechanical precision. The third brought me online.

Seven minutes late.

The screen lit up almost immediately. She was there. Oceanmaster.

Her name appeared beside the “Current Controller” banner after she outbid a persistent Showoff Dom who tried to claim me. Relief washed over me. She didn’t waste a moment.

“You are late,” her voice came through, calm but firm. “That is not a good start for your day, is it?”

“I’m sorry,” I began, but she cut me off sharply.

“I don’t want excuses, sweetie. Excuses are just an attempt to deny responsibility, aren’t they? I want to hear what you did wrong, why it happened, and how we’re going to correct it.”

Her words hit me like a bucket of cold water. She didn’t let me deflect or soften the truth. She demanded accountability, and she wouldn’t settle for anything less. I swallowed hard.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” I tried again, but a sharp cane strike landed across my thighs before I could say more.

“I said no excuses,” she corrected. “Try again.”

The sting burned as I gathered myself. I couldn’t hide behind apologies. She wanted blunt honesty.

“I was late, Ma’am,” I said plainly, voice trembling. “I slept locked and miscalculated how much time I’d need to get ready. I’ll plan better next time.”

“Much better,” she responded, her tone approving. “That’s what I want from a good pet—plainly stating her mistake, the reason for it, and how she’ll improve. Now, there’s still the matter of you being late today. We need to impress the urgency of improvement upon you. How are we going to do that, pet?”

I froze. My cheeks burned as I realized what she wanted. She wanted me to beg for correction.

But I knew better. It wasn’t my place to dictate the terms of my punishment. She likely had it planned already. Still, I needed to phrase my request carefully, to show humility without overstepping.

“I…” I hesitated, searching for the right words. “I need to be corrected, Ma’am. Please administer the proper amount of correction to help me become a better girl for you, Ma’am.” My voice wavered. “Please correct this girl, Ma’am.”

The humiliation coursed through me, pooling as heat between my legs. My shame was on full display, visible in my trembling body, my flushed cheeks, and the slick glisten captured by the clit cam in unforgiving 4K.

“Very well done,” she replied after a pause. Her voice carried a faint note of satisfaction. Then, with a deliberate pause, she added, “pet.”

I glanced up at the camera, startled, but her gaze pinned me in place. She had me. She didn’t take my bait. She didn’t let me cling to the title of girl. She saw through me, and she claimed me in that moment without even trying.

I looked down again, cheeks burning hotter. She knew exactly what she was doing. And she knew she had me right where she wanted me.

The rear dildos came to life, pressing against me slowly, deliberately. Their motion was unyielding, filling me inch by inch until they were buried deeply inside me. I tried to squirm, instinctively resisting the intrusion, but the response was immediate—a sharp cane strike to my ass. The sting made me yelp softly, my voice muffled by the tight bindings.

Once fully seated, the dildos stopped, inert but impossible to ignore. The clit stimulator rested lightly in place, its presence teasing, a cruel reminder of how close and unreachable relief was. My clit no longer ached from yesterday’s tawsing, but the tension inside me was unbearable.

“Now,” Oceanmaster’s voice cut through my thoughts, calm and commanding, “you said you slept locked. Did you try to touch yourself yesterday?”

I froze. The rig’s sensors were precise, and she’d have access to the data if she wanted it. If I lied, she’d know—and her correction would be swift and merciless. I swallowed hard and chose honesty.

“Yes, I tried, Ma’am,” I admitted. “In the shower. But it didn’t work—my flesh was hurting too much from your final strike, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am.”

The words spilled out before I could stop them. Thank her? Where had that come from?

“You have been a good pet for me,” she purred. “So you did not come?”

“I didn’t, Ma’am,” I replied quickly. “I locked myself into my chastity belt after the shower, Ma’am, and then cuffed my hands behind me to prevent further tampering. The keys were in my timed-release safe, unreachable until thirty minutes before going online, Ma’am.”

“Now, that is how I want my pet,” she said, her voice warm with approval. “That is how I want you to behave. You did well.” She paused, then added with deliberate emphasis, “pet.”

I flushed deeply, my gaze dropping in submission. She didn’t let me hide for long. The tension coils engaged, pulling my braids taut and forcing my head upward. My face was pinned toward the camera, locked into a perfect view of the engagement monitor and the technical readouts. They told the story I already knew: I was unbearably aroused, my body betraying every ounce of my humiliation.

“Now,” she continued, her voice steady, “here comes your correction. Look into the camera while you receive it. Count down the strikes from five, and each time, tell me one thing you will do for me, pet.”

The first strike came swiftly, the cane landing across my ass. This was a correction, there was no warmup, and it hurt. Badly. I gasped, tears springing to my eyes, but I forced myself to obey.

“Five!” I cried. “I will plan my mornings better, Ma’am. Thank you for correcting me, Ma’am.”

The second strike fell, harder than the first, and I bit my lip before forcing the words out.

“Four! I will never let myself be late again, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am.”

The third strike was lower, catching the sensitive crease of my upper thigh. Pain radiated through me, but I kept my voice steady.

“Three! I will present myself perfectly for you every time, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am.”

The fourth strike landed squarely across my already tender ass, drawing a sharp cry from my lips before I continued.

“Two! I will always be honest with you, Ma’am. Thank you, Ma’am.”

The final strike was the hardest, cutting across the same spot as the first. My breath hitched as tears slipped down my cheeks.

“One! I will be your good pet, Ma’am. Thank you for correcting me, Ma’am.”

The silence that followed was deafening, the only sound my ragged breathing. My body trembled under the bindings, every nerve alight with pain and arousal. I stared into the camera, tears streaking my face, waiting for her next command.

“Good little pet,” she said finally, her voice soft and approving. “You’re learning.”

Oceanmaster’s voice cut through my haze of pain and arousal with calm authority. “Open up,” she commanded, and before I even realized it, I obeyed, parting my lips instinctively. The oral dildo slid into place, filling my mouth completely. It moved gently at first, a slow, deliberate rhythm that forced me to focus entirely on the sensation.

“Tease it, pet. Use your tongue,” she instructed, her tone firm yet coaxing. Without hesitation, I complied. A year of training myself to respond to commands like this before going public with the site left me no room for resistance. My tongue moved against the silicone, tracing its shape, flicking and curling around it as I’d practiced so many times before.

“Good pet,” she purred, her words washing over me like warm honey. “You’re doing so well, such an obedient little slut.”

Her praise sent a jolt of heat through me, and I knew she could see the effect it had. The engagement monitor displayed my arousal levels in real-time, a feature I’d designed to give controllers insight into my responses. She read me like an open book, adjusting the rig with precision. Oceanmaster knew exactly how to handle me, and I was powerless to resist. I had built the rig to ensure that.

The oral dildo began to move more assertively, gently fucking my face as the tension coils pulled my head firmly against the headboard. The clit stimulator hummed to life, its vibrations increasing in intensity. My body arched against the bindings, every nerve tuned to her control.

Then, she shifted gears. The oral dildo pushed deeper, nearly triggering my gag reflex but stopping just shy of discomfort. Her voice came through again, low and commanding. “Take it all, pet. I want you to swallow.”

The dildo surged forward, releasing a warm, viscous substance—simulated cum—into my mouth. The taste was salty and thick, clinging to my tongue as I struggled to keep up. At the same time, the vaginal stimulator kicked into overdrive. Its deep, relentless thrusts matched the clit stimulator’s pulsing vibrations, pushing me closer to the edge.

My body betrayed me completely. As I swallowed the synthetic fluid, the system’s sensors pushed the stimulation higher. I tried to hold back, to maintain some shred of control, but Oceanmaster’s timing was flawless. The combination of sensations overwhelmed me. My orgasm hit like a tidal wave, crashing through me in uncontrollable waves as the rig held me completely immobilized.

I moaned helplessly around the dildo, my cries muffled as my body convulsed against the restraints. The tension coils kept me pinned, my face locked in place as the dildo continued its motions, forcing me to swallow every last drop.

When the stimulation finally subsided, I was left trembling, breathless, and utterly spent. The rig released the oral dildo, leaving me gasping for air. Oceanmaster’s voice returned, soft but still commanding.

“Good pet,” she murmured, her tone laced with satisfaction. “You’ve pleased me. I’ll see you again soon.”

The screen went dark, leaving me alone with the aftermath of her control. My body ached, my mind reeled, and deep down, I knew I was hers, as much by design as by her command.