Welcome! Please wipe your feet. Feel free to look around, but remember, the House is very big; you're liable to get lost if you go wandering. You'd be better off following the posted directions:
#Library 🜞 for just the stories
#Mailbox 🜧 for asks
#Card Catalog 🜟 for tables of contents for ongoing series
#Bulletin Board 🝢 for random thoughts and announcements
#Curio Cabinet 🜋 for the difficult to categorize
I'll be here if you need me. Just try to keep the noise down in the darker parts of the library. Some of the residents would prefer not to be disturbed.
Oh, and if you're looking for something a little different, you can pop next door for our newly established media annex.
Haven't read much of your work (new here) but honestly I found the Squeaky story more compelling as a horror short than as erotica (for me personally). Hopefully that doesnt come across as offense. I tend to prefer written erotica over visual/audio porn, but most of what ends up on tumblr is, shall i say, written one-handed. It seems like you put some real effort and thought into your writing and I appreciate that.
I could go on about this because I find it pretty interesting, but I think there's a lot of overlap between erotica and horror, especially when your erotica covers subjects that are, in real life, horrific. Fear and arousal are both very base human instincts, and they can enhance each other when taken together.
P.S. in this house we honor the storied tradition of one-handed writing. How are other people supposed to enjoy your work if you won't enjoy it yourself?
Her hands tremble as she plugs the device into her TV's HDMI port. Per the instructions on the card, she sits so that her face is as close to the screen as she can get it, and she turns the volume as high as it will go. Then she presses the HDMI-1 button on her remote.
As the input switches over, the sudden sensory overload is startling. Colors flash on the screen, shapes and patterns move and reform, never lingering long enough for her eyes to focus on. A chorus of electronic tones drifts in and out of harmony. She lets her eyes go out of focus, allows the sounds to overwhelm her, and counts slowly back from ten, as instructed.
She gropes for the remote, unable to wrench her eyes away from the screen. When she finds it, she presses the power button by feel, and the TV clicks off. She blinks, afterimages flashing on her retinas. She feels like she's coming out of a dream.
She notices the light coming through the kitchen window. When did it get so dark? She glances at her phone clock.
She's been staring at the screen for almost four hours.
Session 2:
The screen is different this time. The sounds too. Not that she can point to any one shape or pattern or sound that's changed; it's just looks different. She wonders if it'll be like that every time.
She waits longer this time. The card said that after the initial calibration, she could stay as long as she pleased. And it does please her. The feeling that staring at the screen gives her is like static in her brain, a heavy-duty pipe brush scrubbing out the cobwebs between her ears. When she stops, it's only because she's beginning to get hungry.
As reality fades back in around her, she checks the stopwatch she started on her phone right before turning the TV on. Six hours and forty-seven minutes. No wonder she's hungry. She's just wondering what she's going to order for dinner when she notice an icon on her home screen that wasn't there before: an app for a file-hosting service, some alternative to dropbox. She taps the icon, which takes her to a shared folder with a single video in it. In the video she's naked on her bed, pounding away at herself with her favorite dildo. Sometimes she changes position. Sometimes she takes a break to shove it down her throat. Her eyes are vacant. A steady stream of drool trickles down her chin.
according to the app, there is 1 other person viewing this video.
Session 3:
She's vaguely aware this time, because she's paying attention, of odd sensations in her body as she stares at the screen. A brief impression of a hand on the back of her neck. A tightness in her scalp, like her hair being pulled. A warm soreness in her thighs, like she's been working out. More than anything, she turns off the TV this time because she can't wait any longer to see what's happened.
The most obvious difference is that unlike before she turned the TV on, she's now almost completely naked. Her skirt is bunched up around her waist. Her panties around one ankle. Her shirt and bra nowhere to be found. She notices a warmth on her thigh, and realizes there's cum dripping out of her. Her body aches all over, but it's a good, sleepy kind of ache, like she's just finished running a marathon. She checks her phone. Almost 12 hours.
She gets a notification that someone has liked her instagram story. She hasn't touched instagram in months. She opens the app, and begins to tap through her own story, watching a just-the-highlights rundown of the night she's just had. In this one she's sucking a strangers cock on the subway. In that one she's staring up at the camera, begging whoever's holding her phone to fuck her in the ass (he obliges). There are several memorable clips of her being used by no less than five men at once, apparently on the counter of some bar somewhere.
In the most recent one, she's in her own apartment, taking a selfie as someone out-of-frame ejaculates on her face. As she watches this, she reaches up and touches her own face.
She sits in front of the TV, turning the remote in her hands. She thought the fear would ease with time, but it's just moved from her chest to her stomach, metastasizing into a lingering dread. Her life is falling apart, and every time she does this, things get worse. She has to stop. She's going to stop.
Compulsively, she rubs her clit through her underwear. Her fingers come away wet.
Just one more time.
Each time she does it, she retains more of her senses. As the patterns swirl on the screen, a tremendous calm washes over her. Her thoughts still, the knot in her stomach loosens, and the tension she hadn't noticed herself carrying melts away. Her eyelids flutter. She gets to her feet.
She'd expected it to feel like a hand pulling her puppet strings. She'd imagined herself trapped in her own head, powerless to do anything but watch as someone else piloted her body for a while. But there's no dissociation; if anything she feels more at home in her body than usual. She doesn't wonder why her feet are taking her to the bedroom. She doesn't wonder anything. Her mind is pleasantly blank. Her body will do as it does.
In her closet are several outfits she did not buy. She takes off the ratty t-shirt she's been wearing, and lets her underwear drop to the floor. She dresses herself in a thigh-length skirt and a sleeveless button-down blouse. It turned her on, when she first found them, to think about the stranger whose specific turn-ons these clothes are meant to stimulate. Now, she doesn't think at all.
She doesn't put any underwear on before she leaves. The wetness running down her thigh is pleasantly cool in the Summer breeze.
She's laying on some sort of padded table, cushioned but firm, like a hospital bed. She doesn't remember how she got here, nor does she think to care. Her head is propped on a pillow, and her fingers are buried in her cunt. She's possessed by a frenzied desperation for more, more, to feel pleasure and give pleasure and be an object of pleasure. She forces a realistic silicone cock down her throat, grunting and moaning with its every thrust. Though there's no physical pleasure, the act is just as urgent, just as satisfying as her slick fingers on her dripping pussy lips. She bucks her hips into her own hand, and the motion causes her tits bounce bounce. in the darkness beyond her table, indistinct figures pleasure themselves as they watch.
She's on her knees in a grassy field. Thinking back on it later, she'll recognize it as a public park a few blocks from her apartment. Right now, it's just here. The distinction between one place and the next doesn't matter. What matters is the breeze on her nipples, the moonlight glistening on the tip of the cock, and the long string of saliva and cum that trails between it and her lips as it withdraws. Before the string has broken, the next cock takes its place. Firm hands grasp her waist, lifting her to her feet, still bent over to accept the violation now taking place in her throat. A pair of fingers test her pussy, and they must find it acceptably wet, because a moment later another cock is pushing inside her, filling her to the brim. By the soreness, it isn't the first cock of the night.
She's standing in very fancy apartment. The far wall is covered in windows, through which she can see the tops of other skyscrapers. The sun is not yet rising, but the sky has gone from black to dark blue. The room is dominated by a large and luxurious bed, and in the bed is a very, very old man. He appears to be sleeping.
She crawls into bed next to him. The sheets are silky smooth. She presses herself against his body; his skin is soft and warm, like a dog's ear. As she nestles her head in the crook of his shoulder, he murmurs something in his sleep. Beneath the covers, she slips her hand down the front of his silken boxers and begins to stroke his cock with tender fingers. He moans softly, pets her hair with a limp hand. She kisses his neck, nibbles his ear, feels him swell against her palm. She plants a row of kisses across his chest, down his stomach, around his thighs and groin, working by touch and by the little light that makes its way through the covers. She licks a long, teasing trail from his balls to his throbbing, purple tip. He groans, grasps her head through the covers, and whispers a name that doesn't belong to her. No name belongs to her. Not here.
He pushes himself inside her. Gray hairs tickle the tip of her nose.
She comes back to herself piece by piece. Her feet are sore. The air conditioner is set too low to be naked. She remembers with surprise that she loves the color blue. As her eyes begins to focus, she becomes aware that she's been holding a load of cum in her mouth for what feels like at least an hour; her tongue is getting sore. She relaxes her jaw and allows herself to swallow.
The taste lingers.
Session 23
One more time. Just one more time. This is the last one.
The words sound hollow even in her own head. If yesterday wasn't the last one, nor the day before, she has no reason to expect this one will be any different. The hand that reaches for the remote barely feels like her own, and she wonders, not for the first time, whether she's under its spell already. It's getting harder and harder to tell the difference between the real her and the other her. It's getting harder and harder to convince herself of the distinction.
She's in a dark, cold place, on a floor that feels like concrete. She doesn't remember the TV screen, the colors, the sounds. Her shoulders are bent back at an uncomfortable angle, her wrists sore; they're underneath her, tied behind her back. Her chin is caked with drying saliva, and tears pool in her eyes. There is man standing over her. His foot is on her throat.
It must be a skill-intensive balancing act; he doesn't press hard enough to crush her airway, nor even to cut off her breathing very much, but it's intensely clear that he could do either if he chose to. She can feel clear as day, in her face and chest and throat and face, that she's been sobbing; the kind of heaving, moaning, wailing sobs that shake the body. But the only emotion she experiences is a cool, quiet serenity. She begs for mercy in a language she doesn't understand. A woman in a black dress laughs, and kicks her in the ribs.
She comes to on the floor. Her body aches all over, though less than she might have expected, from the memory fragments she can piece together. She's been rubbed down with some kind of lotion, and cloth-wrapped ice packs have been taped over some of the more intense bruises. She hears running water, and stumbles to the bathroom to investigate. There she finds a hot bath and an empty bag of Epsom salt. She sinks into the water without bothering to turn off the faucet. It will drain when it gets too full.
Never again, she tells herself. This was a wake up call. We can never do this again. To prove it to herself, she makes a concerted effort not to touch herself even a little bit.
She falls asleep with a shampoo bottle still inside her.
Session 180
The corn flakes have been sitting in the refrigerator for almost 24 hours. She left them there yesterday, when she got too impatient to finish eating. She wouldn't even bother with them now—let whoever holds her strings take care of it—but she's found it takes longer to go under on an empty stomach. So she shovels the cold, lightly-sweetened paste into her mouth, barely bothering to chew.
Any thought of ever stopping died months ago. It feels good not to be fooling herself anymore; so much less anxiety inducing just to give in, accept that this is her life. She always knew she was meant for this, before she even knew it was possible.
Her skin prickles with anticipation. Her leg bounces so much it shakes the table. She gets antsy when she's awake too long. She's begun to resent the time she has to spend with her own thoughts, her own mind. She wishes she could stay as her other self, her true self, all the time, but she realized months ago that her true self can't sleep. The Pattern has to relinquish control every 16 hours or so, so she can get a full night's rest. Which isn't a problem, because she comes out of each session completely exhausted.
She leaves the bowl unwashed on the kitchen table. Her thighs are already wet, and her fingers flick across her clit unconsciously before she's even sat down. The TV starts on its own—it's been doing that lately—and in seconds she's nothing but noise in the back of her own head. She gets to her feet.
The next thing she knows she's cinching the belt on a silk robe. The apartment has changed; where moments before it was was a mess of dirty dishes and discarded clothes, it could now be mistaken for something out of a furniture catalog. Everything is neat, tidy, and in its place. There is a letter on the table. She does not remember writing it, but she knows what it says. It's addressed to her landlord, and attached is a check for the full amount of her rent through the end of her lease.
She records a video message to her sister, saying that she's met someone overseas, that they're getting married, that they probably won't see each other again. She genuinely believes it as she says it: the giddy, lovesick look in her eyes would convince even the most hardened cynic. By the time she's hit send, she doesn't remember what she was talking about. She leaves the phone on the table.
The last thing she does is unplug the device from the back of the TV. Her robe doesn't have pockets, so she carries it with her, out the door, down the steps, where she climbs in the back of the large black van parked on the street. She gives the device to the man, who hands it through a small window to the driver. she sits on the bench seat and belts herself in. The car starts to move. She turns herself off.
The car is still moving, but the man is no longer seated. There are no windows, so it's difficult to gauge how much time has passed, but she doesn't especially care. He has undone her seat belt and opened her robe, and he now begins to penetrate her, grunting as he does so. She doesn't react to his presence, other than gaze at him blankly. She feels no compulsion to do anything but sit still, so that is what she does.
"You better not be soiling the merchandise back there," says the voice of the driver. "They don't have her scheduled for a cleaning."
"Relax," says the man with another thrust. "I'll finish down her throat, no one will care."
He makes good on his promise.
The man is gone. The van is gone. The robe is gone. She is walking naked down a long hallway, lined on either side with doors. Each door is equipped with a screen that covers most of its surface, and each screen plays a looping video of a different person. This one is an older woman with wide hips and a soft stomach. This one is a man built like an action figure. That one is a tiny woman with ears that stick out from her head. And this one belongs to her.
The video of her must have been taken recently, because it still wears the robe, slung loosely over her shoulders in a way that just barely obscures her nipples. As she watches, it turns in a lazy half-circle, teases the robe up to reveal the bottom of her ass, and winks at her over its shoulder.
The Pattern withdraws its fingers from her mind like a teasing lover. She's in an unfamiliar place, a black, bare room the size of a closet, sitting in a reclining chair. Her field of view is dominated by a massive screen that takes up the entirety of the wall in front of her, and curves around to the side walls, too. The tail end of the pattern dances across it before fading to black.
She tries to shift in her seat, and only then notices that there's something in her cunt. By the dim glow of the darkened screen, she can see a thick dildo protruding from the chair, stretching her pussy lips as it penetrates her. As she watches, it begins slowly to push in. It fills her right to the edge of too full, and then retracts again.
The screen fades back up to a simple menu:
MOVIES
TV
PORN
MUSIC
PODCASTS
MY MEDIA
It reminds her of the built-in media player you'd find on an airplane. After glancing around for a remote, she finds a set of buttons built into her armrest. She navigates to MY MEDIA, and opens it to find a long list of videos with names like "21-45-02-07-2026".
Her clit is already throbbing as she opens the first file, because she can tell by the thumbnail exactly what it's going to be. The enormous screen fills with a video of herself, her other self, in a scene she doesn't remember. The dildo picks up speed of its own volition as she watches security footage of her own writhing body being used by three men at once in dilapidated car park. She wets a finger in her own juices, and begins to toy with her clit.
Hi! I love all your work, I was wondering if you’re planning on finishing the choose your ending story? It’s been so fun being able to be part of the decision process
You’re right, that was fun! I should get back to that soon.
(I sent a message on accident, haven't been on Tumblr in ages forgive me!) I found your one fic on AO3 and immediately came looking for the rest of your stuff. I think you said you're going to be posting more of your stuff on AO3 too? I hope so!
Thank you for reading! I posted the symbol story to AO3 just to get an idea of how it worked, because I like the idea of using it for some longer or multi-part things that might not make as much sense for tumblr. I still like that idea, but i already struggle to finish short stories, so long ones might be beyond me unless i get a lot more free time. Worse, drafts on AO3 are automatically deleted after a month; I’ve had several stories that I started on AO3 and then didn’t get around to finishing in time. If I find myself writing for AO3 again, it’ll have to live on my computer until it’s actually ready to post.
If I do ever write anything original for AO3, it’ll definitely at least be linked here as well.
Hiii i love to come back to ur writings everyday. Especially the one with the sign on the window and the Santa one.
If u ever make a part two of any of those I'll prolly be the happiest one lol
I actually started a sequel to the Santa story last year but didn’t get it done in time for Christmas. Friends have told me it’d be fine to post in January but come on. I’m not posting the Christmas story after Christmas.
I like the idea of doing other holiday specials on this blog; maybe some monsterfucking for Halloween, or a love potion gone wrong for Valentine’s Day. I thought it’d be funny to do an April Fools one where a character is in a sexually vulnerable situation and everyone is just really polite and respectful. But my audience’s goodwill is a precious resource, one I need to save to spend on Not Posting For Months.
I just discovered your profile for the first time and I think I might be obsessed lol.. the rape symbol in the window story is one of the best I’ve ever read and got me so so so wet at work 🫣 somno is my fave and that story just… did something to me lol idk. Thank you sir!!!
How are you people always reading these things in public? Aren’t you worried someone will notice?
I’m really glad you liked it! It’s been a long time since I did a somno story, maybe that’s my next project.
This question is from 2024 but the answer is the same as ever: yes, but the muse is temperamental and only sometimes excited about graphic sexual violence. I need to be the exact right combination of inspired and horny, and sometimes I’ll start writing a story and then lose the desire to write before it’s done. I would like to start posting more often, but I’ll make no promises.
Hello! Do you think you would ever do more parts for the symbol in the window story? It’s so fun and hot!
I’m so glad you like it! I think I’ve already answered this question on here but basically, as much as I’d love to give the people what they want, that story feels pretty complete to me and I don’t know where else I would take it that wouldn’t just be retreading the first part.
