21+ only ⢠23yo transfem they/she. subby bottom, little/middle& abdl! it's a weird conglomerate of kinks and memes so enter at your own risk, but feel welcome to stay a while :3
my current... crush? object of desire? friend i want to get to know more? flirt fantasy? (idk) let me take her out yesterday even tho she was feeling shitty. we got lunch and went shopping and i bought her a new pair of shoes and then we got our nails done together. i learned more things about her. i think i might like her.
taking her to an italian place and then (hopefully) to my fancy hotel room tonight. wish me luck. i am very excited
When I was a kid watching tv was idiot coded and nerds read books, but now scrolling shortform videos is considered braindead behavior and watching tv means you're some kinda intellectual. You might think this shifting assessment of media's consumers might make readers into absolute super geniuses, but no. Only perverts read now.
Girlfailure vampire that lays in bed all day with two sets of blinds closed cuddling a pillow. And then when you come home she invites you into bed, as you pull the collar of your shirt to the side without even realizing what you're doing. As she watches you absentmindedly serve yourself to her. Enjoys the view of your exposed neck. Draws closer. Lets you feel her breath, her fingers running along it. As you realize what's about to happen, but can't seem to stop yourself from leaning into her touch. And then she sinks her fangs into you. Slowly savors the taste, licking every last drop of blood until the flow stops. Watches you get all fuzzy and emptyheaded and tells you how good you've been for her. Uses a nice, soft voice to make you even more pliable, and takes advantage of your suggestible state to remind you how lovely it feels to let her feed on you. That it's nothing more than instinct, that you could never dream of denying her the taste. And then cuddles you and praises you while playing with your hair until you come back up.
telling me to sit on her lap so i can be more comfortable, but as soon as i do, she grabs my arms, holds me down, and starts circling her hips while moaning in my ear.
âgood girl, doesnât that feel so much better baby?â
two meads in and i'm asking my knight if i can feel how sharp his blade is đ¤Śââď¸ i'm giggling and kicking my feet too. should i ask him to press it against my neck or is that too forward
the ones who cry during praise and not during punishment are the ones who are almost there. hold them a little longer than the mission report requires. tell them they did well. watch what it does to their face
So I initially bounced off the Mechsploitation genre because I'm a sad vanilla bean and not really into most of what it offers.
.
Brian: Yeah, but what if it was like this?
Me: Oh, that's interesting. Yeah, let's flesh it out and turn it into a brief short story!
.
.
.
Me, 10,000 words deep in Part 2 of what was supposed to be a small one shot: ...this better not awaken anything in me.
The realization that I'm a lot more into dom/sub stuff that I originally thought: Good morning!
---
TW: Drug use, violence, worldbuilding, light brainwashing, and temporary use of masculine pronouns
Good Intentions
Early in the war, there was an ace. The best of the best, or so everyone said, a true hero who constantly did the impossible and snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. Most of that was pure PR hype, of course. Wars are too big for a single person to turn around an entire battle by themselves. But he proved we could fight and win, which was something we badly needed back then.
He lasted just over a year, which is longer than most pilots made it. Especially at back then. The media people tried to twist it into some heroic martyrdom, but in truth his luck just ran out. He went down behind enemy lines, too deep for Rescue and Recovery to reach. Technically he was listed as MIA, but that was just because they legally couldn't use KIA without a wreck or a body. Everyone knew he was dead.
People mourned, but there was a war to fight and no shortage of tragic tales. The sacrifices of the first year bought us time to ramp up and dig in, enough to make a fight of it. The war turned into a grind, year after year of endless push and pull. We gained ground, we lost ground, and it never seemed to matter. No matter how hard we fought or how many battles we won, victory remained out of our reach. We were dying by inches, and the best we could manage was to not lose.
Then a miracle happened.
It wasnât supposed to be a rescue. They didnât even know he was alive, much less where he was. Once the Deep Strike team realized who theyâd stumbled across, however, the original objective went out the window and it became a rescue mission. It took multiple drone strikes and an entire squadron running interference, but they got him out.
They tried to suppress the news, but it was too big and too many people knew. Word spread like wildfire. The hero was back! He cheated death, survived for years behind enemy lines, and now he was back! The hopeless despair from so many years of endless fighting suddenly turned to triumph. Morale soared amid rampant speculation about how soon heâd be back in the cockpit, ready to lead us to victory.
But there was a reason theyâd tried to suppress the rescue.
Theyâd brought him back, but there wasnât much left to bring back. His body was shattered and broken, and his mind was worse. If it had been anyone else, theyâd have issued a medical discharge and quietly shuffled him off to a care facility to be forgotten. But people had already seized on the idea that this was a triumphant return, and morale was thin at the best of times. So they rebuilt him.
Rebuilding people was easy. Weâd gotten a lot of practice since the war started. He was more implant and clone tissue than original flesh by the time they finished, but he was âfixedâ. Original or not, he had all his teeth, both his legs, both his eyes and ears, his nose was the right shape, and he had all ten fingers again. There were scars, of course, but not as many as there should have been and most were attractive scarsâŚif viewed in the right light and from the right angle.
Rebuilding minds is harder. When they brought him in he was practically feral, lashing out at anyone and anything in reach. He had to be fully restrained when not sedated, and he could barely speak. He didnât even remember his own name. It would take years of therapy to return him to even a semblance of ânormalâ, and they didnât have years.
So they called you.
Your official rank is âChief Warrant Officer, Class 1â, and your official specialization is âSupport, Combat Personnelâ. Thatâs only for the paperwork, however. Everyone, from the most ignorant civilian to the most decorated Brass, calls you a Handler.
Itâs often been said that a Handler is part analyst, part strategist, part nurse, part therapist, and part psychopharmacologist. You track friendly and hostile contacts, call out threats and objectives, provide situational awareness and guidance, but most of a Handlerâs job is managing pilots.
Drones react faster than humans and are much more durable, but theyâre dumb. Every move is either controlled remotely (and thus vulnerable to e-war) or from a preconstructed playbook thatâs easy to anticipate if you know how. So rather than replace pilots with robots, the solution was to make pilots as fast and tough as their machine counterparts.
Neural interfaces, advanced combat suits, and cybernetic implants handled some of that, but the rest came down to a staggering cocktail of combat drugs. The average pilot was a combat monstrosity, able to react in a blink, fight for hours without getting tired, and ignore g-forces that would normally have been lethal. They were also twitchy messes prone to hyperfocus and getting lost in their own heads.
Which is where Handlers came in.
The amount of control a Handler had was staggering. You could put your pilots to sleep in an instant with a mild sedative and HUD hypnosis, then bring them right back to total alertness with a burst of simulants and a mild shock. The moment they stepped into the cockpit their body was an open book to you: you had access to everything from their heart rate to their brain waves to their freaking blood sugar. A good Handler knew exactly what their pilot was going to do before the pilot even did it and was already two steps ahead. You had to be two steps ahead, because pilots were fast.
Handlers had a bad reputation as mind controlling sadists, which wasnât true. Yes, pilots were conditioned to their Handlerâs voice, but that was to make sure they would obey instantly, no matter how hurt, distracted, or drugged up they were. Yes, Handlers gave electric shocks if needed, but they were needed. A pilot deep enough in the sync sometimes stopped responding to words, so you had to have a way to snap them out of it. The drugs made them very resistant to pain, so sometimes you had to shock them hard. You could technically stop a pilotâs heart if you cranked things high enough, but that was the point: the feedback emitters were part of the defibrillation system.
You werenât quite sure why they picked you, but it was obvious why they called for a Handler. They couldnât heal their hero, but they didnât really need to. They just needed someone who could punch through the haze of drugs and trauma, someone to manage him enough to seem normal for a few highly controlled media showings. It wasnât a long-term assignment. They just needed him on his feet for a few months, until the novelty wore off and he could be safely hidden away.
You had his file, for all the good it did. You werenât sure what heâd been through, but you could see the end result. Anything that wasnât critical to survival had been cast away. It was a singular focus as intense as a laser, horrifying and breathtaking in equal measure. There was almost no thought, only raw emotion and instinct.
You could work with that.
The next few weeks were a careful balancing act, keeping him sober enough to be lucid but drugged enough to prevent him from panicking. You had to build a foundation of trust and positive reinforcement, and you didnât have a lot of time. So you made yourself his entire world. He saw no one else. You brought his meals, you cleaned him, you delivered the medication that took away his pain and let him sleep without dreams. You slept in a chair beside him, so youâd be there every minute of every day.
As you built trust, you took off the restraints and scaled back the drugs. You learned his triggers and how to avoid them. Words were hard, so you focused on gestures. At first it was requests for food or a trip to the bathroom, but you soon moved to more advanced concepts. You stumbled a bit on the subject of gender, before you realized he was actually she. A bit of a surprise, but an easy fix. You werenât sure how the PR people would spin it, but that was their problem. You placed the order, a few more things were added onto the laundry list of drugs and surgeries, and that was it.
You took a certain amount of pleasure in reporting how much her mood improved after that.
She was up, she was walking, and she was even talking. Not much, but it was easy to spin her one or two word responses as the growls of a terse badass. Her treatments left her in constant pain, there was no helping that, and her days were filled with even more painful therapy to help her get used to them. She lashed out at the therapists but instantly stopped when you demanded it. She didnât understand why these things were being done to her, not really. You explained it as best you could, but you both knew the reason she submitted to the needles and blades and painful exercises.
She did it because you asked.
You knew it would come to this. You knew what they were going to do to her, the amount of drugs sheâd be on and the pain sheâd be in. You knew how debilitating that would be, and youâd made sure to set yourself in a position of absolute trust. Fighting or even questioning why she had to do certain things took energy she simply didnât have. It was easier to just leave it all to you. If you said something was necessary, she did it. If you said something was forbidden, she avoided it. You told her when to wake up, what to wear, where to go, what to do, and when to go to sleep. And she did it all without question, because obedience made everything so much simpler.
The PR nonsense went as well as could be expected. No interviews, no shows, just some carefully constructed videos, images, and soundbites to assure everyone she was recovering well and eager to get back in the cockpit. You werenât sure about that. It would almost certainly be triggering for her, and it wasnât truly necessary. They could fake it, dress up a spare unit in her colors under drone control for a few fake but camera friendly sorties.
But she wanted it.
She wanted very few things these days, apart from drugged sleep. Her apathy was almost depressing to see. Youâd smothered the savage fire that drove her to survive at any cost, and without it there was almost nothing left. She had no drive or ambition. The only thing she had to look forward to was a brief, senseless respite from her pain before you woke her up again. To see her desire anything was a shock, so against your better judgement you allowed it.
It was a milk run, really, the sort of thing theyâd normally just send drones to do. But they werenât taking chances. She had two skilled wingmen, and you could switch her mech to automatic control with a flick of a switch. Her vitals spiked the moment she connected, but you knew what panic looked like for her. There was definitely fear, but also excitement. Time and trauma had done nothing to lessen her skills, and you had to pull her back a few times to keep her from racing ahead of her support.
She almost broke formation again when the first targets were detected, but a bark from you put her back in her place. Only once you identified the hostiles, swept for potential ambushers, and confirmed no friendly units were in the area did you finally let her off the leash. The moment the order left your lips, she leapt like a bullet from a gun.
The fire you feared youâd smothered returned with terrifying intensity as she dove onto her targets and started savagely ripping into them. Youâd seen pilots go berserk on their stims, but nothing like this. The first hostile was down before her wingmen even got in range, and the others were seconds behind. It took less than a minute, and you knew it wasnât enough for her. This was the most alive sheâd felt since her rescue, and she wasnât ready to stop. There were two more units in the area, two more targets to hunt, and she wouldnât care that their IFFs were friendly.
A good Handler was always two steps ahead, and you were good. The moment the final target went down, you snapped the order to stop. You saw the ripple in her vitals, practically felt her instinct fighting with your conditioning. Your conditioning won. She powered down, and you tried very hard to pretend you hadnât been a millisecond away from slamming the override. You congratulated her for her excellent work, and watched her body light up like a Christmas tree at your praise.
Everyone was over the moon eith her spectacular performance. No more talk of how quickly they could get rid of her, now everyone wanted to know how soon they could get her to the front. For once, she was in complete agreement. The night after her mission, as you helped her drift into a drugged sleep, she grabbed you with steel fingers and frenzied eyes to speak the first verbal question sheâd ever asked you.
âWhenâs the next mission?â
And hereâŚyou failed her.
It was supposed to be temporary. A few months of pretend, followed by a quiet retirement where she could get the rest sheâd earned and the help she needed. Her dependence on you was artificial and unhealthy, something you manufactured out of necessity. If you truly cared for her and wanted the best for her, youâd have marked her mentally and physically unfit and made sure she was put somewhere she could actually recover. But Handlers are supposed to prioritize the mission, not the long-term success of the pilot. She was skilled, she was ready, she was neededâŚand she wanted it.
You signed the transfer, knowing you were signing her death warrant.
It was your transfer too, of course. You weren't going to let anyone else be responsible for her, and she probably wouldnât accept anyone else at this point. She still needed guidance outside the cockpit and an extremely firm hand inside the cockpit. And here you messed up again. Youâd gotten complacent, too used to carefully controlled environments where sheâd done her recovery and her first mission. You were taking her somewhere new, an unfamiliar environment that smelled of oil, blood, and explosives, and filled with people accustomed to violence. You should have realized how sheâd react.
You could tell she was on edge, but you were fried from the flight and from overseeing all the minutia of the transfer. Slow. Sloppy. You ignored the way she hovered even closer than normal, the way she tensed every time someone got close. Then the idiot base commander summoned you both. You suppose he was too used to being king of his little kingdom, and having you transfer in with a famous war hero made him feel threatened.
It was a tired speech about how you shouldnât expect special treatment, a minor functionaryâs attempt to assert dominance that even the greenest recruit would have known to simply let wash over them without comment. But he made the mistake of getting in your face, and she growled. Literally growled. That brought his focus to her, and you were too slow.
It wasnât her fault. You were supposed to be two steps ahead, but youâd gotten complacent. Sloppy. You let down your guard, and by the time you realized how sheâd react she was already smashing his face into the floor tiles.
You blasted her with a debilitating shock from her implants, but you knew pain just made her more aggressive. Pain wasnât the point though. The shock caused her muscles to spasm, stopping her just long enough for you to kick her in the ribs as hard as you could. That didnât stop her either, but it tipped her onto her back. You shocked her again, then planted your boot on her spasming neck and refused to lift it until she calmed down enough to submit. When she finally went limp and nodded up at you, you gave her calming praise and hit her with a dose of oxytocin and endorphins just to reinforce the point.
You called the medics to get the concussed and bleeded commander taken care of, then made another call to get him transferred somewhere else. She spent the entire time curled up in your lap with your fingers stroking her hair. It was soothing, for you as well as for her, and you needed that. Needed it, but didnât deserve it.
This was your fault. You could see the bruises forming on her face and neck where your boot had been. You could smell the urine from when your shocks had caused her to lose bladder control. Her fists were raw and bleeding, and it was your fault. You werenât fast enough. You didnât anticipate her.
You were deep in it now. This incident could be swept under the rug, but friendly fire in the field wouldnât be something they could ignore. It would ruin everything. The PR win of having her back in the field would come grumbling down. Youâd probably be court martialed for approving her transfer. Theyâd take her away, lock her in a treatment facility, and youâd never see her again.
You needed an immediate solution, so you fell back on drastic action. She responded best to simple motivations, and it didnât get simpler than the carrot and the stick.
The moment she even looked like she was thinking of stepping out of line, if she so much as hesitated, you hit her with negative feedback. Not pain, pain made her aggressive and you werenât trying to torture or punish her. Just a quick negative sensation to get her attention: a bright flash in her HUD, a blast of noise in her ear, an electric crack on her skin. If you triggered it early enough, it broke her out of whatever negative pattern she was sliding into and caused her to refocus on you. On a good day you could get the same results with nothing but a look.
If she did well, you rewarded her. Smiles and praise, of course, reinforced by endorphins, oxytocin, and other feel-goods. You started pushing from her implanted dripper, then switched to aerosol from a mask for a longer, milder boost. She took to the conditioning even faster than expected, and pretty soon you werenât dosing her at all. She still liked wearing the mask, which you supposed was an obvious side effect of using it in the conditioning. You were always looking for non-chemical rewards you could give her, so if sheâd been especially well behaved you sometimes let her put it back on.
The biggest problem was her speed. If something set her off she could be going for the kill before you said a single word, especially if she was in a mech. You needed something faster than words. Sheâd proven receptive to sound, so you started using a clicker. Nothing fancy, just a few simple patterns for simple behaviors. Stop, go, return, that sort of thing. Easy to tie into your conditioning program, basic enough that she didnât have to think about it, simple and fast enough that you could trigger it on reflex. You initially considered electronic beeps, but clicks could be replicated by snapping your fingers or clicking your tongue.
In retrospect, the Hound nickname was inevitable.
Yes, in retrospect clicker training was a thing. The basics of operant conditioning apply across almost all species, that was hardly your fault. The mask she loved so much did look something like a snout or a muzzle, you supposed, and you did use her suitâs rescue cord to pull her off some macho moron, but that was one time! It wasnât a leash! Soldiers would be soldiers, however, and you knew trying to stop it would only make it worse.
You did try to explain it to her once. You knew she didnât care what others thought, but the idea that people were mocking her stung you in a way you couldnât articulate. That had been its own challenge. Her concept of dogs and dog-like behavior was fuzzy at best, and she couldnât seem to grasp why the comparison was supposed to be negative. After yet another failed attempt to explain why it was insulting to say she was your hound, she just cocked her head and said:
âBut I am.â
Her simple statement haunted you for months afterward.
Your brain/imagination is exquisite. Forgive me for picking it.
That middle who wears goodnites is me, I'm far too blushy to come off anon for now. I'd be so embarrassed if anyone has already figured out who I am but anyways...
My Daddy is working on some brand new rules/punishments for me in light of this admission. He knows I tend to like a lot of what you and Mia post.
Sooo, he said it would be okay to ask, and I'm hoping you'll be kind enough to answer...
What would be your top 3 rules/ punishments for someone like me be, that you maybe havenât already mentioned in that one thoughts post?
Humiliation based is more the focus though spanking is something we already had a lot of focus on before my admission so thatâs always okay
(Oh and messing is not a thing for either of us)
đłwhy did asking that feel like ripping off a bandaid...?
I'm so nervous đŹ
Thank you for reading this long ask and thank you extra extra if you decide to respond đ
Sincerely,
A nervous bratty middle seeking guidance in my new kink adventure with a Daddy that Iâm super grateful and lucky that heâs loving and accepting and so willing to indulge my interest in this
Wow that's so flattering haha, thank you for the kind words. I'm just a guy who spent too much time writing content and coming up with elaborate scenes hahah
I'm glad to hear you found someone with whom you can enjoy all this.
Tbh punishments and strict rules isn't what I enjoy the most in the dynamic. I'm more of a soft dom where I like cozy, playful dynamics with lots of teasing.
But here's some ideas that could help you and you partner, hopefully!
You're not allowed to say if you've had an accident.
You need to wait to be checked.
It makes the checks more regular and thorough since you don't want them to leak and opens the opportunity to do multiple types of checks such as:
-checking them without asking / saying anything
-telling them to get up so you can check themÂ
-asking them to come to you and checking them
-butt squeeze check
-hand on the crotch checkÂ
-sliding pants down to the knees check
-tugging pullups open and looking inside
And you can always comment embarrassing things like
"did you go potty in your pants?"
"i think someone needs a change"
"come here. let me check your pull-up"
"did you have an accident?"
Setting a specific time for you to put your pull-ups on.
For example if you roleplay that you still wet the bed, it could be a little after dinner.
''It's almost bedtime baby, how about you go get changed?''
''Time to put on your pjs and pull-up''
''We can watch more TV but I have a feeling someone might fall asleep... We don't want a wet spot on the couch, do we?''
''I know it's still early, but it'll be done and then we don't have to worry about you going in your pants.''
''You know the rule, at night time you wear your night time undies.''
''Baby it's late, why are you still wearing undies? Where's your pull-up?''
Alternatively, just bringing the pajamas and pull-up to them, or having them come out the shower with them set on the bed without saying anything, because you expect them to put it on.
Making you wear even when you're not together.
Send them to work in a pull-up or to run errands or even to hang out with their friends (if that's something you're okay with of course) as a reminder that they belong to you, or because you're worried they'd have an accident
Asking them to send you a picture in a public bathroom as a way to ''check'' them. Teasing them, asking if they need a change yet.
Other embarrassing concepts:
-Making them wait on the bed for their change, half naked.
-''I think someone needs their diaper changed'' (about a pull-up ;) )
-''Let's change you quick before you have another accident''
- Send them to bed early while you stay up because it's ''their bedtime''.
100,000 year old goddess *lighting a cigarette*: "Y'know I remember creating the forest your people live in. I probably planted the tree you were born in, isn't that funny?"
1000 year old elf: "Ccan yuou put that out on mme??"
