its gonna get narsty

Casting the spell and the knight doesn't immediately notice anything because it's not like they're touching anything most of the time, just standing guard.  Sure, they "feel" when they grasp the hilt of their sword, but they always feel that, sort of a phantom sensation.

Prince testing to see if the spell worked by laying a hand on the knight's cuirass, a familiar gesture that would raise no eyebrows to an onlooker, but the prince doesn't miss the startled hiss from inside their knight's helmet, the stiffening of the figure, the shiver when he lets his fingers trace down the plate before falling to his side. 

Prince smirking at the confirmation that the spell worked, leaning in and murmuring a tease that doubles as a question, making sure that the knight is okay with this.  Knight nodding and breathlessly confirming consent, though warning the prince that such an enchantment might make it difficult for them to do their duty.  A knight's armour is meant to protect the sensitive creature underneath, after all.

Prince surreptitiously taking their knight's hand, stroking a thumb over the back of their gauntlet, feeling their knight still as all their attention zeroes in on that one point of contact, and assuring them that they have no cause to fret.  After all, their only duty today is to accompany their prince at the banquet that night, where there will be countless other guards to keep away any real danger.  All the knight has to do is stand there, look vaguely menacing, and feel.

Prince teasing their knight mercilessly throughout the banquet, touching them far more than is strictly necessary, enough to merit suspicion from any observant onlooker, and the knight would be embarrassed even without the sensations humming through them.  Knight hissing to their prince in a close moment that this is irresponsible, that the knight needs to at least be able to focus, and the prince is making it all but impossible.  Prince dragging their fingertips down the inside of their knight's arm from elbow to wrist, replying that if the knight can't stay focused in the face of such distraction, then perhaps they aren't a very good knight after all.

Knight questioning as their prince guides them to lie back on the delicate sheets, knight frantically worried about tearing them with their harsh armour, but the prince just shushes their protests, climbing atop them almost clumsily, unfamiliar with this exact shape beneath him, used to the softer, smaller edges of the knight's body stripped bare.  Prince having to remind himself that the knight can feel everything, that the armour no longer protects them, that the prince will have to be gentle even with unyielding metal.

Prince leaning in to kiss the knight's visor, and the knight's eyes close involuntarily as they automatically try to kiss back, their lips hitting nothing but metal, simultaneously the most gratifying and the most frustrating sensation they've experienced through this whole experiment.  Knight unable to keep from groaning and begging their prince to at least open their visor, at least kiss them properly.  Prince's heart already racing from how quickly the knight has been reduced to begging.

Prince relenting and granting the knight this one kindness, raising their visor but not kissing them, telling the knight that he wants to be able to see their face throughout this, to see how affected they are by nothing but soft fingertips on metal. Knight having no choice but to thank their prince for this small mercy, even though it's so far from being enough.

Knight who is usually far more cocky, more dominant with their prince in situations like this, but who has been completely flattened by the newness of this, by the experience of being vulnerable in their carapace of steel, of being nothing but needy, unprotected flesh even in their armour.  Knight who is too flustered by the whole thing to do anything but submit, who doesn't even think to fight back until it's far too late. 

my femdom monsterfucker demo is now done! I'M FREEEE

if you wanna learn more about it / download it, it's here on itch.io!

features:

nameable fem mc (default is mercedes!)

14,000+ words

5 nonhuman guys to meet (+1 monster bestie)

a fun li'l dressup minigame

“Yes Mistress? You rang?”

“Good doll, yes I did,” she replies without even looking at you. The formalities of conversation haven’t been present in a long time between you two. “I’ve been noticing your hiccups more and more.”

You start to panic inside. You’ve dropped a few tea cups, true, and some of your joints have been freezing, but surely Mistress wasn’t going to replace you right? You start to open your mouth but before any response can come out, your Lady holds up her hand and continues,

“Unfortunately, the quality of your service has been steadily going downhill. Luckily, while I was at the market today, I found a solution.”

You try to accept your fate as a replaced doll and your heart cracks. However, Mistress simply reached down into her bag and brought out a jar of reddish hue that glinted from the fireplace’s glow. Before you could ask, she unscrews the top and seemed to whisper something even your trained ears couldn’t pick up.

Immediately the red substance leapt from its jar straight at you. You reflexively fall backwards as the goo latches onto you. Your little clockwork racing to think of whats going on. Before you can understand what the ooze is, you start to feel it moving, creeping. It has found one of your joints and is seeping into you.

You feel the gel filling you, your clockwork being pressed against. It’s an overwhelming sensation to have so much of your insides touched at once. You give a small gasp and another voice speaks up.

“Hello little doll~” It didn’t come from Mistress, it came from inside you. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you can be the best possible doll you can be. All you need is a little help.”

Your limbs move on their own as you stand back up in normal presenting position. Gears racing, you look to your Mistress and she simply gives a soft smile.

UGH what a dream scenario...

you've been rivals for long enough to call each other nemeses. you only ever meet in hostility, fully kitted and weapons drawn, each trying to fell the other. you've seldom even heard his voice outside of grunts and growls muffled by his visor and underscored by the clatter of armour and the crash of blades. besides the shape of his armour—something you have well-memorised, every plate and hinge and link of chain—what you know best of him is his smell. grappling on the ground, hitching and panting, your own faithful armour working against you in the tight fray as it's pressed hard into your soft flesh, you're overwhelmed with the smell of him. his sweat, his blood, the metal and oil of his armour, the faint homely scents trapped in the linen and wool of his gambeson peeking from between his plates in his vulnerable spots—the scent of leaves and needles of trees from some other place, traces of herbs from poultices gathered and administered elsewhere, smoke and dirt and musk and wet hair and him. in your crimson violent dreams, you notice his approach from smell alone before he appears. in your most fitful, you imagine him weak, kneeling, defeated before you, barely still upright. when you plunge your sword into his neck and release his head from his wretched shoulders then, though, there is nothing underneath, a vacant suit of metal. you wake up feeling utterly empty, too.

once, when you cross paths, blades are quickly lost to the grass in the fray. you rush each other, colliding with a great metal clang that makes your ears ring. you're grappling then, rolling and pressing each other into the soft earth. you strike when you can manage a free elbow, knee, or hand, both fumbling for your daggers as you try to wrestle a hold on the other, grabbing and pushing and squirming. the breath is crushed from you when he flips your positions and straddles you, delivering a blow with his gauntlet to the side of your head. you see stars and lose some of your strength, the world tilting around you. you can hardly breathe, your adrenaline-quickened huffs condensing on your visor, your helm hot as an iron bull. he takes a moment, whether to catch his breath or simply to indulge, as he pulls your dagger from the holster at your hip, leaving his own tucked away at his back. icy panic grips you. you throw your hands up before he can decide which of your soft spots to position the weapon upon, pushing back his dagger-arm with all your might, but he has the advantage in the contest. it inches closer to you, the tip lining with your throat, seeking the lower edge of your visor. you're gasping in breaths, hitching and straining, and a plea for your life sits on your tongue. you're reeling, desperate with that ancient human drive to fight death by all means possible, and with a sinking despair you realise were you to be slain here, you'd die an anonymous death, he your unknown end.

you gasp out your own name. he falters, only for a second, but the advantage is enough to push his arm back a little more. he does not relent, still looming over you. his reaction is a mystery behind his visor, but suddenly he is not pressing as hard against you. you gasp in a few breaths. you ask him his. please, sir, if you have any honour, you'll give me your name before you etch mine into a grave marker.

he doesn't respond. he tilts his head to the side a little, as if curious. in a surge of audacity, you summon all your remaining strength and throw your arms at him, bucking and kicking, trying to knock him off of you. he wrestles you back, catching your wrists with his empty and dagger hands both and pinning them to the ground by your head, fighting back as you struggle. you thrash for your life. he uses his whole body to try and jostle you still.

in all the scrambling, his helm is knocked loose, twisting some, and then falling from his head altogether and clanking to the ground next to you.

you look up at him through the slit in your visor and the haze of the fight. you see the burn of passion in his eyes, the sheen of sweat painting him, the cut of his jaw and the curve of his nose, the shape of his mouth as he pants, the mess of his hair, the evidence of his life lived upon his skin, peppered with fresh cuts and bruises. you spot a scar on his right cheekbone, faded just the right amount to be from that time you struck him with the heel of your sword and watched a perfect rivulet of blood drip from his visor. there he is, flesh and blood before you, face twisted in fury but as beautiful as st. micheal in battle, angellic. your nemesis. your knight.

the world stops. you both seize, fixed to each other, frozen in that moment like a statue of theseus and the minotaur. sweat drips from his nose, stained pink from his shallow wounds, and falls upon your gorget. you stare at each other, huffing in the heat of one another's breath. he swallows.

he whispers one word to you, clearer than you've ever heard his voice before, a songbird now free from its metal cage: his name.

A giant ichneumon wasp (Megarhyssa macrurus) uses her extremely long ovipositor to drill into a dead maple tree. Megarhyssa includes species with the longest ovipositors of any insect (up to 11 cm in M. macrurus and up to 14 cm in its cousin M. atrata), which also technically gives them the longest total length of any hymenopteran insect. The ovipositor is used to pierce deep into dead or dying trees to lay eggs on the larvae of a large wood-boring sawfly (Tremex columba).

Her ovipositor acts not only as a drill but as a sensory organ, and is highly sensitive to vibrations in the wood made by the sawfly larvae. Note how the translucent membranes of her abdomen stretch as she applies pressure by curling the base of the ovipositor, then retract when she withdraws to search for a different spot.

I wouldn't want to fuck a pool toy, but I would spend an hour or so blowing up individual valves before sending them off to a shoot, or use an air pump to make someone's titties massive before wiping off the sweat of exertion and flashing armpit as I chug water

• Picking up the littles from daycare for their mommy and daddies

• Dogsitting

• Car wash for mechs

• Dentistry for carnivores after they eat someone

• Camera technician setting up surveillance in a stalkee's house

submissive ones who beg you to let them touch you and moan when they feel how wet/hard you are

dominant ones who don’t need to beg you for anything, who just take what they want because they know you need them to make you feel so good

I mean GIANT dragons! Cock the size of your body. You've got to wrap your whole arms around it, stroking it. You can't help wrapping your legs around it too and rutting and sliding against it. Sloppy and messy, dragging your tongue over whatever you can reach.

When it comes you are literally COVERED in it and by god, you can't wait to do it again!