#forcesub

[webby-after-dark]

forceddom / forcedsub

forceddom / forcedsub

Forced- terms for when you are a dom/sub as a result of forcedom/forcesub, being forced to be a dom/sub, possibly by another individual/s in a kinky way.

Colors are based on the genderdom and gendersub flags

Day 1 of @chronicallyqueer-afterdark 's 8 days of lust event

[dollfather]

Excellent idea: dom takes me to store to find a plushie.

“Go on.” I’m pissed that we’re doing this but they’re not budging. “Take all the time you need, I don’t have to be anywhere. We’re not leaving until you pick one.”

I am faced with the tough and humiliating choice of finding a friend. I’m standing with them in an aisle of squishy plush doodads and fuming at how humiliating and unnecessary this all is. “I have plushes already.” I say.

“Those small ones that sit around your room for decoration? Those don’t count.”

“Fuck you mean ‘those don’t count’?”

“Hey. Easy. Pick a big one. One you can cuddle.”

I hate this so goddamn much. I am too old for this. It takes me maybe a full minute to actually make eye contact with the little beads and buttons sewn into the faces of the vast array of plush toys. I don’t like looking at them for too long.

“We’d be wasting our money, I’m not gonna care about it-“

“Yes you will. That’s what we’re working on. Now pick a new best friend.”

There is no amount of moaning and groaning I can do that will get my dom to change their mind about this and very slowly I step into the strange feeling of seeing these big cuddly toys as somewhat sentient. Maybe letting myself think that one of them might want me to bring it home, as ridiculous as that is. One of them tugs at my vision. I hesitate as I reach out to grab it, but my dom can see my caution.

“Good boy. C’mon, grab your new friend and let’s go.”

It takes a few days for me to stop hating all of this. Dom won’t let me acknowledge or speak to them at home unless I’m holding my plush in my arms. “Where’s your buddy?” They ask before I go to sleep. I have to show them I have my plush before they put me to bed.

What really drills it in is when I’m on my back, encouraged to cry and make all the sounds I need, curse and whine while they’re fucking me, their hands digging into my skin, holding my hips, taking what they need from me. “Shh, it’s okay, just hold your plushie, baby.”

And I’m crying into my little friend as I hold it as tightly as I can for comfort. I hold it very close during and after, in my sleep, around the house. It’s easier to love it. It doesn’t feel nearly as stupid as I imagined it would.