If you're at work in a retail or hospitality environment and you see a sex worker with a client... no you didn't.
If your boss asks you if you think that person's a sex worker, you tell them you do not believe that. You don't report their presence to anyone. You don't joke about it with a coworker. You don't eavesdrop or bother them.
We're working the same as you are. Leave us alone!
Some examples of situations where you might need to keep your mouth shut about a potential sex worker:
You see someone you don't recognize walk past reception at your hotel to head directly for the stairs or elevator or towards the rooms without acknowledging you at the reception desk. Yes, this includes when the person is wearing revealing clothing or a nice dress and heels. This is not your business.
You notice multiple men going to the same hotel room during the same evening, each only staying for an hour or so at a time. This is not your business.
You seat two customers for dinner and work as their waiter/waitress for the night. You see one give an envelope of cash to the other. Yes, this includes when there's a huge age gap between the two and they're being affectionate. This is not your business.
You overhear one customer ask another how much they charge for a night, whilst making drinks for them. You heard nothing. This is not your business.
I do not care what kind of retail or hospitality setting you work in. If you see a sex worker, no you didn't!
if the cops get involved, you know who gets punished? not any of the clients, only the sex worker. not a pimp, not the hotel manager, only the worker; and the cops are liable to sexually assault them as well.
if you have any qualms about sex work, you can start by improving workers' rights as a whole. demilitarizing police. increasing comprehensive sex ed for all ages. battling misogyny in the workplace. under the boot of capitalism, we all suffer - the most vulnerable, such as sex workers, suffer worst. leave them be.
watched three girls who reblogged its new blog mutual aidpost (made literally 15 minutes ago) already disappear from its notifs. transfems are not included in their pride :/
Currently obsessed with the idea of making someone mute and putting a bell on them (remembered this from some story I read years back).
I’d love to sever my darling’s vocal cords, to make them completely mute. Wouldn’t that be horrifying, waking up unable to talk or make any meaningful sound?
Then, just for fun, I’d put a bell collar on them. They may not be able to speak, but I still want to be able to hear them. I think it would just be so fucking cute to see them shake their heads while I torture them, hearing the chime of that tiny little bell.
i was at a dyke sex party a while ago where i saw this trans girl i’d always been really friendly with when i’d seen her around before. i had always kinda gotten the sense that she wanted to fuck me, but she was so sweet and gentle that i kinda wrote her off as not my type.
at this party, she was wearing these big glossy black boots and when i complimented them she asked me if i wanted her to step on me with them. i didn’t really think she had it in her, that she just was playing tough because she knew i liked that, so i invited her to go up to my room fully expecting she would sort of lightly push me around and that we might make out for a bit before getting back to the party.
as soon as we got up to the room, though, she kneed me hard in the gut and shoved me onto the narrow bed, then ground her bootheel so hard into my thigh that i whimpered and struggled under her. she’d left the door open and a bunch of girls crowded into the room to watch her work me over. she kicked me over onto my front and bit me and ground her boot into my ass until i was letting out these short, raw screams into the covers. one of the other girls in the room dragged my head up by my hair and kissed me before pushing her clothed dick against my face. i could smell her through her clothes.
the girl beating me pulled my boxers off and dragged me up onto her boot. “i want you to shine it with your cunt” she told me and i started just grinding helplessly on it until i was shaking and leaning against her leg. i could see how big and hard her dick was through her tight dress when i looked up at her. she only stopped me when i literally couldn’t speak any more. i felt like i’d been rolled in hot felt, just entirely out of my body. i ran two fingers through my pussy and held them up to her to show her how wet she’d made me, and she just condescendingly said “i could have guessed”.
she asked me to send her pictures of the bruises she left on me. there were a lot. she posted one of them on her instagram with the caption “kicked a slut so hard they came”.
🤤god, obsessed with this. gonna be thinking of kicking for a while now… it must’ve been nice having a nice view of her while she laid into you, huh? lovely contrast between her cute looks and sweet tone and the big mean dick between her legs that just wants to see you struggle. 🥰
This is - legitimately - my favourite delivery of Shakespeare I have EVER seen (and I have seen some good-ass productions yo, in the Globe Theatre itself even). Like seriously, even though the words are unchanged, he’s stripped away ALL of the archaic pretense and assumed grandeur of ~presenting the bard~ that makes even the most wildly talented of actors and innovative of productions inherently inaccessible to a modern audience. Like, they’re still great, they can still communicate the message and (some) of the nuance, but they’re still always a step removed from being identifiable to any viewer’s lived experience. They’re still always reciting 15th century poetry. But this guy? This guy is like, screw iambic pentameter, to hell with being precious about the material, HOW WOULD AN ACTUAL PERSON SAY THIS SHIT?
Like this. And it’s beautiful. It’s beautiful to hear a soliloquy I loved so much already, and have it come to life in a way it never, ever, did before. I feel like I grasp his motivations, his twists and turns, no longer on an academic level but on a visceral, instinctive one. Because he’s presenting his mental and emotional journey in a way that speaks honestly, like a real person.
So yeah, this shit post? I love it. Deeply and sincerely.
You don’t know what time it is. How could you? The room you’re in has no clocks on the walls and no windows to indicate sunlight. You don’t know if it’s day or it’s night or somewhere in between. Not that that really matters. The outside world seems like a distant memory at this point. At least the light in this room is on. It's a single weak bulb hanging by a stained string from the ceiling. How does a string like that even get stained? It doesn’t matter. The light is nice, makes you feel a little more sane. The room is the same as ever. Four grey concrete walls, a big steel door with a lock on it (you’ve tried, it’s no use), a dirty mattress by the side of the wall. If only you could sleep on it right now. Currently you feel the cold plastic and metal of a large dog kennel that sits in the middle of the room. You don’t remember how long you’ve been in here, or what you did to deserve this punishment (probably something to do with misbehaving.) this might be bearable if you had clothes or even a thin blanket, but you don’t. The only clothes you get to wear these days is the thick collar locked around your neck. At least it doesn’t itch anymore.
You try to remember how you got here, what life was before. You remember leaving work, that stupid dead end office job. You’ve thought a lot about quitting, you just never expected it to end up like this… Fuck why is it so hard to think… You remember, right! Leaving to go to your car, and someone coming up behind you and then…. Then…. You woke up here. In the beginning you were actually tied down, but it makes sense. Back then you were so feisty, so resistant. You kept trying to escape. You remember your captor, the beautiful tall woman who fed you and cared for you and kept you clean. You remember being so mean to her back then… That wasn’t very nice. She was just trying to help you. Well she did kidnap you… but its not like there was anyone to miss you. You had just gone no contact with your boyfriend the week before and anybody who you called a friend, didn't care enough to check on you. You were just a waste of space out there. You're better here, at home.
Home?? This isn’t your home… Why are you thinking that? God why is your brain so fuzzy right now… At least this place is bigger than your old apartment. And you don’t have to pay rent here. And no neighbors to yell about the noise. Here no one can hear you at all. You screamed your lungs off the first couple days, but nobody came. You do miss your stuff though… Your captor doesn’t let you keep stuff. Too dangerous. One time she left some rope here and you tried to use it to attack her… Ridiculous… You would never have overpowered her. Regardless, she didn’t make that mistake again. It's funny, you would think from movies and T.V that kidnappers are scary and mean, but in your experience it's the opposite. Your captor has only ever been nice to you. She fed you and housed you and made sure you were safe. She had literally brought you the most delicious meal not more than an hour ago. In a way you were the mean one. Always trying to leave her, trying to hurt her, saying such mean things. And yes she used your body however she wanted, but it was a small price to pay. Besides, she made you feel so good. You’d never admit it out loud, but somehow you think she knows.
You try to adjust in your cage, your feet cramped up awkwardly. Fuck why is it so hard to move your body? It's like moving through jello. Somehow you manage, sitting up half crouched in the shell of metal. It’s a thin cage, not more than a couple centimeters thick. You should be able to break out. You try to shake it, try to bend the bars apart… but nothing. You have no strength… you can barely even lift your arms above your head right now. You should have taken your ex’s advice and gone to the gym more… Well, what are you gonna do? Sitting up is difficult and your head is spinning. You let yourself crumple to the floor of the cage. It feels almost like a headache, but good? If that even makes any sense. Your sense of self and time and place and purpose are all being muddled together into just pleasure. A warm sensation in your chest is slowly replacing everything. Even if you could fight back, you're not sure you want to…
Then a noise! The door opens with a click. You try to raise your head to get a look, but you can barely move, all you get is a sliver of light. Wait,... Who are these people? It’s a bunch of people you’ve never seen before… some men, some women… are they here to save you??? Of course they aren’t, because right behind them is your captor, smiling that wicked smile.
“And here we are, the main course.Isn't my little pet pretty?”
The group starts to crowd around you, talking amongst themselves. You're too far gone to really make out what they're saying. You only have eyes for your captor. She gets down close and locks eyes with you, but talks to the group.
“Don’t worry everyone, I drugged her food earlier, she won’t put up any fight.”
Well that makes more sense, no wonder you feel so strange. At least you feel good. Your captor always makes you feel good. You love your captor, you trust your captor, your captor would never do anything to hurt you. You begin to feel hungry eyes watching you from all over. Your captor unlocks the cage.
Most of the time you're human, a functioning member of society. A person with history and agency and goals and dreams. What people would call a “Normal” person. You go to work, you eat, you pay your bills. Most of the time…
But not today…
You wake up in a panic. A bad dream that is already fleeing from your exhausted mind. You take a moment, take in your surroundings. The patter of rain knocks gently against the windows. You're safe, in your bed, in your home. Whatever terrors of your past came to haunt in your night can’t harm you here. You attempt to move, to readjust, but something feels off. Your body doesn’t feel right. Like a package shoved in too small a box. You try stretching your limbs, flexing your digits and tendons until they feel like they’re going to break, but it doesn't help. It feels like an animal inside trying to claw its way out. You feel an itch behind your ear and go to scratch it… but nothing. The ear you feel doesn't exist. You only have flimsy human ears, not the fluffy puppy ears you’re supposed to. The same goes for your tail which you desperately wish you could wrap around yourself for comfort right now.
You turn over in bed expecting someone, but getting nothing. It’s empty. Your beautiful Owner is nowhere to be found in the mess of bedsheets and pillows. You attempt to call out, but your voice doesn’t want to obey. The words jam in your throat leaving you emitting nothing but a hoarse sort of whine. You give up the futile endeavor and just bark instead. At least you can make that noise without any issue. There’s no response. You bark louder, maybe She just can’t hear you. Still nothing. The memories come back now, your Owner isn’t here. She’s gone for work, across an ocean from you. You whine and curl yourself into a tighter ball to cope with the disappointment. You didn’t think this separation would be this hard. You’ve done it before, so why is this different? Well, Owner's never been this far before, or gone quite this long. In your brain you know that this isn’t a punishment, She needs to work to take care of the both of you, But your heart can’t take the pain.
You push yourself up into a sort of sitting position. Feeling sorry for yourself won’t help right now. At least you don’t have to work today… you doubt you could face your coworkers in the state you're in. You drag the weighted blanket of yourself, the cold sting of the house hitting you immediately. You clench your teeth and bare it. You need to get up. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and attempt to stand, but something is wrong. Your legs feel all wrong, disjointed and unnatural. You lose your balance almost immediately and are brought to all fours. At least this feels better. You look at the pile of laundry and consider putting on something to protect from the cold, but you think better of it. You probably couldn’t figure out how to wear human clothes if you could. Instead you drag yourself on your paws across the house and into the bathroom.
Owner has been very particular about making sure you take care of yourself. She says you're Her pretty puppy and pretty puppies don’t let themselves rot. You don’t feel very pretty today, but regardless if She’s here or not you’re not gonna go against your Owner. You pull yourself up to standing with the help of the counter and get to work. A shave first, then moisturizer. Owner has been saying your skin has been looking dry, and puppies need to be soft. Next comes some makeup. The bare minimum eyeliner and mascara, but still it helps. You see a cute girl staring back at you in the mirror. That can’t be what you look like right? Finally it's time for your pill. Progesterone, the light of your life. You’ve been astounded by the work it's already done for you, as proven by the beautiful pair of tits reflected back to you in the mirror. A sip of water first and the smooth white pill slips down your throat like it doesn’t exist at all. You swear you can feel a buzz in your chest as it enters your biological system. Last but not least, your collar. The silly pink thing you and Owner picked out together in a PetSmart all those years ago. You take it off the counter and wrap it around your neck, slipping the plastic buckle through the metal ring. You sigh as you put the two plastic pieces together with a satisfying click. It's just not the same as when your Owner does it, that feeling of security and safety when she connects the two pieces and makes your Hers, All Hers. At least the feeling around your neck gives you some comfort.
You drop back down to all fours and crawl into the kitchen. “Good puppies eat to grow pretty and soft” She would always say. And you want to be pretty and soft. You consider your options. The stove seems dangerous to use in your condition, and don’t even think about picking up a knife. You scramble through the pantry until you find it. Your favourite kibble. It's really just a puffed chocolate cereal, but without the packaging it looks strikingly similar to the real thing. Thankfully your bowl is already on the ground so you can pop open the top of the box and pour in a healthy portion. No milk for you, that’s how humans eat which you are definitely not right now. You bury your face into the bowl lapping up each delicious kernel of chocolate goodness. Once upon a time you would have found this embarrassing, but nowadays you find it worse not to eat out of your bowl.
When breakfast is done you retreat to the living room. It's a comfy place filled with all manner of soft blankets and a truly absurd mountain of stuffies. You pull a stuffy from the pile, one of your favourites. A little lamb with bright red socks. Your love for it is apparent in its use. Its one soft exterior now a lovely mat of well chewed fabric and soaked slobber. You pick it up with your mouth and are greeted with a lovely SQUEAK!! from the noise maker inside. You hold it gingerly in your mouth as you approach your dog bed, the second hand beanbag that has become the place you spend a vast majority of your waking moments. You place your paws on it gently, hoping not to shift the stuffing too much. You bring your other paws onto the bed and do a couple circles before finding a comfortable spot to lay down. You squeeze the lamb gently in your mouth, the soft squeaks bringing a sense of calm to you.
It’s so hard to be a person on the best of days, especially when the true love of your life is elsewhere. So much is expected of humans, to act and be independent and make decisions. All those things that bring nothing but worry and anxiety to your life. At least today you don’t have to worry about that. Today your just a silly little puppy. You swear you can hear your Owner’s voice talking sweetly to you. “Rest little puppy, you don’t need to do anything at all. Just be a sweet little thing for Owner. I love you so so much” You try to respond, say you love Her too, but all that comes out is a muffled whine.
The sound of rain is playing a soft melody and before you know it you're fast asleep again, dreaming peacefully of the one you Love.
You'd planned for months, but had been waiting for three agonizing weeks. You went to the same coffee shop as always, at the same time as always. Medium, hot, oat milk, 2 sugars. Turned the same way exiting, tracing the same route to the same library you visited every weekend.
She was the first girl to really get it. Your last ex left you because you wanted to do a safeword ignoring scene. Well, they said it was for other reasons. But you knew. You knew you really understood kink, and needed people who really understood kink in your life.
So when she steps out from the side alley, knife in hand, you play out the scene as planned. You don't have to work as hard you thought to make the trembling convincing. She's brusque, in person, and the knife is much bigger than you thought. Your heart races as she ratchets the zip cuffs around your wrists, and places the bag over your head. You wrinkle your nose, it stinks.
"Zoe, can you-"
"No talking. Move." She kicks at your calf, and you have to stumble forward, catching yourself by half steps, landing face first in what must be the open trunk. Musty blankets and itchy trunk liner. Hands, groping in your pockets for wallet, phone, keys. Zoe grabs your thighs, and lifts. Grunts. You dolphin a bit, folding yourself into the trunk. Its not accurate, but you don't want the scene to get stuck here.
The trunk slams shut. You're left in hot, scratchy silence. Short breaths. Musky might be the right word for the smell.
The car kicks to life. Your knees press uncomfortably against the trunk edge as Zoe accelerates. A sharp turn - your head smacks into the side wall. She's not a very good driver. You try to count the turns, the time between jerks of acceleration. How you would if this was real. But your focus is drawn away by what comes next, and it all blends into an uneven gait beneath you.
This is what your idiot former partners never understood. Light bondage here and there, oh, yea, indulge the idiot pervert girl in her damsel fantasies. None of them had been willing to do this for you. Zoe had never failed. She texted every morning, and remembered every detail.
Finally, the car rolls to full stop, and rumbles off. And you wait. And wait. This is it. The climactic scene where she stops "on the side of the road" and forces you to service her at gunpoint. Really, her backyard. With takeout after.
The trunk clicks open.
"Out."
You unfold sore limbs, helped not too kindly by Zoe's yanking. You stumble, catching the ground, and let her lead you by the wrists. She stops.
"There's three steps down in front of you. Right foot first."
There were no steps, in the plan. Your heart races. Zoe added something extra, just for you. You tentatively reach down, and hear the hollow metal clank of a steel stair. Two. Three. She has her hand on your neck, and ducks you through what must be a inner short door of a bulkhead entrance. Shuffle forward on stone.
A metal clasp bites around your exposed ankle. The hood comes off, and even the gloom is blinding for a moment.
Every post you've ever written. Some you didn't write, where you added long and rambling tags. DMs to her. Messages in public servers. Posts from accounts you never told her about, Instagram and LinkedIn. Photos rendered in flat, laser-printer color. Taped together in a sprawling mosaic across the concrete wall of a small room of her basement. You turn back to see the stairwell you'd descended. Heavy interior door, open to the stairs up to the storm door.
And the shackle, unplanned, padlocked onto your leg, a thick, short chain anchored to the corner, where a dog bed sat.
"Zoe, uh. Wow, this is amazing. You really added to the scene. Can. Can I get a check in before we keep going?"
Zoe looked at you with a pitying stare, and a lazy grin. She turns back to the stairs.
"I've got to go tie up some loose ends. Quit your job, send some mean texts to the friends you have left, dump your phone at a bus station. Hard to wait when I'm so close but, it's just a few more hours. I'll be back to talk about our new life together, sweetheart."
She closes the inner door of the storm stairs with a solid thump, plunging you into true darkness.
I desperately want to be wrestled to the ground, and have a collar forced around my neck and to be violently muzzled while pinned down by a girl, struggling against her every step of the way.
The Rookie: A brand new Handler who got brought into this program for her psychology knowledge, but is immediately horrified at what she sees. Very easy to subvert; when given the nearest opportunity, she will ride in the copilot seat with one of the main Handler's Hounds for 'close-up analysis', only to cut comms and tell the Hound to book it. Generally well received by Rebels, due to strong sense of morals.
The Grief Stricken: This Handler used to be at the top of her game, until she fell in love with her prized Hound. Then that Hound either died or was permanently crippled. Now she wants out, but is stuck due to countless eyes being on her due to her status. May defect if given a definitive opportunity, especially if it means that her crippled hound(s) get a better home.
The Paperclip: This one defected out of the sheer incompetence of her superiors, and figured that if the Imperials didn't value her efforts, then maybe the cute little rebels would. Is she still a piece of shit and very fascist? Oh 100%, but the rebels need her expertise to win the war. When this war is over, then they can discuss consequences.
The Burnout: This one was already on rocky ground, always being too invested in the lives of her Hounds. After witnessing fifty deaths too many, always pointless so that some military officer could get another shiny medal for her sacrifice, she's about had enough. Similar to the Grief Stricken, but is more likely to shout Carpe Diem and breach her way out in a stolen mech.
The Broken: This Handler was captured by her former Hounds, now turned rebels. She is no longer a Handler, or a person for that matter. She exists as a warning to the Imperial Handlers, used as an example of what will happen to Handlers if they even consider joining the rebellion, much less give their Hounds kindness. These warnings often fail because Imperials are legit just that shitty to everyone, including their Handlers, that many just chance it anyways.
The Deceased: This Handler ceased being fascist because someone put a bullet through its skull.
I love how with all of these kinds of posts describing various kinds of handlers the last one is always:
"Oh gun-senpai! You complete me"
"One day you will have to answer for your sins, and you will find that the void is not merciful."
*CLACK-CLICK*
Look, if Handlers want to practice improper gun safety all the damn time, what with making their hounds deepthroat revolvers, I say we give them a live demonstration of why it's bad!
And by live demonstration I mean we fire LIVE ammo at their LIVING body!
Upon further review of your proposal we at the planning commission are...
We are done. Frak this, we've had it with this program. Deal with it yourselves. This is the proposal that has broken the camel's back.
Excluding the crucial fact that office jobs pay you an income….if staying home to raise children and do chores and bake bread was really so much easier and more joyful than working in an office on some objective level, why aren’t men doing it? Why aren’t they chomping at the bit to be ~leisurely house husbands~ to a working wife? Why aren’t they stepping up to depend solely on someone else’s income in exchange for round-the-clock domestic labor, if it’s really as blissful and their propaganda suggests? Curious.
Also, while office work can absolutely be soul-crushing and exploitive, please never forget that long before women could have their own bank accounts and could sue for employment discrimination, women were also fighting against this:
The notion that women didn't meaningfully work outside of the home before the 60s is weird and sexist, but it is also classist as fuck.
Women have always been in the workplace. Women often worked jobs that were extremely dangerous, where they were horrifically taken advantage of – not only because they were women, but also because an awful lot of them were factory workers. The image that people have of women in the early 1900s happily staying home to nurture children is a fiction that only makes sense if you completely forget about the existence of poor people.
Like, I'm sorry, but "Why on earth would women fight for the right to work at this depressing white collar job?" is a completely deranged question to ask when you consider that women also had to actively fight to not be locked into sweatshops and literally burned alive.
please consider writing to Prarieland defendants Autumn Hill and Meagan Morris, they are both trans lesbians incarcerated in men's prisons for protesting an ICE facility
prosecution established affiliation by way of defendants having fucking anarchist zines, the kind of shit you see in a punk house. this is what they want and are willing to pursue for all of us who aren't willing to lay down and die, imprisonment and torture and the absolute stripping of our dignity (the govt gleefully included their deadnames in a press release yesterday; Morris' public defender has consistently deadnamed and misgendered her despite her legal name change)
there is no one who will protect us except us, and if our sisters are lost to us and forgotten as soon as they are grabbed by the prison system (ie if the system is allowed to work as intended) then we are failing, and we are woefully unprepared for a world where they start taking more of us
Autumn is a loving wife and is interested in religious history and mythology. Write to her at FMC Fort Worth.
Meagan Elizabeth Morris is loved by her wife housemates, and dogs. Her name was legally changed in 2007, but the federal complaint used her
