Author: ainsleyeadams

The Compound [Group][Dubcon][First Time][Humiliation]

TW: Dubcon/Noncon

Themes: (See above), First Time, Initiation, Humiliation, Exhibitionism/Voyeurism

I had grown up in The Church, lived on the Compound for years in relative peace, learning and growing. There were a lot of rules in The Church, all focused on sin; well, on not sinning. No lying, no stealing, no coveting, no murder, no sex with children. That last one was important. Because until I turned eighteen, everything was fine. I felt loved, safe, protected, happy, even. I loved sewing, loved gossiping, loved cooking. I loved so many things. And they were taken from me. Well, maybe not all the way, but the safety, security, and happiness, it vanished.

At eighteen you undergo a ceremony into adulthood. You’re re-baptized by the Prophet, Micah, and you are given a new name, a name that denotes your new role. I was given the name of Beth, the name of a servant. My parents congratulated me, as servants are seen as martyrs, as giving up themselves for the greater good. But my greater good was neglected. Always. I hadn’t even gotten out of the ceremony room before a boy I’d spent years with, Daniel, pulled me into a hallway and pushed me up against a wall. Read more »

Cult of Dionysus Part One – [M/F] [Story-Rich]

**Hello, this is my first time posting, but I’ve been writing for a while. Feedback is more than welcome. More to come, if you all like it. The more explicit things will be at the end. Is the pace too slow? Thank you for reading!**

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Human beings have a particular penchant for self-torture–masturbation, as it was termed once upon a time. I was engaged in this peculiarity of the human condition in multiple ways, hand between thighs, searching as if I’d find something entirely new in sensations I’d already mapped, overworked cartographer on long, lonely nights. And he was there, in my hand, on me, as he’d always been, this amorphous, unknown entity that I conjured every time I took my hand to self-flagellation, to the curse of the primal. I never pictured him fully, formed his face, crook of his nose, nape, navel–he was just an idea, intangible and unbuilt, unfinished home in which I’d spent years living, promising myself I’d one day finish painting the walls, hanging my art. And yet he kept coming, in moments on the bus, eyes meeting with a stranger, lips parting, I could feel him there, hand on my own, stroking lightly at my thigh. He had always been a mystery, one I didn’t dare to untangle for fear the fantasy would crumble. He was the one to push me against walls, bend me over tables, desks, counters, savagery and sensuality, he was my fantasy, embodied. Read more »