Call me Michael. I'm 21, he/it, I like putting characters through the meat grinder. If you catch me using AI I want you to shoot me in the head and I'm barely kidding. This page will contain nsfw whump.
Dni: minors, bigots, mean people, ai users
❤️ Favourite tropes ❤️
Kidnapping
Torture
Drug use
Collars/restraints
Dehumanisation
Living weapon
Begging
Rescue and recovery
I love gay people and trans people and people of colour and off-putting women and weirdos and freaks!!! If you love writing you are welcome here!!
Two updates in a week? I know, I can't believe it either. Just a heads up, this one is, like, a lot, even by the standards of this series. Get ready for heavy emotional and physical whump. The only person having a good time is Marshall, and hopefully you, the reader.
Content warnings: Restraints, chains, torture, knives, needles, not quite medical whump but it has a certain medical whump aftertaste, gags, humiliation, begging, caning, drugging, stitches, branding, nonsexual but unwanted touching, creepy aftercare, isolation, emotional whump, implied fear of noncon.
Collin struggled and yelled profanities as he was dragged back to the whipping room, smearing grass and mud on the floors of the house above. He'd been left outside for 20 minutes after Marshall had guided Matt inside with a hand on the back of his neck. When Marshall had returned, he'd just about made it to the edge of the forest that surrounded Marshall's property. His white trousers were grass-stained, the skin on his back and arms tight, pink with sunburn. It wasn't really even an escape attempt; he had no plan for what he'd do if he managed to lose Marshall in the woods, how he'd get the binds off or find help. The main utility was making Marshall walk a further distance to find him and drag him back into the waiting cold of the basement.
The sight that greeted him when Marshall kicked him through the door of the whipping room made Collin feel sick with fear. A large metal table had been screwed into the floor. Matt was chained spread eagle on it, metal cuffs digging into his flesh. His jaw was forced open wide to accommodate a large ball gag. Collin redoubled his effort to fight back, futile as is was with his hands tied behind his head and his legs frogtied.
"We're not going to be your fucking pets!"
He yelled. Marshall just dragged him to one wall and attached his Collar to it. Collin was forced to kneel, with a great view of Matt and whatever was about to be done to him.
"Let's have a bit more of a can-do attitude, Chase. I can be so patient, and how long this next activity takes is really up to you."
Collin seethed. "You're doing this because you want to, don't pretend I have a choice in the matter when I'm literally-literally tied up in your basement."
Marshall didn't answer, instead setting up a smaller table next to Matt and carefully laying out implements on it. Knives, whips, pliers, needles. It was like something out of a horror movie. Matt shook his head, making a muffled protest from behind the gag. Marshall stroked his forehead soothingly.
"Shh. It's okay. You just need to lie still until I know you're sorry."
"Ah Mmhm! AhMmhm!" Matt frantically intoned.
"I'm sorry, Matt. I can't understand you. Chase here is going to speak for you. Once he convinces me you're sorry, I'll forgive you and we can stop."
Matt made eye contact with Collin. What the fuck was he supposed to do?
"How am I supposed to do that?" said Collin, "He's fucking sorry. There, can we stop now?"
"I need to believe you." said Marshall, "I want you to be his voice." He picked up one of the smaller knives and cut through Matt's shirt. "It's a shame. I just got this for you." he said. He trailed the knife lightly over his bare chest. Matt was stock still. He slowly increased the pressure on the knife, just enough that Collin could see a thin line of red trailing behind it. Matt's hands tried to form into fists on instinct, and whimpered as he aggravated his broken pinkie.
"Relax, pet. You'll only make it worse."
Matt shook his head, squeezing his eyes closed. Then he screamed into his gag as Marshall slashed a deep cut into his thigh. Matt's body convulsed in pain, instincts driving him to fight desperately against the chains. It was hard to hear, the sound echoing around the room. Collin tried to remind himself that this was Marshall's doing, that it was not his fault. He wondered if Matt would agree.
"Open your eyes." Marshall's knife was once again trailing lightly across Matt's chest, but his voice was hard. Matt opened his eyes. The skin of his thigh was cut open, letting fat peek out from behind it. Blood ran in rivulets down his leg and onto the table, where it pooled. Collin felt sick, and his heart throbbed when a muffled sob tore out of Matt's throat. Marshall continued, "Yes, like that. Keep your pretty eyes open. You don't get to escape this." He turned to Collin. "Do you think he's sorry yet?"
"Fucking--" Collin searched for words, "What's he even meant to be sorry for? For not wanting this? If you don't want an unwilling victim don't fucking kidnap people!"
"Is that what you think, Matt?"
Marshall's voice was low, dangerous.
"Mm mm." Matt shook his head, shame rising like bile. Tears slipped down his face and lost themselves in his hair. Collin wanted to desperately to be angry at him, but he couldn't.
"No? Then why did you ruin our lovely brunch?" A tense silence fell over the room as Collin tried to think of something to say that would salvage the situation. Matt tried to control his breathing as Marshall's eyes bored into him. "That's a hefty change of heart in just half an hour. You're so eager to please, aren't you? But it makes you a liar, pet. I don't want to hear what you think I want to hear. I want to hear how you really feel. You don't think you deserve this, do you?"
Matt shook his head again.
"It's okay," said Marshall stroking a gentle hand through Matt's hair, "You deserve this. You need this. Once I'm done, I'll know you're sorry, and I'll forgive you."
He set down the knife. Collin's eye's tracked the hand that floated over Marshall's torture implements, deciding what hell he'd inflict on Matt next.
"Are you sorry, Matt?" Marshall asked, but he was looking at Collin. He wanted him to beg, to plead forgiveness. Was that the right choice? If their positions were reversed, Matt would say anything to make Marshall happy.
"No." Collin's voice was shaking. "He has nothing to be sorry for."
The cane thudded against Matt's exposed chest, producing a wheezing yelp. A stripe of pink, inflamed skin appeared.
"I started keeping pets when I was twenty. Not counting you two, I've had seven since then."
Thwack! Another hit made Matt convulse, chains rattling.
"I was very stupid. The first one died when I left him outside overnight. The cold and his injuries killed him by morning."
Matt screamed and twisted as another impact landed. Collin could imagine his pain. The acute stinging of the thin weapon, and the deep, throbbing impact it left beneath the surface. Each additional stroke of the cane would aggravate the pain of the previous.
"The second I had for a little longer. She was fiery, that one. Stubborn and defiant. She survived everything I threw at her with a scowl on her face and a snappy comeback. But I got too comfortable. We were having an argument, I don't remember what about. I hit her."
Three consecutive strikes stole Matt's breath. Collin could see he was panicking now, when his breathing returned it was short and shallow. The cuts on his chest intersected with the strokes of the cane, weaving a tapestry of pink and red. Matt whimpered.
"She fell backwards and knocked her head on the floor. Kaput. That was it. She didn't move after that." Marshall leaned the cane against the table and turned to his other implements.
"The third was sweet, like you, Matt. But at the time I was worried about bringing even a well trained pet back to the city. I killed him painlessly in his sleep."
Collin's knees ached where they rested on the concrete. Reason wouldn't work on Marshall, any moral argument would be moot. He didn't see them as people. He'd used and thrown away so many others. Matt, he wanted to keep, but Collin would end up just another old bloodstain on the whipping room floor.
Marshall had selected the needle. He sanitised the top of a vial of something, then drew it up into the syringe. "The fourth and fifth were a couple. She came looking a few months after I acquired him." Marshall squirted the air bubbles back out into the vial, along with a little of the liquid. Then he replaced the needle with one that was smaller and thinner, placing the discarded one next to the knife.
"He died of an infection. She stopped being fun after that, so I gave her to a friend. Make a fist."
Matt struggled and shook his head. He was terrified, and Collin was letting it happen, even if he never wanted the choice. Marshall held his upper arm in a bruising grip, lining the needle up with the vein in his inner elbow. Matt made a wordless, muffled plea through the gag that fell on deaf ears.
"Stop!" said Collin. "Stop, I'm sorry. Please. I've learned my lesson."
Marshall looked from Collin to Matt and back again. "Have you, Matt?" he said, addressing Collin.
"I get it. I'll be good. Please stop." said Collin. He couldn't let this happen. On the table, Matt nodded.
"What are you?" asked Marshall,
"I'm..." Collin glanced at Matt, who was looking at him through grateful, tear-filled eyes. "I'm yours. I'm your pet. I'm sorry I didn't-- didn't appreciate the brunch."
Marshall carded a hand through Matt's hair. He looked into Matt's eyes as he said, "That's good. I'm so proud of you."
Matt nodded and pushed up into Marshall's hand, visibly relaxing. The gentle hand in his hair pulled back, and then slapped him, hard. His face flew to the side, a metal link on the side of his gag clinking against the table.
"You got through the warm up. You understand how necessary this is."
***
Across the room, Collin's chains rattled as he threw himself forward in anger. "What? No! Please, you said you'd stop, you fucking-- I'll kill you! I'll fucking kill you, Marshall, like you deserve!"
The needle stung as it was pushed into Matt's arm, though the pain was nothing compared to the knife or the cane. Slowly, Marshall pushed the plunger down, sending the cold liquid into Matt's vein.
"You're fucking sick! I did what you wanted!"
"I only use this for special occasions;" said Marshall, as if he couldn't hear Collin's tirade. "I think it had origins in the CIA. It's not very good as a truth drug, it's too mind altering. People can't tell reality from imagination, give false accounts. But it's great for you, because all you need to do is listen and feel."
Matt tried to keep his breathing even. The colours seemed too loud, and Marshall's words twisted around each other in his head. Or was he repeating himself? "Listen and feel. Listen and feel. Listen and feel."
"Yes, good." said Marshall, seeming to interrupt his own voice. How did he do that? Matt's gaze fell to his leg, to the gore peeking out of the cut Marshall had given him. The blood was dripping off the table, surely adding to that dark stain on the concrete. Matt moaned in distress at the thought. How many people's blood had stained that floor? How many people had been strapped to this table?
"Are you feeling good?" Marshall asked.
"Go fuck yourself!" Collin shouted at the same time Matt uncertainly shook his head. The ceiling was pulsing, like he was inside some massive living creature. Like he'd been swallowed by something incomprehensible and evil.
"The sixth ended up not being my flavour. I gave him to an acquaintance. The same one I got the drug from." said Marshall, "Now, that I might feel a little bad about. He was a doctor, but now he's got some government gig. I love some nice marks but the things he does to his captives..." He chuckled. "But you can't always afford to burn bridges because of a difference in opinion. And he did teach me to sew. Hey." Marshall snapped his fingers in front of Matt's face. "Stay with me. You see this?" He was holding a curved needle so Matt could see it. "This is going in you. I'm going to use this to stitch your leg up. This is your last chance to convince me you're sorry before the big finale."
The cue was for Collin, Matt recognised. He gasped as the needle pierced his skin. It felt so vulnerable to be tied this way. Marshall's hands were occupied with the needle and pliers, which he used to pull the needle through the skin. His elbow was resting on Matt's inner thigh. Matt watched the scene as if it were happening to someone else. He clenched and unclenched his fist, feeling his broken finger throb and burn. At least it was a pain he could control. He was shaking he realised, and letting out short, meaningless noises when the needle was pulled through his skin.
"Marshall," said Collin, seriously, "If you like Matt, you should stop. He's not going to be any fun if you push him too far."
"You have a lot of experience breaking people in?" Marshall asked, casually.
"Please. Please, I'm begging you."
"Are you, Matt?" said Marshall. Collin looked desperate. Matt studied his face, feeling like he was looking through wobbly glass. The ache from the caning felt weird. It was like there were hands of pain inside him, reaching through him, wrapping around his organs and squeezing. He wheezed in fear, trying weakly to escape his bonds.
"Yes. Marshall, I'm so sorry. I deserve everything you give me. I need to be punished. I'll be good now, I swear."
"Owner," Marshall corrected, "That's what I am to you, Matt. I own you. You're my favourite possession. My most treasured thing in the world."
Collin's desperation was increasing. Matt looked down at his leg. Marshall had almost finished stitching him up. The cut looked weird with the stitches, like there were bugs holding it together. As Matt watched, the stitches started to move and wiggle. He felt tiny legs crawling over his skin, an extension of the house that had swallowed him, of the hands of pain that invaded his body and pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He rattled the chains, hot tears spilling down his face. He needed help, he needed to get out of here, he needed to get the bugs out of his leg, which now seemed to pulsate with bumps under the skin. He thrashed in earnest, voicing a long, animalistic cry of pain and fear. A voice cut through the pain.
"Owner, please. Let me show you how good I can be. I'm so sorry for ruining brunch but I'll be better, I promise. Please."
That was... Collin? The words sounded to unnatural in his voice. The needle dipped into his skin for a final time. The thread tied off and cut. The stitches still looked like bugs.
Marshall smiled cruelly. "Too late, Matt. I'm all done. Sit tight while I get the special finale."
"No!" Collin's ragged voice pierced Matt's head. "No, please! I did what you wanted! You've done enough!"
It took a second for Matt to realise Marshall had left his side. He knelt next to Collin, a hand on his exposed side.
"You've made so much progress today, Chasey. You sound so pretty when you beg. But I still need to teach you both a lesson." With that, he left the room.
***
A few minutes later, Marshall returned. In his hand was a long, thin piece of metal that curved into a zig-zagging shape at the end. Was he going to beat them with it? It was weird, and Matt's eyes followed it as Marshall approached. Across the room, Collin gasped.
"No. You can't." He was ignored.
"You know what you did wrong." said Marshall. It was a statement. Matt nodded, though he didn't really understand. His head was still swimming with pain. He'd made Marshall angry, that was the main thing. He wouldn't do it again.
Matt suddenly realised he felt very hot. He shifted, trying to make sense the unexplained heat in the cold basement. His skin was especially hot near where Marshall was standing. No, near the thing he was holding. Terror washed through him, the pieces coming together. Marshall was holding a brand. The metal might not be red, but it was scorching hot. Marshall drew the weapon back.
He screamed. And screamed, and screamed, until the air had left his lungs and he had to gasp in agonised breaths. The brand was pressed against his side, flesh sizzling. It was almost as painful when it was pulled away, another wave of hot, immediate burning that lit every nerve on fire. Each breath became a voiced moan of pain as Matt writhed. He'd squeezed his eyes shut again, too afraid to look at what had been done to him.
He didn't even noticed he'd been unchained until Marshall was forced to catch a flailing hand in his grip. Matt went limp, sobbing. He was pulled off the table and lowered to the floor, head and shoulders resting in Marshall's lap as careful hands carded through his hair.
"It's over." Marshall said, his voice quiet and soothing. "Shh, it's okay. We're done now. Breathe."
It's not done, Matt wanted to say, it still hurts. Pain was still wracking his body, and even once he healed, he'd always be marked. That was the point, he realised. Marshall had made sure he'd never forget who owned him. Opening his eyes, Matt stared at the searing mark. An 'M' burned into his side, sitting over his ribs.
"It looks beautiful on you." Marshall said, "I knew it would."
***
Matt was carried out of the whipping room and set down on something soft. The ball gag was unbuckled and tugged out of his mouth. He could feel the drugs wearing off. The pain was sharper without them, but it was still something of a relief not to be trapped in that terrible, nightmare realm his brain had created for him. Marshall was in the room, bustling about somewhere out of eyeshot. Matt stared at the ceiling until he realised it wasn't really a ceiling, but the cloth canopy of a four poster bed. How many days had it been since he'd slept in a bed? He was exhausted, but didn't know if he'd be able to sleep with the deep, searing pain eating away at his side.
"Where are we?" He asked, the question slingshotting him back to that morning when he'd woken up in the field.
"My downstairs bedroom." said Marshall. "I like to use it when I have new guests. You can share with me tonight."
The answer send another wave of terror through him. "I can't- not like this... Marshall-"
"Shh." Marshall came to sit on the bed beside Matt, lifting him into a sitting position. He pressed something cool into his side and instantly the pain lessened to be almost bearable. Matt sighed in relief. "You don't have to do anything tonight. I just want you to sleep next to me. Here," Marshall produced a glass of water and two pills. "This will help with the pain." He held the pills to Matt's lips. Seeing no other choice, Matt took them, and let Marshall tip water into his mouth, managing to swallow the pills.
"Good." Marshall said, smoothing a hand over his back. "Lie back down for me."
Matt did, and let Marshall manhandle him until his head was on the pillow and he was lying on top of the covers on one side of the bed. He was disappointed but unresisting when Marshall tied his ankles to the footboard and his wrists to the front of his collar, which in turn was tied to the headboard. It was comfortable enough, with enough give to shift about, but he clearly was not getting off the bed without help. His legs weren't parted, and his arms covered his chest, so it seemed like Marshall really did just want to sleep.
"Can't have you tossing and turning all night, can we?" Marshall joked. Matt shook his head in acknowledgement.
Marshall left for a while, and when he came back he smelled of mint. He was also wearing a t-shirt and comfortable trousers. He got under the covers, slinging one arm over Matt, pressing their bodies together through the fabric.
"Sweet dreams, Pet."
***
Marshall was gone, and he had taken Matt with him. Collin couldn't help replaying his screams over and over in his head. The way his body had shook. How the gag had made his words into noise. The way his shuddering breaths had slowed as he was cradled and eventually carried away. Collin was so cold, so tired.
"Too late, Matt." Marshall's voice had held so much cruel joy. Did Collin ever have a chance of stopping Marshall? If he'd begged earlier, harder, better, would things be different? Or was this exercise just a way of making Collin an active part of the torture? The fact that he was asking those questions was proof Marshall was getting to him.
It was so cold. Collin didn't want to spend another night bound on the concrete floor of the basement. He couldn't even lie down without choking himself. The table was still in the room, Matt's blood dripping off it slowly. He was alone. Tears came to his eyes. Not involuntary tears of pain, but hot, uncontrollable tears of emotion that dripped down his cheeks and fell with every heaving sob.
His mind went back to the last time he'd cried like this. He'd been a teenager, sitting on the curb of the local mall car park, knees hugged to his chest. The image of the pavement that night was burned into his brain, rough tarmac littered with discarded gum and forgotten receipts. He remembered the stinging of his black eye, the taste of blood in his mouth.
Most of all he remembered the loneliness, the feeling of being so pathetic and abrasive that no one would ever come to his side. That no one in the world would ever see him crying and think it was anything more than a little funny. He could feel it again, and no matter how ashamed he was, it didn't stop the tears from coming. Part of him was glad there was no one here to see it, but another part wished someone were here to wipe them away.
Collin was alone. His tears fell onto the concrete floor, and evaporated by morning.
Often I am too scared to respond but you guys' comments and reblogs genuinely are so nice to see and I go back and read them multiple times so like thankyou so much and I appreciate you
One should always have at least 2 craft projects going. That way, when one of them is messed up and misbehaving, you can switch to another, and let the first one sit there and think about what it's done.
Whumpee being pressed back down mid trying to get up. And I don't even know what's better, face up and boot to the chest, or face down and boot to the upper back
when character a is barely conscious and being princess carried by character b and when b goes to put them down a whimpers and fists their hand into the fabric of their shirt and b goes shhh shh shh and takes their hand in theirs while gently cradling their head oughhhhhh oughhhhh………….
Whumpers who casually manhandle the whumpees, as if doing so is completely natural. They don't even think twice about it. Whumpee is trying to crawl away? Oh, just grab them by the ankle and pull them back. Whumpee's head is pointed in a suspicious direction, as if looking for an escape? Pull them by the hair so their eyes are forced away. Trying to yell for help? Put them in a chokehold, without so much as a change in expression.
Just little things that reinforce the power dynamics and show how helpless Whumpee truly is. For them, it's Hell on Earth. For Whumper, it's Tuesday.
Especially if there are other people in the room. Whumper's having a casual conversation while dragging whumpee around. Barely paying attention as they push whumpee down to their knees, which joking with friends.
"ummm actually that wouldn't happen because-" playing!!! i am playing!!! come play with me!!! i even set up the sandbox with extra shovels!!! don't smack the barbie out of my hands!!
we are doing improv!! pick up a blorbo and yes and with me!!
"get up." a light nudge followed by a kick to their abdomen. "get up."
whumpee shakes their head. curls up tighter into themself. what's the point, if all that awaits them is more endless agony anyways?
a low cry of despair slips past their lips as whumper grabs their hair and pulls them up. "I said," two heavy slaps followed by a warning squeeze to the back of their throat. "get the fuck up."
whumpee trembles, trembles, trembles. tasting blood, feeling it dribble past their chin. it won't stop. what's the point?
they get up anyways. they always get up.
whimpering and sobbing fan @bleedinganddistraught - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
