parasitus | slave screams he's being beaten into submission

Foster is notoriously difficult to leash; though it's easy to make him obey in the moment, he's very quick to wander off or grow bored if left alone too long. He's always had his own ideas about things.

But he's still too human for his own good, perhaps. He opens the door suspiciously only because he does not generally invite company. When he sees it's Genie, his tense shoulders and expression relax a little, and he flashes her a smile.

Genie smiles in return, a deviant flash of red lips and white teeth.

And then, in a sudden rush of motion, she buries the incredibly sharp tip of a small razor knife into the muscle of his arm; she drags the blade down, tearing it open, and then, with a hand at the center of his chest, she shoves him sharply away, drawing the door closed behind her.

"Today," she says, "We're going to try some new things. I do hope you're prepared to get messy."

Genie is historically exceptional at catching him off guard--in little ways, generally, but it as though she in particular has a knack for finding the moments in between moments where he is not watching for that knife in his back, or saying the words that were not part of any script. It is, ultimately, a large part of what he finds so addictive about her.

And she takes him absolutely unawares.

Enough so that the sensation of pain itself is delayed--he feels the tip slice into his arm, feels his skin split open in a sharp moment, but then it's gone and doesn't come back until two, three seconds later, all at once as she's already shoved him backwards, stumbling, his blue eyes widening as his breath turns into a gasp of consternation and pain.

Her grin widens as she realizes that she has caught him off guard; how delightful to know that she isn't getting predictable.

"Tell me," she says, approaching him with that knife in hand, his blood marking the blade and her dark, dark skin. "Were I to ask you to do anything-- anything in the world-- would I find you suitably pliant to my whims and prepared to act as mine, body to my soul, flesh wrapped around my bone?"

She bears down on Foster, that knife again thrusting forward, this time piercing the skin and muscle of his chest and dragged across, drawing a red, shallow line across it, just enough to truly hurt.

Rather than disorienting him, the pain clears his head, conditions him, bringing the room, his body, Genie herself into sharper focus. Reality is tighter, better with his own blood running down his arm; he's already fingering the incision, fingertips pressing into the opening of the wound--not to suppress the pain or staunch its flow, but to increase it and feel their way inside.

She gives him no chance to answer her question before she cuts him again, and he hisses in pain before recklessly pressing forward, eyes alight.

"Yes, yes!"

He's eager--too eager, ready to throw himself upon her blade in the dizzying overflow.

Genie laughs and it's a terrible sound, a cruel edge of metal on metal, and she closes a hand around his throat, tighter even than when they play, her thumb pressed pointedly over his windpipe. She applies the lightest ghost of pressure over it.

It would be so very easy.

"You say that, but..." She tilts her head, pouting exaggeratedly. "I wonder if it's true. We'll find out today, won't we?"

Her hand is removed, and that razor knife is held up in its place against Foster's throat, the pointed tip touching his skin so lightly.

She could kill him right now. She just might. It would be so simple to do.

Her cold hand around the hot flesh of his throat produces a sensation under his skin not unlike a shiver--she'll feel it, the tremor in his body, paired with the familiar thrill in his stomach, the lurch of combined fear and great anticipation, of desire

She gives him very little time for disappointment when that hand leaves--the knifetip goes to his throat instead, its razor point pressed just in the centre of his adam's apple, and he has the sense, incredibly, to go very still.

Or at least as still as he ever can. He's already breathing hard, already excited, his gaze flicking up and then off of her again; he wants to look down, to keep his eyes on the knife--but he knows, too, that a wiser act would be to keep those eyes on Genie. But wiser still would be not to look her in the eye.

If there is one thing Foster believes he understands, it is how to mind his place.

If he believes she'd kill him, it doesn't appear to dampen his enthusiasm at all.

The one thing he doesn't yet understand, however, is Genie.

She smiles, a chilled, distant gesture; and then she pulls away from him, the knife lowering, and she casts a glance around the room.

"You wouldn't happen to have access to any restraints, would you, my dear friend?"

It's not like Genie doesn't know the answer to that. But Foster can take a cue--at least, he can take this one, and the way his heart is racing, his blood running in hot streams down his chest and arm, the aching muscle underneath the cuts she'd made...

He's so happy, so excited to serve her whim.

Threats, fear--even little doses make him feel so much more alive.

"Of course!"

What he brings her is... a selection. Metal handcuffs, leather, jute rope, even a length of chain, which he'd scavenged on impulse. He offers them to her with obvious pleasure--at least she has a selection.

Genie had known the answer before she'd even asked, of course; it was less about receiving answers, and more about forcing Foster to serve, to aid even in what he doesn't yet know will be his undoing.

"Ooh, choices..." She reaches out to take the handcuffs lightly in her fingers, and then turns to walk away from him entirely, headed more deeply into his home.

"This way, friend. This next step requires a change of location."

They're headed for the bathroom.

Foster's assumption, somewhat reasonably, is that the bathroom is the easiest part of a house to clean up. Tile can just be mopped, or bleached, and you don't have to worry about things seeping too deeply into or under the carpet.

He's already dripping blood into the carpet, of course, but it's not like that was pristine to begin with.

He considers his handfuls of restraints, decides to carry them with him just in case--and follows her obediently to his own white-tiled bathroom.

Once there, Genie takes the other restraints from his hands, and sets then aside within reach; she then gestures for him to turn, and catches his wrists behind his back, snapping the handcuffs onto them.

"Now," she says coolly, "Into the tub."

Foster is nothing if not willing--it helps, of course, that it's Genie. He surrenders his collection easily and doesn't resist when she locks his hands behind his back--in fact, he laughs.

He steps into the tub obediently on command--a bit more carefully than needed, perhaps--and stands for a second, the cool faux-porcelain cold under his bare feet. But just standing in the tub is almost certainly not what Genie had in mind--before he sits, though, he glances down at his pyjama pants for a moment, then at her, questioningly.

"My goodness, did I say those were coming off this time?" She raises her eyebrows at him, faking offense. "Well... I suppose I can entertain just a bit of your perversion, can't I?"

She moves herself over to pull those pants down his thin legs, leaving them pooled at his feet; the last step would be his own work, of course.

"There you go."

Foster is, as usual, not wearing anything but those pyjama pants, so pulling them down from his hips exposes him completely. Her indulgence is exciting and shameful all at once--it is his perversion she's accommodating, and he has a shiver that's not just the chill of the bathtub or the touch of air on his flushed skin. He steps out of the pyjama pants and sits--well, actually, he sits on them, knees bent, legs slightly apart, sparing his backside the cold of the tub's bottom for at least a moment.

He feels her eyes on his body, feels how much more... vulnerable he is in the bare tub rather than on a bed or over a table or even on the floor.

He doesn't speak, because he knows better. Whatever role his is now, it's not that something permitted human speech.

Well, cold will reach the rest of him soon enough... but he doesn't know that yet.

For now, Genie figures she has the time to spare him a bit of amusement to offset what else is coming for him soon; she reaches down between his slim thighs, brushing over him there, amused by just how slick he already is.

"Mmh, so excitable." She avoids his clitoris, instead opting to dance around it; and then, roughly, she presses two fingers in, and...

... wait.

She makes a puzzled face, and then curls her fingers around the obstruction, pulling it free and then out of his body; it's a small rubber cup, partially filled with dirty, dark blood. All at once, Genie realizes just what this is, what it means, and she breaks into a vivid smile.

"Why, what's this...? It seems even my most fantastic of companions is subject to the rules of nature, as everything else is..." She slips a finger into the cup, holding a portion of it's contents out for Foster to see; she then wipes it off on his cheek, cleaning her finger back off. "Some consider this blood sacred, you know. They consider it emblematic of divine femininity, fertility..."

She breaks into a delighted grin.

"My my, this does mean you're entirely able to carry a child, doesn't it? Perhaps sometime I'll see if you're worthy to carry mine. Wouldn't that be an honor for you?"

He is more than eager for her. Genie's touch is both inflammatory torment and a balm for his eager body's craving; even avoiding his clit the way he is, her digits are so welcome an invasion that he shifts his hips forward. But her fingers inside of him are cold, her metal skin a kind of deprivation and he wants to grind into them, the addition of her pressure all the more agonsining, all the more torturous a pleasure for the denial of his own body's heat. But then her fingers push deeper, touching him where he knew she soon would--what he did not know or expect her to do is dig her fingers in deeper, to take hold of that filthy container and--

"No, no, don't--"

It's far too late for closing his legs, and trying only shifts him further off his tailbone--not very far, but enough that he's forced to plant his feet to stop himself from sliding further. The shock runs him hot and could as she pulls it out of him, the sickening feeling of removal--

A couple drops of his body's secret filth drip onto the white tub and the soft baby blue of his pyjama pants, but he doesn't actually notice. Not yet.

"Don't--" he starts again, but she speaks over him, as is her right, and he's silenced as his face creases in obvious misery. He knew, of course, that he was... like this right now, but that was his own private, disgusting shame. He feels sick, her words grinding into him a femininity he finds repulsive, unwelcome; she dips her finger in the cup and she reaches for his face--

The feeling of thick, hot blood makes his stomach turn and his skin crawl with revulsion.

When she suggests that--

He casts his eyes down sharply, and they land on the small droplets of blood she... no, he left on the bottom of the tub.

Edited 2017-10-26 03:48 (UTC)

Genie resists her base urge to consume the blood; he hasn't earned that yet, hasn't made enough progress yet to warrant such a deep reward. Instead, it is tossed away-- she picks herself up from the toilet's lid where she had perched herself, and opens it to dump the cup's contents out, letting Foster watch her flush away his all-important essence, that which he both treasures and despises.

And then, calmly, she sits back down, placing the cup aside, and she smiles at him darkly, reaching down into the tub to press her fingers down between his thighs again, pushing against the now-bloody hole she just drew the cup from with her slick, cold fingertips that warm quickly with his body and his blood.

"Isn't this more comfortable? They say sex is much better this time of the month... I wonder if it's true."

There is a reason Foster has used menstrual cups for years. Pads and tampons absorb his blood, wasting it, depriving him of his need, stealing it from him; with a cup, he is free to succumb to his ugly desires, his disgusting compulsion to touch his own filth and essence at once. There's a special kind of sick indulgence in it--by touching his own contaminating fluids, touching himself, he effectively wallows in the filthiness even as his body purges it.

Seeing her dispose of it so carelessly--

He feels that familiar edge, the muted hysteria of not knowing whether he should laugh or cry. Of course, he's incapable of either, so he just watches helplessly, feeling a little wrong and yet... right.

What pushes him over in the end is the opening between his legs, his bloody needing gash that he cannot touch--the sight of it, stained with blood, is more than he can stand. Her fingers seek that needy opening, pressing inside, and he releases the breath from his lungs in a kind of desperate, miserable want for relief, her warming, probing fingers unable to curb his urgent greed, his craving--to touch it, to feel it, to feel himself.

She watches his every reaction, takes in each tremor of his bloodied frame with a detached disinterest, as though she were watching her laundry spin; a finger is thrust into him, once, roughly, and then her hand comes away entirely, dragging hot, thick blood along with it. She wipes her hand along the bottom of the tub, and she clicks her tongue.

"Just look at this mess. Well, at least we've an easy way to clean it all up..."

She pulls her hand away, and sits up, leaning over to turn on the faucet; cold water begins to wash over whatever of Foster is closest to the spout, and more of his blood is washed away, swirling down the drain as Genie pointedly ensures his wounds are likewise rinsed beneath the icy flow.

Even the crudest, most minimal intrusion, even her roughly thrust single digit, even that is met with such a hunger for more stimulation that she'll feel the muscles inside of him tighten around her, but she takes it from him, and with it is that sticky, thick trail of dark viscous blood. He makes a faint, ragged breathing sound, not quite a pleading whine, as she smears it along the cold white tub bottom.

But he's given no chance to voice his protest more clearly, because she reaches for the tap, startling him with the first rush of icy cold water, its flow capturing the edges of his spilled blood, lapping at his skin with a shock bordering on pain--and rapidly blossoming into it, his wrists twisting in their bonds, feet sliding uselessly on the slick tub bottom as he tries to back away.

"Ah-- ah, aah, ah--!" Begging syllables, meaningless sounds of pleading distress as she pours more of it over his bare chest and shoulder, cascading pink down his naked front, around and over his navel, down to the bloody gash between his legs.

She continues her pointed, cruel rinsing, as though it makes any difference, as though his body isn't in terrible peril from combining loss of blood and icy water washing through the wounds. It isn't as though either one of them really care what happens to him-- although...

... hmm. With a pointed, sharp gesture, she switches the water back off, and then she sits back to survey him-- shivering, stripped, in that tub, looking very much like the naked, mindless animal he truly is when all his human pretense has been stripped away. Now, how to use this body for the purposes she desires? She certainly can't give him what he wants; she's done quite enough of that already. No, this is about her, and she must make certain he's aware of that fact at every point, in ways that even he will find impossible to take joy in.

"... if you'll pardon me," she says at last, and she stands, straightening her clothing, ensuring there is no visible blood on her, "I've something to attend to. I'm certain you'll be just fine right here, won't you?"

Shock is absolutely a risk, and Foster's pallor and fast, laboured breathing is making it no small threat. But he looks more shocked--almost betrayed--when she turns the water off.

He sits, hunched--shivering, wet, miserable; the whites of his eyes are clearly visible. But even as much agony, as much suffering as she'd inflicted, the deprivation of it was far less welcome. He has no right to objection, though, so manages a weak smile, trembling and naked.

"There's a good boy. If you're still awake when I return, I have a surprise for you."

She holds up two of her fingers, presses a kiss to them, then presses it against Foster's temple; and then she's gone, without even another thought.

She's gone for some time. Not hours, for that could leave her little pet dead, or in too poor shape to bear her offspring, but it would certainly feel like hours for Foster.

When she does return, it's with some very strange items: a cup, the contents of which he can't see, more restraints, and, most ominously for Foster, a medical speculum.

"Did you miss me?" She coos, grinning at him from beside the tub.

Time is sort of a difficult experience for Foster even when he's not wet and shivering and desperate, still yearning for touch between his legs despite his misery. Breathing is... surprisingly hard when he's this chilled, every breath caught on a shudder--he's so cold that he's in pain. Not externally, at the outside of his body where her blade cut him open but at a deeper layer, something terrible under what he can touch, and no strength of will can force his body to relax as, his muscles to unclench as he struggles, alone in the empty tub.

He tries to lie down, mostly out of desperation, some futile bid for warmth--as though having more skin in contact with a surface will give him the slightest hope of relief. On his side, on his back, his hair plastered to his face, his legs spread as though begging for comfort of a different kind.

His sexual ardour is definitely dampened--pun unintended--but even if her specific punishment here wasn't enough to extinguish his need, it definitely made it the least of his worries. The ache of his open wounds is also somewhere deeper now, under the skin and in the muscle. He closes his eyes, trying--trying to remain conscious through this ordeal.

The time that passes is enough for his body's... condition to catch up to what cleanliness she briefly enforced, though. As the minutes pass, interminably, he can feel the wetness as his blood, his filth leaks out again, body-warm as it oozes, to cool tortuously against the open folds of his pussy. It mixes with water as a thick clot runs down between the cheeks of his ass to join the puddles at the bottom of the tub.

He turns, curling foetal-style--

And that's how she finds him, pathetically hunched in the bottom of the tub, half laughing with misery--he can't find the words to speak.

slave screams he's being beaten into submission

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Give him a minute, Genie. He's. Very cold. :<