Girl on the Net

Today’s guest blog is a beautifully written and deeply hot fantasy about making someone into a silent, convenient fuckdoll. It’s got all the kink accoutrements that I know many of you love: leather, bondage, suspension, intensity, anal, vulnerability and more. One of the things it doesn’t include is any pre-scene negotiation or safety recommendations though. This is because it’s a fuckdoll fantasy rather than a how-to manual for life: it is based on real play, and a real-life dynamic, but the suspension/being left alone is an addition. Please bear that in mind if you want to create similar scenes with your own partners in future: if this appeals, you have to do the groundwork. And it’s so hotly written, weaving cold medical language with deep intimacy and pulsing desire that I’m pretty sure it’ll appeal to a hell of a lot of you…

My fuckdoll: The world’s most overengineered hole

It’s 16:00 when I next go down to the cellar. My fourth visit of the day, just a little under two hours since the conclusion of my third. In the interval I’ve showered, read a couple of chapters of my book, and made a rapidly abandoned attempt at a bout of work. My toy, meanwhile, has spent her time as we agreed she would today, when not in use: sealed up, stored away, and silent.

She does well not to react to the tread of my boots on the stairs. All I hear as I approach is the steady whistle of breath from the soft leather hood I store her in, and the faint creak of the suspension harness she hangs in, as her weight shifts in the breeze. Even when I pull on the leather gloves I wear whenever I touch her body, flexing them right by her ear, she maintains steady breathing as instructed.

After some manipulation of the sling supporting her, her body is moved from the neutral arrangement she has been stored in, to a seated position at a pronounced recline, with arms raised. I finish her preparations: a pump bulb, applied to the aperture protruding through her hood, fills her mouth to the edge of discomfort with three brisk squeezes; a spreader bar between the ankles secures her against reflexive attempts to resist. Lubricant is applied, and the bottle remains nearby.

The actions of restraint are a kind of code; a way for me to communicate my expectations in silence, with no need to acknowledge the humanity of my beautiful, docile relief hole. Neither of us would want that, after all. Without me having said a word, then, she will have been able to infer not to expect any relief of her own from this interaction, nor any sort of companionship. She will know that her cunt is to remain plugged and locked while her arse is used, and that I will not be wearing a condom. She knows that any verbal or physical reaction she displays throughout will be noted, and addressed during her next session on the corrections bench.

All these data, however, lead to a single, blissfully simple conclusion: that her thoughts, her feelings, and indeed the whole machinery of her consciousness are currently superfluous to her function, which is to be a source of lubricated friction for my penis. Her higher mind has the day off, if you like.

I stroke the blank, supple leather of her face with the pad of my thumb, tracing inwards along one eyebrow. Just there… I rub a gentle circle at the point where I know her brow tweaks upwards in pretty-please-fuck-me vulnerability, whenever she opens for me in bed. Longingly, and despite myself, I find myself echoing the expression as I look down at her. Even the briefest mental image of her giving me that look, and it feels like a rubber tube cinched tight around the base of my cock. It gives me the urge to pull her hood free so I can get lost in her eyes; unstrap her gag, so I can watch her lips part as we join.

But no: this is about my self-control, just as much as it is about hers. And so I put my feelings aside and haul my cock free of my jeans instead, gripping it in the warm leather of my fist, and enjoying the rush of cool air over my precum-slickened foreskin. My spare hand clamps around my relief hole’s hip as I position myself, but the gesture is much more for the benefit of mechanical rapport, than personal.

Just as the leather of the hood hides her face from my mind, so the leather of the gloves hides the warmth of her skin from my heart. The only point of true contact between us – the only place, now, where I feel her and she feels me – is in the tightness of her sphincter against my head. It lasts only for the instant it takes her body to acquiesce with her mind, but it is delicious all the same.

Briskly, but carefully because I do not want to hurt her, I push the whole length of my cock into her rectum. Then I let it sit still, pulsing with my heartbeat, because I very much do want her to feel the discomfort of the intrusion. I want to her to centre on that taut swelling of negative space inside her, and understand what message I am using it to convey.
I want her to understand that I am using one of her most intimate, vital spaces for simple masturbation. That while it might be a digestive system to her, it’s a wank sleeve to me. And that I expect a commensurate level of response while fucking it.

She has to be very many different things, I know, in the regular course of her life. At this moment, however, all she has to be is a warm place where I can empty my balls. She is, just for today, the world’s most magnificently overengineered hole.

And she is perfect.