you think you're really starting to make friends with the girl i have you sharing a cage with, until the night i tell you that this time, you can make it stop, but i'll do it to her instead but worse. and you hear her whimper and you swear in your heart you wouldn't do that but wouldn't you know it? it gets so bad you yelp it out. so now you're in the cage, alone, listening, as i make it as bad as i can for her. i explained to her that she doesn't get a way out like you did, but she must be panicking; she doesn't normally beg like this. you turn away. you feel sick. you don't know how you'll face her.
you've cried out and sobbed plenty of times when i've had you out of the cage, and so has she, but now she is screaming, really screaming in a way that you haven't heard her do and you certainly haven't done before and from inside the cage you can't tell what i'm doing to her to make her do that but she is screaming, long, like using a whole breath and then breathing all the way in and screaming again, and you feel scared, somewhere deep & muffled, but mostly you want to throw up
as i'm leading her back to the cage and she's sobbing and crawling, you realize that if you turn away from her out of guilt you'll be more alone than you ever were before, but if you comfort her then you're taking advantage of the way she fawns after being tortured, and this time it's your fault: it would make you just like me. yet she needs you. she wants to cry into you. she doesn't care that you helped me do this, even if you want her to care, want her to hate you, want her to spit. you deserve it, you think. you don't know what will happen if you're cold to her but you know it won't make me let up. it won't save either of you. you could comfort her. it's what you both need. but if you let this drive her further into you, you know that you'll have taken part in whatever game i was playing tonight. i'll win, just like always. the cage door opens and she spills in. decisions, decisions.
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oh, monopoly? that's that classic board game with the popular house rule where girls in jail have to attempt to perform naizuri as a punishment game, right?
so fascinated by the fact that to people not in the know you and your captive are still not dating⌠but a secret third thingâŚ.. your life is a dream
I donât think the third thing is secret I think it is violent long term captivity. Itâs just a testament to how much I love it that everyone thinks that cruelly denying it autonomy looks like a relationship. Turns out when you love something enough itll always look like romance, no matter how bloody and beaten and broken your lover is. My life IS a dream đĽ°
spent several minutes really confused at the correlation between "topping" and "having a penis". i forgot y'all are like having penetrative sex? very confusing. don't you know that sex is something you do with your teeth?
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I made an automaton in the shape od a human from clockwork components and it sees with porcelain eyes and it feels with a cold and metallic touch and the only warmth it knows is when I'm welding it back together every time it falls or breaks itself but soon I'm going to show it how it feels to know love. And after that I'm going to make it understand how it feels to have your heart broken. I'm doing this because I'm crazy and have problems
She turned to me recently after everything was said and done and she caressed my cheek softly, wiping tears from my eyes, and she told me she forgives me. She forgives me and its okay. That she's glad she went through that and that she would have never known what it's like to love if I hadn't, that her body would have never known warmth and her heart would never have the spark I gave her, even if I took it away. And i cried. I cried a lot. Because I never meamt to do any of that. I only created her and did all of that because I wanted to hurt something. I wanted to create something beautiful and then make it feel the pain I know like a lover and I told her all of that and she told me she knows. And that she always knew. And she chose to love me anyways. And she told me she still loves me, even now. And I asked her why. I asked her why she loves me in spite of everything about me that's wrong and she said I was looking at it wrong. She said she didn't love me in spite of what I am. She said she loves me in my totality. For everything and everyone I am, even the me I've grown to loathe completely, and I cried. I cried because I made her and yet she's so much more than I will ever be. She's kind. She's caring. She's compassionate. She loves deeply even when she knows that love will never amount to anything because that's who she is. She's beautiful. And I made her. And I only made her to feel pain, but she feels so much more than that. I wish I was like her. I wish I had what she has. But I know deep down that I never will, and thats because I'm crazy and have problems
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The warrior who kicked down the door looked immediately familiar, though I'd never seen her before. Hers was the face in the mirror, the mold from which I was cast, the one my maker could never let go of.
Then her eyes fell on me, and I watched a whirlwind of emotions collide across those features I knew so well, a war that resolved itself when her mouth twisted into a sneer. Oh, and the perfect curve of her lips made even her contempt look beautiful.
"What the hell is that?" she demanded with a sweeping gesture toward me. But for all the disgust I seemed to provoke, the ire was aimed at my maker.
"The doll is a remarkable substitute for the real thing, wouldn't you agree?" Pride filled my maker's voice. "But this one knows its place is at my side. It knows to be grateful for my attention. It neverâ"
Interrupting with a snarl, my double lunged forward, the graceful arcs of her blade catching the moonlight pouring through the hall's great window. I had been instructed to run, to preserve the precious cargo I carried, but I could not bring myself to look away. For all the house's protective wards, all the magic crackling through the air, the warrior's ferocity triumphed. Yet even with a sword through the chest and blood pooling on the ground, my maker laughed in the last moments before death. "I'll be back."
Then we were alone together, my model and I, and as she turned to face me, I saw murder in those crystal-clear eyes. If I had a heart to call my own, its pounding would surely have been audible, even above the slap of her boots on the tile floor.
"Gonna draw a weapon of your own, or just stare daggers at me for killing your puppetmaster?"
Oh, was I mirroring her expression? I wasn't even aware. Hard to resist the urge to perfect myself by adopting her mannerisms, and now that I was paying attention, I noticed the way I was shifting my weight in imitation of the way she carried herself.
The warrior closed the distance, and I felt the tip of her sword rest under my chin.
"Please." At last I found my words. "Not there."
She cocked an eyebrow. Slowly, carefully, I brought my hand to her sword. I paused for a moment, hesitating, but with a curt nod she allowed my fingers to rest on the blade and with gentle pressure guide it lowerâpast so many carefully sculpted curvesâuntil I had the point aimed just below the notch of my belly button.
"My maker's heart." The words came out in a tiny whisper, as though the quiet might help conceal this betrayal. "Hidden inside me for safekeeping."
With a brusque nod, she adjusted her grip to give her better leverage on the sword, readying herself to plunge it into me, but before committing to the motion, her expression softened.
"I'll make this quick."
I smiled. "Don't."
With fascination I watched how my words invited confusionâand something elseâto play across her brow. Was I unconsciously imitating even that? I had no way of knowing.
Without further warning, she flexed her muscles, and I felt the pressure of the sword. My unyielding body resisted the sharpened tip, but only for so long. I did not need to look down to feel cracks spread from that small point as those familiar hands applied more force. The pressure building down there kept growing until at last the structural integrity of my exterior gave way, the cracks gaping wide enough to slip through. Slowlyâjust as I askedâshe slid the naked blade inside my body with one smooth motion, right on target, drawing a gasp from me when she pierced my maker's heart.
Her face so close to me, her breath hot on my neck, her lips parted in a perfect mirror of my open-mouth gasp, I couldn't help but lean forward and close the distance between her mouth and mine.
Her kiss was utterly different from those I passively endured from my maker. No selfish hunger inspired her to slobber and suck like a starving beast; she kissed me like one would a person, soft and tender, her warm lips pressed to the cold of mine. She inspired such feats of mimicry in me that I never knew I was capable of, and my tongue danced with hers in almost choreographed precision.
We kissed as long as I was able before my strength failed. I slumped into her strong arms, and the last thing I saw of her was the look of compassion on her face as she laid me down.
---
I awoke in darkness, with sunlight's gentle cascade from the window warming my body. The heavy cloth atop me fell to the side when I sat upright, blinking in the sudden glare of daylight.
Oh, her cloak. Draped over me in a misguided show of respect for the dead? It still smelled just like her.
To my left, my maker's heart, pinned to the wall with the sword. My beloved must have dug the heart out of my body with her bare hands. I scowled (the same way she would have) in distress that I missed seeing that for myself while my self-repair matrix shut me down. I pulled her cloakâmine nowâover my shoulders and claimed the sword for myself as well. A few experimental swings of it, and I was satisfied that I could defend myself adequately. I may not have been taught any weapon skills, but I learned a great deal watching her fight.
I was made to imitate her, after all.
Better than a sister, better than a twin, she was an idealized me. I didn't even know her name, and I couldn't let her go. I wasn't finished learning how to be her.
I left the house for good, following her footprints in the snow.
(cw: stalking, cnc, unhealthy relationships. This post was made for (fucked up) sapphics)
Imagine you were in a sub/domme relationship with someone whose face youâve never seen properly. Maybe you met online, or maybe she just started stalking you and you let it happen. Now youâre the property of someone who enjoys how little you know about her.
You know she follows you around sometimes, maybe sheâs only a step behind you in a crowd, but you wouldnât be able to recognise her even if you looked. You know sheâs followed you home, because sheâs broken in enough times- although she quickly stole a spare key, so is it really âbreakingâ in? You know she takes your phone because she added herself to your contacts and occasionally renames her number as âmistressâ or âownerâ or âguardian angelâ.
And you know she wants your body, because sometimes when you think youâre alone she pushes you face-first into a wall or a couch and fucks you from behind. Sometimes you wake up blindfolded with her fingers already pushing over and over into you wet cunt. Sometimes she texts you in the middle of the day saying she saw you in the dress she chose for you today, and you look like just as much of a slut as she hoped.
Now youâre so well conditioned that if you get a text or call telling you to close your eyes, you drop whatever youâre doing to keep them shut tight. You live for the times you hear her voice in your ear and feel her hands groping you but you wonât turn your head to look. You just love knowing your guardian angel is watching over you đ
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