Perfect Little Doll

[lezdom] [cnc] [humiliation] [age play] [bondage]

Continued from: Noose of Cuteness

Oh god, I took forever in that vanity room, didn’t I? Shit! 

Staring at myself in the mirror, adjusting my makeup and the stupid outfit until everything was perfect, smudging the glossy pink lip stuff just a touch more because Mistress would notice if it wasn’t “innocent” enough. My heart was racing the whole time, that humiliation churning in my gut like butter, making my shaved-bald pussy throb under those cotton panties. But finally, I clicked my way out in those shiny silver Mary Janes, the little heels echoing like tiny accusations on the tile floor. Click-clack, click-clack—each step making the gingham dress swish against my thighs, the ruffled socks itching just enough to remind me how ridiculous I looked. Me, the hot e-girl who struts the mall in ripped jeans and crop tops, turning heads while I sling denim to soccer moms, now dolled up like some vintage porcelain doll? I felt like a total idiot, cheeks burning hotter than the reception area’s heat, praying no one was left to see.

But relief flooded me when I peeked into the waiting room—empty. All the other clients had been punished, served their sniffly corner time, and shuffled home with sore asses and secret smiles. The salt-and-pepper daddy, the snooty Bella, that French bombshell Summer? Gone. Mistress had saved the best for last—me, her favorite bratty sub. I stood there, fidgeting with the lace on my puffy sleeves, feeling that mix of vulnerability and entitlement bubble up. Like, yeah, I’m worth the wait, but also, fuck, what if someone walks in and sees me like this? My OnlyFans fans would lose their minds—pay extra for pics of me regressive and ready to be “broken.”

Then she appeared, Mistress Andrea, striding in like a goddess in her pencil skirt and heels, that gold key necklace glinting under the lights. Her eyes raked over me, approving, hungry, and my butterflies exploded into a full frenzy. “Look at you, my perfect little sex doll,” she murmured, her voice dripping command as she took my arm—firm, no nonsense—and escorted me down a side hall. 

But not to the usual session rooms; oh no, she led me to this unfinished wing of the Facility. The place was still newish, all raw edges: wood framing exposed like skeleton bones, pipes snaking overhead, pink insulation puffing out from unfinished walls. It smelled like sawdust and paint, dimly lit with construction lights casting eerie shadows. My breath hitched—god, it was perfect, creepy, like some abandoned basement in a thriller flick. And there, in the middle of it all? A bare mattress, old and retro, stained just enough to look authentic, plopped right on the unfinished concrete floor. Above it, a single lightbulb dangled from a wire, swaying gently and throwing harsh light over a rack nearby: coils of rope, ultra-realistic dildos, gleaming handcuffs, a wicked-looking whip coiled like a snake, ball gags in various sizes, and rolls of duct tape stacked like promises.

I almost came right then, right in my “little girl” panties— that slick heat building to a peak, my tight pussy clenching empty as the fantasy clicked into place. Oh fuck, I got it now. The outfit, the makeup, the whole setup— Mistress had planned this down to the detail. I wasn’t just a brat getting spanked; I was a damsel in distress, kidnapped and helpless in this dingy “basement,” about to be used and abused against my “will.” The humiliation from before flipped into bliss, pure electric joy. I loved the outfit now— the baby blue gingham making me look so innocent, so fuckable in that forbidden way, puffy sleeves and ruffles screaming “rescue me” while my body screamed “take me.” My wild side roared to life, that dark kink purring because this was it: consensual non-consent at its finest, bound and “forced” until I submitted to whatever depraved acts she had in mind.

She didn’t waste time. “Hands up, little one,” she commanded, and I obeyed, lifting my arms as she clicked cold handcuffs around my wrists, chaining them to some grimy overhead pipes. The metal bit into my skin just right, the dress riding up to expose the cartoon-printed panties. Then my ankles— more cuffs, metal and inescapable, connected to lower fixtures, leaving me trapped and vulnerable, pussy throbbing visibly under the cotton. 

I whimpered, testing the bonds—real, unyielding—and she smirked, ripping off a strip of duct tape with her teeth. “No talking back today,” she said, pressing it firm over my glossy lips, sealing my mouth shut. Muffled moans were all I had now, the tape sticky and unyielding, turning my brattiness into helpless silence.

Bliss. Complete, utter bliss. I was trapped, exposed in this creepy setup, the single bulb casting my shadow long and dramatic over the mattress. My hands tugged uselessly at the cuffs, dirty pipes creaking above, and god, I’d masturbate right there if I could—slip fingers under those panties and rub my clit raw, chasing that vanilla cupcake's sweet release. But I couldn’t, and that denial? It made everything hotter, wetter, my body aching for the whip’s kiss, the “force” of her hands flipping up my skirt, spanking me until I sobbed through the tape, then “making” me submit to tongue or strap-on or whatever twisted play she dreamed up. 

Mistress circled me, her heels echoing in the unfinished space, and I melted inside. This was what I craved— the entitled millennial reduced to a bound doll, whipped into submission until the “non-consent” blurred into desperate want. 

Fuck, I loved it. Bring on the abuse; I was hers.

Love,

Maddie