international dog of fun

there was once a little boy.

he is born disabled. his body hurts, and he can’t walk properly the way the other children do. he doesn’t understand why. he’s a little boy. but he plays with wooden boats and pulls toys on a string.

somebody makes him a tunic. they sew ducks onto it in red and green and yellow and blue. the bright colours of a child.

the little boy is eight years old, and he’s going to be king now. there’s a big ceremony about it. he doesn’t really fully understand what’s going on, because he’s eight, but he wears the tunic with the brightly coloured ducks for the occasion because he loves it. look at his ducks! aren’t they great?

he is a child. the adults around him manipulate and coax him to gain more power for themselves. he still plays with toys.

as a teenager, not yet an adult, he fathers children. they do not survive. he’s not even old enough to have full agency in his job and is still being manipulated, but he had babies and they died.

he does not make it to his twenties. at eighteen or nineteen years old he dies, and is buried. his babies, so tiny, are buried with him.

and so is his tunic with the little ducks that he loved so much he kept it long after it no longer fit.

yeah i think that like. especially with historical figures in your mind people who were kings and queens or important nobles were adults. even if you know how old they were it doesn’t really click. it doesn’t seem real

but then you get something like a little tunic with brightly coloured ducks on it and it hits you like a fucking truck that this really was a little kid and no matter how far removed you are a little kid is still a little kid. their brains didn’t develop any quicker back then. he was just as developed/mature mentally as any 8 year old now. he had cartoonish animals on his clothes and he played with toy boats and probably terrorised the local cat population.

tutankhamun was a child and he didn’t make it to adulthood because he was unfortunate enough to be a very important child

his dad died when he was 8. he saw his own babies die when he was still just a boy himself.

tutankhamun had a little pair of sandals with ducks on them. he had earrings decorated with ducks. he kept those, and other items of childhood clothing. some toys. keepsakes. things he loved, and treasured. he kept them all in a little wooden chest. the chest… was carved with ducks.

and that little duck chest, filled with things he kept from his childhood, was buried with him. maybe he was keeping them for the little babies who did not make it. maybe they just reminded him of good days and fun times.

WITH PLEASURE

(greyscale makes it hard but the duck head is on the right above the toe strap. always takes me a while to find it too)

this website has left my disabled trans sister to die a few times now. she used to be a regular heavy user of it before it repeatedly did to her what it does to trans women.

aside from me she has essentially zero social contact with the outside world so and the two of us are trying to build a decent nest egg so that over the course of the rest of this year or so i (and I have a lot going on in my own right!) can start moving towards vocational training to take care of us instead of ebegging on here

our social support system is each other and then tumblr, which i hope we can all understand is a dangerous situation for especially her to be in. she has been repeatedly homeless for her whole life and her pinned post is a medical fundraiser she gave up on. the severe isolation has been very difficult on her mind and body

Xユーザーのサガミ✏️お絵描きマンさん: 「駐車場によくいるあいつ https://t.co/tjWYPF2AWm」 / X

“Fuck. Listen. Listen you…god damn little bitch.” Her voice sounds familiar, though I can’t quite place it through the bandanna covering her face. All I can make it is a pair of eyes, dark, hungry, again…familiar, “Just…shut the fuck up and let this happen, and I promise it’ll be over quick, okay?” When I don’t respond for reasons I assume to be obvious, she wrenches my wrist cruelly, “Fuck. Have it your way. I offered you the easy way out.” Ice pours under my skin as the hand not holding my arm suddenly dives for my belt, undoing it before a similar chill pounds against my ass as it’s suddenly exposed to the night air. The chill dissipates when her gloved hand slaps the round flesh, gripping it tightly with unrestrained lust dripping off her every word, “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, I can’t believe I’m finally doing this.”

The next sound is surprising for the situation, a cap of some sort. If she drugs me, at least I won’t remember it. I take solace in that thought for about half a second before a chil runs down my ass. It’s not metaphorical this time, either, as the feeling is distinctly…slimy. It’s only a few seconds later when a finger slips its way between exposed cheeks to massage the gel into my hole that I realize.

It’s lube.

What kind of rapist brings lube with her?

I’m not given time to ponder the answer, as the answer is clearly not a patient one. Pain spikes as she shoves the digit inside, pushing a strained cry from my lips,

“No, no, no, don’t clench yet. Jesus. Fucking relax a little. I’m not trying to hurt you.” Lies. Or. Maybe she actually believes that, “You should be thanking me. Any other girl would skip this and just rape you. Fuck. Say thank you, pet.” When I struggle to find those words, a savage push brings them to bear,

“Th-Thank you!” Almost immediately, her entire attitude softens. Unfortunately, that grace doesn’t extend to the finger spreading me open.

“See? That wasn’t so hard. Unlike you, I bet.” The hand holding me against the bricks releases its grip and travels over my exposed waist, taking a moment to grope my hanging tummy, “Fuuuuuck. Atta girl. Just stay still for me, puppy. Don’t fight and maybe we can step back towards that easy path.” The grip travels down, thumb freeing my half-mast from its rumpled prison. The sensation of her grip is…unfortunately pleasant, “Fuck. You don’t even fill my hand all the way. You shouldn’t be forced to use this thing. Girls like you were made for taking cock, not giving it.”

She knows…an awful lot.

Her head pressed to the back of mine and her chest on my back are already paralyzing most of my movement, and the pincer of my ass and cock being held prisoner in her grip mean I don’t have a lot of options to fight even if she wanted me to. She laughs when a thrust of her fingers sends a twitch straight through my girlcock, “This cute little thing should be bouncing around uselessly while you get used. I’m gonna make sure it does.” With no preparation or warning, I feel a second digit push against my entrance, nudging slightly, almost softly, “If you use that sweet voice to ask for it, I’ll make it as painless as I can. Don’t you dare mistake my kindness for weakness. You need this, and I’m going to give it to you.” My breathing quickens. Okay. Okay. Just a little wounded pride and I can get this over with.

“Please.” More pressure,fuck. This feels so gross. Like sludge dripping from my maw as she nudges again,

“Not enough. Say ‘Please fuck me, mistress.’”

“Please fuck me…mistress.” It sucks, it hurts, it sucks, it hurts. Every cell of my body reviles in disgust, then jumps in pain as the second finger suddenly forces its way in. I can’t help tensing, even as her pseudo-sickly-sweet voice mocks me with false words of reassurance,

“Hey, hey, hey, good girl. I know it hurts. Just relax.” Tall fucking ask, I don’t say. You lied, another statement that doesn’t leave my lips.

The problem becomes apparent as I harden in her grip. Despite my ardent refusals, it’s clear that my body is into what’s happening. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a corner of my brain that didn’t hate it either. The force, the pressure, her pace, her grunts as she stretches me out…the undeniable hard-on poking me in the thigh. I’m not stupid. I knew that's where this was always going to end. In my rapist’s own words, she was being kind. Ignoring the fact that an infinitely kinder thing to do would involve not being here to begin with…I can almost see it. As my wandering thoughts leave my mouth completely unguarded, a small whimper falls from my lips.

That was a mistake. She pounces immediately, burying her hand as deep as she can get it in my guts and positively crooning in my ear,

“See! You DO like it! God, that’s going to be my favorite part, Mel!” Her voice drops to a sordid whisper, “You’re never going to forget how good this feels…”

In an instant, I’m empty again. Relief floods my muscles for the brief moment I have to appreciate it before I hear the rustling of fabric behind me. I hadn’t gotten a chance to look at my attacker, but from the sound of the article hitting the cobbles, it sounds light, looser than jeans, maybe. Again, not that I have time to introspect on my defiler’s clothing choices as the unmistakable feeling of her tip settles at my cunt. I brace against the brick, expecting a taunt, a jeer, a faux friendly platitude about how I’ll need this or something when she just shoves it in unceremoniously. Pain lights up my world as the bottle cap clicks again and another stream of lube pours down my crack. Too little, too late. Not that she cares. It seems largely symbolic as she disregards my pained grunts, having lost the energy to protest as she falls into a rhythm.

Gone are her honeyed words. She has nothing left to offer. With nothing left myself, I just whine. A little performatively, the sooner she cums, the sooner it’s over. Hopefully. If I have to debase myself by begging for it…fuck it at this point.

“H-hah, good girl…” her words are stuttered with each thrust, “I…I knew you needed this. You needed to get fucked properly. Didn’t you?” Despite my resolve…I stay quiet. I can’t reply. The punishment for doing so is quickly served as a right hook crashing into my ribcage. I yell, an ugly, awkward sound interspersed by the pace of her thrusts, “Speak, bitch. Or do I need to bruise you, too? I always thought you’d make a pretty punching bag. Fuck. It didn’t have to be this way, you know. Could’ve been gentle and loving with you, if you’d just let me.” What about this could possibly have been gentle and loving? How could being her punching bag be anything but cruel and unkind, “Now…Speak. I won’t ask again.”

“Y-yes, mistress. I needed this.” The words spill out with the rest of my shame, “I’m sorry.” I don’t have to mean it. I just need to placate her, “please…fuck me.”

With nothing left to wrench from me, her hands snake beneath my shirt, her touch leaving fire along my sides until it alights upon my breasts,

“No bra? Alone at the bar? God. You fucking wanted this, didn’t you?” Her thrusts make it impossible to tell her no, no I didn’t want any of this. Any time I get a fragment of that sentence out, her deft fingers pinch my nipples and drown my protests with cries of pain, “You make such pretty noises when I hurt you, Melody. You’re making it awfully hard to stop.”

“Please…don’t stop.”

I’m not sure if it takes seconds or hours, but after hearing that, her hips piston harder, rougher, her grunting guttural, moaning my name like it belongs to her. Equal parts praise and degradation flow from her throat into my ear, each making me equally sick. Eventually, her grip on my hips tightens and she growls,

“Fuck…I’m gonna knock you up, whore. Say…please get me pregnant, mommy.” Fuck it, please let this be over.

“Please, please get me pregnant, mommy!” Her hips slam into mine one final time as she practically howls to the sky, cock tensing and straining against my abused hole as she cums. When she pulls out, releasing me from the wall, I collapse to the unfeeling road beneath us, her boot and heavy breathing coming down on my neck,

“Good girl, Melody. Stay put. I’ll call someone off your phone to pick you up.”

The tears flow harder as the pressure lifts, replaced by overwhelming nausea as I curl into a ball to the sound of her receding footsteps. The last thing I hear from her mouth is the phonecall, voice so pitched up and cutesy they’d never believe she was the culprit,

“I just found a girl outside Lloyd’s bar, her pants are off and it looks like she was assaulted. You were on her favorites list. You’re on your way? Cool. Yeah, I’ll stay with her.”

Greece suspends asylum applications for migrants from North Africa by Laura Gozzi (BBC).

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