Insex Archives

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The luna moth is pale green and bears two long tails on either side, luminous and frail. A multitude of moths will come to lights when the night is dark, but the luna moths always caught his eye. They fly in search of the moon, and love, or more likely lust, of an entomological kind. Grey speckled spiders as big as a man’s hand will construct large webbed orbs near bright sources of light. We think of spiders as ugly as unkind, as murderers who eat out their prey from the inside.

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Bound and helpless atop a tatami bed, there is no escape for this Asian wonder. Ornately wrapped in ropes, she struggles to free herself. But PD’s bondage is tight and his torments are relentless. Slowly, she is disrobed and disoriented.

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331 is pushed to the limit in her first live feed. Strapped into a metal chair and straitjacket, she stews in her helplessness.  A leather hood is pulled over her head, leaving mouth exposed for a pump gag and tube to be inserted.  Water drips down at a constant rate, forcing 331 to drink or drown.

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411 and 101 return! Edited footage from their live feed in August of 2001 is great fun. When they’re not screaming from pain, even 411 and 101 laugh at their predicament. And as 411 crumples from laughter, 101 crumples from shocks to her cunt. Predicament torture, objectification, and 411’s permanent piercings, all in one neat package. It’s an Insex moment of agony, hilarity, and history you don’t want to miss.

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Bj is hogtied on the floor, struggling in a leather hood. Hands are taped, breathing is heavy from her efforts to get loose. Pd lifts her on a box and inspects the goods. When the hood comes off, we see her mouth is taped. Her nice long hair is tied to her toes. Her perky pierced tits are revealed from her summer dress. As soon as her ass is inspected a cane comes out and tests her responses. The tape on her mouth is replaced by an inflatable gag. Now it’s time to see how strong her hair is. Pd ties it to a pulley and lifts her straight up in the air! Her legs spread by a bamboo pole, she is dangling in midair while the cane explores her body.

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PD goes at spacegirl with a cattle prod, and in the next moment he buries a vibrator in her pussy.  Bound to the pink chair for the duration of an informal live feed, spacegirl is forced to take everything PD metes out as he drags her back and forth over that rich and delicious edge, the divide between pleasure and pain. It starts innocently enough, with spacegirl in shackles and chains and working on a computer. The chat voice sputters in and out. Soon enough, spacegirl is bound to the chair and gagged with hard plastic tubing held in place by a metal band. A bag tied over her head has her measuring her breath as PD binds her breasts.

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He thinks of the Insex set as an autopsy room, where bodies are laid out, sliced, and cracked open. He thinks of the show as vivisection, as a method of discovery, every ounce of female flesh – a book. And her hair falling down about her throat, her painted lips and eyes, the endless fabric of young skin, her limbs, fingers, hair, cunt – a library. He studies her. He tests her endurance during the first hour with metal, the next hour with wrap after wrap of rope, and for the third hour, rubber. He weighs her down, ties her body into knots, encases her, then relents. After he is finished with the first torments, he begins.

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He spied her, hot and young and rash, And trussed her, goose-like, hands and feet. He taped her mouth and ripped her dress To probe and carve her like a meat. Driven like half-maddened beasts, The bulk of men act out of haste. But slowly binding her, he thinks That Girl is an acquired taste.

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I keep to myself mostly. Don’t make a habit of poking my nose around where it don’t belong. But I was out hunting squirrel one day and my eyes about popped out of my head seeing what I saw coming down that old logging road. There’s a guy named Joe lives way back up the mountain. He’s never been much for socializing. But in the woods that day, there he was, driving his pickup on the logging road. And damned if there weren’t three girls tied behind that truck buck naked, like they was livestock. He had their necks all yoked together. Their hands were tied behind their backs. They had big old pieces of wood tied in their mouths so they couldn’t make much of a sound.

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A friend gave me his phone number weeks ago. “Call him. Just call him,” she said. I’d stopped dating. It wasn’t the guys. Well, maybe a little. “Look, I’m over ‘relationships’ for the moment. I just want to be by myself for awhile. That’s all.” My friend shrugged. “Call him,” she said again. I was the youngest of three girls. Growing up, I’d watched my sisters and their boy friends. Clumsy kisses in the barn. Hands groping, pushed away, more groping. I had dreams, murky pictures in my head. And I’d fumbled with myself some nights, unsatisfied, my fumbling increasing my longing. Like cocks were doing now.

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