Tboy puppy

I am autistic and often refer to solely myself as a robot because i feel like it!

I am pansexual but i prefer T4T individuals

my SFW art account is @random-rat-in-the-walls and i have an hyperfixation account @theratbrain

I will sometimes tag my priest kink posts as [the confession] and my puppy posts as [puppy posts]I mostly reblog but i sometimes write about what im feeling and things i need or want! find my rambles under {rat rambles}

kinks that are in blog include : puppy play, choking, begging, orgasm denial, overstimulation, biting, exhibitionism, breeding (no pregnant), monster/ robot fucker, Fauexect (ageplay/Kinda) and a lot other that i like

The pain in your knees is almost worse than anything else which afflicts your bruised body. The sheer pressure of having to stay on them for so long while they press into the cold stone of the prison cell – the one which Coyle had designated as your personal cell – only grows worse as the minutes pass. With one hand holding the crumpled and barely legible sliver of off-white paper which Coyle had only just thrust within your palm, your other hand is gripped lightly around his cock as he stands before you.

Cigarette clenched firmly between his teeth, Coyle stares down at you from behind his dark sunglasses – his lips curling at the corners to display his yellow, stained smile. His expression is one which you are more than familiar with, somewhere between a glare and a snarl and yet glowing with sadistic delight.

“Get to reading, honey.” He hums, cock twitching in your grasp as he taps the very top of your head with the side of his stun baton in wordless threat. “I wanna hear you tell me exactly what you are. What you mean to me. Since you’ve promised to be so good an’ all.”

Wincing at his reminder, the memory of the previous day’s beating is still fresh in both your mind and the various injuries which litter your body. The split lip is one of the worst, every slight movement of your mouth making fresh pain flare in the swollen flesh where his gloved hand had smacked the skin into your teeth hard enough to rip it open. You hadn’t even done anything, his mood already terrible due to a failed trial against a quartet of reagents who had presumably ran rings around him as he stomped his way through the prison farm. That didn’t matter though. It never mattered.

A shadowy mark sat close to Coyle’s temple, a hint of a deep, developing bruise which you suspect had come from a thrown brick or bottle which he had been unable to avoid in time.

It looks painful.

You hope it’s painful.

You hope it fucking throbs every time he so much as breathes.

So out of it due to terror and pain, you aren’t even sure what the hell you had promised him as he pushed your ‘discipline’ to its limits; his rage easily splitting his attention across your body as he beat you like a dog with his gloved fists and thick boots as you cowered and curled into a defensive ball. One mark on your thigh is so deep and vivid that you could visibly measure out the tread which decorates the sole of his boot.

“Yes, Sir.” You answer him immediately and with as much painful enthusiasm as you can muster through your busted face – the words sparking pain in your torn lip even as your hand never ceases in its rough jerking of his cock, too afraid to even stutter. “I’ll read it all. Just like you want.”

Bringing the sheet closer to your face, a sinking feeling hollows out your chest as you take in the state of the script which you are being forced to follow. It’s not the length which bothers you since Coyle could have written out the entire Gettysburg address and you would have followed it to the letter if it meant that you might satisfy him, if for only a moment.

The issue was the writing itself as you blink rapidly as though that is going to make things better as you begin.

To Sargent Coyle, I promis to serv obay and not be a bitch. I promiss to fuck and sukk and do what you say. Put me to work. Disapline me. Dastract me from the stink. I am a bitch. A communist. Junkee whore. And you can show me how too be better.

You repeat each written word verbatim, your mind working double time to interpret both the chicken scratch, scrawled handwriting and the obvious spelling errors to ensure that you did not make any punishable errors. The shame of the statements you are being forced to read don’t even register, your panic so great that you cannot take any attention away from either the reading or your hand as Coyle rocks his hips and fucks himself through your fist as you continue – his satisfaction apparent in the way his head nods and his chest hums with every sentence.

I will not tell lyes. If I am bad then I desarve to be punishd.

“I will not tell lies.” You whimper out as Coyle’s boot shifts and raises slightly to rub between your legs, the thin underwear there the only clothing you were permitted to wear in his presence. His boot is rough and the way he grinds it into your cunt only sparks discomfort as you remain totally still, knowing better than to try to escape it. “If I am bad then I deserve to be punished.”

“Ain’t that the goddamn truth.” Coyle interrupts as he tilts his head down and blows out a thick plume of cigarette smoke into your face. “You cause a good man, a man of justice, any kind of pain and you are asking to get your teeth stomped out. A nice taste of the law.”

“Yes, Leland. Yes, Sir.” You nod frantically, agreeing with him and a sharp pain flares in your knees as you shift them in a desperate attempt to find even a little comfort.

Dropping eyes back to the sheet, the following line which you are supposed to read is borderline incomprehensible and fear catches in your throat as you realise you don’t have a damned clue what he is trying to say.

I will not cumplyn.

“I will not….cu…cump…”

Grunting at the verbal pause as your hand continues to work along his cock, Coyle leans down slightly and rips the paper from your fingers with a sharp tug. Squinting at his own terrible spelling, it takes him a solid, terrible moment to properly decipher it.

“I will not complain.” He barks, anger filling his expression as he stomps his foot with the petulance of a misunderstood child. “Ain’t that difficult to comprehend. Stupid fuck. Open your damn eyes.”

Pain explodes in your right shoulder as Coyle rips his cigarette from his mouth and extinguishes the last of it out on your unsuspecting shoulder blade – the skin there already mottled with bruises in various stages of healing.

“You’re a dumb bitch, you know that?” Hissing and snarling, Coyle’s previous smugness is gone in a flash to be replaced with the rage which he so rarely has any control of. “Can’t even read basic words. It’s like you’re down there trying to piss me off.”

“Sir, I’m not- I promise I’m not.” You splutter your apologies with desperation, your entire body trembling with fear. “I’m trying so hard, daddy.”

“I ain’t built for this kinda schooling. I prefer a lesson learned through fists and blood and righteous justice. Matter of fact…” His voice trails off as his hand drops to his own cock, quickly knocking your hand off his length as he grips himself firmly.

Sensing the danger, your eyes instantly fill with tears and you look up at him with a bleary gaze as your hands wrap around his ankles and squeeze in a silent plea for mercy.

“Sir, pleas-”

“I think it’s about time you showed some thanks for all this free schoolin’ I’ve been giving.” Coyle continues, jabbing the very tip of his stun baton into your collarbone until a sharp pain tells you that the metal spokes have broken the skin there. “Little justice is throbbin’ to be thrust down that throat and shown a real good time. No point breaking in a hole if you ain’t gonna use it.”

His gloved hand lowering to wrap around your throat so tightly that you can barely take in a solid breath, there is a small, broken part of you which is genuinely thankful that he’s chosen to simply choke rather than hit you with a solid hook – the markings from your last black eye only really having just reduced itself to a deep shadow which could be mistaken for a serious lack of sleep.

“Yes, Sir. Leland. Daddy. Sergeant.” Using all of his favourite titles in a frantic blur of desperate submission, you open your mouth wide and wince as the taste of fresh blood fills your mouth. Without having to touch it, you know that you have re-opened your lip wound but you can’t take a moment to care about it as you push your head forward and wrap your mouth around the swollen tip of Coyle’s cock.

Again thankful for the reprieve of him using your mouth instead of one of your other holes, you accept his immediate and rough thrusting without complaint as your ‘broken in’ throat accepts him with barely any affect to your gag reflex. Coyle tastes like salt and sweat, the musk of his thick pubic bush only an inch from your nose as you are forced to deepthroat him.