they should normalize saying "I'm thinking of you fondly but don't have much to say and frankly I don't even really want to talk rn but you have appeared in my thoughts and it's nice"
really enjoying the fact that people have said "this too is Torah", "y'all need Jesus", and "by Allah you people are dogs" in the notes. I hit the Abrahamic tumblr trifecta
Asking for the leland coyle forced petplay bitch fic please 🙏
brought to heel
Summary - Kidnapped and held prisoner, Leland Coyle makes his plans for your future very clear. (tw for non con and various abuses)
Link to AO3 ☆ Fic Masterlist ☆ Ko-Fi
"If Murkoff can keep throwing handfuls of you sexy little bitches at us for rehabilitation then I’m sure they won't mind me taking one for myself.
Fighting off unconsciousness at the hands of his stun baton and thick boots, Coyle's words had barely registered as your vision darkened and the taste of the blood filling your mouth had started to choke you as it slipped down your battered throat. But, as you would soon come to discover, it was a spoken decision - an off-the-cuff choice - that would come to destroy your life as you knew it when the darkness finally claimed you.
The first morning in your new life had been hell.
Awaking to find yourself handcuffed to the metal bedframe of Coyle's private room - a fact your screaming mind was quick to discern from the spare police fatigues which hung against the wall and the stench of cigarette smoke which clung to the air - you hoped that it had been some kind of mistake. A foolish hope had clung to your thoughts, cutting through the fear. A hope that Murkoff would realise you had not managed to make your way back into the safety of the shuttle and come to wherever the fuck this was and retrieve you. That they would unshackle you, drag you back to the safety of your sleep room, and give you the medical treatment you desperately needed as your blackened eye and burst lip ached with every frantic movement of your head.
But no.
No one had come.
That was, until an hour later when the metal doors to the room had flickered to life - yellow lights flashing as Leland Coyle waltzed through the door with an air of absolute malice. His appearance was familiar, police uniform and cap clinging to his broad body as he stared down at your prone positioning with his eyes as hidden as ever behind his dark shades.
Your clothing was tattered, a shirt and shorts stained by your own blood and a few errant splotches of Coyle’s come making the fabric feel filthy and worn. Even so, you had been thankful for it, the clothing giving you some dignity as you had gazed blearily up at Coyle’s smug expression.
"Oh good, you woke up! Kinda had me worried there before I left, had me thinking that maybe I'd been a bit too heavy handed with the discipline. My ex-wives always said I got a mean streak in me when I wanted something. Well,” he paused, “I’m sure they thought it anyway. Never got round to telling me that to my handsome face. Probably afraid I’d react poorly."
Your hands, slickened with sweat, had pulled at the handcuffs which circled your left ankle. With every passing moment, the pain in your body and face seemed to worsen – his very presence making the damage feel worse as you tried to keep your mind sharp, panicked thoughts scattering with every breath.
“Why am I here? What is this? You can’t-can’t do this. There are rules.”
“Rules?” Coyle laughed at that, your trapped positioning amusing him as he openly disregarded your words and took a step forward.
“My motherfucking rules are the only rules. You oughta know that by now, honey. If that little half-man freak gets a gun, then I get to keep something for myself. That’s fair. That’s my fucking rule.”
“Keep?” The word had come out as a squeak as your worst fears were confirmed.
"You're mine now, sweetheart. A special pet to break in and bring to heel until you're the best bitch that a lawman could ever ask for. You'll do what I tell you to. Sit, play, fuck, shut that pretty mouth. Whatever I want. And you’ll do it or face discipline like any other mongrel slut. You understanding me?"
A pet.
More like something for him to torture and fuck as he saw fit.
Borderline hysterical, you had pulled at the handcuffs until the thin metal threatened to tear the skin off your ankle as you begged him.
"Please don't do this. Take me back. Put me back, Murkof-"
Your pleading was cut off by a sharp pain across your cheek, the result of his gloved hand cracking off the skin there in an open-palmed slap. It rung in your ears, making your vision swim, and fresh blood touched at your tongue as the blow re-opened the barely-healing cut on your lip.
“Please, please.” Unable to accept the truth of your situation, your pleas weren’t necessarily directed at your new captor, but to anyone who could hear you, anyone cosmic being who could feel how desperate you were to be helped. “God, please someone help me.”
"That's for talking back." Coyle sneered. "Lesson one, don’t fucking do that. Next time you forget then you'll ride the lightning ‘til you learn some good home manners. Hell, I might have you do that just to watch you dance. You’re mine, honey. And you’re gonna learn what that means. If God didn’t want me to take these liberties, then he wouldn’t have given me all this.” He gestured around the small room. “And I deserve something nice. Fucking place has gone to ruin and it’s up to me to keep the beatnik fuck-o’s and commie shitbirds in line.”
“God ain’t coming for you. Not here. Here you only got me and ain’t that a kick in the shitter? Don’t worry though, honey. It ain’t all bad, in fact, I’m gonna sit down on that bed and if you can show me some healthy cooperation,” Coyle’s hand dropped to his groin, rubbing at his cock as his pink tongue flicked at his lower lip, “then maybe I’ll save starting that training regime I got in mind for that sexy ass of yours ‘til tomorrow.”
Despite it all, and with every nerve in your body screaming at you for even considering it, you had crawled your way between his legs and taken his cock down your throat until he was satisfied. His vocal appreciation culminating in his hands locking around your head as he pumped his release deep into your throat while he unleashed a growled praise which struck through your chest like a bullet.
“Good girl.”
Now, a full two weeks into your forced role as his personal bitch, the time marked by small scratches which your ragged nails had carved into the corner of his walls, the continued familiarity of each days torments sparked nothing but misery with every waking moment.
The morning routine was always the same.
You would be dragged from a broken sleep by either his gloved hand tapping at your face or the thick tread of his boot pressing hard into the exposed skin of your legs. Then you would have to present yourself between his legs, crawling off your curled position at the end of his bed to place your kneeling body on all fours as he sat on the edge of his mattress and decided how he first wanted to use you that morning. Typically, he would just use your mouth; burying his morning wood down your throat without any care for your need to breath as he grunted and slapped at your tits with harsh fingers when he had to pull his cock free to keep you from passing out.
But sometimes, when he had woken up in a particularly bad mood, he would ignore the easy use of your mouth in favour of one of your other holes.
His use of your cunt wasn't terrible as his almost constant use of your stinging hole between trials, whether with his cock or the handle of his stun baton which he loved to make you clean off with your mouth, kept you somewhat stretched and prepared for the thick swell of his cock. But what killed you, the shame which scorched you from the inside out, was the fact that your body had started to naturally produce arousal from the very first moment you awoke – your cunt rapidly conditioned into knowing that it would save you a lot of pain in the long run.
It was a shame he revelled in with Coyle commenting daily on your whorish ways, mocking how perverted you must truly be to be getting off on being treated like a breeding bitch. It was a perversion he used as an excuse to punish you, claiming that he was responsible for your rehabilitation as he alternated between using his stun baton and hands to spank at your ass and defenceless clit while he used you as roughly as he pleased.
And yet, it was still preferable to the mornings where he woke up and whatever nightmares plagued him caused him to rise with a sadistic glare that immediately made tears spring into your eyes as you knew he would demand the free use of your ass. It was a hole he typically saved for punishment, for showing you just what misery fucking up his simple commands would bring. No matter how much you would beg, making him verbal and physical offers to use your other holes as much as he wanted, you would always be left a sobbing, broken mess with an ass that would leak his release, the liquid tinged a nasty shade of pink, for hours after the assault.
His trainings, the main focus of your time together, were brutal.
Guided by his whimsical wants, Coyle would randomly choose a new ‘trick’ he wanted you to learn and would spend hours enforcing it until you could perform perfectly. From developing your deepthroating skills to keep you from gagging too much around his cock as his pubic hair tickled your nose to maintaining stress positions which made your muscles spasm and sobs wrack your throat as you fought the urge to move, his demands were merciless and he proved himself willing to spend as long as he needed; every possible opportunity to punish you being taken with sadistic glee.
His favourite trick was ‘spread em’, and that command forced you to drop whatever other menial task you were completing and crawl between his legs - turning away and pressing your chest down low to the floor as you arched your back, showcasing your ass to him as he palmed you through your shorts and talked you through what his choices were. Sometimes it was for a quick fuck, other times he simply wanted to play with you - alternating between using his fingers to tease your pussy before delivering a low voltage shock to the sensitive skin - chuckling at how it made you squeal and cry beneath his hands.
The only peace which you were afforded was when Coyle was summoned for his work within the trials, a task which thankfully did take up a good portion of his days. He could be gone for hours at a time, allowing you to breathe safely for a moment and stretch your legs in a way you knew would piss him off if he saw. It had taken a full day for you to earn the right to lose the handcuffs and you had repaid that kindness by staying on all fours for most of the time you shared, a show of submission which Coyle demanded as he handfed you some of the meals which were delivered to his room.
On that front, Murkoff had intervened only once directly. You had noticed that the food deliveries seemed too much for one person and from that you guessed that Murkoff knew exactly where you were and didn’t care. But once, when Coyle was absent on trial, you had awoken to the pain of a sting in the fleshy part of your ass and your eyes had snapped open to find a nameless Murkoff scientist, their identity hidden behind a full-bodied hazmat suit as they discarded the used needle in one of the lined pockets of his suit.
"Help me." You had croaked out, the plea pathetic and shameless in its desperation as you turned to face him fully, your body curled up into a defensive ball. "Take me back. Tell the staff that I’m willing to go back into any trial they want. J-just help me!"
But the scientist had remained unmoved, the masculine voice which muttered from behind the reflective mask even and controlled without a hint of sympathy.
"That injection works as a long-term birth control.” He disclosed, clinical and lifeless in his delivery. “The higher-ups don't want to have to deal with the hassle of that possible outcome."
And with that he left though the impenetrable metal doors which Coyle typically used, leaving you sobbing and screaming incoherently as the knowledge that you were truly abandoned seeped into your bones like a splash of freezing water.
The day after that little revelation was the only time you had attempted an escape, exactly one week into your forced servitude as your desperation reached its peak. Waiting until you were certain Coyle was asleep, you had crawled from your position on the bed towards the single metal door, a slight sliver of the door not quite having closed fully since Coyle’s previous arrival. If you could have slipped your fingers within the space then maybe you could have pried it open and snuck through into the darkness, risking the lack of a plan to make enough distance to get someone, anyone, to help.
You had only made it as far as getting the first part of your right hand into the space before the thump of heavy shoes stopped your heart in your chest and you were afforded no time to explain before Coyle was bearing down on you. Even now, you weren’t sure how you had survived the beating he delivered, consciousness only fleeing as his boot collided with the side of your head after working its way along every inch of your unprotected body – the torn shirt and panties which Coyle had kindly allowed you to keep giving you absolutely no protection from his rage.
Having passed out in agony, waking up the following morning was worse, the ache of your battered body only made more difficult to ignore by the cruel additional ache which radiated from both your holes – your ass still leaking his release as your swollen cunt housed markings which told you that Coyle had beaten the skin there with something dull as he used your unconscious body like a fuckdoll.
After that, a hollowing acceptance had stolen much of your fight as you fell into your role with a forced obedience which sought to protect and keep you from as much pain as possible. You listened to his demands, and tried to please him as he wished. You ate when he ate, you tried to keep from going to his filthy bathroom when it would annoy him, you existed at his beck and call, a simple whistle and tap on the edge of his bed enough to make you pliant to his needs.
Sometimes he wanted to use your holes, sometimes he wanted you to clean his space; collecting old cigarette butts and placing them into an old container to be discarded when food was delivered.
Coyle seemed pleased with his results. His vocal appreciation of your training pairing with the odd bit of affection which leaked through the abuses, his hands stroking along your hair and body, gently cupping many of the areas where he would leave livid marks with either his teeth or the prongs of his baton. Sometimes he would even come back from a trial in great spirits, his clothing reeking of the acrid burn that could only come from his baton cooking fresh skin and you knew he'd scored a victory against some other poor bastards.
His dick would already be wet as he presented it to you, flaccid and recently used, and his expectation that your tongue would clean him off of whatever filth remained was clear.
And you would.
You did it filled with a guilty happiness that, for once, someone else had taken the brunt of his brutal sexual tastes made your enthusiasm unmistakable and Coyle chuckled at your busy tongue with that familiar praise which was now burned your skin like a wicked brand.
the old boomer who "doesn't get the gays" but still votes blue every election is still a better ally to you than every well-spoken, woke millennial who says all the right shit but didn't vote because they "didn't like either option"
the lady who voted for trump but has changed her mind since and is calling her senator every day is a better ally to you than anyone very politely apologizing for how awful things are and not doing anything to actually help
ocd stands for “oh CMON dude” which is what you say to your brain when you catch it spinning a complex web of the stupidest shit imaginable that it has never the less managed to completely entrap you within
let men be friends who just jerk each other off occasionally and maybe exchange blowies and they're lowkey mortified of the whole ordeal but they can't stop. they won't stop
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