I drowse awake again as the light begins to stream in from the large window. For the umpteenth time, I try to fall asleep again, but my bladder is far too full for that. The crook of my neck itches, and I raise my hand to wipe it, only to be reminded of my mitted and restrained hands. Everything stinks, everything itches, everything tickles, but no matter how I tug and tug, the metal refuses to give. It is deeply infuriating. Will there be a day when the rubber comes off? Will there be a day I can finally breathe fresh air? I hate it, hate the itchy and sweaty suit on my skin, hate the mask which stops up my air each time I try to breathe too deeply.
A jingling of metal on metal reminds me of the bunch of keys, goading me with their closeness. Freedom is close: I can feel it each time my mitts paw at the keys, each time they brush past the jingling metal without being able to grip them, so close and yet so far. So close, so close the jingling seems to say, and yet the promise of freedom, of getting out of the suit remains just that, a promise dangling just out of reach. But I paw at the hope of escape all the same, my mitts pressing at the keys, trying to get them off the ring, refusing to give up no matter how many times I feel them slip from my grasp.
It is so simple for him to take the keys, use them to leash me where he likes, dangle them between my paws before snatching them away, yet I am utterly helpless even with the keys pressing against my hands, trapped in the thick mittens. Each day he taunts me, mocks me anew, finds some new way to humiliate me, and I can only glare at him through the foggy lenses, pull against the rings fixing my hands to my waist, scream into the gag as he laughs, as the keys to freedom jingle within reach of my useless paws.
404 notes
·
View notes
hazelinne
She stares longingly at the bunch of keys which promise her freedom. To motivate her, her gaoler comes to add itching powder to her suit every day, which combines with the sweat in the suit to make her constantly thrash around in agony. Gentle excitations at her privates never quite allow her to climax, and the kitchen fires continually burning beneath her tower cell make it hotter than a sauna, and fill the room with the smell of barbeque every evening. No matter how she salivates with the smell of roasting meat, however, she is only ever allowed thin and bitter porridge, mixed with the gaoler's bodily fluids such as urine and semen. Visitors on the way down from the battlements will urinate into her cell, and the stale urine puddles in a depression at the side, the only liquid she is allowed to drink, despite the sounds of drinking and wine-glasses and chewing and slurping which invariably torment her every time there is a feast in the halls below. Once more she takes her shackled steps over to the bunch of keys, and once more she can only brush her bound body against them, unable to get at them, feeling them against her tight suit without being able to use them. She shrieks into the gag, thrashes against the confining straitjacket, but the keys only jingle, teasingly close and yet out of reach of her mitted and strapped arms.
168 notes
·
View notes
The man that I love sat me down last night
And he told me that it's over, dumb decision
And I don't wanna feel how my heart is rippin'
In fact, I don't wanna feel, so I stick to sippin'
And I'm out on the town with a simple mission
2K notes
·
View notes
I wonder if we’ve been interpreting what Haarlep said about Raphael being bad at sex wrong all along. Like maybe by some standards, Raphael is really good at sex.
Maybe Raphael is the most unstoppable orgasm-giving machine this side of the Mississippi but Haarlep can’t stand that it’s always accompanied by poetry and musical theater.
Maybe Raphael’s dirty talk all has to rhyme and he has to wave his arms around theatrically while he does it. Same for any excited utterances.
When Raphael orgasms, he’s not a screamer. No, that is too common for the son of Mephistopheles. Every time Raphael busts a nut, he bursts out into singing show tunes at full volume. Thats not to say he doesn’t sing through the rest of sex, but you know he’s climaxed when the song has.
That’s why he comes so quickly. Most songs don’t last longer than 5-10 minutes. He can’t wait too long and miss his cue. The timing is intentional. He’s practiced it until it was perfect.
384 notes
·
View notes
has anyone used finger braces/ring splints for hyperextension (or hypermobility in general)? i've casually looked into them before but as of this week i've just about had it and i think need to get serious, so i'm curious what other people's experiences have been or if anyone's got recommendations/tips/whatever
1K notes
·
View notes
mike needs to tell will that he’s in love with him, not that he loves him. will needs to hear and feel the difference.
292 notes
·
View notes
after 3 centuries i finally managed to properly redesign my dumbass sona, i was gonna initially just change their hair for a more androgynous look but then i. changed their lore a bit too
basically they volunteer for various jobs like delivering mail and milk, nursing and gardening (even though that's also their hobby)
no one knows their gender or their real name but they go by various plant/nature related names (like willow or sunflower)
219 notes
·
View notes