Delias Purgatory

Delia is a debt-slave, voluntarily sold into short-term slavery and trained to work in a slave-brothel. She's well-trained and she works hard at her job, and she just can't understand why everyone she services is so determined to deny and ruin her orgasms. 4k words, very dark content rating.

Content Warnings/Tags: sexual slavery; dubious consent; sexual control via nonconsensual implant; capitalism and debt; ruined orgasms and overstimulation as punishment

Whenever Delia was hired by a customer, the first words out of her mouth were always, "Will you please make me come, sir?"

She knew they all thought she was pathetic, that it only advertised how desperate she was. She couldn't help it.

She burned for it. She'd burned ever since she'd sold herself as a debt-slave--the only solution, it seemed, to the enormous financial obligations left hanging over her head by her deceased parents--and they'd declared her a perfect fit for companion service, and put that little ring around her clit.

The ring that meant she couldn't get off to her own touch, only the touch of a free person.

Training had been its own heavenly torture.

Long hours of all manner of sexual practice during the day: taking cocks up her pussy, her ass, down her throat. Bouncing and moaning on toys as the trainers critiqued her performance and her posture until she was exhausted and sweating.

Even longer hours of lying awake at night, her pussy aching, clit throbbing in its tight ring. Rubbing herself and whimpering with desperation at the way her own touch was muffled, the way her body rejected her own fingers.

And then, about once a week or so--only once she was practically crying in frustration--the firm, impartial touch of one of the trainers right on the most sensitive parts of her, until she was screaming and shaking and coming apart in an explosive orgasm right in front of all the other companions-in-training.

At one point, Delia had considered herself shy. Coming in front of an audience would have been out of the question.

She had learned not to hate it. Then she had learned to enjoy it. Finally, she had learned to need it: the anticipation, the jittery nerves, the rush towards pleasure and relief. Between her weekly releases, she hungered for them, struggled not to beg for mercy out of turn.

Delia had looked forward eagerly to the end of training, because surely she would enjoy orgasms more regularly out from under the draconian oversight of the trainers--customers liked it when their hired slaves came for them, right? That was what she was taught, what they were all taught. They were even taught to always announce as it happened, to be sure that everyone would know.

She had imagined coming multiple times a week. Daily, even.

And now...now...

***

"Will you please make me come, sir?" she begs quietly of the man leading her to a private room. He has one hand on her shoulder, the other taking a very personal grip on her thigh.

He laughs. "Yeah, sweetheart. Sure. I can do that. You want me to lick you?"

Delia's thighs quiver and she nearly trips over her own feet. Her pussy clenches. "Oh--oh--yes, please--"

He laughs again and tugs her into the room, pushes her onto the table, pushes her skirt up. His tongue sliding along her clit feels indescribable, like nirvana, like seeing the end of the world, beautiful and terrifying all at once.

"Oh," Delia cries, helpless and loud, her thighs spreading apart, knees quivering. "Yes--oh--please--"

He traces up and down her clit in slow, leisurely laps, dragging her along the edge of forever. She can feel each bump in the velvet texture of his tongue. Her cunt pulses so hard that it feels like a cramp.

Two fingers slide into her, working against the hard edge of need in her core, and she gasps at the intensity of it.

"Yes--" her hips lift up, in spite of her best attempts to behave, to stay relaxed and pliant the way she was trained. It's been too long, her body is outside of her control, and she's rocking up into his face, chasing the crackling electricity of the orgasm about to burst inside her.

He makes an encouraging noise, thrusts his fingers inside her. Tickles the sensitive tip of her clit with his tongue.

"Yes!--I'm c, I'm--c--coming," she wails, the way she's been trained, the way it's been drilled into her head to do every time she tips over into that blissful surrender.

And he stops.

The soft caress of his tongue disappears, leaving her clit twitching against empty, cold air. The hard pressure of his fingers vanishes, leaving her pussy squeezing and clenching on nothing.

She gasps in despair and tries to pull herself back, but it's too late.

Instead of the fantastic, mind-bending release she'd been aching for, she tips over into a weak, pathetic ruin. The powerful lightning-strike of orgasm crackles uncomfortably and then fizzles into nothing.

"Oh no, oh no, oh no," she sobs, grinding and jerking her hips down against the table, blindly trying to provide some stimulation to her needy sex. But she can only feel the touch of another person, a free person; the table is no help to her aching, throbbing body, not when she's the one humping it herself.

The customer laughs at her, and then he pulls her off the table and onto her shaking knees, unzips his pants so that he can put his cock in her mouth.

The ruin seems to go on and on, her pussy twitching and clenching and aching between her thighs as she sucks him. Little zaps of need echo through her, making her tingle with a nauseous need.

When tears begin to drip down her face, he wipes them away, smirking.

***

Ruined again.

Delia has been a companion for two years, and not once has anyone--not one single customer, not even the brothel overseers when she's begged--given her the satisfaction of a full orgasm.

Just ruin after ruin after ruin, leaving her begging and crying and throbbing, overstimulated and empty and desperate for more.

She remembers what it feels like to come, to come properly. She remembers, and she wants to feel it again, so badly, but they won't--they won't.

It's like a game to them. Like she's a toy. Like it's funny how she squirms, and twitches, and sometimes even...sometimes she even...

***

"Will you p-please make me come, sir?" Delia stammers.

She's been tied to a table, spread-eagle and naked, except for the jewelry that's been draped over her. She is decoration. Three young men, college age, lounge around the table. They've been drinking and talking.

This is the first word she's dared to speak, because one of them is finally touching her. His hand is on her thigh, heavy and warm, and she's so sensitive that it's making her drip already.

"Sure," he says, then, to one of the other guys, "Watch this. It'll be funny."

Delia's stomach drops. This is not a promising statement.

But then his finger brushes her clit, massaging over and around the ring, rubbing along the hyper-sensitive, swollen head, and she can't help herself. She mewls at the shock of sudden pleasure, lifts her hips.

His finger leaves.

She pants. "Please." She knows begging won't actually help; the customers will do whatever they like with her, but--"Please. Sir."

"Here we go," he says, and something brushes, feather-light, over Delia's clit.

Not his finger. A delicate gold chain, something that he's unwrapped from around her own waist. The sensation is light and ticklish, sharp and intoxicating.

He trails it up, then down again, and then circles it around her clit, pulling gently into the crevices where the skin is all the more sensitive for being rarely touched directly.

Delia sobs and shudders. It's so much, she can feel every single link in the tiny chain, each gentle flick making sparks of heat gather inside her cunt--but at the same time it's not enough; her clit aches for direct contact, for the firm rub of his fingers. Her pussy aches to be filled. Each movement of the chain brings as much agonizing need as it does pleasure.

It's amazing.

It's torture.

"Please," she begs, without specificity, because it would be rude for her to try and tell a customer what to do with her.

"Hush," he murmurs, dragging the chain slowly up her clit again. "Just feel it. Oh, look how wet you're getting. You love it."

She spasms and leaks onto the table, proving him correct, and moans at the feverish rush of need that accompanies it.

The heat inside of her grows, looming large and oppressive. Her sobs turn silent, thighs shaking with desperation.

She loses track of time, lost in the slow, feather-light touch of the chain directly on the sensitive skin of her clit. One of the other men, at some point, takes one of her nipples, rolling it between his fingers like a fidget toy. That makes everything so much better, and so much worse, and--

"Oh, oh, oh," she gasps as the heat inside her begins to swell to bursting. "Please. Please. Please. Oh G-God. Please. Sir. I--I--"

Everything inside of her is urgent. The orgasm is rising within her, heavy and demanding, and it expects to be treated properly when it arrives, no more of this gentle tickling bullshit. Her body cycles hot and then cold. She thinks about trying to hold back, and in the same moment, realizes there's no way she can.

The chain slips along her clit a final time, and, with an unpleasant pulsing sensation, she tumbles over the edge.

"No, no, I'm coming, I'm coming, no," she sobs.

Her body explodes into movement, humping up into the gentle caress of the dangling chain, desperately seeking more, firmer, thicker, anything, as she cries and moans. There's a hot rushing inside her, and then--

"Oh, fuck, is she squirting?" one of the men says with a derisive snort. "Just from that?"

"Please," Delia wails, her thighs trembling as she lifts her hips and another spray of fluid erupts from her, a desperate plea for help. Her confused body shudders. "Ohh-hh..."

"What a mess," the one tugging at her nipple sniggers.

***

It's only her that they torture this way.

Delia knows this. She's seen the other companions, heard them crying out in pleasure for their customers.

Not every time, of course. Some customers just don't care if the slaves come or not; sometimes the other companions are left frustrated, or suffer a ruin because a customer is careless in toying with them, pulling out just as they're finishing or being lazy in fingering them.

But not every time. They get to come, too. Properly.

Big, screaming, explosive orgasms, like the ones Delia used to have in training.

So why not her? Why is she the only one suffering this way?

Did she do something wrong?

Is she not good enough?

***

"Will you please make me come, sir?" she begs.

She's on private loan at a party, and the man seated next to her has a hand up her skirt, massaging her thigh. Down the table, she hears another companion squealing with delight as she bounces on someone's cock.

The man smiles wide. "Oh, yes. Delia, isn't it?"

"Y-yes, sir, that's me."

"Yes, Delia, I'll make you come." He unzips and pats his lap, and she climbs up eagerly. "Ah-ah," he scolds when she begins to lower herself onto his thick cock. "Other hole, please."

She nods in understanding and pulls out the anal plug that she's been wearing to keep herself ready. When she sinks down, his cock is a tight fit, but not uncomfortably so. She groans at the sensation of being filled, her jealous pussy spasming. "Uh. Sir..."

"What a sweet face for a whore," he praises her, squeezing her thigh, and then he reaches between her--between--

"Oh, oh," she gasps loudly as he brushes his thumb over her clit. Immediately, the people around them are staring, but she can't help herself; his touch is there, it's everything she needs, answering every hunger inside her body, making her squeeze even tighter around his cock as pleasure immediately begins to buzz under her skin. "Sir, yes, yes, please!"

He grins and moves his thumb in a slow circle, massaging over the sensitive nub. He gets the right angle and manages to spin the ring clasped around it, which makes Delia shudder right down to her toes, her body curling inwards towards his as she grinds down on his cock.

Anal has never been hugely pleasurable for her, but right now she loves it, the way the dull stretch provides a counterpoint to the sharp spikes of pleasure from his thumb dragging over her clit. It feels like a reward, like he's giving her a treat in return for pleasuring him in such an uncomfortable and humiliating way.

It's fantastic. It's amazing. If she gets to come like this--finally, after two years--

There are tears already welling in her eyes, and she's too confused to know if they're tears of gratitude or of fear, whether she's already afraid of what will happen next--

Because it feels so good, and nobody wants her to feel good any more. Not like this.

"Are you going to come on my cock, pretty Delia?" he asks, rubbing his thumb slowly over the head of her clit again so that she moans and shudders and clenches, feeling how he fills her. Every time he moves his thumb, it's a little starburst of pleasure, each one building on the last.

"Please. I want to. I want to," she begs, desperate.

"Go on. Come for me, whore," he says, rubbing her again, and again, just casual little flicks of the pad of his thumb that make the muscles all through her body coil tighter and tighter, her pelvis white-hot with the condensing sensation, and--and--

"C--coming!" she gasps. "I'm coming, yes, yes--!"

His thumb stops.

Delia screams and jolts as the bright pleasure within her becomes shocked, numb loss, her empty pussy clenching angrily.

"Oh! Oh! I--I was--I was--oh!" she wails incoherently, bouncing and writhing wildly in his lap, riding his cock with more vigor than she ever could have managed based on practice alone as she tries to satisfy herself with the dull pleasure of it. Her pussy spasms and dribbles and gapes, her clit throbs in its little metal ring, and his cock slides away inside of her, not quite hitting any of the places that she needs to fulfill the orgasm she's losing.

"Ahh, good whore," he praises her as she works herself desperately on him. "Oh, shh, don't cry. You're so pretty."

She gulps and sobs and shudders, and then moans when he reaches his own satisfying climax and pumps her full of the evidence, her body burning with lust, confusion, and envy.

***

Maybe they know something that she doesn't.

Maybe this is better for her. Or she's better, this way, for everyone else.

They certainly seem to like doing it to her. They laugh, or smile, or groan, like her tears and begging are amusing or satisfying.

If they're enjoying it--enjoying her--that's a good thing, isn't it?

But why does it have to feel so bad?

***

"Will you please make me come, sir?" she asks, and the customer nods and agrees and then--"I'm coming!"--slides his cock out of her aching pussy at the last second, watching her jerk and shudder in the air, and he does it again and again until she's numb and he can pump and spill into her cunt without touching the desperate burning need inside her.

***

"Will you please make me come, sir?" she begs, and a man puts her over his lap and flicks her clit punishingly hard with his fingers until--"I'm, oh, I think, I'm coming!"--she screams and shakes and squirts, her thighs flexing and her pussy clenching as her confused body tries to make sense of the mash of pain and pleasure, the sharp sensation and then the horrid nothingness of it.

**

"Will you please make me come, sir?" she pleads, and a customer holds a vibrator just above her clit, forcing her to strain up against the ropes holding her down to just barely brush against it, and when she finally tips over the edge, shaking with exhaustion--"I, I, please, I'm coming, I'm coming!"--she flops down, her strength drained, ruining her orgasm herself.

***

At this point, Dalia thinks, they must know what's best than her. They know so much more than she does.

They know a million and one ways to snatch away what she needs, to give her the climax without the release, the end without the pleasure. She never knew there were so many ways.

Now she's learning.

***

"Will you please make me come, sir?" she begs, sobbing, on her knees in one of the overseers' offices.

She hasn't even seen a customer today. She just woke from a dream, and it was a dream of ruining, of reaching the edge right before having everything ripped away, and she simply can't take any more.

The man sitting at the desk frowns at her.

"Th-they never let me come, not properly," she tries to explain. "I just--it's been two years, I can't--please. I know I asked before and everyone said no, but that was a year ago, could you just--now? Just one? I won't ask again, I promise."

"Yes, you will," he says, unimpressed. "Two years, you say?"

She nods.

He taps at something on his computer, reads the screen. When he looks at her again, his expression is unimpressed, but he says, "Very well. Come here."

She scrambles eagerly to her feet, and then, when bidden, climbs into his lap, spreading her naked thighs shamelessly over the fabric of his work slacks. When he retrieves a powerful-looking vibrator from his desk drawer, she moans eagerly.

"Five-second increments," he informs her.

"W-what," Dalia stammers, not fully understanding, and then the bulbous head of the vibrator is pressing down on her clit and she's already at the edge from the pressure alone, even before the vibrations--"Oh, oh, oh," she gasps when the buzzing kicks in, washing over her like a wave of heat, her hips hitching and working in place against the iron-like grip of the overseer's arm across her waist.

"One, two, three, four, five," he counts, and lifts it away right as the pleasure is beginning to reach the point of overflowing.

"I, uh?" Dalia stammers, twisting and squirming. "Oh. Wait. No, I can't, you--no--ohhhhh," she groans as he finishes another count of five and lowers the vibrator to press it firmly to her clit again. "Ohhhh. Please-please-please-please..."

"--Five," is the only number she hears this time over her own moaning and the rush of her heartbeat in her ears. She sobs, hips twitching, as the pleasure abandons her again, and she's dangling, almost there, almost...

"One, two, three, four, five."

It's back. She's shaking all over, coming apart, nearly coming and yet not quite there yet.

Dalia twists and writhes and humps in the overseer's lap, thinking, in some tormented corner of her mind, if she can just--just--

She's right there, right there, the tight pressure in her core ready to erupt--but she can't, it'll be too late, she has to hold back, she has to hold it, hold it, don't come, don't come!

"Five," says the overseer, and Dalia gasps for air as the pleasure vanishes again, leaving her cold and shaking.

This time. This time. She's right on the edge. It won't take more than a touch, and then she'll have the entire five seconds to ride out the pleasure, to really feel it.

Delia's too busy planning to listen for the counting.

The touch of the vibrator takes her by surprise, startling a yelp and a loud moan from her, and, but, but--

"I'm," she starts to say, the massive wave of pleasure unleashing inside her in an unstoppable torrent and then the vibrator is gone, "coming, no, no, no wait, no, I--wait, wait," she clenches and writhes, tries to hold back, just another five seconds, just another five, but--"I'm coming I'm coming I'm coming," she arches her back and jolts violently as she squirts into the overseer's lap, her empty pussy clenching and fluttering, her clit twitching numbly. "No, no, no!"

"One, two, three, four, five," says the overseer dispassionately, and lowers the vibrator to her clit again.