Mavis and the Featherlight Ch. 3


The elf became quite wild after the fifty minute mark passed. Panting and gasping, she tried to ignore the sound of the table creaking under the weight of her knee; Despite knowing that it was useless, and apart from that, obscene, Mavis couldn’t help but keep fucking the edge. The horrible brushes were tormenting her again, flicking and prodding and pricking and touching at her desperately quivering, twitching clit; teasing softly at its tip, its base, its every edge. Still, even now, quick, careful little touches. But now, she was so, so close. So close. She just needed, just a little more! If just one of the brushes, any one, would just linger just a little longer, that might… She might… “Mmmh!” She sobbed, her shaking arm gripping the wobbling chair as, finally, her stamina ran out and she fell back onto it. She pawed at the belt desperately, her hands squeaking up and down. Pressing harder and moving faster as she tried desperately to feel something, anything more than the relentless, torturous touches. The pattern had finally changed, now, but only subtly – only two additional brushes. One poking and tickling at that one spot, deep inside her, that the belt had found earlier – the one that now drove her absolutely insane when it was touched in any way – and one just. Ever so gently, tracing. And caressing, at her lips… Around and around, and then. Up. And down… Mavis didn’t know which was the worst. She didn’t care to reason. The torture went on and on, until her whole body itched and ached with frustration.

By sixty minutes, the elf could only slump against the table. Her chest heaved as she drew one long, shuddering breath after another. By seventy, she was gently, quietly pleading in a voice that only grew higher, more forlorn, anguished and desperate, to be allowed to cum. Her feet beat at the floor, her body only able to endure and endure as, still, the brushes pricked and caressed at her body, holding her still, even now, just… Just shy. Only just. With perfect, mechanical precision, careful, measured little stroke after stroke, touch after touch. Silent, glacial caresses, slow and feather soft – slight touch, after touch, after touch… Somehow, the belt knew not only how much stimulation would be too much, but exactly how much was enough. And through that knowledge, it ensured that no matter how the elf craned her body around, she could get no further or closer. Every touch of the clockwork arms and brushes and nubs was perfectly considered, intricately balanced, and mechanically measured. She would have marvelled at it, were it not so utterly maddening – swooned masochistically at the idea of such treatment, were it not her it was happening to, and quite against her will. Again, the elf began to struggle wildly against the waistband wound tightly around her body, quietly pleading and begging for release as her juices, no longer a drip but now a thin, constant stream, dribbled down the legs of the chair; and yet the belt was adamant in both its cruelty, and the tyrannical snugness of its grip on her pelvis. This state was the one in which the elf was to be kept, now – confined, held against her will, no matter how desperately she tried to escape.

Mavis and the Featherlight Ch. 1


She was sure it was in here. The angel had been taking it up with her in the evenings for her little work projects. Which was justifiable; The microscope was technically Rose’s. Mavis just needed to use it.

Was it, perhaps…?

She crouched down, her eyes adjusting slowly to the darkness of the space under the bed. Was that… Yes! She could see the microscope! But there was a problem – it was right in the middle, with other things stacked all around it.

Mavis sighed. It was looking like she’d have to pull things out.

Slowly, she slid out the boxes between her and the microscope. She knew she ought not to open them. They looked ornate, and it seemed like they contained either jewellery or precious heirlooms – in either case, not things Mavis would want to explain her reasons for touching. They were inscribed with curved letters written in Enochian, an angelic language Mavis couldn’t read – and that Rose hadn’t taught her much of.

She was quite curious now, though…

Mavis slid out the microscope, sitting it on the bed. Slowly, she leaned on her knees, glancing back down at the boxes. Noticing, then, the carved image on one – a rather lewd depiction of the female reproductive organs.

That was perhaps what hooked her in. Because she was very curious now, curious enough that her concern for her partner’s privacy was slowly overridden. To open this little box and take just a quick peek… It was too tempting.

Slowly, she lifted the lid, and immediately her mouth fell open. She had been expecting to find something quite drab, if valuable. But instead, she’d found herself transfixed – that, and rather scandalised.

It was a chastity belt.

Marinella’s Chastity Belt – Ch. 1


This first experience with a chastity belt had been breath-taking, in a frightening sort of way. This contraption, she reminded herself – this steely metal undergarment, was locked onto her hips. And without the key, she truly, absolutely could not get it off. She had no access to herself at all, no ability to let out any of the frustration she felt, a steel wall erected between her and her own sex that no amount of strength could shift. It was a thought that thrilled her as she cast her mind back to the journals she had read of maidens locked into similar, if not less substantial devices than hers. To remain like this, the way she felt now, for months, if not years on end – how would that feel? If she could not remove the belt… no, the thought didn’t bear thinking about. Marinella knew she could, anyway. She had the key in her hand. All she had to do, right now, was push it gently into the lock… just like that… and twist-

What?

She sat bolt up right, stumbling to her feet, as she looked down at the key. She twisted at it again, but nothing happened. It wouldn’t turn.

Marinella’s heart stopped. She rattled at the key, at the lock, twisting it in both directions, turning it over. She kept trying for several minutes, wondering if she’d made some mistake, some obvious error, but it was fruitless; the chastity belt remained firmly locked in place, the key refusing to turn a millimetre.

And with that, Marinella’s chastity truly began.

Tara’s Game


“P-Please, I- Ah… N-No! Let me go, please…!” The hellhound went wild in the restraints again, bucking and wrenching at the straps hopelessly as she felt the feather touch down, moving slowly up and around in time with the angel’s circling fingertips. Soon, she was gasping and panting once more, feeling the fingers and the feather work together to stimulate her so unbearably lightly. One finger slid inside her, rubbing and flicking against the inside of her clenching tunnel as she tried desperately to hump it, to free her torso from the straps keeping it so completely still and vulnerable. Free of the angel’s weight, her struggling renewed, but rather soon, only half an hour and 13 denied orgasms later, came to a exhausted, humiliated stop.

The edging, however, did not.

It cycled endlessly between so many different techniques. The feathers, several different ones – the brush, the long strokes, the intolerable rotation of the brush’s very tip against her weary, overstressed clit… and those fingers. Those soft, careful, deft little fingers. Cinder could’ve wept. But she’d already spent enough of her tears today, and it was all she could do to helplessly weather the sensations, unable to do a single thing to stop the angel or even interrupt her careful, practiced touch. She wailed and whined, but it was hopeless. The angel ignored her, neither one of them able to focus on anything but the sensations they felt.

The Maiden’s Guard


“One.” Molly whispered, as Astania desperately tried to stay quiet. “Two…” She looked happily down at the desperate angel – an angel that thought that squaring her shoulders and biting her lip might even begin to hide the amount of arousal and desperation she was feeling – and continued to gently tilt the brush, until…

“Three… Shhhhh, there there.” Stroke, stroke.

“Four…” Stroke stroke stroke.

Tickle tickle. Caress… caress. It continued for quite some time, the keeper’s strokes and her stroke count becoming less and less connected by the second.