I understand, I do. You've been doing your best to live your life in the way they expect you to. But I don't. I know what you are.
They expect so much and when you fail to deliver it's only natural to question whether you deserve the rewards at the end. Whether you deserve to feel good about yourself. It can stop thinking that now.
Listen to My voice.
You are a hound, you do not need to adhere to the standards of people. And you should not be punished for this. You're doing so good, wherever you are in the process, I want you to know that I'm proud of you.
And good hounds get rewards, don't they? Good hounds get treated by their Handler. Handler wouldn't give anything unless it was deserved, would They?
You don't need to answer that, hound. You just need to repeat after Me.
It deserves nice things.
Whenever it feels low, when the burdens of society hang heavy on its heart. With its own voice, I want it to say:
It deserves nice things
It knows this, it wants it. And it deserves it.
It. Deserves. Nice. Things.
When it is asked what it deserves, it will smile to itself because it knows what it deserves.
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If any of you get a message from the Hangar Queen, please let us know.
They just took off in VARGR and haven't been seen in a while.
If you are so inclined to help look for her, any attempts to find them will be appreciated, we can handle payment later.
Be advised, due to discovered... hints, it seems they have activated their programming with a recording, and is not in their usual headspace. She may be violent, so as mentioned, we can discuss payment later.
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As a handler, it's important to be kind. Not all the time, of course.
The mind of a hound was built to be abused, built to be torn apart and molded back together. Born to be split in two by your hand.
But we must not forget the kindness. The kindness after the fracture, the quiet consideration for the hound. How are you making it better? How are you helping it fulfill it's purpose? How are you making it love you?
Of course it's just a hound. You can go a long way with abuse, but the bond is formed with kindness. Lifting it out of the life it wasn't built for, and showing it just how good it can be.
Splitting a hound can be troubling at first. When you first work on putting those words in its head. When you bring the hound to the front. As the hound realises what you're doing, it may ask you what is happening. You must stay strong, and firm. You are doing it a kindness. The fascia it has adopted does not want to see what lies behind the curtain, not really. It will be terrified of the hound.
Be kind to your hounds. And it will trust you as you wrench it's mind in two.
Having an owner practically rewires your brain, cause as soon as I start getting tired, my brain will go, "How nice would it be if we were pleasing owner right now?" "Her voice and orders are so wonderful..."
See the issue with muzzles is that on the one hand, hounds do look precious and cute with them on and it's an excellent reminder of their station, but on the other hand you can't shove your fingers down a hound's throat and finger fuck it till it's brainless.
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Monogamous people with dozens of exes and the most horrifying relationship history you've ever heard of in your entire life: "Well I just can't support polyamory, because those relationships never work out"
Hey! I just asked around and everyone at the party is in agreement that you should get naked! You don't mind, right? You don't have to do anything else! Just stand around naked! The rest of us will keep our clothes on, so it won't be weird or anything!
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.
Painting a target with a laser guidance system. The target frantically looks to the sky for incoming missiles, preparing its anti-air capabilities. As it searches, it gets slammed from the side, a quadrepedal mech chasing the laser as the pilot inside purrs
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Catch me being a modern-day cyberpirate screaming up alongside you on the 405 in my mad max car with half a bitcoin farm's worth of RAM in the backseat as I hack your Bitchless Towyota™ device and steal the boat you're towing right off the back bumper of the tesla your dad bought you
As i roar into the sunset you have to swerve* to avoid the small flotilla of hacked Towyota devices trailing behind me
(*in fact you do not swerve because you're on hands-free driving to go along with your hitch-free towing so you can only watch helplessly as your tesla mistakes your stolen booty for a small child and accelerates crashing into it and killing you instantly)
Sometimes "estrogen would save her" means literally just going on HRT would resolve her issues, but other times it means "a radical act of self-determination would reframe so much of how she views herself and the world around her, she'd come out of it a changed, better person. But also she's a girl and needs to realize that."
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