Girl on the Net

No sooner had we recorded some of @JenetalTorture‘s amazing guest blogs as audio porn (check out her first one – a hot first-time estim session – here) than she had racked up a brand new adventure to share as a guest blog. One so far beyond the kink-levels of her previous posts that it gave me a new insight into the meaning of the word ‘degradation.’ As well as degradation, the following post contains humiliation, ABDL (which stands for Adult Baby Diaper Lover) and ageplay. Everyone in this post is a consenting adult well over the age of 18, but this note is here so that if you don’t consent to read about these kinks, you can click away to less pervy pastures. This guest post also features messy diapers, piss, snot and a valuable lesson for people like me who sometimes like to call ourselves kinky: no matter how horny you are, there’s usually someone who still has the capacity to out-kink you. If you don’t know who that is, it’s probably Jenby.

Crying shame – degradation and humiliation

It seemed too good to be true. A cute girl not thirty minutes’ walk from my front door, not only kinky, but that rarefied, quasi-mythological thing: even kinkier than me.

I didn’t expect her to respond to my message. Much less appear at my house not four hours later, hellbent on enacting some utter, utter depravity.

Ask yourself, gentle reader, what is the personal quality that society covets above all else? It’s not compassion, kindness, or critical thinking, nothing like that. I would argue that what society prizes most in a person is respectability. It’s the thing we’re told to hold onto with an iron grip, the thing from which all else flows. As children we’re taught that in order to properly ascend to the hallowed heights of adulthood we must put down our toys, grow up, stop messing about. That we should behave with dignity and seriousness.

Of course some of us know the secret third level to growing up: picking up our toys again.

This is what I love about degradation and humiliation. It’s the most subversive thing you can do in a scene. To consent to be stripped of your dignity in toto, to be made ridiculous, laughable, less than, a joke. To surrender any hint of respectability, the thing it has been hardwired into you to protect at all costs for the entirety of your adult life, and to do all of this as a symbol of devotion to your D-type.

But of course, there’s nothing inherently shameful about anything we do as kinksters. And if you kink for long enough, you start to lose that delectable frisson of excitement at doing something which is only degrading or humiliating because society deems it so. And when the well of your own internalised shame runs dry, that’s when you need a creative scene partner to help you plumb new depths of debauchery, to find ingenious ways of bringing that beautiful red glow back to your cheeks…

And when you do, my goodness.

It’s vulnerable, it’s thrilling, it’s honest. It’s all the stuff great sex is made of. And I was about to do it with this girl. Big time.

I noted from her profile that like me she was ABDL, with a thing for bondage, gags, watersports and latex (I couldn’t wait to get her in my vacbed), but the thing that piqued my interest the most was her penchant for messy diapers.

To my knowledge, I’ve never met another diaperslut who’s into messing. It is my holy grail. So to find one half an hour from me, who also happened to be a cute poly trans girl, was all the indication I needed that Christmas was every bit as done with this year as the rest of us and had decided to come a couple of weeks early.

Speaking of coming.

Star lifted my legs and carefully inserted two squishy laxative suppositories into my pert butt, before liberally powdering the surrounding area and taping me into a thick, snuggly diaper.

‘Hold these for fifteen minutes, OK?’ she said softly.

I nodded, already feeling them begin to work their magic. Sure enough in less than half that time I was bent double over the bed, my vision obscured with tears at the effort of keeping everything contained.

At nine minutes, I gave up. As I filled my padding to the brim, acutely aware I’d almost certainly be punished for failing to go the distance, I began sobbing with a mixture of relief and utter, soul-destroying embarrassment.

But Star wasn’t done yet.

Commanding me to get on my knees – face down arse up – and present my diapered tush, she patted my backside to make sure I couldn’t ignore what I’d just produced, and started singing nursery rhymes about what a messy baby I was for good measure.

It was the most humiliated I’d ever felt in a scene. No-one had ever teased me like that before. But still, Star wasn’t done.

Picking up my nosehooks and placing them in my nostrils, she ordered me to start oinking as she straddled me and made me grind my mulchy dip into her thigh, and as I exploded in a world-beating orgasm (after of course asking ‘permission oink to come? oink’) she inserted a finger into my stretched, flattened nose, withdrew it and – without missing a beat – fed it into my mouth.

I lay there, stunned.

‘Not something you’re into?’ she said.

‘Apparently I am,’ I replied, ‘I just didn’t know it.’

Damn, I thought, this bitch really is kinkier than me.

And predictably, Star was not done. Two nights later I found myself attending a (mercifully permissive) munch with a rather lengthy vibrating toy nestled inside me. Which to Star’s – now ‘Mummy’s’ – delight could be controlled via app. This led to much nervous peeking over her shoulder at her phone to see when the telltale green background appeared, and to increasingly shrill screams in the split-second before I could clap an embarrassed hand to my lips.

And two days after that I found myself lying on Mummy’s bed, having a 750ml cocktail of warm water and my own piss fed into my bum via an enema syringe, followed by a whole peeled banana and another suppository.

The resultant mess was, frankly, Olympian. I came twice.

And, as Mummy and I curled up in front of the TV, a loud wet blort escaping me every time I helplessly, involuntarily filled my thick diaper and plastic pants, I realised we hadn’t really been out of each other’s company for four days straight.

Typical lesbian date, really.

And funnily enough, we’re still not done.