slave screams he's being beaten into submission

[parasitus]

It isn't often that Genie elects to play with her food, so to speak, or to hurt the ones she keeps closest; but this creature is most fascinating, and requires further study, she believes. He claims to be utterly hers, but still he acts on her own.

She's always wondered what it will take to break a man. Today she intends to begin learning just that.

The knocking that taps at Foster's door is polite and sharp, a rapping of knuckles that is over as quickly as it began, and then the person responsible waits in silence.

Comments

[criticallyfucked]

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.

[parasitus]

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."

[criticallyfucked]

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.

[parasitus]

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.

[criticallyfucked]

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.

[parasitus]

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?"

[criticallyfucked]

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.

[parasitus]

"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.

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

[criticallyfucked]

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.