Vanilla Cupcake

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

Continued from: Perfect Little Doll

I can't believe I'm paying for this situation I find myself in, there I was, strung up like some forgotten victim in a horror flick, wrists cuffed high to those grimy pipes, ankles cuffed and locked, the duct tape sealing my glossy pink lips into a perfect pout of silence. The single lightbulb swung lazily above, casting flickering shadows over the unfinished room—exposed wood framing like jagged teeth, insulation peeking out like cotton candy gone wrong, and that retro mattress on the floor looking like it had seen better days (or worse ones). My baby blue gingham dress hiked up just enough to tease the ruffled socks and Mary Janes. I tugged at the bonds, heart pounding, mind racing with delicious, creepy possibilities. 

What was coming? Based on this outfit—the puffy sleeves, the lace, the whole little-girl regression—I figured a classic spanking. Childish, over-the-knee, with Mistress hauling me down across her lap, flipping up the skirt, yanking down those humiliating panties, and paddling my ass until it was fire-engine red. I’d kick and wail, my little socks and Mary Janes flailing in the air, bawling like the brat I am, tears smearing my rosy makeup while she lectured me on obedience. You know? Those really old-school, old fashioned spankings. 

Fuck, the thought alone had me throbbing, that dark kink purring because it’d be so “forced,” so against my “will” as an entitled e-girl who rules her OnlyFans with sultry commands and teasing denials.

But Mistress Andrea? She had other plans, way filthier ones. My eyes widened like saucers when she stepped right up to me, towering in her severe turtleneck and heels, that gold key necklace dangling like a promise of locked-up denial. With a wicked smile, she reached for the zipper of her pencil skirt—slow, deliberate—and let it slide down her hips, pooling at her feet to reveal those amazing black pantyhose, sheer and silky, hugging her toned legs like a second skin. No panties underneath, just the faint outline of her own arousal, confident and commanding. My muffled gasp fogged the tape as she buckled on the strap-on dildo—large, realistic, veined and thick, the kind that could stretch me to my limits. It bobbed menacingly as she adjusted the harness, her eyes locked on mine, daring me to protest. But I couldn’t; the tape silenced everything but the pathetic whimpers building in my throat.

She uncuffed my wrists from overhead with efficient clicks, but before I could even rub the red marks, she spun me around and yanked my arms behind my back, snapping the cuffs there tight. No escape, no mercy—just me, helpless in my adorable outfit, pigtails bouncing as she shoved me toward the mattress. “Time to ride, little doll,” she purred, her voice like velvet over gravel, ripping the crotch of my cotton panties aside with one hand. The fabric bunched roughly against my thigh, exposing my soaked pussy—bald, tight, glistening with that pleasantly scented slickness, clit swollen and begging. She lay back on the stained mattress, legs spread in those pantyhose, the dildo standing proud like a challenge. “Lower yourself, Maddie. Show me the needy slut beneath the frills.”

I hesitated for show—god, the fantasy demanded it—but my body betrayed me, arousal flooding hot and heavy. With my hands cuffed behind, I had to straddle her awkwardly, those Mary Janes scraping the concrete as I positioned myself, facing her gorgeousness: her severe turtleneck stretched over full tits, that flirty ponytail of hers swaying as she smirked up at me. Slowly, “forced” by her commanding glare, I lowered my hips, the thick head of the dildo pressing against my entrance. It stretched me inch by inch—oh fuck, so full, so realistic—as I sank down, my soaked pussy swallowing it greedily despite the muffled protests vibrating against the tape. Moans turned to whimpers as I bottomed out, the base grinding against my clit just enough to tease but not satisfy. I couldn’t reach it—hands trapped, body bouncing as she gripped my hips and urged me up and down.

And ride I did, my tits heaving under the gingham bodice, pigtails flopping wildly, the ruffled socks bunching at my knees. Facing her like that? It was intimate torture—watching her tits rise and fall, her eyes devouring my humiliated form, that ponytail flicking as she thrust up to meet me. I bounced and fucked myself on that massive thing, the slap of skin echoing in the creepy space, my ass cheeks jiggling under the hiked-up skirt. But no release—god, I was so aroused, pussy clenching around the dildo like a vice, walls fluttering with every drop, but my clit? Untouched, denied, the friction just building that agonizing edge without tipping over. Muffled moans poured from my taped mouth, half-protest, half-plea, tears pricking my dramatic innocent eyes as I rode harder, faster, chasing what wouldn’t come. The “force” of it all—cuffed, silenced, regressed and railed—had me in bliss, that non-consent fantasy firing on all cylinders. 

With a firm grip on my hips, she lifted me off the dildo—plop, slick and obscene—leaving me empty and aching, my tight, bald pussy throbbing in protest. Quick as a whip, she unlocked the cuffs from behind my back, but only to snap them in front now, wrists bound together like prayer hands gone wrong. “On all fours, doll,” she commanded, her voice low and predatory, shoving me down onto the stained mattress. I shook my head in fake protest, wide innocent eyes pleading through smeared makeup, a muffled “nooo” vibrating against the tape as her fingers hooked into the waistband of my “little girl” panties. She yanked them right off, the cotton sliding down my thighs in one rough tug, discarded to the side like trash. Exposed now, my ass cheeks bare and vulnerable, that sweet cupcake of my arousal filling the creepy air—vanilla-tinged, pleasantly perfumed from my favorite body wash. God, the humiliation spiked hot, but so did the bliss; this was the “force” I craved, bound and regressed in this unfinished basement, “helpless” against her will.

She didn’t make me wait. Mistress entered me from behind almost immediately, the strap-on slamming home in one thrust—thick, realistic, stretching my soaked walls until I arched and wailed into the tape. Her hands gripped my hips hard, nails digging crescents into my skin, and then—crack— a sharp slap to my bare ass, the sting blooming red as she started fucking me, hard and relentless. She grabbed my ponytail like reins, yanking my head back, forcing my back to bow as she pounded deeper, the slap of her pantyhose-clad thighs against mine echoing off the exposed pipes. “Take it, you naughty little thing,” she growled, another smack landing on my cheek, turning the childish outfit into pure depravity—the gingham skirt flipped up, my tits bouncing under the bodice, socks and shoes kicking futilely. I was in heaven, that dark kink roaring as the “non-consent” blurred into desperate want, her slaps raining down until my ass burned, submitting me further with every thrust.

But oh fuck, it built too fast—the friction, the fullness, the denial from before flipping into overload. I accidentally came violently, all over the dildo, without permission, my pussy spasming like a vice, walls fluttering wild as waves crashed through me. Muffled screams tore from my throat, tears streaming down my rosy cheeks, body shaking on all fours like a broken doll. Yet with the tape gag silencing me, it wasn’t exactly a fair fight—how was I supposed to beg for release when I couldn’t even form the words? Bliss and guilt twisted together, my entitled brat side whispering “oops” while the sub in me reveled in the “punishment” to come.

Mistress slowed, pulling out with a wet suck, leaving me gasping and empty again. She rolled me over gently but firmly, her heels clicking as she stood tall over me, that strap-on glistening with my juices under the single bulb. First, she peeled off the tape gag—BDSM-friendly stuff, thank god, no ripping my lips raw, just a sticky tug that left my glossy pout free and tingling. Then the cuffs came off with a click, my wrists red-ringed but unharmed, and before I could catch my breath, the dildo—still slick from being inside me—was right at my lips, hovering like a demand. “Suck it clean, Maddie,” she ordered, her voice steel-wrapped silk, towering in those heels with her pantyhose sheer and commanding. “Taste yourself on my cock.”

I played the part, shaking my head with wide-eyed “innocence,” my voice all bratty whine. “Ewwww, nooo, Mistress—my pussy juice is all over your cock! That was just inside me!” Fake as hell, of course; part of the scene, the “resistance” that made the submission sweeter. I knew damn well I tasted like vanilla cake down there—sweet, creamy, addictive from all the care I put into my body, that pleasantly scented tightness guys on my OnlyFans would kill to sample. A giggle bubbled up, wild side poking through as I tried to stifle it, lips opening despite the protest.

But Mistress wasn’t having it. With a smirk, she assisted—ramming the dildo into my mouth to shut me up, the thick head sliding past my lips, filling me with the tangy-sweet flavor of my own arousal. I gagged theatrically at first, eyes watering, but then surrendered, sucking greedily, tongue swirling around the veined length like it was candy. God, the humiliation, the “force”—it had me throbbing all over again, ready for round two in this creepy paradise. 

Love,

Maddie

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