#pup.md

[mutt-txt]

Pups don't need to think. They need to be drooling and unable to form a thought as they're being mounted by other bigger pups. And those other bigger pups are also not thinking. They are panting and growling and blissed out of their mind as they rut into a warm hole . This is the law.

[mutt-txt]

God I can't stop thinking about making a guy watch as I play with his cunt.. laying him down on the bed and spreading his legs and spitting on his hole just so I can see the embarrassment on his face. Laugh at him a little for squirming as I work two fingers into him, teasing him slowly until he's leaking onto the bed, all slick and puffy. Keep him like that until he's begging me to touch his dick.

Why would I, though? He's making such slutty sounds for me. Well, at least his pussy is, and everyone knows that's all that really matters. Wanna tell him to listen realllll close to the squelch of my fingers fucking him. Boys like him were meant to be stretched open, meant to grimace as—here, keep your eyes on me, boy—I notch the tip of my cock into them—look at that stretch—and let out wordless moans as I slide into their pussies, meant to get fucked in their slutty, needy cunts until they're rocking back against me, desperate to cum.

[mutt-txt]

If you ask very nicely I'll let you kill me. Be polite and I'll kneel in front of you and bare my neck so you can slit my throat. Is that what you want? I'll scream for you. Loud, if you tell me to. Or I'll shut up. I'll clench my teeth and pretend my heart isn't pounding through my chest from the pain. I'm very good at following orders. Just tell me what you want. But make sure you say please.

[mutt-txt]

I'm actually so normal about lingerie. Very normal about how skin looks through lace, and the indented patterns left behind when you press down on it for too long. Love how straps bite into the skin ever so slightly, how flesh spills out over the top of stockings or underwear. Everyone looks good in something small and scandalous and tight enough to make them embarrassed and flustered about it

[mutt-txt]

I'm not really into needles, but I appreciate how they let you get deeper into the flesh than a blade. There's something so sick about the almost-crunch of muscle, the way that the tip of the needle hesitates before piercing through. It's such a contrast too, from the soft fat layer just above it. The force that's needed to dig into the muscle really feels like you're being penetrated, violated in some intimate way. Not sexual, but viscerally crude in a way that makes me lighthearted nonetheless.

In other words—I want to make a guy do my shot, and watch the disgust on his face as he feels the different layers—dermis, fat, muscle—give way. It takes more pressure than you think, especially when your hands are shaking. I want him to be scared that it's hurting me, especially as he watches the needle sink millimeter by millimeter into my skin. And I want it to really hurt when he gets it in the wrong spot, and I make him try again in a different part of my leg, the guilt making him weak. Take that sick-shaking-cold feeling and internalize it as pleasure, not sure if the heavy breathing is from panic or arousal. I hope it feels like he's violating me.

[mutt-txt]

Strapped down, operating table cold under your back, antiseptic acrid in your nose. The person above you snaps on latex gloves. They want this to be a clean operation, after all.

"I'll be taking your other kidney today."

Nothing in response but the sound of your ragged breathing in the cold air. You could scream, if you wanted. But your Doctor doesn't like it when you make noise anymore, so you suppress the panic at the back of your throat.

Harsh fingers prod at your arm, pressing down, finding your vein. A dull prick, before numbness spreads throughout your body. Your Doctor is merciful enough to remove some of your pain, even though you don't deserve it. They leave you conscious, though. Awake. Head propped up so you can watch Them work.

Their words cut through the drugs, warped. "You won't die right away, don't worry. I'll give you a few rounds of dialysis. You'll live long enough to recover some, so we'll be able to arrange another session. Your last one. Won't you like that?"

Even if you could respond, you wouldn't be able to muster the strength to say no. Your Doctor doesn't let you say no. You drool helplessly through your mask instead. The beeping of the heart monitor picks up though, and your Doctor takes this as acknowledgement enough.

They run Their gloved fingers over your stomach, so knotted with scar tissue that the skin is barely visible. "Last time," They say admonishingly, "you passed out too early. Be a stronger patient this time. Remember when I took your pancreas, and you stayed conscious long enough to see me suture you up? If not for the anaesthesia wearing off, you could've made it all the way through.

"I've trained you better since then though, haven't I. You do better with the pain now. You're a good patient, so hold on for me." Your Doctor pauses, unwrapping a scalpel and setting it on Their tray. "I shouldn't have taken your tongue so early. I liked when you tried to scream."

The corners of Their lips stretch into something akin to a smile. "That's why I'm terminating you soon, in case you were wondering. All these wordless grunts and cries..." They finish wiping your skin clean and mark where They're going to make the first incision. "It's grotesque. Really, I shouldn't have expected anything better."

They steady the blade, then press down. White hot pain explodes across your vision, a crest of cold metal splitting your flesh. You can't prevent the gutteral moan that's wrenched from your throat. Your Doctor sneers. "Exactly." Another cut. Another. Another. Another. "You're nothing but meat."

[mutt-txt]

Do you consider yourself a good dog? Are you the kind of puppy that rolls over and bares its stomach and obeys commands without even thinking about it, all sweet and docile? You are, huh.

You know what you are, pup? You're pathetic. I can raise my hand to hit you and you'll flinch and plead with me with those sad puppy eyes—please don't please no I've been good please—but in the end you'll still let me strike you. Is this the kind of dog you are? So pathetic you'll let me beat you bloody, and all you'll do after is lick your wounds and thank me for laying my hands on you.

No, but you're a good dog. You obey. Violence can be trained into you. I'll teach you how to be good. I'll teach you to bite back, to use your teeth, your claws, your weight. Every mutt has a breaking point. I just need to find yours.

Once you're at that point, pup. Listen to me. Once you're broken, and you can barely breathe from crying, and your mind is blanked out on pain—come to me. Find your relief in me. Find your purpose, your solution, your absolution from your suffering. Feel how it hurts, pup. Feel how much it's going to hurt.

Pain is sensation and sensation is energy, and energy can be redirected. You're not going to lie there and take it anymore, are you? No, I'll turn you reactive. Snappy. Not to me, of course. But you won't let anyone else lay a hand on you—won't even let them approach, lest they want to lose a finger.

You'll learn to recognize blood in your maw. You'll learn to like it. I'm not giving you options here, pup. I'm telling you what's going to happen. Now tell me thank you. Thank you Handler for turning me into an attack dog. Thank you Handler for making me good.

Good hound.

[mutt-txt]

Sometimes sex is pushing yourself deeper onto their knife. Sometimes it's pained breathing and tears, trying to jerk away, unable to control your survival instinct. Sometimes it's your eyes rolling up in your head as the blade tears through you, feeling it catch on the tissues and muscles and the wet squelch of viscera. It's blacking out from the pain, but registering before you go blank that they're pulling the knife out and slamming it back in, deeper, harder. It's being such an insatiably depraved slut that you thank them for fucking you, for touching you, for making you hurt. That's sex.