Requests: Closed

Bro starts his Saturday as usual, by scanning through all of the recent transactions on Plush Rump. The site is set up to track everyone's card number and account information; he hasn't had any complaints about his site's handling of card information that weren't easily ignored. Most customers don't even seem to notice that they're putting their card information directly into his site. Arousal is one hell of a drug.

In a separate window, he marks down each new account that he sees, adding it to his running list of customers. Your new account catches his eye while he reads through the transaction logs. You had made a decent number of purchases throughout the week, on four of the seven days. Usually, newcomers only purchase one or two videos in their first week, or they create an account and leech off of the free videos only.

When the list is finished, he opens a new tab for searching up each cardholder's name. He lingers on yours for a little longer than the others, scrolling through each social media page he can find. You look more or less normal; you're not the type of person he would see in public and suspect of having questionable tastes in porn. He spends more time than he means to looking at your accounts, and by the time he's gotten his fill, he doesn't have time to search up the rest of the new account holders. It doesn't bother him as much as it would have if he had wasted his time on some other account holder's social media pages.

The next Saturday, he doesn't even bother to look up the new account holders. He quickly marks their names down on his list, then uses the previously allocated time to make a spreadsheet to track your watch history. It's detailed, with columns for the thumbnail of the video, the title of the video, a list of sexual concepts and kinks present in the video, and the date and time that you started watching the video. He populates the spreadsheet with the data of videos you've already viewed, rewatching every single one of them to make sure the spreadsheet's data is as accurate and in-depth as possible. For hours, the only sounds in his room are his breathing, the clicking noises of his mouse and keyboard, and the lewd sounds of fabric rubbing on fabric.

While scrolling through the spreadsheet to make sure he didn't miss any of your history, the quantity of thumbnails with a submissive grey smuppet catches his eye. He quickly adds two new columns to the spreadsheet, for the color of the dominant and submissive smuppets. When he fills the new columns out, he sees that the clear majority of videos you had watched featured a grey smuppet in the submissive role, while there wasn't a color with a notable lead for the dominant smuppet.

Curious, he switches back to the tabs with your social media accounts. He scrolls through a lot of what you've posted, as well as looking at the profiles of your friends, when he can find them. It takes a lot of analyzing to draw any patterns in your appearance and the way your friends represent you, but it does seem that you and your friends associate you with grey more than any other color.

Considering how many videos with other colors of smuppets are available on his site, it's hard to imagine that your preference for grey submissives is a coincidence. Whether you realize you're associating yourself with them or if it's a subconscious association is a different question, but frankly, it's not one that matters to him.

Almost another full week goes by before Bro realizes that there's a hole in the data he's been collecting. When he realizes that he should have a way to track how much of the video you've actually watched, the lack of a progress column in the spreadsheet eats at him. He immediately gets to work coding a feature to track how far each account gets into each video, but the lost information in the tens of rows made before today sticks in his head.

When he reloads the home page, his handiwork is displayed in a garishly colored banner at the top of the screen.

NEW!!

Has your shame gotten the better of you while watching? Plush Rump will now save your progress in videos so you can jump right back in when you stop wallowing.

He adds the column to his spreadsheet and automates a log to pull the data on your video progress. He could probably get it to automatically enter into the spreadsheet, but he wants the opportunity to check exactly what point you stopped watching at in each video. This way, he'll never forget to do that with any entries.

After a couple of months, checking your watch history every week isn't enough for him anymore. Every morning when he wakes up and every night before he goes to sleep, he checks your account to see your activity. He can't help but feel disappointed on days when you don't watch even a single video. He's started stalking your social media more diligently as well, reading through every single post you make or share daily.

His latest video is a kidnapping scene, with an orange smuppet acting as the kidnapper and a grey smuppet acting as the victim. It's made entirely with you in mind; he tried to integrate every kink that had been present in videos that you had watched more than once. Kidnapping is his favorite out of all the fantasies he's been able to infer you have. He uploads it just before the time that you usually make your purchases, and makes sure that it stays pinned to the top of the gallery page. As expected, you purchase it the day that it's released, and watch it all the way through a total of 5 times in the next week.

He gets the idea to code a system that'll send him a notification every time your account opens a video on his site. That way, he'll get the chance to watch his porn with you, even though you'll have no idea that someone miles away is watching the exact same video at the exact same time as you. It takes him a while to find an implementation that's fast enough for what he wants and is able to cut through any "do not disturb" setting he could accidentally turn on, just to make sure he will get every notification as promptly as his computer can allow. He feels a special kind of victory when he tests it by forcing your account to watch a video (promptly scrubbed from your history) and it works.

As soon as he gets the first real notification that you're watching something on his site, he sits down at his desk and pulls the same video up on his computer. It's the video he made for you. He allows himself a small smile of success before he unzips his fly.

He skips ahead a few seconds in the video, trying to make sure that his video is as well synced to yours as it can be without seeing your screen. He squirts some of the lotion he has on his desk into the palm of his hand, since he's able to access it more quickly than real lube. Walking away from the screen and this opportunity, even just for a few seconds, to grab proper lube from his nightstand feels like it would be a huge loss.

His hand is slow at first as he begins touching himself. He takes his time, running his thumb over his head on every stroke. It's almost sensual, especially when contrasted with the restraining and slow mind-breaking of a smuppet on his screen.

Honestly, the content of the video is secondary in his mind. He's more focused on the thought of what you're doing while watching this. He knows you're probably masturbating at the same time as him, and he tries to adjust the pace of his hand to how he assumes you would pace yourself. He thinks about how you probably look in bed, he tries to think through whether you would masturbate on top of the blankets or with the blankets over you, whether you'd be loud or if you'd keep yourself quiet, whether the lights in your bedroom are on or off right now. His breathing gets louder as he continues to run his hand over his dick.

He thinks about how you would look tied up in his bed instead. He would keep the lights on so he could see you better. No blankets either, the extra fabric would get in the way of what he wants to do to you. He wouldn't give you the mercy of being gagged during sex; soundproofing tiles are cheap enough and easier than having to wash a gag. Plus, if you're determined enough, you could probably get through a gag, at least enough that his neighbors might have questions. You can't lick or gnaw your way out of a soundproofed room like you might be able to with a gag.

He can feel his hand speeding up instinctively as he thinks about you. He's getting closer to orgasm than he wants to be right now. He pulls his hand off of his cock and instead digs his fingers into his thigh while he waits. He watches the video on the screen, paying attention to the body language he had forced into the kidnapped grey smuppet. He wonders if you'd react just like that.

He's made enough scenes where a smuppet gets kidnapped; he's already had to think through every possible detail, for those patrons who really want their abduction fetish content to feel authentic. Kidnapping a real person shouldn't be much more difficult, and the legal aspect doesn't scare him too badly. He'll need sturdier ropes, but it should all work the same way.

His favorite part of the video is coming up, where the grey smuppet bows its head and stops fighting against its restraints. He doubts he could get that to happen in just half an hour with you, but he wouldn't mind spending as much time and effort as it takes to get you to give up. He starts jacking off again, faster this time. He imagines this is around the time that you would orgasm to it; after all, he had set up the progression of the scene to make this feel like the most arousing section, and the best time to orgasm while watching the video. His hips twitch and jerk up into his palm while he watches.

The visual of the grey smuppet finally giving in and the thought of you giving in like that is enough to send him over the edge. Most of it lands on his hand, but some goes far enough to bead on the edge of his desk. He grabs a tissue and quickly wipes himself off. He tosses the dirty tissue unceremoniously onto the corner of his desk. He can get it into a trash can once he's done watching this video with you.

Even after he cleans himself up and zips his pants back up, his focus returns to watching the video. You've always watched this one from start to finish, so Bro sees no reason why this would be any different. The idea that he's still watching his porno with you, regardless of whether you've gotten to orgasm yet, feels like something he needs. Bro would feel a little irrationally betrayed if today were the day that you decided to call it quits after just eighty or ninety percent of the video.

When the video ends and the replay screen shows up, Bro switches tabs to the document he uses to keep track of how much of the videos you watch. After just a couple of seconds of waiting, a new entry appears and shows him that you watched the video all the way through.

Bro left the door unlocked when he left today. He left you completely unrestrained, too. You know enough about him to know it's pointless. He isn't sloppy enough to actually forget to do those things.

Still, it's the most open chance at escape he's given you the whole time he's had you. You'd be a fool to not at least try it.

In the main room of the apartment, his shoes aren't by the door. You can't say you didn't expect that. You haven't seen a pair of shoes that were for you in years now.

You walk out of the apartment barefoot, half expecting Bro to be waiting for you outside. The way is clear. You make it to the lobby with no issue. The front door of his apartment building is well shaded by an awning.

When you try to step out onto the concrete that had been baking in the Texan sun all day, you pull back automatically from the searing pain on the sole of your foot.

You don't even know where you could go. The city streets are unfamiliar to you; any clue you might have had about the neighborhoods has been lost to time. Still, you can tell he wants a chase, and you know you'll be in more trouble if you don't keep playing along.

You decide on a direction and dash out, running to minimize the time your soles spend on the ground. You stay on the lookout for patches of shade and grass, anything you can run over that won't hurt so bad. Every time you cross the streets, the asphalt of the road hurts more, and you quickly learn to jump across the white paint strips in the crosswalks instead, even though it slows you down.

Despite all your efforts, the pain in your feet is unbearable. You can feel yourself slowing down. Your legs hurt from the exertion, and your heart is pounding so hard from the work and heat that you feel dizzy. You recognize the sensation of being watched, but you don't bother to check if it's paranoia or not. The fleeting thought of giving up and throwing yourself at his feet for forgiveness crosses your mind, but you know it won't do you any good. It never does. You force yourself to speed up again.

You hit the ground roughly before you even noticed him approach. His knee is on your back fast enough that your body doesn't have time to bounce. You can feel the heat of the ground radiating through your clothes, threatening to burn the skin of your chest and stomach.

He doesn't let you catch your breath before he grabs you by the hair and forces the left side of your face against the pavement below you. You don't even have enough air in your lungs to scream, and the air directly above the pavement is too hot for you to take a full breath.

You instead just let out pathetic cries and try to suck in what little air you can as Bro grinds your face into the rough asphalt. You know he'll only stop when he's decided he's had enough. You won't waste your precious breath begging.

After what feels like hours but must have been only a minute or two, Bro yanks your hair to pull your face off of the pavement. The air on your wound hardly feels better, and your neck stays tense instinctively, like you expect him to slam you back down.

He doesn't. He holds your face inches above the ground for a few more seconds before getting off of you. You stay on the ground for a second longer, letting the pavement continue to cook you, to make sure he won't change his mind. You get up slowly, so as to not provoke him into tackling you again. Once you're on your feet, you quickly wobble back onto the slightly cooler concrete.

He fists his hand into the back of your shirt and pushes you forward, guiding you back to his apartment. The soles of your feet still burn with every step, but you know better than to complain.

The tears from your left eye sting as they roll through the burn. They drip down your face in odd paths, following the new texture of your cheek more than the contours of your facial structure.

You try to avoid looking in the mirror when Bro leads you into the bathroom. You don't want to see the damage; you don't want to know how bad it is. You're glad the mirror is on your right side, where the profile of your face looks mostly normal from what you can see out of the corner of your eye.

Bro doesn't let you avoid looking at it forever, though. Once he's gathered all the supplies to take care of the burn, he forces you to face the mirror. When you try to turn your head away, he grabs your chin. You follow the gentle pressure he puts on it, hoping he won't feel the need to press harder on your raw skin.

You still avoid eye contact with your reflection, staring up into the right corner of the mirror. It doesn't help enough. Even out of the corner of your eyes, the damage is glaring. A large patch of your face is red, raw, and bleeding.