hi! i'm r :) she/he pronouns . im 18 . if you're under 18 i will block you.
i will reblog whatever i like here, mainly gore + rape + incest. if u need smth specific tagged, lmk, otherwise i probably wont tag warnings for anything. mwah !
regression based play is always age related. and whatever, but let me think about mental state regression beyond "i'm this many". like oops you made me insane again. yeah i was doing a lot better before you got to me but now i can't be fixed and it would be irresponsible to set me free now.
and while i have you chained up here. i'm yapping still. sit down. like, why is intox play almost always knock-you-out, daterape style scenes. maybe a paralytic agent if they felt the spice. but why can't i get a little intox that's not so short lived? plenty of ways to fuck someone up. you could make them forget. you could make them stay awake. you could make them see things. you could kill every last brain cell. why are we stuck on the sedatives.
she doesn't really speak much but when she does her voice is the softest thing you've ever heard. she's got a lot of scars covering her body but dresses to cover them and says she doesn't know how she got them. she can't remember much of anything anymore. she spends her days mostly wandering the house and doing chores but occasionally you'll see her walking to the market. one time you got a glimpse down her shirt and she was flat chested with no bra and her nipples were kind of puffy
she got harassed by a group of people on her walk today. they kept calling the name of an unfamiliar boy. one of them forced a sword into her hands and told her to try swinging it, that it might help her remember. it felt awkward and heavy in her hands, and when she tried swinging it it tipped out of her grasp and landed in the dirt. she was on the verge of tears and just kept telling them she just wanted to leave, but they continued trying to lead her away. she was lucky her wife had been close by and heard the commotion, rushing over and embracing her. the group seemed scared of her, for some reason. when they got home she was told she wouldn't be allowed to leave the house alone again for a while, in case they came back. she didn't argue it at all.
mhm, though i do think there's the additional element of humiliation present even if it's not really understood by our victim. in some ways i think it's worse than simply being collared and kept as a pet, stripped of your dignity but still left with the spirit to resist, or the hope that one day you'll be free. like this none of that will exist, you're just an empty husk stripped of "you", married to the only person who could challenge your strength, the one you hated the most. and you're happy, or at least what's left of your mind is. what would your past self think upon seeing the state you're in, i wonder?
wgat about a fag and dyke going to a gay bar together and having nasty breeding sex in the bathroom. what about a butch getting facefucked by a femboy under his skirt. what about your gay best friend balls deep in you while your girlfriend and his boyfriend chat in the other room. is this thing on
ADDITIONAL TAGS: trans-masculine Grian, dehumanisation (? does it count if he's doing it to himself?), unsanitary, belly bulge, just really deeply gross honestly don't read if you're squeamish, also includes a segment on smoking + cigarettes, and references to food waste
Don't try this at home.
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Cool air brushes over Grian's bare skin, causing pinprick goosebumps to form. Pale, thin hairs stand on end across his arms and legs, and he shivers, enjoying the breeze. His bedroom window is open, thick curtain flapping slightly in the wind.
It's a quiet day on the server. No one is around to bother him, all either off-world running various errands, or busy with their own projects. Best yet, all his neighbours are busy. There's no one within a 500-block radius who could possibly find him.
In other words, he's scheduled in some alone time, and has every intention of using it properly.
'Properly', perhaps, has different definitions for different people. His definition involves him, nude, legs spread over soft bedsheets, a large pot of lube, and...
Well, he's been saving up for this.
It's something he hasn't quite found the balls to share with other hermits, as depraved as he is. Most things, yes, he's happy to make public, freely and openly admitting to a wide range of kinks and fetishes. He's known for being a bit of a freak, honestly. Which is fine by him.
So that means this is either particularly bad, or he's uncharacteristically embarrassed. Maybe some mixture of the two. When he thinks about it, there are worse things, but he's just... not sure anyone else would get it. If they would understand, or better yet, help him indulge.
Next to him on the bed is a large pile of... what most would consider trash. Plain old trash. Rubbish. Garbage, if you're feeling fancy. Grian prefers the first two terms, though.
He's already soaking wet, leaving a damp stain on his nice patterned sheets. His clit stands to attention, swollen and hard, and warm arousal simmers inside, just under the curve of his stomach. Like his body knows exactly what's coming.
The trash pile is varied. Textures, materials, sizes, all different and tantalising in their own ways. Stinking, bitter air that cloys thickly in the back of his throat. His cunt clenches, desperate to be filled.
He might as well make a start.
Lithe, excited digits trail down, sliding into his wetness. Grian sighs around a moan, exploring his pussy at a leisurely pace. His fingers brush against each other, spreading slick around, feeling through smooth, puffy folds and rough, wet pubes.
He ignores his engorged clit, for the moment, his wrist grazing over it every few strokes. It twitches at the slightest touch, pleading for more, but he knows if he gets distracted rubbing himself like a whore, he'll never get to the fun part.
And to get to the fun part, he needs to prepare. His middle finger moves inwards, towards his soaked hole. As it sinks inside, there's a wet squelch, smooth and easy.
Working himself open, Grian tilts his head back, bliss running through his body. The single finger isn't enough for his greedy cunt, sliding in and out with no resistance, so he soon adds another, spreading them out inside himself.
It's at least more of a stretch. He rolls his hips down, indulging in the process of opening himself up. Reaching as deep into himself as he can, spreading open his damp walls, prepping himself for everything he's going to do.
Another finger slips into place inside him. He grits his teeth. Every time his wrist bumps into his clit, his thighs tense, and he clenches around his fingers, feeling each intruding digit in full.
But he can't get off. He's not supposed to. That's not what this is about, after all.
Rocking back and forth on his three fingers, Grian looks over at the pile of rubbish he's accumulated. Weeks' worth of bits and pieces, gathered up from bins in his own base, and other hermits'. Just looking it over makes his mouth water, drool pooling under his tongue.
Sweet, building warmth blooms inside him, accompanied by harsher, sharper shocks of intense pleasure when his fingers brush against his G-spot. Whimpers and moans trail out with no regard for how he sounds. No one's here to see.
Though, if they were, what would they think? If they saw him stretching himself, next to a big pile of trash? Would they mock him? Would they be disgusted? Would they jerk themselves off?
He shivers, and slips his pinkie finger inside. Around the digits, his cunt pulses happily, finally feeling full. Nice and stretched. Sopping wet.
Not wet enough for what he has planned. But stretched enough. He could fist himself, but he does enjoy a little bit of a challenge.
With his other hand, he reaches for the bottle of lube. It's larger than his usual go-to, ultimately because he's not sure how much he'll need. Every time he does this is necessarily a little different. That's part of the fun.
Click! He opens the bottle and takes his fingers out of his cunt. It immediately mourns the loss, drooling slick, as cool air feels its way inside him through the slight gape, making him shiver. Wetness growing cold on sensitive skin.
His face burns, chest rising and falling with long, satisfying breaths. For a moment, he just sits in the feeling. Enjoys the way his cunt suckles the air, pleading for something to fill it again.
Fucked so full, so often, it can't go without. Grian has thought before about stuffing it permanently with a plug or dildo, having it fastened inside and only taking it out to be fucked. But still he's sure he wouldn't be satisfied, aching for more even when constantly filled. Constantly stuffed to the limits. Every time he craves more, bigger, harder- to the point where he isn't sure a normal cock can make him cum, anymore.
This, however, tends to work very well. However temporary and secret, it never fails.
He reaches for a piece of rubbish with his slick-coated fingers. It doesn't matter what he picks up. Whatever comes first, in a luck of the draw.
His hand clenches around something jagged, but squishy. Ball shaped. Paper texture, with a few strangely greasy, spongy spots. He pulls it from the pile and gives it a closer look.
Oh. A hit of nauseous arousal crawls through Grian's guts. It's a screwed up food wrapper, paper-based, from Scar's zoo. Must be weeks old. Checker-patterned paper, stained in places with old, dirty food grease.
It's gross. Perfect. Grian squeezes his lube bottle, covering his already slick palm and coating part of the paper ball. Taking his time, he spreads the lube around, dampening the rough corners of the food wrapper and turning its material into something more manageable.
The last thing he needs is a paper-cut inside him. Though... to Grian's hazy, lust-drunk mind, that doesn't sound too terrible.
A thick dribble of slick slips from his cunt, soaking into his bedsheets. Grian moans, and moves the wet, grease-stained food wrapper to his hole. Holds it there at the opening and takes his time to stare.
God, what an image. What a slut. His clit throbs.
Finally, finally, he pushes the wrapper inside. It's about as wide as his four fingers, but plenty more textured, thick and rugged and disgusting. So, not a stretch, but an experience, as it parts his folds. Slowly sinking inside. Opening him up.
It squishes and warps as he works it into himself, but it stays nice and thick, compressed but not crushed by his cunt. Blissed out, he closes his eyes.
Grian's lips part in a silent whine, his tongue hanging from his mouth. Inch by inch, folds of wadded-up paper disappear, filling him deeper and deeper as his cunt constricts around the greasy wrapper. He moans as his fingertips brush against his hole, and he doesn't need to look to know he's pushed the disgusting trash fully inside himself. His pussy clenches and pulls it deeper naturally, sucking it in until it settles, lips closing around it to keep it in place.
Like he's nothing but a common trash can, built to fill up with rubbish. Designed to be used as a receptacle, perfectly modelled to stuff to the brim, a thing for rubbish disposal.
Inside him, he feels the damp paper ball push against his walls. Already so much, but not quite enough.
It must be lonely. Must want company.
And he's certainly not satisfied. Not yet. He has a whole pile of trash to get through. Grian opens his eyes.
He knows what he's going for next. A pile of half-used cigarettes, damp and burnt up. No longer hot, sadly, but all his own produce, back from his time in the permit office. Where the bins hadn't been changed in months.
Grabbing a handful- maybe five or six of them- Grian imagines someone forcing him to smoke the stupid things, making him inhale it all into his lungs and getting him hooked. Really, it's a good thing no one did that, and his very short-lived stint as a smoker ended with him realising how much he hated the things.
But he can dream. They would hold him down, forcing him to smoke one after the other, putting them out on his skin. His arm. His tongue. His clit.
Then they'd do this. Grian spreads his legs further, rolling the ashy cigarette stubs in his palm. They're dirty. Crushed under his shoe and tossed into the bin along with whatever other trash accumulated in the office. So vile, he's not sure if he should admit how much it's turning him on.
He aches for it. Needs it like air. They're so small, they'll get lost inside him. If he's lucky, he won't be able to fish them out, feeling them for weeks on end as they slide further into his guts.
As he slips each stub easily into his wet, winking hole, his mind grows hazier, arousal flooding all his senses and dampening his reasoning. Filling his brain with soot-tarnished fuzz.
There's nothing he can do but moan, all higher thought lost to the simple, beckoning notion of being nothing more than a stupid, useful little trash can. Full of old food wrappers and cigarettes, and soon much more. So much more.
After that, there's no stopping him. He reaches over, squeezing more cool lube across his poor, swollen cunt and wet hand, then grabs the next nasty piece of trash he can see.
Rocket casings. Something commonly left all over the server from hermits' flights. Hard and round and squishy in a way that would spread him out nicely, the cardboard casing covered in coarse soot and gunpowder.
They're about as wide as his palm. Closer to a fist and firmer than the food wrapper. With a curved side that makes them easy to stack.
He wastes no time pushing one inside himself, crying out at the stretch. It's wide, thick, and raw around the edges, sandy gunpowder scratching at his walls. But it fills him so well, so fully, he can't think of anything better.
His cunt can't close around it, left open with his lips stretched wide. Almost like a speculum, showing off the depth of his greedy hole, which still craves more. It's obscene.
More lube. He needs it, grabbing for another rocket casing. The hard shell inside him barely buckles to the tightness and wetness of his cunt, stretching him deep. And when he pushes the next inside, it shoves everything else further into his hole, filling him deeper and deeper the more he puts in.
Another two rocket casings, stacked up in him, surfaces rubbing together. Then, he has to stop for breath.
His body burns, face flushed hot and thighs trembling. There's a hardness, a bulge above his pelvis- far below his stomach- where the trash has settled, gathering in a mushy pile inside him.
It's impossible to deny what a disgusting whore he is. Grian's cunt weeps slick and lube, still aching to be stuffed even fuller.
His whole body shivers. Burning desire writhes shamefully from his mind to his pussy, and he knows which is stronger-willed.
Foggy but determined, he searches for something new to put inside himself. Rummages through the pile of rubbish, all of which he intends to use, for his next treat. The next perfectly vile thing he can fill himself with.
Something damp. Rubbery, limp, with textured edges. Small or deflated. He pulls out a handful, finding maybe ten hidden in the pile.
When he pulls his hand back, Grian can't quite believe his sick luck.
Sitting in his palm are condoms. Used condoms. Different colours, sizes, textures and designs, but all roughly the same. Stretched out rubber, filled with cum, tossed and discarded after just one use. What a waste.
Some are perhaps the newest things in the pile, fresh, wet cum leaving sticky residue on Grian's hand. Other condoms, he remembers, were foraged from the bottom of forgotten bins in his friends' bases, now dry and smelling of something horribly sour.
He can't wait to shove them inside himself. Fill himself up with his friends' used condoms. A disgusted tremor wrenches its way across his chest as he examines each one, picking at crusty cum and slimy rubber. He kind of wants to put one in his mouth.
But he refrains, and guides them to his cunt instead.
Slipping them inside is easy, the rubbery, smooth texture helping them slide deep into his hole. They crowd against the ends of the rocket casings, twisting together like little eels, and Grian pushes his fingers deeper, shoving them further inside.
Another series of moans tumbles out of him. The waste draws in deeper, further up inside. He feels something touching a part of him he knows intimately, and gasps.
The food wrapper, along with a few of the cigarettes, brush against his cervix, teasing it from the outside. A gush of slick pours from his hole. His eyes roll back. His legs shake, trembling in pained pleasure.
He needs more. More. Frantic, he blindly grasps at the pile, finding more bits of garbage to force into his aching, pulsing cunt.
Old screwed up bits of base blueprint. Ice-pop sticks. Thin plastic snack wrappers. Grian loses himself in the rhythm of filling himself, squirting more lube into his hole, and watching his insides bulge from the amount of trash inside him.
Drool slips from his tongue to the floor, adding to the ever-growing wet stain under him. Fabric off-cuts. Old tissues. Shredded, off-colour panties.
The panties are great. He doesn't even know whose they are. Just not his, found in a random trash can with a slightly damp, pale white stain in the gusset. They're half inside his hole, wet fabric dangling out, when something shifts inside him.
Another push, and his body gives way. His cervix dilates, accepting the trash pushing up against it. Grian screams, an electric current of pain-pleasure drilling right through him, all the way down to his clenching, desperate cunt.
Gently, he places a hand over the hard bulge in his pelvis, and presses down. The trash shifts, moving up, further inside him, so deep where he can't reach.
His womb. A broken moan forces itself out of him, every inch of his body alight with arousal.
Of course. His cunt was never the perfect place for all that trash. No, it had to be his womb. Such a nice, open space, waiting to be filled. A perfect place to put all the waste.
Grian rubs his clit, and finds himself immediately teetering on the edge. He's full, dripping wet, achingly stretched.
Pulling his hand away, he looks to where the pile had been. The only item left is one he deliberately saved for last. The Weekly Hermit, a newspaper project mostly organised by Joe Hills and some off-world friends. Not too thick, but still large, the thin paper sheets coming together to create a perfectly average-sized newspaper.
He grabs it and rolls it up. It's about the thickness of one of his larger dildos. Perfect for fucking himself. And pushing the rubbish deeper.
Coating the tip of the paper in lube (which doesn't do much but soften the pages), Grian spreads his legs, one hand keeping the paper tightly in shape, the other poised over his clit.
A thick swallow. He breathes, then presses it in, pushing the panties deeper inside himself at the same time.
Not a stretch, per se. The paper is about as thick as the rocket casings, with less friction too. It slides inside, the first inch going in smoothly. Grian whimpers, body shaking as his fingers brush over his hard clit.
Then he meets resistance. The panties, bunched against- well- everything else not currently in his womb. Blocking the way. Like a sort of dam.
Biting his lip, Grian continues to shove the paper inside.
Everything shifts up. More things, more trash, spills into his womb, past his gaping cervix. He moans, bucking his hips, as he feels the things he's stuffed inside himself mix and collide deep within, filling the most intimate parts of his body, where they should never go.
He's turned himself into nothing more than an overfilled trash can. As he shoves the paper deeper, pushing more filth into his womb, he wonders just what his friends would think if they saw him now.
There's a hope inside him, that they would be cruel. Laugh at him. But still, in their own twisted way, help him get worse.
Maybe they'd tie him up somewhere with lots of foot traffic, somewhere perfect for busy hermits and even guests to see him. Cunt spread open and presenting nicely in the air, face smushed against the ground.
Anyone walking past could just slot their trash inside him, nice and neat. It would be an incentive to stop littering, even. And he'd be kept there, getting filled and filled with everyone's rubbish until he can't take it anymore.
Then he'd have to be emptied, womb stuffed and belly rounded out, but he wouldn't be released. Never. It would just start all over again.
He pushes a few more inches of the paper inside himself. The bulge in his pelvis has fully shifted, moving up to create a slight, visible bump in his lower stomach. Right where his womb sits. So full and stuffed with garbage, it's visible from the outside.
Desperately, Grian rubs at his hard clit. He imagines walking around like this, talking to his friends as they have no idea what he has plugged up inside him.
Their trash. Their old food wrappers. Their condoms. All shifting and mushing together with every step. How long would he be able to handle it? How long could he play it cool? Would he collapse into a moaning mess while talking to someone?
And if they tried to fuck him, they'd find out exactly why he's acting like such a whore. Then they'd really have to tie him up. Fill up his womb even more like it's a trash bag.
In the end, he'd be so stretched out and full with everyone's rubbish, they wouldn't even see him as a person anymore. Just their pretty little trash can. Conveniently there to fill up however they please. Easy to ignore its moaning and crying, it's just an object after all.
Grian's fingers slide over his clit one last time, and he spasms hard, shocks of white hot pleasure running straight through him and out of his cunt. He spills slick over the wet newspaper buried almost all the way inside him, leaving its own bump in his pelvis beneath the curve of trash inside.
Moans and whines spill out of him as he falls backwards onto the bed, landing softly onto plush pillows. Pleasure runs over him in waves, his hand working around his clit, drawing out his climax for as long as he can.
His other hand lets go of the newspaper, but it sticks in place, firmly lodged inside him. He arches his back, enjoying the aftershocks.
Time blurs. His vision is as foggy as his mind, as his orgasm ends and exhaustion seeps into his bones.
Blinking in and out of consciousness, Grian can't find the energy to even think about cleaning up. Himself, or the bed.
But why should he clean up, anyway? He likes this feeling of fullness. Likes being stuffed with old, gross trash and lying here uselessly. Why should he fix it with a respawn or painful excavation? It's okay for him to just... drift off...
And if anyone finds him, well that's okay too. He's happy for them to turn him into their pretty little waste disposal. Whatever they want.
my therapist holding me down and rutting into me like "see? i told you you'd be soaked. it's a trauma response, completely natural. go ahead and let it all out. that's it, good job. crying is natural too. you should be proud of yourself for making so much progress."
let's play a special game called "fleshlight." it's where I give you medicine that makes you fall asleep and then I jerk myself off with your limp unconscious body
you’re so hot… do you want to piss inside me while you fuck me? Fuck I meant piss in me? sorry, please pee inside me? SORRY piss in my cunt .? fuck I mea
nsfw sideblog @loadedcorpse - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
