The dazed, distant look of an exhausted, drugged Whumpee. As they sway on their feet, their body almost limp. Almost heavy with sleep. They are fighting with everything in them not to fall. Not to fully black out. But it’s getting to be impossible.
Whumper tsks and it sounds both distant, like it’s coming from miles away and very near-like a whisper in Wumpee’s ear. It makes their stomach spin for a moment and they almost heave. But holds steady enough. Their legs wobble. “Now, I don’t believe I said you could stop working, now did it? That won’t due, dear Whumpee. Not one bit.” They hiss.
But Whumpee can hear the pleasure in it. The lust for pain, bubbling beneath their stern tone. And it makes them livid. It makes them want to pull back and slam their fist into Whumper’s face. But their hands are simply limp at their sides. Losing grip of the scrub brush they had been holding.
They stumble back, their body swaying dangerously left, then right, then left again. This time, they tip over and hit the floor hard. Their body failing them, failing to catch them and to mitigate the impact on their shoulder, on their temple. The dizziness intensifies and they shut their eyes. And Whumper just watches. A grin on their face. Ready to bring down the punishment, for poor, useless Whumpee. Who was still trying to open their eyes and lift their head.
