[M46/F21] The Inspection of a Slut [degradation] [rope] [knives] [collar]

You always start with an inspection.

That is, depending on your definition of the word start. For the young, perky Trisha here, we technically started months ago with some playful online flirting.

We’d gotten to know each other a bit, with a strong focus on learning what turned her on, and her learning what she needed to know to feel safe.

Sometimes I’d task her with degrading selfies. One in particular had become a tradition of mine, with her tits out and “Property of Casey” written on her chest. I started that trend years ago when I was getting bored with the normal ways of getting verification photos.

Initially, the would-be slut was someone I thought was a potential catfish, and a request like that was so fucking absurd. It was degrading and controlling, far beyond a reasonable request.

The first slut I asked to do this got the pictures back to me within five minutes, along with a video of how wet her pussy was from labeling herself as a piece of property.

I had found something.

Over the next two years, a dozen different sluts eagerly “applied” to be one of my fucktoys, writing on themselves, revealing dark fantasies, agreeing to times and places to be used, only for their body. It didn’t matter if they were single or had a boyfriend or a husband. Sometimes they would tell me their first name. All of them wanted to be anonymous fucktoys.

Trisha really tried to outdo the other sluts with her audition. Instead of just a simple selfie, she sent a video of her, completely nude and written on. She looked into the camera, her eyes carefully kept out of frame, and told me that she belongs to Mr. Casey.

Then she opened her mouth wide, waiting for my cock. A long stream of drool spilled out and onto her tits, just below the C in my name.

Apparently I needed more drooling fetish play. Or maybe I just needed to turn Trisha into a drooling slut.

“Looking for me?” I asked as she strode to me in the parking lot.

She smiled when she spotted me. We technically had never been in the same city before, but I gave off the energy of an old friend meeting up again. A warm hug. And a quick squeeze of her ass. An old friend with benefits, maybe.

If the staff of the hotel or the other guests in the lobby noticed the ass-grab, they’d find themselves doing some awkward math.

After all, she had only recently turned 21, and every part of her body was drum-tight. Her skirt was a little too short, letting the bottom of her ass poke out. Or maybe that was just the fashion these days? I know that if I saw a woman dressed like her, with her midriff exposed and her tits pushing up through the top of her tank top, I’d think she was a bit of a slut or an attention whore. Not in a judgemental kind of way, but in a, “I really want to fuck that slut and give that whore a LOT of my attention” kind of way.

The heels, though… they were cute. I think she was trying to catch up to my height. But even giving herself three inches, I still towered over her. She was 5-foot-1 and three quarters, and those three quarters of an inch were very, very important. I would have been OK with her rounding up to 5’2, but honesty was important for her.

Personally, I’m 6’2. She was betting that I was really 5’11, and called myself 6’2 because every guy that’s claimed he was 6’0 turned out to be 5’10. I never really saw the allure of lying about things, especially when it’s something that could be pointed out in the first minute. Plus, being a relatively tall person with broad shoulders, a deep voice and a beard has resulted in more than a few women agreeing to be a slut for me.

“Fuck,” she said. “You really are tall.”

She had two bags. One that was basically a bulky purse, and the other that was a small roll-around bag. I grabbed the roll-around and led her into the lobby.

“I told you,” I said. “Do you want to sit in the lobby and chat for a bit, or head up?”

She took a look around the lobby, noting that it was fairly empty. There was a staff member behind the front desk, and another restocking the to-go food area. Trisha’s hands tugged on the bottom of her skirt for a moment.

“Um, upstairs, if that’s OK?”

I had a hunch the skirt was showing off more than she was used to.

“Room 405, by the way,” I said.

This was my normal way of filtering and meeting potential fucktoys. Depending on how comfortable I got with them, I’d either give them the name of my hotel, or the name of a coffee shop nearby. Sometimes I needed about 30 minutes of face-to-face chat to feel out the person, to make sure they were sane enough to handle what I was about to do to them, and insane enough to want it. Essentially, I’ve discussed a lot of slut-fucking in a variety of Starbucks across the nation.

Sometimes, I’ll hit it off really well with someone during the online chats leading up to our in-person meet-up (translation: they were so fucking hot I didn’t care if they tried to stab me in my hotel room, I really wanted to put my dick in that). Trisha had definitely reached that level of … trust. So with her, I gave her the hotel name. And I figured if she showed up, I’d be more than OK taking her straight to the room.

It’s a risk-reward breakdown, where how hard my cock is affects the perception of the reward. But I had a “good feeling” about Trisha, and I knew that the next 30 minutes were going to be a battle trying to hold that “good feeling” back before I “good feelinged” all over her face.

It’s during these moments that I know I’m 100% good to go, and I’m just casually doing my best to make sure my prey for the night is comfortable and ready.

For her part, she was clearly nervous and a little stiff, but there wasn’t any hesitation in her step as we walked off of the elevator.

“Which bag is which?” I asked.

She patted the oversized purse.

“This is the NO bag,” she said. “You’ve got the one with the fun stuff in it.”

I unlocked the door.

“Make sure your phone has your alerts on,” I said.

She nodded, double-checked her phone, then slipped it into the NO bag.

“You can put that in the closet there,” I said.

The NO bag was a limit. It didn’t matter what she put in there, it was off-limits to me without her permission. If she was smart, there was a change of clothes inside. I looked at that thin tank top, straining to hold her tits in place… that wasn’t leaving this room in one piece.

The roll-around, if she packed it according to instructions, had her favorite toys and slutty alternative outfits to put on. She was quite proud of her collection, showing me pictures like a middle aged man posting fish pics on a dating app.

“Stoplight?” I asked.

It was a simple system. A lot of dungeons use the traditional “red” for stop, “yellow” for slow down. I also enjoy adding in “green” for go, and if I ever ask the word stoplight, that’s my way of checking in with a woman to make sure she’s not too deep into subspace to consent. There was almost no way that Trisha was that far gone yet. Nervous, sure, but this was a nice, simple way to plant that seed and remind her that she does indeed have safewords.

She smiled with excitement cutting through the nerves.

“Green.”

Maybe she felt comfortable and safe when she said that. While that was good, I wanted to take that feeling away from her. It was time to be a monster.

The movement was calm and practiced. It wasn’t my first time using a young woman as a slut. A hand around the neck and a push. I let her slam against the wall. Not hard enough to bruise, just hard enough to steal some air from her lungs and get her heart rate up.

I kept my hand around her neck, pinning her to the wall as I pushed my knee between her legs. She could feel my thigh spreading her legs, rubbing against her crotch.

“You think I didn’t notice how you dressed like a little slut today?” I whispered in her ear. “Just a little tease, trying to get men aroused, wondering what it would be like to fuck you.”

I let some anger drip into my voice. She didn’t need to know that I was a really good actor, and that she’d done nothing wrong. She needed to know fear and horniness.

“You like being looked at, don’t you?”

Her jaw was locked in fear, still trying to process how tight my hand was around her neck. But she knew she needed to answer, so she gave a couple short head nods.

“I asked you a question, slut,” I said, intentionally ignoring the nods. “Do you like it when people look at you being a slut?”

“Y-yes,” she said, then quickly gasped in air, trying to swallow back the mistake. “I mean, yes, Mr. Casey.”

My face was so close to her cheek that I could feel her brush against my beard.

“That’s what you are, aren’t you? A piece of meat to be looked at.”

“Yes Mr. Casey.”

There was a touch less fear now. She knew she just avoided physical punishment. Just barely. Or at least she thought she did.

“Time for your inspection,” I said.

I had her follow me over to the office area of my suite. Laid out on the table was a neatly organized array of tools. Bandanges, gags, rope, knives, scissors, paddles, floggers. A collar and leash. Condoms, lube, latex gloves. Even the restraints and my person spreader bar, Mr. Scarecrow.

“On your knees,” I said.

She nodded and dropped without protest. Sometimes I like a bit of struggle, sometimes I love it when a woman does as she’s told.

I started with a piece of rope, only eight feet long and neatly fused at both ends. It was a soft nylon rope that I’ve found to be comfortable for long-term use. Folding the rope in half, I quickly looped it around her wrists a couple times, before wrapping a knot between her wrists.

I also took a moment to feel what her fingers felt like in terms of temperature. To her, I was just fondling her now vulnerable, soft hands. To me, I was setting a mental baseline of what her fingers felt like with normal circulation. If the temperature dropped too fast, I’d be using a pair of bandage scissors on her restraints to get the blood flowing again. Rope is cheap, while nerve damage is not sexy.

One hand on her hair, the other on her wrists, I started to pull her to a standing position.

“Stand,” I said.

It was rude of me. She was intentionally waiting for the command, I was intentionally expecting her to obey a command before I uttered it. In her mind, she was already started to doubt her ability to quickly obey. I told her to stand, and I had to pull her up by her hair before she was able to comply.

It would have been very unethical of me, if it weren’t the type of mental gaslighting that turned her on. I’d point it out to her during aftercare to restore her sanity later.

She took a moment to get her balance on those heels, then obediently followed my pulling of her tied wrists.

My hotel suite had a doorway between the bedroom area and a living area. It was something I had looked for in my needs for this scene. Before Trisha arrived, I took some time to install a temporary chin-up bar into that doorway, along with some pre-tied rope with a carabiner. I looped the rope between her tied wrists, pulled on a hitch, then zipped her hands up and over her head.

“Now look at what a helpless piece of meat you are,” I said.

I let my hands slowly move around her body, groping her tits and feeling the lace of her bra through the thin fabric of her top. Running my fingers through her hair, pulling her head closer to my face and smelling her. Sliding my hand back down her chin, her neck, her chest, her stomach, her thighs.

Then back up, only the soft, inner part of her thighs. Up her skirt. To the skimpy, barely there panties. Heat was glowing off of her pussy.

“I can feel what a naughty little slut you are,” I said. “Begging to be used.”

I squeezed my hand around her pussy lips. She let out an involuntary gasp to my grip.

“And I’m going to use you, slut,” I said. “Over and over.”

She had been warned, when picking out her outfit, not to wear anything she didn’t mind losing forever. Letting go of her pussy, I let both of my hands cup her tits. Then I slowly curled my fingers around the edge of the low-cut top, before gripping tight and tearing downward in opposite directions.

The thin fabric split like tissue paper, exposing a cute but slightly too-small black bra underneath. I had a hunch it was a bra that should have been retired. But now she was about to get one last night of use out of it.

Some bras have a clasp at the front where you can unhook them without pawing around the back. This one didn’t. Just a small black silk rose, pinpointing the weakest point on the garment. My fingers dug inside of the bra’s cups, again gripping hard before another aggressive pull destroyed something of hers. She let out a soft whimper of defeat. Deep down, she knew I was going to do something like this.

I’ve always been obsessed with breasts. While I actually got famous as an artist for drawing asses, it was the breasts that have always been my first and foremost point of lust.

Fascinatingly, I’ve noticed that the size didn’t really matter. Well, it almost didn’t matter. I’ve noticed that most women with extremely huge tits don’t turn me on. Anything over a D-cup just wasn’t for me. Which was perfectly fine, as I assure you there’s plenty of men that get hard just seeing tits the size of their head.

For me, I need cute nipples begging to be sucked, and two well-shaped breasts with perky firmness. If they’re B-cups with the tiniest amount of jiggle, D-cups with puffy areolas, or completely non-existent tits with dime-sized, poking-hard nipples, I’ve sucked on them all.

Trisha had a special pair of tits - breasts that looked good in my art style.

The main reason I’ve been drawing asses for the past five years was that it’s so easy to make a person’s butt look sexy. But to convey the lust and desire I have into a pair of breasts is extremely tricky.

But hers were perfection. They had a perky firmness to them, with just barely more weight to them below the nipple line. They were just big enough to create a wrinkle of folded skin underneath them, along with some lovely contrasting shadows down her cleavage, painting out a path of light where I knew I’d be sliding my cock along later that night.

They weren’t just perfectly shaped to be grabbed - they screamed out and begging to be groped and fondled by every pervert in a five-block radius.

And right now, these perfect tits belonged to me.

Fondling both of them, I took turns sucking on each hard nipple, enjoying her squirms and moans as she wiggled to keep her balance.

I slowly pulled myself away from her tits. There was more inspecting to do.

I liked the way the skirt left her ass exposed. So instead of ripping it, I just unbuttoned it, pushed it over her round ass, then let it drop to her shoes.

Then I pulled out my knife.

Carefully holding the sharpened edge away from her, I started to drag the cold steel of the blade over her body. Her breaths started to get more and more shallow, and I could see her muscles start to tense.

She really, really didn’t want to move.

The blade slipped under one of the spaghetti straps of her ripped tank top. With a tug and a flick, I made it clear how sharp it was, as the tattered white cloth now only hung over one of her shoulders.

I let the tip of the blade drag across her chest, watching a thin pink line scratch into her skin. The touch was soft enough that it faded before I had the second spaghetti strap cut, but her chest was already starting to rise and fall more and more as I cut away the first bra strap, then the second.

Letting her catch her breath, I started to slowly circle around her exposed body. I took time to admire the curves of her ass and legs, with her skimpy panties really not providing any cover at all. She was resting her face against one of her arms, hanging from the ropes bound around her wrists.

“Look at this slut,” I said, continuing my slow circles. “All tits and ass and cunt. Skimpy little panties and fuck-me shoes.”

I set the knife down on the table as I circled past it, then continued my predatory pacing until I was directly behind her.

My dick was pushing hard against my pants, begging to be let out to use her as a fucktoy. I pushed up against her, knowing that she’d definitely feel the girth of my cock, teasing her and reminding her what she was good for.

I grabbed her tits from behind, and took another smell of her hair. My cock throbbed.

“Though maybe you’re wearing a bit too much,” I said, one of my hands sliding back down to those panties.

I grabbed them by the small triangle of cloth that was pretending to cover her pussy, then pulled them away from her. I could feel the elastic snapping as it ripped free of her body.

“That’s better,” I said, stuffing the miniscule underwear into my pocket.

One of my hands wrapped around her neck, the other started tracing a line between her pussy lips.

“What I need in a fucktoy is warm, wet holes,” I said. “That’s really all you are to me. So tell me, slut, are you a warm, wet hole?”

“Yes Mr. Casey.”

The answer was equal parts moan and words.

I pushed my middle finger up, ever so slightly, against her pussy lips. She was absolutely correct about being a warm, wet hole. At least, between her legs.

I let go of her, and started circling again. Breathing it in, feeling what a nasty little fucktoy she was going to be. I took a moment to lick my middle finger.

One of the most important things that I’ve learned over the past decade of being a sexual monster is that if I gave into every one of my dark, creepy impulses, overly-attractive women like Trisha would beg for the chance to be defiled like me.

Stopping in front of it, I cupped her chin with my hand. It was a nice reminder how much more massive I was than her, as my hand covered nearly half of her face without trying. I tilted her head from side to side, like a cattleman inspecting a cow at the auction yards.

“You have at least one good, wet hole,” I said. “Tell me, slut, are you also a good little cocksucker?”

“Yes Mr. Casey.”

Her knees bent for a moment, as if she was trying to kneel right then and there to get my cock in her mouth, but she forgot about the rope stringing her up.

I stroked her face.

“Show me,” I said. “Open your mouth.”

She did as she was told, showing off clean, perfect teeth and her tongue. I put two fingers inside of her mouth.

“Suck,” I said.

Her eyes lit up with purpose and her lips wrapped around my fingers. She was careful to wrap her lips over her teeth, and her tongue teased along my fingertips. There was an intense eagerness to please in her actions.

It was taking every fiber of my being to maintain a facade of a man in control of his impulses. Feeling her suck off my fingers, I wondered if that alone could make me cum. It had been a couple days since I had masturbated, as I wanted to give this slut as big and thick of a load as possible to start our weekend.

I was in control.

I was in control.

I was in control.

I wasn’t going to cum in my pants.

I pulled my fingers out of her mouth.

“That’s a good little slut,” I said. “I’m impressed.”

“Thank you Mr. Casey,” she said.

I moved to behind her again, mostly so she didn’t see my face as I adjusted myself and took three deep breaths.

“One more hole,” I said.

I grabbed each of her ass cheeks and started to spread her. Peaking back at me was a glittering pink gem, seated inside of a chrome butt plug.

“That’s a good little slut,” I said. “You did your homework.”

“Yes Mr. Casey,” she said.

I gave her another casual series of circles, giving me a quick moment to pick up the pink collar and black leash on the table.

Again, I stopped in front of her.

On a whim, I reached out and touched the inside of her thigh, just above her knee. Then I let my fingers slowly trace upwards. About halfway above the knee, I started to feel the wetness coating her.

“You’re dripping like a filthy little whore right now,” I said.

She bit her lip and wobbled for a moment.

“Yes Mr. Casey.”

I pulled my hand back up to her lips, enjoying the look of her wet on my fingers.

“Lick them clean,” I said.

Again, the eagerness of her mouth started to make my groin ache. I was at my limit. Pulling my fingers away, I threaded the collar around her neck.

“You’ll do quite nicely, slut,” I said. “Now let’s see if this fucktoy body of yours can make me cum.”

“Yes Mr. Casey.”

She was never going to forget to say that.

I clasped the leash to her collar, but didn’t put any slack into the leash, holding it in a fist next to her neck. Then with my other hand I unhooked the carabiner, setting her free from the meat hook tie.

Jerking the leash down, I forced her to bend over at the waist, her head at belt level. She nearly lost her balance, but recovered in her heels.

I smirked at myself. Normally, I love to take the heels off so they dangle on the meat hook on their tippy toes. This cocksucking slut has me so horny and distracted that I didn’t care.

I walked her into the bedroom area, then made her awkwardly crawl on all fours onto the bed, her wrists still tied and her ass in the air.

I could have been a little more of a tease in stripping, but I was losing all control of my body. I kicked off my shoes, then dropped my pants and briefs in one swoop. I left the shirt, tie and socks on as my cock throbbed in the air.

“This is what you are made for, fucktoy,” I said.

I rubbed the tip of my cock along her pussy lips, and began to wonder why I bothered having her pack lube. I pushed inside of her.

“You’re a filthy little fucktoy for my cock,” I said.

“Oh fuck,” she said. “Yes Mr. Casey, fuck. Yes.”

Her arms gave out immediately, and I nearly lost my balance. Her pussy was tight to the point that I should have stretched her out a little more. No doubt the butt plug was helping with that.

Leaning forward, I grabbed the back of her hair and pulled tight.

“I’m going to fuck your tight little hole, you filthy little slut,” I growled. “This is all you’re good for, and I’m going to use you all weekend long.”

I gave into every animalistic urge that this gorgeous woman had stoked in me, fucking her almost to the point of a blind rage. If I could have controlled myself, I might have been able to pull out and cum on her face.

But it was all monster now.

I’d get control back later.

I needed this.

I pushed in as deep as I could, and could feel the rush of my cock throbbing, the cum filling inside of her pussy.

There was a growl and some moans. Probably from me.

I know I let go of her hair at some point. Both of my hands were digging into her ass as I started to catch my breath, as control dripped back into my brain.

“Fuck, you are a GOOD little slut,” I said.

She moaned at the compliment, mumbling something that sounded like my name.

I pulled out, then pushed her onto her back. My cock was covered in her wet and my cum.

“Clean it,” I said.

I had to push my cock to her face, as her hands being still tied limited her movement. She licked my cock clean in a way that made it clear, she loved the taste of cum.

I let my hands stroke along her body, cupping her breasts, her sides, never letting my fingers stay still. They snuck along her arms to their true purpose, feeling the tips of her fingers. They were pleasantly warm.

Good.

Because we were just getting started.