{"loaderData":{"4":{"story":{"id":"42066e26-25c0-4648-bc7e-cb6f540d1974","seriesId":null,"seriesName":null,"currentUserId":"00000000-0000-0000-0000-000000000000","added":"2022-09-09T11:38:42.181Z","title":"Clickbate","slug":"clickbate","shortId":"quazRf22","authorNote":"The first three chapters are mainly story building - sometimes clunky; the main smut (lots of orgasm control) is concentrated in the two last chapters - all smut is male on male, by the way. As with all stories, some suspension of disbelief is required.","disclaimer":"Contains some serious non-con (no mutilation though), which made literotica refuse the last four chapters of this story. Not to be distributed or sold without permission.","type":"Novella","paidUrl":null,"synopsis":"A computer mishap leading to sex-addiction requires a long road to recovery.","partCount":5,"parts":[{"partId":"2af8f521-0bb7-423b-9687-173bcd0ccb85","title":"I - Coffee and cream","summary":"\n\n\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\n\nI stare at the screen, dazed, cum between\nmy fingers, and\nclick again. ‘You won’t last ","wordCount":3338,"readTime":17,"number":1,"state":"Published"},{"partId":"05909129-f447-4092-8e81-1c632d3d9891","title":"II - Halfhawk and Gruff Voice","summary":"I slide the brown bubble-wrap envelope around\non my desk, tap it, fiddle with a corner. It’s been ly","wordCount":4292,"readTime":21,"number":2,"state":"Published"},{"partId":"88dce933-fc62-4c0f-886a-0baac24ed734","title":"III – Night-time hypotheses","summary":"“Before you do anything,” Horton says,\n“tell me exactly what you’re going to show me.” He sits down\n","wordCount":3996,"readTime":20,"number":3,"state":"Published"},{"partId":"b727d159-b93e-4796-989e-235c74c6a9f0","title":"IV","summary":"By the time we go up to my room, the belt feels\nlooser – I’ve lost most of my hardness, I can breath","wordCount":3343,"readTime":17,"number":4,"state":"Published"},{"partId":"b9ede3a3-89dd-4803-8a63-c60bf5505f42","title":"V - Never-ending twirls","summary":"Horton drops the gag on the bed, nuzzles down\nnext to me, and pets my cock. Not to make me needy – a","wordCount":6286,"readTime":31,"number":5,"state":"Published"}],"currentPart":1,"contentTitle":"I - Coffee and cream","content":"

\n\n\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\n

\nI stare at the screen, dazed, cum between\nmy fingers, and\nclick again. ‘You won’t last twenty seconds’, it says. I groan.\nWhat? ‘Play this game,’ it says, ‘you won’t last twenty\nseconds.’ I follow a cue buried in mental\nfog, look at the\ntime, note the seconds, click, and groan in pain. I\nstruggle to subtract the respective seconds. It’s\nbeen fifteen seconds between click and\ncum – perhaps twelve; can’t\nremember. Why did I look at the clock\nand why is my groin burning? I smack myself in the face. Spunk\nsplatters against my cheek. This pain is satisfying, at least. It\nbrings\nsome relief, like needling a splinter\nout of a\ndeep, festering\nsore. I\nsmack the other cheek, slam the laptop shut, and draw a deep breath.\nThis can’t be right. I wipe off my hands and my cock, still\nflopping half-hard out of my trousers, open the laptop without\nlooking at the screen, and hold down the power button until it shuts\ndown with a deflating beep. While it’s rebooting I make myself a\ncup of instant coffee with lots of cream and sugar. The urge for a\ncigarette solidifies.

\nI browse to my porn stash, go for the video\nthat gets me every time, and set the cursor to my favourite bit. Thin\ngirl pumping her shaved lips. She’s red and moist and dripping when\nthe suction cup comes off. It’s getting me hard and horny. Don’t\nask me how that is possible, I must have cum twenty times today. I\nstart tossing off. Fifteen seconds later I cum, bone-dry. I fucked\nSheileen seven times yesterday. Same thing – got hard, got in,\ninstant finish, every time. Marathon man turned hyperpremature\nejaculator. She thought I was needy – she laughed. I wasn’t.

\n
\n\n

\nI call Horton. Coder turned gaming journalist,\nthen back to coding when the market contracted – considers\nhimself a man of\nthis seedy world. It’s pot luck whether he picks up or not. He\npicks up. I had a one in five chance. I avoid the small-talk – he\ndoesn’t mind – cut straight to my complication.

\n“I’ve never seen that ad,” he says.

\n“It's new – relatively new. I noticed it\nonly a few days ago. As far as I can remember.”

\n“And you’re that affected? In just a few\ndays?”

\n“Yeah.”

\n“You’re craving sugar? Even tobacco?”

\n“Yeah.”

\n“Jeezus. I’ve heard of nudging, but this is\nsomething else. What site were you on?”

\n“The big one.”

\n“Which is ‘the big one’?”

\n“Xcunts.”

\n“Xcunts, right – wait. Yeah. OK. What’s\nyour ad say?”

\n“You won’t last twenty seconds. Big\nflopping boobs, cum geyser. Animated.”

\n“No. I don’t get it. Let me refresh. No,\nstill nothing. And still nothing. What did you search for?”

\n“Do you need to know?”

\n“Ideally, yes. Ideally I should have your\ncomputer.”

\n“Ah, you know, that’s, eh, sensitive.”

\n“I realise.”

\n“Right,” I clear my throat, “try ‘pussy\npumping’, that may lead you somewhere.”

\n“Gah.”

\n“I know you’re not a pussy man.”

\nHe’s typing. “Still nothing. Look, I’ll\nsee what I can find. I can’t promise anything without your machine.\nI wouldn’t be surprised if they dumped stuff on you drive. If I\ncan’t find anything, I’ll let you know. And if I do find\nanything… Well, you’ll hear from me anyway.”

\n“OK. Thanks mate.”

\n“No problem.”

\n
\n\n

\nI decide to go to the store and get myself some\nfags. They all look the same. Just outside the store, I light a\ncigarette, inhale, and cough my lungs out. My body demands another\ndrag. I cough again. My chest\nburns. I\nmust look like an idiot, bent over, holding a cigarette\nlike a virgin and\ncoughing like a seasoned miner. I go home, make myself more coffee.\nWith\nall the sugar and the lingering taste of tobacco it’s sickening. I\nneed a wank. Twelve seconds later I cum dry and crash into the\nsettee. I tear up. I never tear up.

\nMy phone’s buzzing wakes me up from a sticky\nhalf-nap. It’s a message from Horton:

\nFound your ad. Don’t know if it would work\non me but not I’m inclined to try. Couldn’t find much in the\ncode. I know someone who’s into this stuff, might be more\nwilling/able to help. Don’t expect it to be free. I’ll send you\nhis number.

\nI call Horton first. He says his guy –\nSierpiński – is clean-ish. I call him.

\n“Hello?” Sierpiński’s got a nasal but\nnot unpleasant voice.

\n“Hello,” I say. “This is Fredrick Bayes,\na friend of Horton. Horton Hunter. He gave me your number.”

\n“Yes?”

\n“It’s about an ad I’d–”

\n“I don’t do ads.”

\n“I don’t want you to do an ad, it’s about\nan ad which, well – how to put this? – has had some, eh,\ndeleterious effects on me.”

\n“I don’t know why Horton gave you my\nnumber. I’m not a psychologist.”

\n“No, Horton thinks the ad might be, I don’t\nknow, illegal or something. That it might use some sort of illegal\ncode or technology, making people addicted to stuff.”

\n“Where did you see that ad?”

\n“On a porn site.”

\nSierpiński sighs. “I could\ndo with specifics…”

\n“Xcunts.”

\nHe takes his time to answer. “Yeah, I know\nthem. They experiment with\ngrey stuff.\nWhat’s the ad look like? What’s it do?”

\n“Well, for one, I crave cigarettes. I’m a\nnon-smoker. And I used to drink my coffee black, without sugar, one\ncup a day. Now I finish a family-size jar of instant in two days,\nguzzle it down with loads\nof cream and sugar. And also – How\ncan I put this? – I used to have stamina.”

\n“Stamina?”

\n“Yeah, I could go for a long time before\nshooting.”

\n“Shooting?”

\nPlease don’t make this difficult now. “Yeah,\nshooting, cumming. You know, orgasm.”

\n“Right, orgasm.”

\n“Now I cum in ten seconds…” Has the line\ngone dead? “Hello?” I say.

\n“Still here,” he says. “Sounds\ninteresting. Could you describe the ad?”

\n“Boobs flopping about, animated, cum geyser,\ngreenish background, I think, You won’t last–”

\n“Yeah,” he interrupts, “You won’t last\ntwenty seconds. I’ve got it on my screen. And you say it does\nindeed do what it advertises for?”

\n“Unfortunately yes.”

\n“Blackouts?”

\n“What?”

\n“Do you have blackouts? Do you remember\nclicking the ad? Did you play a game? Did it lead to a website?”

\n“Now that you mention it, I can’t remember\nanything.”

\n“Blackouts, good. This is excellent,\nsmashing. I’ll call you back.”

\nHe hangs up with no\npolite exchange of pleasantries, I stare\nat my phone as if it’d ground me, and\nnow I need a wank. And coffee, gallons of cream, tons of sugar. And\nfags. Fags until my lungs crust\nover like charred\nsteak. I go for a walk. The healthier option. Perhaps I should start\nrunning. They say runners get high. I decide on the park even though\nthe sky’s a concrete dome and the wind cuts like cheese wire –\nbut it’s dry. Traffic is the same as any time of the day, any day\nof the week – between jammed and static, a constant rumble and\nwhine of engines interspersed with horns and sirens desperate to get\nthrough. I fumble a cigarette between my lips – I’m feeling\nbetter already – light it and drag, filling my mouth first. I still\ncough. At the third fag, feeling out of place amongst the bare trees,\nI panic, get out my phone, and log into my bank account. There’s\none transaction dating to yesterday, and more of the same going back\nfour days. All small sums, not to xcunts as I feared, but to some LLC\nthing. I call the bank, ask them to block any transfers to that\ncompany. Certainly Sir, they say. It’s good being a valued\ncustomer. I cross the street, weaving trough the clotted traffic, and\ntake the elevator to the loft – enough winter park for me today.\nI’m desperate for coffee, sugar, and a wank or two. I go for a\nshower instead, crash on the settee, and watch shit television. The\nHorror Channel’s doing a theme night on worms, they wriggle and\ncrawl over the screen. Bore worms, brain slugs, flesh-eating annelids\nfrom hell, the list goes on. B, C, D, shit-movies.\nMy phone buzzes five minutes into a gory, exploitative documentary\nfrom the seventies on elephantiasis and Guinea worm disease, well\npast midnight.

\n“Hello?”

\n“Sierpiński here. I had a look at your ad.\nIt’s murky to say the least. I haven’t managed to\nreverse-engineer all of it, but there’s definitely stuff in there\nit that I’ve seen on … doesn’t matter where I’ve seen it. So,\nquestion, could you come over tomorrow? Around 1PM? Make it 2. Yeah.\n2PM. And bring your computer. That\nOK?”

\n“Eh, sure,” I say. “Where?”

\n“I’ll text you my address. Do come alone.”

\n“Sure, do I–” He’s hung up.

\n*

\nIt’s a two-hour drive to Sierpiński. He\nlives halfway up a quiet hill by a small town. As I get out of the\ncar, the memory of all the\nheavy traffic to get here dissipates\nlike a bad dream. He’s got cameras in his front garden, and lets me\nin before I am at the front door. It’s 2PM, needle-sharp. He leads\nme into the front room. I was expecting a basement with tangles of\ncables, feeble lighting, overflowing ashtrays, blinking LEDs, and\nfifties sound-effects, but it’s light, airy, minimalistic, all\nsuffused in\na slight waft of cleaning\nliquid. Only\nvarious pictures in\nbland, white\nframes of him and his wife and his little daughter and a pair of\npurple orchids on the windowsill adorn\nthe space.

\n“I’m sure they’ve got stuff on your\ndrive,” he says, and motions me to hand over my laptop. He dumps it\nupside-down on a coffee table and starts disassembling and unscrewing\nstuff.

\n“Hey, don’t–”

\n“I know what I’m doing.”

\n“You’d better not–”

\nHe dismisses me with a wave of his screwdriver,\ngets out the HDD, plugs it into his machine, and moves the mouse.\nSeveral designer screens flicker up. He drags windows from one screen\nto another and starts rattling away on the keyboard.

\n“Right,” he says after two minutes of\nclicking and shortcut wizardry. “It’s not even subtle. Cobbled\ntogether, no doubt. Amateur work. Disappointing.” He swivels in his\nchair, laces his fingers behind his head – tries on a triumphant\nlook – and leans back. “Found the missing link,” he says. “I\ndon’t know what it means or does. For that I’d need to run this\nthing in some container. All I can say is that whoever hacked this\ntogether used some nasty stuff. Truly nasty stuff. Nerve gas for\ncomputers. You haven’t been contacted by anyone?”

\n“No,” I say. “What for?”

\n“Blackmail, obviously.”

\nI shake my head.

\n“Did you check your balance for anything\nsuspicious?”

\n“Yeah, small sums have gone to some LLC.”

\n“Not to the porn site?”

\n“No, I checked.”

\nHe raises his eyebrows. “Right.\nWell. To all evidence we’ve got an idiot on our hands then, trying\nto make some easy money using technology that is well above his\npay-grade. Like using an underwater nuke,” he\nmimes an explosion, kaboom, mushroom cloud and all, “to catch a\nsardine. Does a bit more than just netting one small fish, doesn’t\nit? And there you are, standing in the fall-out, showing the first\nsymptoms of radiation sickness.” He pauses. “So, how to proceed?\nI’d suggest the following. You pay upfront, let’s say, half of my\nbase fee. Starts at 15k–”

\n“What?”

\n“–plus expenses, hourly rates, etcetera.\nThe lot.”

\n“I’m not–”

\n“In a week, a fortnight perhaps, I’ll get\nsome code running that should, at least to some extent, mitigate the\neffects this gnawing little brain worm’s had on your mind. What\ndoes that sound like?” \n

\n“Extortion.”

\nHe flicks his eyebrows up, then frowns. “Tsk,”\nhe says. “15k plus one or two minor expenses is nothing for a guy\nlike you.”

\nNow I frown. “How’d you–” He does the\ndismissive hand-waving again. Either he looked me up or he’s\nbluffing. He knows I’m desperate. “Alright, fine. But how do I\nknow I can trust you?” I say.

\n“You don’t.”

\nI try to haggle, bicker back and forth, but hit\na wall. He sends me home.

\n“Loose\nyourself in nature,” he says, “far from the lure of the city. I’m\nsure you’ve got a cute little cottage stashed somewhere. Take a\nfriend. Throw away the fags and the coffee, cold turkey. And no\nwanking.” The cunt even\nchuckles.

\n“This needs planning.”

\n“No it doesn’t.”

\n
\n\n

\nI go alone to the dales in a cottage only\nfurnished with a landline, a small library, a\nfew 40W lightbulbs, and an Aga. I break\nafter the first night. At 6AM, I’m sniffling into the receiver.

\n“Horton?” I say at the first notion of\nresponse at his end of the line. I implore him to pick up.

\n“Hrmmh?”

\n“Oh thank god, it’s you.”

\n“Who is this?”

\n“Fredrick.”

\n“Fredrick? You sound … dreadful.”

\n“I’m dying.” I start sobbing.

\n“Hey, calm down – calm down.”

\n“I’m dying, and you want me to calm down?”\nMy wail is steeped with incomprehension – it’s pathetic.

\n“Er? I don’t know what to say.”

\n“Could you come over?”

\n“Now?”

\n“Yes. Please.”

\n“‘Please’? This isn’t like you. Where\nare you?”

\n“In the dales.”

\n“The dales?”

\nI send a car to pick him up and bring him over,\ntell him to grab a dozen jars of instant, a dozen packs of fags. And\nbody-lotion. My cock’s raw. He arrives, far later than I’d hoped,\nwith only the lotion. I explode into petty argument. Each of my\nself-righteous retorts rips\nlike a bolt of\nwhite-hot fury through me. I grab the phone to smash his head in. He\nhits me right in the solar plexus – I wasn’t expecting that from\na measly coder. I retch, and let myself collapse in a sobbing heap,\nhiding my head under the beige rotary-dial monstrosity. Horton stands\nthere, speechless. I feel sorry for him. He finds his way to the\nkitchen and brews some tea. I get up and join him, my gaze down.

\n“I couldn’t bring anything,” he says.\n“You need to go cold turkey. There’s no other way.”

\n“I know.” We sip. At least I’m getting\nsome caffeine.

\n“This isn’t the right place. You should\nhave yourself admitted.”

\n“I can’t,” I say. “Won’t. They’ll\nlock me up in the loony bin. Indefinitely. This is beyond their silly\npills. I need to be out when Sierpiński finishes his job.”

\n“When’s that?”

\n“In a week or so.”

\nHorton scratches his head. “This may sound\nfreaky,” he says, “but I know a guy who’s got a padded cell.\nAnd gear to restrain you with, and people to control you, should that\nbe necessary. He might be able to keep you safe for a week. But\nperhaps it’s over the top – you might feel better tomorrow.”

\n“I won’t feel better tomorrow. Let’s go\nthere, now.”

\nHorton can’t get the guy to answer. ‘Now’\nstretches from the immediate into the hopeless,\nelastic future. He rings back the day after. I haven’t slept in 48\nhours, Horton in 24. My cockhead’s bleeding in patches – it can\nonly take so much sustained friction. Every muscle attached to it is\nbegging for a fatal shot of paralytic. Horton had to hit me again\nwhen I’d decided to\ncut it off. I spent the night duct taped to the comfy chair. It was\ntorture. He asks me who drove him here and calls for a car – he\ndoesn’t trust driving that far alone with me in the car – and\nwe’re off, back South. The driver isn’t too keen on letting me\nin, he thinks I’m a ghoul.

\nHorton’s guy’s mansion is one of\nunderstated opulence. I pace around his study while Horton does the\ntalking – the lack of coffee and nicotine is grinding up my bones\nand nerves, pricking sweat prods\nme into sleep-deprived hyper-excitation.

\n“Well, sleeping pill, straitjacket, and into\nthe cell,” I hear the big man say. “I’ll call two boys.”

\nI snap and grab a pen, hold it up like a knife.\nHorton’s at my plexus again. I don’t care, drop the pen, and go\nfor his neck. The big man kicks me in the knee and floors me, tough\nguys stream in, strip me, wrap my flailing body in something black\nand cold and force-feed me a pill. I scream the whole time that I\ndon’t want to. Something pops and I go catatonic, get dragged into\na small room, strapped to a field bed in some sort of heavy sack,\narms over my chest, like a lunatic. I sink into the mattress when the\nlights switch off. Everything’s feeling fuzzy. My mind’s\nprojecting its cinema on the back of my eyelids. I join the throbbing\nflowers and fireworks. When they fade, so do I.

\n*

\n“You need rest,” Jeff says. That’s what\nhe said his name is. “You’re in bad shape. If it weren’t for\nHorton, I’d sent you to the hospital. I’m taking serious risk\nkeeping you here.”

\n“I need to see Sierpiński.”

\n“Sierpiński’s going to contact Horton, in\ndue time. I’ll let you know.”

\n“I need to see him right\nnow.”

\n“Right now, you need to rest. Either you calm\ndown, or I’ll get you to the hospital.”

\n“I need coffee.”

\n“Undoubtedly.”

\nI get agitated “And a wank.” I try to reach\nfor my cock. “I need a wank!” My hands are in fucking sleeves\ncrossed over my chest. “Let me have a wank!”

\nJeff smiles. “Believe me, you don’t need a\nwank. I don’t now how your cock’s survived that onslaught, but I\ncan assure you that it’d be better if you don’t have a wank.”

\n“Why won’t you let me have a wank?”

\n“In your case–” He chuckles. Why is he\nchuckling? “–because your cock needs a rest. And because it seems\nto exacerbate your various afflictions.”

\n“Why am I in this bag?” I sound like a\nrobot now. I’m sure I’ve had the same answers before.

\n“To keep you from harming yourself.”

\n“What’s this room?”

\n“A padded cell.”

\n“A black padded cell?”

\nJeff chuckles again. “A speciality cell. For\npeople of a more refined taste.” Jeff smiles. I don’t like it. I\ndon’t like him and his superficial magnanimosity. “Are you\nhungry?” he says.

\n“No.”

\n“You still need\nto drink. I’ll send a boy.”

\nA guy comes in and I drink up. I go to sleep.\nWhen I wake up, my cock is straining finally in an upright position.\nI rub it in the bag. Within ten seconds I cum. Cum\nlubes up the bag. I get hard again. Another ten seconds later I cum\nagain. I needed this. I need more. So much backlog. I want cream.\nSugar. The leather is slick. I’m in a leather bag – what am I\ndoing here? My cock feels delicious. I fuck my spunk against the\nslippery leather. I cum again. I start laughing – a raucous,\ncontinuous cackle – and hump the leather bag. Two guys come in. One\nzips the bag open over my cock and holds it down. His grip is all I\nneed. I cum. It’s starting to hurt. I fuck his hand, he lets go –\ntoo late. I cum again, dry. A maelstrom of blind need sucks me in. I\nsnap up and try to bite\nthe fuckers. One pins me down, one holds something over my face. The\nflowers are back. I feel a last spasm in my groin, like stroking a\nrug against the weave, and\nall fades\ninto velvet smoothness.

\n
\n\n

\nI don’t know what day it is. I suppose it’s\nday when the guys feed and water me. The cell is different. This one\nlooks like a dungeon. I can’t remember changing cells. There’s a\ncage in the middle and I’m chained in it. They’ve locked a thing\naround my waist, like metal underpants. It keeps me from touching my\ncock, or rubbing it against anything. When I rock my pelvis, my cock\nmoves around a bit in the thing, but I can’t cum any more – I\ntried, days on end. I don’t need it any more, I tell myself. The\nstraitjacket creaks – I’ve got used to it. They had me in a\ncanvas one for a while, but leather is more soothing on the elbows.\nWater’s starting to lose its blandness. The previous days are\nfading to shreds of memory.

\n*

\n“Sierpiński’s called,” Horton says,\noutside of my cage. He can’t conceal some dejection from seeping\nthrough his gaze. “It’s all done. He’s got the code compiled\nand running.”

\n“Good. Get me out of here.”

\n“I can’t,” he says, “you have to stay\nin. Sierpiński’s agreed to come over with his stuff. There’s no\nway we’d get you to his place without being seen, or with you\nacting normal. Can’t do that.” Horton’s looking away.

\n“You think I’m mad?”

\n“Honestly?”

\nI nod.

\n“Yeah. Or at least going mad. And I have to\nwarn you, Sierpiński’s not sure it’ll work.”

\n“It had better. I paid the bloody prick 15k\nupfront.”

\nHorton didn’t know that, his face tells it\nall. He’s staring\nat me. Dejection\nturns into horror.

\n“Yeah,” he says, quietly, “it had better\nwork.”

\n
\n\n

\nSierpiński enters the dungeon somewhere around\nwhat I assume is late afternoon. One of the feeding guys helps him\ncarry a large screen. He’s holding a laptop. Horton and Jeff are\nthere too.

\n“I don’t know if this will work,” he\nsays.

\n“It had better. I paid you 15k,” I say.

\nHe’s fiddling with the screen and his\ncomputer. “I couldn’t test it, obviously. Do you know that Monty\nPython sketch about the deadly joke? This is the same thing. I had to\nwork on it in bits and pieces. Couldn’t even test the modules. Had\nto write an entire perimeter around it. Never trust Virtual Machines.\nToo leaky. And what good are they here? It’s all about interface,\nyou know?”

\n“Sure,” I say.

\n“Right,” Sierpiński says, “everybody\nleave. I’ll give you the mouse,” he says to me, “you play the\ngame, after we’re gone.” The feeding guy puts headphones over my\nears, takes off the cuff on my right wrist, and slides the mitt off\nof my hand while the rest leaves. Horton looks concerned. The feeding\nguy scurries off, and closes the door. I’m alone, chained in a\ncage, in a dungeon, with a screen in front of me and headphones\nplaying some nonsense.

\n‘You probably won’t last two hours, but you\njust might’ the game says. Not a catchy title. Who plays such crap?\nI click it nonetheless.

\n
\n\n

\nWhat happened?

\nI’m in a cage? Hanging in some leather\ncontraption, chained to the bars? With metal underwear on?

\n“Hey?” I shout. “Hey? What the fuck is going on?”

","authorName":"tdg","authorUserId":"05ad0db2-cbd4-462b-8d8d-4f7ac1ed6b91","rating":5,"ratingCount":1,"reviewCount":1,"quoteCount":0,"storyCodes":["Heavy","1st Time","Real Life","Sci Fi","Bondage","Chastity","CBT","Domination","Leather","Mind Control","Sadism","Sex Toys","Submission","Consensual","Non-Consensual","Reluctant"],"language":"English","readTime":106,"recommendations":[]}}},"actionData":null,"errors":null}