Name: Saint, Age: 36, Minors: LEAVE.

You’re in the audience. It’s a small venue, but a packed crowd. You manage to get a seat up front. You feel a little out of place in your starched workwear, hiding your briefcase behind your legs. 

Coming to this magic show was a spur-of-the-moment decision, a deviation on your path home. You’re not sure what drew you here exactly.

You watch someone working their magic on stage - see the flourishes and the spectacle. Most than that, you see them. Surely unassuming at any other time, now a magnetic presence. Your eyes meet several times. 

They’re working the crowd, making a show of finding the right person for their next wondrous feat. They find you. They’re going to put you under a spell, it seems. There’s a bit of banter back and forth. The deal has been struck. It’s time.

They make some sort of gesture in front of you, snapping their fingers in time with every third word they say. They hold your gaze, crowded dramatically at the edge of the stage. 

You wait. They wait. The audience waits.

Then - a comical note from the brass section. You chuckle, shaking off the almost-but-not-quite imperceptible tremor that runs down your back. The magician gives an exaggerated shrug at their failure. They’re playing to the audience, but they’re speaking to you:

“Not everyone is susceptible, folks - oh, well! Better luck next time!“

Your spine stiffens. The back of your neck turns red-hot. The words echo in your skull.

Better luck …

You shake your head as the world around you seems to blink out of existence for a second - 

… next time.

- only to snap back into place. The show is over now. What happened to the rest of it? The venue is empty now - except for you and the magician.

You’re still in your seat. They’re standing in front of you. You’re staring straight ahead when you come back to yourself, staring at their stomach. You realize they’re stroking your hair and likely have been for some time. 

You’re sweaty - almost greasy - in the air-conditioned cool of the theatre. Your clothing feels …. wrong, somehow. Like it was all hastily taken off and then put back on just as haphazardly. There’s a sour-ish taste in your mouth that you can’t place right off the bat, but is familiar regardless. 

“Hey, you alright?“ they ask, voice cloying with sympathy and concern. “You kinda zoned out there. We’re closing down for the night, and I saw you just sitting here.“

You shift in your seat and wince. Was this seat this uncomfortable when you sat down at the beginning of the show? You ass feels like it was beaten raw, hard enough to raise welts. There’s a dull ache between your legs, the flesh there is raw and sticky against the fabric of your pants.

“You drooled on yourself,“ they observe, thumb tracing the string of saliva with a familiarity that makes you flinch back from their touch. 

They smile at your reaction - smile with a patience and an understanding that makes you want to do more than just flinch.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,“ they say in a voice that’s somehow completely unfamiliar despite how it pulses through your skin like it lives there. “I’ll make sure you get home alright.“

“N-No, thank you,“ you say hazily, staggering to your feet. Your knees hurt - like you’ve been kneeling for a long time. The corners of your mouth feel tight and sore - like they’ve been stretched around something. 

A hand, perhaps? Maybe something else?

“Oh, well,“ they say with a chagrined shrug. “Better luck next time.“

Blink.

The two of you are at your apartment, standing right inside the foyer. The sound of them bolting your front door brings you back to reality. Your briefcase is in your hand. 

Your keys are in the magician’s hand - they’re waving them in front of your face.

“You keep spacing out on me,“ they joke as you back away slowly and try to remember where you were for the trip back to your home. Was it a walk? Were you just in a cab? What did you and the magician talk about?

It started so small at first - little requests here and there, innocuous instructions that you couldn’t find fault with or get up in arms about.

“Stand over here in the light for me.“ Snap. Snap.

“Chin up. Good.“ Snap. Snap. Snap, snap, snap.

The kind of things you’d expect from a photographer. He tells you what to do, you do it, then he snaps the pic. Nothing out of the ordinary - at first.

Gradually, over a few months filling out his portfolio, making the rounds of the modeling agencies, his commands begin to shift.

“Get on your knees.“ Snap. Snap, snap.

“Open your mouth.“ Snap. Snap. Snap.

“Arch your back … Good.“ Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap, snap.

Suggestive, to be sure - but still, nothing to make you cry foul. These are photos, after all. They have to be sexy, don’t they? Surely you would speak up if things got out of hand. You’ve been his model for so long and nothing has ever happened.

But then, when he starts to push the envelope, you still don’t say anything. You know consciously that he shouldn’t be asking you to do these things, but … it’s the way he asks that makes it seem so normal. 

He alters neither his tone nor his pitch when he tells you what to do, sounding just the same as he always did. Maybe that’s why you didn’t bat an eye. You’ve grown so accustomed to listening and obeying that you don’t think anything of it.

“Spread your thighs for me … Good, just like that. Nice and wide.“

Snap.

“Put this inside. No, don’t turn it on yet, wait till it’s in there … Turn it on. Good.“

Snap.

“Put your knees up … Higher … Higher, up by your ears … Good.“

Snap.

And even when he puts the camera down one day - dropping all pretense of this being about the photos - you still obey, follow every instruction, adjusting and folding yourself into every pose at his command, doing whatever he asks. 

You somehow still hear the clicking of the camera, hear the snap-snap-snap after each order. Keeping you on beat, keeping up the pace - keeping you in check, in line.

“Tongue my balls … Yes, good, just like that.“

“Hit yourself with it … Good, very good. Whip yourself with that dick.“

“Spread your ass open … Yes.“

My main account got @-ed on this scam (no I won't say which one), and it occurred to me that some of the people here might not realize this is a scam.

reblog if you believe anon is wrong and writers are writers, no matter what they write about. no matter how they portray these taboo topics.

reblog if you believe art can be about topics that are controversial, taboo or outright disturbing, and artists who create controversial, taboo or outright disturbing art are as valid as artists who create art of conservative values.

Listening to a podcast about bodies and eating disorders and the body positivity movement of the last decade ish and hearing someone say (paraphrasing from memory here) "body positivity was all capitalism, there were no legislative changes, just new brands of jeans"

Legislative changes are super important but I cannot emphasize enough that jeans coming in bigger sizes and fat-friendly cuts is actually a really big deal! With meaningful impacts on people's lives (including mine)! Fat people do need clothes! And you may not realize this, but if you're over a certain size (that's not even that big a size) there's a very good chance you can go to a big box store and *not find anything that fits you*. There are towns in the US where if you're over a size 18 you need to drive an hour away or shop online to get things in your size. And they're expensive! "Just buy used" if they even have your size! Fat people want to look nice too. And we face enough judgement during job interviews (to give one example) without trying to do it in clothes that don't fit or are super uncomfortable.

Actually: If you're fat and you want to look cute/hot/masc/femme/etc I cannot recommend this website enough, you put in your measurements and it lists what brands have your size. You can filter for stuff like sensory friendly, nonbinary, masc, organic, etc. It's not AI just a database.