I feel like any aliens that were prey at some point in evolution would have an odd fear of humans. Mostly cause they look like predators, act a bit like predators, and ARE predators. One perfect example is when we're focused on something like a mosquito that's been bugging us for a long time and we are just done.
Human: "Found you." *absolutely desimates the mosquito, squashing it into a million pieces as it's guts and various body parts liquidize into blood of the bloodthirsty, now stained on the palm of the human. A living being now reduced to a useless corpse as the human wipes the remains on their pants*
okay fucking fun addition to this post. Hunting instincts in humans absolutely still exist and are usually triggered either by fascination or anger. The polar opposite of flight is pursue. An anecdote for this is that the other day my sister, who is an avid "take the bug outside in a cup" rescues kittens in her free time kinda person, looked out the window and saw a chicken in the middle of our driveway. which is a very unusual occurrence despite us living in the country.
All she had to do was say the words "there's a chicken" and her as well as my own body language immediately shifted. We were out the door and in the yard already sorta hunched over and walking on the balls of our feet, fucking flanking this chicken. No words were exchanged. We just slowly circled this chicken like a couple of rabid dogs. totally single-mindedly focused on capturing the prey.
The chicken could feel it, it immediately began counter maneuvers to avoid us and it was faster. But there were two of us and we knew the land better, we knew how to herd it into a corner, carefully watching it's body language and lurching to counter it's escape attempts. And it was fucking thrilling.
Of course, when we both closed in on it and finally got our hands on the poor thing we simply took it into the back patio away from the cats and the vultures that wanted to actually finish the job. No harm came to the bird. We located its owner and returned him to his flock but still. From an outside perspective, it was a bit unnerving. And for the chicken, it was no different than being hunted. He was just lucky enough that we were predators who appreciated the companionship of pets and were more concerned with returning him to his humans than eating him.
Now imagine any fucking alien species watching a pair of humans, who literally rehabilitate animals in their free time, who are not soldiers and seem to be totally domesticated, just absolutely flip a switch and turn into pack-hunting pursuit predators? On a single word.
(felt like the bulldog from Rio's bird chasing monologue hit a little too hard after this)
I would even argue that humans need to do this, so much so that we’ve invented a million and one ways to satisfy this instinct.
Photography.
Ball games.
I Spy.
Playing hunting games with the fellow predators we keep as pets.
Hide and seek.
Many hobbies that involve prolonged seeking behaviour or watching something to make sure it’s moving right.
I 100% feel myself slipping into “hunt mode” doing jigsaw puzzles, changed movement and all—same as when I’m out birding—and my mental health seems to get better afterwards.
In the wake of early announcing that their blog will no longer be posting fanfiction, I wanted to offer a different perspective than the ones I’ve been seeing in the argument against the use of AI in fandom spaces. Often, I’m seeing the arguments that the use of generative AI or Large Language Models (LLMs) make creative expression more accessible. Certainly, putting a prompt into a chat box and refining the output as desired is faster than writing a 5000 word fanfiction or learning to draw digitally or traditionally. But I would argue that the use of chat bots and generative AI actually limits - and ultimately reduces - one’s ability to enjoy creativity.
Creativity, defined by the Cambridge Advanced Learner’s Dictionary & Thesaurus, is the ability to produce or use original and unusual ideas. By definition, the use of generative AI discourages the brain from engaging with thoughts creatively. ChatGPT, character bots, and other generative AI products have to be trained on already existing text. In order to produce something “usable,” LLMs analyzes patterns within text to organize information into what the computer has been trained to identify as “desirable” outputs. These outputs are not always accurate due to the fact that computers don’t “think” the way that human brains do. They don’t create. They take the most common and refined data points and combine them according to predetermined templates to assemble a product. In the case of chat bots that are fed writing samples from authors, the product is not original - it’s a mishmash of the writings that were fed into the system.
Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) is a therapy modality developed by Marsha M. Linehan based on the understanding that growth comes when we accept that we are doing our best and we can work to better ourselves further. Within this modality, a few core concepts are explored, but for this argument I want to focus on Mindfulness and Emotion Regulation. Mindfulness, put simply, is awareness of the information our senses are telling us about the present moment. Emotion regulation is our ability to identify, understand, validate, and control our reaction to the emotions that result from changes in our environment. One of the skills taught within emotion regulation is Building Mastery - putting forth effort into an activity or skill in order to experience the pleasure that comes with seeing the fruits of your labor. These are by no means the only mechanisms of growth or skill development, however, I believe that mindfulness, emotion regulation, and building mastery are a large part of the core of creativity. When someone uses generative AI to imitate fanfiction, roleplay, fanart, etc., the core experience of creative expression is undermined.
Creating engages the body. As a writer who uses pen and paper as well as word processors while drafting, I had to learn how my body best engages with my process. The ideal pen and paper, the fact that I need glasses to work on my computer, the height of the table all factor into how I create. I don’t use audio recordings or transcriptions because that’s not a skill I’ve cultivated, but other authors use those tools as a way to assist their creative process. I can’t speak with any authority to the experience of visual artists, but my understanding is that the feedback and feel of their physical tools, the programs they use, and many other factors are not just part of how they learned their craft, they are essential to their art.
Generative AI invites users to bypass mindfully engaging with the physical act of creating. Part of becoming a person who creates from the vision in one’s head is the physical act of practicing. How did I learn to write? By sitting down and making myself write, over and over, word after word. I had to learn the rhythms of my body, and to listen when pain tells me to stop. I do not consider myself a visual artist - I have not put in the hours to learn to consistently combine line and color and form to show the world the idea in my head.
But I could.
Learning a new skill is possible. But one must be able to regulate one’s unpleasant emotions to be able to get there. The emotion that gets in the way of most people starting their creative journey is anxiety. Instead of a focus on “fear,” I like to define this emotion as “unpleasant anticipation.” In Atlas of the Heart, Brene Brown identifies anxiety as both a trait (a long term characteristic) and a state (a temporary condition). That is, we can be naturally predisposed to be impacted by anxiety, and experience unpleasant anticipation in response to an event. And the action drive associated with anxiety is to avoid the unpleasant stimulus.
Starting a new project, developing a new skill, and leaning into a creative endevor can inspire and cause people to react to anxiety. There is an unpleasant anticipation of things not turning out exactly correctly, of being judged negatively, of being unnoticed or even ignored. There is a lot less anxiety to be had in submitting a prompt to a machine than to look at a blank page and possibly make what could be a mistake. Unfortunately, the more something is avoided, the more anxiety is generated when it comes up again. Using generative AI doesn’t encourage starting a new project and learning a new skill - in fact, it makes the prospect more distressing to the mind, and encourages further avoidance of developing a personal creative process.
One of the best ways to reduce anxiety about a task, according to DBT, is for a person to do that task. Opposite action is a method of reducing the intensity of an emotion by going against its action urge. The action urge of anxiety is to avoid, and so opposite action encourages someone to approach the thing they are anxious about. This doesn’t mean that everyone who has anxiety about creating should make themselves write a 50k word fanfiction as their first project. But in order to reduce anxiety about dealing with a blank page, one must face and engage with a blank page. Even a single sentence fragment, two lines intersecting, an unintentional drop of ink means the page is no longer blank. If those are still difficult to approach a prompt, tutorial, or guided exercise can be used to reinforce the understanding that a blank page can be changed, slowly but surely by your own hand.
(As an aside, I would discourage the use of AI prompt generators - these often use prompts that were already created by a real person without credit. Prompt blogs and posts exist right here on tumblr, as well as imagines and headcannons that people often label “free to a good home.” These prompts can also often be specific to fandom, style, mood, etc., if you’re looking for something specific.)
In the current social media and content consumption culture, it’s easy to feel like the first attempt should be a perfect final product. But creating isn’t just about the final product. It’s about the process. Bo Burnam’s Inside is phenomenal, but I think the outtakes are just as important. We didn’t get That Funny Feeling and How the World Works and All Eyes on Me because Bo Burnham woke up and decided to write songs in the same day. We got them because he’s been been developing and honing his craft, as well as learning about himself as a person and artist, since he was a teenager. Building mastery in any skill takes time, and it’s often slow.
Slow is an important word, when it comes to creating. The fact that skill takes time to develop and a final piece of art takes time regardless of skill is it’s own source of anxiety. Compared to @sentientcave, who writes about 2k words per day, I’m very slow. And for all the time it takes me, my writing isn’t perfect - I find typos after posting and sometimes my phrasing is awkward. But my writing is better than it was, and my confidence is much higher. I can sit and write for longer and longer periods, my projects are more diverse, I’m sharing them with people, even before the final edits are done. And I only learned how to do this because I took the time to push through the discomfort of not being as fast or as skilled as I want to be in order to learn what works for me and what doesn’t.
Building mastery - getting better at a skill over time so that you can see your own progress - isn’t just about getting better. It’s about feeling better about your abilities. Confidence, excitement, and pride are important emotions to associate with our own actions. It teaches us that we are capable of making ourselves feel better by engaging with our creativity, a confidence that can be generalized to other activities.
Generative AI doesn’t encourage its users to try new things, to make mistakes, and to see what works. It doesn’t reward new accomplishments to encourage the building of new skills by connecting to old ones. The reward centers of the brain have nothing to respond to to associate with the action of the user. There is a short term input-reward pathway, but it’s only associated with using the AI prompter. It’s designed to encourage the user to come back over and over again, not develop the skill to think and create for themselves.
I don’t know that anyone will change their minds after reading this. It’s imperfect, and I’ve summarized concepts that can take months or years to learn. But I can say that I learned something from the process of writing it. I see some of the flaws, and I can see how my essay writing has changed over the years. This might have been faster to plug into AI as a prompt, but I can see how much more confidence I have in my own voice and opinions. And that’s not something chatGPT can ever replicate.
Thinking about those glory hole gangbang videos- you know the ones, where the girls are set up and lightly restrained in little plywood cubicles, some for fucking and some for sucking. Some bent over and others with their pussy at face level to be eaten out. Yeah.....
Nikolai/141 x fem!reader, darkfic, noncon/rape, sexual slavery, bondage, gloryhole, gangbang, loss of virginity, forced orgasm, forced peeing, piss play, oral, anal, cum/blood as lube, tickling, mindbreak
Nikolai smiles down and pats your head, as sweet as sugar, as if you weren't bound wrist and ankle in a cheap plywood box, laying naked on a padded bench with your lower half sticking out of a similar padded hole- everything accessible, vulnerable, and Nikolai kisses your cheek where tears are spilling down.
"Oh sweetheart, don't cry. I promise, it's just a little while and then your family's debt is paid- you'll make me quite a lot of money, I think. And I'm not a cruel man, no one is abused here-" You stifle a hysterical little laugh. "-and I have good friends to come and, oh. The English words never feel right." His smile curls, becomes sharper. "Break you in, precious girl," and he pinches your nipple and pats your cheek and leaves, the door closing at his back, and you're left in the box with only a small light in the corner, and a camera in the other, it's little red light blinking steadily.
You can't stop the tears. You're scared and cold and want to go home, never mind the debt, you never agreed to this, to be- to be sold, laid out like meat on a table, and you begin to sob and yank uselessly at the soft cuffs. Padded as well, smooth black leather, and it hits you that you're not the only one to be held here- not the first, and not the last.
There's mens voices nearby, out of range to hear clearly, and you pull harder. It's a whole group of them, deep voices getting louder, and then it's just thin wood separating you from them. You can't see at all, not even a glimpse through the hole your body is shoved through, and your pleading kicks up when two big, strong hands grasp your thighs and stroke down to your pussy.
"No," you gasp, "no!" But the hands don't stop, a man's voice saying something aside to another and then, thumbs spreading you open, a wet tongue licks right up over you to your clit and sucks.
Your hips jolt and you arch up off the bench, sobbing, and strain against the cuffs. A smack to the inside of your thigh makes you yelp. "Settle the fuck down," a man growls, lips on your pussy, and sets back to licking. Someone else laughs.
A fist pounds on the cubicle, making it shake. "Count yourself lucky he won the draw, girl," someone else says, "he's a munch for fresh cunt. Any other of us would be fucking you bloody for a starter." Someone else protests, that they'd treat you right, and your pussy aches under the assault of a mouth determined to pull your soul through your clit.
It's relentless, the hot firm pressure, and when a finger slips into your pussy to the first knuckle you whimper as your body answers it, clenching down, legs and hips all trembling. "Please stop," you whisper, choking on tears, but your clit throbs instead, and there's a tiny responsive lift of your hips when the finger draws out and then a little further in.
You shriek when they all cheer, and more hands grope at your thighs and pinch at you, someone shoving their hand up across your belly to palm your breasts. You flinch, squirming, and your next sob breaks on a moan.
The tongue dips and sucks at your clit, your pussy clenches, you're unable to stop it now- the way your hips relax and lift, chasing pleasure, while someone tickles the sole of your foot- your toes curl in, and they keep it up, as hysterical giggles start to break loose in your chest. Too much, hot mouth and wet pussy, your foot straining in the cuff, the hands touching and stroking and teasing, and there's an ache in your belly that gets tighter with every pounding heartbeat.
You barely even hear them over your panting breaths. "Oh, I think she's gonna go," someone drawls, and as the mouth on your pussy grins against you and sucks so hard your back arches, moaning, someone else licks across the sensitive skin under your knee, a tongue curls across the toes of your foot not being tickled- and you heave out a gasping, ragged moan and come in a hot pulse of pleasure, energy dripping out of your pussy along with your cum as your body sags on the bench.
You whimper when your clit is released, throbbing, and feel the slick wet squeeze of your pussy clench on the finger still gently stroking it, soft movements completely at odds with the way you're bound, the reality of the situation outside the heat in your belly. Thick fingers move up and down your pussy, petting it, and then you're shrieking and jolting from the bench again as both feet kick wildly, trying to escape the tickling, as it travels up and down your leg. The wild bursts of laughter sound unhinged to your own ears, what does it sound like to them- what do you look like, dripping pussy and your body swinging as you flail uselessly? Your chest heaving, squeals and sobs spilling past your lips, and a fresh wave of humiliation and fear builds with the second growing ache in your belly.
"No- no, stop-!" You beg, and instead get a hand on your stomach, tickling and pushing in turn, the hard, callused heel of their palm bearing down under your navel. They know, you realize, and sob through their laughter as you struggle so hard your shoulders pull in a sharp ache. Your stomach twists. You're still so wet from coming that the glob of spit landing on your clit barely registers under the other onslaught of sensations, but then- fingers pinch and rub your clit, there's multiple bodies crowding around you, holding you still as you shriek and beg for mercy, and then the first hot spurt of piss escapes your body- and then another, and another, each half-scream of laughter and despair urging it out of you, until the ache in your clit peaks and you come with a squeal and gush of slick cum and pee all puddling down between your thighs, soaking the bench, a relief so sharp it hurts, your cheeks burning with humiliation even as your pussy clenches and pulses, feeling swollen and heavy between your thighs.
You gasp for breath as the onslaught finally ebbs, gentle touches now tracing down your thighs and around your hips. Someone lifts your ass and squeezes it, spreading wet fingers over your skin. "There we go, good fucking girl," someone says, and sticky lips touch the thin skin over your ankle. "Not so bad huh? Does that feel better?"
Your head shakes back and forth even though they can't see you. "I wanna go home," you whimper, and this time Nikolai is who answers, his voice rough and low.
"Go home? When you haven't even begun to keep your end of the bargain? Should I have set you out for the regulars and let you cry on their cocks first after all?" He pauses, then slams a fist to the wall- you shriek. "Well? You'd rather be raped bloody? Eh?"
"No!" You wail, and then something rubs at your pussy- something thicker than a finger, hotter, slick at the head. "No, no wait- wait please, I can't- I haven't ever, I'm a virgin, please don't do this!" Your belly is tight and shaking, all the forced lassitude gone as your legs are bent back further, pressed to the wood of your- coffin, it suddenly feels like, not a cubicle or box but something suffocating.
The groans that answer you come with slick wet sounds, hands on cocks you realize, and Nikolai laughs. "Oh, we're aware, sweet girl," he says, "why else would I want you and not your house, or cars, or other labor? You're going to make me lots of money, even if the Ghost is who first gets you ready," and the thick cock is starting to push in, fighting your body's resistance. It hurts, a sharp sting that grows worse as he drags at your ass and hips, moving you on the bench.
"Nik, can we pull her out? Want a taste of those tits," someone says, and through your tears you hear an affirmative- and then Nik is in the box with you, unbuckling the cuffs on your wrists so swiftly you don't have time to react before they're crossed behind your head and rebuckled around the legs of the bench. You yank at them, metal rattling, and Nik kisses your cheek, dodging your head as it thrashes- you want to bite him.
"Ready?" He says, not to you, and hands grip your hips and the bench under your ass. "Now!" He says, and shoves forward on the upper half of the bench- you're pushed out, ribs and chest popping through the hole in the wall, leather squeezing over your breasts before they're suddenly assaulted by groping hands, pinching fingers- and you open your mouth on a wail as your pussy is forced down onto the waiting cock, the heavy fat length of it huge and throbbing as your pussy strains, resists, and then is breached fully with a sharp internal pop of flesh, a new ache to join the one in your chest, your ankles and thighs as your legs strain, the pain in your nipples as they're pinched and twisted.
"Fuuuck, so fucking tight, Nik," someone groans, the man fucking you, his hips sliding back and forth, grinding his cock into you. Your back arches, the only movement left to you. Nik cups your cheek in his hand, smiling down as you plead with him through the blurry layer of tears on your eyes- and then he braces his arm against the wooden front of your coffin, pulls out his cock, and drags the slick head of it over your face, your eyes, smearing the tears with it.
"Suck," he says, and lays it on your tongue; you limply drool around it as the man at your pussy grips your thighs and starts to fuck his cock deeper, hard pounds of his body that make your head spin. Someone plucks your nipple and then there's another cock being rubbed over it, broad hands cupping your breast and squeezing it, crushing it down on your chest under the weight of another big, heavy body, another leaking cock. Hands play with your stomach, your other breast, someone digs their fingers into your armpit, making you flinch.
And even in the midst of the pain and the fear and the begging, your pussy- still slick and swollen, still wet, every thrust growing wetter as blood is churned up inside you- starts to heat again, nerves teased with every slap of heavy, muscular hips to your skin, every time your clit is teased and rubbed by questing hands, even the stinging pain starting to fade and be eclipsed. Your hips raise up, as a soft sound squeaks out around Nikolai's cock on your tongue, and he grins and smacks at the front of the box again.
"Ghost! Feel that?" He asks, and pumps his cock further into your mouth; at the same time a hot, wet mouth seals over one of your nipples and sucks at the tender, swollen peak. Your head swims. "I told you virgin pussy could come if the girl is ripe for it." His free hand curls over your throat, a steady pressure, and he turns your head and starts fucking into your mouth, shallow thrusts that leave spurts of precome on your tongue, even as Ghost mutters something to the others and then begins- the whole box shakes, it's too- much- hard and fast and overwhelming, your breath catches- your clit is smacked against his groin as he bottoms out, a deliberate grind every time, your pussy sore and pulsing and squeezing around the huge cock forcing it to stretch, ruined and soaked and gushing, you can feel the mess of blood and slick splattering on your thighs, down your ass, and Nik wedges his thumb into your cheek, between your teeth, to keep you from biting down when you come with a groan and a trembling, shaking rush of heat and pleasure-pain, as Ghost echoes you and the first hot spurts of cum pump into your belly, into your sore, fluttering pussy, the slick mess of it all smeared by rough hands across your stomach, your breasts, sucked off fingers with appreciative moans.
Ghost withdraws and Nikolai keeps his thumb in place. "Good girl," he praises, and strokes his cock with his other hand now, "big girl, all grown up. No more cherry to pop. Say thank you that I let my friend do it and not a customer." He pulls hand and cock away, rubbing the head of it on your lips. You mumble something, disconnected, the little shivers running up and down your spine making your limbs tremble. "Eh, good enough."
He leaves you there, steps away with his cock still out and hard, and you weakly gasp for breath, floating as the men speak and murmur, as Ghost's cock slips out of your pussy as it clenches.
Then two hands stroke down your thighs, and another cock notches at your pussy, pressing in against the sting and flutter of abused flesh, and you find you can still cry more tears- new, burning hot ones, as your pussy burns under another pounding cock, another relentless forced entry into your body, no debt could be worth this, this humiliation and pain and misery- and even as the cock pounds into you, sharp snaps of the man's hips that draw him nearly out then fast back in, someone lays their head against your belly, nuzzles at your skin, and then a tongue flicks over your clit even as your pussy is fucked, a gentle little touch that you strain to keep feeling, little candle-flame flutters against the fire deep in your belly.
Your hips lift to chase the tongue, squirming when the cock withdraws, and you whine and moan wordlessly when the man's mouth seals fully over your clit and sucks. Hot-wet-tight-good, pure pleasure after the pain, and you gasp and roll your body into it mindlessly. A beard scrapes your breast, another wet mouth on your nipple again, and even faster than before you find the heat winding up tight, the little whimpering sounds in your throat bubbling up, and you're so close to coming and it's so good, nothing but pleasure and heat and you need it- you're hurting so much and you need something good, something sweet and easy-
The mouth vanishes, and the cock is back, pounding harder than before, and your voice cracks on a wail of despair, begging not to go home or to stop but:
"Please! please please I need it please let me cum please please cum please-!!"
"No," Nikolai says, his voice rough, and you realize he's the one fucking you now, his cock splitting you open, and you clench and shudder as he groans and fills you with his own cum, flicking your clit with his thumb like striking a match, too sharp and harsh to tip you over the edge.
Another third cock, this time with the slick folds of your pussy thumbed apart so your clit throbs alone, untouched, the burning pain sharp again inside you as the ruined flesh is pounded, fucked, used- so wet with cum now that it drips down your ass and joins the mess of your own piss and cum from before- and your eyes roll when someone else steps into the box, grips your head, and forces his cock into your mouth.
"There you go," a soft voice urges you, rich with an accent you can't place with your brain upside down and cum-soaked, "come on, let me in- open that little throat for me."
You choke, gagging, and the thick head of his cock pushes against the opening to your throat. You can't see his face, only a piece of his stomach, the edge of his opened jeans, and your pussy clenches down tight, burning and stinging, as your throat squeezes and is forced open as well, a second virginity ripped out of you. You gag, thrashing, and the cock pops free, stroking over your tongue before pounding into your throat again.
Your stomach rolls, nausea building as your gag reflex is pounded, but every time you nearly heave the man pulls out, strokes his cock over your tongue, prods at the inside of your cheeks- you're swimming in an ocean and going under the waves every time, pain and despair rippling down through you as any small pleasure vanishes, and you sob weakly when the man twists his hand in your hair and yanks, forcing you to swallow around him, and pumps thick, bitter cum into your throat, paints your tongue with it, your pussy clenching around another load of cum puddling inside you, dripping out.
You whimper when Nikolai pats your thigh and reminds you, "two more! I brought four friends. Almost done, more than halfway now, pretty girl." The man gripping your hair laughs.
"Aw, Nik, shoulda seen her face- fucking heartbroken."
Nikolai's head comes around, he's a blurry, massive bulk in your vision, as he thumbs a bit of cum off your lips and rubs it into your hair instead. "Aw, poor thing. Pussy sore?" Your head sags in a vague nod. It hurts. It's so sore it's fluttering, unable to close now, just a solid ache and throb from clit to hole.
He kneels, and pinches your ear, making you look at him. "A choice then, for being so good and coming on their cocks. You can get your pussy fucked twice more," you whine, "or, pay attention- you let the last two have that tight little ass instead."
There's twin moans outside your box. "Christ, Nik, I don't care what she says, if ass is available I'm taking it!" One snaps. "Waiting half the fucking night."
Nikolai smiles again, sharp toothed and nasty, and drops your head to bounce to the bench. "Hm, yes. Go ahead," and your mouth drops open on a long, soundless moan as fingers slick in your own cum and theirs prod down under your pussy, find your ass, and shove inside, two thick burning brands forcing even more of your flesh to stretch, to strain and tremble, hovering on the edge of a terrible, tearing pain.
The fingers thrust and roll in and out, sawing at you, and your belly clenches with a twisting ache. More slick is squeezed from your pussy with a hand on your lower belly, a thumb flicking your clit to make you whine, and all of it mixes into a wet, sticky mess that makes your skin crawl.
"Please no," you whisper, watching the ceiling spin, the camera and it's light uncaring as you blink tears down your temples. "No, I can't, I can't," but the camera keeps watching as the hot head of a cock is lined up, a finger in your pussy prodding and stroking, finding the sore, aching nerves inside, and as you flinch and whine it presses further in, breaching the tight rim of your hole, and a little weak spurt of piss is forced out of your bladder as the man bears his weight down on you, groans and swears and slowly forces the full length of his cock into your ass.
It burns, worse than your pussy, your body clenching and shaking to try and get it out again. Too much, too big and hot and awful, your sore pussy clenching on the finger in it only because the whole entire mess of your used flesh is clenching, trying to force the intrusion out.
It doesn't work.
He only grinds in deeper, moans and plays with your pussy, stroking your clit, urging more slick cum down to soak the base of his cock as it moves in you. It feels like it's in your lungs, and someone else sighs and drags their hand over your belly, up to cup your breast, and tenderly thumbs your nipple.
Slow, solid pumps of his hips, soft little rubs on your nipple. Your brain can't figure out what to focus on, the pain or the too-light distracting touch following it, forced to stay present and feeling it all, and you hiccup around a cry and drool cum down your cheek when there's a wet, hot splash across your breasts, trickling down to your throat, under the edge of the padded hole and into your hair-
They're pissing on you.
Another splash of it, and you give up. You can't even try and fight it, can't force the cock out of your body or their piss off your skin or even make the torn, bloody insides of your pussy regrow- you're a used up fucked up piece of flesh to pay off a debt, you'll be handed off to paying customers once these sadists are finished and you won't even know when you'll be free again.
Your own piss joins the puddle of theirs, wetting down between your legs, and all the tension drops out of you at once. The man in your ass groans, finding it easier with less resistance, and his hips snap to yours faster, wetter, chasing his pleasure. Someone looks in on you, though you can't see who, and makes a satisfied sort of noise.
The hot cum in your ass isn't even a surprise, or a new humiliation, just a notch in the long list of misery unfolding in front of you. Why not make your ass burn and tear and squeeze out more cum? Why not stretch your hole to the breaking point and spit inside it, groping hands and fingers pinching at you, smacking your pussy, your clit.
Your ankles are uncuffed, your wrists cross as you're rolled over to lay flat on your stomach, and now your ass is more available- and they take advantage, heavy palms slapping across your cheeks, your thighs, sharp cracks on your flesh until you make a thin, weak cry, skin throbbing and burning, and then the last cock is forced into your aching hole, the cum and slick and blood all smearing together as he fucks you hard.
He's harder than all the others, cruel with it even past what you had already endured- his fingers jab into the soft, bruising flesh of your ass, pinch so deep into your thighs your muscles jerk and spasm to break his hold even as your mind slips further away. A big hand cups your face, turns you to look up, and a stream of piss flows into your mouth, making you choke and sputter, as two fingers join the cock ripping your ass apart.
You whimper and try to spit it out, but the hand crushes down over your mouth and nose, forcing you to swallow, the awful salty taste sticking to your tongue, in your nose, as your body swings between giving up and survival.
Giving up wins again, and your head drops down to the bench again, lungs burning, dark spots floating in your eyes. Your ass is a burning mass of pain, your pussy close behind it, and the man digs in a third finger and comes with his other hand under you, pinching your clit so hard lightning crackles through you and whites you out and finally nothing at all, just the peace and bliss of a long dark tunnel with nothing at the end.
-
You wake in pain, head pounding, still laid on the bench but pulled fully inside your box now. The cuffs are gone but the evidence remains, bruises and marks and the sticky, half-dried evidence smeared on your skin, the stinging, burning ache between your legs, in your throat. You moan, trying to sit up, and you shift your legs and realize there's something inside you, something thick and heavy in both your holes, forcing abused skin and flesh to stay stretched and open.
A new horror starts to trickle in when Nikolai comes back inside, his cock back in his pants but that same smile on his face. "Sleeping beauty," he says, "have a good rest? Feel better?"
You stare at him dully. Whatever he's put in you or decides to do to you- what does it matter?
He shrugs when you don't answer. His hand comes down on your arm, urges you to stand even as you gasp, lightheaded, swaying on your feet. You feel weak as a baby stumbling to the door. "A good first night, I think. You'll go clean up and rest now, and I will fetch you for work when ready." He guides you down a dark hall and to another small room, the same camera in the corner, a bed, a shower on the other side. You yelp and collapse when he pushes you into it, and turns on a hard jet of cold water.
He aims the spray between your legs, and you flinch back, throbbing, and the plugs inside you are squeezed, shifting. You can't bring yourself to feel them, to touch where you're so sore and swollen. It all surrounds you in a mindless fog, pieces jabbing through as Nikolai leaves with the door locking behind him. Work, work, pay a debt with a body already torn and bruised and hurt- and you start to slowly weep again when you realize just how totally fucked you're going to be.
genuine writers getting wrongly accused of using ai because of witch hunt and proper grammar/structure in their works must be what being a woman in the 1600s who is wrongly accused of being a witch because she can read and is intelligent feels like
Not every sub wants to be used. That's the assumption people make when they only understand the surface. Some don't want intensity. They want stability. They want someone whose presence quiets the noise in their head. Someone who notices when they're carrying too much before they break under it. Some people don't submit because they're looking for pain. They submit because for the first time in their life, someone makes them feel like they don't have to hold everything together alone. They just want to be held together properly.
Funny how four simple words can undo someone. When she walks into the room. When she quietly comes back to your side without thinking about it. When she rests her head against you after a long day. When she looks up and realizes she’s being noticed again. Not admired. Not watched.
Claimed.
There’s something dangerous about being recognized like you belong somewhere. About hearing the same words over and over until they stop sounding like a sentence and start feeling like home.
“There is my girl.”
And suddenly the whole world gets a little quieter.
why do I have a pussy if not for someone to use it like a fleshlight. like literally I'm built for free use, I'm always wet and warm and ready to go. someone should be using me for stress relief.
