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]

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.