!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! story where Spamton is forced into an unnatural heat and tormented by the reader character. Cuts off right before full on rape occurs. Proceed at your discretion
You and Spamton are sitting in your living room, on the couch. You’re laying lengthways across the couch. You have your legs laid across his lap.
He is deeply, deeply uncomfortable. You know this. It’s your fault.
He’s trying to lean back into the couch as far as he can to minimize physical contact. At this point he knows better than to take a more direct approach with you.
He’s gotten so non confrontational in these quieter moments. It’s boring. You want him to step out of line again so you can do something new to him. You’re bored.
“What if I changed you to go into heat, like an animal?”
Spamton makes a horrified face and begs, “NO. YOU C-CAN^T DO THAT!!”
“Not an answer to my question.”
“I;D HATE YOU. I’D HATE YOU. I’D HATE YOU.”
“You already do, but you don’t leave. What you’re saying is that there’s no adverse consequences if I want to do this.”
“That’s not what I said AT ALL!”
“What would you want in return.”
He tries to push your legs off of his lap, but you don’t budge.
“I [negatif] WANT YOU TO [[touted as a mir]] ME!! NO [Groped] NO [Squeeze] NO [Petting]!!”
He probably meant that as a deterrent, as if you’d really care so long as you can see what happens. However, the idea of him horny out of his mind—you’re definitely restraining him so he can’t do anything about it on his own—with the explicit request that you cannot help him, is really compelling.
“That’s what you want in return and I’ll honor your request. You will start feeling the effects tomorrow.”
That way, he has a good 16 hours to dread and anticipate and contemplate what will happen to him.
“WAIT!! WHAT. THAT WASN’T WHAT I MEANT.”
“I asked what you wanted in return for doing this favor and you answered me.”
“What follows the rules isn’t always fair.”
“I DON’T WANT THIS, ANY OF THIS.”
You laugh good-naturedly at him. You’ve been brainstorming more and more ways to patronize and infantilize him, and you’re glad to see the way his expression twists into hopeless despair.
“I will not touch you for the full duration of your heat.”
You pause, waiting, watching.
He goes very quiet and very still for a moment. Puppets don’t have heartbeats of course, so there isn’t even the subtle rhythm hidden in his chest.
Then, a second later, his arm whips out, striking at your stomach, your thighs, your knees, anywhere he can reach. He attacks you with all his strength.
If you were anything but what you are, it almost certainly would have injured you. Maybe he would break a rib or two.
It’s really cute when Spamton acts like he can hurt you.
You change the material of your body to act like cold and unrelenting marble stone.
The change is made apparent to Spamton, when, on his next attack…
—the distinctive sound of plastic shattering on impact.
Oh, his poor hand, he cradles it to his chest. He turns away as much as he can and you bet he’s taking in the damage.
“You do it to yourself, darling.”You put a soft and gentle hand on his back. “You swung that fist all on your own. It’s not my fault that you don’t like what happened.”
“Hopeless poor thing,” you croon, voice dripping with counterfeit saccharine, to nobody in particular.
The rest of the night goes by quickly, to you, at least. With every hour that passes Spamton just seems to get more horrified and upset.
His room feels like a beckoning prison cell and he doesn’t want to fall asleep at all. He sits on the couch shaking in revulsion. Eventually the exhaustion wins over the dread and he passes out early into the morning.
The next day, he wakes up sweaty and unusually sensitive. You brush your fingers across his shoulder and to Spamton’s mortification he whimpers.
“Already? You really are something special!”
He’s too sensitive. He’s so sensitive it almost hurts. Any touch is electric, sending sparks across his body.
“I bet.” You lean down to hug him. You feel the way his entire body flinches away from you, the way his beautiful hands tremble and twitch trying to push you away. “Isn’t it nice?”
“d-D-DON>. t [[s non-contact sports prohibit ]] ME! STOP!! ST0oOo——ahhHHAha—!!”
You pointedly grope his smooth, featureless doll crotch through his pants just to see him choke up and stop speaking.
“Yeah sure whatever. I’m gonna tie you up then I’ll stop touching you.”
“WHAT!! NO! NO. Nonono. Wrong. THAT WASN;;T OUR [[Legally Binding]]!!!”
Well, you will be ‘binding’ him. You sit up straight and pick him up.
“I don’t think your heat is at full effect yet, so it hasn’t really started. I can do whatever I damn well want.”
“I DON T WANT TO BE [HVAC and Furnace Repair] MAKE IT STOP!!”
You decide to do this to him to his own room. Maybe if you get him to associate his room with danger, he’ll decide to sleep in yours.
His bed frame is wrought iron painted a cheerful green. His silky sheets are patterned with delicate painted doves. His room would be fit for a dollhouse with how cozy you’ve decorated it.
You grab a length of rope from your pockets and begin to tie Spamton’s wrists together. As you’re halfway through the knot, he jerks his arms apart, which catches you off guard.
Frustrated, you dump him on the edge of his bed. You loom over him as you re-tie the rope. You make the knots slightly too tight. If he struggles too much, it’ll cause joint injuries.
To put a bow on the present that is Spamton, you loop the long tails of the rope through one of the vertical bars of the wrought iron headboard.
He flips onto his stomach and tries to crawl-scramble away.
“YOU CRAZY [[#%*$&]] [bodice-rippper]!!! ! ”
As you pull the cords taut Spamton is forced into position. His arms stretch out in front of him, chest and head slamming face-first into his luxurious sheets. You wince sympathetically as his nose bends at an odd angle.
“All I do is help you,” you snarl, “be good and move how I want you to.”
Once he’s where you want him, you tie the rope tightly to the bed frame. Somehow, he maneuvers himself to get a good kick at your stomach.
You snatch up a handful of his hair and pull him up, his neck straining painfully as you lower yourself to murmur lowly into where his ear would be if he was human, “Don’t. Fucking do that. Again.”
You let go of him and his head falls limply onto the pillows.
Spamton’s chest rises and falls faster as he breathes heavily in shame and indignation, no doubt.
“It’s always the theatrics with you. If you want so badly to be a ‘real boy’ you shouldn’t act like you’re the lead in a puppet show.”
“I’M NOT [[ to act, THEN ACT!]] I’’M [Restistance is the measure of opposition t]]!!!”
“Of course you’d think that. You’re still in the ‘rejecting the call’ part of your narrative.” You grab his ankle and tie another rope. “I’m just coaching you on how to make actual progress.”
You repeat the process with his other leg. He doesn’t try to kick you. You wonder if he’s too busy filling the room with stifled sobbing.
You know from experience that if he could use his hands, he’d be covering his face right now. Fat tears run down his cheeks.
Then you fasten the ropes to the footboard, tying each rope to the far ends of the panel. It forces him into position, laid on his back, legs forced open.
His joints strain, hips not quite flexible to maintain the pose. Not without your help, of course.
His knees spasm, bucking inwards, twisting in the wrong direction just the smallest amount.
You probably should have undressed him before you tied him up. He’s wearing his favorite pair of pants too.
Oh well! That’s just what happens sometimes.
“You’ll stay like this until your heat kicks in.”
Spamton looks at you with so much hatred you worry he could die from it.
“I WISH [[POV: Your an Evil Wizard]] IN A [[E-Z P-Z Sweet and Breezy]] WAY. AT LEAST the OT[Her Losers] [#$&@]iNG PAID ME WHEN THEY GOT [Ultra-Violet] wITH ME!!”
“You’re not showing me that you understand what I’m saying. Do you think bitching and whining like a dog is going to change anything?”
“HOW LONG. WILL IT LAST.”
“NO,” he says, in disbelief so hopeless it’s indistinguishable from despair.
“Would be shorter if you got fucked.”
“I-I’’M [Slipknot] DOING THAT.”
Back to angry petulance. Spamton should really learn to better regulate his emotions.
You just smile at him. You can wait for him to get desperate. He won’t find you getting bored.
Hours pass. Spamton pleads with you. Please, his wrists hurt. Can’t you at least loosen the ropes? His entire body is burning up. He’s too sensitive, it feels weird. Why did you have to tie his legs so far apart? It hurts. He’s not built for this. Please just let him go. At least untie his legs so he can rest them.
You pay it no mind. You want to see if he’ll get desperate enough for him to beg you to touch him.
His hips thrust up, seemingly involuntarily. His face scrunches up in anguish.
“MAKE IT STOP..>!!! I DON’T WANT IT!! I’LL DO [AYNTHING You WANT]!!”
If he doesn’t want you to fuck him, that was the wrong choice of words.
“Oh good, you’re finally coming around.” You climb up onto the bed and sit between his legs.
You hum in faux indecisiveness. For a second you can swear he looks hopeful.
