Adults only.
NSFW side-sideblog of @secretwhumplair. Probably more nsfwhump than smut but that's not as catchy.
Header & icon from Unsplash (Katie Gerrard & Leandra Rieger).
The bones of this could work in several settings, but let's say royal whump. Whumpee is either a ruler or heir. Whumper has conquered Whumpee's kingdom, and taken Whumpee captive, "marrying" Whumpee to further legitimise their conquest. Whumpee is stripped of all power and now a puppet ruler. And on top of that, Whumper sexually abuses Whumpee. Whumpee is kept in the lap of luxury, but they can't leave Whumper's palace and they're basically Whumper's sex slave.
Whumpee is initially defiant, and after a few nights, Whumper takes them to the basement/dungeon/etc to meet Whumper's other high-profile prisoner, and "see exactly how good they have it".
The other prisoner... again, could be from a lot of backgrounds, but I'm inclined towards "dissident or traitor from Whumper's own side". They were there before Gilded Cage!Whumpee. Whoever they once were, it's not immediately apparent, nor is it relevant, because no one deserves that treatment. They're slumped in a filthy cell, maybe chained up, completely unresponsive to Whumper and Gilded Cage!Whumpee's entry, and they've clearly been brutalised both physically and sexually, over and over again.
Whumper tells Gilded Cage!Whumpee that if they fail Whumper, they're going to the basement too, and it's a one-way trip. They kick Basement!Whumpee around a bit, which they still hardly react to except maybe trying to curl up, and then take Gilded Cage!Whumpee back upstairs.
Gilded Cage!Whumpee has been successfully threatened into obedience. Mostly. But... while they're not allowed out of the castle, they still mostly have run of the castle, and they start sneaking down to visit Basement!Whumpee. They're sort of allowed to - to reinforce the threat - but they're certainly not supposed to help or comfort their fellow prisoner. Of course, that's what they do. Bringing them water or food (though at first they don't touch it), talking softly to them, or sometimes talking very desperately to them, holding their hand through the bars, just... anything that might help, in hopes Basement!Whumpee will respond to them, so they can be co-conspirators in an escape attempt, or at least, so they won't be alone.
Chapter 4 of JACKPOT (Masterlist), direct continuation of the last chapter!
Previous - Next
CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, âitâ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, implied dubcon, self deprecation/demeaning, fear of abandonment, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so once again be warned please
ââââ
In, out. In, out. Fuck.
It isnât breathing right. No matter how much it tries to clear its head and calm down, it canât seem to breathe correctly. Tears fill its eyes from the mixture of guilt and frustration thatâs threatening to eat it from the inside- itâs breathing too loud. It wonders if the guests can somehow hear it from their rooms, if itâs keeping them awake. That thought only makes it harder to control itself.
Theyâre going to throw you away. Send you back.
37 has no idea how long itâs been sitting in front of the door, alone in the hallway. Its kneeling position is off, and no matter how it adjusts its posture it doesnât feel right.
If anyone could see you right now theyâd be fucking disgusted.
It closes its eyes, silently wishing it could just disappear. It doesnât deserve such an easy out, however. Waking a guest and making them angry enough to be kicked out of the room is probably unforgivable- 37 canât believe that it had done something so awful. It canât remember the last time it was this afraid, in this much trouble.
Breathe quieter.
âHey there.â
It flinches violently at the womanâs voice, immediately turning in the direction of it. Had it woken another guest in their room? It panics before noticing that none of the doors are open. She must be returning to her room late. âAre you lost, sweetie?â
It could smell her perfume as she approached it, looking it over. It ignored it, focusing on its breathing and posture. Someone is looking, act properly. It takes a moment to even register that it had been asked a question (it needs to stop letting its mind wander). How is it supposed to answer? There doesnât seem to be a correct response. It isnât exactly lost, but it doesnât know where itâs supposed to go either.
It takes several moments before it finally cracks from the pressure to give someone, anything and nods silently. Wrong- shouldnât have done that you shouldnât have said yes what the fuck is wrong with you-
âAww, lemme call the office, mâkay?â She says, pulling her phone out of her bag. Her phone case is clear and full of purple glitter. It tries to focus on the feeling of the carpet under its knees to keep itself from vomiting out of anxiety. Its position still isnât right, and at this point itâs given up. The guilt threatens to pool up once again in its eyes.
ââŠyeah, just sitting here naked in the hall,â the woman says. âNo, I donât know. Floor 12. Mhm.â She puts her phone away and crouches down again, pinching its cheek. âTheyâre gonna come get you, donât worry,â she says, her tone better suited to talking to a lost child or perhaps a dog. She says something else, but everything sounds and feels muffled and it doesnât hear her. After a moment she must have noticed how unresponsive it was being (it doesnât know if itâs even allowed to respond in this situation), and stands up looking slightly annoyed. âYou stay here now,â she says as she makes her way (slightly unevenly) to a door a short ways down the hall and disappears.
It should have said no. Perhaps the guest would open the door and let the pet back in if it just waits, but now itâs going to leave him. What if he still wanted the pet for later? What if he just wanted it to be outside the door? 37 feels as if itâs wrong him a second time in the same night. What was the manâs name again? Mr. Red-something.. Mr. Redford? 37 is too stupid to remember. Itâs always too stupid to remember things. Itâs still breathing too fucking loud.
ââââ
The hotel pet supervisor was NOT happy with 37 when he found it in the hall. He isnât one of the supervisors that it is used to, he must be one of the night staff. 37 rarely sees the night staff because itâs almost always booked at night.
It struggles to keep up with the supervisor, whose name it didnât get. The petâs legs are shaky and weak, forced to keep up with his brisk stride by the tug of the leash now attached to its collar. He had hardly said a word to 37, which somehow felt like a punishment and a mercy at the same time.
It stumbles slightly when he tugs on the leash, causing its already agonizingly imperfect form to break yet again. Fuck. Fuck. Why canât it just walk like it was trained to? What the fuck is wrong with it? For the thousandth time tonight it forces itself not to cry when it imagines how clumsy and hideous and bad and unfuckable it must look right nowâŠ
Upon reaching the ground floor it brings it to the room where the hotelâs pets are prepared and kept before service. No no no no please not here- it lets out a disobedient gasp when he opens the door to one of the closets and shoves it inside. âStay. No sleeping.â He says, sounding irritated.
This is bad, this is very very bad- this is where they leave pets when they arenât rented overnight. There arenât any designated places for them to stay, so if a pet isnât in a room they go in a storage closet. It canât do this, not after tonight, it canât stay here alone in the dark not again not again. It can no longer even think about regulating its breathing. It gets a good look at the manâs face for the first time when he steps back, seeing the bags under his eyes.
âW-wait, wait,â 37 says, stepping forward. It flinches at the sound of its own voice shaking, so obviously imperfect. âYou look s- you look stressed, sir,â it says, as it shakily (hopefully seductively) takes one of his hands between itâs own. âLet me help, I- I can help, please,â
A Hail Mary, and itâs not good enough. 37 knows itâs not good enough as soon as the words leave its lips, shaky and uneven and ugly. How could anybody want it in this state?
It gasps again (strike something, itâs stopped counting the mistakes) as the manâs hand pulls away and smacks it hard in the face. âQuiet!â the supervisor snaps. 37 steps back, tears welling up in its eyes from the pain that immediately spreads through its nose and face. Fuck fuck fuck fuck you fucked up-
The door slams in its face, leaving it in complete darkness. It canât stop itself anymore, and it sinks to its knees in a pathetic mockery of its perfect trained kneeling position. âPlease! Sir- I- I can be good, sir, I can be better, just please please come back-â it sobs, breaking down completely. âI- I c-can make it feel good, I can,â it cries with its forehead against the door, knowing full well that the supervisor isnât standing outside anymore.
It feels blood trickle down from its nose and over its lip. It sobs harder at the thought that it might have a bruise on its face.. itâs barely attractive enough as is, if itâs damaged any further than theyâll probably have no choice but to send it back and romantics donât ever get resold a third time and then theyâll-
Its mind runs through a million possibilities at once, each one worse than the last as it sobs in the dark. Alone. Itâs hand reaches to itâs neck without thinking, as if any second now another shock will comeâŠ
An ongoing pet whump series set in a bbu type universe! Iâll put all parts here in the order I write them, although I might skip around a little theyâll be ordered how theyâre intended to be read. If you want to be added to the taglist just lmk!
A warning: This series is 18+ and very explicit, and will feature a lot of heavy/dark topics. Please be sure to read the CWs.
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Act 1: Wear & Tear
37 is a romantic, owned by a not-exactly-5-star hotel and casino in the city of Las Vegas. Thereâs a reason the hotel only buys used and refurbished romantics from the WRU (aside from just money); 37 does everything in his power to be perfect, but after being passed around for so long cracks start to showâŠ
I read through all of this yesterday and I'm really enjoying it!! Especially the mention of an upcoming recovery arc.... đ€ please add me to the taglist!
CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, âitâ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, EXPLICIT dubcon, cigarette burns, self deprecation/demeaning in regards to appearance, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so once again be warned please
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37 is used to staying with the more⊠wealthy guests. Certainly wealthier than the man it is currently servicing between the legs (it isnât judging, just noticing). He was middle aged, balding and not the thinnest, and he seemed to have brought everything with him in a single duffel bag. He wore a stained white shirt under his jacket, both of which had been discarded soon after entering the room (which wasnât one of the suites). 37 doesnât question it, of course, it knows that it isnât a pets place to judge.
It had always assumed that it must be quite expensive to book a pet at the hotel, given the size of the rooms and the expensive belongings of the guests who usually do. Not that it really has any concept of how much is a lot of money.
It feels the manâs grip on its hair tighten- keep going, just like that. Its last few guests had been quick with it, only using it once. It canât help but wonder why someone would pay so much to use it so little, but thatâs really none of its concern. It feels a jolt of pleasure as the man tugs its hair, groaning. 37 is good at this, that much it knows, and part of it is very relieved to have a better chance to show it. Sometimes the pet wonders if it costs more to rent than some of the less desirable, more damaged pets at the hotel⊠it knows it really shouldnât think about things like that, but the thought excites it. 37 is a good pet. High quality.
The man finishes in its mouth, once again pulling it back to reality. It swallows, making sure heâs clean, before slowly rising and laying up against his now reclined body. It can feel his fast heartbeat and breathing as it melts against him. It wasnât asked to lay against him, but when it did a good job it can usually get away with it. 37 feels the now relaxed manâs hand in its hair, and suppresses the urge to whine at the feeling. Lying with the guests after being used is 37âs favorite part of the night most of the time.
âWas I good for you, sir?â It asks, voice smooth and seductive as always. The man tugs its hair, pulling its face back and into view.
âYou were perfect,â he says. Perfect. Exactly as it should be. The man stands, much to 37âs disappointment, pushing it to the side. It gets down from the edge of the bed and kneels as the man disappears to the bathroom of the small hotel room. 37 takes this opportunity to clean up, fixing its hair quickly and folding the manâs discarded clothing for him. It sits, positioned in the usual unnatural perfection of a romantic, as the man returns and retrieves something from his bag.
37 watches him step out onto the balcony, lighting a cigarette. Is that allowed? It had seen many people smoking downstairs, but not in the rooms. 37 is sure that smoking is against the rules. The pet tenses at the idea that it might be blamed if the staff found out- but quickly shuts the thought down. It isnât a petâs place to judge the actions of a guest, and it should feel guilty for doing so.
âCâmere, boy,â the manâs rough voice calls. 37 doesnât hesitate to listen, excited at the prospect of being on the balcony. A chance to go outside in any capacity is not something to be missed. It pads to the glass door, stepping out slowly (perhaps a bit too slowly) to savor the night air on its bare skin. The room isnât on a very high floor, but the view of the street with its lights and cars is captivating regardless. It wonders if itâs ever walked down there itselfâŠ
It leans its body slightly into his (without being asked), inhaling the familiar smell of smoke. It knows better than to cough. âYes, sir?â It asks, maintaining the perfect mixture of submissive and suggestive thatâs been hammered into its speech for so long.
âYouâll really do anything I want? Anything?â He asks, not for the first time. He had asked it the same thing before using it for the first time earlier, which (along with the smaller room and less than extravagant appearance) gave 37 the impression that he doesnât have much experience with pets. Maybe he had gotten lucky at the casino and won a lot of money? 37 doesnât know exactly how that works, but it does know that guests donât usually seem to win very much so the idea that someone would spend some that money to rent it makes 37 very happy. It reminds itself not to let its mind wander (again). It had a very bad habit of doing that.
âOf course, sir, anything~â it says. Another round? The man looks it up and down, taking a long drag from the cigarette. âShow me your neck.â He says, with a smile that makes 37âs stomach drop for reasons it canât explain. It tilts its head obediently, letting its wavy shoulder-length light brown hair fall to the side.
It doesnât flinch or pull away when it feels the end of the cigarette press into its neck, but it canât slow its rising heart rate. The pain doesnât bother it so much, itâs good at taking pain, but this is a bad place to do it. Itâs going to leave a mark, it can tell by how long itâs been held down. This is bad. 37 has enough hideous scars already, and it can only imagine how much of a labor it must be to ignore them while using its body; the thought of having another permanent mark right on its neck is terrifying. Some guests like to bite it there, to suck on it and kiss it there, and now theyâll be reminded of how ugly it is and how damaged and disgusting its body has become. Theyâll be reminded that itâs used, and damaged from all of the times itâs misbehaved. Reminded that it was bad.
âThank you, sir.â The words leave its mouth before they can become shaky, as he flicks away the remainder of the cigarette with wide eyes. He laughs in disbelief. âThey really do the fuckin number on you here,â he laughs. âChrist.â
It doesnât know how to react or respond, other than a small âYes, sirâ. Was the sex bad? It was sure that he had enjoyed it, it had done everything right! Perhaps he had just wanted to see how it would react to the burn? He did make it abundantly clear that he doesnât anything about pets. 37 follows him back into the room quietly and quickly, the magic feeling of the night air now ruined. It doesnât need to look in the mirror, it knows that he had left a mark on its skin.
When the man lays down to sleep later 37 doesnât crawl into the bed beside him, even though it knows it could probably get away with it.
ââââ
It catches a glimpse of the mark in the mirror the next day. Thankfully, itâs covered by its hair most of the time. It sits unusually still as the staff ready it for service, and the woman doing its makeup steps aside to talk with her supervisor partway through. She saw it. Everyone sees it. 37 may not be smart but it can figure out the much at least.
Breathe. In, and out. Good pets donât panic. Pets deserve everything theyâre given. You have worse marks already.
It does its best to stay calm. After all, itâs just a small mark, itâs hardly even there. Most guests wonât see its neck before booking it and will probably not notice afterwards. Itâll just have to be extra good to make up for it.
Not to be weird on my weirdest sideblog but consider:
Seahorse mer whumpee being used as a convenient portable nest (and possibly general toy) by a band of travelling merfolk bandits/hunters.
Their little pouch is only really meant to hold a single clutch, deposited by a loving partner in an act that is considered just as, if not more intimate than sex. Instead, they are overfull with too many of their abusers' eggs forced into them, constantly in pain from the strain. It gets worse whenever the group have one of their fun little orgies, resulting in more eggs.
With their specialized body, they're by far the worst swimmer of the bunch. Not a chance of escape, and while travelling they're being dragged around and cussed out, possibly punished for being such a nuisance. Perhaps their leash was originally attached to their wrists, then it was moved around their aching belly for a punishment and that just became the new normal.
In seahorse communities, giving birth is considered a joyful event, with with the whole community coming together to comfort and support the birthing parent. Instead, whumpee is left abandoned, delirious with pain that is worse from the overuse of their body, blindly begging for support their whumpers don't care to give. Whumpee doesn't really want it to be them, either, but they're so out of it that anyone, please- They find themselves with new bruises and lashes when the worst of it is over, punishments for their noise that they were in too much pain already to even notice in the moment.
Did the whumpers buy them at a market or were they even the ones who kidnapped them, devastating their village?
Picture this: a seahorse mer living in a community with fairly strictly enforced gender roles doesn't fit in and is ostracized as a result. All he really wants is to be sweet with a pregnant husband in the house coral :(
So when a lone bandit comes around town offering an enslaved pregnant seahorseman for sale, he figures that's the best shot he'll ever have at his fantasy :((
After scraping together his savings and buying whumpee sight unseen, he is shocked to find the terrible state he really is in.
(Also, language barrier. Totally different reef. In fact it's entirely possible whumpee's home community was a lot less Like That about queer folks and he at first assumes his new captor must have done something way worse.)
Caretaker falls in love with whumpee (naturally) and after some time, out of love, decides to bring him to the village that cast him out. They may not be deserving of community, but Whumpee is :(
Whumpee is taken in, cared for, and finally delivers the last of the babies. But. a) everyone is going on about how terrible it is he was »at the mercy« of his rescuer, the first person to show him kindness and care when he was at his absolute lowest, and b) after a little while, people start giving him the side-eye for not wanting to get pregnant again. They understand there is some trauma so heâs not at immediate risk of being cast out, but itâs clear that this isnât Ideal. While at the same time, Whumpee himself is already super conflicted and tormented about this, because he really felt fulfilled and happy bearing eggs Before and hates the spiky wall of trauma between him and what he genuinely feels to be his calling.
So eventually, he returns to Caretaker, proposing they run away together and find a community that will be more accepting. Caretaker is in pieces about the fact that Whumpee actually came back to him.
They travel (joining a well-protected caravan across the ocean) and eventually reach a village near where Whumpee originally came from. And lo and behold! Some of Whumpeeâs villageâs populace actually survived and found shelter here! Tearful reunions! Caretaker is shaking and crying like a stray dog being pet for the first time when theyâre welcomed in (as an oddity, sure, but not a danger). They eventually manage to form some kind of polycule where everyone has their needs met, and stay together forever <3 <3 <3
Not to be weird on my weirdest sideblog but consider:
Seahorse mer whumpee being used as a convenient portable nest (and possibly general toy) by a band of travelling merfolk bandits/hunters.
Their little pouch is only really meant to hold a single clutch, deposited by a loving partner in an act that is considered just as, if not more intimate than sex. Instead, they are overfull with too many of their abusers' eggs forced into them, constantly in pain from the strain. It gets worse whenever the group have one of their fun little orgies, resulting in more eggs.
With their specialized body, they're by far the worst swimmer of the bunch. Not a chance of escape, and while travelling they're being dragged around and cussed out, possibly punished for being such a nuisance. Perhaps their leash was originally attached to their wrists, then it was moved around their aching belly for a punishment and that just became the new normal.
In seahorse communities, giving birth is considered a joyful event, with with the whole community coming together to comfort and support the birthing parent. Instead, whumpee is left abandoned, delirious with pain that is worse from the overuse of their body, blindly begging for support their whumpers don't care to give. Whumpee doesn't really want it to be them, either, but they're so out of it that anyone, please- They find themselves with new bruises and lashes when the worst of it is over, punishments for their noise that they were in too much pain already to even notice in the moment.
Did the whumpers buy them at a market or were they even the ones who kidnapped them, devastating their village?
Picture this: a seahorse mer living in a community with fairly strictly enforced gender roles doesn't fit in and is ostracized as a result. All he really wants is to be sweet with a pregnant husband in the house coral :(
So when a lone bandit comes around town offering an enslaved pregnant seahorseman for sale, he figures that's the best shot he'll ever have at his fantasy :((
After scraping together his savings and buying whumpee sight unseen, he is shocked to find the terrible state he really is in.
(Also, language barrier. Totally different reef. In fact it's entirely possible whumpee's home community was a lot less Like That about queer folks and he at first assumes his new captor must have done something way worse.)
Not to be weird on my weirdest sideblog but consider:
Seahorse mer whumpee being used as a convenient portable nest (and possibly general toy) by a band of travelling merfolk bandits/hunters.
Their little pouch is only really meant to hold a single clutch, deposited by a loving partner in an act that is considered just as, if not more intimate than sex. Instead, they are overfull with too many of their abusers' eggs forced into them, constantly in pain from the strain. It gets worse whenever the group have one of their fun little orgies, resulting in more eggs.
With their specialized body, they're by far the worst swimmer of the bunch. Not a chance of escape, and while travelling they're being dragged around and cussed out, possibly punished for being such a nuisance. Perhaps their leash was originally attached to their wrists, then it was moved around their aching belly for a punishment and that just became the new normal.
In seahorse communities, giving birth is considered a joyful event, with with the whole community coming together to comfort and support the birthing parent. Instead, whumpee is left abandoned, delirious with pain that is worse from the overuse of their body, blindly begging for support their whumpers don't care to give. Whumpee doesn't really want it to be them, either, but they're so out of it that anyone, please- They find themselves with new bruises and lashes when the worst of it is over, punishments for their noise that they were in too much pain already to even notice in the moment.
Did the whumpers buy them at a market or were they even the ones who kidnapped them, devastating their village?
Not to be weird on my weirdest sideblog but consider:
Seahorse mer whumpee being used as a convenient portable nest (and possibly general toy) by a band of travelling merfolk bandits/hunters.
Their little pouch is only really meant to hold a single clutch, deposited by a loving partner in an act that is considered just as, if not more intimate than sex. Instead, they are overfull with too many of their abusers' eggs forced into them, constantly in pain from the strain. It gets worse whenever the group have one of their fun little orgies, resulting in more eggs.
With their specialized body, they're by far the worst swimmer of the bunch. Not a chance of escape, and while travelling they're being dragged around and cussed out, possibly punished for being such a nuisance. Perhaps their leash was originally attached to their wrists, then it was moved around their aching belly for a punishment and that just became the new normal.
In seahorse communities, giving birth is considered a joyful event, with with the whole community coming together to comfort and support the birthing parent. Instead, whumpee is left abandoned, delirious with pain that is worse from the overuse of their body, blindly begging for support their whumpers don't care to give. Whumpee doesn't really want it to be them, either, but they're so out of it that anyone, please- They find themselves with new bruises and lashes when the worst of it is over, punishments for their noise that they were in too much pain already to even notice in the moment.
Did the whumpers buy them at a market or were they even the ones who kidnapped them, devastating their village?
CW: Consensual spice - nothing SUPER explicit but nsfw, angst, alcohol use, former pet whumpee/recovering whumpee, self-loathing (not who you think!)
I GIVE YOU JAKAURI SMUT AND ANGST
-
âJesus Christ, how the fuck are you like this?â
The words are whispered with awe, reverence at the altar. Jake hasnât prayed in a long fucking time but he could be convinced to worship this.
His hands shift up Kauriâs sides, play over the shadows of his ribcage, run over the rounded curves of shoulders and finally bury themselves in his wild hair, black curls that slip like silk through his fingers, starting to dampen with sweat.Â
Kauri laughs - a low, breathy chuckle, hardly a sound at all. His forehead tips to rest against Jakeâs, hips rolling with only the barest movements. He smells like sweat and like the eucalyptus massage oil they buy, cheap as hell but even just the smell can get Jake turned on by now.Â
âLong experience,â He answers in a whisper. In the dark room, thereâs a flash of his white teeth in his wicked smile.
Jakeâs hands settle back onto his hips as he shifts backwards, and he watches Kauri with wide eyes as he arches his back. The light of the moon cuts across the old scar along his collarbone, fading with time but itâll never be subtle. Jake raises one hand to trace along the line of it, feeling the odd, silky twisted skin there.
Notes | Sorry for the stupid title it stuck I couldn't get it off
A living weapon encounters a situation she was not trained for. Her handler wasn't prepared for it, either.
I'll be afk for an indeterminate amount of time (a week tops; good reason) but I hope you enjoy this in the meantime!
The day started normal. An eager PA brought him his coffee, and he went to the armoury to activate the weapon for daily maintenance before its training routine. It was scheduled for cold inurement and a 72-hour sleep deprivation cycle.
He was proud of it, really. 29 performed consistently, faultless within its optimal parameters and practically so under distress. He took a moment to look down on it after he opened its case. The restraints it was fixed with inside had been unnecessary for years, but they were a part of protocol, and consistency was a two-way street. It didnât preempt his command even as he waited, although he was certain it was awake â it had had enough time to rest.
»Activate, 29.« He typed into the keypad inside the case, releasing the restraints, as he said it.
Its eyes opened at once, and it sat up, looking him directly in the face. »Status: body temperature normal. Heartrate normal. Water required within 16 hours. Food required within 112 hours. Sleep required within 65 hours.«
That was the first red flag. It should have been 72 hours â for optimal functioning, of course, theyâd had it up for five days fulfilling impaired functioning â if it had just slept its fill.
»Potential damage detected: soreness in vagina. Faults: crying, failure to sleep required quota during deactivation period.«
Horror crept up his spine. Horror â and anger.
»What happened?«
*
The weapon woke from rough, giggling voices at 1:13. The lid of its case had been opened.
»Oh yeah, and thatâs⊠that one. 29 I think. Or 27?«
»Is she⊠asleep?«
»Itâs an it, not a she.«
»Right, sorry. My mistake.« The voice was mocking, and a little unsteady. Drunk, the weapon assumed based on the available evidence.
Its heartrate picked up; something wasnât right. It tried to calm itself the way it was supposed to. It was deactivated. It shouldnât be responding at all. It didnât matter.
»And I donât know, I guess? Itâs deactivated, is what it is.«
»Can you activate it?«
»I donât have the clearance, you know that. Activate, 27. 29. Whatever.«
It didnât respond. The person was right: they didnât have the clearance.
A single finger poked its right breast, followed by hysterical giggling. It barely managed not to flinch at the suddenness of it.
»It doesnât notice anything, does it?«
»I donât know about that, but itâs not going to do anything. Itâs deactivated!«
»Yeah?«
A moment of excited whispering and intermittent giggling passed, then a hand was at its waist. It slipped under its shirt first, suddenly, startlingly warm against its skin, then it pushed its way past the elastic waistband of the thin trousers it always wore.
The hand slid between its legs.
»Sheâs â itâs shaved.« More giggles, more subdued this time.
It was a hygiene decision. Less risk of smell, more stealth.
Fingers slid between its labia, found its clit, briefly rubbed. Then they pushed inside.
The weapon held still. It was deactivated. There was nothing it was supposed to do.
The intruder probed its insides for a bit. The weapon felt itself getting wet. This was not a fault, as far as it had been trained, but then it had never been trained for a situation like this. This wasnât what it was for. Its heartrate rose further.
»Oh, I think itâs awake alright. Itâs getting all hot and bothered.«
»Either that, or weâre giving it some really vivid dreams right now.« Someone barked out a laugh; the weapon guessed it was the person with their fingers inside it, since the sound was so close. »You know what? Fuck it.«
Someone climbed on top of its case, and a moment later, a warm weight settled on top of it. Its shirt was pulled up against the resistance of the thinly padded surface the weapon was affixed to, and a moment later, a hand was groping its breast. It wasnât painful, but this wasnât what it was for-
Its trousers were pulled down the rest of the way they would go before being limited by the restraints around its thighs. It was enough. Someone pushed into its vagina, hot and too big for its current state of arousal.
It didnât make a sound. It was deactivated.
»Isa, you perv!« The group giggled among themselves.
»Shut up,« the person on top of it groaned between thrusts. »No names, it can hear us. Probably.«
»You donât think itâs too distracted by your magic wand?«
They came inside it; settled on top of it for a moment, heavy and sweaty. »Might as well be. Probably doing it a favour, I bet it doesnât get much action.«
»Oh, bullshit, you think the handlers never have a little fun?«
»I know I would.«
The one on top of them finally climbed back down. »Well, nowâs your chance. Who wants a go?«
Four of them did. Two took a second turn, and the one who had gone first took a third. Some took their time and caressed its face, its flanks, its chest; some went hard and fast. Sometimes, someone else was groping at its breasts while it was being fucked.
It was 2:48 when they roughly tugged its clothes back into shape.
»Weâll be in so much trouble if anyone finds out.«
»Howâs anyone gonna find out? It didnât see us. Not sure it even noticed anything, itâs deactivated. Come on.«
The lid was closed on it, cutting it off from the voices, the giggling, the groping hands. The smell remained.
It was supposed to go back to sleep.
It was not supposed to allow the tears slipping out between its eyelids. Crying could impair vision; it should have a grip on it.
*
The weapon recounted the events in the dry, factual terms it was supposed to use, its voice steady. Even its eyes only flicked away from his once or twice; faults it would report at the next opportunity, he was certain of it.
It used the term »tampered with«, which was of course correct. It wasnât a person; it couldnât be raped. It was a weapon, and it had been tampered with. A serious infraction, but given no harm nor, probably, permanent damage had been caused, nowhere near as bad as raping a fellow soldier.
He had to remember that.
But it was hard to convince himself that he was not just about to punish a woman for crying and failing to go back to sleep after being gang-raped.
They had to have â at least one of them had to have clearance to even access the armoury. It didnât narrow it down overmuch, it wasnât an outlandish level, but he viscerally hated the thought.
»Would you able to identify the persons involved by voice?«
She â it â considered for a moment. »Uncertain, sir.«
It wasnât a vague statement, like nothing it said was allowed to be. Uncertain: forty to sixty percent likelihood. It was still the one its handlers liked to hear least; heâd had to fire two over the years for punishing 29 for correctly reporting uncertainty. He understood the frustration, but the weaponâs ability to report correctly could not be compromised.
»Go report to medical,« he finally said, his voice softer than it should be. »Tell them what happened, and they are to take samples and identify as many perpetrators as possible. Then, if youâre found capable of normal functioning, do your morning maintenance, and then weâll see about punishing your faults.« There was no way around it; consistency was important.
»Up you get, little one. Time to get a move on.«
Melay woke, still exhausted; he hadnât gotten nearly enough sleep. Someone had talked to him, almost gently. The big one. Mac. As Melay was blinking his eyes open, he was getting up from under him where heâd served as his pillow.
Melayâs body felt stiff â but only when he tried to get up, he realized the soreness of his muscles had gotten a hundred times worse. Every limb protested every movement. Whimpering in pain, he got onto his feet like a foal standing for the first time, and like a foal, Mac helped him up.
»Sore, huh?«
»Yes, sir.« He barely got the words out.
But he knew he had no choice. He never did.
Mac handed him a piece of breakfast bread, cream cheese baked into its center. It was good and baffling for it.
He flinched when he heard the commander bark through the camp.
»Okay, put this one before the cart.« There was scattered cheering at the order. Melay didnât turn around. He hadnât been given a direct order, and every movement he could avoid today would be precious, all the more if-
Only when an all-too-familiar voice protested did he realize the commander hadnât talked about him at all.
»I will not pull your cart for you.«
»Yes you will, General.« The commanderâs voice dripped with sarcasm over the title. »Because weâll beat you until you either move or die.«
Melay still didnât turn. The threat of violence scared him, and the memory of the fury heâd seen in the Generalâs eyes when he had seen him humiliated by the bandits the night before. He had to remember he had a new master â mistress â to reckon with now, but the fear ran too deep to easily shake.
It was some time before the cart moved past him, and he kept his eyes cast down, the heavy whacks of a cane or some such still ringing in his ears.
»Câmon.« Mac led him to fall into step behind the cart, and Melay stumbled along.
Gods, it hurt. It hurt so much to just walk. His legs needed rest, but he knew there was no way he would get any â he certainly couldnât ask for it. One night off, if it was real, would not be enough to recover, as welcome as it would be. And then there was the sharp pain in his ass agitated with every clumsy step.
Would he die? If he never had the time to heal beforeâ would he simply die?
How long would it take?
He couldnât focus on the dark thoughts; that was the only good thing.
He couldnât focus on anything. The more time dragged on, the more his entire being was dragged into his tormented body, into his hot and hurting muscles and the exhaustion still sitting bone-deep, leaving his mind no escape.
They werenât moving particularly fast, but it was enough for him to eventually realize the cart in front of him was gone, and he â with Mac as his guard â had fallen close to the end of the train.
Mac offered him a waterskin, and he managed to take a much-needed drink. Walking shouldnât have been so exhausting.
He didnât realize who was walking nearby until he discerned the medicâs voice. He didnât look up; there was a vague fear associated with it he couldnât dispel without thinking, and he needed to conserve what energy he had, anyway.
»Iâm not going to do it.«
»It needs done.« The commander. »And what slave gets the luxury of a medic not only doing his branding, but looking after him afterwards?«
»He wouldnât need looking after if you wouldnât burn him.«
»Youâre going to burn him.«
»Or what?«
»Or I will have to do it, Doc. And that will definitely be worse because I straight up do not know how much is enough. Yeah? Are we in agreement now?«
Melay didnât hear the medic respond. He didnât need to. It was easy not to think about what heâd heard; that was the only good thing.
kinda specific but athlete whumpee whose main abuser is their coach, but their team acts as a kind of secondary whumper. the team know what coach does to whumpee, and instead of helping whumpee they make fun of them for it, making lewd jokes and innuendos in the locker room, laughing when whumpee flinches, maybe even assaulting whumpee themselves because they know whumpee won't tell, and their coach won't care if they find out.
teammate whumper slipping their hand into whumpee's pants on the team bus on the way to a game, not bothering to be discreet because everyone on the bus is on their side and thinks it's funny. whumpee just having to sit there and take it because if they make a scene more people will probably join in.
then having to go out and play their sport with the team as if everything is fine and do press interviews afterwards where their teammates make subtle comments and references to the abuse that no one but whumpee understands, and whumpee has to play it off like it's an inside joke.
oh that's fucking awful, i love that. (also i love specific. i ALWAYS love specific.)
the way the team knows and finds out and take advantage of the opportunity. abusing whumpee emotionally or even joining in on the sexual abuse. the specific image of one of their teammates slipping their hand into whumpee's pants on the team bus on the way to the game with everyone in full view and they just have to take it is just. gutting. it's utterly gutting.
the thought specifically of making subtle comments and references to the abuse in public, in interviews, that nobody can understand but whumpee... god. it's constant. it's nonstop. it's relentless, it's inescapable, it feels like the whole of their life. the potential for spillover into like, social events, too. hanging out with teammates is a minefield of emotional or direct contact abuse.
and because i'm the person i am, i can't help but think 'how do they end up getting out' which brought me to the concept of what if there had been a whumpee before this whumpee on this team. what if someone else had been sort of a free use target of abuse on that team under the direction of that coach, and had gotten away, gone to another team. and they figure out what's going on, and lobby their current team to get whumpee out. they see those haunted eyes in close-ups on the field/court/rink/etc. they hear the comments nobody but whumpee understands, that they understand. and they just know.
good old "whumpee who's conditioned into performing sexual favors for their whumper now mindlessly falls down to their knees in front of caretaker, thinking they're expecting the same treatment."
And the follow up horrified stumbling back from Caretaker that is misinterpreted as more than just rejection which only makes Whumpee spiral.
-if whumpee and caretaker are same sex, whumpee panicking that caretaker was angry that they implied they were gay, and would take that wounded pride and hate out on them.
-whumpee thinking that caretaker found them ugly or unattractive (especially if theyâd recently changed their appearance or gotten some scars or similar)
-whumpee worrying that if they couldnât do this, what else would caretaker want from them? They hated every second but at least once it was over, it was over, and whumper had been nicer, less violent, afterwards. Without this to offer, what were they going to do?
-that caretaker was upset that they had taken the initiative, meaning that to remind them that âit wasnât their choice to makeâ caretaker was going to do something far worst to them.
big fan of whumpee falling asleep with another person for the first time after escaping whumper, and upon waking up, sort of absentmindedly asking, "did we... you know... do anything last night?"
the other person is immediately concerned about their short term memory, like, "no?? you fell asleep as soon as you hit the mattress. you don't remember?"
and whumpee is like "no, i mean after that."
"you mean... while you were asleep?"
for whumper, sleep was always an invitation. now, whumpee suddenly remembers that they are allowed to be in charge of what happens to their body all the time.
the automatic assumption that it would've been logical and foreseeable that the person they fell asleep with would've sexually abused them while they were sleeping, god. that's so... it speaks to such an extensive objectification that they've experienced, such a prolonged stretch of repeated instances of abuse,
and the like. the initial offence from the other person, like what sort of a person do you think i am? you thought i'd do something like that to you? and then you slept beside me anyway?
and there's the question, right. did the other person know about the sexual abuse before this, and just didn't realize how deep the damage went or how extensive it was? or is this the first they're learning?
