okaydoll1301

[okaydoll1301]

© pet_foolery

[okaydoll1301]

Hi! Can I request masochist whumpee who feel disgusted by themselves?

“You love this.”

“Stop…”

“You can’t get enough, like…damn, just look at yourself! You’re fucking insatiable.”

“I-I don’t…”

“God, it’s all denial with you. Come on, you know you want it. Don’t think I don’t see how you get [hard/wet] when I cut you.”

“Please…”

“You’re a freak. You’re disgusting. Say it.”

“…no…”

“Say it. Say the truth, fucking say it.”

“AH! N-No—I’m a freak!”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m disgusting!”

“You want this.”

“I…no—”

“Whumpee.”

“…I-I want this.”

“Good. Very good. Now let’s finish you off.”

[okaydoll1301]

Lack of revenge

So many of our OCs want revenge, but I've always wondered if there's people out there who think about the ones who just...don't. Who are just too tired or just really don't care anymore.

Maybe they're too broken. Or they genuinely just stopped caring. Lack faith. There's no real answer.

Excuse me, y'all. I've been so off track lately. Mental health issues really do suck.

----------------------------------------

“Why’d you do it?” They peered over at them, looking at them as they sat at the dining table. It was a brightly light diner, a mom and pop place all lined up with giggling kids and awkward teens on their first date. But it had been quiet enough they could feel safe asking such an open question here, and safe enough they could come at all.

It had been pretty unplanned, but when they saw that short blonde buzz cut in the robin egg blue booth they had to come in. It had nagged them. How could they think it was ok? They walked with a limp now. They couldn’t quite sleep right. The alcohol helped, but it seemed to take more and more each week. The sensation of a hand crawling up their arm caused them to shudder and rub their arm as they slid into the booth. Again, they repeated, “Why? Was there a point?”

The dead state they gave back was unnerving. A shrug, “Dunno.”

The fuck.

“You don’t know?” Their voice should have sounded more aggravated, they should have been more upset. Instead, they sounded level headed and calm. God, they needed a drink. No. They needed to shove this guy’s head into a wood chipper.

“Yeah. No idea.”

They scoffed and stood back up. This wasn’t what they’d wanted. There were therapists that had said some kind of closure would be good if you confronted your assailant, but this? This wasn’t worth it. They didn’t even think it was worth continuing the conversation. Did that make them a coward? Wasn’t the average human supposed to get angry and upset and want revenge?

“Fuck you.” It was all they could think to say. All the little quips, the remarks they had planned to say fell dead on their tongue now. What was the point? They just wanted to get back home. A drink sounded great. Yeah. Another one so they could breath steady and stop the thoughts of how another person could do this to them.

Their cane tapped on the linoleum as they dragged themselves back out the diner, the odd gait as they gait swathed back out into the street of the small town.

There was no such thing as closure in the real world.

[okaydoll1301]

October 3 - Trauma Thursday

Shared trauma, survivor’s guilt, “It’s not your fault.”

TW: implied past abuse, mention of alcohol abuse

--------------------------------------------------

She shuffled through the hallway, eyes gaunt from another sleepless night. Lately the nights seemed longer, never letting her sleep for a moment, despite the copious amounts of liquor she tried to cosume. Her fingers threaded through her hair, a few more strands coming out as she did. Her breath came out in a heavy sigh, one louder than she meant to let out. One of the floorboards creaked and she winced at the sound, worrying she'd wake Miles up. He was always such a light sleeper - a habit he'd formed from growing up in an grenade household. Her steps were a little faster as she tried to walk to the bedroom unnoticed with her light little taps of her toes muted by her socks.

His silhouette filled a portion of the doorway before she could catch it outlined through the moonlight from her bedroom window. She bumped into him, her response time too slow after a week of a lackluster spirit and a demanding, soul sucking schedule. "What are you doing up, Малыш?" She asked with a coy smirk, trying to play off the scent of alcohol she had no doubt was wafting from her.

"Why are you up?" Oh. He was not going to take the bait tonight, she thought to herself, and the teasing smile dropped instantly. No need for bluffs, she supposed.. She pushed past him and walked into her room with a light brush of her shoulder to his body and a brisk but obviously staggered walk to her bed despite her most valiant effort.

"Does it matter?" She dropped all pretenses and flopped face down onto her bed. The mound of stuffed plushes shifted as she moved her arms, starfishing over the bed. "Does anything matter?"

The bed creaked slightly as he sat beside her, his fingers toying with her hair. Her sigh was the only sound in the room for the moment, adding to what already felt like a cavernous pause. "Most things don't matter, кошкаю." His voice was always like this at night; so blunt and neutral. It was the only time she could trust the mask to fall off, to know every word out of his mouth was the truth. "But tell me what's in that head anyways. I know something is eating at you."

Catherine's eyes rolled. Oh yes. She could trust his words. She could also trust him to read her. This was their agreement. Truth for truth; although she found herself questioning how even of a trade it really was most nights. With a roll she propped herself on her elbow as she stared back at him. The color of his hair seemed black in the darkness even though she knew better. A bit like his mind, a bit like his heart. All a bit black. It caused her to pause, her heart felt like it could stutter like a kid with a stage fright.

"Do you ever feel guilty for being able to walk away from your family while they got left behind?" She couldn't even mention them by name, already feeling a churning in her stomach as she started her opening line as if it was a dissertation. They'd both dropped them both, her barely talking to his brother or sisters and she barely talking to her sister. Fingers had been pointed, words had been said. In her case, a few bones had broken, bottles broken, and she knew she had forgotten the worst bits of it all. But if she tried to explain this all to him she knew he woudn't understand.

"No." His answer was short and quick. Such a flat tone. She pulled her lips into a thin line as he replied too quickly. She reprimanded herself internally realizing she should have known better. There was a pain deep in her chest as she looked at him, hair a bit scraggly and crooked. His eyes looked as dull as his words sounded. He'd gotten good at putting expression on his face, but there was no pretenses here. "But I'm guessing you feel bad for surviving yours while your sister wound up in foster care."

Her stomach churned as if he'd gutted her himself.. Her hand clenched as she sat up on the bed, turning away from Miles, a part of her stomach twisting. "I'm never going to look for her y'know. She blamed me. For breaking our family apart. She thinks we would have been ok if I had never said anything and in the same breath she-" Catherine's breath hitched as she coughed. saliva pooling in her mouth as she got up and ran to the restroom. Lately she couldn't even think about it without needing to wretch. Her fingers trembled as she gripped the toilet bowl, almost not making it as vomit spewed. The vodka she'd had burned like acid as she coughed and wretched again. It was all she'd had…well that and a few other drinks and a peach for breakfast. Regret set in pretty quickly.

Miles was soon there with her, holding her hair as she heaved and threw up the last of the contents of her stomach. She longed to hear the phrase she would never hear from anyone that mattered, and the only one who mattered to her most would never be capable enough of telling her convincingly enough.

It hadn't been her fault. Right?

[okaydoll1301]

More quiet whump :)

Inspired by this post by @defire

[CW: general abuse, whump in public, hiding abuse and injuries]

Keeping Whumpee in line.

Whumper doesn’t need to deal threats when they can simply deal consequences.

Shock collars are far too gaudy for a night out, not to mention conspicuous. Whumpee wears thick bands around their wrists instead, hidden beneath their sleeves, making their hands clench and shake whenever they’re activated.

The sharp pinch of a guiding hand on the sensitive skin of Whumpee’s ribs. A “friendly” hand on Whumpee’s shoulder, grinding collar bones and fraying nerves. The quick step of a heavy boot on the toe of a cloth shoe. Whumper leaves bruises where no one else will see.

Whumper with a painful magic touch. What looks like a gentle caress can come with the bite of thorns. It’s starting to hurt whether or not the magic is used. God forbid Whumpee flinches in front of Whumper’s friends, or their enemies…

A more severe punishment is sometimes required. But no need to be dramatic or cause a scene, just find a quiet place to get Whumpee back on track…

Whumpee is backhanded, the blow startling them to fall to their knees. Whumper’s expression never even changes. They just continue walking, expecting - demanding - Whumpee to keep up.

Whumpee has their knee kicked out from behind, making them drop, and their hair is gathered and pulled in an unrelenting grip. They gasp as their head is pulled back, their airways straining. Then, as quickly as it started, they’re released with a shove.

Whumper pulls Whumpee into a dark corner and wraps their hand around Whumpee’s throat. It’s jarring, yet the action itself is slow, tempered; every twitch of muscle fiber spelling out Whumper’s intention. Whumpee tries to apologize, but their breath emerges limp from the crushed airway. Just when their eyes burn and flash with dots and darkness - like a thousand cigarette stubbings - Whumper let’s go. They stare at Whumpee then, watching the heaving lungs and the shuffling, unsteady feet. Then - maybe the flash of a pleased smirk, too quick to tell - they turn away.

Actions speak louder than words, even in Whumper’s personal domain.

When Whumpee says anything other than what Whumper wants to hear, their head is forced under cold water. They’re sputtering and gasping for breath before the next shove, and Whumper gives them no hints as to how to end the torture. They can only guess wrong, and drown again.

Whumper likes the way their whumpee responds to the snap of their fingers. The sound, after alerting Whumpee to a mistake, used to be immediately followed by pain. A fist to the side of the head, a dose of magic poisoning the blood, an ear-splitting scream transposed into their thoughts. Now it’s followed by silence. Of course Whumpee still flinches, still cowers, still tries to right the wrongs. They know about the mental tally Whumper keeps. How Whumper likes the efficiency of this new tactic — how Whumper also likes that if they hold off on the impulse to punish Whumpee in the moment, they’ll have plenty of time to think of something better. Something a lot more fun.

Was gonna make this an even three but I’m tired lmao

Bonus

Whumpee is restrained and muzzled. They’re being spoken about, but not to, and they feel like an observer in their own torment. Are they being sold? Examined? Evaluated? Mocked? Even cooed or awed over, they’ll feel the shame of their silence and inability to participate. They can only glare… that is, if they can get away with it.

[okaydoll1301]

how to outline a story:

write a bullet point list of everything that happens

realize it doesn’t make sense

cry

start writing anyway

[okaydoll1301]

Sips of Silence

I should have done the whumperless august portion, but I had too much going on :(. Better late than never, I guess.

Here goes nothing, void.

Path of Whumperless Whump

Day 30: self-harm/addiction/overdose

cw: implied past abuse

They stared at the bottle, knowing in the back of their mind there were supposed to be better ways of dealing with things. But as the familiar sound of liquid pouring into glass, glugging into their awaiting cup, they didn't want to stop.

Memories of their father, the sounds of glass shattering echoing in their head replayed. The screams, the shouts, the turmoil that churned deep in their stomach as they brought the sweet drink to their lips.

Their mind finally quieted as the room swirled a little. Their steps weren't as steady but really, they should have stumbled. They were really good at feigning sobriety, high-functioning, when they needed to conceal their sins from the world. Tonight, the only eyes on them would be the moon cascading through their living room window, shining like some beacon of sorrow and song of things long forgotten. Or some drivel, bullshit romantic people came up with, they sneered.

It took them moments to empty the glass, and they simply reached for the bottle, hoping to silence the echoes of damning words and clips of pain on their skin and soul. Anything to forget, as they knocked over another empty bottle beside the other. They grimaced as it fell over into the sink with a loud clatter and they cursed under their breath, hoping not to wake their roommate. A lecture was not in their agenda for the night. They just needed silence. Something to help them sleep tonight. Maybe they could pretend they weren't as disgusting as they felt. They could pretend to be human for the night, not some sniveling creature who were too cowardly to deal with their problems.

They wrapped their hand around the neck of the bottle and tossed their head back. The liquor stung their throat, but paid it no mind, squeezing their eyes shut as they drank as much as they could stand. More. More. Numb, quiet, chase it away.

The stupid little grin spread on their face as everything went silent and they set the bottle down slowly as they slid down the kitchen island wall.

They didn’t hear the approaching footsteps, too lost in their stupor, “You gotta be kidding me-,“ There was a click of a tongue and they were hauled to their feet. But their eyes were already shut, lost in oblivion as their almost limp weight was dragged along.

[okaydoll1301]

30+ year old women are the backbone of this website

[okaydoll1301]

The Only One Alive

Bleeding in Moonlight: Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three |

CW: Buried alive, digging out of grave, referenced mass murder, werewolves, nonhuman whumpee, captivity, escape, dehumanizing language, my boy is a survivor

-

Earlier

Misae hadn't known what was happening, at first. 

He’d been locked up alone in a cage in the barn for a week straight after accidentally nipping at Ada’s hand the last time the humans had cut him to take blood. He’d been able to hear the noise of the packs in the kennels, at least, and had sometimes howled just to hear their answering howls in return - until Bill or somebody else came out and yelled and they all went silent again. 

All day, there had been the grumbling roar of machinery somewhere off in the big clearing behind Bill’s house, where the humans lived. All day, things had driven close and then far, close and then far. When Bill’s younger son Aaron had brought Misae his midday meal, he’d dropped the bowl through the bars in a hurry so he could rush back outside, to help or to watch. He’d ignored Misae’s hesitant questions - until the moon rose, he’d been human in shape, curled up in the cage with a blanket over his lap. 

The real humans always ignored them, or hurt them, when they tried to speak. Misae mostly didn’t talk anymore. He had been whipped too many times to keep trying.

It was only after the moon rose, and the shift had taken hold and the voices of Misae’s family had switched from soft human speech to rumbling growls and howling, that the machinery stopped its cacophony.

Shortly after that, the dying began.

At first, the sounds he could hear didn't make any sense. Misae had flattened his own ears against his head to muffle the shouting of the real humans, but it still hurt. Even here, forgotten inside the barn, all the yelling and ordering and threats had been deafeningly loud to his canine ears. 

He’d ended up trying to press his paws up and over them, but even that wasn’t enough.

The sounds the packs made were even more confusing. He could hear the cries of them all, young and old. One of those howls might be his mother, or a deeper pleading for mercy could have been from his father, but the children born in the kennels were never told who had borne them. 

The humans didn’t think werewolves should remember their children, who Bill called ‘puppies’, so they took them after 12 weeks and washed their parents’ smells off them and then handed them off to be raised in the kennels by all the shifters together. 

Misae had never know which voice singing a lullaby might have been the first. Everyone was his mother or father, and no one was. 

For a while, lying in that cage in the barn, he’d heard the pleading and the shouting, fear and rage, uncertainty and maybe even occasional hope that this might be freedom.

Then the first shots rang out.

The loud, horrible sounds of the special gun with its huge silver bullets had gone on and on and on. There had been high-pitched squeals and canine screams. Maybe they were being moved, and needed to be herded onto trailers. They’d moved once, a long time ago when Misae was still carried on someone’s hip. They’d been pushed into trailers in sweltering summer heat and driven from Bill’s last house to this new one, built far away from everyone and everything. 

A few from the packs had protested and tried to fight back. The guns had come out, then - the first time Misae had ever heard them. A couple of the wolves had been shot to show all the others how serious Bill was, and they’d all been good then.

So, for a while, Misae thought they were just herding the wolves, and shooting stragglers or fighters.

But… the shots didn’t stop.

They went on and on and on, with the humans only pausing long enough to reload before firing again. 

The howls of pain built, voices layering over each other. Something was happening that had never happened before, in Misae’s memory. They weren’t culling, killing the rebels and fighters to leave behind the softer, sadder, obedient wolves to be studied. 

Misae was listening to them die.

All of them.

It was Austin who eventually remembered Misae, alone in the barn. Austin came in with a white face and white-rimmed walleyes to unlock Misae’s cage. He tossed a loop of heavy rope over his head, jerking it tight enough to choke him as he slowly dragged him out. Misae [pressed himself against the back of the cage and dug his paws into the dirt, but he wasn’t strong enough. His nails left marks in the dirt. 

Tail tucked under his body, he was forced inch by inch towards the barn door and the squeals and whines and whimpers. They were begging not to die, asking why. The packs had been so good when studied. They had been obedient animals and they cried in confusion and terror when it wasn’t enough, asking the humans over and over why this was happening, what they had done wrong.

The humans couldn’t hear any of it. They didn’t have the right kind of ears.

But Misae did.

Later, he would see that Bill’s family shot the werewolves with silver under the light of the full moon because it was easier to kill them as wolves rather than face murdering them as men. At the time, though, he understood nothing but his own fear. His only awareness was of the pounding beat of his heart being maybe the last thing he would ever feel other than pain, the darkness that would follow it, and finally the promised, inevitable fires of Hell.

Monsters only had one afterlife, after all. Bill always said so. 

“Come on, Rusty, you stupid fucker,” Austin snarled, but his heart wasn’t in the anger he put into his voice. Misae dimly realized Austin was scared, too. “Dad will blow a gasket if he realizes I forgot you were in here-... come on!”

Misae whined. Austin jerked the noose tight again to cut the sounds off, but he wouldn’t look right at Misae as he pulled him along. Austin looked like he’d seen a ghost. No, he looked like what he was - someone not much older than Misae was, forced to make ghosts. He’d probably made three dozen of them by now as Misae listened-

Misae tossed his head back and howled.

No one answered the call.

No one was left with enough breath to do it.

There was a big hole dug in the clearing.

That’s what the machinery had been doing all day, dragging huge piles of earth up and out, depositing it into a big pile off to one side. A hole like a wound in the grass had been left, nearly filled now by blood and fur and open, unseeing eyes. The sight loomed so large in Misae’s mind that he didn’t really see it at all.

His mind instead simply let horror wash over him even as it refused to accept the images his eyes tried to share. He would never be able to clearly recall the sight. He owed it to them, his pack, his family, to remember their deaths but his eyes and his brain would never allow it. Instead, he heard the sounds.

Some of them were still whimpering, when Misae was pushed up to the edge of the hole. Some of them were still whining. Some of them were only breathing, loud, heavy gasps that held too much blood in struggling lungs. He heard them all.

He would hear them all in his sleep, when he slept, for the rest of his life.

When Misae turned his head away from the horror of the pit, his eyes met the depthless black of the barrel of Austin’s gun instead. Austin’s hands were shaking, and the barrel kept dancing too far to the right or the left, unable to settle on its aim. 

Misae dropped his head slightly. He let out a soft, plaintive whine.

“Shut the fuck up,” Austin hissed. He looked like he was going to be sick any second, throw up all over the dead wolves behind Misae or all over himself. “Don’t do that. I have to-... I have to.”

Misae looked away again. He made himself take one step, and then another, hovering just at the edge of the pit, looking down into a dozen open eyes, some wide with fear, and some seeing nothing at all any longer.

“Look… I’m sorry, Rusty,” Austin said, voice low. “I really am sorry. But I have to.”

BOOM.

Misae’s heart stopped.

His body toppled forward and he fell gracelessly into the pit.

Misae landed heavily on top of warm bodies, smeared in blood. It smelled like his family, and like metal and fire, and death. He knew what silver felt like in his body, how badly the agony would overtake everything else. It confused him when he realized he didn’t feel that pain. How could he be dead without hurting first? Had it been instantaneous, a shot to the head? Was he going to drift here in a corpse-body until Hell came for him? 

He stretched one paw and then another. He took the deepest breath he could. His heart was still beating. He was alive.

Austin had missed.

The relief was overwhelming. One of the others was trying to move, Nina he thought, and her huge paw pushed against Misae’s snout, forcing his head to turn painfully to one side. He nearly bit his own tongue to keep from making any noise. Her huge body settled over his, jerking reflexively as she kept trying to move. Nina whined, low in her throat, again and again.

Someone else rolled, and pressed against him on another side.  

He heard Austin above him, sounding farther away than he really was. There was another shot. Nina jolted and went still. “Okay… okay, got him that time. I’m sure I did… I’m sure.” Austin didn’t sound sure. His voice trembled. He retched, and Misae listened to him and wondered why he was losing his supper over the murders he had been the one to commit.

“Oh, baby, it’s okay, you’re okay,” Someone else soothed. Sandra, Misae thought, maybe. Bill’s wife. “Remember, not ‘him’... ‘It’. Don’t act like they’re people. Doesn’t matter if you hit it, it’ll suffocate once we get the dirt back in, anyway.” Her voice softened. Misae could imagine she hugged Austin, her precious son. What was having a mother like? “You did a good job, Aussie. It was a cleansing. The versipellis is washed clean and clear, and we can begin again. Your dad will figure out a cure one day, I know he will. He’d been led… this is his calling.”

“I hope not,” Austin replied. “I hope we’re… I hope we’re done, Mom.”

Nina, on top of him, was going limp, turning to dead weight. Misae could barely breathe.

“Dad will stop trying to figure out werewolves now, right?” Austin sounded… young. And softer, maybe further away. They were leaving. “We won’t have to do this again?” There wasn’t a reply, not one that traveled to Misae at least. After a pause, Austin made a noise of despair that made Misae want to laugh, with hysterical loathing and panic. “Please, Mom, tell me he’s going to stop now. Tell me he won’t just go find another group to run his tests on. Please tell me he’s done!”

The roar of the big machinery began again, and Misae didn’t know what Sandra might have said next. 

Would there be other wolves in the kennels, soon enough? Other puppies born in the shed and then taken away to be blood-tested for the sickness? Would the new wolves smell the deaths of the last ones, and know that they would probably end up here, too, once all these bodies had turned to bones?

The first heap of earth fell.

All of those still alive began a new and frantic struggle. Their howls were more like screams, now, so loud that Misae’s whole head throbbed with them. He knew he was making sounds, too, but he couldn’t really hear them over his own heartbeat and the sound of static inside his head. He couldn’t even begin to stop himself. He could feel the vibration in his throat.

Another of his pack - Den, lying beside him and who was probably a littermate, even though nobody was supposed to know who their litter-siblings were - had gone still, too. Misae tried to wriggle out from under Nina, but her weight felt impossible, and with every passing minute more and more dirt fell. Covering the wolves, cutting them off from the moonlight. Misae went blind, except for a little sliver he could see when he dared open his eyes, before he had to clench them shut against the dirt that kept trying to work its way in.

For a while, he was surrounded by the whines, the whimpers, the pain and fear. His pack still begging for mercy, even now, even as they were buried. Wriggling, hot fur and the smell of blood overran every other scent in the world. Blood and silver, burning them from the inside out.  

Each of their voices went silent, one by one.

Eventually, finally, he could hear his own whimpering.

Misae was the only one left making any sound. 

Still, he could see a hint of the moonlight against the back of his closed eyes. The dirt was heavier on one side of the hole than the other, it hadn’t been evenly filled in. They might come back and push it over, though, make it solid and impenetrable, rob Misae of the air he still had to breathe. Hide the grave, cover it in new grass or clover or flowers. 

He couldn’t hear the machine any longer.

He couldn’t hear people, either.

How long Misae laid there, he didn’t know. The bodies around him were becoming more solid with every passing minute, weighing on him more heavily. His own heart kept pounding, but he thought he was the only one. He would die here, under the dirt, surrounded by the corpses of his family. It was the longest he had ever been allowed to be here with all of them, and it would be forever. There was something… nice about that.

Misae was so scared of being alone.

But he was more afraid to die.

He began to wriggle his smaller body, as carefully as he could. He shifted, moved inch by slow inch out from under Nina’s body until even his tail finally pulled free of her, smeared in bloody mud. Dirt was ground into his fur, stuffed up his ears, found its way into his mouth and down his throat. He had to keep his eyes closed, and sometimes snorted out air to try and clear out his snout only to breathe more in.

He could taste their deaths on his tongue.

Alone.

He shifted his paw, slowly, carefully. Dug it into the dirt and then crooked a joint, pulled himself forwards using the catch of his nails to help him balance. He could smell a little bit of fresh air, and sense a little moonlight. He knew which way to go, if he focused on the moon. The moon always led the wolves, it meant for them to shift to run, not to be locked up in kennels pacing with endless restlessness until they were whipped by the humans for misbehaving.

He moved his other paw, echoing the motions of the first. 

He had to dig his slow way up through the bodies of his family, shoving them aside when he could, when there was room. He climbed on top of them, moved his ears in apologies when he had to dig nails into their bellies or press paws against their heads, when he knew he was being watched by sightless eyes. Every member of his pack he moved past, he named their smells - Nina, Den, Hanwi, Nayi, Koya, Ka, Bliss. He repeated their names to himself, because no one else would ever say them. The humans had given them all other names, dog-names that sat like insults on human tongues. The wolves had had their own names for each other, and he thought them now, every single one.

Sometimes he felt the rough press of a tongue against him and hope would rise, small and soft, only to drop back to despair when Misae realized what he felt was a dead tongue lolling out of an unmoving mouth.

His stomach clenched, and heaved, but he fought it back down.

Eventually, though, one paw found the edge of the pit, and then the other. He felt the breeze against the softer fur there and whimpered, desperate to have that air on every part of his body, desperate for the knowledge that he’d made it out.

He pushed down on both front paws as hard as he could, his wasted muscles protesting as he pulled himself up and out, back paws scrabbling in the loose dirt, shoving himself up using Tate’s shoulder for balance. He panted, tongue out, opening his eyes finally to see the bright shine of moonlight as his head popped up over the pit, his ears up and swiveling immediately, checking for sounds, for any humans nearby.

He heard nothing.

Nothing but the sound of his own breathing.

But… there was a smell other than blood, finally, a smell that wasn’t death. The wind blew cool against his face. He smelled pine trees and birds hidden behind leaves. He felt the moon on his fur the way he imagined it might feel to have a mother hold you, and finally with one last push he stood on all four legs in the grass once again. 

He shook himself, dirt falling from his fur in what felt like waves. Spread his toes, let his paws really sink into the soft earth. Took in a huge breath and then let it out in something like a sigh. 

He was alive.

He was the only one alive.

Then, from close to the big house, he heard Aaron’s soft high child’s voice ask, edged with exhaustion, “Hey, Austin? Is that one of the werewolves over by the, um, the hole?”

Austin cursed. Misae turned to look just as Austin, with a red face and teary eyes, aimed and fired. He was too far away to even hope to hit, but a tree close by Misae suddenly burst apart in an explosion of pine needles and bark.

Misae let himself take one last look at the sight of someone’s paw sticking up above the loose dirt.

Kola's, he thought. There was a white spot on Kola's black paw.

Austin took aim again, and Misae ran.

-

Tag list: @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @scoundrelwithboba @shrimpwritings @deluxewhump @yassifiedinformation @whatwhump @dont-look-me-in-the-eye @tundra-tiger

[okaydoll1301]

Reblogging because I NEED to circle back and do a quick drivel of this one.

Can’t believe I haven’t made a post about this, but whump writers, I have an idea for you to chew on.

Cw// etemo

Ok- Whumpee with trauma. Good start. Nightmares, even better. And what do I do personally after a really bad nightmare?(cry) throw up. And what sometimes happens when I vomit? I faint.

Boom there’s several little ideas reasonably thrown into one. There’s so much potential in all these tropes(?) but I never see them put together, so this is me humbly requesting that. Thank you

[okaydoll1301]

10. Lost

Still continued with my favorite pair, WRU au. There's not very many female whumpees, but I definitely do like them.

In the future I'd like to show them in their normal world setting. Miles really isn't so bad there, but this kind of world really lets things go more "naturally".

TW: electric shock, dehumanization, drugging

(I'm still pretty bad at tw, so if anything is missed apologies!)

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"Not lost." Catherine said it in such a ghost of a whisper it was a wonder handler Ivan heard her at all. Her strength was returning to her, possibly because of the spite the intake papers mentioned or maybe because she knew things would only get so much worse. Her breath was deep, ragged, uneven. Her eyes were roaming and unfocused just before she closed them.  She was clinging to the edges of the pits of the darkest parts of her mind, trying so hard not to fall in, evident by the way her fingers dug so deep her fingernails were leaving indentations in the leather. He made a mental note to cut her nails the next chance he got. When she opened her eyes again, she gazed above her, the look of a dejected soul who had lost a fight that hadn’t even started. Her shoulders sank to the table with reddened lips that shook even as she brought them closed in a small pout. Ivan made another note how they’d look begging, and he wondered what array of sounds she would make. The customer had wanted an honest pet, someone who could never deny what they were ever again. It seemed this one had a history of denial. Their task was to stamp that out.

Ivan saw her eyes flickering as Glen gestured to hand him a needle, knocking Ivan out of his observation. In just a few smooth strides Glen returned to her and she balled her hands into fists and caused the table to lurch just a centimeter. The leather strained as she used every bit of her strength to pull against them, "Miles wouldn't do this to me." Her conviction didn't quite ring out, but the glare she gave Ivan was deadly.

Ivan remained passive as he watched her. How many times had he seen reactions like hers anyways? He didn't see a point in keeping count anymore.

Handler Ivan was a Senior Handler and employees weren't given a seniority title easily at WRU for good reason. Since they had expected her to be a particularly easy one he'd been sent to retrieve her from the hall and was assigned her case until his next assignment. It was a four-week training, a fraction of the time of most pets. He'd overheard the bosses stating they wanted to get her in and out quickly for the customer. Either the customer was impatient or there was some other reason, not that he was really looking to know. Based on the murderous look he was getting from her he was sure he'd eventually find out just from spending time training her. It had been clear this one was an open book the moment he had asked her for her designation in the hallway. He'd read her preliminary file. He knew she wasn't officially a pet, but the way she'd gotten flustered and reached for her master's collar like a comfort had made it so obvious she was a natural. This was going to be a walk in the park.

Squeals and exasperated grunts came from the woman fighting the leather. She was starting to sweat from her efforts and her eyes were red from tears she was futilely fighting back. Her lips were shaking, whispering words he couldn’t make out now. Glen merely smiled, the same faux expression he'd had when he'd greeted her. This time there was nothing to stop the man, usually holed away in his office, as he walked over to the table. She flinched and turned away as his fingers toyed with the bell on her collar. "She has a bit of a tolerance already. Double her dose. And prep another just in case we need to administer again." The smile faded as he regarded Catherine again. "Miles told me what a mess you were growing up." He tutted with his tongue, scolding as he accepted the stainless-steel scissors from Ivan. The grating sound of metal cutting the fabric of her clothing made her twitch. "You've been lost so long. If only we had been in your area so much earlier…you could have been spared so much confusion, Cat."

His word seemed to affect her, not the way he exposed her skin to the air like a feast laden before a ravenous beast, a hypocritical pastor claiming to guide a wayward lamb. It earned a flush of red on Catherine's face as she tensed under Glen's analyzing gaze. Ivan held Catherine's head still as Glen nearly caressed her skin with his eyes as he took the cut strips of clothing from her body. Goosebumps rose on her skin, her nipples perked to the cold of the room, leaving her to swallow the saliva that had built up in her guilt-ridden daze. Ivan lifted the needle with expertise before slamming it into her chest and causing her to scream more in alarm than pain as he plunged its contents straight into her system. In minutes her eyes were unfocused and Glen gestured for the straps to be undone. He quickly obliged, working efficiently as Catherine put up no fight and he was able to fold her in a fetal position on her side. The last of her clothing was removed until all that remained were her underwear, and of course the collar she had come in with.  All the while each move of her body the bell on the collar rang out softly, giving a soft chime in the fairly quiet room.

Catherine seemed to be trying with everything she had to turn and look at Glen, but he knew her body was too heavy and sluggish with the patented cocktail of drugs WRU had. These were fairly standard in keeping new intakes controlled. There were many ways of processing new pets and they had specific instructions for restraints to be held off until later. His eyes roved over the way she seemed to pull into herself just a little more. She had no idea how unusual her case was. Spoiled animal, to have a master so involved with a hand tailored training regimen. It resembled more of tune up even though she had never once been through their training program, never once been a pet, never once gone through the Drip. The customer had been vehemently against the Drip.

Glen continued. "Here's how it's going to go, sweetheart. You're going to take to the training like a good girl. Don’t fret though. I expect you're going to resist some of it, but only because we know you're scared. Or you can fight us and we’ll have the inevitable bend until you break. But- “, Glen took a disappointed tone, clicking his tongue, “I think you want to be a good girl for us, don’t you? We all know this is exactly where you’re meant to be, Catherine. Some training and some polish for the pet you always were. No more pretending.” There was a stillness to the room, all except for a long, drawn-out whimper from her. She shook under Ivan’s hand, like this was torment. Ivan pressed his palm firm on her collar and she shuddered, going still.

“Either way you will be such a well-behaved thing." Glen’s last words were icy as his fingers traced over the skin over hips and their eyes caught for just a moment. She avoided Glen’s gaze with a sharp aversion of her eyes, leaving Ivan to wonder if the customer had lied on the forms. Once upon a time, this woman must have known exactly what a collar meant. She must have had a designation she had never recalled, a memory wipe she wasn't aware of. There were many prone to being pets, and occasionally it seemed some came along that were born for it. It became this building’s inside joke to make it all seem more humane, something he believed watching this young woman squirm with only words and a bit of nudging.

Glen’s hand slipped down her thigh eliciting a puff of air and a cry, but she seemed unable to move away from him. The muscles in her jaw tightened and her eyes shut tight while her head shook back and forth. The tiniest no’s came from her in protest, trying to deny everything he was saying. “Ssss….st….sto-mmm. Ssssto-“ Her tongue wouldn’t work right as he lay her on her back. “Mmmm…Mii…mmass…p-p….mmss” The half sob cracked through as her tears rolled down and cascaded into her ears when her words were so slurred she couldn’t even say his name much anything else. Both Glen and he worked to lay her arms above her head and her legs straight.

Now Ivan’s hands moved solo and quickly as he blocked her view until all she could see was his face, forcing her to refocus on reality. Her eyes darted to his hands and then to his eyes, blacker than black. She tried shaking her head as he showed her a phallic gag. It wasn’t exceptionally large, but it would be girthy enough to make anything over an hour or so on strain her jaw and the length wouldn’t let her swallow without a struggle. There was no chance to protest as he thrust it with some force between her lips, stretching her jaw and the straps were locked into place with a neat little click. Her slurring no longer mattered and the drugs pumping straight into her continued to make her limbs useless as her eyesight was taken with a blindfold. With an efficiency that belied just how many he had trained he slipped an IV line into her arm and set her in for a steady line to keep her dosed on the drip system. Words were said, but with her mind spinning it would be impossible for her to make out what they were saying. “No drip, Ivan. He wants her intact. They have history.”

“It’s going to be harder that way-“ Ivan began to argue. He had thought maybe somehow Glen had convinced the customer to change his mind on the drip despite what the file said.

“He’s assured me…”

The words began to become nonsensical, heard clearly but made no sense to her. It’s like they were speaking in a foreign language, and she desperately wanted to understand. “…like to come in for…permanently …” They faded again as Catherine strained to listen, but the darkness felt all consuming. She turned her head both ways, but firm fingers made her look straight up and she heard unintelligible words in a tone that told her it would be better to stay still. She did her best, despite the tremors she couldn’t help vibrating up her entire body from fear. Her thoughts were spiraling. Had Miles left her here? Had he planned this all out? He couldn’t have. She had noticed the small things, less smiles, more demands, more motions without warmth. But there’s no way he had abandoned her here. Any moment he’d find her not outside in the hall and demand to know where she was. She was good for him. Was she not good enough?

The chime of a bell made her whimper and whine. Even with the drugs she managed to roll onto her side and inch to the edge of the table. It was the sound of it, so soft and soothing that made her misery all the more heightened. It felt so out of place in this darkness, away from home, away from everything that made her felt safe. Her breath was forced through her nose as the tears began to soak her blindfold and she sniffled to keep the snot from suffocating her. She wished she could do anything to stop them from shaking it over her, anything at all. When hands reached for her wrists, she only cried more, trying so hard to move away until she felt coolness hit her veins and her movements turned sluggish again. Her teeth bit into the gag, filling her with immediate regret when the metal sent a spark of electricity through her. Her jaw went slack immediately, but she gagged in pain and sputtered over herself losing control of her functions for a few moments as her body quaked in aftershocks.

Ivan chuckled as she recoiled from the special surprise loaded in the gag. He wasted no time putting her on her back again as she sniveled and gagged, caused spit to push through. Her knees drew up slowly only for him to push them straight again. She barely shook her uncooperative head, every move labored and pathetic with the IV in her veins. He wasted no time in putting clamps set their tightest on her nipples making her whine in alarm, but it was brief as she seemed to be trying to breathe through it.  He grinned just ever so slightly, knowing she was already familiar with these sensations -except electricity. The customer had been right. It would come in handy. What a delightful bastard.

[okaydoll1301]

The thing that I feel like people need to understand about whump is that it’s inevitable that some people are gonna be into it sexually and it’s inevitable that for some people it’s also a kink and it’s inevitable that some people fantasize about whump scenarios. And that’s fine. There ain’t nothing wrong with that, if that makes you uncomfortable you don’t have to interact with those people, there is a block button for a reason.

But just because it makes you uncomfortable don’t mean it’s wrong or bad. You can’t come to a community for weirdos, that runs on art and writing made by weirdos, and then get all upset when hey! There’s weirdos around here! The person who writes whump because they think it’s hot ain’t more weird than the person who writes whump because it helps them vent, and that person ain’t any weirder than the person who writes whump just because they think it’s neat. By the standards of most people outside the whump community, we’re ALL weird for enjoying it at all, so there’s no sense in getting all high and mighty because you believe you enjoy whump in the most pure and moral way possible, unlike those “degenerates” so to say. And honestly, if you aren’t mature enough to understand the simple fact that just because someone likes something in fiction, or just because someone likes to fantasize about something, that absolutely does not mean they want it in real life, then you probably aren’t mature enough to be having these discussions about whump/kink and whether it’s “okay” or not if someone gets off to it anyway.

[okaydoll1301]

9. One of Them

It's been a min since I've been here. Life took a very funky turn, from health to personal goings ons. I want to say it's good things, but they gave me some major writer's block.

Anyways, here's some next words, abyss.

TW: taser-use, dehumanization, betrayal

Within moments Catherine's body began to cooperate again, though her muscles felt wiry. Her legs kicked and her fingers scraped at his clothing to find anyway to grip at him without crashing to the floor below. She pulled at the fabric, untucking his shirt as she caught sight of a rod strapped to his belt.

"Behave." It was the only word he said before his hand came down hard on her backside. She paused for only a moment before turning and lashing back at hi. She struck the back of his head, used to being spanked like this because of Miles. She grunted as she fought to tear his fingers from holder her thigh painfully.

Then there was a blooming pain up her back and to the back of her head. Before she could process anything she found herself being tossed to the ground and the same pain was surging up her body. There was a gurgling sound as her body locked and she was unable to look away from those midnight eyes staring back at her. The crackling sound of electricity seemed to last so much longer this time as her eyes turned to orbs, white and wide as saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth. "Behave." He repeated the word as it coursed through her. She thought she might fry if he didn't take it away soon, and it felt worse than anything ever used on her before. For all she’d endured, electricity had never been something used against her and in just these few seconds she was grateful that was the case. All she could muster in her haze of agony was a half of a whimper, but it earned her removal of the device.

She felt his arms wrap around her as he hoisted her up once more and this time she didn't fight or look at her surroundings. Her lids felt heavy, her fingers twitched, the muscles in her legs and abdomen ached. Her arms swung ever so slightly with each of his steps. The murmurs of voices they passed didn't register through the static that occupied her mind and filled her ears. When a door opened and closed with her within its confines she felt as the fabric of his clothing brushed her skin but her body was unresponsive. There was a dull look to her gaze as he pulled her over his shoulder and set her down on the metal exam table. Her reactions were minimal, only shivering from the cold as her bare thighs brushed the cold exterior of the table top. He began to examine her, detached and uninterested, as he checked her arms, her legs, her teeth, the way her pupils dilated when he shone a light in them while she was a million miles away.

Every now and then the bell rang chipping away at her trance. Her eyes would move and she'd breathe in sharply, looking at him with her brows creased. There was the sound of latex as he wordlessly put on examination gloves further enhancing just how little she was viewed as anything but human. Her lips parted and pursed when she tasted the latex of his gloves, so invasive as he pressed at her tongue, daring her to clamp down. Her toes curled and she brought her feet close as he tried to slip the clips open to free her stockings. The silent protest was enough to stop him, but the look in his eyes was gleaming. There was no doubt in her mind he thought she was one of them. She brought her legs close to her chest then, moving away from him as she began to regain her awareness. This had been exactly why she hadn't wanted to come; exactly why she hadn't wanted to come dressed like this. Even though she'd been wearing the collar for weeks already she felt a surge of panic and reached behind her neck to  unbuckle the collar. The bell chimed softly as it slipped free, only stopping as it tangled in the soft locks of her hair that were a disarray from her being wrangled here.

The gleam in his eye transformed into something cold as the small curl of his lip turned downwards and his hand reached for something on his belt. The crackle sounded out again and her hands went out before her, hoping to stop him. It was like a cinematic slow motion as she outstretched her arms and his lips parted into a snarl. "I'm not one of th-" She couldn't even finish before he'd slid her top and made direct contact of the metal prongs to her skin. Her body went rigid and she thought she could at least scream. The silent room met was filled with her gurgles and the crackles that almost seemed to echo off the white walls. When it stopped her teeth had bitten into her tongue and blood trickled from just the corner of her mouth. The taste of copper lit her senses as he helped her sit back up. His chest moved her head slightly as he worked to buckle the collar back in place. Her body was slumped, only moving with the occasional tremor that revealed she was in fact still breathing.

But while her body was straining to cooperate at all, her mind was in a panic. Frustration lit her mind afire as she strained to clamp her hands into fists while tears raced down her cheeks. If she made the wrong move would he do it again? Her cheeks puffed as she tried to beg, tried to explain, tried to say anything at all, but she'd already been in such a dark place for so long. She’d been circling a drain, locked away in a bedroom that had been threatening to swallow her whole. "-ease...please..." Mousey little words, like flits in the air was all she managed. She hadn’t needed the taser to change her speech like this, but it had made reducing her to this a much faster process.

Meanwhile, he had grabbed hold of her shoulder and lain her on her side onto the exam table. "Save your breath. You'll get your designation soon enough and you won’t have to be confused anymore. You look smart enough to pick things up quickly." For a second his eyes caught hers before he continued to pull out restraints and strapped her to the table.

The door opened and in strode none other than Glen, a grand smile on his face as he spotted Catherine looking spectacularly worn on the table. "There you are, Cat. Won't Miles be happy to see you." His strides were measured and his hands straightened the cuffs of his sleeves. "He's been very taken with our training program these past few weeks. And when he let us know he shared his home with a potential like you we knew it would be perfect," His fingers traced over the collar then as she shuddered and closed her eyes. It was as if you could see the bile rising in her throat, but somehow she couldn't muster the words once Miles' name was mentioned. "I had to convince him to leave you with us, but that didn't take much. He seemed more than half convinced without me even suggesting it. So-“ He stopped abruptly, turning to look at Catherine, who refused to look at anything but the ceiling above her. With a gentle hand he pushed the hair out of her face, positioning her head as if laying out cutlery. “Looks like you’ll be staying with us for some time. I promise things won’t be so bad. He already shared about what a good girl you were. You’re just a little lost.” Glen stood up straight again, palming something the handler placed in his hand. “We’ll help you find direction, Catherine. Don’t you worry.”

[okaydoll1301]

Identification.

A pierced ear with a tag slotted into it, a notched horn to indicate something to those in the know, a thin collar like a hospital band made of bright plastic or fabric, a metal shackle with no place to put chains, only engraved with information like a bird's band.

[okaydoll1301]

Food for thought for all our different perspectives put so prettily over an insect.

Mercy

by Joy Sullivan

Once, we were grilling zucchini from the garden. It was summertime and I was about to leave you. A praying mantis landed on the grill. He was bright and beautiful even as he fizzled and I burned all my fingertips trying to save him. You can't tell when an insect is in pain but he must have been and you put him in the grass so softly where I found and stomped him. And I think it surprised us what we each defined as mercy.

[okaydoll1301]

*gently shakes the whump community by the shoulders*

No no no. Stop that. Put down the morality snobbery. Down! Put it down!

We do not get to throw stones at the other harmless weirdos. We are part of the harmless weirdos.

Do not argue! Whump is weird. It's morally neutral and it is weird, like a lot of other morally neutral kinda-gross-to-outsiders weird things, such as, for example, furry fandom. And yes like furry fandom sometimes it's sexual and sometimes it isn't. Both approaches are just as weird and just as fine.

Embrace being weird and don't attack our fellow weirdos. One person's gross torture porn is another person's catharsis.

(We're the weird torture porn fandom we should know this aaaaaaargh)

[okaydoll1301]

8. A tour

This is fairly soft writing for now.

I really put this one off. Not sure why. A slump maybe or maybe because I really wasn't sure what direction to go. Either way...Bon Appetit, oh so fair void.

tw: Coercion, tasers (I'm still really bad at these)

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Catherine showered and dressed quickly. She stared in the mirror for some time, staring at the collar as she unbuckled it. They were going into "that" kind of place, after all. Would it be ok to wear it? She wouldn't be indistinguishable from one of them, so that meant she wouldn’t stand out, right? Her arms wrapped around herself before she cautiously buckled it back into place. She decided she could always take it off later. With tense hands brushing down her clothing she took another glance at herself, taking in the outfit she wore. The skirt felt strange, the blouse felt too suffocating even if it was a light fabric. The stockings she wore, although silky and smooth, felt sense heightening as the straps holding them up brushed her skin with each move she made. Her skin felt like fire. Besides, rarely did she dress like this. She had plenty of semi-business looking outfits from her meetings with her publishing company, but she was a homebody. The company didn’t exactly expect any of their writers to dress like this, but it didn't hurt for them, she supposed it wouldn't hurt for this either.

They took a private car to the company, all black and shiny outside their apartment building. An uneasy feeling made her stomach churn, turning somersaults like it was telling her to go back home. She inhaled deeply trying to settle her nerves as if somehow meditation of any kind would make her feel this place was actually safe. She didn't notice the look Miles gave her or the way he almost seemed to coddle her to get her out of the car. It was just short of him promising her a treat if she came out as he held his hand out for her expectantly. One foot at a time she stepped out onto the pavement and walked arm in arm with Miles to the entrance. Maybe this was a mistake, she thought. She needed to get back home, she was sure of it. The hum in her ears seemed to grow louder. Her breathing had an abruptness at the end, a small tic she'd gotten recently. Her hands shook as he moved to hold her hand, his fingers slowly caressing her palm. Could he feel her trembling? The why weren’t they going back home?

"Catherine. It's going to be just fine. It's just a tour now." Miles spoke only in her ear as they approached the front door. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, guiding her as he opened the door for her. For the first time since he began working with them, he used the front door and Miles knew this time would be very different from work. "Come." He urged her knowing she'd process it as a command and her feet carried her into the building.

"Miles! Glad you could make it. I was still wondering if you would take me up on the offer." The man approached Miles, shaking his hand and then he turned to Catherine, a warm smile on his face. It seemed warm. "I'm supposing this is Catherine?"

At the sound of her name she looked at him with a small and polite smile as she shook his hand. He pulled her in for an embrace, and his hand brushed the buckle of her collar. His eyes crinkled at the corner when she pulled away reflexively.

"A pleasure to meet you, Cat. Do you mind if I call you that?” He asked, but the way he kept going made it clear he wasn’t exactly asking permission. It appeared to Catherine that this was a man used to getting his way. Perhaps someone powerful, or simply someone used to plowing over other’s lives. “Miles has mentioned you plenty. It would appear you have someone quite dedicated." He went on as if he hadn't just touched her in such a familiar way. If Catherine wasn't feeling so uneasy she would have caught the way his eyes lingered on her collar, the gentle slope of her shoulders, or the way his eyes seemed to caress her legs. "The name is Glen, by the way. I won't be the one taking you on the tour unfortunately. That would have been an absolute pleasure with such a pretty thing like yourself. I'll be here when you return." Glen turned his attention back to Miles, suddenly acting as if Catherine was not there at all. Maybe she should have been bothered by it, but it let her look around.

It looked like any company lobby, complete with sleek chairs and coffee. Gourmet muffins sat in a serving case and the scent of the coffee wafted in the air. She lifted her nose just slightly, inhaling without thinking of where she was anymore. It smelled rich and neither too sweet nor bitter.

"Cat. We're ready." Miles called out for her.

"Oh. Oh, yeah. Sorry." She jostled herself out of her trance and her voice tapered off as she apologized, following Miles’ lead as he guided her again.

The tour itself was surprisingly normal. There were entry rooms for new arrivals, exam rooms, and the staff who bustled about within them. It was one of the training rooms that caused her to remember why she had been so nervous about this place. There in the middle of the white room was a young man, possibly no older than twenty-three kneeling with a look of absolute indifference as he was told to change positions. As he was told to ‘present’ she had to turn away and she asked Miles if they could move on. He patted her teasingly and asked the guide to keep them going.

Her teeth gnawed at her inner cheek. She should have been ok with all of this. She’d been in an alternative lifestyle so long, playing with others and finding an assortment of Doms. But not this. There was no end, no safe words. It was who they were and she had to shake her head at Miles when they offered to show the training rooms for the romantics. Miles eyes lit up, the corners of his mouth turned up as the guide mentioned there would be a stark difference between the domestics they’d just seen and the romantics behind the door. Her stomach twisted again, and she rubbed her palms on her skirt at the offer to keep going. She could sense he was going to insist, but one look from her and he let it go.

"Go without me. I'll um…stay out in the hall until you're done." The woman who had been guiding them assured Miles it would be fine because this portion itself wouldn't take excessively long. It didn't take too much to convince him, and a moment later she found herself alone.

She looked about her in the hall. Her hands smoothed her skirt and she discreetly readjusted the back of the stockings so the lines were perfect again. The walls were white. The ceilings and lighting were white. Everything was…white. She fiddled with the bell on the collar, sighing and trying to understand how she had so easily let Miles bring her here. There was a huge urge to simply walk out and leave him behind, but she didn’t have a car and they had taken their phones at the front desk. It meant she’d have to ask for it and she wasn’t sure she had the bravado to do that right now.

Heavy steps rattled her out of her fantasy escape plane. A man in all black attire, complete with combat boots and a shirt with more pockets than possibly necessary passed by her. She averted her gaze, not wanting to strike up a conversation. There was a pause of the steady footfalls as they stood in front of her. She glanced up, already gripping the bell tightly in her hand. Dark eyes stared back at her, almost black like midnight skies and she felt her breath stutter.

"Now what could you possibly be doing out here?” The question wasn’t really aimed at her, his voice was too low for that. “Number and designation?" His voice was almost robotic as he spoke up and she blinked.

"What? No. I'm sorry," Her laugh was awkward as she crossed her arms and let go of the bell. It rang, filling the small space between them like a declaration that argued her next sentence. "I'm not a pet." The man remained silent, seemingly studying her as she watched his eyes wander. His shoulders dropped an inch then seemed to go rigid again, “So they left you here for a bit?"

She smiled and nodded awkwardly as she tried to ease some of the tension she felt building between them, "Yeah. A bit of a tour in there. It’ll be a wonder if he ever comes out again," Her thumb gestured behind her to the door Miles and the tour guide had gone through. She didn’t bother to look up at him again, instead somehow giving herself the illusion as she turned away that if she couldn’t see him maybe he’d walk away.

His gloved hand reached out for her, too quick for her as it clutched the buckle of her collar, "What the hell are you doing?" She clamored as she tried to get his grip off of her, but she hadn’t expected the sudden jolt of electricity that went up her body. What was probably only ten to fifteen seconds felt like agony. Her body tightened, going rigid as long as those prongs stayed pressed to her side. Then just as suddenly she let out a gurgle and dropped to her knees before slumping against the wall. She watched, disconnected from herself as he reached for her and threw her over her shoulder like trophy game. Her body wouldn't cooperate as it shook periodically, and her tongue wouldn't quite move the way she needed it to; like it was full of cotton.

Her mind focused on the white door Miles and the guide had gone into as it got farther and farther, like a vision in a dream that you couldn’t quite wake up from.