Troeve's Blog

25 Ace All this is kink.

[troeveofsmut]

Troev’s Introduction

I’m Troeve. I’d describe myself as Ace (Yeah yeah Ace person with a kink blog). There’s probably something up with my gender, so let’s go with any pronouns, and I might occasionally write or draw kink stuff.

Probably some kind of furry. Kinks:

-Corruption

-Misogyny

-Bimbofication/dumbification

-hypnosis/brainwashing

-gender play (occasionally including Detrans)

-Orientation Play

-transformation.

-Cuckolding/Cheating

Things I don’t like

-Piss/Scat/vomit etc

-vore

-Loli/shota stuff.

-Gore/snuff

-Incest

There’s a lot of stuff not included here that often falls into a grey area where I like it sometimes, but not others, or like it in very small doses. Or simply forgot to put it here.

DNI Minors.

Anything on here is just kink and not a representation of my actual political beliefs.

[toytoytoytoy]

a mutual friend misgendered me today. i don't think she even knew or meant any harm, i just look and sound act like a boy so why would she call me anything else?

what really got me was, well... i didn't correct her. none of my friends did either. and normally i would be hurt or upset but i just felt so light and excited.. i want to hear it again. j also got misgendered on my way home.

i need to keep meeting new acquaintances so i get constant reminders that no matter how many people i convince to play along with me delusions, i will never be a woman!

i wanna be a boy i wanna be a boy i wanna be a boy i wanna be a boy

[stillvathek]

So what if you think about cock more than girls now.

So what?

It doesn’t mean anything. The whole point of a kink and a fetish is that it’s exciting, right? That it’s fun and new and something different. Something out of your ordinary. Right? So why wouldn’t you indulge that? It feels good, it’s nice. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re not changing.

You’re not changing. 

It’s not really affecting you.

So what if you can’t even get off unless there’s a cock.

So what?

It’s not actually there. You’re just watching a girl get fucked, that’s all. Or watching her suck cock. Or suck cock and get fucked. Or imagining her. Imagining the sound she’d make and the look on her face as a big, fat cock slid into her. How her whole body would stiffen when he finished inside her. How his cum would look dribbling from her fucked cunt and the beautiful, dazed, cockdrunk expression she’d have. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re not changing.

You’re not changing.

It’s not really affecting you.

So what if you’re starting to get jealous of those girls.

So what?

It just looks like fun. It looks fun to be a slut for a man. To let him just use you. To be so, so full of him. To have his weight pinning you down as he lined himself up and slid in as you squirmed helplessly underneath him. It doesn’t mean anything if that gets you wet, it’s an exciting idea, it’s not your fault. So what if you like to imagine that you’re the one he’s cumming inside? You’re not changing.

You’re not changing.

It’s really affecting you.

So what if you only cum with a man’s permission now.

So what?

It adds something. You could easily do it if you wanted. It’s not as if he could stop you, right? So why does it matter that you only will if he says so? It’s just playing along. It’s just part of the experience. It’s just better to listen to him and to obey a man. It just feels more natural. More natural to the fun, that’s all. It was still your choice anyway, to give up choice, so really you’re still the one in charge, the one actually in control. You’re not changing.

You’re changing.

It’s really affecting you.

So what if he owns you now.

So what?

It was just the natural next step. You already needed his permission to cum, and then to touch, so just admitting that he owned your cunt wasn’t really going much further anyway. And if you've already done that, why not say he just owns all of you? Easier. Besides, he’s a man, he can look after your cunt better than a dumb, ditzy girl like you. That’s just common-sense. You need his control otherwise you’d just spend all day rubbing yourself to cocks and watching other girls getting fucked - he said so, and you know he’s right. He’s so good for you, you’re so glad he’s helping you. He said you’re better now. You do feel better, so obviously he’s right. He said you're changing. You’re changing.

You’re changing.

It’s really affecting you.

So what?

[pucksplug]

For this pride month, don't simply be there to help crack someone's egg. Be a good friend and scramble their brains.

You're a dick girl? Let me help you with your transition to mindless fuckmeat. A skinny twink like you needs to eat more if they want to grow into a proper cow. A cage over your overgrown clitty, a vibe pressed up against your prostate. All your feed will be laced with extra strong doses of hormones and aphrodisiacs. You be trained all day, every day, you don't need to think, that's not something a girlie needs to do. A shock collar for whenever you say any big words, a higher frequency on you g spot and extra time with the cage off so you can stop that clit from shrinking, you're a girl now and it's just another part that can be milked.

What's that, you're actually a pussy boy? Well men are nothing but horny animals. I'll put you in a cage with hardcore vr porn on 24/7, and a vibrator inside both lower fuckholes, you'll be zapped with cattle prod if you try and touch yourself. I'll pump you up with Testosterone to make you big and strong. You'll be so horny, your swollen microdick peaking out between your legs. I'll let you out once a day, to "exercise" and clicker train you. Good boys are allowed to cum. When I finally let you out, after not letting you cum for at least 2 weeks, I'll get you just drunk enough so you don't hold back. You'll be trying to pin down the first person you see.

[measuresofsin]

You look way more normal with your tongue out

Drooling your iq away. Replacing words with moo's and grunts. Dumb obedient cow.

Eyes filled with spirals. A mind numb and mushy. Obedience is bliss.

You want to be obedient and blissfull.

You need to be obedient and tranced

[still-trying-to-be-horny]

Hey… you should absolutely not be playing anything Harry Potter related?? JKR is a terrible person who has nearly single handedly set back trans rights in the UK by decades, and playing or honestly just talking about that franchise in a positive light benefits her and sends a huge flare to any of your trans followers (like me) that you are not safe to be around. Please consider ditching the game & the franchise wholesale. Trans lives, safety, and comfort is more important than a video game or nostalgia.

Respectfully? As a person living in the UK, JKR hasn't had nearly the impact on trans rights as people think she has.

Are her opinions problematic? Of course.

Is she single handedly undoing the work the trans community has been doing for the last decade or so?...no, not at all.

Mainstream media and social media both universally and unapologetically condemned her statements, meaning no one of significant influence or in possession of any real power necessary to undo the work of the trans community stood by her. And those that did were most likely only grasping at their chance for the spotlight, even in the context of controversy.

She's a best selling author with dodgy opinions, don't give her the credit of shattering trans rights when the fact is all she did was post a few offensive tweets. 🤷🏻‍♂️

Trans people and the trans community in general is strong enough to handle a has-been author. Don't treat them like they're made of glass. Every activist movement has it's criticisms, if it didn't, it wouldn't be a worthy cause to stand behind.

This isn't a defense of JKR. This is a defense of the trans community and their ability to maintain a strong face when confronted with ill informed hatred.

[dykeinspaceofficial]

Holy disappointing response, good god man

One: are you trans? Because I don’t think you are based on this response. Getting a gender recognition certificate has been severely complicated, and the Supreme Court ruled that the only acceptable definition of “sex” is the one assigned at birth. The group that brought this suit, For Women Scotland, was given £70,000 by JKR.

JKR is a billionaire. Idk if you’re aware, but billionaires have outsized impacts on political and social life. I live in the US and I can tell you firsthand that a handful of billionaires have changed life pretty drastically in the last year and a half.

Two: Mainstream media and social media have absolutely NOT universally and unapologetically condemned her, are you out of your mind?!?! They’re rebooting the franchise as a television show on HBO!!!! JKR is a producer on it!! Not to mention she still has a whole theme park!!!!!!! How is that condemnation?!

Three: a “few offensive tweets” is a weird way to say “started a legal fund to specifically fund anti-trans lawsuits and also has a “women-only” rape help center that she created pretty much specifically so she could exclude trans women.” Do you also not remember when she accused that Olympic boxer of being trans a few years ago, which caused that boxer to be the center of a pretty sizable harassment campaign?

This isn’t a “defense of the trans community.” It’s transphobia with a light sprinkling of gaslighting about how bad JKR’s impact has been. Even if none of this had happened, supporting a transphobic author’s franchise is still not okay!

None of this is treating trans people like glass. It’s just the truth. Trans rights have been heavily impacted in the UK recently, and it’s been a massive setback. JKR’s words have also been spoken in Congress here in the States—her impact is, in fact, global! Of course trans people will handle it and make it through. We’ve always been here, and we always will. No one is criticizing the trans rights movement except for you, by your own admission, with that throwaway sentence that frankly doesn’t make any sense.

Drop the franchise. Don’t play the game, don’t watch the show, don’t listen to the new audiobooks, and stop streaming the movies. Giving her more money and attention only makes her impact greater. And if her impact is as little as you believe it to be, not giving her that money and attention should just make her go away, right? So why not just do the trans community a solid and help us out with that one? Or do you believe that your nostalgia is more important?

[theprettynosferatu]

CW: Bimbofication, sluttification, mind break, noncon mind fuckery, goonette, pornification

Cover: Apparent-Apparatus https://www.deviantart.com/apparent-apparatus

I

“Turn it off! Turn that damn thing off!”, screamed Agent Hanna Brooks, looking at the techs with a mixture of desperate fear and rage. Behind the glass, the nerds gestured, their palms up, indicating there was nothing they could do. Fuck. Fuck them, fuck the Agency, fuck the mission. Brooks looked at the chair, at the woman convulsing and babbling on it. Seeing her like this was Hell.

Jill Patrick was a breath of fresh air for the Agency and now she was dying on the stupid Full Access Chair. Jill was the youngest of the agents in the Cybersecurity department, a force of nature in the gym and at work, serious, a true believer in the mission. She gave Brooks hope for the future, a sense that some members of the new generation were actually alright, that not everyone in their early twenties was a terminal waste of space. That hope seized in front of her, the screens around Jill bathing her body in red, their declaration of “CONTAINMENT FAILURE” absolutely unhelpful. Brooks had no idea what that meant: the Chair was new tech, and only Jill had been brave enough to volunteer for its maiden voyage. It was supposed to allow an agent to scan through vast amounts of the web while protecting their psyche, keeping the load below a certain threshold. Well, that bit of theory had clearly gone out the window, so Hanna decided to toss the safety protocols aside. Before she knew what she was doing, he yanked cables off Jill: showers of sparks jumped out the machinery in protest. Eventually the alarms fell silent, the screens resigned themselves to their doom and shut off. The machine had done its damage and now rested. Jill’s eyes remained closed, as still as the damn machinery.

“Jill? Jill, wake up!”, screamed Brooks. The nerds made their way into the room, mumbling among one another, discussing hypotheses of what had gone wrong. Brooks had to fight not to deck them. Jill was slowly coming back. Her glassy blue eyes looked around the room in confusion.

“Chat, is this real?”, she asked.

What the fuck? 

“Jill. Jill, look at me. I’m here, I’m Hanna, can you see me? You’re okay.”

Brooks tried to make Jill come back to reality. She stared through the older agent, looking at… something that wasn’t there.

Suddenly, she stretched on the chair, her eyes fixed on a point in space, almost as if she was… performing for some unseen entity. “Mmmm… that nap hit different chat, on God! Chat, what are the vibes today? It’s giving… edging. It’s giving goon sesh, chat. Wanna see that?”

“Jill, what the fuck are you talking about? Who the hell are you talking to?”

One of the nerds stepped forward, tried to make sense of the situation. There was a strange excitement in his eyes, and Brooks felt herself getting sick. These fucking assholes were looking at Jill like she was a malfunctioning computer.

“I think… I think she got hit with a feedback surge… the failsafe should have… but if…”

“Speak English, you dumb fuck! What is wrong with her?”, screamed Hanna.

The nerd stammered for a moment before he found the words to keep it simple enough for a field agent.

“So, let’s say… she was supposed to be surfing over data, looking at it, checking it quickly. She… fell off.”

“Fell off? What the fuck does that mean?”

“She fell off! She almost drowned in… well, the fucking Internet, Hanna! Her brain got flooded with all sorts of shit, who the fuck knows what! She’s lucky to be alive!”

A sound put a quick stop to their argument. Jill moaned and smiled, staring at empty space, her hand sliding under her office slacks. “Fell off? Cap, I’m slaying ay eff! Fuck… my cunt is so wet, chat… but what is it with this fit? It’s giving old lady! Next stream I’ll wear something cute for you chat, some nice, sexy, gen-z goonette drip… fuck, it’s gonna be so good… I’m gonna get so many donos, chat… and you know how slutty donos make me…”

Brooks stared in disbelief, before turning away. She couldn’t stand watching Jill acting like… like whoever the hell was occupying her body.

“How the fuck do you explain that?”, he asked the nerd.

“I told you, she took a full blast of Internet right to the brain! And you know what the Internet is full of?”

II

Hanna looked into the enclosure. Enclosure. Fuck. Like Jill was some zoo animal. But the nerds were right, Jill got so agitated when her… delusions weren’t catered to. And they did need to study her if there was any hope of fixing her, of bringing up the old Jill, the real Jill, the Jill that cared about cyber security, the Jill that believed in the mission with a passion. This… new Jill, so to speak, was, well, everything Brooks despised about the new generations.

Even the enclosure was a travesty. It seemed to replicate something like a bizarre nightmare of a college room, with garish neon lights plastered all over, ring lights surrounding the bed, a camera permanently pointing at Jill, broadcasting to nowhere. It was important, according to the nerds, to keep the idea that she was streaming constantly– it was the one thing that kept her active and focused and not jumping from false reality to false reality. It was safer this way: attempts to break her out of her “streaming” habit had led to her trying “Tik Tok challenges” that ranged from flashing “pedestrians” to accidentally dancing into a wall. As repulsive as it was, at least her “streaming” kept her inside one room.

Well, on one bed, to be more precise. Hanna tried to be cold, tried to ignore her heavy makeup and rainbow fishnet bodysuit, tried to filter out the words, the acts. He watched as Jill took a huge hit off a bong. The nerds assured him that weed calmed her down, so they kept her well supplied.

“Fuuuuck… chat this feels so good…”, said Jill as she mounted a pillow and started shamelessly riding it, putting on a show, playing with her tits as her pussy drew moans from her crimson lips. “So fucking high, so fucking dumb, so fucking gone… gooning and gooning and rubbing and grinding for porn… fuck… I love porn so much… I’m so fucking addicted, I’m such a fucking addict, addicted to weed, addicted to porn, addicted to attention… I’m just a fucking little gen-z fucktoy… all for you, chat, all for my lovely pervs, please get worse with me, get dumber with me, goon for me, do it, please, jerk off to me, rub to me, nothing else fucking matters, ignore work, ignore school, cancel plans to goon and goon and goon with me… fuck… so pornbrained… porn broke me… all I do is watch porn… my pornbrain gets triggered all the time… anything… it can make anything into porn… girls walking down the street… ads with pretty sluts… all is porn…”

Brooks watched with horror. And something else, something she’d never admit. Suddenly a chime played on the speakers hidden inside the room. A “donation”. Something necessary to maintain the illusion and her stability, the nerds said.

Jill stuck out her tongue in pure pleasure.

“Yesss! Thank you! Thank you for the dono! I guess you like my glow-up! And donos make me so fucking slutty… no cap, that sound gets me so fucking soaked and pervy and needy! Want to see, chat?” Jill opened her legs and spread her glistening pussy lips for the audience in her head. “This thigh pussy is bussin’, chat, it feels so good, it tells me what do to, it makes me touch her all the time, all the fucking time, I can’t stop, she’s so pretty and pink and desperate… It needs to be filled… Which toy should I use, chat? I want to feel so stretched and useless, fucking myself for hours with a toy…” 

Hannah had tried to argue against the toys. After Jill had started grabbing random objects and using them as… sex aids, she had relented. Toys were safer, she figured. She didn’t quite agree with the amount and variety provided by the nerds, however.

“Cock… let this bop pussy get stretched by the big dragon cock, chat… do you want to see that? Would that make you all thirsty for me? Yes, let me grab the big dragon toy… Oh… Oh God… oof, it fills me so good, it’s stretching my little pussy so much! What, chat? You think I can’t take it all? If you think my cunt can’t handle this, you’re delulu. Look at me, chat. Look at what a perverted fucking pornbrained fuckdoll I am… raised by the Internet… molded by porn… let me show you what good gen-z girls do all day…”

Brooks watched as Jill impaled herself on the toy with a scream.

“Fuck yeah! Look how I took it! I fucking ate! Look, look at me, I want you to look at me, I need your attention, I’m such an attention whore, watch me ride this huge cock for you, let me take a hit of my weed vape as I ride it, watch me, watch me fuck up my brain completely, watch me ruin my fucking life for you, watch me, watch me be porn, all girls are porn, porn is the best, porn is everything, porn is the moment, girliepops! Watch me, aren’t I such a good fucking example? Fuck, fuck, it’s stretching me so good, it’s filling me up, filling my mind up, fuck… watch me ride it, watch me be porn for you, edge, edge and drool, we are the porn generation, we love it, we live for it, we want to be perverted for porn, we need to be porn, to be dumb, to fry our brains with poppers and get more and more addicted… porn… porn… fuuuuck…”

Hannah was at least reassured by the fact that the camera was off. The last thing she wanted was for Jill to become something others would want to emulate. Not like this. Old Jill had been a real good role model. This version of her…

“Look at my tits bouncing, chat! They’re snatched as fuck! My big dumb funbags make me porn!”

Better to keep this version a secret.

III

Hanna stormed into the techs’ break room. The fucking nerds needed to pay. They had never intended to fix Jill. They were getting off to her, the sick fucks. Buying her different outfits, catering to their own little fetishes, turning Jill into their living, 24-7 porn. 

She had been harboring suspicions for a while. The nerds’ explanations for what supposed “treatments” they were trying had become lazier and lazier, and Jill was, if anything, getting worse. Using more drugs. Sleeping less. Becoming more and more… well, pornbrained. 

A deep dive into the network revealed a hidden folder– sure, Hanna was not a tech, but she was still a cyber security agent. Did these fucks believe they could hide things from her? Did they think naming it “Charlie XCX - Greatest Hits” would throw anyone off the scent? The impunity of it all! These men truly thought they could get away with it, get away with recording and saving videos of Jill in her more… extreme moments, exploiting her state for their own pleasure.

No. They couldn’t be allowed to continue. Hanna would stop them.

She got a few words in before she felt a sting, and the world went black.

Things swam back into reality, the light hurting her eyes. She was vaguely aware of the restraints. The realization came, a dull panic. The Chair. She was tied to the goddamn Chair.

Words came to her muffled, distorted.

“No safeguards at all?”, a voice said.

“Nah. Let’s see how that works. Science requires experimentation!”, said the other with barely contained glee. 

A sharp pain in her head, and she was gone.

IV

Hanna and Jill made out, their tongues dancing with each other, hands playing with tits, sneaking between legs. They made sure to keep eye contact with the camera at all times. That was the thing that gave them purpose, after all. The agents believed in the mission. Being the most perverted pornbrained sluts for chat was the mission. It had always been the mission, and it felt so fucking good. Jill handed Hanna the poppers, and she took a deep sniff.

The camera was on now. The chat was real, as were the donations. Donations the techs kept for themselves, of course.

“Chat…” said Hanna, “get ready for a fucking marathon!” She showed off the giant, double-sided dildo and looked at Jill.

Jill thought for a second.

“It’s giving ass to ass, for real”, she smiled. 

Did you enjoy this story? You can support my work and access the full library at patreon.com/prettynosferatu

[laurawful]

thinking about how hot it would be to make each other worse. horribly intense switch-for-switch relationship where we both just keep pushing and pushing, using every dirty trick in the book to get the other to agree to this week's fucked up scene... until we don't even recognize ourselves.

[laurawful]

yesh yeah yeah yeah you get it!!!!!!

[bluedresskitty]

I like this idea except for me it's more subtle and covert. Both know the other craves slipping further into corruption, and so they slowly coerce and manipulates the other, bit by bit, hoping they don't notice the water beginning to boil. Except they both get so caught up in secretly dragging the other down they don't realize themselves also being helplessly made worse as they continually adding weight to their own anchors.

[squishythembo]

Cursed vibrator that edges you for hours, unable to climax so you just keep getting hornier as you use it.

You finally cum and life goes back to normal, but you feel a pull to use the toy again. At first you resist the urge, afraid of what happened last time happening again.

But it just felt so good. Eventually the need to pleasure yourself again becomes too strong and you give in.

This time it edges you for even longer.

It's the same story every time. You edge, you finally cum, you regain some self control, but only for a while. The toy edges you for longer and longer every time you use it, and the breaks where you resist its influence get shorter and shorter.

Eventually there won't be a break. You'll just be a mindless edging mess, unable to stop, unable to resist. The toy controls you now.

[corruptedbyhim]

I can't get anything done.

I've been at my desk for three hours and I've written maybe four sentences because I can't stop touching my cock. It's been hard since I woke up. That kind of hard where it throbs against your stomach, where every shift in your chair reminds you it's there and it's not going away until you do something about it.

So I stroke it. Just for a second. Just to take the edge off. Except the edge doesn't come off. It gets worse. Now my hand is wrapped around it and I'm thrusting up into my fist, slow and lazy, pre leaking down my shaft, and I've completely lost whatever thought I had about the email I was writing. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters except the squeeze of my hand and the fact that it's not enough. My hand is never enough when I'm like this.

I need you. I need a slut who'll crawl under this desk and let me bury my cock in their mouth so I can finally think about something else. Or better yet, park you in my lap and let me work with my cock stuffed inside you. Just keeping it warm. Keeping it somewhere tight and wet so it shuts up and lets me focus. You don't even need to move. I just need to be in something. Something that clenches and reminds me it's there every time I shift my weight.

That's all I'm asking for. A place to put it. A good little cock sleeve who'll sit still and let me finish this fucking email.

Is that really so much to ask?

[corruptedbyhim]

In Heat. "Pup's got a big year ahead," master says. Beer in hand. Casual. It's the way he talks about everything involving you, like it's all so ordinary it barely warrants a change in tone.

There are two other men at the table. His close friends. The ones who know. At this point they hardly bat an eye at you being curled up on the floor beside master's chair during poker nights. You're just part of the household now.

"Here we go." That's the one with the beard. He doesn't look up from his cards but he's grinning. "Every time you get that tone I know you've been planning something fucked up for weeks."

"It's not fucked up! It's developmental."

"And the last time you said 'developmental' pup started eating dinner out of a bowl."

"And pup loved it. Didn't you, pup?" His foot nudges you under the table. You nuzzle closer to his ankle. "See? No complaints."

The other one, the quiet one, tosses chips into the pot. "So what's the plan this time?"

"The mind stuff is done. That took a while, but pup's fully there. Knows what it is. Responds to commands, stays in pup-space for days at a time." He takes a pull of his beer. You hear the bottle hit the table a little too hard. Master gets like this when he's excited. When he's building toward something. His voice picks up speed, his hands move more. You've learned to read every one of his tells. Good pups pay attention. "But the body hasn't caught up yet."

"Meaning what?"

"Pup still cums like a person." He says it the way you'd say a dog still pulls on the leash. A behavior that hasn't been corrected yet. "Whenever it wants, however it wants. No structure. Pup thinks like a pup, but the body still operates on a human schedule."

The bearded one lets out a low whistle. Cards stop moving. "And you're going to fix that?"

"Exactly. We're restructuring when pup is allowed to cum. Ovulation only." A sip of beer. "Pup's body already has a heat cycle built in, it just needs a reason to use it." Another sip. "Deny it everywhere else, flood it during that window, and eventually the body figures out the rest." He leans back. You can hear the satisfaction in his voice. "Then pup goes into heat like an animal because pup is an animal."

"You're out of your mind," the beard says. But he's leaning forward. They're always leaning forward when master talks about you. "That can't actually work."

-----

The first month is the hardest because understanding something and living inside it are two very different things.

No cumming until ovulation. You understood the concept when he explained it. You nodded. You said yes, master. And then the reality of it started to settle in.

He pulls everything away. All at once. He doesn't fuck you. Doesn't finger you. Doesn't let you grind against his thigh while you watch TV, which had become such a habit that you didn't even register you were doing it until the night he caught your hips and said "no" and moved your body off of him like he was repositioning a dog that climbed onto furniture it wasn't allowed on.

Below the waist, you cease to exist for him, and by day five your body starts sending distress signals. You wake up grinding against the mattress, hips working on their own, chasing friction in your sleep. You clench your thighs together at dinner and he hears the shift of skin against skin and says "no" again without looking up from his plate. You stop because you always stop when he says stop, but your pussy is swollen and aching and confused. Pup's brain understands the program. Pup's pussy has no idea why it's being denied.

That's the gap he's closing. The distance between the animal mind and the animal body. And the bridge, it turns out, is built out of deprivation.

Two weeks in and your skin belongs to a stranger. Too sensitive. The shower is almost unbearable. Master's shirt against your nipples when he holds you is certainly unbearable. Every nerve ending is cranked to way too high a frequency, and the wet between your legs is constant plea that no one is answering

Then the calendar hits the window. Ovulation. Two, maybe three days.

He doesn't ease you into it.

He bends you over the kitchen counter the morning of and fucks you so hard spice jars rattle off the counter, shatter on the tile, and neither of you even flinch. You cum in under a minute. After two weeks of nothing, sixty seconds of his cock is all it takes. Shaking. Sobbing. Your pussy clamping down on him in contractions so hard it surprises even him. He grunts and grabs your hips and keeps going. He's not done.

You cum again. And again. He fucks you on the counter, the floor, the bed. He even eats you out on the couch while some show plays on the TV that neither of you will ever be able to name. You cum on his tongue and it drips down his chin. He looks up at you with his mouth glazed and smiles like you just performed a trick he's been waiting for you to learn his whole life.

For three days it's constant. He fucks you before work. Fucks you when he gets home. Wakes you up at 2 AM with his cock already nudging between your thighs, and you arch you ass into him before your eyes are open because your body doesn't need to be awake to know what this window is for. You're soaking, swollen, used in every direction, and deliriously, stupidly happy. Pup is getting what pup needs. The body and the brain, for the first time, are speaking the same language.

Then the window closes.

Everything stops.

No touch. No relief. You go from being fucked five times a day to absolute zero and your body screams. The comedown is so brutal you actually shake through the first night. But he's there to hold you and pet your hair and murmur, "I know it's hard pup, I know. We'll get through this together."

-----

The second month is when the pattern starts to print.

The weeks without touch are still hard, but something is shifting. Your body is beginning to understand the cycle the way an animal understands seasons. Instinctually. The drought has an end. You can feel it approaching the way you can feel the pressure change when a storm rolls in, this gathering tension in your lower belly that builds a little more each day.

You still soak through your underwear. You still catch yourself grinding against the arm of the couch without deciding to. But underneath the desperation there's a patience that wasn't there in month one. A trust that lives in your muscles. Pup will get to cum. Pup just has to be good and wait.

When ovulation hits the second time, you wake up flushed and burning. Your pussy is so wet the sheets are damp beneath you. Your nipples are hard and sore and everything smells like him. The whole apartment saturated with his scent in a way that you know is your brain chemistry doing something new, something animal, cataloguing the nearest male and flagging him as essential.

"There it is," he says that morning, watching you squirm at the breakfast table, your thighs pressed together, your fork halfway to your mouth and forgotten. "There's my pup."

Those words settle into your bones.

They stay there for the next three days while he breeds you. That's the only word for it now. Breeding. Purposeful and biological. His cock inside because this is when your body is ready and he's giving it what it needs. He cums inside you every time. Fills you up and plugs you with his fingers. Keeps you that way with your hips tilted, his cum pooling deep and staying there. You whimper and nuzzle into his neck and feel so full, so claimed, so perfectly kept that language starts to feel like a tool that belongs to a species you're not sure you're part of anymore.

-----

Month four.

You're getting into a rhythm. The first week of each cycle is calm. Manageable. You can work, cook, function, form complete sentences. You're still pup, but you're pup in maintenance mode, padding around the apartment, kneeling at his feet, sleeping at the foot of the bed. Quiet and content. The ache is there but it's low, a background hum you've learned to carry without it pulling you under.

Then the middle weeks.

The heat builds so gradually you almost don't notice until you're inside it. A warmth starts around day eight and spreads outward, a slow blush that moves through your body like ink dropped in water. By day ten your skin is sensitive enough that the wrong fabric makes you cry. By day twelve you're restless, circling the apartment, unable to settle, pressing your face into his pillow when he's not home and inhaling until your head swims. By day fourteen the wetness is constant and your clit is swollen enough that walking is a specific kind of torture. It's this hollow feeling inside you that deepens into something that borders on grief. Your body mourning an emptiness it's been trained to find unbearable.

Then the shift.

It happens overnight. You go to bed restless and wake up in heat.

Your skin is on fire. You're so wet you can feel it on your thighs before your feet touch the floor. It's an emergency and only master's cock can fix it. Your pussy keeps clenching and releasing, clenching and releasing, trying to grip something that isn't there.

You find him in the kitchen. Press yourself against his back. You're panting. Your hips are grinding against him before you've said a word, your fingers clawing at his shirt, and you whine. High and thin and desperate. Animal sounds from an animal body that has finally, fully caught up to its animal brain.

"You need it bad, don't you, pup," he whispers. Turns around. Cups your face. Studies you with that calm, proprietary warmth that you'd do anything to keep directed at you.

He gives you what you need.

The breeding window is the only time you fully exist now. The weeks between have become a waiting room, a grey space you move through on autopilot, conserving energy for the days that matter. And when those days arrive your body ignites with a purpose so singular it burns everything else away. You fuck like it's the last weekend on earth. Ride him until your legs give out and then he flips you over and keeps going. You're drooling into the pillow, babbling, words fragmenting into sounds that can only mean: Breed me. Fill me. Please. Don't stop. I need it. I need it. I need it.

He tells his friends at the next poker night.

You're on the floor beside his chair. Cheek against his knee. Floating in that warm, post-window haze where the world feels soft and safe and very far away. His hand rests on your head.

"It's working," he says. "Better than I thought. You should see pup when the window opens. Full heat. Panting, whining, can't function until it gets fucked. I didn't even think it would take this completely, but pup's body just accepted the whole program."

Cards shuffle. They all laugh.

His fingers scratch behind your ear.

"Real proud of this one."

Your eyes close. He's proud of you and that pride lands somewhere deeper than any orgasm, deeper than the breeding, deeper than the three days of being so thoroughly filled that your brain dissolves. His pride is the bedrock. Everything else is built on top of it.

You press closer to his leg. He keeps petting you.

"Keep it up, pup."

-----

Month six.

Ovulation.

You wake up and the heat is so intense you can't stand. Not figuratively. Your legs won't hold you. Your whole body is trembling, flushed, slick between your thighs, and when you try to get up your knees buckle and you catch yourself on all fours and realize that this is correct. This is how pup moves when pup is in heat. Walking is for the other weeks. Walking is for the version of you that passes as a person. That version isn't home right now.

You crawl to him.

Down the hallway, hands and knees on the hardwood, the drag of your nipples against the oversized shirt you slept in sending sparks straight to your cunt with every movement. You're leaving a wet trail on the floor. You can feel it. You don't care.

He's in his office. He hears you coming. The chair pushes back from the desk.

He's waiting when you crawl between his legs. You press your face against his crotch and drool. He's already hard. He's learned your schedule as well as your body has. Probably woke up knowing today was the day. Probably drank his coffee thinking about what you'd look like crawling to him, and here you are, face buried in his lap, mouthing at his cock through his boxers, tasting him through the cotton, making sounds that would humiliate you in any other state of mind.

But you don't have another state of mind. You have this one. This singular, burning, wordless need that has scoured out every other thought and left only the essential thing: get bred. Get filled. Take his cum as deep as your body can hold it. That's all you are right now. That's all pup needs to be.

He unzips. Pulls you up into his lap. Sinks you down onto him.

The feeling of being full after weeks of emptiness hits so hard you cum before he moves. Instantly. Your pussy spasming around him in hard, greedy squeezes, your face buried in his neck, your whole body jerking and clenching while he holds you steady. He strokes your hair. Lets you shake and twitch and ride it out.

"It's okay, pup," he says. Soft. So soft. "I know. I know it's a lot. I've got you."

You cling to him and tremble and he hasn't even started fucking you yet.

When he does, when his hands grip your hips and start bouncing you on his cock, you understand that something has changed since last month. The conditioning has crossed a line you can't uncross. You're not performing. Not playing a role. Not thinking about what pup would do and then doing it. You're in heat the way an animal is in heat, mindless and desperate and single-purpose, and the only thought your brain can produce is one word on a loop. Breed breed breed breed breed.

He cums inside you and you feel every pulse, every hot thick pump, and your body seizes around him, pulling, milking, your walls working him with a greed that has nothing to do with your conscious mind. Your body knows what ovulation means now. Your body has been trained to understand this window as the only one that matters, and it is going to wring every drop out of him because that's what pup's body is for.

You stay on his cock until he's hard again. It doesn't take long. You're grinding on him, your pussy still fluttering with aftershocks, and he laughs against your throat. Breathless and amazed and a little bit awed by the thing he built.

"You're really in heat, huh."

You bark. It's the only answer you've got.

"Okay, pup. Okay. Let's take care of you properly."

He carries you to the bedroom.

You're pretty sure your tail is wagging.

[corruptedbyhim]

Brain Stuff. You're hunched over your desk, the glow of your laptop screen casting shadows across your cluttered apartment. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to type the next paragraph of your dissertation. Something about neural plasticity in machine learning models. It's brilliant stuff, the kind of work that's gotten you whispers of "genius" from your PhD advisors. You're in the zone, brain firing on all cylinders, when the front door clicks open.

"Hey, babe," comes his voice, low and casual, like he doesn't know what it does to you. Your boyfriend steps inside, shedding his jacket. He's got that easy grin, the one that makes your stomach tighten. You glance up, meaning to say something sharp and witty, but he's already peeling off his shirt, revealing the lean muscle underneath. Your mouth goes dry. The words you were about to type slip away before you can catch them.

"Missed you today," he says, crossing the room. He's close now, close enough that you can smell the faint spice of his cologne. Your pulse kicks up, and you try to focus on the screen. You're a goddamn scholar, you can handle this. But then he leans over your shoulder, his breath brushing your ear, and says, "What's my smart girl working on?"

Your brain stutters. "Uh… it's, um…" You squint at the screen, but the words lose their meaning. Neural what? Plasticity? Fuck, you know this. You wrote fifteen pages on it yesterday. His hand slides onto your shoulder, thumb brushing your neck, and you feel your IQ drop in real time. "It's… brain stuff," you manage, voice small. You hate how stupid you sound, how you can feel your own brilliance leaking out as he toys with you.

He chuckles, soft and loving, and that sound alone makes your thighs clench. "Brain stuff, huh? Tell me more." His fingers dip lower, tracing the edge of your tank top, and you try to string a sentence together. "It's about… how brains… change?" Your voice lilts up like a question, and you want to scream. You're not some ditzy undergrad; you're a fucking PhD candidate. But his hands are on your chest now, cupping you through your shirt, and your thoughts scatter.

"C'mon, babe," he teases, turning your chair to face him. "You're usually so quick." He's smirking, and you hate how much you love it. You open your mouth to snap back, to prove you've still got it, but then he's kissing you, hard and messy, all tongue and heat, and your mind goes blank. Not fuzzy. Just empty. You kiss him back, hands fumbling at his waist, and all you can think is cock. One word, looping, again and again.

He pulls you up, backing you toward the couch, and you trip over your own feet. Normally you'd curse yourself for being clumsy, but right now you just giggle. High pitched. Brainless. "You're so hot," you blurt, and it's the most coherent thing you've said since he got home. He grins, shoving his jeans down, and when you see him hard and thick your knees buckle. You drop to the cushions, staring up at him, mouth slack. You should be analyzing data right now, not drooling like some horny idiot.

"Fuck, look at you," he mutters, climbing over you. His hands yank your shorts off. You're already so wet. You try to focus, one last chance to claw back a shred of intellect. "Wait, I… I need to finish…" you start, but then he's pushing inside you, slow and deliberate, and the rest of the sentence evaporates. Your head lolls back, a moan spilling out instead. You feel him stretch you, fill you, and your brain shuts down completely. "Oh… oh God," you whimper, legs wrapping around him on instinct.

He starts moving, thrusting deep, and you're gone. No more dissertation. No more research. Just his cock, slamming into you, turning you into a panting, writhing mess. "Tell me something smart," he pants against your neck, mocking you now, and you want to, you need to prove you're not just this dumb slut he's turning you into. "Th-the brain… it… f-fuck, it d—" You can't finish. Every thrust scrambles your thoughts more, until you're babbling nonsense, hips bucking to meet him.

You're frustrated, somewhere deep down, because you know this isn't you. You've presented at conferences. Dismantled arguments from tenured professors. But right now you can't even remember your own name. "More," you gasp. That's all you've got. One syllable. You used to know so many words, but now you're reduced to this. But then he grabs your hips, angles himself deeper, and you stop caring. "Sho… haaard…" you slur, drooling over the syllables, "sho… deeeep…"

He laughs, a low rumble. "That's my girl. Let the real you out." And you do, you can't hold on anymore. He fucks you harder and you're nothing but heat and need, whimpering every time he bottoms out. Your nails dig into his back, and you're close, and then he groans, loud and guttural, and you feel his hot cum flooding you. You climax together.

It's instant. The second his cum hits you, your vision clears, your breathing steadies, and your brain kicks back into gear. Synaptic pruning. Neural plasticity. You blink up at him, still slick with sweat, and push him off with a shaky hand. "Rude," you say, voice strong again. He flops beside you, grinning, while you stagger to your desk, naked, his cum dripping down your thigh. You sit down, pull up your dissertation, and start typing like nothing happened. Sentences crisp. Ideas flowing.

"Welcome back, genius," he calls from the couch, annoyingly smug. You don't look at him, but your lips twitch. Just ignore him. You're back, and you've got work to finish.

At least until he gets hard again.

[stillvathek]

Being porn is so easy.

You have a camera right in your handbag, your pocket. In your bra, maybe. It's there all the time. You can take pictures anywhere, whenever. It's so easy.

Videos, even. Whatever you want.

Show off how you did your hair. Show off that new outfit.

Show off your tits.

It's so easy. Anytime. Anywhere.

Right now. The phone is probably already in your hand.

You can just take a picture. Look cute! Smile!

It's so easy.

So easy you can do it again. You can take another, but make it sluttier. Show off some skin, make sure the camera is pointing down your top. Smile! That's better. Good girl.

So easy to be porn.

And it just gets easier. Maybe next time you make sure your top is a little lower. Maybe you just take it off completely. It's just so easy. Maybe you lift your skirt to show what underwear you have on today.

Maybe you spread your legs to show you don't have any on at all.

Such a good girl. Such good porn.

Don't even have to think about it. It's so easy. It's right there.

It's right in your hand.

[im-goodpup]

I want to be porn

I need to be porn

I'm just a slut

I love male attention

[enbyfakerlover]

I want to see a passing fakegirl chemically detransition but still try with all of their might to keep the girly facade going for all of the people around them.

Shaving the thickening hair on her face and body, applying creams and gels to keep her skin soft, putting on make up, maintaining her long, flowing hair, and wearing feminine tops, leggings, skirts and dresses.

All while she has to deal with her balls dropping and growing larger, and her cock developing a mind of its own as it gets more and more difficult to keep hidden. It stiffens and nearly bursts out of her panties at the worst possible times, and she can't quite seem to keep her lewd thoughts at bay, which appear at increasing frequency.

At some point, it becomes a necessity for her to secretly let a load out while nobody's looking in order to keep herself focused at work. Maybe she unloads herself into her cup of tea or coffee out of convenience. Nobody would surpect a thing as long as they didn't happen to catch her in the act.

How long will it take for people to start changing what pronouns they use with her? How long can she keep the facade going before it stops being worth it? Maybe she eventually comes out as a femboy to cope for her now masculinized body, but nobody is falling for it, not even her!

[brendan32-deactivated20260531]

starting this now, I just got my hrt canceled with my doctor💙💙

[fakegirlpervert]

I don’t want to get better, I want my porn addiction to get worse 🤍

[sillielillie20]

You know that once you get those implants there is no going back. You won't be able to hide that you are a bimbo doll. But it will be better once everyone knows anyway!

[trainwreck-of-thoughts]

The thing about instantloss is that it's not literally instant. Quite a lot of time can pass between panels - minutes? Hours? I've seen pregnancy/stepfordization stuff where years must have gone by.

The implication is not per se that resistance was absent or feeble, just that it was inconsequential. Perhaps it took months to wear down your defenses. Perhaps you clawed yourself back from the brink once, twice, too often to count. But even so, we're not going to honor that effort. We're not going to acknowledge it. You said you'd never lose, and now you lost, and nothing in between really matters, now does it?