The Sampler (Paranormal AB/DL - Feedback appreciated!)

I had a lot of fun experimenting with second person on this one!

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You’d never noticed that shop on the corner before.

Of course, new business came and went all the time, but this one stood out to you. There’d been no ‘Coming soon’ signs, no warning of its impending arrival. You could have sworn that it was an empty, shuttered building the day before, and now it was a storefront.

On a whim, you decide to go inside, to see what they’ve got for sale. The name painted on the glass door, “Boundaries,” doesn’t give you any clue, nor do the stands in the windows exclaiming “SALE!” and “50% OFF!”

A bell jingles over the door as you walk in, and you pause. Turning, you glance at the decor, and find that you still can’t place just what kind of store you’re in. There are no products, no shelves, just more signs advertising the ‘sale’.

You jump as a hand claps down on your shoulder, in a gesture that’s too familiar, too friendly for a stranger you’ve never met. “Hey there, pal. Looking to buy, or just looking?”

“I-” you start to say, confused. You turn to face the man, a tall figure in a striking suit that feels a little antiquated and a little out of place. “I don’t even know what you’re selling.”

“Right, right, of course. Can’t hurt to ask,” he says. Smiling, he suggests, “How about a few samples, to give you an idea of what I’ve got to offer?”

It seems like a harmless suggestion. You’re curious why he doesn’t just have his products up on display, but it’s not as though you’d be agreeing to buy anything. Nodding, you say, “Sure, that’s fine.”

“Great!” He grins, mouth widening, too wide, his smile almost predatory, until-

You blink. You’re not in the shop anymore.

You arms are spread wide. You try to pull them back to your body, but they’re held in place, with something wrapped around your wrists. It’s not uncomfortable, it’s even soft, but it binds you all the same. Trying to move your feet, you realize they’re bound equally. You’re on your back, lying on a bed, and when you turn your head to look you see the fuzzy pink handcuffs that are locked around your wrists.

When you try to cry out, you notice the gag.

When you struggle, you feel the vibrator that’s strapped to your thigh, pressed up against you, buzzing so close against your body that no amount of wriggling can relieve the sensation.

As seconds pass, you start to wonder why you would want to relieve the sensation. You’re confused, you’re afraid, but at the same time you’re not uncomfortable. Warmth and pleasure are fighting down the less pleasant emotions, and before long you’re moving in another way, trying to amplify the vibration. As well designed as the bindings are, you’re as helpless to increase the sensation as to reduce it.

You sink into it. You can barely move, you can’t speak, you don’t understand your surroundings, but it just feels so good that you don’t care. You let it take over you, building, approaching climax, breathing heavily into your gag until-

The pleasure vanishes, replaced with frustration. You’re not gagged anymore, not bound. Instead, a firm hand is pinning you face down over a lap, and you realize with some embarrassment that you’re naked, exposed, helpless.

A hand comes down, hard, striking your bare ass. You yelp, squirming, but you’re held down hopelessly. Before the stinging can subside, they strike again, harder, and there’s nothing you can do except whimper and ride it out.

The spanks start coming in a rhythm. Fast, hard, moving back and forth from one cheek to the other. You can feel your skin growing warm, feel the pain building, but they don’t offer any sense that you’ll be released. Not even a moment of rest, for the stinging, the consistent thudding pain, to die down.

Clenching your teeth, you fight it. You brace against the pain. You embrace the pain. Endorphins start to build, to counteract the discomfort, giving you a headrush that’s not altogether unpleasant.

Breathing heavily through your nose, you bite down on your lip, ready to ride this out as long as it takes-

The spanking doesn’t exactly stop, it just doesn’t exist anymore. You’re lying on a table, padded and lined with a plasticy cover. Waterproof, for some reason.

You’re still naked, but there’s a figure standing over you with features that can’t quite be made out. The only sense you get from them is one of… comfort. Care.

They pick up a plastic tube with a cap and start sprinkling white powder around your crotch, your thighs, between your legs. It smells sweet, in a way that’s just barely medicinal, and once it’s been applied they rub it into your body, gently, almost tenderly.

You don’t feel as though your skin is bruised or even warm from the spanking, though by all rights it should be. You only feel the comfort and pleasure of being cared for, watched over, as the caring figure massages the baby powder into your skin.

Next, with a little rustle of more plastic-backed material, they produce a diaper, sliding it calmly beneath your hips. You don’t understand why, but it feels right. Like you’re safe, and protected by having it underneath you.

Folding it up, your caretaker applies the four tapes one at a time, each one making a little ‘scrchh’ sound as it’s unfolded and then stuck down. The diaper is in place, and as they move to press the last adhesive tape down-

You’re on your hands and knees. The diaper is gone, for the moment. Now, there’s a collar around your neck, tight enough that you notice it every time you inhale, and you can sense the person behind you.

“Are you ready?” Like the caretaker’s form, their voice is indistinct, conveying more of an idea than a specific accent or tone.

You don’t know what they’re talking about, until you feel the pressure, the slippery end of a lubricated dildo pushing inside you.

Gasping, you feel it enter you, wider than seems reasonable. You start to tremble, and it stops, not retreating, but not going any deeper either.

“Shh,” they say, the voice soothing, calming you down just enough. “Take deep breaths. You can do it.”

You do what they suggest, inhaling through your mouth and out through your nose, and the pressure resumes, going deeper.

There’s discomfort, but satisfaction and pleasure mixed in. You hear your caretaker say, “You’re doing so well, just a little more-”

You’re sitting on the ground.

You’re not naked anymore; the diaper has returned, and it’s now covered by a soft, snug onesie that holds it tight to your body.

The pressure inside your bottom hasn’t gone away, but now it’s been replaced by an entirely different sort of pressure, a rumbling, building thing that threatens to overtake your control at any moment.

You want to stand, to start looking for a bathroom, but the effort to do so seems exhausting. Instead, you roll onto your hands and knees, using all four limbs to crawl, to try and find a way out of your ambiguous surroundings.

The desperate pressure is already unbearable. You can’t remember the last time you needed to go so urgently, but you’re not about to humiliate yourself like that.

Only then, do you realize that the caretaker is standing over you. “Aww, are you looking for the potty? Just use your diaper. That’s what it’s for, after all.”

You blush, and realize that you’ll never make it to the potty in time. You’re not sure if you could get to the potty even if your time was unlimited, even if there was nothing stopping you.

Still… You can’t bring yourself to do that. Even with everything else that’s happened, it’s one thing to let things be done to you, and another thing entirely to do them yourself, to humiliate yourself in front of… whoever it was, standing over you.

They crouch, and put a hand on your back. It’s reassuring. “Are you being shy?”

You shake your head. It’s not a matter of shyness, you just don’t want to use a diaper. You’re an adult, not some baby without any potty training.

They reach with their other hand, rubbing your belly, and that makes the pressure too much. You can’t fight it anymore.

Whimpering, you squirm in discomfort as your body takes over and begins to push, relieving the cramping pressure that had built in your belly. Mush spills out into your diaper, a slight rustling noise as it expands to hold it all, warm and soft and embarrassing.

There’s little you can do except to blush and grunt and wait for it to finish. You almost expect the scene to change, to transition to some other position, some other outfit, but it doesn’t happen. No cosmic force intervenes as you fill your diaper completely, while your caretaker offers gentle encouragement.

Long moments pass. The smell of your accident hits your nostrils, putrid and stinky, and you wrinkle your nose in disgust.

With gentle pressure, your caretaker moves you, rocking you back so you sit down on the ground, feeling the contents of your diaper squelch beneath your weight.

You’re wondering why the scene hasn’t changed, why you’re still here in your filthy diaper, when they reach back and pick up a vibrator wand. Holding it out, your caretaker asks, “Would you like to play?”

Only then, before you can decide how you want to answer, does the scene change.

Without explanation, you’re back in the shop. You stagger, almost falling, but the salesman still has his hand on your back and he steadies you.

Your chin is wet, and you realize you’ve been drooling. As you take stock of your situation, you realize that your underwear is just a little damp from all the excitement.

Turning, you face the shopkeeper, jerking away from his hand and taking a couple steps back. “W-what the hell was that?”

“Just a sampling,” he says, innocent, as though you’d just taken a used car for a test drive. “Once I was inside, I tailored the options to what I thought you might enjoy. There’s countless possibilities, but I had to draw the line somewhere. What did you think?”

You splutter. “I didn’t know you were going to do that to me! That wasn’t what I asked for!”

It doesn’t seem to bother him that you’re upset. He’s dealt with this before. “And?”

“And… I don’t know. I thought you were going to sell, like, art or knickknacks or something!”

Once again, he’s unperturbed. “Well, now you’ve experienced what I have to offer.”

He steps closer. Reaching out, he takes your hand, squeezing it between both of his own.

The salesman locks his eyes with you. He knows he’s got a captive audience, a customer who’s vulnerable and ready for the final pitch. “Was there anything you want to experience more… fully?”

5 Likes

Quite an interesting thing. Hard to describe more accurately than the thread title.

The second person does work quite well. I’d assume that others reading will find some sections comfortable that I didn’t, and vice-versa. But such is the nature of the perspective you’ve chosen. I’d consider it a success if I were you. You’ve a good balance of description without getting so specific that it ends up breaking immersion.

And honestly, I think it works best as the short work that it is.

Am I to take it that this leans meta, where you’re giving a sample of your wares, prompting the reader if they’re interested in seeking more? You’ve done a good job if so.

2 Likes

That meta analysis might be a bit deeper than I had personally thought it out, but I suppose it fits! I’m usually not quite as subtle when I write author insert characters. :wink:

I’m glad the balance of different kinks and moments works. I was worried that if I covered too much of a spectrum it would make the story unpleasant for too many people, but not enough and it’d end up hitting the same note over and over without enough variety.

Well, it’s exactly as titled: a sampler. Not everyone likes everything in a sampler. To that end, you also did well to not have the reader enjoy every aspect. It left enough for the reader to come up with their own opinions such that they could answer that question at the end.

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