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#1
BoundStories Website Stories Feedback / Re: A Coworker's Special Toy b...
Last post by mari0 - Today at 08:15:24 AMEnjoyable, well written and a suprise ending that was both "a common logical explanation"and a surprising deviation from regular porn logic
#2
BoundStories Website Stories Feedback / Re: A Coworker's Special Toy b...
Last post by Morkaii (Marcus) - Today at 02:30:36 AMGreat writing and story, really enjoyed reading this one. Thanks for sharing!
#3
BoundStories Website Stories Feedback / Re: Public Punishment Uniform ...
Last post by 2m - December 27, 2025, 07:53:11 PMlove the fourth one voluntary punishment love the first ones illustrations some of the descriptions i cant really imagine
#4
BoundStories Website Stories Feedback / Re: The Promise of the Holodec...
Last post by 2m - December 27, 2025, 06:29:43 PMit took a turn she is seemingly getting more helpless as i guess the master control program is now a slave to the unstable one
the whole borg implant thing could venture off into some body horror i dont really like nanites you know the whole grey goo scenario but all the things they could do internally like turn off her eyes or ears or generate chastity permalock like plates over her noops and slit lock joints and make her go all feinting goat at random or just have a tentacle come out of her belly button to slap her hands away
the whole borg implant thing could venture off into some body horror i dont really like nanites you know the whole grey goo scenario but all the things they could do internally like turn off her eyes or ears or generate chastity permalock like plates over her noops and slit lock joints and make her go all feinting goat at random or just have a tentacle come out of her belly button to slap her hands away
#5
Machine Stories / Re: Autonomous by Daxter
Last post by Eido - December 27, 2025, 03:57:27 PMGenuinely horrifying! Maybe 'erotic horror' should be a story code because you nailed it with this one. Does the first person POV and personal reflection in the beginning mean the anonymous man is eventually released? Don't answer that. I hope to find out in future chapters.
Eido
Eido
#6
Looking for a Story / Looking for a Story
Last post by AlexanderV2 - December 27, 2025, 03:25:30 PMHey folks,
I'm looking for a story in which a group of girls dressed as athletes fuck guys dressed as cheerleaders.
I'm looking for a story in which a group of girls dressed as athletes fuck guys dressed as cheerleaders.
#7
Your Bondage Stories / Ponygirl Sister
Last post by TagsAPoppin - December 27, 2025, 10:38:47 AM PONYGIRL SISTER
The summer smelled of hay, sweat, and sex.
Karen and Linda arrived at Aunt Veronica's estate on the longest day of the year, the sun still blazing at eight in the evening. Their parents waved goodbye from the driveway, trusting, oblivious. The moment the car vanished around the bend, Veronica closed the heavy front door and turned the key with a soft, deliberate click.
"Strip," she said.
No preamble. No gentle tour this time.
The sisters obeyed in the foyer, shoes kicked aside, sundresses pooling at their feet. Linda's small breasts trembled with every frightened breath; Karen's nipples were already stiff. Veronica walked a slow circle around them, trailing a riding crop along bare shoulders, the dip of a spine, the curve of an ass.
"Beautiful," she murmured. "And both untouched by anyone but each other. That ends tonight."
She led them naked down the corridor to the converted stable. The air was warmer here, thick with leather and the faint musk of aroused women. Three ponygirls were already in their stalls: Cinnamon, the senior mare; Nutmeg, a redhead with cruelly ringed nipples; and Clove, the newest, still learning to keep her back arched and her knees wide even when exhaustion shook her thighs.
Veronica snapped her fingers. Cinnamon crawled forward on gloved hands and booted knees, tail swaying, bit dripping. She pressed her forehead to Veronica's boot in perfect greeting.
"This," Veronica told the sisters, "is what absolute surrender looks like after six years. You will start tonight."
She began with Linda.
A steel frame waited in the center of the ring. Veronica buckled thick cuffs around Linda's wrists and ankles, then winched her arms high until she hung from the ceiling on the balls of her feet. Her small body stretched long, ribs showing, cunt lips parting with the strain. Karen was ordered to stand in front of her sister and watch.
Veronica produced a heavy leather hood. No eye holes. Only a mouth opening and two small nose holes. She worked it down over Linda's head slowly, lacing it tight until the girl's world shrank to darkness and the thunder of her own pulse. Then the bit: thick rubber-coated steel that forced Linda's jaws wide and locked behind her teeth. Drool spilled immediately.
Karen's cunt clenched at the sight. She had never seen her sister look so utterly helpless.
Veronica handed her a suede flogger. "Twenty strokes. Count them aloud. Make her feel every one."
Karen's first swing was tentative. The tails kissed Linda's breasts with a soft thud. Linda jerked and moaned around the bit.
"Louder," Veronica commanded.
Karen found her rhythm. By the tenth stroke Linda's tits were crimson, nipples swollen and dark. By the fifteenth her thighs shone with wetness. At twenty she sagged in the chains, sobbing, cunt dripping in long silver threads to the sawdust floor.
Veronica unhooked her, let her collapse to hands and knees. "Crawl to your sister and thank her."
Linda crawled blindly, hood laces trailing, drool swinging from her stuffed mouth. She found Karen's bare feet by scent and touch and pressed grateful, sloppy kisses to each toe.
Karen's voice cracked with wonder. "Oh my God."
"That," Veronica said, "is only the beginning."
They kept Linda in the hood for three full days.
She slept on a rubber mat in a cage, wrists clipped behind her, ankles hobbled, a fat plug in her ass and a dildo gag strapped in her mouth so she woke constantly choking on her own saliva. Karen was given the key to the cage and ordered to use her pet whenever the urge struck.
The urge struck often.
At 3 a.m. on the second night, Karen dragged Linda out by the collar, bent her over a hay bale, and fucked her with a strap-on for the first time. The dildo was thick, brutally ridged. Linda screamed into the gag as Karen slammed home, hips slapping against bruised ass cheeks, hands fisted in the hood's laces for leverage. When she came, she kept thrusting until Linda's muffled howls turned to broken, grateful whimpers and her cunt squirted violently onto the stable floor.
In the morning Veronica inspected the mess and nodded approval. "Good. You're learning that ownership means taking what's yours, whenever and however you want it."
The real training began in earnest.
Every dawn started the same: Linda on her knees in the center of the ring, naked, hood off for the moment so Karen could see her eyes. Karen stood over her in boots and jodhpurs, crop in hand.
"Position," Karen would say.
Linda would spread her knees wide, sit back on her heels, arch her back until her small tits thrust out, and lace her fingers behind her neck. Elbows back. Chin high. Mouth open.
Then the day's bondage began.
Some days it was the full pony harness: tall latex boots that forced her onto pointe, a cruelly tight corset that left her gasping, the heavy bit, the armbinder that welded her arms into a single useless column behind her back. The tail plug—always larger than the day before—until her asshole gaped permanently and the base nestled between reddened cheeks like it belonged there.
Karen learned to longe her for hours under the merciless sun. Linda's high-stepping trot became smoother every week, thighs trembling, sweat pouring down her torso to mix with the cunt juice that never stopped leaking. When she faltered, the crop striped her ass or the tender backs of her thighs. When she pleased her Mistress, Karen fed her sugar cubes from gloved fingers and let her lick the leather clean.
Other days were for stricter torments.
Veronica taught Karen the art of the single-tail whip. They suspended Linda spread-eagle between two posts, toes barely brushing the ground. The first real lash opened a thin red line across her belly; Linda screamed so hard her voice cracked. By the twentieth she was beyond screaming, floating in subspace, cunt pulsing visibly with every heartbeat.
Afterward Karen carried her to the recovery stall, wrapped her in blankets, held water to her lips, and whispered love words until the shaking stopped. Then she spread her slave's legs and ate her gently, reverently, until Linda came with soft, wondering sobs against her Mistress's mouth.
Piercings came in July.
Veronica drove them to a private studio run by a woman who had once been a pony herself. Linda lay on the table trembling while her nipples were pierced with thick 10-gauge rings. Then her clit hood—horizontal, to allow constant stimulation from any harness. Finally the guiche between cunt and asshole, a secret ring only Karen would ever tug.
Karen watched every needle, every drop of blood, and felt her dominance root deeper into her bones.
Back home, Veronica locked Linda into a new training corset—steel-boned, twenty inches closed, worn twenty-four hours a day. Breathing became a constant conscious act. Her waist shrank dramatically; her tits looked obscene above the shelf of the corset. The nipple rings were chained to the front busk so that every shallow breath tugged them.
Sleeping was its own torment now. Some nights Karen chained her on her back to the bedposts, legs spread wide, a massive dildo buried in her cunt and locked in place with a leather harness. A ring gag kept her mouth available. Karen used her whenever she woke—slow lazy fucks at 2 a.m., brutal face-fucking at dawn, leaving cum and drool crusted on Linda's chin.
Other nights Linda slept in the cage at the foot of the bed, hooded, mittened, plugged front and back, only her collared throat visible through the bars. Karen would dangle one foot through the bars so her slave could lick it clean before sleep.
By August Linda no longer walked upright in the house. She crawled everywhere, knees padded, tail swaying. Speech was rare and always punished unless it was "Yes, Mistress" or "Please, Mistress, hurt me."
The final initiation came on the night of the new moon.
Veronica declared Linda ready for permanent marks.
They took her to the branding room—a small stone chamber lit only by candles. A brazier glowed. The scent of hot iron filled the air.
Linda was bound over a padded bench, knees wide, ass high. The corset had been removed for the first time in weeks; her waist looked impossibly tiny, ribs fluttering. Veronica shaved a small patch high on Linda's right ass cheek.
Karen lifted the branding iron herself. The mark was simple: a small elegant K entwined with an L, no bigger than a quarter. She held it in the coals until it glowed cherry red.
Linda was sobbing already, but she pushed her ass higher in offering.
Karen pressed the iron home.
The sizzle, the smell of burning flesh, Linda's broken animal howl—everything happened at once. Karen held it for a slow count of five, then pulled it away. The brand was perfect.
Veronica applied ointment while Karen unbuckled the straps. The moment Linda was free she turned and flung herself at Karen's feet, kissing boots, sobbing thanks between kisses.
"Thank you, Mistress. Thank you for marking me. I'm yours. Forever yours."
That night they did not sleep.
Karen chained Linda to the breeding bench in the center of the stable—on her back, legs locked high and wide in stirrups, cunt and asshole completely exposed. She invited the three ponygirls to watch from their stalls. Then she fucked her slave in every hole, over and over, until the sky outside turned pale.
She used cocks of every size, double dildos that filled cunt and ass at once, her fist slick with lube until Linda's cunt gaped loose and ruined. She whipped her branded ass until it blazed darker than the fresh mark. She clamped the new piercings and hung weights that made Linda scream herself hoarse.
And through all of it Linda begged for more.
When Karen finally collapsed beside her, both of them drenched in sweat and cum, Linda turned blind, tear-filled eyes toward her and whispered the only words that mattered.
"I was born for this. Born to be yours. Use me until I break, then put me back together and do it again. Please, Mistress. Never stop."
Karen kissed the tears from her cheeks.
"Never," she promised. "You are my heart walking outside my body. I will keep you in chains until we're old and gray, and even then I'll find ways to make you crawl."
They left Aunt Veronica's on the last day of August.
Linda wore a high-necked sundress that hid the collar, the bruises, the brand. She walked upright to the car for their parents' sake, but the moment the doors closed she dropped to the floor mat at Karen's feet and stayed there the entire drive home, cheek pressed to her Mistress's thigh.
That night, in their childhood bedroom, Karen locked the door and ordered Linda to strip.
The brand was still raw, an angry red K&L against pale skin. Karen traced it with gentle fingers, then bent her slave over the childhood bed and fucked her slowly while their parents watched TV downstairs.
Linda bit the pillow to muffle her screams of ecstasy.
Years later, people would comment on how close the sisters were. How Linda's eyes followed Karen everywhere. How Karen's hand always rested on the small of Linda's back, thumb brushing the hidden steel collar beneath her clothes.
No one ever saw the basement playroom in the house they bought together. No one saw Linda spend her evenings in full pony tack, trotting circles while Karen worked at her drafting table. No one saw the cage under the bed where she slept every night, or the way Karen still woke sometimes at 3 a.m. to use her slave's throat like a toy.
And no one ever would.
Because Linda had gotten exactly what she'd always wanted: to belong, utterly and irrevocably, to the only person she had ever loved.
And Karen had gotten the only thing she'd ever needed: absolute, eternal ownership of the girl who had been born to kneel at her feet.
They lived happily, filthily, perfectly ever after.
The summer smelled of hay, sweat, and sex.
Karen and Linda arrived at Aunt Veronica's estate on the longest day of the year, the sun still blazing at eight in the evening. Their parents waved goodbye from the driveway, trusting, oblivious. The moment the car vanished around the bend, Veronica closed the heavy front door and turned the key with a soft, deliberate click.
"Strip," she said.
No preamble. No gentle tour this time.
The sisters obeyed in the foyer, shoes kicked aside, sundresses pooling at their feet. Linda's small breasts trembled with every frightened breath; Karen's nipples were already stiff. Veronica walked a slow circle around them, trailing a riding crop along bare shoulders, the dip of a spine, the curve of an ass.
"Beautiful," she murmured. "And both untouched by anyone but each other. That ends tonight."
She led them naked down the corridor to the converted stable. The air was warmer here, thick with leather and the faint musk of aroused women. Three ponygirls were already in their stalls: Cinnamon, the senior mare; Nutmeg, a redhead with cruelly ringed nipples; and Clove, the newest, still learning to keep her back arched and her knees wide even when exhaustion shook her thighs.
Veronica snapped her fingers. Cinnamon crawled forward on gloved hands and booted knees, tail swaying, bit dripping. She pressed her forehead to Veronica's boot in perfect greeting.
"This," Veronica told the sisters, "is what absolute surrender looks like after six years. You will start tonight."
She began with Linda.
A steel frame waited in the center of the ring. Veronica buckled thick cuffs around Linda's wrists and ankles, then winched her arms high until she hung from the ceiling on the balls of her feet. Her small body stretched long, ribs showing, cunt lips parting with the strain. Karen was ordered to stand in front of her sister and watch.
Veronica produced a heavy leather hood. No eye holes. Only a mouth opening and two small nose holes. She worked it down over Linda's head slowly, lacing it tight until the girl's world shrank to darkness and the thunder of her own pulse. Then the bit: thick rubber-coated steel that forced Linda's jaws wide and locked behind her teeth. Drool spilled immediately.
Karen's cunt clenched at the sight. She had never seen her sister look so utterly helpless.
Veronica handed her a suede flogger. "Twenty strokes. Count them aloud. Make her feel every one."
Karen's first swing was tentative. The tails kissed Linda's breasts with a soft thud. Linda jerked and moaned around the bit.
"Louder," Veronica commanded.
Karen found her rhythm. By the tenth stroke Linda's tits were crimson, nipples swollen and dark. By the fifteenth her thighs shone with wetness. At twenty she sagged in the chains, sobbing, cunt dripping in long silver threads to the sawdust floor.
Veronica unhooked her, let her collapse to hands and knees. "Crawl to your sister and thank her."
Linda crawled blindly, hood laces trailing, drool swinging from her stuffed mouth. She found Karen's bare feet by scent and touch and pressed grateful, sloppy kisses to each toe.
Karen's voice cracked with wonder. "Oh my God."
"That," Veronica said, "is only the beginning."
They kept Linda in the hood for three full days.
She slept on a rubber mat in a cage, wrists clipped behind her, ankles hobbled, a fat plug in her ass and a dildo gag strapped in her mouth so she woke constantly choking on her own saliva. Karen was given the key to the cage and ordered to use her pet whenever the urge struck.
The urge struck often.
At 3 a.m. on the second night, Karen dragged Linda out by the collar, bent her over a hay bale, and fucked her with a strap-on for the first time. The dildo was thick, brutally ridged. Linda screamed into the gag as Karen slammed home, hips slapping against bruised ass cheeks, hands fisted in the hood's laces for leverage. When she came, she kept thrusting until Linda's muffled howls turned to broken, grateful whimpers and her cunt squirted violently onto the stable floor.
In the morning Veronica inspected the mess and nodded approval. "Good. You're learning that ownership means taking what's yours, whenever and however you want it."
The real training began in earnest.
Every dawn started the same: Linda on her knees in the center of the ring, naked, hood off for the moment so Karen could see her eyes. Karen stood over her in boots and jodhpurs, crop in hand.
"Position," Karen would say.
Linda would spread her knees wide, sit back on her heels, arch her back until her small tits thrust out, and lace her fingers behind her neck. Elbows back. Chin high. Mouth open.
Then the day's bondage began.
Some days it was the full pony harness: tall latex boots that forced her onto pointe, a cruelly tight corset that left her gasping, the heavy bit, the armbinder that welded her arms into a single useless column behind her back. The tail plug—always larger than the day before—until her asshole gaped permanently and the base nestled between reddened cheeks like it belonged there.
Karen learned to longe her for hours under the merciless sun. Linda's high-stepping trot became smoother every week, thighs trembling, sweat pouring down her torso to mix with the cunt juice that never stopped leaking. When she faltered, the crop striped her ass or the tender backs of her thighs. When she pleased her Mistress, Karen fed her sugar cubes from gloved fingers and let her lick the leather clean.
Other days were for stricter torments.
Veronica taught Karen the art of the single-tail whip. They suspended Linda spread-eagle between two posts, toes barely brushing the ground. The first real lash opened a thin red line across her belly; Linda screamed so hard her voice cracked. By the twentieth she was beyond screaming, floating in subspace, cunt pulsing visibly with every heartbeat.
Afterward Karen carried her to the recovery stall, wrapped her in blankets, held water to her lips, and whispered love words until the shaking stopped. Then she spread her slave's legs and ate her gently, reverently, until Linda came with soft, wondering sobs against her Mistress's mouth.
Piercings came in July.
Veronica drove them to a private studio run by a woman who had once been a pony herself. Linda lay on the table trembling while her nipples were pierced with thick 10-gauge rings. Then her clit hood—horizontal, to allow constant stimulation from any harness. Finally the guiche between cunt and asshole, a secret ring only Karen would ever tug.
Karen watched every needle, every drop of blood, and felt her dominance root deeper into her bones.
Back home, Veronica locked Linda into a new training corset—steel-boned, twenty inches closed, worn twenty-four hours a day. Breathing became a constant conscious act. Her waist shrank dramatically; her tits looked obscene above the shelf of the corset. The nipple rings were chained to the front busk so that every shallow breath tugged them.
Sleeping was its own torment now. Some nights Karen chained her on her back to the bedposts, legs spread wide, a massive dildo buried in her cunt and locked in place with a leather harness. A ring gag kept her mouth available. Karen used her whenever she woke—slow lazy fucks at 2 a.m., brutal face-fucking at dawn, leaving cum and drool crusted on Linda's chin.
Other nights Linda slept in the cage at the foot of the bed, hooded, mittened, plugged front and back, only her collared throat visible through the bars. Karen would dangle one foot through the bars so her slave could lick it clean before sleep.
By August Linda no longer walked upright in the house. She crawled everywhere, knees padded, tail swaying. Speech was rare and always punished unless it was "Yes, Mistress" or "Please, Mistress, hurt me."
The final initiation came on the night of the new moon.
Veronica declared Linda ready for permanent marks.
They took her to the branding room—a small stone chamber lit only by candles. A brazier glowed. The scent of hot iron filled the air.
Linda was bound over a padded bench, knees wide, ass high. The corset had been removed for the first time in weeks; her waist looked impossibly tiny, ribs fluttering. Veronica shaved a small patch high on Linda's right ass cheek.
Karen lifted the branding iron herself. The mark was simple: a small elegant K entwined with an L, no bigger than a quarter. She held it in the coals until it glowed cherry red.
Linda was sobbing already, but she pushed her ass higher in offering.
Karen pressed the iron home.
The sizzle, the smell of burning flesh, Linda's broken animal howl—everything happened at once. Karen held it for a slow count of five, then pulled it away. The brand was perfect.
Veronica applied ointment while Karen unbuckled the straps. The moment Linda was free she turned and flung herself at Karen's feet, kissing boots, sobbing thanks between kisses.
"Thank you, Mistress. Thank you for marking me. I'm yours. Forever yours."
That night they did not sleep.
Karen chained Linda to the breeding bench in the center of the stable—on her back, legs locked high and wide in stirrups, cunt and asshole completely exposed. She invited the three ponygirls to watch from their stalls. Then she fucked her slave in every hole, over and over, until the sky outside turned pale.
She used cocks of every size, double dildos that filled cunt and ass at once, her fist slick with lube until Linda's cunt gaped loose and ruined. She whipped her branded ass until it blazed darker than the fresh mark. She clamped the new piercings and hung weights that made Linda scream herself hoarse.
And through all of it Linda begged for more.
When Karen finally collapsed beside her, both of them drenched in sweat and cum, Linda turned blind, tear-filled eyes toward her and whispered the only words that mattered.
"I was born for this. Born to be yours. Use me until I break, then put me back together and do it again. Please, Mistress. Never stop."
Karen kissed the tears from her cheeks.
"Never," she promised. "You are my heart walking outside my body. I will keep you in chains until we're old and gray, and even then I'll find ways to make you crawl."
They left Aunt Veronica's on the last day of August.
Linda wore a high-necked sundress that hid the collar, the bruises, the brand. She walked upright to the car for their parents' sake, but the moment the doors closed she dropped to the floor mat at Karen's feet and stayed there the entire drive home, cheek pressed to her Mistress's thigh.
That night, in their childhood bedroom, Karen locked the door and ordered Linda to strip.
The brand was still raw, an angry red K&L against pale skin. Karen traced it with gentle fingers, then bent her slave over the childhood bed and fucked her slowly while their parents watched TV downstairs.
Linda bit the pillow to muffle her screams of ecstasy.
Years later, people would comment on how close the sisters were. How Linda's eyes followed Karen everywhere. How Karen's hand always rested on the small of Linda's back, thumb brushing the hidden steel collar beneath her clothes.
No one ever saw the basement playroom in the house they bought together. No one saw Linda spend her evenings in full pony tack, trotting circles while Karen worked at her drafting table. No one saw the cage under the bed where she slept every night, or the way Karen still woke sometimes at 3 a.m. to use her slave's throat like a toy.
And no one ever would.
Because Linda had gotten exactly what she'd always wanted: to belong, utterly and irrevocably, to the only person she had ever loved.
And Karen had gotten the only thing she'd ever needed: absolute, eternal ownership of the girl who had been born to kneel at her feet.
They lived happily, filthily, perfectly ever after.
#8
Your Bondage Stories / Jamaica's Surrender
Last post by TagsAPoppin - December 27, 2025, 10:36:48 AM Jamaica's Surrender
Emma and Jake had been married for five years, but the spark had dimmed into routine. At 28, Emma was a stunning blonde with curves that turned heads—full D-cup breasts, a toned ass from yoga, and long legs that begged to be wrapped around someone. Jake, 30, was fit but unassuming, a software engineer with a secret kink he'd confessed years ago: he fantasized about watching her with other men, especially dominant ones who could give her what he couldn't in bed. When they stumbled upon the ad for "Hedonistic Haven," an adults-only, anything-goes resort in Jamaica, it felt like fate. "Clothing optional, total freedom," the site promised. They booked it for two weeks, hearts racing with anticipation.
The flight to Montego Bay was electric. Emma wore a skimpy sundress that barely contained her braless tits, and Jake couldn't keep his hands off her thigh. By the time they arrived at the resort—a sprawling, lush property with private villas, infinity pools, and a secluded beach—they were both buzzing with horny energy.
At check-in, the lobby was airy and elegant, with marble floors and tropical flowers. Behind the desk stood three gorgeous Jamaican women, all in the tiniest bikinis imaginable—strings of fabric that left nothing to the imagination. Their dark skin glistened under the lights, full breasts straining against neon tops, and asses that swayed hypnotically as they moved.
"Welcome to Hedonistic Haven, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson," purred the lead staffer, a voluptuous woman named Tasha with dreads cascading down her back. Her bikini bottom was a thong that disappeared between her thick cheeks. "Here, everything is clothing optional except right here in the lobby and the main dining room. Feel free to let loose everywhere else. And darlings..." She leaned forward, her cleavage spilling out, "our nude beach is legendary. Local Jamaican men love joining the fun. Most husbands who come here? They're the submissive type. Cuckolds, even some cuck queens who beg to watch their wives get properly fucked."
Emma blushed but felt a thrill shoot straight to her pussy. Jake's cock twitched in his shorts; he was already half-hard at the casual mention. The other staffers giggled, one named Keisha winking at Emma. "You'll fit right in, pretty white girl. Those tits were made for our beach."
They were handed keycards and a welcome packet with a knowing smile. "Enjoy your surrender," Tasha said.
Their villa was paradise: open-air, king bed overlooking the ocean, outdoor shower. Emma stripped immediately, her pale skin glowing in the sunlight. "God, Jake, this place is insane. Did you hear them? Cuckolds... they're expecting guys like you."
Jake swallowed hard, his smaller cock springing free as he undressed. "Yeah... and you're okay with that?"
She grinned wickedly, pulling him into a kiss. "More than okay. I want to let go. Completely."
Day 1: The Nude Beach Awakening
The next morning, they headed to the beach. It was clothing-optional heaven: couples lounging naked, some fucking openly in cabanas, moans carried on the breeze. But what struck them was the mix—mostly white couples, the men meek and watching, the women surrounded by tall, muscular Jamaican locals with massive cocks swinging freely.
Emma peeled off her cover-up, revealing her naked body: shaved pussy already glistening, nipples hard from excitement. Jake lay on a lounger beside her, his modest six-inch dick soft and unimpressive compared to the black gods strutting around.
A beach attendant approached—a ripped Jamaican man named Devon, maybe 25, with a chiseled body, dreads, and a smile that promised sin. His cock was huge even soft, hanging thick between his legs like a third limb.
"Miss Emma? You need lotion? Sun hot today, burn that pretty white skin."
Emma's eyes locked on his bulge. "Yes, please."
Devon knelt beside her as she lay on her stomach. He poured coconut oil into his strong hands and started on her back, massaging deeply. His touch was electric—firm, possessive. Jake watched, transfixed, as Devon's hands slid lower, kneading her ass cheeks, spreading them slightly to oil her crack.
"Mmm, you tense, baby girl," Devon murmured. "Relax for me."
Emma moaned softly, arching her back. His fingers dipped between her thighs, brushing her pussy lips. She was soaking wet already.
Jake's cock hardened pathetically as he watched this stranger grope his wife in broad daylight.
Devon flipped her over. Now her tits were exposed, pink nipples begging. He oiled them slowly, pinching and rolling them until Emma whimpered. "Such perfect white tits. Made for black hands."
His hand trailed down her stomach to her mound. "Spread legs, miss. Need to protect everywhere."
Emma obeyed instantly, parting her thighs. Devon's thick fingers rubbed oil over her clit, then slipped inside her slick hole. She gasped, hips bucking.
"Oh god... yes..."
Jake stroked himself slowly, humiliated and aroused as Devon finger-fucked his wife right in front of him.
"You husband watch good," Devon chuckled. "He know his place. Small white cock no match for Jamaican bull."
Emma came hard on Devon's fingers, crying out as locals and other tourists watched approvingly.
After, as she panted, Devon leaned in. "You want real fun? Off-resort club tonight. In town. Dancing, music... but really? Place where white women like you become fucktoys for Jamaican men. We own you there. Dance on poles, suck cock in dark corners, get bred proper. Your husband? He watch or serve drinks. Many couples never same after."
Emma's pussy throbbed at the thought. She glanced at Jake, who nodded eagerly, his face flushed.
That night, they went.
The Club: First Taste of Surrender
The club was called "Black Paradise," hidden down a dirt road. Thumping reggae covered the moans inside. The doorman, a massive Jamaican, grinned at Emma's short dress. "Fresh white meat. Welcome."
Inside, it was chaos and ecstasy. White women—some from the resort—danced naked or in scraps of clothing, surrounded by local men with huge cocks out, fucking them on dance floors, against walls, in booths.
A woman near them, maybe 35, was on her knees sucking two black cocks while her husband filmed on his phone, jerking off.
Emma's dress was ripped off within minutes by a group of men led by Devon, who'd "recommended" the place. "Time to dance, snow bunny."
They put her on a central stage with a pole. Naked, oiled, she danced as men cheered. Hands groped her everywhere. Someone shoved a thick black cock in her mouth—she sucked greedily, tasting precum.
Jake was pushed to the bar. "Cuck boy, serve drinks. Watch your wife become ours."
He did, pouring rum while watching Emma get passed around. One man bent her over, slamming his 10-inch cock into her pussy. She screamed in pleasure—"Oh fuck, it's so big! Jake, he's destroying me!"
Another fucked her throat. Cum dripped from her holes as more took turns.
By the end of the night, Emma was addicted—marked with hickeys, pussy gaping and leaking Jamaican seed. Jake came in his pants just from watching.
They stumbled back to the resort, fucking frantically as she recounted every cock.
Day 3-5: Descent into Slavery
It escalated fast. Devon and his crew "claimed" them. Emma spent days on the nude beach, not just lotioned but fucked openly by locals while Jake held towels or fetched drinks.
One afternoon, a group of five Jamaicans gangbanged her on the sand. They tied Jake to a lounger nearby, forcing him to watch as they DP'd her— one in her pussy, one in her ass, one in her mouth. "This what white wives need," they laughed. "Big black cock ownership."
Emma begged for more. "I'm your slut now. Use me!"
Word spread. The resort staff—those bikini-clad goddesses—joined in dominating Jake. Tasha and Keisha made him eat their pussies while Emma watched, laughing. "Cuck queen husband. Lick Jamaican pussy clean after real men fuck it."
But the real turning point was when Devon introduced them to the "bars."
"Real fun off-resort," he said. "Places front as bars, back as brothels. White tourists volunteer as whores. Serve drinks naked, fuck customers all night. Locals pay nothing— we own you. Many wives stay whole vacation. Husbands too—clean up, fluff cock, whatever we say."
Emma's eyes lit up. "Yes. Make us your slaves."
The Bars: Total Enslavement
They started at "Rasta's Den," a ramshackle bar in town. Front room: pool tables, reggae. Back: mattresses, gloryholes, cages.
The owner, a huge man named Marcus, collared them both on arrival. Leather collars with "Jamaican Owned" engraved.
Emma was stripped, body painted with "Black Cock Only" on her tits and ass. She served drinks naked, tits bouncing, pussy dripping. Customers—local men—groped her freely.
Jake wore only a cock cage and panties. His job: clean tables, then crawl under them to suck cocks hard for his wife.
First night, Emma was fucked by 20 men. Bent over the bar, on tables, in the back room on a cum-soaked mattress. They bred her raw—no condoms. "Gonna knock this white bitch up," one growled, pumping load after load into her fertile womb.
Emma screamed in ecstasy. "Yes! Breed me! Jake, watch them ruin your wife!"
Jake whimpered, licking cum from the floor as ordered.
It became routine. Every night, a different bar—"Island Heat," "Bull Pen," "Snow bunny Brothel."
Emma's transformation was complete. She begged to be used harder. They pierced her nipples with rings reading "BBC Slut." Tattooed a Queen of Spades on her mound.
One bar had a stage where white wives performed. Emma danced, then got fisted while reciting: "I'm a Jamaican fucktoy. My husband is my cuck master."
They locked Jake in chastity permanently for the trip. He only came from prostate milking while eating creampies from Emma's destroyed holes.
Locals shared them. Emma served as a urinal some nights—kneeling in the bathroom, mouth open for piss streams while men laughed.
Jake became a full cuck queen: fluffing cocks, guiding them into Emma, begging men to fuck his wife harder.
By day 10, they extended their stay. "We're not leaving," Emma told the resort. "We're property now."
The final nights were orgies. Dozens of men. Emma suspended in swings, every hole filled constantly. Cum inflated her belly. Jake chained nearby, forced to watch and thank each man.
On the last "official" day, Marcus branded them lightly on the ass—"Jamaican Slave 2025."
As they boarded the plane home—Emma with a plug holding in loads of cum, Jake still caged—they knew they'd return. Forever changed.
Emma whispered to Jake, "Thank you for letting me become what I was meant to be."
He kissed her cum-flavored lips. "Thank you for making me your perfect cuck."
Back home, the collars stayed on. Jamaica's surrender was permanent.
Emma turned to Jake, voice hoarse from screaming, eyes shining with absolute surrender.
"Next year we don't book a return flight."
He kissed the steel ring on her collar and nodded.
Jamaica had taken everything... and they had begged for every second of it.
Emma and Jake had been married for five years, but the spark had dimmed into routine. At 28, Emma was a stunning blonde with curves that turned heads—full D-cup breasts, a toned ass from yoga, and long legs that begged to be wrapped around someone. Jake, 30, was fit but unassuming, a software engineer with a secret kink he'd confessed years ago: he fantasized about watching her with other men, especially dominant ones who could give her what he couldn't in bed. When they stumbled upon the ad for "Hedonistic Haven," an adults-only, anything-goes resort in Jamaica, it felt like fate. "Clothing optional, total freedom," the site promised. They booked it for two weeks, hearts racing with anticipation.
The flight to Montego Bay was electric. Emma wore a skimpy sundress that barely contained her braless tits, and Jake couldn't keep his hands off her thigh. By the time they arrived at the resort—a sprawling, lush property with private villas, infinity pools, and a secluded beach—they were both buzzing with horny energy.
At check-in, the lobby was airy and elegant, with marble floors and tropical flowers. Behind the desk stood three gorgeous Jamaican women, all in the tiniest bikinis imaginable—strings of fabric that left nothing to the imagination. Their dark skin glistened under the lights, full breasts straining against neon tops, and asses that swayed hypnotically as they moved.
"Welcome to Hedonistic Haven, Mr. and Mrs. Thompson," purred the lead staffer, a voluptuous woman named Tasha with dreads cascading down her back. Her bikini bottom was a thong that disappeared between her thick cheeks. "Here, everything is clothing optional except right here in the lobby and the main dining room. Feel free to let loose everywhere else. And darlings..." She leaned forward, her cleavage spilling out, "our nude beach is legendary. Local Jamaican men love joining the fun. Most husbands who come here? They're the submissive type. Cuckolds, even some cuck queens who beg to watch their wives get properly fucked."
Emma blushed but felt a thrill shoot straight to her pussy. Jake's cock twitched in his shorts; he was already half-hard at the casual mention. The other staffers giggled, one named Keisha winking at Emma. "You'll fit right in, pretty white girl. Those tits were made for our beach."
They were handed keycards and a welcome packet with a knowing smile. "Enjoy your surrender," Tasha said.
Their villa was paradise: open-air, king bed overlooking the ocean, outdoor shower. Emma stripped immediately, her pale skin glowing in the sunlight. "God, Jake, this place is insane. Did you hear them? Cuckolds... they're expecting guys like you."
Jake swallowed hard, his smaller cock springing free as he undressed. "Yeah... and you're okay with that?"
She grinned wickedly, pulling him into a kiss. "More than okay. I want to let go. Completely."
Day 1: The Nude Beach Awakening
The next morning, they headed to the beach. It was clothing-optional heaven: couples lounging naked, some fucking openly in cabanas, moans carried on the breeze. But what struck them was the mix—mostly white couples, the men meek and watching, the women surrounded by tall, muscular Jamaican locals with massive cocks swinging freely.
Emma peeled off her cover-up, revealing her naked body: shaved pussy already glistening, nipples hard from excitement. Jake lay on a lounger beside her, his modest six-inch dick soft and unimpressive compared to the black gods strutting around.
A beach attendant approached—a ripped Jamaican man named Devon, maybe 25, with a chiseled body, dreads, and a smile that promised sin. His cock was huge even soft, hanging thick between his legs like a third limb.
"Miss Emma? You need lotion? Sun hot today, burn that pretty white skin."
Emma's eyes locked on his bulge. "Yes, please."
Devon knelt beside her as she lay on her stomach. He poured coconut oil into his strong hands and started on her back, massaging deeply. His touch was electric—firm, possessive. Jake watched, transfixed, as Devon's hands slid lower, kneading her ass cheeks, spreading them slightly to oil her crack.
"Mmm, you tense, baby girl," Devon murmured. "Relax for me."
Emma moaned softly, arching her back. His fingers dipped between her thighs, brushing her pussy lips. She was soaking wet already.
Jake's cock hardened pathetically as he watched this stranger grope his wife in broad daylight.
Devon flipped her over. Now her tits were exposed, pink nipples begging. He oiled them slowly, pinching and rolling them until Emma whimpered. "Such perfect white tits. Made for black hands."
His hand trailed down her stomach to her mound. "Spread legs, miss. Need to protect everywhere."
Emma obeyed instantly, parting her thighs. Devon's thick fingers rubbed oil over her clit, then slipped inside her slick hole. She gasped, hips bucking.
"Oh god... yes..."
Jake stroked himself slowly, humiliated and aroused as Devon finger-fucked his wife right in front of him.
"You husband watch good," Devon chuckled. "He know his place. Small white cock no match for Jamaican bull."
Emma came hard on Devon's fingers, crying out as locals and other tourists watched approvingly.
After, as she panted, Devon leaned in. "You want real fun? Off-resort club tonight. In town. Dancing, music... but really? Place where white women like you become fucktoys for Jamaican men. We own you there. Dance on poles, suck cock in dark corners, get bred proper. Your husband? He watch or serve drinks. Many couples never same after."
Emma's pussy throbbed at the thought. She glanced at Jake, who nodded eagerly, his face flushed.
That night, they went.
The Club: First Taste of Surrender
The club was called "Black Paradise," hidden down a dirt road. Thumping reggae covered the moans inside. The doorman, a massive Jamaican, grinned at Emma's short dress. "Fresh white meat. Welcome."
Inside, it was chaos and ecstasy. White women—some from the resort—danced naked or in scraps of clothing, surrounded by local men with huge cocks out, fucking them on dance floors, against walls, in booths.
A woman near them, maybe 35, was on her knees sucking two black cocks while her husband filmed on his phone, jerking off.
Emma's dress was ripped off within minutes by a group of men led by Devon, who'd "recommended" the place. "Time to dance, snow bunny."
They put her on a central stage with a pole. Naked, oiled, she danced as men cheered. Hands groped her everywhere. Someone shoved a thick black cock in her mouth—she sucked greedily, tasting precum.
Jake was pushed to the bar. "Cuck boy, serve drinks. Watch your wife become ours."
He did, pouring rum while watching Emma get passed around. One man bent her over, slamming his 10-inch cock into her pussy. She screamed in pleasure—"Oh fuck, it's so big! Jake, he's destroying me!"
Another fucked her throat. Cum dripped from her holes as more took turns.
By the end of the night, Emma was addicted—marked with hickeys, pussy gaping and leaking Jamaican seed. Jake came in his pants just from watching.
They stumbled back to the resort, fucking frantically as she recounted every cock.
Day 3-5: Descent into Slavery
It escalated fast. Devon and his crew "claimed" them. Emma spent days on the nude beach, not just lotioned but fucked openly by locals while Jake held towels or fetched drinks.
One afternoon, a group of five Jamaicans gangbanged her on the sand. They tied Jake to a lounger nearby, forcing him to watch as they DP'd her— one in her pussy, one in her ass, one in her mouth. "This what white wives need," they laughed. "Big black cock ownership."
Emma begged for more. "I'm your slut now. Use me!"
Word spread. The resort staff—those bikini-clad goddesses—joined in dominating Jake. Tasha and Keisha made him eat their pussies while Emma watched, laughing. "Cuck queen husband. Lick Jamaican pussy clean after real men fuck it."
But the real turning point was when Devon introduced them to the "bars."
"Real fun off-resort," he said. "Places front as bars, back as brothels. White tourists volunteer as whores. Serve drinks naked, fuck customers all night. Locals pay nothing— we own you. Many wives stay whole vacation. Husbands too—clean up, fluff cock, whatever we say."
Emma's eyes lit up. "Yes. Make us your slaves."
The Bars: Total Enslavement
They started at "Rasta's Den," a ramshackle bar in town. Front room: pool tables, reggae. Back: mattresses, gloryholes, cages.
The owner, a huge man named Marcus, collared them both on arrival. Leather collars with "Jamaican Owned" engraved.
Emma was stripped, body painted with "Black Cock Only" on her tits and ass. She served drinks naked, tits bouncing, pussy dripping. Customers—local men—groped her freely.
Jake wore only a cock cage and panties. His job: clean tables, then crawl under them to suck cocks hard for his wife.
First night, Emma was fucked by 20 men. Bent over the bar, on tables, in the back room on a cum-soaked mattress. They bred her raw—no condoms. "Gonna knock this white bitch up," one growled, pumping load after load into her fertile womb.
Emma screamed in ecstasy. "Yes! Breed me! Jake, watch them ruin your wife!"
Jake whimpered, licking cum from the floor as ordered.
It became routine. Every night, a different bar—"Island Heat," "Bull Pen," "Snow bunny Brothel."
Emma's transformation was complete. She begged to be used harder. They pierced her nipples with rings reading "BBC Slut." Tattooed a Queen of Spades on her mound.
One bar had a stage where white wives performed. Emma danced, then got fisted while reciting: "I'm a Jamaican fucktoy. My husband is my cuck master."
They locked Jake in chastity permanently for the trip. He only came from prostate milking while eating creampies from Emma's destroyed holes.
Locals shared them. Emma served as a urinal some nights—kneeling in the bathroom, mouth open for piss streams while men laughed.
Jake became a full cuck queen: fluffing cocks, guiding them into Emma, begging men to fuck his wife harder.
By day 10, they extended their stay. "We're not leaving," Emma told the resort. "We're property now."
The final nights were orgies. Dozens of men. Emma suspended in swings, every hole filled constantly. Cum inflated her belly. Jake chained nearby, forced to watch and thank each man.
On the last "official" day, Marcus branded them lightly on the ass—"Jamaican Slave 2025."
As they boarded the plane home—Emma with a plug holding in loads of cum, Jake still caged—they knew they'd return. Forever changed.
Emma whispered to Jake, "Thank you for letting me become what I was meant to be."
He kissed her cum-flavored lips. "Thank you for making me your perfect cuck."
Back home, the collars stayed on. Jamaica's surrender was permanent.
Emma turned to Jake, voice hoarse from screaming, eyes shining with absolute surrender.
"Next year we don't book a return flight."
He kissed the steel ring on her collar and nodded.
Jamaica had taken everything... and they had begged for every second of it.
#9
BoundStories Website Stories Feedback / Re: A Coworker's Special Toy b...
Last post by Melissa M - December 27, 2025, 10:17:41 AMThanks for sharing. It was fascinating to watch Rene's character arc. The transition from a shy, professional coworker into someone capable of such raw aggression was gripping. I found it particularly impressive how she channeled her jealousy into her sadistic role, making the performance feel incredibly real.
#10
Selfbound Website Stories Feedback / Re: Claire's Latex Selfbon...
Last post by Melissa M - December 26, 2025, 10:41:25 PMThank you for sharing.
I think many women can relate to the secret life aspect. We all have that one side of us that our coworkers would never guess. The way Claire feels both powerful and vulnerable at the same time is the perfect way to describe the appeal of becoming a latex prisoner.
I think many women can relate to the secret life aspect. We all have that one side of us that our coworkers would never guess. The way Claire feels both powerful and vulnerable at the same time is the perfect way to describe the appeal of becoming a latex prisoner.
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