#body control

Then you think that you didn't move your hand.

Just as that thought settles in your mind, your fingers twitch again. One by one, they curl in toward your palm, then relax. The movement is smoother, more natural.

But it isn't natural. You didn't move your hand.

Someone else is moving it for you.

You lift your head and look around the coffee shop. Most people are engaged in their own business: reading, typing, chatting with friends. The baristas are behind the counter.

But one person is sitting at a table alone, staring at you. You stare back and narrow your eyes. You're on to them, and you want them to know it. They won't get away with this.

But then your gaze softens. Without your wanting it to, your mouth spreads into a smile. You don't feel happy, but you look it, and to everyone around you, that's all that matters.

When you stand, your motions feel almost natural. Your hands fumble a little with your things, but you turn smoothly and walk easily toward the door. One foot, then the other, then the first again. All the while, your heart is racing. You can't tell whether it's from excitement or anxiety.

By the time your enchanter comes to the door, it's both, and arousal as well. It's been building by the second, and when their hand brushes yours, you moan. You don't even know whether they made you do it. It might have happened naturally, a release of the tension they built up in you.

They frown a little and tilt their head. "No," they say, "that's a little too much just now." With that, the arousal ebbs. It doesn't fade away entirely, but it does soften into something bearable.

The control doesn't fade, though. You lean forward and press your lips to theirs. It feels good. You didn't want it before, but your body sinks into the kiss, presses against them. Your legs spread a little bit, and you rub against them, seeking friction. You tell yourself you didn't want this. You tell yourself you still don't.

It feels too good now to fight against, even if you could.

Second off, they immediately reminded me of one of my favorite anime, Thunderbolt Fantasy, which rather than being animated is this wuxia-inspired puppet show...

And now that's got me thinking about a forcemasc + dollification scenario where like, a travelling sorceress goes from town to town using her magic to put on a puppet show along those same lines, while spending her off-time scouting the place for women to join her "troupe"...

When she finds someone interested in working with her, the sorcerer takes her to her caravan to sign a contract - and of course, as soon as the lady signs up, she's magically transformed into a handsome bishonen puppet!

Before anyone notices something's up, the sorceress packs up and heads off to perform somewhere else - her precious stars spending their days having their hair combed, their faces gently brushed and hearing their loving mistress coo into their ears, telling them how pretty and talented they are and how much she loves her superstars...

In-between putting on spectacular swordfights for the delight of their adoring fans, of course. It really is a fantastic show, and the crew is always looking for new members ~

ooo see this one actually hits close to home believe it or not one of our alters is a puppet ppl who know us well i think tend to just kinda assume its a muppets style hand puppet but shes actually a marionette like the first puppet we ever owned that we got from a dia de los muertes festival we went to as a kid and as a robot myself we love themes of lack of autonomy and of being turned into an object a thing to be controlled and the thought of hiring out for new puppeteers only to turn them into a group of handsome puppet dolls who put on a traveling theatre show is so fun also as a puppet fan gotta say ik for a fact a lot of puppeteers are similarly puppet obsessed and would prolly love being turned into one lol and if they turn into wooden marionettes you can literally shave away any features you dont want them to have

We got a phrase in engineering, "slow as a nerve".

See, when a signal needs to move from your eyes to your brain to your limbs, even pure reflex takes point three seconds at the minimum. Someone less than a football field away fired an anti-tank at you? By the time you can start moving, you're dead.

So to get around that, we wire all the mech systems directly into the brain. Ports everywhere, camera feed into the occipital lobe, hydraulics listening to the motor cortex, get them used to it from day one of training and they adjust completely fine. Their superhuman reaction speeds? One-third thanks to combat drugs, two-thirds to wired shortcuts - though the pharms division would have you believe it's the other way around.

And that twitchiness they get in downtime? The thousand-yard stare? That's not PTSD—okay, maybe sometimes it's PTSD—but it's also just how you start to behave when everything feels a quarter-second out of sync. Psych was calling it 'dissociative interfaced anhedonia' last time I checked. Normally humans have all sorts of cognitive tricks to paper over their own body's latency, but when these get trained out of you... ever tried to take a selfie on a slow phone where the screen can't keep up with your movement? Everything feels like that to them, all the time.

...so anyway, I made this. Processor running a basic sim, authenticator, radio. Point it at a pilot, it sends sensory data to their ports, listens for motor data, keeps the sim updated. The moment that the loop starts up, they stop moving, zone out. I read through the sim data of the first few and they just... look around. Walk. Touch their own face.

I give them five, six seconds of that. Then I switch the sim off, and while they're reeling and disoriented I walk up and tell them that if they want more, they have to follow me somewhere more private.

"Go on and stroke your pretty cock for me." Stiff and aching to be pocketed in something warm, fingers jerking roughly up and down your length to yearn, white-hot electric and tense, to rut.

"Oop! Cunt now. Go ahead and finger-fuck yourself, sweetie." Flushing hot as the bottom spirals and drains out of the pool, leaving rose-deep need. Sliding teasingly down your clit, a kiss of sweet slickness guiding the plunge as your hips pitch up to welcome your own entry.

Flick. "Cock." Need inverting with sharp gasp, extruded and straining. Your diaphragm yanked like rubber, taut and ready to shoot –

"Ooh, you were close that time, weren't you, hon?" Flick. "Cunt." You whine, force flipped again; all production is loss, your peak a valley. The yoke of desire turns how far your single-focused exertion has brought you into abrupt, visceral knowledge of how far you need to go. And you do need. Desperately. Your fingers plug the hole – your hole – but it's not enough; your other hand shoves itself in your mouth to stop from begging –

Flick. "Cock." Head falls back with a whine, hips lifting, bridging as you pump –

Flick. "Cunt." Fall back with a thud – god, you're so close; if you could only go a little harder, a little faster, add another finger maybe for some more gi–

Flick. "Cock."

Flick. "Cunt."

Flick.

Flick.

Tell me it doesn’t matter how much I whine, you’re going to keep pressing down on my swollen belly.

Tell me you’ve just laced my meal with enough laxatives to keep me on the toilet for hours.

Tell me it doesn’t matter how tight I am, I need to fit more.

Tell me I can’t fart until you say so.

Tell me I should be a giant bloated flesh sack forever.

Tell me I’m not allowed to piss until I finish the meal.

Tell me I’m a tube that exists to have slop forced through it.

Tell me if I don’t keep holding it, you’ll make me sit on a plug until I’ve learned my lesson.

Tell me you’ll tie me down with my legs spread open and feed me sorbitol until I shit myself.

Tell me I’ve been naughty and I need to be punished with more bulk, more fiber, more dairy, more.

football is art welcome to my ted talk

Inspired by: @/curlyboys Make it Sexy March list

Prompt; mirror sex, body worship

CW: nb sub, demonic/magic possession, body control, nonconsent, losing ability to speak, fear