just thinking about having a sleazy more experienced woman invade my personal space when I'm a little tipsy and shy at a club or party or something
and she keeps handing me drinks and telling me to relax and just have oooone more sip she promises, even though I think she said that the last ummm 4? 5? sips? it's so hard to keep track
and heyyy when did these other people come overrr and when did my top get pulled down? waaaait can... can everyone see my tits right now? is someone touching me?? and ohhh,.. she's tilting m- my head back and pouring anotherrr shot,. ,. into., my mouthhhh....ehehehe.,,.
In Heat. "Pup's got a big year ahead," master says. Beer in hand. Casual. It's the way he talks about everything involving you, like it's all so ordinary it barely warrants a change in tone.
There are two other men at the table. His close friends. The ones who know. At this point they hardly bat an eye at you being curled up on the floor beside master's chair during poker nights. You're just part of the household now.
"Here we go." That's the one with the beard. He doesn't look up from his cards but he's grinning. "Every time you get that tone I know you've been planning something fucked up for weeks."
"It's not fucked up! It's developmental."
"And the last time you said 'developmental' pup started eating dinner out of a bowl."
"And pup loved it. Didn't you, pup?" His foot nudges you under the table. You nuzzle closer to his ankle. "See? No complaints."
The other one, the quiet one, tosses chips into the pot. "So what's the plan this time?"
"The mind stuff is done. That took a while, but pup's fully there. Knows what it is. Responds to commands, stays in pup-space for days at a time." He takes a pull of his beer. You hear the bottle hit the table a little too hard. Master gets like this when he's excited. When he's building toward something. His voice picks up speed, his hands move more. You've learned to read every one of his tells. Good pups pay attention. "But the body hasn't caught up yet."
"Meaning what?"
"Pup still cums like a person." He says it the way you'd say a dog still pulls on the leash. A behavior that hasn't been corrected yet. "Whenever it wants, however it wants. No structure. Pup thinks like a pup, but the body still operates on a human schedule."
The bearded one lets out a low whistle. Cards stop moving. "And you're going to fix that?"
"Exactly. We're restructuring when pup is allowed to cum. Ovulation only." A sip of beer. "Pup's body already has a heat cycle built in, it just needs a reason to use it." Another sip. "Deny it everywhere else, flood it during that window, and eventually the body figures out the rest." He leans back. You can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "Then pup goes into heat like an animal because pup is an animal."
"You're out of your mind," the beard says. But he's leaning forward. They're always leaning forward when master talks about you. "That can't actually work."
-----
The first month is the hardest because understanding something and living inside it are two very different things.
No cumming until ovulation. You understood the concept when he explained it. You nodded. You said yes, master. And then the reality of it started to settle in.
He pulls everything away. All at once. He doesn't fuck you. Doesn't finger you. Doesn't let you grind against his thigh while you watch TV, which had become such a habit that you didn't even register you were doing it until the night he caught your hips and said "no" and moved your body off of him like he was repositioning a dog that climbed onto furniture it wasn't allowed on.
Below the waist, you cease to exist for him, and by day five your body starts sending distress signals. You wake up grinding against the mattress, hips working on their own, chasing friction in your sleep. You clench your thighs together at dinner and he hears the shift of skin against skin and says "no" again without looking up from his plate. You stop because you always stop when he says stop, but your pussy is swollen and aching and confused. Pup's brain understands the program. Pup's pussy has no idea why it's being denied.
That's the gap he's closing. The distance between the animal mind and the animal body. And the bridge, it turns out, is built out of deprivation.
Two weeks in and your skin belongs to a stranger. Too sensitive. The shower is almost unbearable. Master's shirt against your nipples when he holds you is certainly unbearable. Every nerve ending is cranked to way too high a frequency, and the wet between your legs is constant plea that no one is answering
Then the calendar hits the window. Ovulation. Two, maybe three days.
He doesn't ease you into it.
He bends you over the kitchen counter the morning of and fucks you so hard spice jars rattle off the counter, shatter on the tile, and neither of you even flinch. You cum in under a minute. After two weeks of nothing, sixty seconds of his cock is all it takes. Shaking. Sobbing. Your pussy clamping down on him in contractions so hard it surprises even him. He grunts and grabs your hips and keeps going. He's not done.
You cum again. And again. He fucks you on the counter, the floor, the bed. He even eats you out on the couch while some show plays on the TV that neither of you will ever be able to name. You cum on his tongue and it drips down his chin. He looks up at you with his mouth glazed and smiles like you just performed a trick he's been waiting for you to learn his whole life.
For three days it's constant. He fucks you before work. Fucks you when he gets home. Wakes you up at 2 AM with his cock already nudging between your thighs, and you arch you ass into him before your eyes are open because your body doesn't need to be awake to know what this window is for. You're soaking, swollen, used in every direction, and deliriously, stupidly happy. Pup is getting what pup needs. The body and the brain, for the first time, are speaking the same language.
Then the window closes.
Everything stops.
No touch. No relief. You go from being fucked five times a day to absolute zero and your body screams. The comedown is so brutal you actually shake through the first night. But he's there to hold you and pet your hair and murmur, "I know it's hard pup, I know. We'll get through this together."
-----
The second month is when the pattern starts to print.
The weeks without touch are still hard, but something is shifting. Your body is beginning to understand the cycle the way an animal understands seasons. Instinctually. The drought has an end. You can feel it approaching the way you can feel the pressure change when a storm rolls in, this gathering tension in your lower belly that builds a little more each day.
You still soak through your underwear. You still catch yourself grinding against the arm of the couch without deciding to. But underneath the desperation there's a patience that wasn't there in month one. A trust that lives in your muscles. Pup will get to cum. Pup just has to be good and wait.
When ovulation hits the second time, you wake up flushed and burning. Your pussy is so wet the sheets are damp beneath you. Your nipples are hard and sore and everything smells like him. The whole apartment saturated with his scent in a way that you know is your brain chemistry doing something new, something animal, cataloguing the nearest male and flagging him as essential.
"There it is," he says that morning, watching you squirm at the breakfast table, your thighs pressed together, your fork halfway to your mouth and forgotten. "There's my pup."
Those words settle into your bones.
They stay there for the next three days while he breeds you. That's the only word for it now. Breeding. Purposeful and biological. His cock inside because this is when your body is ready and he's giving it what it needs. He cums inside you every time. Fills you up and plugs you with his fingers. Keeps you that way with your hips tilted, his cum pooling deep and staying there. You whimper and nuzzle into his neck and feel so full, so claimed, so perfectly kept that language starts to feel like a tool that belongs to a species you're not sure you're part of anymore.
-----
Month four.
You're getting into a rhythm. The first week of each cycle is calm. Manageable. You can work, cook, function, form complete sentences. You're still pup, but you're pup in maintenance mode, padding around the apartment, kneeling at his feet, sleeping at the foot of the bed. Quiet and content. The ache is there but it's low, a background hum you've learned to carry without it pulling you under.
Then the middle weeks.
The heat builds so gradually you almost don't notice until you're inside it. A warmth starts around day eight and spreads outward, a slow blush that moves through your body like ink dropped in water. By day ten your skin is sensitive enough that the wrong fabric makes you cry. By day twelve you're restless, circling the apartment, unable to settle, pressing your face into his pillow when he's not home and inhaling until your head swims. By day fourteen the wetness is constant and your clit is swollen enough that walking is a specific kind of torture. It's this hollow feeling inside you that deepens into something that borders on grief. Your body mourning an emptiness it's been trained to find unbearable.
Then the shift.
It happens overnight. You go to bed restless and wake up in heat.
Your skin is on fire. You're so wet you can feel it on your thighs before your feet touch the floor. It's an emergency and only master's cock can fix it. Your pussy keeps clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, trying to grip something that isn't there.
You find him in the kitchen. Press yourself against his back. You're panting. Your hips are grinding against him before you've said a word, your fingers clawing at his shirt, and you whine. High and thin and desperate. Animal sounds from an animal body that has finally, fully caught up to its animal brain.
"You need it bad, don't you, pup," he whispers. Turns around. Cups your face. Studies you with that calm, proprietary warmth that you'd do anything to keep directed at you.
He gives you what you need.
The breeding window is the only time you fully exist now. The weeks between have become a waiting room, a grey space you move through on autopilot, conserving energy for the days that matter. And when those days arrive your body ignites with a purpose so singular it burns everything else away. You fuck like it's the last weekend on earth. Ride him until your legs give out and then he flips you over and keeps going. You're drooling into the pillow, babbling, words fragmenting into sounds that can only mean: Breed me. Fill me. Please. Don't stop. I need it. I need it. I need it.
He tells his friends at the next poker night.
You're on the floor beside his chair. Cheek against his knee. Floating in that warm, post-window haze where the world feels soft and safe and very far away. His hand rests on your head.
"It's working," he says. "Better than I thought. You should see pup when the window opens. Full heat. Panting, whining, can't function until it gets fucked. I didn't even think it would take this completely, but pup's body just accepted the whole program."
Cards shuffle. They all laugh.
His fingers scratch behind your ear.
"Real proud of this one."
Your eyes close. He's proud of you and that pride lands somewhere deeper than any orgasm, deeper than the breeding, deeper than the three days of being so thoroughly filled that your brain dissolves. His pride is the bedrock. Everything else is built on top of it.
You press closer to his leg. He keeps petting you.
"Keep it up, pup."
-----
Month six.
Ovulation.
You wake up and the heat is so intense you can't stand. Not figuratively. Your legs won't hold you. Your whole body is trembling, flushed, slick between your thighs, and when you try to get up your knees buckle and you catch yourself on all fours and realize that this is correct. This is how pup moves when pup is in heat. Walking is for the other weeks. Walking is for the version of you that passes as a person. That version isn't home right now.
You crawl to him.
Down the hallway, hands and knees on the hardwood, the drag of your nipples against the oversized shirt you slept in sending sparks straight to your cunt with every movement. You're leaving a wet trail on the floor. You can feel it. You don't care.
He's in his office. He hears you coming. The chair pushes back from the desk.
He's waiting when you crawl between his legs. You press your face against his crotch and drool. He's already hard. He's learned your schedule as well as your body has. Probably woke up knowing today was the day. Probably drank his coffee thinking about what you'd look like crawling to him, and here you are, face buried in his lap, mouthing at his cock through his boxers, tasting him through the cotton, making sounds that would humiliate you in any other state of mind.
But you don't have another state of mind. You have this one. This singular, burning, wordless need that has scoured out every other thought and left only the essential thing: get bred. Get filled. Take his cum as deep as your body can hold it. That's all you are right now. That's all pup needs to be.
He unzips. Pulls you up into his lap. Sinks you down onto him.
The feeling of being full after weeks of emptiness hits so hard you cum before he moves. Instantly. Your pussy spasming around him in hard, greedy squeezes, your face buried in his neck, your whole body jerking and clenching while he holds you steady. He strokes your hair. Lets you shake and twitch and ride it out.
"It's okay, pup," he says. Soft. So soft. "I know. I know it's a lot. I've got you."
You cling to him and tremble and he hasn't even started fucking you yet.
When he does, when his hands grip your hips and start bouncing you on his cock, you understand that something has changed since last month. The conditioning has crossed a line you can't uncross. You're not performing. Not playing a role. Not thinking about what pup would do and then doing it. You're in heat the way an animal is in heat, mindless and desperate and single-purpose, and the only thought your brain can produce is one word on a loop. Breed breed breed breed breed.
He cums inside you and you feel every pulse, every hot thick pump, and your body seizes around him, pulling, milking, your walls working him with a greed that has nothing to do with your conscious mind. Your body knows what ovulation means now. Your body has been trained to understand this window as the only one that matters, and it is going to wring every drop out of him because that's what pup's body is for.
You stay on his cock until he's hard again. It doesn't take long. You're grinding on him, your pussy still fluttering with aftershocks, and he laughs against your throat. Breathless and amazed and a little bit awed by the thing he built.
"You're really in heat, huh."
You bark. It's the only answer you've got.
"Okay, pup. Okay. Let's take care of you properly."
Look part of me is REALLY afraid it's [redacted] who msrged into my little brother, on account of her being suspected scottish wildcat kin
BUT. I do have like. Two and a half pieces of evidence it might not have been
1: before we knew it was DID I had flagged that different animal shifts would affect the way they acted, and there were at least 3 I had clocked:
A) dog/yote: this would turn out to be the host I thought I was always interacting with. A sub and a bottom.
B) crow/wing shifts: not interesed in kink, likes to be rubbed between the shoulders/wings
C) cat kin: dominant, very playful and takes control. Liked to be referred to as a girl. Had big paw shifts.
We now know [redacted] was the crow kin! This makes it likely the crow shifts were her, implying that the cat shifts were someone else!
Evidence 2: when [redacted] came to front for the first time after we found the system, she had no memory or clue who I was! She was also fairly nervous at the time. This seems less likely of an outcome if she was fronting enough to have full conversations about wanting a cat collar with me.
Evidence 2.5:
Please please please she merged with my ace aro little brother and me and cat kin were doing kink together for my sake it was someone else pretty please?
You wake up in a strange place, with no memory of how you got here or who you are.
Cnc kink, kitten play, kidnapping, caged, drugged
---
Your memories flicker, distant and hazy in the darkness. You were walking home, weren't you? Home. The word rings strangely in your brain, and it takes you a moment to realise why. You can't picture it. Your memory, normally so vivid, has gone completely blank.
You mentally stumble, reeling, and try harder. As you do, you realise you can't picture anything. There is nothing but darkness around you, inside and out. The panic begins to set in, and as it does, you notice a strange, pinching sensation in your arm. Before you can assess it, figure out what is happening to you and grasp the first and potentially only clue you've found, the edges of your thoughts turn fuzzy. You're no longer just struggling to picture things, even words and coherency escape you now.
---
There is only darkness.
---
By the time you're lucid enough to think once more, the panic is gone. There's an acceptance in you that under different circumstances, might distress you more than the fear.
You can percieve other sensations again, and slowly, you begin to note your body. You're lying on something that seems intended to be soft, but is set on a hard surface, and you've been still for long enough that any comfort has worn thin, leaving you very aware of what lies beneath it.
You cautiously try to move, and as the noises of your previously quiet existence hit your ears, you realise it's metal flooring. Strange, you think. The shape of the covering comes into reality, soft and fuzzy, with raised edges. The parts you aren't lying on feel soft at least, but however long you've been here for reveals the thin nature of it to your aching bones.
You stretch, and in the darknesse manage to come across your first wall. You almost don't recoginse it as such at first. Metal bars, covered by some kind of heavy fabric. A knot in your gut forms, as you realise the truth of where you are, or at least what you're in.
As you feel around for more of your cage, you realise it's probably only about as long as you are tall, and while there's plenty of space for you to sit or lie down comfortably, there's no hope of you being able to stand up. Instead you crawl around on all fours, finding your bed takes up one half of the space, and on the other side there's a spout that an experimental suck tells you has water inside.
The panic that should be there, that is pressing at the edges of your consiousness fails to form fully, and as you press down on the spot where you felt the pinch before, you find the lump of a bandage, big enough it could easily hide a cannula.
You swallow thickly, the taste of the slightly stale water still on your tongue.
The sound of a heavy door. Then, lights. You blink, rubbing at your eyes and making an embarrassing startled noise. You hear light laughter from elsewhere in the room, but you don't see the source, not yet. The cloth still covers your cage, and you see figures as mere shadows on the other side, in between blinks and rubbing as you try to readjust to the light.
Then, someone stands in front of your cage, which you know because they block out the light. The relief is intense, flooding in in place of where the fear should be. You look up at the shape, your hands resting back on the floor in front of you as you kneel. You arch your back and neck slightly, so that you can peer at where you think their face should be. Your cage is slightly elevated off of the floor you realise, just not enough to put you at eye-level.
As you look, the cloth is suddenly pulled away, leaving you blinking once more.
A stranger looks down at you, clearly just as interested in you as you are them. After a few moments of dumbfounded silence, you attempt to say something. To demand answers, to know who they are, but as you try to form words you only manage a slight yowl.
You flinch away from your own noise, and suddenly even the sleepy edges of your brain aren't enough to push away the fear. It starts small, worming its way into your gut, but you know with certainty it will become another facet of your existance. Why can't you manage to speak?
The stranger standing over you smiles.
"Yes," you hear them say. "I think I rather like this kitten."
But yeah its weird, I'm still like, very capable of intense daydreaming
I can still pop into my worlds and still get the comfort from them but I genuinely don't know if I would call it maladaptive anymore
I had like a solid 3 attempts to quit, to completely stop daydreaming in the hopes of regaining control over my life, and every time it was the hardest thing in the world
But I just. Stopped.
And even though every time that came before if I even started daydreaming again a little I would fully go back in and lose most of my life to it, now I get to dip in and out as I like, my worlds keeping me company while I continue to live a full and happy life that I feel more or less conected to
Anyway, years and years of trying to quit maladaptive daydreaming, with mid to no success, and now I'm turning 24 and I've lost barely any quantifiable time to daydreaming this year
Heres my secret: I'm not lonely anymore
Which probably feels like a shit answer to you, while you're stuck down there, but to me its hope. Its the answer to what was so wrong in my life that I lost so much of myself to maladaptive coping mechanisms
Once you know the causeeof something, the symptoms are easier to deal with
I'm not saying the answer to everyones problems is going to be other people, but if I reflect on the core of my daydreams, the thing I circled around most and the aspect I was yearning for, it was always being seen. It was people knowing who I was, and caring about it
What are you yearning for? What is missing in your life that you've filled with daydreams? It might seem like the answer is something unachievable, like magic, or wings, or chosen one's quests, but more often than not these are a cover for something more mundane.
Control of your life, comfort in your body, to be admired and respected. All of these things are real and tangible, and you deserve them
I hope all of you get the things you're yearning for
I just want to snooze while my sensitive bits get toyed with, waking from the pleasure every now and again with soft sleepy moans. See how long you can edge me before finally forcing my stimulated sleepy body to orgasm.
If I wake up too much.... smoke me under <3
Make me a happy little sleep slave, and try to dodge the super grip cuddles <3
I'll probably fall asleep suckling on whichever body bit my owner desires, no thoughts from this sleepy kitten slave.
When you're done, wrap me up all comfy and leave me to sleep until you want to play with your precious pet f*cktoy again <3
I am exploding you with my mind @no-merci - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
