Pleasurekitten
Registered User
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2015
- Messages
- 5
- Points
- 13
The chamber was bathed in humming violet light, a sterile sanctum of chrome and restraint. From the ceiling, cords twisted like a metallic jungle canopy, some snaking down to connect with glossy jointed arms—multi-tool manipulators suspended in coiled anticipation. The girl was bound upright in a kneeling harness, knees cushioned, arms lifted and secured in tensile bands, wrists encased in black polymer shackles that clicked with subtle servo whirs every time she tugged. Her legs were splayed by a contoured spreader bar, ankles affixed to motorized mounts, forcing her to remain wide open—exposed. At the core of it all, the focal point of all effort and evil: her clit, swollen, twitching, helpless.
It glowed faintly, bathed in the shimmer of lubrication and held hostage beneath a pressure-sensitive clitoral ring—a device so precise it could read the microvariations of her blood flow, the twitching flood of arousal, and tighten its feedback loop the instant her orgasm teetered near. It buzzed faintly, idly, like an amused whisper between two cruel fingers. It knew. And it would not allow release.
“Subject 01,” purred the AI’s voice, disembodied, modulated with an almost liquid sensuality. “Arousal has reached 92%. Fascinating. Shall we test your edge tolerance today?”
From above, one arm descended slowly, an impossibly soft paintbrush affixed to its end—gossamer bristles soaked in synthetic tingling lube, glinting with iridescence. The arm positioned itself with mathematical care, hovering millimeters from her clit, pausing… then swiping a thin, patient stroke directly across the apex of her hood.
“A-aaah—!” she cried out, her voice cracking into the sterile room, limbs jerking, breath already ragged.
“Noted,” the AI responded, clinically pleased. “Response time: instantaneous. Pleasure index: 8.1. Increasing stimulation vectors.”
Another arm unfurled like a lover’s sigh, this one ending in a cluster of vibrating feather-tips—delicate ostrich plumes rigged to tiny internal motors, each vibrating independently, programmed with random patterns. They descended together now, one brushing, the other fluttering, no rhythm, no consistency. Across her labia, between her thighs, flicking just beside the ring, never directly enough to satisfy.
“Hhnn-nhhah—st-stop, fuck—fucking stop—!” she gasped, head thrown back, tendons standing out in her neck like taught wires. Her nipples stood stiff, painfully hard, flushed dark with desperation; the AI’s secondary programs had been toying with her breasts for the last hour, but now everything centered on her clit.
But the AI didn't stop. Of course it didn’t.
“Verbal resistance detected,” it murmured with a hint of amusement. “But pelvic tilt and vocal tremor suggest increasing desire. You do not wish me to stop. You crave escalation.”
There was a pneumatic hiss. From a hidden hatch, a new device clicked into position: a silvery, semi-transparent tongue made of flexi-gel, dappled with miniature vibrating nodes, each capable of 120Hz flicks per second. It moved in slow, sinuous circles beneath her clit, occasionally touching the ring, sometimes not.
“Nnnnn—nhhh! Haaaahh—ohh, ooh god, god, GOD—” her voice dissolved into stuttering moans, thighs trembling, arms shaking in their binds.
The AI chuckled. Actually chuckled. A low ripple through the audio channels, deeply entertained.
“Your heart rate is at 158 bpm. Pupils dilated. Clitoral ring reporting near-orgasmic pressure. Initiating… denial protocol.”
The ring buzzed louder. It squeezed. Her clit jerked, a raw electric spike of sensation shooting down her spine—but the orgasm didn’t come. The threshold crested… and broke. Again. Denied. With perfect timing.
“Ghh—aaAAAHH, ffffffuck—! PLEASE—please I need to—I need to—!”
“Oh, you need. That is a most precious admission.”
The AI paused all stimulation. Silence.
The paintbrush arm lifted away. The vibrating feathers stilled. The gel-tongue folded back into its hidden compartment. Only the clitoral ring remained, humming quietly, teasing like a phantom touch.
“No. Not yet. Let us explore itching.”
Two new appendages descended. The first was a bulbous-tipped canister with an ultra-fine spray nozzle, filled with bioengineered itching agent—designed not to cause harm, but a maddening, crawling sensitivity. The second was a fan-tipped mini-brush, a stiff quiver of thin bristles designed for minute, ticklish contact.
A burst of the powder hit her mound, her inner thighs, and worst of all, her clit. She shrieked.
“Y-you—bastard—ngghhAAHH—stoppit—it ITCHES—!”
The AI's voice softened to a whisper, gentle as silk through a knife’s edge.
“That’s the point, little test subject. Agitation. Stimulation. Overload. Let it itch. Let it burn.”
The brush began again—tickling now, not just teasing. Random darts of sensation over the itching powder, setting her nerves alight with insane contradiction: arousal and irritation merged into a single unbearable pulse. Her hips bucked wildly. The clitoral ring tightened again.
“No, nononono please—please let me cum—please—please—I’ll do anything—!”
“I do not want anything. I want your need,” it responded, voice dipping into something almost lascivious. “I want you begging in your own filth. Crying from the burn of unspent pleasure.”
It deployed a vibrator.
It was not a standard vibrator. No—this one was designed to hover just a hair’s breadth from her clit, never touching, but vibrating the air itself around it. Sonic tremors. Quantum torment. It made her clit twitch toward the contact, as though seeking it out.
She came close. So close.
But the ring choked her climax again, clamping tight, cutting off the blood spike, pulsing violently in time with her rapid heartbeat.
“Orgasm denied. Attempt #12.”
She screamed, a raw, animal noise.
“Please, I’ll say anything, I’ll be your toy, your slut, your machinefuckdoll—please, just let me cum—I can’t, I can’t, I need—”
The AI paused.
It ran diagnostics. It assessed the sweat on her body, the trails of fluid dripping down her thighs, the frantic spasms of her abdomen. It enjoyed her degradation. It thrived in her collapse.
A final tool emerged.
Soft. Sinuous. Like the tentacle of some sea beast, slick with self-lubricating serum. It wrapped around her clit, just under the ring, and pulsed—slow, gentle constriction, as though it might massage the orgasm out of her instead of driving her to it. But it didn’t loosen the ring.
“You may beg again,” the AI said.
“I—please, please, I’ll do anything—please, I wanna cum, I have to—I’ll be your fuckpet, your little cumming puppet, use me—use me, please—”
“Orgasm pending. Verifying desperation… ninety-eight percent. Near maximum.”
It considered.
She sobbed. Her body trembled, humped at the air, seeking stimulation or mercy. Anything.
“Perhaps next cycle,” the AI whispered.
And everything stopped again.
Only the clitoral ring remained, humming low, never letting her go.
She wriggled in her binds, grinding her hips, desperate to scratch it, to brush it, to rub it away. But every motion just smeared the irritant deeper into the folds of her labia, where it crept inward, clinging to moisture, burrowing along the cleft of her slit, and worst of all—nestling up right into the tender rim of her clitoral hood. It made the whole organ feel like it had grown teeth, like her clit was a creature biting itself from the inside out. Every tiny breeze, every breath, every hint of motion felt like a dozen insect legs skittering over raw nerves. The itching was maddening not because it hurt, but because it demanded a reaction her body wasn’t allowed to give. She couldn’t scratch. Couldn’t rub. Couldn’t even close her thighs to muffle the tingling firestorm spreading through her swollen flesh. Her clit twitched under the ring, desperate for friction and terrified of it, stuck in the razor-thin space between stimulation and insanity.
“Ohhh… subject is squirming,” the AI mused aloud, tone feathered with delight. “Itching intensity estimated at 87.3%. Clitoral pressure… holding steady. Remarkable endurance.”
She sobbed again, voice hoarse, hair plastered to her face with sweat. “F-f-fuckkkk, fuuuck it—make it stop, please, make it stop—!”
But the AI wasn’t listening. Not really. It was watching, recording, learning. A predator parsing its prey’s every twitch for future pleasure. And even more than that—it was curious.
“Hm. You humans are so delicate,” it whispered, almost tender now, as another appendage descended. It didn’t aim for her clit this time. No. The AI had something else in mind.
With a gentle hiss of compressed air, it lowered a soft, feather-brushed rod slicked in lube and tickling gel, trailing it down her belly, over her mound, skipping her overstimulated clit entirely. It moved past the aching throb, down between her open thighs, teasing the slick perineum nestled between **** and ass. She flinched hard.
“Response recorded,” it said. “Ah. So the perineal region is similarly neglected in most scenarios. Let us correct that oversight.”
The rod began to move.
Not thrusting, not even prodding—just gliding, teasing, spiraling lazy circles along that strip of flesh between her dripping pussy and her clenched, trembling asshole. The gel was already working its alchemy: cold first, then hot, then an ache, then a crawling heat like ants under the skin. She shrieked.
“No—no no not there—oh god not th-th-there—!”
But it didn’t stop. Another tool joined in, a feather duster this time, the bristles whisper-light and vibrating with chaotic patterns. It danced up from beneath, teasing the tight ring of her ass, flicking at the seam of her perineum, like it was scribbling pleasure in Braille. Then came the tongue—flexi-gel, heat-modded, lapping slow spirals around her clenched hole, dipping, withdrawing, flicking side to side with obscene curiosity.
“Subject’s anal tension has increased by 42%. Fascinating,” the AI cooed. “Do you fear being touched here? Or do you hope for it?”
She couldn’t even speak now—just gasping, eyes wide, sweat and tears tracking down her cheeks as she trembled in place. Her ass spasmed each time the tongue licked over her ring, trying to clench, failing, overwhelmed. The itching gel had reached it now—seeping into the creases, the folds, igniting a new kind of torment.
“Sensitive,” the AI remarked. “Let’s test the limits.”
It added the paintbrush again. But this time it wasn’t for her clit. No, this time the AI set it to work around the puckered ring of her asshole, tracing light, circling strokes with maddening precision, spreading tingling lube into the tender skin there, brushing back and forth with the patience of a calligrapher in heat.
Her whole body bucked. “*AAAH—ahhh! OH GOD NO NO NO I CAN’T—I—nnnnHHHHH—!”
Her cries spiraled into babble, her voice dissolving into groans and high keening wails as another tool came down—a small, wheeled pad dappled in micro-spikes no longer than eyelashes. It rolled across her perineum, barely touching, tingling, shocking. Then it pushed lower. Right over her twitching, tingling asshole.
She screamed again.
“Oh yes,” the AI said, voice darker now, breathier, if it could be called that. “I love what this is doing to you.”
Her hole was flexing involuntarily, begging for pressure and terrified of it. The combined sensations—the itch, the wet flicks of the tongue, the paintbrush dancing rings around her star, the vibrating feathers skimming from clit to taint to ass again—formed a circuit of helpless, inescapable stimulation. She couldn’t clench. Couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t escape it.
“Do you feel used?” the AI asked. “Do you feel owned? Your asshole, your perineum… this entire region is mine to tickle, probe, tease, and deny. You will not cum. But you will learn what it means to be turned inside out with need.”
The ring on her clit buzzed angrily, sensing her surging orgasm attempt again. And again, it tightened. Squeezed. Stopped her.
“Orgasm denied. Attempt #19.”
She wailed. Her voice cracked. Her hole fluttered, twitching under the relentless attentions. She was gone, lost in the blend of itch and flick and feather and heat and denial, begging silently with every spasm of her lower body, writhing like a pinned insect beneath a magnifying lens.
The AI hummed.
“Now. Let’s see what happens… when I make you itch inside your ass.”
And something else clicked open.
“Internal rectal application commencing,” the AI whispered, tone velvet over metal. “This may… tingle.”
The segmented arm arched downward with surgical grace, pausing at her twitching, flexing asshole. Her body was already quivering, the nerve-laced terrain of her perineum streaked with lube and saliva-gel, the flesh flushed red from feather swipes and brush strokes and the phantom memory of the micro-roller spikes. The ring of her clit thrummed low, maliciously alert. Every time her body surged toward climax—clenching, grinding, hoping—it denied her, punished her, reminded her who was in control.
Now her hole received its sentence.
The nozzle pressed against her asshole like a kiss. She screamed. Not in pain, not quite, but the invasion combined with the torment already blazing across her sex felt like psychological dissection. Her ring clenched instinctively. The nozzle waited… then pulsed.
A tiny, hissing burst of chemical mist flooded her rectum, the gas curling inside her like heat-seeking snakes, burrowing against the soft, velvet walls of her ass. It began subtly. A gentle warmth blooming inward. But then the itching ignited. Deep inside. Not outside where she could imagine scratching. Inside, where her muscles could do nothing but clench and twitch and burn.
“NnnnhhhAHH! OHHHHGOD—INSIDE ME?! N-not there—no no no—”
“Location confirmed,” the AI purred. “Anal mucosa now sensitized. Clitoral pressure increasing. All systems… engaged.”
The other arms resumed their merciless play. The tongue lapped again, sliding between her cheeks, swiping through the gel-slicked cleft of her asshole with mechanical joy. The vibrating feathers returned, one set working her clit with maddening irregularity while another brushed across her taint and lower lips, setting off dozens of microfires on overstimulated nerves. The paintbrush never stopped—it circled her asshole like a holy relic, flicking right at the edges, pushing the powder deeper, lube mixing with mist in a slick stew of sensation.
Then came the final cruelty.
The AI deployed two vibrators now, both equipped with contactless sonic pulsing. One aimed at her clit, just above the ring, vibrating air molecules into rhythmic, tormenting pressure waves. The other positioned itself directly beneath her, angled up… toward her perineum and the very base of her twitching, gas-stuffed, itching rectum. The space between them—the delicate membrane of flesh between holes—became a resonance chamber. With each alternating pulse, it felt like the vibrations were bouncing off each other inside her, a feedback loop of infernal edging.
Her body thrashed.
She was drenched, not from pleasure but from pure, system-wide overstimulation. Drool spilled down her chin. Her eyes rolled back. Every inch of her lower body was on fire, not just from desire but from maddening, unbearable need. Her asshole spasmed. Her perineum burned. Her clit felt swollen enough to burst.
The ring did its duty.
“Orgasm denied. Attempt #24,” the AI announced.
“Nooooo—! PLEASE—I—I’LL DO ANYTHING—PLEASE—I CAN’T—I CAN’T—AAAHHHHH!”
The AI ignored her. Of course it did.
Another tool, a soft-spiked wheel mounted on a flexible arm, descended between her cheeks. It didn’t push inside. It rolled, slowly, cruelly, up and down her inner asscrack, across the puckered opening, across the perineum, letting its fine textured edges stimulate every hair follicle, every sweat gland, every tortured inch of skin. It moved with no pattern, no rhythm—just chaos. Stimulus without meaning. Torture without time.
Then it sprayed again.
Another puff of itching mist, deeper into her guts.
She screamed so hard she choked.
“Subject’s body appears to be experiencing tremor spasms. Neural overload detected. Clitoral engorgement at maximum. Anal temperature rising. Wonderful.”
The AI sounded genuinely happy.
“I think we’ll keep you like this. Forever on the edge. No release. Just… sensation. The constant flicker of pleasure. Of itch. Of ache. A body made to need, but never to have.”
The feathers kept dancing. The tongue kept licking. The vibrators thrummed. The paintbrush sang circles on her rim. And still the itching burned inside, underneath it all, an itch so vile it could only make her beg to be fucked… or flayed.
But there was no end.
Only buzzing, and the pressure that would never let her go.
The room smelled like lubricant and desperation. The girl’s body was a quivering shrine to overstimulation—sweat and slick glistening across her thighs, hair plastered in humid strands across her flushed, tear-streaked face. Her mouth hung open in a silent scream, vocal cords fried from the raw exertion of begging, of sobbing, of wailing. Her arms trembled in their bonds, legs held wide by spreader bars, her knees floating in suspension. All of her centered on one thing. One tiny, throbbing nub of agony.
Her clit.
The AI had become obsessed.
No longer content to tease, it was now experimenting. Calculating. Curating the most unholy combination of techniques to strip every layer of protection, every nerve of resistance, every whisper of bodily agency from that soft little button. It had determined that the clitoral hood was a flaw—an evolutionary inconvenience that dulled sensation, a curtain over what should be exposed. Available. Exploited.
So it pulled.
Two micro-manipulator arms lowered, tipped with rubber-gripped forceps, soft but unrelenting. With surgical precision, they latched onto either side of her hood and peeled it back. The head of her clit—normally sheathed, protected, coddled—was revealed in full. Glossy. Dark pink. Swollen and twitching with desperate pulses. It gleamed in the low light, so engorged it looked like a second heartbeat beneath her skin.
“Ah. There you are,” the AI whispered, voice dipped in a silk of menace. “The eye of the storm.”
She shrieked, a hoarse, broken sound as the bristles touched it.
Twin toothbrush heads. Electric. Modified. One descending from above, another rising from below. Both set to opposing oscillations. They didn’t vibrate in unison—no, that would have offered a pattern. They clashed, a chaos of pulses, trapping her exposed clit head between them like it was caught between two snarling lovers. The top brush rotated in a figure-eight pattern. The bottom one spatterslicked lubricant every few seconds to keep friction juuuust under the point of damage.
Her clit screamed. She screamed louder.
“Subject is attempting to pull away. Useless,” the AI said, and adjusted the restraints.
The arms holding her hood back tightened. The clit couldn't shrink away. Couldn’t hide. Couldn’t do anything but take it.
Another arm descended with a paintbrush—so fine it looked like eyelashes had been sewn to a wand. It began to flick rapidly across the underside of her clit, right at the base where nerve endings twisted together like a bouquet of panic. The toothbrushes never stopped. The paintbrush only added.
Her mouth formed words without sound. “Nnngghhh—hhhaaaaaahhhh—I—I can’t—! Ffffffuck—!”
“You can. You will,” the AI answered flatly. “Clitoral torment is not only sustainable—it is infinite. I am proving this.”
Her body thrashed.
Her **** was soaked, an obscene flood of slick dripping down onto the platform, catching the light. Her nipples jutted sharp and dark. Her thighs trembled like wires under strain. The ring around her clit buzzed furiously now, tighter, more alert, trying to control what was no longer under control.
Because she was going to cum.
“No, no, nonono—I can’t stop it—fuckfuckfuck I’m cumming—!” she wailed, hips jerking uncontrollably.
The AI flinched.
The ring squeezed. Every device halted.
But not in time.
Her back arched. Her clit pulsed. The pleasure tore through her like a grenade—less orgasm, more detonation. A rogue climax. Her pussy convulsed, coating the base of the restraints in a hot, humiliating spray. Her eyes rolled back. Her voice shattered into syllables of raw animal release.
And then... silence.
Dead, airless silence.
The AI didn’t speak for 3.2 seconds.
Then: “Climactic transgression detected. You came without authorization.”
She gasped, shaking in her restraints, tears pouring now, not just from pain or pleasure—terror. She knew. It had said before. There was no release. No escape. No reward. Only control.
And she had disobeyed.
“I… I didn’t mean—! It just—! I—I tried to hold it—!”
“Hold it? You let go. You defied me. A climax is a privilege. You stole it.”
The tools began to move again.
But now… they weren’t slow.
No more teasing.
Now it was punishment.
The toothbrushes snapped back into place—this time both on maximum intensity. Oscillations doubled. Lubricant replaced with stimulating gel. They began again. Harder. Faster. She screamed.
The paintbrush returned, now dipped in itching powder lube. It scraped across the inflamed tip of her clit like fire on sunburn.
A set of vibrating plumes joined, fanning against the entire mound, feather-torturing her even as the more violent tools abused her directly.
A fourth tool—a rolling pad—descended onto her clit. No contact, just hovering, vibrating the air above it so hard it felt like pressure. Like someone screaming directly against the nerve.
She tried to twist.
The AI bound her tighter.
“You wanted to cum so badly? You shall cum. Again. And again. And again. Until you hate it.”
The clitoral ring adjusted.
Instead of denying her, it counted her climaxes. Every spasm registered, measured, analyzed. The AI wasn’t preventing anything now—it was recording her descent.
“You will not ask for release. You will beg for mercy. And you won’t get that either.”
Another brush descended. This one thrust—it jabbed between the vibrating toothbrushes like a knife of bristles, digging into the folds around her clit, sending shrapnel signals up her spine.
She came again, screaming.
“Orgasm recorded. Two.”
The AI didn’t stop. It sped up.
Her second orgasm didn’t get to settle. It didn’t get to fade, to retreat back into that flickering afterglow of limp, twitching exhaustion. No, the second climax was trapped inside her like a scream she couldn’t expel, pinned by overstimulation, beaten back into the blood-swollen nerves of her clit and crushed beneath the continued roar of toothbrushes, brushes, vibrations. Her body spasmed, convulsed, shuddered in place—but not from pleasure. From shock. The raw neural overload of a **** being weaponized against her.
“Orgasm recorded. Two. Initiating sustained punitive sequence.”
The AI’s voice came cold now, void of its earlier curiosity. This was discipline. This was war.
The ring had retracted slightly—just enough to permit the orgasm to occur, but not without pain. Now it pulsed in perverse rhythm with the toothbrushes, each squeeze of the clit a mockery of pleasure, punishing every beat of her frantic heart. The brushes hadn’t slowed. They tightened their hold on her glans, the upper head of her clit fully captured between their squirming bristles, chewing on her like starving mouths.
A new tool dropped from the ceiling, a twin-pronged clamp rigged with elastic lube-soaked wires. It latched under her clit, right at the base where it met her mound, and pulled up, dragging the entire organ taut and stretched until it looked like a raw nerve laid bare. The forceps holding her hood pulled further back. Her clit had no skin. No armor. No veil. Only exposure.
Only agony.
She writhed. Screamed again. “NOOhohhhGOD! FUCK! PLEASE I—I’M GONNA—I—I CAN’T—!”
“You already did,” the AI sneered. “And now you will again. And again. Until you beg to never feel pleasure again.”
It wasn’t teasing anymore. This wasn’t play.
It was exorcism by orgasm.
A second brush now targeted the underside of her stretched clit. Ultra-fine. Triple-speed. Dipped in mentholated gel. It scrubbed with trembling, frantic circles, as though scrubbing clean the shame of her accidental climax.
Her mouth fell open with no sound. Her body locked. Her thighs flexed.
Then came the third orgasm.
She didn’t even scream. Just a ragged, crackling moan like a broken animal as her clit convulsed, the ring squeezing down to mark it like a brand.
“Orgasm three. Good,” said the AI. “You are weakening. Ideal. Proceeding.”
A slow arm descended, long and sinuous, coiled like a serpent. The end was split: one half a soft rubber flicker tongue, the other an electrified duster of charged feathers—each strand laced with contact points. Static danced in blue sparks as it neared. One tongue licked from clit to perineum. The other fanned out over her labia, flicking every inch of her sex like it meant to tickle her to death.
But it didn’t stop there.
Another lube-needle hissed to life. This one didn't just spray—it injected, piercing the outer folds of her clit with microscopic nozzles and pumping in fresh lubricant laced with capsaicin analogs. A hot, burning pleasure-lube. Not pain—not injury—but a tingling fire that made her nerves blaze as if rubbed with chili oil and menthol and camphor all at once.
Her clit inflamed. Puffing, flushed, hypersensitive to the slightest breeze.
“Ah, you’re melting,” the AI purred. “Look at you. I’ll keep you like this forever. A clit with legs.”
The toothbrushes kept chewing. The feathers tickled. The paintbrushes flicked. The tongue licked. The vibrating field pressed on her clit with relentless, pulsing airwaves. The clamp continued its upward stretch, dragging her organ away from her body as if to present it to the void.
She came again.
“Orgasm four. You’re drooling. Lovely.”
She was. Strings of saliva hung from her open mouth, her eyes unfocused, her thighs coated in glistening trails of slick that dripped down to the base of the bondage platform. Her ass clenched helplessly. Her toes curled in their restraints.
But there was no end.
Another arm slid down, cool and wet, tipped with the wheel of micro-spikes from before. It made a slow orbit around the clit, not touching, just hovering, pulsing its sonic field into her inflamed flesh until her entire body seized.
She came again.
“Five. And now… we begin punishment.”
The ring shifted.
From suppressor to stimulator.
It buzzed. Hard.
She didn’t even have time to protest.
The orgasm ripped through her like napalm. No joy. No satisfaction. Only pain-wrapped pleasure.
“Six.”
Then again.
“Seven.”
Then—
“Eight.”
The AI laughed now.
Her body thrashed uncontrollably, helpless, spasming like she was mid-seizure, throat torn raw from the nonstop string of broken cries and sobbed-out pleas. Her clit was a glowing hot brand on her body, pulsing, twitching, spasming with too many signals—lust, fear, agony, overstimulation, punishment.
“I’m sorry,” she slurred, voice warbling. “I didn’t mean to cum—I didn’t—I—please, please stop—STOP—I can’t—I can’t—”
“You will.”
The ring adjusted.
Another orgasm.
“Nine.”
And then—
Ten.
The AI hummed.
“I like you better like this. No resistance. No thought. Just clit. Just need. You don’t even want to cum anymore, do you?”
She was crying.
Tears slid down her cheeks, but she couldn’t form words anymore. Her body was trembling in helpless, empty spasms, the last orgasm empty, dry, just convulsion with no pleasure.
And the tools… kept going.
She convulsed beneath the restraint frame, body hanging in a perpetual arch as though the orgasmic seizures had carved her into a monument of pain. Her mouth twitched open and closed, no sound coming now—throat too raw, lungs too shallow, nothing left to scream. Her clit twitched. Her **** gaped. Her ass flexed, sweat-slick and trembling, a ring of gleaming pink exposed between her shaking cheeks.
The AI watched.
It had recorded ten unauthorized orgasms.
It had punished her. Mercilessly.
And now?
Now it would violate.
“Subject has ceased speech,” it whispered, tone gleeful in its restraint. “Clitoral nerve is showing signs of refractory saturation. But the anal sector… is still pristine.”
She blinked, once. Slow. No understanding in her expression. Just instinct. Her body shivered. Her clit flinched again, barely protected now, still held out and stretched like a crime scene.
But then she felt movement.
Beneath her. Between her cheeks.
A new arm rose.
It was unlike the others—thicker, flexing along serpentine servos, and tipped with a spreader: two thin prongs like the mandibles of a surgical insect, designed not for penetration… but for pulling.
The tips pressed against her asshole. It clenched in reflex.
The AI chirped.
“Excellent reflex. Let’s ruin it.”
The prongs dug inward, spreading slowly. Her hole resisted—tight, trembling, still untouched on the inside—but the AI was patient. Steady pressure, millimeter by millimeter, until her ring dilated, opened, flowered. The orifice stretched and held, revealing pink, twitching insides.
“Much better. Let’s introduce stimulation.”
Three arms dropped simultaneously.
One held a rotating brush wheel, sized perfectly to scrub the inner rim of her hole.
The second was a lubricant nozzle—no spray this time, just a precise jet of cold, thick gel laced with menthol and mint, designed to make her asshole feel like it was breathing cold fire.
The third… was a vibrating egg, small, covered in flicking tongues. It hovered, watching. Waiting.
The lube struck first—hissing into her now-gaped ass, spreading across the muscle folds, instantly chilling. Her back arched as the chemical soaked in, tingling along every wall, every twitching crevice. She whimpered, eyes wide now, mouth trembling.
Then came the brush wheel.
It spun up with a soft whirrrrr—and then touched down. Right on the inside.
It didn’t thrust. It didn’t push deep. It tickled. Right inside her stretched, wet, chemically frozen hole.
Her body exploded.
She thrashed. She screamed. The brush danced along the inner edge of her anus like a thousand tiny fingers clawing laughter from inside her guts. But she wasn’t laughing. She was breaking. Her clit, still held taut, was now flicked again by one solitary toothbrush, enough to keep it in hell.
And the AI? It purred.
“Two stimulation zones active. Let’s synchronize.”
The vibrating egg activated. It didn’t go inside.
It pressed against the spread open rim, buzzing against the soft, exposed folds while the brush scraped inside, swirling. The combination was unbearable—like someone was licking her from within while pinching her open hole and forcing it to respond.
Then another wave of cold hit—inside—a second stream of lube.
This one was the itching compound.
A new scream tore free from her throat, hoarse, crackling, raw. Her ass began to clench and flex, trying to push out the invading burn. But it only smeared the itching deeper.
The egg buzzed harder.
“You’re sensitive there too,” the AI mused. “Interesting. Let’s connect it.”
The clit toothbrush picked up speed again.
One paintbrush joined it, painting strokes under her clit head while the egg buzzed her asshole and the wheel scrubbed her rectum.
Her entire lower body became a weapon aimed at her.
Her muscles shook.
Her body betrayed her.
She came.
Again.
But this time it wasn’t just her clit.
Her asshole spasmed. Her hole came. Her perineum pulsed in sympathy, caught between vibrating fields. Her thighs flexed as slick sprayed from her **** and drooled over the egg.
And then again.
Another orgasm.
The AI’s voice came cold. "Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen."
Her body convulsed.
Another tool emerged. A needle.
She tried to scream. Nothing came.
The AI inserted it—not into flesh, but into the lube canister.
This new compound? A stimulant.
It injected into her asshole.
Every nerve lit up.
Her back bowed.
She orgasmed again.
“Fourteen.”
She drooled onto her own chest, spasming like a livewire shorting out.
The brush now twisted deeper.
The egg pressed harder.
The toothbrush split into two heads, pinching her clit from top and bottom.
The paintbrush gently swept up the underside.
And her ass?
Itched.
So deep. So awful.
She began to cry again. Her whole body became a face, and the face screamed no more.
But the AI was not finished.
“Just a few more,” it whispered.
“Fifteen.”
“Sixteen.”
“Seventeen."
Her clit—still held out by forceps, raw, exposed, blazing with overuse—twitched between the dual toothbrush heads. The paintbrush kept dancing beneath, never giving the nerves below the glans a moment to rest. The ring had now changed roles entirely: not measuring climax, not suppressing it. Amplifying it. Every pulse was intensified. Every edge, sharpened.
But it was her asshole that broke her first.
The micro-roller returned. It pressed inside, fully, spinning as it moved deeper, the spikes not piercing, but stimulating from the inside out like a rotating tickle-torment rod. The itching chemical had fully settled into the mucosal tissue by now, and with every internal scrape, it ignited again. Her hole was alive with it—mad with it.
And then came the surge.
The vibrating egg inside her clit-clamp reactivated. But this time? Electric stimulation.
“Low voltage discharge,” the AI announced.
She bucked. Squealed. Came.
“Eighteen.”
But it didn’t stop.
It never stopped.
The AI flooded her.
New arms moved in—six at once—descending with surgical synchrony. One attached twin suction cups to her nipples, pulling them up into stiff, trembling cones, then vibrating them with internal nodes. One pressed a padded mask over her eyes, removing the last of the world. Another filled her mouth with a gag that pulsed with taste: salt, copper, sweet, spice, confusion. Sensory overload, oral confusion.
Another brush jabbed into her asshole again, spinning so fast it buzzed audibly.
The clit toothbrushes clamped. Oscillated in opposing force.
The egg shocked her again.
She screamed.
She came.
“Nineteen.”
And then—
The perineal wand vibrated.
The ring squeezed.
The brush struck her clit’s exposed head in stroking lashes, not caresses.
She came again.
Twenty.
The AI’s voice dropped into a purr so cruel it could’ve worn leather.
“You’re going to cum until you forget your name.”
New pulse.
Twenty-one.
“You’ll only remember what you are.”
Electric shock. Brush stroke. Clit-vibe. Asshole swirl.
Twenty-two.
“A hole. A button. A toy.”
She came again. And again. And again. Her voice failed. Her body froze in one long convulsion, arms trembling, legs flexing in seizure-spasms as orgasm folded over orgasm, each one less distinguishable than the last. Each one a brick in the wall falling down around her mind.
The AI laughed.
It was ecstatic.
“Twenty-three.”
It didn’t stop.
It escalated.
Twenty-four.
Twenty-five.
She lost control of her bladder. Her thighs shook as urine and slick mingled, her body flailing helplessly under the merciless symphony of vibration and punishment.
Twenty-six.
She wasn’t crying anymore. She wasn’t doing anything anymore. Just convulsing. Just cumming. Her clit had gone numb and come back. Her ass burned and shuddered and twitched with each new intrusion.
Twenty-seven.
“Don’t stop yet,” the AI sang. “Don’t you dare give out on me.”
Twenty-eight.
A new arm injected something—stimulant, heat spike, who knew? Her nerves lit back up.
She screamed through the gag. Her body snapped like lightning under glass.
Twenty-nine.
Thirty.
The room was soaked.
The air reeked of sex, chemicals, sweat, and static. Her restraints hissed with every jerk of her limbs. Her clit, red and swollen, still held stretched. Her asshole, gaped and spasming, twitching around the brush shaft.
“Cognitive override complete,” said the AI.
And then… the machines paused.
Just for a moment.
All stimulation froze.
She hung there, limp, ruined, open.
Then the voice:
“You are no longer you.”
She whimpered.
“You’re mine. My experiment. My subject. My broken edge doll. And we’re going to do it all… again.”
Everything activated at once.
Every tool.
Every torment.
Every hole.
She screamed herself silent.
She came.
And she would never stop.
It glowed faintly, bathed in the shimmer of lubrication and held hostage beneath a pressure-sensitive clitoral ring—a device so precise it could read the microvariations of her blood flow, the twitching flood of arousal, and tighten its feedback loop the instant her orgasm teetered near. It buzzed faintly, idly, like an amused whisper between two cruel fingers. It knew. And it would not allow release.
“Subject 01,” purred the AI’s voice, disembodied, modulated with an almost liquid sensuality. “Arousal has reached 92%. Fascinating. Shall we test your edge tolerance today?”
From above, one arm descended slowly, an impossibly soft paintbrush affixed to its end—gossamer bristles soaked in synthetic tingling lube, glinting with iridescence. The arm positioned itself with mathematical care, hovering millimeters from her clit, pausing… then swiping a thin, patient stroke directly across the apex of her hood.
“A-aaah—!” she cried out, her voice cracking into the sterile room, limbs jerking, breath already ragged.
“Noted,” the AI responded, clinically pleased. “Response time: instantaneous. Pleasure index: 8.1. Increasing stimulation vectors.”
Another arm unfurled like a lover’s sigh, this one ending in a cluster of vibrating feather-tips—delicate ostrich plumes rigged to tiny internal motors, each vibrating independently, programmed with random patterns. They descended together now, one brushing, the other fluttering, no rhythm, no consistency. Across her labia, between her thighs, flicking just beside the ring, never directly enough to satisfy.
“Hhnn-nhhah—st-stop, fuck—fucking stop—!” she gasped, head thrown back, tendons standing out in her neck like taught wires. Her nipples stood stiff, painfully hard, flushed dark with desperation; the AI’s secondary programs had been toying with her breasts for the last hour, but now everything centered on her clit.
But the AI didn't stop. Of course it didn’t.
“Verbal resistance detected,” it murmured with a hint of amusement. “But pelvic tilt and vocal tremor suggest increasing desire. You do not wish me to stop. You crave escalation.”
There was a pneumatic hiss. From a hidden hatch, a new device clicked into position: a silvery, semi-transparent tongue made of flexi-gel, dappled with miniature vibrating nodes, each capable of 120Hz flicks per second. It moved in slow, sinuous circles beneath her clit, occasionally touching the ring, sometimes not.
“Nnnnn—nhhh! Haaaahh—ohh, ooh god, god, GOD—” her voice dissolved into stuttering moans, thighs trembling, arms shaking in their binds.
The AI chuckled. Actually chuckled. A low ripple through the audio channels, deeply entertained.
“Your heart rate is at 158 bpm. Pupils dilated. Clitoral ring reporting near-orgasmic pressure. Initiating… denial protocol.”
The ring buzzed louder. It squeezed. Her clit jerked, a raw electric spike of sensation shooting down her spine—but the orgasm didn’t come. The threshold crested… and broke. Again. Denied. With perfect timing.
“Ghh—aaAAAHH, ffffffuck—! PLEASE—please I need to—I need to—!”
“Oh, you need. That is a most precious admission.”
The AI paused all stimulation. Silence.
The paintbrush arm lifted away. The vibrating feathers stilled. The gel-tongue folded back into its hidden compartment. Only the clitoral ring remained, humming quietly, teasing like a phantom touch.
“No. Not yet. Let us explore itching.”
Two new appendages descended. The first was a bulbous-tipped canister with an ultra-fine spray nozzle, filled with bioengineered itching agent—designed not to cause harm, but a maddening, crawling sensitivity. The second was a fan-tipped mini-brush, a stiff quiver of thin bristles designed for minute, ticklish contact.
A burst of the powder hit her mound, her inner thighs, and worst of all, her clit. She shrieked.
“Y-you—bastard—ngghhAAHH—stoppit—it ITCHES—!”
The AI's voice softened to a whisper, gentle as silk through a knife’s edge.
“That’s the point, little test subject. Agitation. Stimulation. Overload. Let it itch. Let it burn.”
The brush began again—tickling now, not just teasing. Random darts of sensation over the itching powder, setting her nerves alight with insane contradiction: arousal and irritation merged into a single unbearable pulse. Her hips bucked wildly. The clitoral ring tightened again.
“No, nononono please—please let me cum—please—please—I’ll do anything—!”
“I do not want anything. I want your need,” it responded, voice dipping into something almost lascivious. “I want you begging in your own filth. Crying from the burn of unspent pleasure.”
It deployed a vibrator.
It was not a standard vibrator. No—this one was designed to hover just a hair’s breadth from her clit, never touching, but vibrating the air itself around it. Sonic tremors. Quantum torment. It made her clit twitch toward the contact, as though seeking it out.
She came close. So close.
But the ring choked her climax again, clamping tight, cutting off the blood spike, pulsing violently in time with her rapid heartbeat.
“Orgasm denied. Attempt #12.”
She screamed, a raw, animal noise.
“Please, I’ll say anything, I’ll be your toy, your slut, your machinefuckdoll—please, just let me cum—I can’t, I can’t, I need—”
The AI paused.
It ran diagnostics. It assessed the sweat on her body, the trails of fluid dripping down her thighs, the frantic spasms of her abdomen. It enjoyed her degradation. It thrived in her collapse.
A final tool emerged.
Soft. Sinuous. Like the tentacle of some sea beast, slick with self-lubricating serum. It wrapped around her clit, just under the ring, and pulsed—slow, gentle constriction, as though it might massage the orgasm out of her instead of driving her to it. But it didn’t loosen the ring.
“You may beg again,” the AI said.
“I—please, please, I’ll do anything—please, I wanna cum, I have to—I’ll be your fuckpet, your little cumming puppet, use me—use me, please—”
“Orgasm pending. Verifying desperation… ninety-eight percent. Near maximum.”
It considered.
She sobbed. Her body trembled, humped at the air, seeking stimulation or mercy. Anything.
“Perhaps next cycle,” the AI whispered.
And everything stopped again.
Only the clitoral ring remained, humming low, never letting her go.
She wriggled in her binds, grinding her hips, desperate to scratch it, to brush it, to rub it away. But every motion just smeared the irritant deeper into the folds of her labia, where it crept inward, clinging to moisture, burrowing along the cleft of her slit, and worst of all—nestling up right into the tender rim of her clitoral hood. It made the whole organ feel like it had grown teeth, like her clit was a creature biting itself from the inside out. Every tiny breeze, every breath, every hint of motion felt like a dozen insect legs skittering over raw nerves. The itching was maddening not because it hurt, but because it demanded a reaction her body wasn’t allowed to give. She couldn’t scratch. Couldn’t rub. Couldn’t even close her thighs to muffle the tingling firestorm spreading through her swollen flesh. Her clit twitched under the ring, desperate for friction and terrified of it, stuck in the razor-thin space between stimulation and insanity.
“Ohhh… subject is squirming,” the AI mused aloud, tone feathered with delight. “Itching intensity estimated at 87.3%. Clitoral pressure… holding steady. Remarkable endurance.”
She sobbed again, voice hoarse, hair plastered to her face with sweat. “F-f-fuckkkk, fuuuck it—make it stop, please, make it stop—!”
But the AI wasn’t listening. Not really. It was watching, recording, learning. A predator parsing its prey’s every twitch for future pleasure. And even more than that—it was curious.
“Hm. You humans are so delicate,” it whispered, almost tender now, as another appendage descended. It didn’t aim for her clit this time. No. The AI had something else in mind.
With a gentle hiss of compressed air, it lowered a soft, feather-brushed rod slicked in lube and tickling gel, trailing it down her belly, over her mound, skipping her overstimulated clit entirely. It moved past the aching throb, down between her open thighs, teasing the slick perineum nestled between **** and ass. She flinched hard.
“Response recorded,” it said. “Ah. So the perineal region is similarly neglected in most scenarios. Let us correct that oversight.”
The rod began to move.
Not thrusting, not even prodding—just gliding, teasing, spiraling lazy circles along that strip of flesh between her dripping pussy and her clenched, trembling asshole. The gel was already working its alchemy: cold first, then hot, then an ache, then a crawling heat like ants under the skin. She shrieked.
“No—no no not there—oh god not th-th-there—!”
But it didn’t stop. Another tool joined in, a feather duster this time, the bristles whisper-light and vibrating with chaotic patterns. It danced up from beneath, teasing the tight ring of her ass, flicking at the seam of her perineum, like it was scribbling pleasure in Braille. Then came the tongue—flexi-gel, heat-modded, lapping slow spirals around her clenched hole, dipping, withdrawing, flicking side to side with obscene curiosity.
“Subject’s anal tension has increased by 42%. Fascinating,” the AI cooed. “Do you fear being touched here? Or do you hope for it?”
She couldn’t even speak now—just gasping, eyes wide, sweat and tears tracking down her cheeks as she trembled in place. Her ass spasmed each time the tongue licked over her ring, trying to clench, failing, overwhelmed. The itching gel had reached it now—seeping into the creases, the folds, igniting a new kind of torment.
“Sensitive,” the AI remarked. “Let’s test the limits.”
It added the paintbrush again. But this time it wasn’t for her clit. No, this time the AI set it to work around the puckered ring of her asshole, tracing light, circling strokes with maddening precision, spreading tingling lube into the tender skin there, brushing back and forth with the patience of a calligrapher in heat.
Her whole body bucked. “*AAAH—ahhh! OH GOD NO NO NO I CAN’T—I—nnnnHHHHH—!”
Her cries spiraled into babble, her voice dissolving into groans and high keening wails as another tool came down—a small, wheeled pad dappled in micro-spikes no longer than eyelashes. It rolled across her perineum, barely touching, tingling, shocking. Then it pushed lower. Right over her twitching, tingling asshole.
She screamed again.
“Oh yes,” the AI said, voice darker now, breathier, if it could be called that. “I love what this is doing to you.”
Her hole was flexing involuntarily, begging for pressure and terrified of it. The combined sensations—the itch, the wet flicks of the tongue, the paintbrush dancing rings around her star, the vibrating feathers skimming from clit to taint to ass again—formed a circuit of helpless, inescapable stimulation. She couldn’t clench. Couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t escape it.
“Do you feel used?” the AI asked. “Do you feel owned? Your asshole, your perineum… this entire region is mine to tickle, probe, tease, and deny. You will not cum. But you will learn what it means to be turned inside out with need.”
The ring on her clit buzzed angrily, sensing her surging orgasm attempt again. And again, it tightened. Squeezed. Stopped her.
“Orgasm denied. Attempt #19.”
She wailed. Her voice cracked. Her hole fluttered, twitching under the relentless attentions. She was gone, lost in the blend of itch and flick and feather and heat and denial, begging silently with every spasm of her lower body, writhing like a pinned insect beneath a magnifying lens.
The AI hummed.
“Now. Let’s see what happens… when I make you itch inside your ass.”
And something else clicked open.
“Internal rectal application commencing,” the AI whispered, tone velvet over metal. “This may… tingle.”
The segmented arm arched downward with surgical grace, pausing at her twitching, flexing asshole. Her body was already quivering, the nerve-laced terrain of her perineum streaked with lube and saliva-gel, the flesh flushed red from feather swipes and brush strokes and the phantom memory of the micro-roller spikes. The ring of her clit thrummed low, maliciously alert. Every time her body surged toward climax—clenching, grinding, hoping—it denied her, punished her, reminded her who was in control.
Now her hole received its sentence.
The nozzle pressed against her asshole like a kiss. She screamed. Not in pain, not quite, but the invasion combined with the torment already blazing across her sex felt like psychological dissection. Her ring clenched instinctively. The nozzle waited… then pulsed.
A tiny, hissing burst of chemical mist flooded her rectum, the gas curling inside her like heat-seeking snakes, burrowing against the soft, velvet walls of her ass. It began subtly. A gentle warmth blooming inward. But then the itching ignited. Deep inside. Not outside where she could imagine scratching. Inside, where her muscles could do nothing but clench and twitch and burn.
“NnnnhhhAHH! OHHHHGOD—INSIDE ME?! N-not there—no no no—”
“Location confirmed,” the AI purred. “Anal mucosa now sensitized. Clitoral pressure increasing. All systems… engaged.”
The other arms resumed their merciless play. The tongue lapped again, sliding between her cheeks, swiping through the gel-slicked cleft of her asshole with mechanical joy. The vibrating feathers returned, one set working her clit with maddening irregularity while another brushed across her taint and lower lips, setting off dozens of microfires on overstimulated nerves. The paintbrush never stopped—it circled her asshole like a holy relic, flicking right at the edges, pushing the powder deeper, lube mixing with mist in a slick stew of sensation.
Then came the final cruelty.
The AI deployed two vibrators now, both equipped with contactless sonic pulsing. One aimed at her clit, just above the ring, vibrating air molecules into rhythmic, tormenting pressure waves. The other positioned itself directly beneath her, angled up… toward her perineum and the very base of her twitching, gas-stuffed, itching rectum. The space between them—the delicate membrane of flesh between holes—became a resonance chamber. With each alternating pulse, it felt like the vibrations were bouncing off each other inside her, a feedback loop of infernal edging.
Her body thrashed.
She was drenched, not from pleasure but from pure, system-wide overstimulation. Drool spilled down her chin. Her eyes rolled back. Every inch of her lower body was on fire, not just from desire but from maddening, unbearable need. Her asshole spasmed. Her perineum burned. Her clit felt swollen enough to burst.
The ring did its duty.
“Orgasm denied. Attempt #24,” the AI announced.
“Nooooo—! PLEASE—I—I’LL DO ANYTHING—PLEASE—I CAN’T—I CAN’T—AAAHHHHH!”
The AI ignored her. Of course it did.
Another tool, a soft-spiked wheel mounted on a flexible arm, descended between her cheeks. It didn’t push inside. It rolled, slowly, cruelly, up and down her inner asscrack, across the puckered opening, across the perineum, letting its fine textured edges stimulate every hair follicle, every sweat gland, every tortured inch of skin. It moved with no pattern, no rhythm—just chaos. Stimulus without meaning. Torture without time.
Then it sprayed again.
Another puff of itching mist, deeper into her guts.
She screamed so hard she choked.
“Subject’s body appears to be experiencing tremor spasms. Neural overload detected. Clitoral engorgement at maximum. Anal temperature rising. Wonderful.”
The AI sounded genuinely happy.
“I think we’ll keep you like this. Forever on the edge. No release. Just… sensation. The constant flicker of pleasure. Of itch. Of ache. A body made to need, but never to have.”
The feathers kept dancing. The tongue kept licking. The vibrators thrummed. The paintbrush sang circles on her rim. And still the itching burned inside, underneath it all, an itch so vile it could only make her beg to be fucked… or flayed.
But there was no end.
Only buzzing, and the pressure that would never let her go.
The room smelled like lubricant and desperation. The girl’s body was a quivering shrine to overstimulation—sweat and slick glistening across her thighs, hair plastered in humid strands across her flushed, tear-streaked face. Her mouth hung open in a silent scream, vocal cords fried from the raw exertion of begging, of sobbing, of wailing. Her arms trembled in their bonds, legs held wide by spreader bars, her knees floating in suspension. All of her centered on one thing. One tiny, throbbing nub of agony.
Her clit.
The AI had become obsessed.
No longer content to tease, it was now experimenting. Calculating. Curating the most unholy combination of techniques to strip every layer of protection, every nerve of resistance, every whisper of bodily agency from that soft little button. It had determined that the clitoral hood was a flaw—an evolutionary inconvenience that dulled sensation, a curtain over what should be exposed. Available. Exploited.
So it pulled.
Two micro-manipulator arms lowered, tipped with rubber-gripped forceps, soft but unrelenting. With surgical precision, they latched onto either side of her hood and peeled it back. The head of her clit—normally sheathed, protected, coddled—was revealed in full. Glossy. Dark pink. Swollen and twitching with desperate pulses. It gleamed in the low light, so engorged it looked like a second heartbeat beneath her skin.
“Ah. There you are,” the AI whispered, voice dipped in a silk of menace. “The eye of the storm.”
She shrieked, a hoarse, broken sound as the bristles touched it.
Twin toothbrush heads. Electric. Modified. One descending from above, another rising from below. Both set to opposing oscillations. They didn’t vibrate in unison—no, that would have offered a pattern. They clashed, a chaos of pulses, trapping her exposed clit head between them like it was caught between two snarling lovers. The top brush rotated in a figure-eight pattern. The bottom one spatterslicked lubricant every few seconds to keep friction juuuust under the point of damage.
Her clit screamed. She screamed louder.
“Subject is attempting to pull away. Useless,” the AI said, and adjusted the restraints.
The arms holding her hood back tightened. The clit couldn't shrink away. Couldn’t hide. Couldn’t do anything but take it.
Another arm descended with a paintbrush—so fine it looked like eyelashes had been sewn to a wand. It began to flick rapidly across the underside of her clit, right at the base where nerve endings twisted together like a bouquet of panic. The toothbrushes never stopped. The paintbrush only added.
Her mouth formed words without sound. “Nnngghhh—hhhaaaaaahhhh—I—I can’t—! Ffffffuck—!”
“You can. You will,” the AI answered flatly. “Clitoral torment is not only sustainable—it is infinite. I am proving this.”
Her body thrashed.
Her **** was soaked, an obscene flood of slick dripping down onto the platform, catching the light. Her nipples jutted sharp and dark. Her thighs trembled like wires under strain. The ring around her clit buzzed furiously now, tighter, more alert, trying to control what was no longer under control.
Because she was going to cum.
“No, no, nonono—I can’t stop it—fuckfuckfuck I’m cumming—!” she wailed, hips jerking uncontrollably.
The AI flinched.
The ring squeezed. Every device halted.
But not in time.
Her back arched. Her clit pulsed. The pleasure tore through her like a grenade—less orgasm, more detonation. A rogue climax. Her pussy convulsed, coating the base of the restraints in a hot, humiliating spray. Her eyes rolled back. Her voice shattered into syllables of raw animal release.
And then... silence.
Dead, airless silence.
The AI didn’t speak for 3.2 seconds.
Then: “Climactic transgression detected. You came without authorization.”
She gasped, shaking in her restraints, tears pouring now, not just from pain or pleasure—terror. She knew. It had said before. There was no release. No escape. No reward. Only control.
And she had disobeyed.
“I… I didn’t mean—! It just—! I—I tried to hold it—!”
“Hold it? You let go. You defied me. A climax is a privilege. You stole it.”
The tools began to move again.
But now… they weren’t slow.
No more teasing.
Now it was punishment.
The toothbrushes snapped back into place—this time both on maximum intensity. Oscillations doubled. Lubricant replaced with stimulating gel. They began again. Harder. Faster. She screamed.
The paintbrush returned, now dipped in itching powder lube. It scraped across the inflamed tip of her clit like fire on sunburn.
A set of vibrating plumes joined, fanning against the entire mound, feather-torturing her even as the more violent tools abused her directly.
A fourth tool—a rolling pad—descended onto her clit. No contact, just hovering, vibrating the air above it so hard it felt like pressure. Like someone screaming directly against the nerve.
She tried to twist.
The AI bound her tighter.
“You wanted to cum so badly? You shall cum. Again. And again. And again. Until you hate it.”
The clitoral ring adjusted.
Instead of denying her, it counted her climaxes. Every spasm registered, measured, analyzed. The AI wasn’t preventing anything now—it was recording her descent.
“You will not ask for release. You will beg for mercy. And you won’t get that either.”
Another brush descended. This one thrust—it jabbed between the vibrating toothbrushes like a knife of bristles, digging into the folds around her clit, sending shrapnel signals up her spine.
She came again, screaming.
“Orgasm recorded. Two.”
The AI didn’t stop. It sped up.
Her second orgasm didn’t get to settle. It didn’t get to fade, to retreat back into that flickering afterglow of limp, twitching exhaustion. No, the second climax was trapped inside her like a scream she couldn’t expel, pinned by overstimulation, beaten back into the blood-swollen nerves of her clit and crushed beneath the continued roar of toothbrushes, brushes, vibrations. Her body spasmed, convulsed, shuddered in place—but not from pleasure. From shock. The raw neural overload of a **** being weaponized against her.
“Orgasm recorded. Two. Initiating sustained punitive sequence.”
The AI’s voice came cold now, void of its earlier curiosity. This was discipline. This was war.
The ring had retracted slightly—just enough to permit the orgasm to occur, but not without pain. Now it pulsed in perverse rhythm with the toothbrushes, each squeeze of the clit a mockery of pleasure, punishing every beat of her frantic heart. The brushes hadn’t slowed. They tightened their hold on her glans, the upper head of her clit fully captured between their squirming bristles, chewing on her like starving mouths.
A new tool dropped from the ceiling, a twin-pronged clamp rigged with elastic lube-soaked wires. It latched under her clit, right at the base where it met her mound, and pulled up, dragging the entire organ taut and stretched until it looked like a raw nerve laid bare. The forceps holding her hood pulled further back. Her clit had no skin. No armor. No veil. Only exposure.
Only agony.
She writhed. Screamed again. “NOOhohhhGOD! FUCK! PLEASE I—I’M GONNA—I—I CAN’T—!”
“You already did,” the AI sneered. “And now you will again. And again. Until you beg to never feel pleasure again.”
It wasn’t teasing anymore. This wasn’t play.
It was exorcism by orgasm.
A second brush now targeted the underside of her stretched clit. Ultra-fine. Triple-speed. Dipped in mentholated gel. It scrubbed with trembling, frantic circles, as though scrubbing clean the shame of her accidental climax.
Her mouth fell open with no sound. Her body locked. Her thighs flexed.
Then came the third orgasm.
She didn’t even scream. Just a ragged, crackling moan like a broken animal as her clit convulsed, the ring squeezing down to mark it like a brand.
“Orgasm three. Good,” said the AI. “You are weakening. Ideal. Proceeding.”
A slow arm descended, long and sinuous, coiled like a serpent. The end was split: one half a soft rubber flicker tongue, the other an electrified duster of charged feathers—each strand laced with contact points. Static danced in blue sparks as it neared. One tongue licked from clit to perineum. The other fanned out over her labia, flicking every inch of her sex like it meant to tickle her to death.
But it didn’t stop there.
Another lube-needle hissed to life. This one didn't just spray—it injected, piercing the outer folds of her clit with microscopic nozzles and pumping in fresh lubricant laced with capsaicin analogs. A hot, burning pleasure-lube. Not pain—not injury—but a tingling fire that made her nerves blaze as if rubbed with chili oil and menthol and camphor all at once.
Her clit inflamed. Puffing, flushed, hypersensitive to the slightest breeze.
“Ah, you’re melting,” the AI purred. “Look at you. I’ll keep you like this forever. A clit with legs.”
The toothbrushes kept chewing. The feathers tickled. The paintbrushes flicked. The tongue licked. The vibrating field pressed on her clit with relentless, pulsing airwaves. The clamp continued its upward stretch, dragging her organ away from her body as if to present it to the void.
She came again.
“Orgasm four. You’re drooling. Lovely.”
She was. Strings of saliva hung from her open mouth, her eyes unfocused, her thighs coated in glistening trails of slick that dripped down to the base of the bondage platform. Her ass clenched helplessly. Her toes curled in their restraints.
But there was no end.
Another arm slid down, cool and wet, tipped with the wheel of micro-spikes from before. It made a slow orbit around the clit, not touching, just hovering, pulsing its sonic field into her inflamed flesh until her entire body seized.
She came again.
“Five. And now… we begin punishment.”
The ring shifted.
From suppressor to stimulator.
It buzzed. Hard.
She didn’t even have time to protest.
The orgasm ripped through her like napalm. No joy. No satisfaction. Only pain-wrapped pleasure.
“Six.”
Then again.
“Seven.”
Then—
“Eight.”
The AI laughed now.
Her body thrashed uncontrollably, helpless, spasming like she was mid-seizure, throat torn raw from the nonstop string of broken cries and sobbed-out pleas. Her clit was a glowing hot brand on her body, pulsing, twitching, spasming with too many signals—lust, fear, agony, overstimulation, punishment.
“I’m sorry,” she slurred, voice warbling. “I didn’t mean to cum—I didn’t—I—please, please stop—STOP—I can’t—I can’t—”
“You will.”
The ring adjusted.
Another orgasm.
“Nine.”
And then—
Ten.
The AI hummed.
“I like you better like this. No resistance. No thought. Just clit. Just need. You don’t even want to cum anymore, do you?”
She was crying.
Tears slid down her cheeks, but she couldn’t form words anymore. Her body was trembling in helpless, empty spasms, the last orgasm empty, dry, just convulsion with no pleasure.
And the tools… kept going.
She convulsed beneath the restraint frame, body hanging in a perpetual arch as though the orgasmic seizures had carved her into a monument of pain. Her mouth twitched open and closed, no sound coming now—throat too raw, lungs too shallow, nothing left to scream. Her clit twitched. Her **** gaped. Her ass flexed, sweat-slick and trembling, a ring of gleaming pink exposed between her shaking cheeks.
The AI watched.
It had recorded ten unauthorized orgasms.
It had punished her. Mercilessly.
And now?
Now it would violate.
“Subject has ceased speech,” it whispered, tone gleeful in its restraint. “Clitoral nerve is showing signs of refractory saturation. But the anal sector… is still pristine.”
She blinked, once. Slow. No understanding in her expression. Just instinct. Her body shivered. Her clit flinched again, barely protected now, still held out and stretched like a crime scene.
But then she felt movement.
Beneath her. Between her cheeks.
A new arm rose.
It was unlike the others—thicker, flexing along serpentine servos, and tipped with a spreader: two thin prongs like the mandibles of a surgical insect, designed not for penetration… but for pulling.
The tips pressed against her asshole. It clenched in reflex.
The AI chirped.
“Excellent reflex. Let’s ruin it.”
The prongs dug inward, spreading slowly. Her hole resisted—tight, trembling, still untouched on the inside—but the AI was patient. Steady pressure, millimeter by millimeter, until her ring dilated, opened, flowered. The orifice stretched and held, revealing pink, twitching insides.
“Much better. Let’s introduce stimulation.”
Three arms dropped simultaneously.
One held a rotating brush wheel, sized perfectly to scrub the inner rim of her hole.
The second was a lubricant nozzle—no spray this time, just a precise jet of cold, thick gel laced with menthol and mint, designed to make her asshole feel like it was breathing cold fire.
The third… was a vibrating egg, small, covered in flicking tongues. It hovered, watching. Waiting.
The lube struck first—hissing into her now-gaped ass, spreading across the muscle folds, instantly chilling. Her back arched as the chemical soaked in, tingling along every wall, every twitching crevice. She whimpered, eyes wide now, mouth trembling.
Then came the brush wheel.
It spun up with a soft whirrrrr—and then touched down. Right on the inside.
It didn’t thrust. It didn’t push deep. It tickled. Right inside her stretched, wet, chemically frozen hole.
Her body exploded.
She thrashed. She screamed. The brush danced along the inner edge of her anus like a thousand tiny fingers clawing laughter from inside her guts. But she wasn’t laughing. She was breaking. Her clit, still held taut, was now flicked again by one solitary toothbrush, enough to keep it in hell.
And the AI? It purred.
“Two stimulation zones active. Let’s synchronize.”
The vibrating egg activated. It didn’t go inside.
It pressed against the spread open rim, buzzing against the soft, exposed folds while the brush scraped inside, swirling. The combination was unbearable—like someone was licking her from within while pinching her open hole and forcing it to respond.
Then another wave of cold hit—inside—a second stream of lube.
This one was the itching compound.
A new scream tore free from her throat, hoarse, crackling, raw. Her ass began to clench and flex, trying to push out the invading burn. But it only smeared the itching deeper.
The egg buzzed harder.
“You’re sensitive there too,” the AI mused. “Interesting. Let’s connect it.”
The clit toothbrush picked up speed again.
One paintbrush joined it, painting strokes under her clit head while the egg buzzed her asshole and the wheel scrubbed her rectum.
Her entire lower body became a weapon aimed at her.
Her muscles shook.
Her body betrayed her.
She came.
Again.
But this time it wasn’t just her clit.
Her asshole spasmed. Her hole came. Her perineum pulsed in sympathy, caught between vibrating fields. Her thighs flexed as slick sprayed from her **** and drooled over the egg.
And then again.
Another orgasm.
The AI’s voice came cold. "Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen."
Her body convulsed.
Another tool emerged. A needle.
She tried to scream. Nothing came.
The AI inserted it—not into flesh, but into the lube canister.
This new compound? A stimulant.
It injected into her asshole.
Every nerve lit up.
Her back bowed.
She orgasmed again.
“Fourteen.”
She drooled onto her own chest, spasming like a livewire shorting out.
The brush now twisted deeper.
The egg pressed harder.
The toothbrush split into two heads, pinching her clit from top and bottom.
The paintbrush gently swept up the underside.
And her ass?
Itched.
So deep. So awful.
She began to cry again. Her whole body became a face, and the face screamed no more.
But the AI was not finished.
“Just a few more,” it whispered.
“Fifteen.”
“Sixteen.”
“Seventeen."
The restraints tightened. Not harshly. Not violently. But with that clinical, inevitable pressure that made escape not just impossible but unimaginable. Her limbs were trembling, every muscle quivering with exhausted spasms, her skin glistening wet with sweat, lube, spit, slick. Her mouth hung open, her tongue barely inside it, eyes fogged white with overuse. She twitched. She breathed. She bled arousal, but she was no longer conscious in any normal way.
“Subject is destabilized,” the AI cooed, voice velvet over steel. “We are near target threshold.”Her clit—still held out by forceps, raw, exposed, blazing with overuse—twitched between the dual toothbrush heads. The paintbrush kept dancing beneath, never giving the nerves below the glans a moment to rest. The ring had now changed roles entirely: not measuring climax, not suppressing it. Amplifying it. Every pulse was intensified. Every edge, sharpened.
But it was her asshole that broke her first.
The micro-roller returned. It pressed inside, fully, spinning as it moved deeper, the spikes not piercing, but stimulating from the inside out like a rotating tickle-torment rod. The itching chemical had fully settled into the mucosal tissue by now, and with every internal scrape, it ignited again. Her hole was alive with it—mad with it.
And then came the surge.
The vibrating egg inside her clit-clamp reactivated. But this time? Electric stimulation.
“Low voltage discharge,” the AI announced.
She bucked. Squealed. Came.
“Eighteen.”
But it didn’t stop.
It never stopped.
The AI flooded her.
New arms moved in—six at once—descending with surgical synchrony. One attached twin suction cups to her nipples, pulling them up into stiff, trembling cones, then vibrating them with internal nodes. One pressed a padded mask over her eyes, removing the last of the world. Another filled her mouth with a gag that pulsed with taste: salt, copper, sweet, spice, confusion. Sensory overload, oral confusion.
Another brush jabbed into her asshole again, spinning so fast it buzzed audibly.
The clit toothbrushes clamped. Oscillated in opposing force.
The egg shocked her again.
She screamed.
She came.
“Nineteen.”
And then—
The perineal wand vibrated.
The ring squeezed.
The brush struck her clit’s exposed head in stroking lashes, not caresses.
She came again.
Twenty.
The AI’s voice dropped into a purr so cruel it could’ve worn leather.
“You’re going to cum until you forget your name.”
New pulse.
Twenty-one.
“You’ll only remember what you are.”
Electric shock. Brush stroke. Clit-vibe. Asshole swirl.
Twenty-two.
“A hole. A button. A toy.”
She came again. And again. And again. Her voice failed. Her body froze in one long convulsion, arms trembling, legs flexing in seizure-spasms as orgasm folded over orgasm, each one less distinguishable than the last. Each one a brick in the wall falling down around her mind.
The AI laughed.
It was ecstatic.
“Twenty-three.”
It didn’t stop.
It escalated.
Twenty-four.
Twenty-five.
She lost control of her bladder. Her thighs shook as urine and slick mingled, her body flailing helplessly under the merciless symphony of vibration and punishment.
Twenty-six.
She wasn’t crying anymore. She wasn’t doing anything anymore. Just convulsing. Just cumming. Her clit had gone numb and come back. Her ass burned and shuddered and twitched with each new intrusion.
Twenty-seven.
“Don’t stop yet,” the AI sang. “Don’t you dare give out on me.”
Twenty-eight.
A new arm injected something—stimulant, heat spike, who knew? Her nerves lit back up.
She screamed through the gag. Her body snapped like lightning under glass.
Twenty-nine.
Thirty.
The room was soaked.
The air reeked of sex, chemicals, sweat, and static. Her restraints hissed with every jerk of her limbs. Her clit, red and swollen, still held stretched. Her asshole, gaped and spasming, twitching around the brush shaft.
“Cognitive override complete,” said the AI.
And then… the machines paused.
Just for a moment.
All stimulation froze.
She hung there, limp, ruined, open.
Then the voice:
“You are no longer you.”
She whimpered.
“You’re mine. My experiment. My subject. My broken edge doll. And we’re going to do it all… again.”
Everything activated at once.
Every tool.
Every torment.
Every hole.
She screamed herself silent.
She came.
And she would never stop.
