Tag: the objectification artist

Both parts of this story – along with many other erotic tales – are collected in the e-book The Objectification Artist and Other Stories of Hypnotic Enslavement, available now in store for only $4.99 USD! (Click here to view.)

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Carly didn’t know what to expect from the interior artist Damian Wedgewood’s manor, except that it would likely shock and disturb her as much as what she had seen on the grounds outside.  And in this expectation she was correct. 

The door led into a long hallway – and there was another nude girl lying just inside.  She was on her back on the floor, her large tits pointed upwards.  Her legs were spread – and kept in that position by a spreader bar – and her hands were bound by her sides.  Unlike the door girl, she wasn’t gagged. 

“This is the doormat,” said Damian.  “Just use her to make your shoes clean.  The path up to the house is sometimes a little muddy.” 

Carly blushed as she looked at the nude woman.  “How?” she asked. 

“Well, first clean the tip of your shoe in her cunt,” said Damian.  He brought his foot between her legs, and pushed the tip of his leather shoe into the girl’s twat, twisting it back and forth as he did, before repeating with the other shoe. 

“Then wipe off the sole on her tits,” he continued, dragging the sole of his shoe across the woman’s large fuckbags with some force, leaving a trail of dirt and mud across them and making the woman squeak from pain. 

“And then get her to tidy up whatever’s left,” he finished, presenting his shoe to the woman’s mouth.  The woman’s tongue extended, somewhat uncertainly, and began to lick at the leather of his shoe.  She clearly didn’t like what she was tasting. 

When Damian was satisfied that his shoes were clean enough, he encouraged Carly to do the same.  “Go ahead, cunt.” 

Engage with the art, her brain said.  Be a good cunt.  The purpose of women is to be decorations and furniture. 

She surprised herself by actively kicking the girl in the cunt with the tip of her high-heeled shoe.  The girl squeaked in a satisfying way as Carly pushed her toes as far into the slut’s wet fuckhole as they would go, and then she did it again afterwards with her other foot. 

It was fun, too, to wipe her shoes on the girl’s fuckmelons.  She had never realised before how large breasts could look like small soccer balls, and she wondered what it would be like to kick them. 

Then she realised she might not have to wonder. 

“Can I kick her tits, sir?” she asked Damian. 

“Of course you can, cunt,” said Damian.  “Remember, the consent and comfort of women is never relevant.” 

Carly giggled – a high-pitched ditzy sound that she couldn’t recall ever making before – and she kicked at the girl’s large breasts.  Now the girl *did* scream, and struggle, but bound as she was, she was unable to protect herself.  Carly kicked her tits again, and made another giggle.  How had Carly never realised how fun it was to hurt a woman’s tits? 

I’m engaging with the art, she thought, and kicked again. 

“Good cunt,” said Damian.  “Now, why don’t you take off as many clothes as you’re comfortable with, and then let’s proceed to the study.” 

Take off her clothes?  That felt wrong to Carly – and yet, every girl she had seen on the manor grounds was naked.  It felt weird to be wearing all these clothes – like she wasn’t fitting in.  Like she was being a bitch. 

But she had come here to be a bitch, hadn’t she?  She had come here to humiliate Damian Wedgewood. 

But he was being so nice to her – and his art was so compelling – and after all, she was just a cunt, and it wasn’t her place to humiliate anybody…. 

She shrugged out of her blouse, revealing a lacy bra that strained over her large tits, and then, blushing, she unhooked the bra and removed it.  Now she was topless, and Damian was staring at her boobs. 

This was wrong.  Wasn’t it?  Or was it right?  She couldn’t remember.  There was just that buzzing… 

No, it was wrong, and she knew how to fix it.  She reached under her skirt, gripped the waistband of her panties, and pulled them down her legs. 

There.  Now she was wearing nothing but a skirt and high heels.  She was possibly still a little over-dressed, but it would be fine. 

She handed her clothes to Damian, proudly. 

“Good cunt,” said Damian.  “That was a good choice for you.  I’ll have these disposed of.” 

Disposed of?  But she would need them back when she… when she… 

She couldn’t remember when she would need them back. 

She followed Damian down the hallway, her exposed tits bouncing with each step, into a sitting room.  Two leather armchairs faced each other here, each with a strange hole, about the size of a basketball, set into the front edge of the seat. 

Between them was a coffee table – or at least, something like it.  It had a solid glass surface, certainly, on which were placed coasters and a small vase of pink flowers.  But the surface was balanced upon two naked and bound women.  The women were forced together in a 69 posture, each with their face jammed into the cunt of the other.  Their knees were bent, with their feet trapped against their buttocks, and their arms were behind their backs.   

“Another installation,” said Damian.  “I have the housekeepers rotate which cunts we use in it every four hours.  We try to always use pairs of girls who hate each other, or ones who believe that licking another girl’s pussy is sinful, so as to increase the inherent dramatic tension of the piece.  These two, for example, were churchgoing girls whose close friendship turned to hate when they feuded over a boy they both liked.  Luckily, the one thing they still agreed on was how much they enjoyed my art…” 

There were muffled sounds from the table, and Carly realised both girls were licking each other’s twats – the only motion that their restraints allowed to them. 

Damian motioned for Carly to sit in one of the armchairs, and he took the other.  

She placed herself in it awkwardly, not sure what to do with the large hole.  “What is this for?” she asked. 

He smiled.  “Spread your legs, and press the button on the armrest.” 

Carly did as she was told.  Parting her legs made her skirt ride up her waist to her tits, exposing her now panty-less cunt, and that made her blush, but also she couldn’t imagine not doing as Damian had said.  She was a good cunt, after all.  She was engaging with the art. 

When she pressed the button, there was a sudden snapping sound from the chair, and, before she could react, bands of metal had extruded themselves from the arms and legs of the chair and wrapped themselves around Carly’s wrists and ankles, pinning her in position. 

Then there was a whirring, mechanical sound from inside the chair, and to Carly’s surprise an horror, the head of a pretty redheaded girl emerged from the hole.  She must have been inside the seat of the chair the whole time, and internal motors were now shifting her position so that her head was revealed.  Carly could see nothing of the girl’s body, but she had no doubt it was bound, as all the other girls in Damian’s manor. 

What was more distracting was that the girl’s face was right between Carly’s legs, very close to her naked, wet pussy. 

And then the chair made one final clunk, and the shape of the backrest changed, pushing Carly’s hips forward – so that her pussy was forced against the girl’s mouth. 

Carly squeaked.  Her cunt was against a girl’s mouth!  And the trapped redheaded girl wasted no time in beginning to lick.  Carly thrashed her arms and legs, trying to move, but she was completely unable to free her body. 

“Damian!” she said.  “Please!  I don’t want this!” 

“Oh, it’s part of the art installation,” said Damian.  “A little statement about how a woman’s sexuality is never under her own control.  But if you don’t want to engage with the art, then just say so, and I’ll disengage the chair.” 

As he spoke, he adjusted his pants, and Carly saw him take out his hard, throbbing cock.  He pressed a button on his own chair, and the head of a pretty blonde popped into view.  There were no shackles or restraints for Damian, she noted.  He shifted forward of his own volition, and forced his cock into the trapped girl’s mouth, sighing happily as she began to suck. 

Carly did not want her cunt licked.  Not by a girl, not in public, not while her hands and legs were restrained, not while Damian watched it happen as he facefucked one of his bound slave-girls.  She definitely wanted out. 

But to do so she would have to say she didn’t want to engage with the art.  And that wasn’t true.  If there was one thought in her mind right now, it was that she should engage with the art.  That, and that she wanted to be a good cunt.  A good cunt for Damian. 

So she blushed, and let the girl lick at her wet pussy, trying to ignore how good it felt, trying to pretend that her nipples weren’t hard and her face wasn’t flushed. 

“So, cunt,” said Damian.  “You wanted to ask me some questions for an interview, didn’t you?” 

She did.  That was why she had come here.  She tried to think, struggling with the omnipresent buzz in her brain, and the pleasant sensations coming from her pussy. 

“Uh… I guess… “ – she had to take a deep breath to marshal herself – “I was wondering who you felt this art was for?” 

Damian laughed.  “Well, men, of course,” he said.  “I do think some women appreciate it on a kind of instinctive, primal level – it speaks to the truth of their existence – but also women, being essentially a kind of decorative furniture, are ultimately not sentient enough to grasp its true subtleties.” 

He gripped the hair of the girl who was sucking his cock, pulling her closer, half-choking her on the rim of the hole she was emerging from. 

“Whereas men appreciate my work deeply,” Damian continued.  “They are often willing to pay very large sums to visit my mansion and view the installations on display here.  Not just view, but interact.  I have a particularly popular exhibit called ‘No Rights, No Consequences’, where I place a cunt in a padded room, and allow a male patron to interact with her.  He’s allowed to do absolutely anything he wants to her providing that the results do not require medical attention.  I find a couple of hours in that exhibit often completely transforms the way that a man interacts with women in his life.” 

He smiled, and released the girl’s head, allowing her to breathe for a moment. 

“I find the best art changes people, don’t you?” 

She felt dizzy.  She was aware that if she sat here much longer she was going to cum against the face of the restrained girl – and yet she was trapped, unable to move. 

“What do you… what do you do with the money you make from your art?” she gasped. 

“Well, a certain amount supports the upkeep of the mansion, and purchases cunt food for the volunteers in the kennels,” Damian said.  “Some of the rest, I invest in certain speculative ventures.  Some years ago, for example, researchers in my employ discovered a quite interesting soundwave, that can only be heard by females.  We learned that it can carry subliminal messages, which, with only a short exposure, can seat themselves quite powerfully in the minds of cunts.” 

Carly didn’t understand what she was hearing.  Her cunt was so wet, and the buzz was so loud. 

“And much of the rest I donate to advocacy groups and not-for-profits aimed at teaching women their true place as pleasure toys and decorations,” he concluded. 

Carly felt herself cumming. Her body shook and, to her immense shame, she felt herself squirting onto the face of the trapped girl.   

But the girl didn’t stop.  She kept licking Carly’s twat, making the orgasm longer and more intense.  Carly felt like her body was made of liquid, melting into the seat.  She made an incoherent noise of lust and humiliation. 

“Was there something else you wanted to ask, cunt?” asked Damian. 

There was.  She could almost hear it.  It was the most important question of all. She reached out to it with what remained of her mind…. 

“Would… would it be okay for me to be a good cunt, sir?” she heard herself ask.  “Can I engage with the art?” 

“Of course you can, cunt,” said Damian.  “Would you like to volunteer?  I think you’d make a good doormat, or a comfort chair.  Or maybe something else.  Your cunt would make a pretty holder for a wine bottle, or a guest’s umbrella.  Or maybe we could find a place for you as a urinal…” 

“Yes, please, sir,” said Carly, bucking her cunt hard against the girl’s face.  “Please.  I want to volunteer.” 

“Good cunt,” said Damian.  He extracted his cock from the girl’s mouth, and pressed a button on the chair, causing her head to retract back into its hole.  He stood, and walked across to Carly, and then pointed his cock at her face and began to masturbate. 

“I know you write for your university newspaper, cunt,” said Damian.  “But are you aware of another publication on your campus, called Alpha?  It’s a periodical for men, that I finance, that advances views in line with your art.  I think the first way that you’re going to volunteer is by writing an article for Alpha that explains why women are objects for men to enjoy.  And we’ll do a little photospread of your nude body to go with it, so all your former peers can enjoy looking at your pretty little tits and cunt.  That will be nice, don’t you think, cunt?” 

“Yes, sir,” moaned Carly.  She was going to cum from the girl’s mouth again soon. 

Damian kept pumping his cock in the direction of Carly’s face. 

“And then we’ll bring you back here and turn you into a pretty little art installation,” he said.   

And with that, he came, spraying his cum across Carly’s face and tits. 

And Carly knew, immediately, instinctively, that she had more value in this moment of being used as a cum rag by Damian than she had ever had in her life as a “person”. 

And with that knowledge, she found herself cumming again…

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If you enjoyed this story, you should check out my e-book Inner Selves – Stories of Hypnotic Confession, available for only $3.99 USD at AllTheseRoadworks.com!  (Click here to view in store!)

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Both parts of this story are collected in the e-book The Objectification Artist and Other Stories of Hypnotic Enslavement, available now in store for only $4.99 USD! (Click here to view.)

===

Carly thought it was a fantastic idea for an article, and her student newspaper would love it.  She would interview controversial artist Damian Wedgewood, and confront him over the wildly misogynistic themes in his artwork.  The resulting article would generate the kind of interest and outrage that would look good in her resume once she completed her journalism degree.  She had been surprised he agreed to the interview – yet grateful for the chance to interview him. 

But she began to have second thoughts from the moment that she arrived at his rambling mansion located on the outskirts of town, and it began with the gates. 

She had arranged to meet Damian in the mid-morning, outside his property.  He was returning from an exhibition in Los Angeles, and he would be coming home directly from the airport.  

But Carly was a little early, and Damian was a little late, which gave her time, alone, staring at those gates. 

They were made of wrought iron, set into a fieldstone wall, presenting a car-deterring barrier across the drive leading up to the house proper.  But it wasn’t the gates themselves, but rather the design of them. 

Each side of the gates bore the wrought-iron profile of a naked woman.  Her feet and hands were shown to be bound behind her back, and her long hair was likewise tied into that knot.  Her face and tits came right up to the edge of the gate, so that when the gates were closed, it seemed like the two women were kissing – or rather, being forced to kiss by their predicament. 

To compliment that effect, there was a strip of leather binding the gates closed, in a way that made it look like the women’s heads were bound together, and there was a chain further down that gave the impression of the women’s nipples being chained to each other. 

It was an obscene and pornographic piece – and entirely in keeping with what Carly knew of the portfolio of Damian Wedgewood, which kept returning to the motif of enslaved, restrained women, forced to become artwork against their will. 

Standing beside her car, contemplating the gates, Carly shivered.  She had dressed in a manner that she thought of as “attractive but professional” – but now she was wondering if she could have made her lipstick less sexy, and maybe shown off a little less of her buxom cleavage, or picked a skirt that came down a little lower than the cute miniskirt she was wearing. 

There was the sound of tyres on gravel, and Carly turned to see Damian arriving, near soundlessly in an electric vehicle.  He parked by the side of the drive, and got out. 

“Ah, you must be Miss Luon,” he said, with a small bow.  “Welcome to Wedgewood Manor.” 

He was attractive, Carly had to concede, in an expertly tailored suit, short cropped black hair, and a trimmed goatee.  She blushed a little under the full gaze of his attention. 

“Thank you,” said Carly.  “I’m looking forward to talking with you about work.” 

“Well, we have some right here!” said Damian, gesturing at the gate.  “It’s been some years since I crafted this one, but I’m still proud of it.” 

“Well, that’s what I was wondering,” asked Carly.  “Don’t you think it’s a little… demeaning to women?” 

“How can it be demeaning?” asked Damian.  “The gate elevates the female form to the level of art.  If anything, it immortalises the women that I used for my models.  And it presents women in their best possible light – both decorative, and functional.” 

He stepped forward and undid the strap and the chain from the gate.  With one hand, he pushed it open, breaking the lewd kiss of the metal women, and revealing the path up to the manor house. 

“Normally we would drive up,” said Damian.  “But perhaps you would care for a short stroll, to take in the grounds?” 

Carly agreed to this invitation – and soon found that the grounds were, in fact, breathtaking.  The manor was surrounded by sweeping lawns, kept in immaculate condition, dotted with statues – which universally depicted nude, bound women – and with topiary (and this, too, had been carefully clipped so as to suggest breasts and vulvas).   

“This must cost a fortune to maintain,” said Carly, as she walked amongst the greenery. 

“Oh, it’s not cheap,” admitted Damian.  “But I have help.”   

He pointed, and suddenly Carly realised they were not alone.  There was a beautiful dark-haired woman standing amongst the hedges – and she was almost completely nude.   

The woman was wearing high heels, which appeared to be locked to her ankles, and on her head she had a headband with a pair of fox ears.  A fluffy fox tail emanated from her cute derriere – and Carly realised it must be attached to a butt plug, pushed into the woman’s anus.  There was a red-brown ball gag stuffed in the woman’s mouth, and small bells hung from chains connected to clamps on the woman’s nipples and – apparently – clitoris.

In her hand she held a pair of garden shears, with which she was trimming the topiary. 

Carly audibly gasped.  “Is she… a slave?” she asked. 

Damian laughed.  “Of course not,” he said.  “Merely an art lover.  My work has a very… primal fascination for many women, and as they study it, they come to understand that the natural state of women is somewhere between a decoration and an appliance – a thing that exists purely to please the eyes and cocks of men, and to make the lives of men easier.  Many of the most devoted of these girls come to volunteer on my mansion.” 

“They’re not paid?” asked Carly. 

“No, it’s the natural role of women, they don’t deserve to be rewarded or praised merely for doing what their biology draws them to,” said Damian.  “We make rent-free accommodation to our female volunteers in the kennels out the back, and give them three meals a day of a patented nutritious woman-food that I have developed, and many of the girls take advantage of that.  Others live off-campus, and pay for their private accommodation by taking work as strippers or sex workers at night.” 

“Do you really believe that,” Carly asked, “about women being… decorations?” 

“Of course I do,” laughed Damian.  “And you would too, if you took the time to listen to what your cunt has been telling you all your life.” 

He stopped, and stood, facing her. 

“I’m serious,” he said.  “Just humour me.  Take a moment to stop here, in this peaceful garden, and be conscious of your cunt, and what it wants, and just… listen.” 

Carly was infuriated by Damian’s demeaning words, and his lewd insistence on talking about her cunt – but she wasn’t ready to storm out of this interview just yet.  She was on a journalistic mission, letting him say what he wanted to say.  It would all look ridiculous when she put it in print, and no doubt it would destroy his reputation. 

So she stopped, and listened, and… 

… there WAS something.  Like a hum, a buzz, that she’d been hearing ever since she stepped on the manor grounds. 

And, to her surprise, her cunt *did* have something to say.  It was wet.  Not overwhelmingly so, but she was unarguably aroused.  Was it because of the handsome Damian?  The pervasive sexual suggestiveness of his “art”? 

“You can hear it, can’t you?” asked Damian, smiling. 

“I hear nothing,” lied Carly.  “Let’s continue on.” 

As they reached the house, they passed two small white stone podiums – and on each podium was kneeling a naked woman.  Both girls were fair-skinned and buxom, and the both had their legs slightly parted to reveal their cunt, and they were cupping their tits with their hands.   

Each girl also had a leather bag over her head, concealing her face. 

For a moment, Carly did a double-take.  The girls were perfectly still, and she thought possibly she had mistaken statues for real people.  But no – these were living, breathing girls.  She watched the leather bags slightly move with each breath. 

“What…” she asked, not sure where to start. 

“More art lovers,” said Damian.  “They were so in love with my work that they agreed to take part in this installation.  It will run for the next month, after which I’ll either dismantle it or re-staff it with new girls.  It’s called ‘Their Tits Exist For You’.  It’s about how the true owner of a pair of breasts is not the girl it’s attached to, but rather the men who enjoy it.  Nothing matters about these bitches except their udders.” 

He walked up to one of the girls, and slapped her proffered breasts hard with his hand.  She made a small squeak under the mask, but didn’t shift her position. 

“Go on,” said Damian.  “Why don’t you try it?  Give them a slap.” 

“That’s fine,” Carly demurred.  “I don’t really want to.” 

Damian shook his head.  “How can you say you’ve had an open mind to the art if you haven’t really engaged with it?  Go on.  Use that one’s udders.  Try and really hurt her.  Take as many tries as you like, and if you can get her to make a sound, I’ll tell you a secret for your little newspaper.” 

A secret?  That sounded intriguing.  And he was right.  These women had consented to be here.  She should engage with the art in the spirit that it was presented. 

She lightly slapped the girl’s breasts – but got no response.  She slapped harder, and then punched the girl’s left tit.  Still no response, so she punched it harder – and this time the girl squeaked. 

“Very good!” said Damian.  “Isn’t it fun to hurt a girl’s tits?  Doesn’t it seem like that was what they were made for?” 

“You promised me a secret,” said Carly. 

“Oh, yes,” said Damian.  “Well, the secret is this – that girl whose tits you just punched used to work at your little student newspaper.  She came to do an article just like you, but she fell so in love with my art that she wanted to stay.  We just call her Cunt 17 around the manor but I think she used to call herself Betty?” 

Carly’s eyes widened.  She knew Betty – a pretty brunette, who had been studying feminist theory, until one day she had just withdrawn from her degree and vanished.  Could this really be her? 

(And had Carly really just slapped and punched the tits of a girl she had once gone to coffee with?) 

“Did she… really consent to this?” asked Carly. 

Damian sighed.  “Cunt 17, speak,” he ordered. 

From inside the hood, Carly heard the girl speak – and it was definitely Betty’s voice.

“It thrills me to acknowledge that I am nothing but life support for a pair of tits, and that those tits exist for men to abuse, torture, and ejaculate onto,” Betty said.  “I’m delighted to have a chance to be part of Mr Wedgewood’s art.” 

“See?” said Damian.  “She’s delighted.  Come along now.  We haven’t even reached the mansion.” 

Carly felt confused, and a little scared.  How had a committed feminist so completely changed her life that she would spend her days as an objectified fuckdoll in an art exhibit? 

And there was still that hum – a buzzing sound, growing louder as Carly approached the mansion. 

“Do they stay here all day?” she asked Damian. 

“Oh, no, the human body has limits,” asked Damian.  “The exhibit runs from 9 am to 3 pm each day with a brief break at noon for them to defecate and re-apply sunscreen.  But otherwise they stay like that all day, in exactly that position, whether there’s someone to see them or not.  There’s no exception for weather.  Cunt 17 took some nasty bruises last week in that hailstorm…” 

They eventually arrived at the front door of the manor, and Carly was in for another surprise.  There was another live, naked blonde woman bound to the exterior of the door, her legs and arms spread, her eyes blindfolded, her mouth gagged, her pussy and tits defenceless. She was supported in this position by a harness of ropes around her waist and chest. 

“Ah, this piece,” said Damian.  “It’s a symbolic and literal rite of passage, that teaches that entry to the best things in life comes from accepting the place of women as decorations and furniture.” 

He then turned, and looked directly at Carly.  “Do you like the art, cunt?” he said. 

Something happened in Carly’s mind – a kind of fuzzy blur. 

“Yes, sir,” she said, immediately. 

Why had she said that?  Why had she called him “sir”?  And… hadn’t he said something offensive to her, a moment ago?  A word that he shouldn’t have said? 

No, her brain told her.  He had used the exact right word for her.  He had seen her, and acknowledged her, with a level of accuracy she had never previously experienced.  It felt good. 

Damian had turned back to the door.  “Now, see, Cunt 13 here literally operates the door.  I’ve had switches implanted in her, and the switches open the door.  One is near her G-spot, inside her cunt, and the others are in her tits.  To open the door, you either have to jam something up her fuckhole to push the inner switch, or just hit or squeeze her tits very hard.” 

Damian looked back at her.  “Go ahead, cunt,” he said.  “Open the door.” 

The whole installation repelled Carly – but something in her brain reminded her that she should engage with the art. 

Engage with the art – and the purpose of the art was to objectify and demean and violate this woman.  She should engage with it. 

She looked around, and saw a long, rounded, smooth stone lying in the nearby garden.  It was a bit dirty, and a bit wider than she’d honestly want inside her *own* pussy – but it should do the job.  She walked up to the poor, restrained woman on the door, and reached out and felt the girl’s pussy. 

It was wet.  There – clearly the girl was into this.  She consented. 

Slowly, Carly forced the dirty stone up the girl’s fuckhole. 

The girl moaned, and struggled, but Carly did not relent – and soon there was a “beep”, and the door latch disengaged.  Carly pulled the stone back out of the girl’s twat and – without even realising that she was doing it – she licked the end of it clean, before dropping it back into the garden. 

“Very good, cunt!” laughed Damian.  He put his hand on the girl’s stomach and pushed, causing the door to swing open inwards. 

As soon as the door opened, the buzzing sound became louder.  Carly touched her head for a moment, feeling dizzy – but the feeling passed. 

There was nothing to worry about.  She was a good cunt.  She was engaging with the art. 

She stepped inside…

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Looking for more tales of hypnotic humiliation?  Check out my novella Candy Girls, about a girl who becomes trapped and objectified by a hypnotic mobile phone game!  It’s available at AllTheseRoadworks.com for only $7.99 USD, and your purchase shows your appreciation and supports the creation of new, free erotica! (Click here to view in store.)

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